Sarnai laughs. ‘Of course! There will be a ceremony later on, and we can all join in. And then if you want to have a private meeting, you can arrange this and you can go to one of the gers. Are you thinking about this? I really recommend it.’

Martin shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ He glances at me, hoping for guidance and I nod.

‘Sure. Why not?’

Carrie breaks away from Rory’s side and comes up to me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. ‘We should do it together, V! Let’s see what they have to say about us both.’

I glance around at Rory, who looks like someone just punctured his football.

‘That sounds perfect,’ I say. My cheeks tighten. I can’t stop the grin.

Carrie grabs my face and gives me a hard, wet kiss on the cheek, making an exaggerated ‘mwah!’, then she skips off ahead, towards the stalls and the drums and the smell of smoke, and we all traipse along behind her, like the Pied Piper’s children: excited and mesmerised, and ready to follow her anywhere.

The drums get louder as we reach the epicentre of the festival. Red-faced, happy children run through the crowds, while the adults watch the entertainment – smoking, drinking, chattering. I feel my chest constrict as we squeeze our way into the crowd. A flutter of panic beats its tiny wings deep in my stomach. Then I feel a hand, clasping mine, a gentle squeeze. I turn quickly, to see Martin’s concerned face.

‘Let’s get a drink.’ He leans close to me, and I smell his sweat, leaching upwards through the open neck of his shirt. It’s not unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the rhythmic banging of the drums, the vibrations from the crowd dancing in time to the beat, but I feel a tingle spread through my body as I let him lead me through the throng.

He drags me into a small ger where they are serving drinks in wooden cups. The woman behind the trestle table that’s been set up as a make-shift bar hands us a cup each and smiles and nods.

‘Where are the others?’ I say.

‘Never mind that right now. Cheers,’ he says, holding his cup aloft. We smash the cups together and knock the drinks back in one.

‘Jesus, what the hell is that?’ I cough, and the swirl of herbs and strong alcohol makes my throat tingle.

‘Bloody good stuff,’ Martin says, grabbing my cup and offering his and mine over the bar for a refill.

The woman behind the bar pours in dark-brown liquid and says, ‘Very strong. Be careful.’

Martin laughs. ‘I reckon we can handle it.’

I sip my second drink, but I’m pleased. I hadn’t seen this side of Martin before. He’s broken out of the serious and let his hair down a bit.