‘Miss Anna told me to ask you to go straight in.’

Rachaela shrugged. Something twisted in her belly, a phantom Ruth-baby.

She went towards the second door, and Michael hurried ahead to open it for her.

She walked into the dining room, and stopped, not surprised, perturbed only by what she had suddenly anticipated.

For they were all there, as on the memorable occasions in the past.

Their known, nearly identical faces, slid by in a wave of tawdry dinner jackets, sequined old lace. Could she still name them? Yes. Alice, Peter, Jack, Livia... Not Camillo, never Camillo. She saw and registered all this in parenthesis. For at the table’s head sat the most bizarre Scarabae of all. In an exactly similar perhaps resewn dress of dark green voile and net, a necklace that was a heart of green cut-glass, and jade ear pendants, her black hair flowing from tortoiseshell combs, her face smoothly powdered, lids black, lips crimson: Ruth.

Ruth sat among the Scarabae like a living plant among ancient statues. She had bloomed from their support.

Across the room she smiled at Rachaela her straight white teeth that had never needed a dentist.

‘Hallo, Mummy.’

Almost the first time ever she had volunteered a greeting.

But then, she was at home here, not Rachaela’s unwanted guest.

Rachaela did not answer.

To Ruth’s right, Anna stood up.

‘Come and sit down with us, Rachaela. We’re so very glad that you came. We hoped that you would.’

‘I had to,’ Rachaela said. She said blankly, ‘You stole my child.’

‘Oh, no, Rachaela. Not stealing. Not that.’

Ruth said, piping up like a bright and confident pupil, ‘I asked the man. He knew the way. I came by train on my own. I liked it. They sent a car to the station.’

‘And you walked up the hill through the trees,’ said Rachaela.

‘Michael was there. He showed me the way.’

She was not afraid to speak to Rachaela. Not reluctant. It was as if it had all been planned.

Rachaela looked at the weird miniature woman her daughter had become. She did not look like a child dressing up, more like the daughter of a medieval family, dressed always as a smaller version of the adults, a woman at eleven or twelve.

‘Come and sit down,’ Anna said again. Her dress blinked its myriad eyes and all the dresses, Ruth’s included, did the same.

Rachaela went to the table. A place had been laid at the foot, opposite across the long surface, to Ruth’s place. As if they had known to the minute the time of Rachaela’s arrival. Probably everything had been kept ready for weeks, prepared as soon as Ruth got here.

Rachaela sat down, and Cheta came to serve her.

It was a rabbit casserole.

Rachaela ate cautiously, not sure now she could stomach such food.

Ruth ate neatly and voraciously, like a starling.