The Santiago Sisters. Victoria Fox

cringed whenever she thought of it. Calida yearned to unpick it, correct it, tell Daniel there was no boy in town that she liked; Teresita had lied about everything. But if she did that she was confessing to having eavesdropped, and admitting to him her true feelings. Why couldn’t she admit it? What did she have left to lose?

      Teresita would tell him, she tortured herself. Teresita would dare.

      ‘Do you miss her?’ asked Calida one afternoon, as she hung up Paco’s reins, stopping to rinse her hands beneath the outdoor tap. The water choked a splurge of brown before clearing. It was accompanied by the sharp stench of iron.

      Daniel didn’t speak for several moments. She was wondering if he’d heard, when at last he said: ‘You know, Calida—I’m glad it’s not you who went away.’

      Calida wasn’t glad. If she had gone away, she could have proven her sister wrong: she could have an adventure; she could take a chance … The trouble was, a chance never took her. It stung that he hadn’t answered her question.

      ‘She really wanted to go, didn’t she?’ said Calida.

      Daniel faced her. ‘Sometimes, if you’re unhappy, you have no option but to leave. It’s self-preservation.’

      The wind moaned in the rafters. Calida examined the nail on her thumb.

      ‘She hated it here that much?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s young. She doesn’t know what she wants.’

      ‘I do. And I’m the same age.’

      ‘But you’re …’ Daniel smiled a little, with compassion, humour, she didn’t know what. ‘You’re different, Calida. You’re not like other girls.’

      ‘You left your home,’ she said. ‘Do you think about your family?’

      His blue eyes held hers. Calida could see him about to open up, the last bud in spring, but then his face fell into shadow, as it had on the day they’d met.

      ‘I’ll never go back,’ he said bluntly, turning from her. ‘That part of my life is over. There’s nothing left. I can never return.’

      ‘You never talk about it.’

      ‘There’s nothing to say.’ Daniel started stacking saddles on the barn ledge; the weight of sheepskin and the tangle of reins. ‘But the more distance there is between that place and me, the happier I am. I’ll die before I cross that ocean again.’

      He stopped, then, and said, ‘It’s not the same for Teresita. I swear to you. I know that much. You’re too important to her. This place is too important. She doesn’t realise it yet, but she will … She thinks she wants more—that whatever’s out there is better, that it’ll solve her problems, answer her prayers. It won’t, because the problem she’s trying to figure out isn’t this place—it’s her. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t leave herself behind. One day soon, she’ll look around at her new world and consider what she swapped it for … and then she’ll see her mistake.’

      Calida bit back tears.

      ‘I don’t want anything to happen to her,’ she said. ‘I can’t help it. What if it does, and I’m not there? I’ve never not been there.’

      Daniel came to her, put his hands on her arms. A spark raced up Calida’s spine and set fire to her blood. ‘It’s nice that you care so much,’ he said.

      She nodded. There was a long pause.

      ‘I broke up with my girlfriend,’ he said.

      ‘Oh.’

      Daniel waited for her to speak, as if he had offered a handshake and she’d left him hanging, unsure when to pull away. He returned to ground they’d been on: ‘I know what it’s like to be parted from your family. It hurts … but you’ll find a way.’

      She nodded. A flush of shame crept up her neck.

       He feels sorry for me. I can be so desperate sometimes …

      ‘Thanks, Daniel,’ she muttered, and hurried back inside.

14

       Paris

      Tess Geddes mounted the wide stone steps of the Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris and gazed up at the building. From the bell tower, a deep clang resounded.

      In the heart of the Quartier Latin, Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris was the most prestigious and exclusive boarding school in the French capital, if not in Europe. It was set apart from the standard education system and reserved for those with elite money and standing, a finishing school to prepare young ladies for world domination.

      Pretty, polished students wearing knee-high socks and frilled skirts dashed ahead of her, glossy manes bouncing and leather satchels slung elegantly over one shoulder. Tess watched them, appraising the challenge. I can do this, she thought. I can do anything. When Simone had informed her she was going to Paris, it made no difference. England, France, wherever it was—as long as it wasn’t Argentina, with people who didn’t want her and who got rid of her the first chance they got.

      Simone stood back as her staff hauled the baggage: a huge buckled trunk with gold studs that resembled a coffin. Tess thought, I know who’s buried in there. She wondered, if she sprung it open, whether she would find, instead of daintily laid blouses scented with pockets of fragrant rose pomander, the body of her old self, curled up in a ball like a kitten in a straw nest, hair brittle and eyes closed.

      ‘You’ll make so many friends,’ Simone was saying, as she pressed a tissue to her nose. Several other parents glanced over at this show of emotion, their attention snagged by Simone’s sizeable entourage and the incognito dark glasses that marked her out as a celebrity. Although, judging by the throng of gleaming four-by-fours parked at the school gates and the ranks of bodyguards talking grimly into Bluetooth headpieces, Simone wasn’t the only VIP on the premises. Their audience glanced between Simone and Teresa, who couldn’t have looked less alike, and smiled politely.

      ‘And you’ll even have Emily for company!’

      Simone could barely choke out this sentiment, but she made a valiant effort. Up ahead, Emily Chilcott was linking arms with a fiery redhead and shooting Tess death glares. Emily had been attending Sainte-Marthe for three years, one thing Brian had insisted on, and was apparently Queen Bee of the dormitories.

      ‘Mademoiselle Geddes, I believe?’ A middle-aged woman was walking towards them, one arm held out, as pale and goosebumpy as a raw chicken thigh. ‘I’ll take you to your lodgings, shall I?’ she said in English. By now Tess had a competent grasp of the language. Simone’s lessons hadn’t been fast enough so she had taken matters into her own hands, devouring every book and magazine she could, reading it alongside her dictionary into the small hours of the night. ‘See if we can’t get you settled in. My name is Madame Aubert and I am your house mistress.’

      Simone kissed her farewell. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks, darling …’

      As Tess followed Madame, she eliminated the echo that rebounded through her brain. A few weeks … That was exactly what Julia had said as she had been driven away from Patagonia. Fuck them, she thought. They don’t deserve my tears.

      The school was like a cathedral. Stained-glass windows spilled red and gold on to the cool, chequered floor. Baroque pillars ran to a huge glass dome, ornate with gold, and weeping religious figures. ‘This is where chapel is held in the morning,’ said Madame Aubert. Through that space they emerged into a giant courtyard—’La Cour Henri Jaurès’—which was marked with white and red lines and a vertical pole at each end that was capped with a net. The surrounding structures were high and arched and, above, through little square windows,