"It's this bleeding tune. If I was to get it, I'd hum it to you. You'd know it, Star."

"I might not."

"Yes you would. I've heard it myself. Don't know where."

They ate dinner, the roast beef with creamed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding as good as the Old Girl's, steamed celery, garden peas, and fried mushrooms. Nobbi liked the food but he did not eat very much. Star gave him beer.

They went to bed early and lay in the dark, pressed close.

In the middle of the night, Star woke up. She woke because Nobbi was sitting bolt upright in the bed.

"What is it?" She was frightened.

"I got it," he said. "Star—listen—"

Star listened as Nobbi growled out the tune he had heard the ice-cream van play behind Tray's weightless voice, the unsuitable melody of that long hot summer.

"Are you sure?" said Star.

"Yeah—that's it. I know that's it."

"It seems odd—"

"Do you know it?"

"Yes. It's 'The Thieving Magpie.' Rossini."

Nobbi swore, uncomprehending, triumphant.

"They all have their own areas," Nobbi said. "D'you see? I can get a couple of my own boys on to it. I can find her, now."

CHAPTER 36

IF SHE CONCENTRATED, SHE COULD hear him playing.

Far below.

Below even the stairs, somewhere down in the dark under her heart.

But this was not Adamus. It was Kei, Michael's lover. It was possible to tell, anyway, that the musician was not the same. There was none of Adamus's violence, or breadth. Rachmaninov, she thought. Song without words. How apt.

Rachaela walked off the staircase and into the white and gold drawing room. Premonitions of sunset soaked the windows. It was so early. The long winter-January night would soon be here.

Up in the tarot window, the knight knelt before his burning tower. The colors reflected in the scratched table which said Good-bye.

No one else was in the room. The television was off.

The other windows, roses, palaces, flamed softly.

/ said I'd go away. Over and over I've said it. And here I am.

Rachaela sat down at the table, and put her hands on the scratches.

Somewhere in the house, probably, was Althene.

Usually, once a day, Rachaela and Althene would meet each other. If at no other time, in the evening, at the hour of dining. At Christmas there had been a complex dinner. Everyone had sat through it, Camillo also, with Lou. Tray had been along the table, next to Miranda. She had worn one of Miranda's dresses, presumably a little taken in. Tray's tan had faded to white, where Lou's had turned a dire obdurate yellow.

And Althene. At Christmas Althene had worn a silver dress. Rachaela had never seen a silver dress before which did not look vulgar, unpleasant. But Althene's dress was exquisite, like something from a description in a fairy book… the silver of moonlight on waves, something like that.