‘He wants the night,’ said Adamus. ‘I must let him out. Come on,’ he said quietly to the cat, which followed him from the room and down the stair, presumably to the lower door.

Rachaela stared round her at the unequally lighted chamber, the blackness beyond the radius of the lamp and candles, where things sorcerously caught the red glint of the fire, the green umbra of the glass of the lamp, like eyes or thoughts.

A taste of salt now in the wine.

It was foolish for emotion to crowd in on her. She had not expected that, for surely it was all a sham, this interview with a pretend father.

She supposed it was possible, if the Scarabae lived as long as they declared. But even that was probably a lie, some senile device between the wishes to amuse and to alarm.

The darkness howled beyond the window. The lightning had died.

She did not hear him come back. He appeared out of the air, the light not properly reaching him. A tall shadow.

Instead of coming towards her, he went instead across the room. He seated himself at the piano.

Unable to prevent herself, Rachaela held her breath.

And in the dark he began to play.

The music drifted up in long chords above the gunfire rattle of the rain. The sombre lower register fit with the white rivets of the higher notes. She did not know the composer of this melody racing across octaves. The storm of music covered the tempest furling round the tower.

Rachaela shut her eyes.

She sat in the chair, floating on the tide of sound, the glass of fire held loosely in one hand. Against her will she felt herself surrender to what he made.

At last the tide drew out, separated in retreating rills. Ended.

Not opening her eyes, she said, ‘Play again.’

He said nothing. But after a moment the fast stanzas of a Chopin Prelude flighted into the room.

What would she have been if she had had this in her childhood?

The tears ran slowly down her face. She let them, drowning in the music.

‘You were asleep.’

He stood before the hearth. The fire was dead. The lamp shone crimson in the glass of wine as he drank. The length of his bound-back hair astonished.

‘I heard it all.’

‘I know. You only slept when I stopped playing.’

So soothed. The pain had left her in a flood. The petty anger and the greater anger, these too.

‘You have to let me come back,’ she said. ‘I want to hear you play again.’

‘Why not.’

Like a child she pushed the hair from her face.

The clock whirled from half past four to three o’clock and on towards two. It must be late into the early hours of morning.