I hadn’t noticed the time racing by. Suddenly, Bouzid was back, looking dubiously at the dishes on the table. I didn’t blame him. It wasn’t food to be eaten with silver cutlery and linen, but with hands. It was a gamble on my part, a guess that Langham’s guests hadn’t come to this hot, dazzling city for luxury alone. They were here because they were hungry, famished for what they couldn’t get in their own countries. They wanted to crush the world to their mouths and sink their teeth into its flesh, they wanted to suck at the juice and fling the rinds away and never think about the cost. I can see you, I wanted my dishes to say; I can give you what you want.

Bouzid and I carried the platters between us, two on each arm, like I used to at the inn. The guests were waiting on the veranda, a pack of bright, wild things, their beautiful clothes splashed and crumpled and pushed askew. I saw Lady Bailey amongst the cushions, leaning forwards over a pipe, her pale hair sliding across her cheek. And in the middle of them all was Langham, the head of that lost troupe, his face smooth, his mouth full of secrets.

We locked eyes. ‘Supper is served,’ I said.

‘Very well, del Potro,’ he smiled. ‘We’ll taste your petition. With what do you make your case?’

‘With patatas a lo pobre,’ I told him quietly. ‘And aioli. Sardinas en salsa de limón. Queso con miel y romero.’

‘Peasant food,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve given yourself away, boy.’

‘Bon appétit,’ I said. It was a challenge.

I stood in the shadows, watching as Langham’s guests fell upon the food, as they laughed at the novelty of scooping aioli straight from the bowl, picking up salt-scattered potatoes with their fingers, their lips flushed and tingling with chilli. I watched as the woman from the pool fed a slice of honey-slicked cheese to a man, following it up with her lips. I watched as another man, his waistcoat hanging open, dropped a whole sardine into his mouth, imitating a gull. It was grotesque, it was glorious, and I was torn. Half of me wanted to fling myself into that revelry, drink until I was like them, until I could no longer taste the bitterness of the world. The other half of me held back, an outsider, thrilled by the power of what I had done, how I could affect people’s behaviour, with nothing more than kitchen scraps.