Normally, after breakfast, he gave her books to read. They covered many subjects. In the afternoon, after she had eaten lunch, sometimes he took her walking. The dogs would go too. They went through parks and streets, along heights and wastelands of the river. Now and then they went shopping. At least, he took her into shops, and there let her buy what she wanted. She bought tapes of music and occasionally books but these were generally to please him, as though he might be pleased, volumes with pictures of ancient civilizations. Or she bought books about animals.

In the shops, the dogs often caused consternation, or admiration. But Enki and Oskar viewed the world calmly, casually.

Ruth asked Malach questions. They were the questions perhaps of a child. Where did that bus go to? Where did that street go? Why were they going this way? He had answers always. Apparently, sometimes, he lied. Or else his replies were so fundamental that they seemed unlikely.

Ruth accepted all he said.

He was not misleading, merely leading.

Today, there were no books. At breakfast she ate one croissant and left the rest; she seldom ate more than one now. Then she went and washed her hands, and came back and sat down at the piano.

There was also sheet music.

Ruth went through a Mozart sonata, and then a Chopin mazurka, and then through some idyllic Rachmaninov.

Malach sat in one of the chairs.

She stopped, and said to him, "Do I play well?"

"Do you think you do?"

"Yes, quite well. Adamus taught me."

"You play like a young concert pianist. But sometimes you bluff."

"Yes, he said that. I try not to."

"No, you don't try."

Ruth thought. She said, "I will try."

She played a transposition of a Beethoven concerto; the music sheets were unusual.

When she had finished, she said, "Music is wonderful."

"Music and I have grown apart," he said.

"Why?" she said. "How?"

"There's been too much."

Ruth sat at the piano. "Are you very old?"

"Stop speaking like a small child."

She turned and looked at him. He was quite idle, the two dogs lying at his feet.

"I meant," she said, "the Scarabae live a long time. Will I?"

"You're thirteen."

"I feel much older."

"Do you. With your hair in plaits and this quaint way of talking." He did not look at her. "How old do you feel?"

"Twenty-five. Perhaps more."

"That's very young. The same as thirteen, maybe."

Ruth laughed. She frequently did this now. She kicked her bare heels mildly on the legs of the piano stool.

"What shall I play?"

"Whatever you want."

He went out into the garden and the dogs followed him.

The lilac trees were stripped and the laurels had darkened and drawn close. A bird was drinking rain from a mossy birdbath. The dogs watched it languidly.

Ruth played a strain of unearthly Debussy.

Malach, the dogs, the bird, took no notice.