He tore his gaze away and it was like being ripped from the arms of a monster. Luciana came and stood beside her. ‘What did you do that for?’ she whispered as he started up again, hatred inflecting off every word.

‘I wanted to help,’ she murmured back.

‘How? All you’ve done is brought yourself to his attention. You know what he’s like.’

They looked back at him, holding the crowd with his dogma as he extrapolated on the fascist scum. His colour was high, hair flopping theatrically as he paced, expounding the need for vigilance and action. But every few moments now, his gaze came back to her again, like she was a resting post, somewhere he might tarry a while.

She stared at the floor, knowing her curiosity had left her exposed. She would be remembered. But if she had had the chance to think it through, she would also have done it again, for she knew exactly who had organized their uprising this summer, who had finally dared them to succeed where they – and his father – had failed before. There’s no fire that burns so hot as a young man’s anger and she saw now that, far from being an end in itself, slaughtering Indigo had merely been the calling card that this was the beginning. In the four months she had been gone, she had missed out on Santi’s revolution and his full revenge upon her family. And what a revenge it had been: her mother had lost her only daughter, and then her father and brothers had lost their land. But his victory had been short and reprisal vengeance had been theirs once more, for didn’t the Mendozas always win in the end?

And that meant only one thing, something that made her bones want to snap from sheer despair, even though she hated him now – Santi was dead.

He was dead.

Her old best friend, shot to death by her own family as he ran for his life in a closed-off bullring . . .

Santi . . . She remembered how his eyes had burned the last time they had seen each other. How, for just a moment, she had thought she could reach him still. Until Arlo had spoken, redrawing the battle lines, and he had run, the bloodied knife in his hand—

‘Death to the Falangist dogs! Viva La Republica!’

The cheer made her jolt and look up, drawing her out of the thoughts she had sunk into so deeply. How much had she missed?

She saw that the meeting had come to a close, their supporters leaving with fresh fires blazing in their eyes; she remembered she was supposed to be handing out flyers with Luciana as they passed by. Remembering her duty, she went to run to her post by the door—

A hand on her arm stopped her.

‘Marina, allow me to introduce you properly.’ It was Sindo, and beside him, a full head taller, tonight’s speaker. ‘Miguel Modesto.’