Malach wore white; somehow astonishing, this second whiteness against the white negative of the mane of hair. But the power of him was strong as darkness. It had not abated. Could it be something had increased it?

Last of all, Rachaela saw Ruth. Her daughter. Did not know her.

Ruth had grown taller. She had grown older. She was a woman, twenty, twenty-five.

She wore a long, narrow black skirt that ended four inches from her ankles, and black high-heeled boots embroidered with scarlet and silver. A black velvet coat swung from her shoulders arrogantly, and under it she wore a high-necked tunic of silvery gray watered silk, its collar beaded with drops like red wine and rain, and tied at the waist by a broad black velvet belt that made her waist into the width of a stalk. From under the high, triangular black velvet hat, her black river of hair poured out. She looked like a Russian princess from some novel.

Her face… was not the same.

It was as beautifully made up as Althene's would have been. Pale as porcelain with a hint of blusher on the cheeks, the eyelids dark but now like smoke not soot, the lips a light clear red, flame rather than blood.

Her eyes. Her eyes were alive.

She was not holding Malach's hand, only a small black bag. She was perfectly poised.

He's kissed her awake. Out of the coma. This isn't Ruth.

But it was.

The two dogs were standing beside her. Enki, the paler one, let out a thin low growl.

"Still," Malach said. Enki fell silent.

Ruth's slender gloves were wine red, like the beads, and the embroidery on her boots.

Red. The betrothal color. The marriage color.

Rachaela stared at her daughter.

Not mine.

His.

Malach's.

He has created her.

"Rachaela," Malach said quietly, "I hope you're well."

Idiocy. The Scarabae were always well. Well, or dead.

"Yes, thank you." She could not take her eyes from Ruth. "And I see—that Ruth is well, too."

A little half glance of the raven head toward Malach. Then Ruth said, "Good evening, Rachaela."

Not Mommy anymore. Of course. We are both women now.

"Your clothes are sumptuous," Rachaela said.

"Thank you."

But she had always had good taste. Frightening in-sights. And she had always appeared astonishing, dressed up.

There were no rings on her gloved hands. Perhaps, inside?

Eric said abruptly, "We should all sit."

So they sat down. Malach and Ruth on one sofa, Eric and Sasha on another. Miranda in a chair. Rachaela in a second chair. Enki and Oskar on the carpet.

Michael and Kei came in. They brought a tall silver teapot and cups of transparent white china, and some liqueur in a pear-shaped crystal bottle, little glasses, a plate of tiny cakes with marvelous icing, blue and pink and white and green.

All this came down on the tables, and then the alcohol and the tea and the cakes were offered.