In that moment, the audacity of what I was doing struck me, hard. It was almost eleven and Langham had ordered food for midnight; I had a single hour and an unfamiliar kitchen with which to secure my future. I was not cooking for half-drunk townsmen at the inn, unfussy and distracted by the girls. I was cooking for Langham, for a saint and his exalted guests. I was cooking for my life. Every trick Ifrahim had taught me to please the teeth and charm the tongue, I would need now.

‘Yes,’ I told Bouzid. My hands hesitated on the lapels of my jacket. I didn’t want to take it off; it was my protection, a shield between my bound chest and the world. I’d already caught his sharp, sober eyes watching me. ‘Is there an apron?’ I asked gruffly.

The garment he returned with was a huge, canvas thing, stiff from laundering. With my back to him, I shucked off the jacket, and ducked beneath the apron’s cover. As soon as it was tied around my waist, I began to feel better. I bared my wrists to wash my hands at the sink, and became aware of the familiar tingle in my fingertips, the itch to spice and shape the world.

‘You can leave me now,’ I said, over my shoulder.

My kitchen self and Alejandro had not yet met each other. If I was to introduce them, if I was to stir them together until they were blended, inseparably, I needed to do it alone. Bouzid watched me a moment longer, his dark eyes sceptical. Then he turned and disappeared into the garden.

Thankfully, the stove wasn’t a fancy gas contraption, but a huge old blackened thing with a glow of embers deep in its belly. I rattled them up hot, fed it more wood, and went to search out the raw ingredients of my future.

I was right about Monsieur Hubert, the cook. It takes a thief to know a thief, and the hired chef was a lazy one. Almost everything I found was cut-rate or half-bad. The milk skimmed and skimmed again, the cooking wine no better than vinegar. How had it not been noticed? Perhaps Langham and Lady Bailey did not often eat at home. A smile found the edge of my lips. I could change that.

Almonds, my hands moved across the shelves. Garlic. Olive oil. Ifrahim’s voice was with me. Herbs from the garden. Lemons. Bones. If in doubt, serve the best things whole and let them speak. Let them be barefaced.

I tumbled what I had found on to the table and freed the kitchen knife from my jacket. It had come with me all this way, it had blistered my childish hand and tasted men’s blood to aid my escape. Now, it would help me win my freedom.