‘Where,’ he said, ‘do you want to go instead? Who has prevented you? You’ve only to pack your bags and leave.’

‘Easier said than done. There’s no transport. The only telephone for miles is broken.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘They do mean you to stay.’

His face had drawn inward. The eyes were as she had seen them first, still and shadowed.

‘Didn’t you know?’ she said.

‘Oh, I expect I guessed. You’ve no choice then. You’ll have to remain.’

‘For what?’ she said quickly.

‘For whatever happens next.’

‘Don’t spy on me again,’ she said. ‘You have no right.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘rights.’ He said, ‘Put a chair under the doorknob if it worries you.’

‘Would that keep you out?’

‘I’ve seen you now,’ he said. ‘I’m satisfied.’

‘That the family line goes on.’

‘You’re mine,’ he said. ‘A natural curiosity.’

‘I’m not yours. How dare you say something so inappropriate. I’m nothing to you. My mother was nothing to you.’

‘There you are correct.’

‘Then you can’t make any claims.’

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘No claims at all. You’re still mine. I created you.’

‘Fucking nonsense,’ she said stonily. ‘You dropped me like a lost coin. Less than that.’

‘I meant to make you,’ he said. ‘I tried with many women. The Scarabae seed is reluctant. It inbreeds better. But your stupid and soulless mother had, surprisingly, the correct ingredients to accommodate me. I knew she would. When I went back to her that night I knew what I’d find.’

‘All her life,’ said Rachaela, hearing the false desperation in her voice, ‘she hated you and what you’d done. It was a constant struggle. She made me pay for you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, without expression. ‘But it’s over now, isn’t it?’

‘Why didn’t you leave me in peace?’

‘You’d had your peace long enough.’

‘You bastard,’ she said. But he was not her father. He was a man out of the night who held her there, not touching her, and the fire climbing the log, gilded both their faces. She could not leave. She rose. ‘I might as well go to bed.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sleep well, Rachaela.’

To her consternation tears scorched into her eyes. He spoke without tenderness, and he was nothing to her, and yet it was as if, across the twenty-nine years of her life, this simple and insincere wish had lain in waiting, gathering true sentiment.

She had no reply.

She took the lamp, and left him in the firelight, while the great cat hunted somewhere through the pitch-black night.

Through the lilies and the sunburst, she regarded herself in the winged mirror.

She was naked, framed in black hair.