It was almost midnight when I turned down the steep cobbled streets into the Via di Vallerozzi. I walked alone except for my shadow, a black companion in the lamplight.

      At the entrance to the Contrada of the Wolf I raised my eyes to the bell tower and felt the knot in my belly tighten. I stepped up to the door and knocked, rapping four times then four again. Then I waited, counting my heartbeats. I was about to try once more when I heard footsteps and then the creak of ancient hinges as the heavy oak door opened.

      The guardsman, thin and sallow-skinned, shoulders hunched with age, poked his head out. He looked at me warily.

      “Hello, signor …” My accent gave me away straight off. I didn’t have the chance to say anything more.

      “No tourists, Americano!” the guardsman grunted dismissively. “Not on the night before the Palio.”

      He began to close the door and I had to thrust my arm out to stop it shutting in my face.

      “I’m not a tourist!” I insisted. “I’m Lola. Lola Campione.”

      I had expected my name to mean something to him, but there was no flicker of recognition on his stony face.

      “Go find the Capitano. Tell him I’m here.”

      The guardsman didn’t move. “The Capitano is in a meeting. Very important. He cannot be disturbed.” He pushed the door and I felt it closing against me.

      “No! Please don’t –”

      “Drago!”

      From behind the guardsman a voice rang through the dark corridor.

      “Come now, Drago,” the voice said. “Do you not recognise this girl? This is the fantino herself. Let her in.”

      The guardsman hesitated, the look on his face made it plain that he was unimpressed. You’re kidding me, right? This twelve-year-old kid’s the fantino? Then, grudgingly, he did as he was told, releasing his grip on the door so that I could push it wide enough to move past him and come inside.

      The hallway was lit by oil lamps that illuminated the dusty paintings on the wood-panelled walls. In this gloomy half-light