‘Childhood relics,’ the old lady said, taking it quickly, possessively.

‘Is this a shark’s tooth?’ Charlotte asked with a surprised smile.

She nodded again, taking that too.

‘Yours?’ She watched as the señora anxiously smoothed her fingers over its glossy surface.

‘It belonged to my best friend. It was the most precious thing he owned. I always promised I would bring it back to him.’

‘Oh, he lives in Madrid now?’ Marina asked.

‘No. He’s long dead.’

Charlotte and Marina shared confused looks.

‘What about the stone?’ Marina asked. ‘Was that his too?’

‘No. Arlo found it in the river in the gorge. It was in the pair of trousers I stole from him the night I left here.’

‘And you kept it all this time?’ Marina asked, smiling and placing a hand fondly on her shoulder. ‘Abuela, you do love him.’

Señora Quincy turned her head away, as though trying to deny the words, but Marina met Charlotte’s gaze and gave her a hopeful look.

‘Charlotte would understand,’ the old woman said quietly. ‘We understand one another, you and I. We are cut from the same cloth. We have both come from money. We have both, in our different ways, run from it.’ She looked straight at her then. ‘And we have both loved men we have tried our best to hate. Isn’t that right?’

Charlotte didn’t reply. She didn’t know how on earth the old woman knew but . . . She could see Marina’s head turning left and right, trying to look at them both, to find a clue that could help her understand what was passing silently between them. But love stories like theirs were caught, not taught; they couldn’t possibly be explained.

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Do you want us to wait outside?’ Marina asked as they stopped outside the bedroom. They all stared at the closed door. On the other side of it was a dying man who had everything but peace. A rich man who had offered up his fortune for a final goodbye.

The moment was upon them. Destiny was here.

‘No, come with me. I’m not ready yet. I need to be sure.’ The old lady held her hand up; it was trembling, and Marina squeezed it.

‘I’m here, Abuela. I won’t leave you.’

The door was opened and the orderlies went to wheel her in. Charlotte stepped back, away. ‘And you, Charlotte,’ the señora added. ‘I will value your support.’

They walked into the room. It was not large and it was surprisingly spare. Like their old childhood bedrooms, nothing was superfluous or fancy, just a vast, four-poster bed pushed against one wall and some handsome chests of drawers. A picture of the Madonna and Child was framed above the bed with just one glinting curved estoque sword hanging on a wall. On the surfaces were old pictures – a sepia-toned portrait of a family in formal Spanish dress, photographs of Mateo and his sister growing up, his many grandchildren. And one which was larger than the rest: a photograph of a young girl on horseback, sitting side-saddle on a magnificent black horse; she looked very like the young woman in the portrait in the drawing room. Almost the same but not quite, her cool, grey-green eyes looking detached from the camera’s hungry gaze. She was already beautiful, already wilful, already strong . . .