The sound of more footsteps into the room prompted Marina to suddenly move again, to look busy and fuss with the meal preparations as Luciana poured them all fresh drinks. She sensed Modesto’s presence rather than saw it.

‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ she said, forcing another smile as she turned and went to move past him, reaching for a slotted spoon.

‘Fascinating thing,’ he said quietly, coming to stand by her and watching her with an intensity marked even by his standards.

‘What is?’

‘The likeness.’ He pointed to a small photograph he placed on the counter. It was of a young girl, no more than thirteen. A confirmation photograph, the girl’s hands were pressed together in prayer, a short veil settled like a cloud around her shoulders, long dark hair looped back in an intricate braid.

Marina could remember the exact moment the shutter had snapped – the photographer had said ‘horse’s bum’ to get her to smile.

Her eyes drew level with his, the fear draining her of blood.

‘I mean, clearly it’s not you,’ he said in a low, slow voice. ‘That girl is fascist scum and this once beautiful apartment is now – for her – enemy territory. She wouldn’t dare to remain here. She would know only too well what would happen to a girl like her if she was found: the utter desecration of innocence and piety that would await her, the many, many men who would mete out their revenge against her and the class she represents . . .’ His eyes blazed, burning into her, his breath scorching her face. She didn’t dare breathe back, she didn’t blink, and it felt an age before he spoke again. She truly expected her heart just to stop beating, her knees to give way. ‘But you agree, there’s a likeness between you?’

He wanted an answer. She had to answer. Play this game. ‘A little,’ she whispered.

He looked from her back to the photograph, to her again. ‘Yes. You’re right. It is just a little. Around the eyes, I think. And maybe the mouth.’ His gaze fell pointedly to her mouth as he slipped the photograph into his trouser pocket. ‘But she is no match for you, of course. She is just a Nationalist whore, whereas you are a true beauty: classic, refined, timeless.’

She swallowed. ‘. . . Thank you,’ she whispered.

His eyes roamed her face, mere inches from hers and she felt his hand creep over hers on the counter, his skin rough and calloused and hot. ‘But let us talk of nicer things. The ugliness of the day is done and we both live to see another dawn. We are the lucky ones, are we not?’ She nodded. ‘Though this is a time of war, still there must be time for beauty, for love, don’t you agree?’

‘I do,’ she whispered.

‘So then, when shall we go for that walk we mentioned, Marina Marquez? I do not think we can wait for the flowers.’