He did not seem pleased or dismayed by her reactions. It did not occur to her that rather than trying to learn about her, he was trying to teach her to be herself. She performed for him, only now and then lowering the shutter of her silence, and then only to decide. Even her evasions were relevant.

"Egypt," he said.

"Kings."

"Scarabae."

"Beetle."

"Describe the beetle."

"Black, with a face carved on its back."

Autumn came too quickly now, attached to the end of summer in a sudden sickening and death.

In the misty early mornings, more often after sunset, he would walk the streets of the capital, now with the dogs, and now alone.

But Ruth strayed only in her mind. She had nowhere else to go.

The dogs were sparring under the laurels, rolling and kicking at each other, barking joyfully.

Malach went back into the whitewashed room and drew the stone knife off the wall.

Going to Ruth's apartment, he unlocked the door, paused, and went in.

Ruth was sitting drawing. It was a palace, a compendium of many differing architectural styles, Renaissance Italian, Homeric Greek, timeless Egyptian.

She said at once, "I'd like some books. I'd like some books about buildings."

"I'll arrange it."

"Thank you."

"You are always very polite," he said.

"Emma taught me."

"But you dislike Emma."

"No…" said Ruth. And then, "Emma doesn't count."

"What word do you put with Emma?"

"Warm."

"Warm," he said.

"Fire," said Ruth. Then she screwed up her face. It became ugly, an imp's.

"The hanged man," said Malach.

"Tarot," said Ruth.

"Which card do you think is yours?"

"Priestess."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Where did you see a tarot pack?"

"In the market. And Mommy let me have it."

"Look," said Malach.

He held up the knife. It was bluntly shaped, yet with the edge honed like a razor. The stone was pinkish gray. 0"What is it?" said Ruth.

"A knife of sacrifice."

"Is it real?"

"Yes."

He gave it to her. She examined it, meekly.

"Imagine," he said, "you are on a high place, before an altar, with this knife. On the altar is strapped a man. He asks you to kill him, to send him to the god."

"It's not sharp enough."

"Don't prevaricate. It's sharp."

"I'd wait for the sign," said Ruth.

"What sign?"

"That the god wanted him."

"But," he said, "you've never waited."

Ruth looked up at him. She put down the knife. She frowned.

"Sometimes—" she said.

"Sometimes. But it was an accident. The priest kills for God. The warrior kills for his legion. But you."

"Please," said Ruth. "Don't."

"Ruth kills for Ruth."

She bowed her head.

"I don't want to play anymore."

"Good. That means your eyes are opened."

"I don't want to see. The sun's too bright."

"There's no sun in this room."

"There's a light."

"Fire," he said.

"The house," she said.

"Anna," he said.

"Heart," she said.

"Heart," he said.