It was the final day of the feria, the night when anything could happen. The heat of the past three days had been unbearable, too hot for the season, and people had taken to drinking themselves to sleep, only to wake an hour later tangled in their clothes, sweating sherry. Sore heads, parched throats, minds all too aware that after the feria came the heat of summer, merciless as the cracked mud of the yard.

I’d not yet recovered from the chaos of the stable when I came face to face with Morales. Her dark hair was already damp with perspiration, her blouse giving up its starch to the heat.

‘We’ve received a request for tonight’s meal,’ she said.

I nodded. It was not unusual for a group of swells to think highly enough of themselves to order something special. ‘What do they want?’ I asked.

Morales shifted her neck in the taut collar. For a heartbeat, I thought she looked uncertain. ‘They have asked for rabo de toro.’

I frowned. Stewed bull’s tail. It was rich and meaty and thick, and not at all suited to a summer night, to stomachs full of sherry.

‘I don’t have the ingredients,’ I told her. ‘And anyway, it’s too hot.’

I don’t know what made me speak like that. Perhaps it was the blackened end of my temper, or the animal shrieks and frenzied hooves that lingered in my mind.

Morales’ face hardened, her lip curled as she leaned towards me.

‘They have asked for rabo de toro, and that is what you will make.’

The words were plain, but there was a viciousness in her tone that made me step back.

‘Of course,’ I murmured, dropping my eyes. ‘I’ll make it. For how many?’

‘For four,’ she said. ‘The Señor, and his friends.’

My guts flinched at that. We had many señors visit us, genuine or otherwise. I disliked most, and envied them their freedom, but Morales knew which señor I truly despised, the one I kept the greatest distance from, the one who seemed to take pleasure in my discomfort.

‘Don’t skimp on the sherry,’ she said, watching my face.

There were few things she could have said to make my day worse.

Although it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, the Plaza de la Corredera was already awake. The plaza itself, a slab of hot stone, was empty. Life was taking place in the shade of the colonnades, in the cave-like bars.