Adamus said, ‘Be careful,’ and leaning forward took the thing away from her. It was a mousetrap.

Camillo giggled.

Anna said clearly, ‘Uncle Camillo is very naughty, Ruth. Don’t mind him.’

‘Uncle Camillo,’ said Ruth.

She looked at him with her jet stone eyes. Her face was pinched a little. He had tried to spoil the betrothal.

Anita came to Ruth and gave her an embroidered cushion of red flowers.

When the presentation was over, the Scarabae and their betrothed went into the dining room.

There had been no dinner earlier, now the table was laden like a medieval feast, with pies and roasts, chickens and joints gained no doubt from the supermarket in the village.

The candles filled this room too, and the roses fumed.

Ruth sat at one end of the table, Adamus at the other. Rachaela found herself seated between Stephan and Dorian. A place had been laid for Camillo, but he had absented himself. There were more women than men, and they filled Adamus’s end of the table.

Selections were taken from the ready-carved joints and from the pies and dishes of vegetables.

The Scarabae ate with good appetite. Rachaela glanced to see what Adamus did, but he was eating too. She had never seen the phenomenon before. He ate slowly and indifferently, yet the food vanished from his plate. And Ruth ate carnally.

Repelled, Rachaela picked at her dish. She would not celebrate by eating.

Would there be speeches and an old champagne? Wine was served, and no one got up to speak. Yet it was the betrothal banquet. What did Ruth expect as its end? Now and then her eyes would go to Adamus. Her eyes were gluttonous. She anticipated something, and there would be nothing. Perhaps it had not been made clear to her. This was the climax of the night.

When Adamus rose, Ruth looked up expectantly.

‘Good night,’ Adamus said. ‘Good night, Anna. Good night, Ruth.’

‘Must you go so early?’ Anna said.

‘I’ve stayed two hours,’ he said.

Anna bowed her head, and Adamus left the table of the fairytale feast and walked out of the room.

Ruth half got to her feet.

‘Shall I—’

‘No, Ruth. Stay and finish your supper.’

Ruth sank back with a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. She forked up her chicken, but some of the vibrancy had gone from her.

The meal went on for a long time.

Rachaela was heartily sick of it, longing to escape as he had, but knowing she must stay, to watch.

Finally the fruits and sweetmeats had been picked bare to stones and crusts. The company rose.

Ruth poised like a scarlet mayfly.

‘Am I to go up now?’

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘It’s very late. I’m sure that soon you’ll want to sleep.’

Ruth’s face was heavy, shadows under the eyes.

‘No.’

‘You don’t feel it yet, but you will. After all this excitement.’