Something glittered in his eyes as she turned to leave and she hurried quickly to where the others were standing. ‘What is it?’ she asked breathlessly, feeling the adrenaline shoot through her limbs now she was free. She felt like a doe that had been released from the jaws of a leopard.

‘You looked like you needed rescuing,’ Paloma winked, handing her the leaflets to distribute with them.

Modesto made a point of taking one from her on his way out, catching her eye with what seemed to be a meaningful look before he left. When the last guest had gone, they walked down to the bedroom together; Luciana collapsed down on her bed with a sigh – grateful for the brief respite before the work began for dinner. Paloma pulled a cigarette from inside her shirt – she kept them lined up in her bra – and offered one.

Marina took it, feeling shaken. Distraught.

‘What was Modesto saying to you?’ Luciana asked.

Her voice sounded far away and it was a moment before the words reached Marina’s ear. ‘. . . Oh. He was offering me protection, I think.’

Paloma’s eyebrow arched. ‘Don’t fall for that. You know what he means, right? You are not such an innocent as to believe he would not want something in return.’

‘Of course not.’ But she didn’t know, nor did she care. It wasn’t Modesto who was on her mind. She went and sat on her mattress, feeling drained, the news of Santi’s death buzzing in her like a butterfly trapped in a bell jar. She took a deep drag of the cigarette, trying to ignore it. She should be happy he was dead. She would be. He had been no friend when he died, but her enemy – he knew the enormity of what he had done when he took Indigo from her. No, it was just the shock, finding out like that, that was all. She would feel happy about it soon enough.

She lay down, her arm outstretched with the cigarette over the floor. The mattress was scarcely fit for purpose, one of the springs pushing up against her ribs, a corner of the fabric torn, horsehair tufts spilling through it and God-only- knew what climbing in, for every morning she awoke scratching, her skin covered with hundreds of tiny red bites.

She stared into the distance, at nothing, seeing not the panelled walls or her sisters in arms, but a boy with black eyes and a gap between his teeth. She hated him. She hated him. She would hate him. She would.

Beside her bed was one of the boxes left by the previous owner – her godmother – and which they now used as tables. They had all long since been scavenged, torn through when Paloma and Sindo first requisitioned the space, looking for food, bedding, writing materials, anything that might assist them in their cause; but much of it was useless – extravagant balldresses that could possibly be converted into curtains if only they could sew, hats and ribbons, trinkets and photographs. Some of the candelabras had been deemed useful for the blackouts when the German Luftwaffe took to the skies and they had quickly grown accustomed to eating their peasants’ meals off long-pronged silver cutlery.