It wasn’t hard. Orange juice from the kitchen, a search through the bar for some cherry-flavoured stuff. I poured it all into the mixing glass before reaching for the Scotch. And though I tilted my head away, and tried to shut off my nostrils, it was no use. The smell took me back; it reached up and clawed at me, mingling with the cloying sweetness of juice and cherry, like cheap perfume and blood on a pink flowered rug, and I dropped the bottle with a clatter.

‘Alejandro?’ Hilde looked up. ‘Are you all right?’

I nodded, swallowing bile. ‘It’s nothing. I just need a moment.’

I fled into the corridor, where the air was clean and scented with sandalwood and distant spices from the kitchen. There, I leaned against the whitewashed wall, wiping my streaming eyes, trying to regain control of my untrustworthy body.

‘… wise at the present time …’ I lifted my head a little. That was Bouzid’s voice, coming from Langham’s study. ‘Until we are sure that—’

‘Bouzid, it’s not without reason. A party will ensure that everyone has enough to talk about. Someone is guaranteed to do something absurd and the whole city will gossip about it for a month. It’ll distract them from other rumours.’ There was a thud, a desk drawer being closed.

‘And del Potro? If people talk?’

My face burned against the cool wall.

‘All the better.’ Langham sounded impatient. ‘Another distraction.’

‘But we still cannot be sure if—’

‘We can be sure enough. Bautista confirmed del Potro’s story and in this instance, I believe the old bastard.’ A pause. ‘Del Potro promised me loyalty, Bouzid. And more besides.’

There was silence, as if the two men were staring at each other. Finally, I heard Bouzid let out a sort of sigh. ‘Very well.’

It curdled with the Blood and Sand, that conversation, until I wasn’t certain which had affected me more. For the rest of the day, it nagged at me, alongside memories of the night at the inn, until all my muscles were filled with jumping, anxious energy. Perhaps Langham was feeling the same way, for that evening he asked Hilde to bring down her pipe – something he rarely indulged in – and the three of us sat on the lounge floor, cushioned by pillows, hiding our fears behind a veil of smoke.