She let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You tell us that, when there is one upstairs right now, one who is rude, who came in here without—’

He didn’t wait to hear more. He ran up the stairs two at a time, racing for his top floor room, knowing it could only be one person.

Zahrah was standing by the window, wearing her old djellaba. Her short hair was messy, as if she’d been running her hands through it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, stepping through the door. ‘I’m so sorry, I tried everything. You won’t believe the night—’

She turned to face him. Her eyes were reddened, swollen from crying. The guilt froze solid in his chest.

‘What’s happened?’

She said nothing. A moment later, her face collapsed and he knew. She stepped towards him; instinctively he put his arms around her, as her breath turned into a sob.

‘Ale’s gone.’

Scofflaw

Take one dash of orange bitters, three quarters of a pony of Canadian Club whisky, the same of French vermouth, a tablespoon of lemon juice and a tablespoon of imported grenadine. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink fast, before it catches up with you.

All things come at a price.

I’d grown up around swindlers and thieves – I should have remembered not to trust anything that seemed too good to be true. I should have realized that the diamond walls of my world could turn to glass and crack; that the elegant fabrics could rip and unravel, that my saint’s gold could peel away like cheap gilding on a false coin. But I didn’t. Not until it was too late.

Bouzid found me at the gate of Dar Portuna, bracing myself against the wall, my eyes screwed closed against the awful, dull throbbing in my head. The wound had stopped bleeding now, but I could feel it, flaking and tacky at the base of my skull. Bouzid was angrier than I had ever seen him. He grabbed my jacket, the way he had all those weeks ago when I had first trespassed into the gardens, and dragged me into the house, unheeding of my protests.

He didn’t stop until we reached the study.

Hilde was perched on the edge of the desk, her face strained, chewing at her nails. And Langham … when he looked at me, his eyes were like flint.

‘Where did you go?’ he demanded.

I couldn’t think straight; the pain was muddled together with the memory of Cabrera saying my real name, with the fear of what he might do if I didn’t comply. ‘I went to the tailor’s.’ My voice sounded vague. ‘I left a note.’

‘The truth, del Potro.’ Langham’s hand was beneath his desk, in one of the drawers. ‘I need to know where …’