Nobbi lay back. He felt great. He slipped asleep, thinking that he had not thought of Tracy for a whole hour.

CHAPTER 26

LIKE ANOTHER PLANET, AUTUMN. The oaks were gold, against which the pines stood black.

In the garden, individual red leaves, like lipstick.

Rachaela listened to Shostakovich, Beethoven, Sibelius.

She slept in the day.

The nights drew out.

She dined with the Scarabae. They were very silent. They watched their action-film videos in the small hours. Once Eric pointed wordlessly at the screen. There was an actor who resembled Malach.

No more was heard, or spoken, of Ruth.

Sometimes, often, Rachaela would go to Althene's room. She would watch Althene make up her perfect face, or brush her hair, and Althene would encourage her to try on garments. Rachaela had lost her self-consciousness, and her animosity. They drank wine, and sometimes beer.

In the beginning, Rachaela meant to discuss Ruth, or Malach. But this, somehow, never happened. Instead they spoke of music. And then of what music suggested.

They spoke of history.

Althene must have studied it. She knew a great deal.

Occasionally they took to going out. They would walk over the common. Althene wore black slacks and a coat that seemed made of some black skin.

Rachaela thought, / have never had a woman friend.

There had been Emma, of course. But Emma was Ruth's, and eventually not even that.

The others did not count.

One evening, Rachaela heard a piano faintly, in the house.

The playing was exquisite, painfully brushing the nerves.

She thought of Adamus.

Then Althene appeared on the stairs, and said, "It's Kei. There's a piano below."

"Kei," said Rachaela.

"Not only Adamus played the piano."

Rachaela said, "Does Malach play?"

"No."

They went up to the room of peacocks.

Althene brought her a glass of white liqueur, the dry colorless blood of strawberries.

"You loved Adamus."

"No. Never."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain."

"Then you never loved."

"No."

"Alas," said Althene, playfully. And then, "Tell me about your awful mother."

Rachaela must have dropped hints. She had once said harsh things. She sipped the liqueur.

"My mother was mistreated. She didn't want me but she got me. She tried to—malform me, too."

"Yes?"

"I remember, in her coffin, she was all the wrong shape. They'd done something. It wasn't her."

"Fools," said Althene. "And so you never said goodbye."

"Why would I need to? I'd never said hallo, if it comes to that."

"What was her name?"

"Her name?" Rachaela felt a pressure in her head. "Why does it matter?"

"My mother," said Althene, "used to whip me. With a leather whip. Can you imagine? It hurt very much. No, it didn't induce in me sexual pleasure. I lived in terror. And then Malach learned about it. And he stopped her."

"Malach. Is he your brother?"

"No."

"What then?"

"My… shall I say, my uncle?"

"You're lovers," said Rachaela. She held out her glass for Althene to fill it.

Althene paused, quizzical.