All about the room the Scarabae faintly stirred, like leaves in a light breeze. Dorian poised with a chess knight in his fingers. Alice had seemingly dropped a stitch.

‘It may put Ruth off her playing,’ said Stephan from the empty hearth. ‘A young girl. She hasn’t been learning very long.’

‘Of course not,’ said Rachaela. ‘I’m her mother.’

A sigh appeared to go over them.

‘Naturally then,’ said Anna.

Ruth turned and went towards the doorway, but not quickly as on the previous night, allowing Rachaela time to follow.

Out in the hall, where Ruth’s lips blended into the ruby lamplight, Rachaela said, ‘Do you like the lessons?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Ruth, ‘How do you get on with him?’ Rachaela asked mundanely.

Ruth countered airily. ‘You said he wouldn’t like me, but he does.’

‘Does he?’

‘He says I learn very fast. He plays to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Rachaela. They had reached the door. She said swiftly, ‘Do you remember the first thing he said to you?’

‘Yes,’ said Ruth.

‘What?’

‘He said, ‘My name is Adam. I’m your father.’’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old does he look to you?’

Ruth put her hand on the door. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you think of him?’

Ruth looked at Rachaela, her face like paper with nothing on it, or more accurately with all the writing lined through and unreadable—one of Sylvian’s books.

‘He’s my dad,’ said Ruth.

The ghastly banal statement came between them like a cleaver blow. And Ruth turned the door handle and the door to the tower opened.

Ruth went up the stair first, to the upper room.

Rachaela climbed slowly, her body aching as if with fever.

The room.

The window was already dark, it was not credible to see if any damage showed in the face of the lion. Candles and lamps lit the furniture, the broad black pool of the piano with its shore of keys.

By the dark and open hearth, the giant cat lay sleeping, a heap of bones beneath fur pelt. As they entered, it lifted up its lids and the blurred moons of its eyes looked on them as if from miles away.

Ruth sped at once to the cat.

She kneeled down and embraced it, rubbing her head against its face, caressing the thick fur.

Then she looked up at the man in the chair.

‘Hallo, Adam.’

She was not shy, not even arch. Was she possessive? This mysterious stranger, author of her existence, who would, she had been told, care nothing for her. Now before her in all the cogency of his masculinity. Hers for an hour, or however long it was they spent together, this evening tryst of theirs.

He wore a white shirt. That was different, Rachaela remembered him only in black. Or naked, clad in skin.