For one thing, the party itself was a masterpiece of cunning. Langham understood how to manipulate people with food, too, I realized, how drinks could be used to charm people, to undo them, to make them malleable. I wondered whether that was what he saw in me, my first night at Dar Portuna.

Between us, we plotted every detail, as if planning an assault. The food was to be light, nothing to soak up the forceful cocktails we planned to serve. Ajoblanco, I suggested, oysters on ice, blanched almonds rolled in salt to make people thirsty and drink more, crystallized rose petals, raspberry jellies laced with liquor, for those who tried to be abstemious. Mahjoun, too, a mountain of it, made with a block of hash the size of a small melon.

‘Good,’ Langham murmured, watching me roll the balls of it in powdered sugar, to fool people with its sweetness, to compel them to eat more than they should. ‘Make sure this goes around all evening.’ He picked up a piece, only to put it back on the tray. ‘Be generous with the spirit measures, too.’

I nodded, though my throat was tight, stuck with floating sugar. If it all went to plan, the guests would be reeling, roaring drunk or lost in a haze of hash and smoke, and no one would be able to remember a single reliable thing.

‘It’s time,’ Langham murmured to me, when the hall clock struck seven. ‘Go and pack, then come upstairs.’ He ran a hand through my hair, careful of my bruised skull. ‘I want us to dress together.’

I was shaking as I closed the door to my room, that modest, little space that meant so much to me. Waiting on the bed was a suitcase of Langham’s; pale, buttery leather, embossed with his initials. A. L. It gave me pause. For all its beauty, I didn’t like the idea of placing my belongings into a case emblazoned with his name.

It’s just a bag, I told myself, what difference does it make?

Rapidly, I packed cologne and pomade, put on a robe so I could pack my fawn-brown jacket and trousers, my fine underwear and socks, and The Gentleman’s Guide, my first gift from Langham. The new, white flannel suit was waiting on its hanger. It was beautiful. Despite – or perhaps because of – Cabrera’s intervention, Souissa had outdone himself. And yet, there was something unsettling about it. It was white as bones are white, bleached by the sun. Clean as flesh when drained of blood. It had no place in a kitchen, and part of me felt uneasy about wearing it.

Soon, Bouzid was knocking on the door. He looked wonderful, wearing a magnificent brocade djellaba. When I looked down, however, I noticed a glimpse of plain, dark trousers protruding from the hem.