The oil lamps were out and only the electric light filled the hall.

Rachaela looked up the stairs. She felt inert. As if she had been stretched to some breaking point, and so broken, and now nothing could be done to her or with her, or expected of her. Safe. Dull. And wide awake.

"I'm going to the kitchen to make coffee."

"Yes," said Althene. "It's that sort of night. Then again, in an hour, it will be sunrise."

"Time to burrow into our coffins," said Rachaela tartly.

She knew, ironically, she would find it easier to sleep once the sun had come up.

They walked through the side passage of the house, and down into the cream and black tiled kitchen.

The dishwasher was gurgling quietly, and on a chair under the mangle, Cheta sat, embroidering in gold a pair of cucumber-green shoes.

"It's all right, Cheta," said Althene, "we can manage."

And Cheta got up and went away.

"How extraordinary," said Rachaela. "I mean, even if she'd been darning a sock. But shoes—"

"They were Maria's," said Althene. "Do you remember Maria?"

"Of course." Rachaela digested this slowly. Another gemini of lovers? Cheta left behind alone at Maria's death. And where had the shoes come from?

She took the coffee jug and a filter paper, virtually her own, for no one else seemed to use them, and set the contraption to work. The rich deceptive aroma of coffee bloomed in the kitchen.

Althene had sat on the table. She had crossed her legs and the smooth skirt ridden up a little to show the silky length of leg. But not far enough to reveal the gun.

"I have the sensation," said Rachaela, "that I imagined everything. Perhaps not the dinner and the film. But the other thing."

Althene shrugged lightly, as if slipping a gossamer shawl from her shoulders.

"If it makes you happy."

"It's made me decide."

"Oh, what?"

"Tomorrow, I'm going to make arrangements to leave here. I really am finished with it now. I mean, the Scarabae. No, don't tell me that I can never finish with the Scarabae. That I'll always be part of them. I know that. But I'm going to make my own way. A flat somewhere. A job. My old unimportant, lazy existence. This is too—taxing."

"Yes, coming back to life is very tiring."

"How would you know," said Rachaela. "You've always been wildly alive, haven't you?"

"One day, I'll tell you."

"One day you won't know where I am."

"The Scarabae can always find their own. Hadn't you noticed?"

In the jug the coffee glowed. Rachaela took milk out of the fridge.

"Do you want some, Althene?"

"Perhaps. What I really want is you."

Rachaela felt a plunge of panic. It surprised her, for she was past all that.

"We discussed this. I said no."

"There was no discussion. You did say no."