‘Why d’you park car so badly?’ he roared. Then burst into laughter at Bridge’s shocked face. ‘I brought you your biscuits, kochanie. I told you I was coming, yes? Zdejmij majtki. Take your clothes off.’

*

Like any good horseman, Luca studied teeth closely, human as well as equine.

His own were a part of his language; he smiled a lot, something he’d done unconsciously since his first gummy grin. He smiled more than he spoke. Obama-smiling, his last boss had called it, a surly Canadian showjumper who hadn’t smiled since last standing on the Olympic podium in the nineties. It was a natural pacifier, a communication that was subservient in packs and dominant in herds; you could tell a lot about a human the way they used their teeth. Pax Forsyth bared hers like a wildcat, for all the purring voice; he had yet to see her smile.

Ronnie’s teeth were small, even and naturally palest vanilla, not the artificial glacial white dentists added. She had a gold crown that glinted when she threw her mouth open to laugh. He looked out for it now as she chattered easily on the whistle-stop tour of Compton Magna Stud, starting by walking the fields while there was a break in the rain, striding along at breakneck speed and making Luca laugh a lot – she seemed intent to do so as often as possible – as she filled him in on local geography and history. Heels warmed by her two little black-and-tan dogs trotting in their wake, Ronnie made no mention of the exchange he’d just witnessed between mother and daughter. Instead, she explained how the stud fitted into the old-school Bardswolds with its long-established families, big hunting fields, eventing-mad landowners and nosy villagers.

‘Nothing changes around here when it comes to horses – new money on the flat, old money over jumps, amateurs dabble in whatever’s trending, and if you breed sports horses, you either need a second job or a criminal masterplan. I have neither, but I do have better blood and turf than most.’

He couldn’t fault the pastureland bouncing underfoot, which even a punishing winter had been unable to muddy more than superficially. Fenced with fine old park railing interspersed with thick hedges and post and rail, it was in enviably good nick, and Ronnie bounded over it like a foundation mare.

Seduced by the endless hazy green striated horizon, grateful for the peace of the place, Luca half listened as she pointed out the farm’s practical details in between sweeping views and statements. ‘We once had four hundred acres, but most of the land’s been sold – that’s a bridleway all along there, three miles of off-road at your hoof tips – here’s the bore hole – we don’t cut our own hay any more, so the sward’s rough as a reed bed – you can see four counties from here – there’s no arena but the turf’s so good we’ve never needed one – over there is Eyngate Park where the political Percys lived – this is where the stud’s best stallion is buried, see this plaque? – look down there and you’ll see the standing stones on Church Meadow, known as the White Witches, and that’s the village green off to the right. All weekender cottages there now, but there’s still a roaring local social scene. They will all love you. We need to find you a fiddle.’