They watched as he crouched down, examining the wound, swatting away the flies that buzzed at its eyes and mouth. He looked up and around him as if looking for help but no one else was around that he could see and, clearly, moving the beast on his own wasn’t an option. He straightened again, his hands on his hips, the brim of his hat obscuring his face, but Nene didn’t need to see it to know what his expression would be; he only ever smiled when her father was around, the rest of the time his thin face was folded with scowl lines, his hand ever-ready at his hip to grab the riding whip coiled at his belt. This was bad news. Each bull was worth 1,200 pesetas – more money than he earned in a month, more money than most of the peasants earned in three years. Five.

‘Oh no,’ she whispered, watching as Pedro walked back to his horse, throwing the reins back over its head. ‘He’s going to tell Papa.’

‘Of course. He has to, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, but . . . couldn’t he wait until after dinner?’ Every accidental or unearned death was costly, sending her father into a spiral of rage; she already knew he would be angry at the table tonight, his forceful glares suppressing everyone, even her brothers, into silence.

They heard the sound of hooves begin to drum the hard earth. Santi stepped out from behind the tree, his curiosity getting the better of him – as it always did – eager to get a better look at the mortal wound.

‘Santi, wait! Has he really gone?’ she whispered.

But he had already frozen on the spot and she felt herself grow cold at the sight of him, stock still, inanimate.

‘Run,’ he whispered, trying not to move his lips.

‘No!’

He looked back. ‘He’s seen me. Just go. Now.’ And when she didn’t move, he kicked his leg out sideways, catching her hard on the shin. Tears immediately rushed to her eyes. ‘And stay down . . . Hurry.’

She ran in a half-crouch behind the stone wall, wanting to turn back to see if Santi was following, but knowing he was rooted to the spot. They both knew it was more than his life was worth to take flight now. Feeling her lungs gasp in the hot air, thighs burning from the hunched posture, she ran the several hundred metres as stealthily as she could, hands clawing at the ground as she stumbled, finally getting to the old alberca, the vast metal water store in the far corner of the field. She hid behind it with a frightened sob, her slender frame easily hidden now whilst Santi stood as rooted and exposed as the trees.

She didn’t dare peer round to watch. She could hear the timbre of their voices – the conocedor’s angry shouts, Santi’s meek, deferential responses that were so unlike him – but not what they were saying. Spare words drifted over on the breeze – ‘thief’, ‘criminal’ – but how could that be? He had done nothing wrong. He was just standing by a wall. Harmless. What could he possibly be accused of stealing?