"Yes. You were a woman."

"I am a woman. In a way."

"Your mother," said Rachaela, "hated you, until she found out—"

"Until she found out that, although I liked to be a woman, I also liked to make love with women."

"Christ," said Rachaela. She managed to get to her feet. She felt sick, sick with loss. "This family," she said. "I wish it would sink into fucking hell."

Then Althene came and lifted her up. Althene, a man, picked her up in his arms—in her arms—and put her back on the bed without fuss.

"You are this family, Rachaela. My beautiful, my lovely one. Lie still."

Rachaela lay still. She looked up into Althene's matchless face. The shock had only made desire worse. Inside the cage of madness, caught after all in the trap, she wanted the duality of this fabulous monster, she wanted Althene.

Althene knew. She eased herself, the root of her power, into Rachaela's body. Rachaela was so ready, there was no difficulty.

For a moment there was the shift of a kaleidoscope. The beautiful body and the face of the woman, the brush of satin, the ribs of the corset, and inside the core of her the strength of maleness, hard and pure, the rod of the tree, the tyranny of life. Then the colored panes tumbled over and the pattern was complete. Not monstrous. Correct.

She was miles out of her body. She felt Althene come with her. They were on a spiral, turning.

When Rachaela opened her eyes, the pictures in the window were growing clear.

"Well," Rachaela said, "you got your way. But the Scarabae always do."

Althene drew aside from her. There was no longer visible evidence. Althene was only a marvelous woman, perhaps a little pale, not really disheveled.

"I'll leave you now. So you can brood on what's been done to you."

"I have some cause," Rachaela said.

"There's always cause," said Althene, "if you must have one."

She put on her blue silk. She was again as she had been.

And what am I?

"The sun's coming up," said Althene. "You'll sleep now."

"Good-bye," said Rachaela.

Althene observed her intently. Then she went out of the room, closing the door quietly, as if upon a sleeper, or the sick.

CHAPTER 34

THE PIANO ARRIVED IN THE WEEKS before Christmas. Ruth came from her bedroom, dressed in jeans and jumper and her black plaits, and found it on the green carpet.

"Is it yours?"

"No." Malach stood by the french window. "Yours."

"Mine?"

"It's your birthday."

"Is it?"

She went to the piano and touched off a spray of notes.

"It's got a clear sound," she said.

"Yes."

"Can I play it?"

"It's yours."