And the Scarabae began to chatter. They twittered and chirruped amongst themselves like a nest of small, harsh dangerous birds with razor beaks.

She heard odd words only, the hubbub was so great—lace, omelette, chesspiece.

And Anna, the usual spokeswoman, was talkative, and once or twice she directed at Rachaela a pitiless smile. You see how we can be, it said. Do you like this better?

On the edge of insanity the room crackled and vibrated.

Rachaela sat mesmerized, in a shrinking fascination. It was like being in a demented music-box. A twist of a key would silence them. But which key was it?

When the plates were polished clean, the fruit had gone round and been demolished in its turn, the teapots came, three this time.

Rachaela sat on in the aviary of noise. She drank tea.

Alice and Sasha were the first to rise.

Rachaela rose also and went up to them.

She had recognized Alice, who wore a plum-red knitted cardigan, a long string of crimson beads.

‘Alice, tell me about the attic.’

‘Oh, the attic,’ Alice said at once, like clockwork. ‘Full of trifles. A dress of my mother’s—’weird notion, this one had had a mother‘—on a dummy. And the old rocking-horse, do you remember, Sasha?’

‘How does one get into the attic?’ said Rachaela.

‘A stair,’ said Alice. ‘We’ll show you.’

The others watched as they went from the room. The noise did not subside.

They walked up to the landing and turned to the left. The corridor curved like a worm, branched. Alice chose left again. They passed through an annexe with a window of Salome dancing with the head of John-or so Rachaela interpreted the saffron and cerise glass. There were bare floorboards beyond, closed doors, a narrow stair going downwards and another up, uncarpeted. Rachaela had never come this way. It was gloomy, sulkily lit by glimmers of Salome, old reds of dying sunfall on a peeling wall.

‘Up there,’ said Alice. ‘Now you know.’

Sasha said, ‘Watch out for Uncle Camillo. He stores wine in the attic.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Alice, ‘he made ever such a lot. Quite horrible it was, very sour and add. Undrinkable. But he said he liked to do it, make the wine. In the kitchen the corks kept popping. So now he stores it up there.’

As Rachaela stepped on to the stair, Alice waved to her, ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ as if seeing her off on an epic train journey.

The attic door was free of webs, in use. There was a lock, but it stood ajar. She pushed it. The two women had gone.