That day, the siesta hour felt strange. Heads fell on to arms, shutters were pulled closed, and hardened drinkers shrank into the darkness of the wine cellars as usual, but there was something fretful about it all; like a breath being held.

No rest for me, not with a rabo de toro to make along with everything else. In the kitchen, I changed into Ifrahim’s old trousers and hid my hair under a scarf once more. Then, slowly, I unwrapped the bull’s tail. The animal had killed someone today, for all I knew. When they ate it, the señors would have the blood of the bull’s victim in their stomachs.

Watch what comes out of their mouths, as well as what goes in, and you will know them for what they are …

I had never liked those men.

I smiled as I portioned the tails and plunged them into water. I smiled as I cut onions and burst ripe tomatoes into fleshy pieces, and smashed cloves of garlic with the heel of my hand. I smiled as I rolled up my sleeves to get the stove going, though I feared I might keel over from the heat of it. By the time I tipped the tails into the stew pot, threw in bay and peppercorns, I felt like a true witch, brewing strong magic while the rest of the world slumbered away the afternoon.

Though it sounds superstitious, ridiculous, I still can’t help but wonder whether what happened next was my fault. How do we know the slaughterman wasn’t right about the bull; that its meat carried a bloody violence, which I brought to life?

A good rabo de toro takes at least three hours to cook. Mine stewed quietly at the back of the stove, its powerful scent of meat and bone filling the kitchen. I tried to ignore it and work on other things; wafers of sweet-salt jamón and dishes of toasted almonds, platters of tiny fish ready to fry in oil, and bread to soak up wine. But the stew kept catching my attention. It was as if there was another person in the room, who disappeared every time I turned to look.

All too soon, the sun was sliding towards evening, the church bells were tolling nine and the first guests were arriving, demanding to be served. Aside from sangria, Ifrahim had never shown much interest in drink. After a lifetime within the inn’s walls, I felt differently. Beer was like fuel to some men, wine like blood. Brandy could make them lose their heads and break down crying, sherry could corrupt like a slow poison. Gin was what the girls often drank when alone in their rooms, hard and clear as tears. Drink was a potion, as much as food, and if I could control it, I could control them, the men who came here to satisfy themselves.