We’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Through burning eyes, I could see the courtyard to my left, with its press of guests and tables. To my right, the open gate and the street, crowded with people, all drinking, shouting, making their way towards the river.

One chance.

I collapsed again with as much force as I could. This time I made it to the floor, slipping from the grip of one of the men. It was the one with the blinking eyes, the one who might have spoken for me. Doubled over, I managed to work my hand into the apron’s pocket before he renewed his grip beneath my armpit and hauled me to my feet.

I didn’t wait, I didn’t even breathe. I flailed out with the knife, stabbing at him. He let me go and I whirled, slashing at the other man. Blood spurted, a voice yelled in pain and for a split second, no one held me.

I threw myself towards the gate. Someone made a grab for my legs, and had I been wearing a skirt rather than Ifrahim’s old work trousers they would have brought me down. But their fingers slipped from the fabric, and whoever it was hit the ground. I darted into the street, barging my way through the crowd.

There were shouts behind me and booted feet and Morales’ yelling for someone to stop me, but there were horns too, and tambourines and bells and I ran like a wild thing from the Plaza del Potro.

Get to the river. That was my only thought: the river where it was dark and where there were tents teeming with people. As I reached the far side of the square, I glanced back and saw one of the gentlemen staring through the crowd, conspicuous in his fine, black jacket. I ducked down, pulled off the stained apron and bundled it in my arms, wiping the blood from my nose. Keeping my head down, I slipped into a large group of people who were jostling, hootingly drunk, towards the river, and vanished.

At least, that is what the newspapers said. According to them I disappeared into thin air, evading capture by calling upon a network of gitano thieves and bandits, who smuggled me past the tireless guardia.