She dragged her suitcases into the hall, and turned to close the inner door.

‘Please leave it open,’ said a flat soft voice.

She moved quickly to face the lobby. A thin, small figure, male, leaning slightly forward, stood at the far side of the lamp.

The doors are always left a little open after dark.’

This strange statement unnerved Rachaela. She left the door alone. She poised by her cases, for what came next.

‘I shall fetch someone for your bags. Will you allow me to show you the room which has been made ready.’

‘Who are you?’ said Rachaela.

Beyond the lamp she saw a mannequin in a shabby ancient suit, a small pale face with two blots of eyes. Grey hair.

‘My name is Michael. I serve the family.’

‘And you know me?’

But who else would come here with the darkness?

‘You are Miss Rachaela.’

‘And—the family?’ she said, her hands clenched.

‘Miss Anna and Mr Stephan will presently come down to welcome you.’

The flat soft voice and its words did not calm Rachaela.

A flutter in the oil lamp as the man took it up caused all the shadows to take wing, the walls to topple. Extraordinary carvings jumped out and vanished again as the light ran off them.

A stairway was born out of the dark on Rachaela’s right. She looked at it in wonder. A wooden nymph guarded the newel post, holding up an ornate light fitment, blind, in her hand. The stairs went up and up, carpeted at their centres in Persian red that the oil lamp made rich.

They ascended in the magic halo of this lamp.

Rachaela counted twenty-two steps. Behind her her cases were swallowed in the deserted blackness of the hall. Only the chandelier caught still red drops among its films of dust.

There was a carpeted landing. A corridor appeared, lighted by another oil lamp on a stand. This lamp was of a pinkish white tone, and abruptly, for a second, Rachaela saw the face of her guide, a cameo between shadow and fire. Not a young man. His eyes were fixed sightlessly. There was a peculiar bloom on them resembling the pollen of dust on the table and other elements of furniture.

They entered the passage. It turned at a massive window, leaded, set with stained glass that had no colour left, showing only the darkness of the night. There were confused pictures on the walls.

The servant of the family opened a door.

‘This is to be your room, Miss Rachaela.’

The room, like the house, was gothic. It was green and blue. A lamp with a base of emerald glass and clear chimney was burning on the mantelpiece of a green-tiled fireplace. A fire worked there busily over a pile of logs. In other places plain white candles were lit in sconces on the walls. She noticed, there was not so much dust, perhaps they had dusted here for her, or this oblique servant had done so.