‘Yes,’ said Camillo. ‘A flower head. One petal drops.’

She defined in the half-light that he had Sylvian’s ruler in front of him. White on black, he scratched something on the ebony.

‘And the burial,’ Rachaela said.

‘You’ll look forward to that.’ Camillo tapped the rocking-horse. It tipped into a rolling static gallop. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’

‘Am I likely to?’

‘Horsey, go like the wind.’

She found she wanted to speak to him of Adamus, but what could she say?

‘Why are the Scarabae the way they are, Camillo?’

‘Are they? What way is that?’

‘Not even a doctor when a man dies.’

‘Old as crumbs,’ Camillo said, ‘tucked down the side of the armchair of life. Mouldy. But not so old as me. Like to know my age?’

‘You can’t remember.’

‘Sometimes I can.’

‘But not today,’ she said.

He cackled. ‘Not today.’

‘What will they do about Sylvian?’

‘Something.’

She faltered. She said, ‘Will Adamus come out of hiding to see to it?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Camillo. ‘When Adamus was a child, Sylvian started crossing out the books. Adamus tried to stop him. There was a scene in the library. A child shouting and an old man. Anna intervened. She was sometimes about in the daytime then.’

‘Adamus cared about the books.’

‘Then.’

‘What does he care for now?’ She shuddered.

But Camillo only said, ‘Ask him.’

‘I intend to avoid him.’

‘Avoid him then.’

He was scratching a skeleton on the ruler.

‘You won’t tell me anything useful.’

‘Go, horse, go.’

‘Is that Sylvian you’re drawing?’

‘Anyone,’ said Camillo. ‘Touch your face and feel the skull beneath the skin.’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You’re all right then.’

‘No, Camillo. Camillo...’

‘Horsey, gee up.’

Rachaela left him, and went back to her green and blue chamber.

She looked at the temptation of Eve. What was so alluring in an apple?

When Anna and Stephan came into the room Rachaela tensed, to see if all the others would come after them, as they had gathered for the weird lunch. But no one else appeared. It was a night like any other.

Michael served the drinks and went away.

‘Anna,’ said Rachaela, ‘what are you going to do? Will Cheta go to the village, find a phone?’

‘You mustn’t worry about this,’ Anna said.

‘It will be taken care of,’ Stephan added.

‘But you’ll need a doctor for the certificate of death. When will Cheta go? Tomorrow?’

‘Cheta will go tomorrow to the cottages. The van will be there.’

‘And she’ll phone for a doctor?’

‘Rachaela,’ said Anna, ‘don’t concern yourself. Everything will be seen to. You must understand. This has happened before and will happen again. We are old. We die.’

Anna’s face was serene, her voice coaxing. Winsome and persuasive, Adamus had said. She smiled, consoling a peevish infant.

‘No,’ Rachaela said, ‘I don’t follow you. This utter indifference—’