She was not attracted to oils, and chose instead watercolors and creamy gouache. She worked with a light drawing board balanced on her knee, sometimes leaning forward until her hair brushed the paper and she must tie it back.

She suspected that her paintings were effective, if still unformed. She tended to realism rather than abstraction, yet with meltings, hints, and candid lies.

What she painted were women. Scar abac women. Pale and gorgeous, with vast clouds of hair. In amorphous dresses from two or three eras, padded shoulders, flowing skirts. The hands were ringed, the eyes blinding with lights. They stood at colored windows or walked on heaths. One floated like Ophelia in a stream, but she was not drowning, only—floating.

There was a bank account. It had been opened for Rachaela, in the name of Day, and the documents sent her the morning after she entered the flat.

She used the money without scruple, and, of course, as she used the money, it was topped up.

Continual letters came from the bank, urging her to invest, to begin this or that enterprise with her healthy account.

Sometimes she walked by the river, or shopped in the smart streets behind the flats.

Twice, she cried, very deeply, and for a long time.

Yet, as she did so, she stood beside herself, watching.

Juliet came to comfort her, but Jacob, embarrassed, ran and hid.

"What am I going to do this time?" Rachaela asked Juliet.

Juliet had no ideas. To her it was all quite easy. Jacob and she were already showing a new interest in each other, breaking off their play to wowl softly, then washing each other vigorously.

Rachaela had known, before Althene got onto the helicopter. Not been sure, of course, but, in fact, where could be the doubt?

She did not blame Althene. It was her own fault. This time, it was.

She did not feel anything amiss with herself. The former nausea was not there, no tiredness. She felt well and vibrant.

Probably she should see a doctor. The social climate had changed, and she was in her forties now. A termination would perhaps be suggested, rather than withheld.

And that was the answer.

To be pregnant—to be released.

Not, again, even if now supported in luxury, to go through that long business of carriage, and then that disgusting pain and indignity. Worse than all that, not again to produce a child. For the last child had been Ruth.

Camillo had Ruth.

That was the incongruous thing.

That afternoon, when she had been asleep, and the others locked up in their silences, the bikers had fled, Camillo with them, and when Michael went up to the imprisoning attic, the door stood wide and Ruth too was gone.

Rachaela had thought that Camillo hated Ruth. Perhaps Malach's hatred of her had turned Camillo about.

Two mad things, out in the world.