‘Forgive me,’ said Anna, ‘but we know something about you, Rachaela. Your lack of social contacts, your own way of living. Rather like a hermitess.’

‘I had a choice.’

‘Did you? Haven’t you besides made a choice now to be with us?’

‘No,’ said Rachaela. ‘I’ll be honest. The choice of coming here was forced on me. And you hunted me, didn’t you.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Anna, ‘we will admit to that.’

‘I asked you before, and I must ask you again. Why?’

‘You belong here, with us.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Rachaela lied. Anna smiled a little. To lie was useless. ‘I have no responsibilities. No autonomy here. I’m some kind of puppet. I sense this. That I’m being kept for something.’

‘For yourself,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t you understand your worth? We prize tradition. We value the ideal of the family. And you are the last of us. The very last flower on our tree.’

Rachaela thought of his words, in the dream: The last, but for you.

She felt a constriction in her throat and spoke through it, crisply.

‘And the last before me was my father.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why,’ said Rachaela, ‘isn’t he with you?’

Anna said, ‘But Rachaela, he is. Of course he is.’

Rachaela thought of the old men of the house. Something sank inside her. Her mother had spoken of him as young.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Then I’ve met him.’

‘Your father is a hermit, Rachaela. As you are a hermitess. He lives here, but not readily among us.’ Anna let her embroidery lie. ‘When he was younger, your age, he ran away. He ran out into the world, and we let him go. It was the time for it. He made you, out in the world. Then he came back to us.’

‘Willingly?’

‘No, not willingly, but with resignation. There was nowhere else for him to go. You chafe at the confines of the house, the two of you. Yet you hate the open places of the outer world, the cities, the people. They offend you. Life offends you. You are Scarabae. Here, you’re safe.’

‘Where,’ said Rachaela, and her hands had clasped one another, ‘where is he?’

‘You’ve tried the locked door of the tower several times. There. I’m afraid you will have to leave it to your father, the hour of your meeting. You must be eager, perhaps angry.’

‘Angry, yes.’

That is something you must resolve with him. You and he are not like the rest of us. You and he are alike. He will come to you.’

‘Tell me his name,’ said Rachaela. Her mother had never named her father. He was only faceless darkness, rage.

‘Adamus,’ said Anna. ‘Adamus is his name. It’s very old. Traditional to the family.’

Rachaela did not accept the name. It rang on in her head like music in another room.