(I just can't leave things like this)

Well, it's over. As my wonderful beta reader, Odensdisir, said, the horses are safely on the stables at Shillingworth Magna and our heroes are relaxing and having a nice cup of tea. I have collected all my notes and exited stage, discreetly. My work here is done and I release the magic thread that has bound me to Seville and England these last weeks.
Writing this story has been wonderful and painful at the same time. I hadn't realized, when I started, how hard it was going to be. I hadn't realized many things about writing, plot, dialogue, pacing, and characterization. There are many clumsy mistakes I wish now I hadn't written. But, warts and all, I loved writing Ritmo, living in the Villares Cortijo and listening to what the characters had to say. It was worth every second.
Speaking of which, the faithful reader may find these little bits of interest in case they are wondering about some of the people in the story:

Manuel confessed everything to his father. Thanks to Fogg, he was spared a public inquiry and detention, but not the rumors that ran wild in Seville after the rest of the Republicans were detained. Eventually, not wanting to bring shame to his family, he left Seville and went to Florida. He had a bit of a hard time there for a while, but finally he settled down quite happily, imported some horses from home to start a breeding program, married, and became a respectable man well-liked by everyone.

Jules Verne finally overcame his vicious streak against birds, and was able to let them sing sweetly from the trees without feeling the need to stone them down. But he always kept a reminder of distrust for the feathered fauna, and wove that in his later stories, where you can find all manners of avifauna depicted either as emergency nourishment for daring explorers, or as fearsome threats to be valiantly faced by his characters. Read the books if you don't believe me.

The body of Gonzalo Estepa was recovered from a ravine three days after his fight with Phileas Fogg. His throat had been cut. No money was found on his clothes.

Pesadilla never really lost her devilish temper; but she refined her technique, managing to look pretty and mild most of the time, and then lashing about in the wildest fashion, particularly if a hunting party was taking place and Miss Finchberry-White had been invited. Rebecca often thought that Fogg quite enjoyed, and did nothing to prevent, the pandemonium that ensued.

Fogg's first attempts at horse-breeding were not a success. After much cajoling, Pesadilla was convinced to mate with Dormilón and produce a foal. Fogg expected to get a horse as intelligent and fast as the mare and with the sweet character of the father. What he got, however, was a rather ugly misshapen pony, bulky, ill-tempered and quite stupid. They called him 'Count Gregory'.

Although Rebecca was able to stop the complot to arm the republicans with fire-throwers, her valiant efforts only delayed the inevitable. In 1868, a full-fledged revolution sent Queen Isabel II into exile. She was succeeded by the nice, if somewhat half-boiled, Amadeo de Saboya. After him, Spain made her first experiment with a Republic. It was not a success.

And now it's really, truly over. Everything has been said except for two very important things:

Odensdisir has been my beta reader all throughout the story. She's been patient, encouraging, kind, witty, hard-working and wonderful beyond words. 'Ritmo Andaluz' wouldn't have been finished without her constant support and excellent feedback. Therefore, I dedicate this story, such as it is, to her. It's not nearly enough but it's all I have.

And you, the readers: the wonderful people of the SAJV fandom. My thanks for being kind, fun, delightful and utterly awesome. I've been impressed by your creativity, your energy and your expertise. You are a great bunch of people and it's an honor to be among you.

Thank you very much.