She listened, no longer for the tide, but for the minute noises of the Scarabae as they went down to the cremation of their dead. Like beetles in the woodwork, creeping. She heard them go, or did she imagine it.

Finally she went out, and from the landing she saw them, filing into the lower rooms, in their summer clothes, as if to a midnight garden-party.

What a bonfire there would be on the beach.

Had Adamus gone with them?

Rachaela turned and went into the left-hand corridor.

When she reached the foot of the stairs she expected one of them after all left on guard, but no one was there.

She climbed to the attic door. It was firmly closed. The lock must be more hardy than that to the room of gowns or they would not have trusted it.

She tried the door. It shook and did not give.

Rachaela stood there at a loss.

What should she say, to an eleven-year-old murderess who had killed four times over?

‘Ruth—Ruth? It’s me. Ruth, answer me.’

A bell of silence formed, in which Rachaela seemed to hear dim bat-like squeaks, the rush of sparks in a great fire miles away.

‘Ruth.’

A voice answered from beyond the door.

‘Hallo, Mummy.’

It was calm and still, the voice, muffled by the swollen lips, and very young. It was a child’s voice.

‘Ruth. Are you afraid?’

‘No,’ said the voice. And then, solemnly, ‘Yes.’

‘Did they leave you a light?’

‘Oh yes. They left me candles.’

‘Be very careful with them,’ said Rachaela.

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘I’ll make them let you out. Then we’ll go back to London. I don’t know how long it will take.’

‘They won’t let me out,’ said Ruth. ‘They didn’t let out Uncle Camillo for twenty years. That was in another house. Sasha told me.’

‘Sasha meant to scare you. Did they hurt you?’

‘No, just my face. I cut my mouth on a tooth.’

‘Are your teeth all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Ruth. ‘But my eye’s swollen up.’

‘He might have killed you,’ said Rachaela.

‘He was angry.’ There was a second silence. Ruth said, ‘I didn’t mean to do it. It was like the book. They were bad and I wanted to punish them.’

‘Don’t talk about it now,’ said Rachaela. ‘We’ll find you a doctor. You can talk to him.’

‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Ruth. After a moment she said, ‘They brought my clothes, and my drawing book and paints. There’s a stuffed bird. All this wine Uncle Camillo made. I drank some. It made me feel funny.’

‘Don’t drink it,’ said Rachaela.

‘I can see Adam’s tower from the window. The lamp’s burning. I can see the yellow lion.’

‘Does the window open?’ Rachaela asked quickly.