THAT SUMMER, A DRAGON ROARED ON the common.

It was the sound of a motorbike, but not on the road below. Rachaela got up and went to open her window, and behind her the Rachmaninov concerto was vanquished.

Late afternoon had laid a bronzy sheen across the slopes. The sun, hard brilliant marigold, flashed low between the oaks and pines to the left of the window.

Down among the deep bed of trees, the roaring moved and idled, then suddenly gunned.

Across the shallow glade there rolled a blot of black, and lightnings happened as the sun sideswiped bright metal.

Then out tore the mechanical thing, and flew up the hill, nearer and nearer, and ever more extraordinary.

It was a huge black machine with extended fork and thundering wheel, in the stance, even running, of a black Egyptian dog, which stretched. Its rear end, however, was not a bike but a curved carriage, like Cinderella's, made from a crow-black pumpkin. Something burned in the back of it like a colored lantern. Two massive chariot wheels propelled it after the fore-wheel of the bike.

The rider of this anomaly was black leather and sil-ver fireworks of light. On his head the sun lit short spears of white hair.

Close to the house, the bike which became a carriage, reared up. It had the prow of a skeletal horse. It plunged in a circle and over the cannon of the engine came soft shrill cries like those of startled pet birds.

Beneath the wall of the house, under Rachaela's window, the orbit stopped. The creature drew to a standstill and the roaring smoldered out.

The rider straddled his mount. He was spiked and studded, ringed and buckled and chained with silver.

The double seat of the carriage behind him was lined with damson velvet, and in it now, not one, but two Cinderellas were wriggling. They were almost identical dolls, dressed in little bands of black, tiny wrappings of leather skirts, broad ribbons that just covered their breasts. They too had been spangled with silver. But one had long golden coils of hair, and the other coils of hair of a gold which had rusted.

The lantern in the carriage back was a stained-glass window, vitriol blue and poppy red and creme de menthe and purple.

The rider of the bike poked his head suddenly up at Rachaela. He gave a soprano laugh.

"Horsy!" he shouted. "Sugar for the horse!"

In the past, she remembered, they had always quickly known, and came together like raindrops running down a window. Now, the same. Even as she started down the stairs toward the hallway, Michael and Cheta were there, and Sasha and Miranda, and Eric stood by one of the big pillars that ran around the wall. In the white drawing room the television twittered, forgotten.

The engine of the black machine rumbled as it rode around to the front of the house.

Michael went swiftly and opened the two doors.