"Are you one of the family?" Stella asked. The word Family had evolved, and stuck firmly in her head. That, and one other word. The fox word, Vixen.

"Am I?"

"I'm here to see someone."

"Are you?" said the man. He wore the leathers of a biker. He touched the bike at the front where a horse head was attached. It reminded her in an odd way of the lion.

"The young girl," said Stella.

"Which one?"

There was nothing else to say.

"The one with a knife."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. And then he capered.

Puck, from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Or a devil from Faust.

"You've come," he said, "for Ruth. Nasty Ruth, but they've locked her up, my lady."

"I've come a long way," said Stella.

"Why?"

"Why," she said, "do you think?"

Camillo looked at Stella.

"The rocking horse burned," he said. "They always do. The things you love. They die and burn and fall apart. He knows that. Why did he try again? Broke his back. Black dog, but no black-haired girl." Camillo laughed. "We ran over the snow."

He's mad. Will that help?

"You'll bring her to me," said Stella. "Ruth."

"Nasty," Camillo said. "Take her away. She'll cause trouble, up in the attic."

"Take her away—" said Stella. She had not thought of that.

"Yes, you must. That's my condition." Camillo moved over to the door, and pushed it. It had been open, and behind it was another door, open too.

Beyond was a hall from a country mansion, the kind the public paid to see.

Stella had not paid and barely saw. She saw a staircase.

"Up there," said Camillo. "I'll show you. But you must take her away."

"All right." Stella closed her eyes and then widened them. "I'd like that. To take her away."

"Good. Then here's the key."

He held out to her something which had the name of key, and the being of key.

"The key to the attic?"

"One of them. I stole it."

"Yes."

"Take her away," he said. He went into the hall., and then turned back and flourished to her a courtly bow.

Stella entered the pillared space.

"This time," Camillo said. He made a gesture of cutting and chopping.

Then he scampered up the stairs.

Someone will come.

No one did.

Stella had a sense of things which hid, as if from her. Of things in chrysalis. Moths, spiders, beetles. Things in catacombs, waiting for some night or morning which might never come.

They had climbed the stairs and she had not noticed. There were everywhere colored windows, like a church.

A corridor. Another corridor. Closed doors. More stained glass.

I'm lost.

But she was not.

Through a door another staircase, narrow and un-carpeted.

"Up there," said the old man. She could see he was old, now, nearer seventy than fifty. "Just put the key in the lock."

"I can't remember the way we came."

"Tough," said Camillo, like a youth.