Althene was trapped here, too. She must be waiting for Malach. Or some order from Malach.

She did not seem to find the situation uncomfortable. She was level and polite. Her eyes never rested on Rachaela. There was the palest whiff of arrogance, which might be the cloak of embarrassment, anger, or contempt.

And I.

Rachaela tried to examine herself frankly. She went about the house, or walked on the common, consciously avoiding Althene where possible—Oh, she has gone out, I must not; Ah, she is in the white room, I will not go down. Such things. And when they chanced to pass, greeting each other quietly, soullessly, a sting like an electric shock.

Rachaela thought, I'm like some silly schoolgirl with a crush on the prefect.

She dreamed about Althene. Some nights, some days when she slept, the dreams went on and on, until she would force herself awake, exhausted.

The dreams were rarely sexual. Generally Rachaela was lost. She would search for Althene in enormous frightened pain. Occasionally she would glimpse her, but always unavailably, in the carriage of a rushing train, on the roof of some high building without steps.

Then again, there was a dream in which Althene and she walked together through some amorphous place. Althene talked to her in a language Rachaela could not fathom, perhaps medieval French—but what did that matter? The analogy was clear enough.

Twice, an erotic dream. In one, Althene wore the fabulous lingerie, not green but black, and Lou's black wedding veil of long ago. In the other, Althene had pulled the sheet up over her body. "Don't look." And Rachaela pulled the sheet away and woke up. Neither was satisfying, but left her electrified, aroused.

One night, Rachaela had drunk a lot of wine before and during dinner. She wanted to follow Althene out of the room and take hold of her, her hand or waist. After all, Rachaela was the same. She was not pregnant. She thought, crudely, perhaps Althene was not particularly potent, for she was surely more woman than man.

But Rachaela did not follow Althene.

Althene, for all she was a woman, was also male.

And sometimes Rachaela only dreamed of her, not knowing what she dreamed, waking up with the memory of a dark glistening wheel which had turned forever through the daylight sleep.

And once she had imagined herself in Althene's lingerie. Would they resemble each other even more?

Rachaela had seen Althene today, from her window, walking on the common in the black skin coat.

What skin was it? Dyed human, maybe, like the bone handle of the gun.

There was a noise. Rachaela jumped horrifically.

It was the telephone. The telephone was ringing.

Stupidly, Rachaela sat looking at it, waiting for someone, Michael or Cheta, to come and answer it.

No one came, and the phone rang on.

Rachaela got up, and went to raise the receiver.

"Is that you, Gladys?" asked a quavering voice.