‘Santi!’ The word erupted from her with such passion, such longing, he came to an immediate stop.

He stared back at her, his new unfamiliar face sending a jolt through her, his dark eyes burning bright. And for just a moment, as his chest heaved and his body recovered from his sprint, she could see a trace of the skinny boy who had once been her dearest friend in the world. He had grown strong and muscular from his years in the fields, his skin tanned a rich chestnut brown, but she knew if he smiled, there would still be that gap between his teeth which she had loved to tease him about as a girl; it would be proof he was still the friend she had once known. If only he would smile . . .

‘Please, wait,’ she cried, picking up her skirt and making to head towards him. But Arlo grabbed her by the elbow, holding her back.

‘Nene, no. You must not. You know you can’t.’

Santi’s eyes flashed blacker at his words and she saw suddenly that although beautiful, although her old friend, he was also savage. Where she had grown tame and obedient in his absence, there was something feral about him, as though he had cast off more than the powerlessness of childhood. He was an angry young man now.

‘Arlo, please.’ She tried to tug herself free but he held her firm. She looked over at Santi. ‘Santi, please.’

But as he stared back at her she felt the breach between them not narrow but widen, like two tectonic plates being pushed apart, mountains thrusting up as a wall, dividing them forever. She realized how she and Arlo must look to him – dressed to the nines in their formal riding velvets, a party at their backs, whilst he stood barefoot in trousers held up by a leather lasso, his shirt closed with only one button. And in his hand . . .

Her gaze fell for the first time to his hand, just as he turned and sprinted away again, like a deer from the wolf. Her heart began to thud heavily in her chest, her jacket feeling even tighter than before. ‘Santi,’ she whispered.

‘What is it?’ Arlo asked, paling at her expression. ‘Nene, what is it?’

‘Something’s wrong.’ And before he could ask her what – or how she knew – she began to run too. The velvet skirt was heavy and unwieldy in her hands as she tore across the ground with a pace she hadn’t found in years. The stables were only a few hundred yards ahead but it felt like miles, her ribs constricted in the tight jacket, her hat flying off her head and remaining only by the cord at her neck.

Arlo ran after her but even with his greater height and strength he couldn’t keep up; desperation was propelling her. ‘Nene! Wait! What are you doing?’

She could see the stable-hands now – some of them sweeping the yard, another refilling buckets, several others raking the sand in the training school into neat ridged furrows. The guests were due over here in half an hour and final preparations were well under way.