‘No. They locked the window too. They brought me dinner on a tray. It was a piece of old fish. But the jelly was nice.’

Rachaela thought, incongruously, I haven’t eaten all day.

‘Ruth, try to trust me. I promise I’ll get you out.’

‘All right,’ said Ruth.

The third silence formed.

Rachaela thought of Ruth at the grave of the cat, weeping.

Blinding, searing tears filled Rachaela’s eyes, sliding through like razor blades.

‘Don’t be afraid, Ruth,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

And now I am the liar after all.

‘Will he forgive me?’ said Ruth.

‘No, Ruth, he won’t.’

‘No,’ said Ruth. She said, ‘I did it to make them sorry. But I didn’t really mean it.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’

When she went out, the sky was bright with fire.

When she looked over at the steps, it seemed to be touching heaven.

There was nothing left to see of them, Anna and Alice, Peter and Dorian. They had gone up in smoke.

Without a prayer or a song, like old clothes or refuse, so they cremated their dead at the rim of the water.

Far out, the sea made white flounces.

The Scarabae, those who were left, stood in their erratic circle, like old kiddies at a Guy Fawkes party.

She looked from her height and saw them all, Teresa and Anita, Unice and Miriam, Sasha, Miranda and Livia, George, Stephan, Jack and Eric. And to the side the humble retainers, the not-quite Scarabae, Maria, Cheta, Michael and Carlo.

Adamus was not with them. And Camillo was not.

The fire burned on and on like all the fires of the world.

Chapter Nineteen

Both doors to the tower were locked.

The woman stood before each of them in her skirt and blouse and deluge of black primeval hair. Then she went back to her green-and-blue room.

Rachaela stood looking at herself in the winged mirror, breast-high amid the hedge of lilies, the rayed sun and swallows.

Who am I?

She did not know. She saw herself as a stranger, beautiful and far away. In looking at the faces of others, she had forgotten her own.

It would be easy to go. To leave them all to each other.

But they would travel with her.

She could not leave Ruth, poor insane little animal, snared in their rites and ceremonies where even murder was accorded a kind of ritual place.

Rachaela went down to the kitchen.

Cheta and Maria were scouring pots; Michael sat at the table, cleaning silver methodically.

‘Michael, I need to see Adamus. You must let me into the tower.’

‘When Mr Adamus locks the doors he wishes to see no one.’

‘I realize that. But this is important. And you have a key.’

‘I take his meals, Miss Rachaela.’

‘If you won’t let me in, I’ll come with you.’