Nene had no such fear, forever clasping her hands around his muscular neck and whispering into his ear as she fed him barley sweets and sugar cubes, laughing as the prickly hairs on his soft muzzle tickled her palm; sometimes, she could even forget Santi had left and that her best friend was on the other side of the country from here. Most mornings, if her father was out with Señor Martin, she was able to bribe the grooms into letting her comb his mane and pick out his hooves herself. At 15.2 hands, he was as big a horse as she could physically manage; her mother had been opposed to the purchase, worrying he would run off with her or throw her from his back like a rag doll but Nene knew he would never do such a thing – she had looked into his deep chocolatey eyes that day at the fiesta as she ran to ‘rescue’ Pepita and she had felt their souls connect. Don Bartolome’s fearful daughter would never have been able to handle him; he was a king of a horse – majestic and noble – and he needed a mistress who understood his might and magnificence. He could not be wasted on a girl who whimpered every time he whinnied or pawed a hoof on the ground; he deserved a rider who understood him. Even this – dressage – although a noble art, was a parody of his immense dignity, and the happiest moments of both their lives were when they went galloping bareback over the far fields, out of sight of the hacienda, her hair streaming behind her as his heart hammered against his ribs, the side-saddle on which she rode out of the stables unstrapped and left hidden in the long grass.

‘Now, collection into volte,’ the instructor commanded, his body tense and wired, primed to pick up the smallest deviation from form, the tiniest error, for a lot was hanging on their official performance. It was early June and her father was throwing a birthday party for her mother at the end of the month; he had invited all the grand Andalusian families, partly so that they might admire his wife’s beauty, and partly to show off Nene too, his eligible daughter who was rapidly coming of age. More than once, the ‘b’ word had passed his lips at the dinner table, causing her brothers to snigger and make quips about the ‘poor boy’ to be ‘burdened’ with her.

She felt Indigo’s carriage brace, his strides shorten and lighten as he headed towards the perimeter and began to walk the circle.

‘Now up to medium pace, taking the centre line,’ the instructor called. ‘Keep him soft and relaxed through the jaw. Don’t let him get excited.’

She gave a tiny twitch of the reins but Indigo needed barely any instruction, carrying her faultlessly through the handsome shapes, making her look good and knowing a surreptitious sugar cube would be his reward later. They both knew the flying changes were coming up, where he switched lead leg mid-canter; it was an exciting and advanced move they had been working on for seven weeks now and it was intended to be the centre-point of the routine, a display of the perfect symbiosis between girl and horse.