‘Ugh, eeew!’ Nene scowled, crumpling her face into a thousand furrows as they swept from her room and along the stone corridor. The skirt was so long, she had to pinch the fabric up as they descended the stairs and, due to the number of admiring glances coming from the staff alone, they slipped out through the kitchens. They would never get through the guests in time otherwise.

As predicted, the habit had her sweltering within minutes – the evening temperature still at thirty-two degrees – as they crossed quickly from the hacienda towards the stable block. Nene patted her pocket, checking for the sugar cube which would be Indigo’s reward when this was over, the spirited voices, laughter and music in the courtyard dimming at their backs as they headed for the lush pastures which had been a source of much comment and praise from her father’s guests tonight; in this hot summer, green grass was considered a true extravagance.

‘Papa has asked me to help him select the bulls tomorrow,’ Arlo said as they cut diagonally across the grazing field, the bulls having been moved to the field closest to the hacienda tonight (for their father saw no harm in showcasing his business at his wife’s birthday celebrations). The grass had been allowed to grow longer and more tangled here, clusters of wild buttercups and tiny purple flowers – sand viper’s-bugloss – dotting the ground into a painter’s palette. ‘He says it’s time I became a novillero.’

‘Arlo, no,’ Nene gasped. For all his bravado and professed obsession with the family’s business, she knew it was a ruse designed to attract their father’s attention; she knew he didn’t share their older brothers’ reckless courage.

‘No, I’m ready for it. I am,’ he said, nodding a little too vigorously, looking more handsome than he would ever know in his new clothes. ‘Papa has been waiting for the right moment for me and if he believes this is the time, then I believe it too. He had Vale and Montez out there when they were fourteen and fifteen remember, younger than I am now.’

‘Yes, but they are barbarians,’ she said forcefully.

Arlo glanced across at her. ‘It cannot be put off forever, Nene. I am a Mendoza. Bulls are our blood. I always knew this day was coming.’

She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘Then I will be there with you.’

‘No.’ His voice was firm as he looked back at her with his clear round eyes – just like hers. ‘It would be better if you are not. In case I . . . embarrass myself.’

‘You’re always embarrassing as far as I’m concerned,’ she quipped.

But his smile in reply was only half-hearted and they fell into an uneasy silence, both of them thinking of what lay in the ring for him tomorrow. Montez still had the scar on his left thigh from where he had turned too late his first time.

A sound of a twig cracking made her look across towards the holm oaks, where the bulls liked to stand in their shadows in the midday heat. She had expected it to be a ground squirrel or perhaps a fox, an elephant shrew or even a lynx, for the grooms had told her the continuing drought was forcing the higher-ground animals down to the valleys for water. What she wasn’t expecting it to be was a man. Her eyes followed him as he sprinted away, his arms and legs like pistons, something in his hand. Instinctively, her feet stopped moving.