She prepared herself as before, for an intimate dinner with Anna and Stephan. After all there were questions she must ask. The needs of hygiene and vanity—toothpaste, powder. The matter of batteries for the radio. More books without lines ruled through them... If she was to stay she must — must—

In the corridor, over the undertow of the ocean, Rachaela heard a new step passing. It was not like the others, lighter and more swift. Something brushed against the door.

Rachaela held her breath. Something different was in the passage.

Then it was gone.

She could not make herself go to open the door for almost a minute, and when she did so, nothing, naturally, remained to demonstrate who, or what, had passed.

Add that to the questions, then.

There was a curious odour in the corridor. It reminded her of some pleasant thing. She could not recall.

‘You must give a list of what you require to Cheta. The van which comes to the cottages carries most things, most known brands.’ This, Anna, in response to the first question.

‘But I’d prefer to choose for myself,’ Rachaela said.

‘Oh no,’ said Anna, ‘could it be worth it, such a long and difficult walk. It’s heathland, you know, beyond the wood. Uphill. Cheta is very strong, aren’t you, Cheta?’

‘Yes, Miss Anna.’

‘But you are not used to such a trek. Seven miles.’

Rachaela noted that the distance seemed to have grown.

‘Couldn’t I hire a car to take me to the town?’

‘Oh, my dear—so expensive. The town is thirty-five miles away.’ Should Rachaela believe this? ‘Besides, so awkward to hire a car. We have no telephone at the house.’

‘But there was a car to meet me at the station.’

‘There is a public telephone in the village. Carlo called the company from there. It was still necessary to send them directions.’

Awkward then, but not completely beyond the bounds. But Anna was evidently discouraging her. Let it rest for now. The precious van would supply batteries perhaps, and other basic essentials.

Tonight five places had been laid at the long table. Only two other Scarabae had presented themselves, the two old men from the blue chessboard, Dorian and Peter. They ate voraciously as wasps and now and then stared at Rachaela, not wanting to miss more than a little of her presence. They did not speak beyond a word or two. She was glad she had not breakfasted with them.

Three old women had come into the room during the meal, which comprised a soufflé and fish in a hot sauce. The names of the old women were Miriam, Livia and Unice, which as usual did not mean very much. They did not stay, only filled their eyes with great draughts of Rachaela and pattered out.

‘There was something outside my room,’ said Rachaela.

‘That would be Uncle Camillo,’ said Stephan. ‘He likes to play tricks, cut capers.’