The light had darkened there, and up from the beer brownness of it, the leather rider walked, inky and glittering, and at his back the two beautiful Cinderellas in their little black stiletto boots and anklets of silver and steel.

In the hall, the rider stood, and looked about him.

None of them spoke.

Then he said, drily, "Here I am, after all."

His face was not young, like the thin shape and feral movements of his body. But it was the face, now, of an ancient boy, with black Scarabae eyes, and framed with short white dreadlocks in which beads were plaited, the colors of his carriage window.

On his hands there were more than three rings, and they were silver skulls and swords and spikes and roses, like the decorations on his leathers.

On his breast was silver chain mail, and across his ribs, decipherable gradually as he moved, in letters of flame, the words Bum Out.

Miranda said, "Uncle Camillo."

He nodded to her. "Miranda. Sasha. Eric. Michael and Cheta." He looked up the stairs. "And herself. The Rachaela."

Dust, which had been gathered on all of their eyes like the powder of time, had been scorched away. His eyes too were vivid. Had he come back from the dead?

Behind him, the golden Cinderella giggled lightly. The other one, of the gold which rusted, said, "Cami, I want the toilet."

"There will be a choice," he said. He turned to Cheta. "Will you show Miss Lou and Miss Tray the easements, please."

Miranda moved slowly out across the hall before Cheta or either of the Cinderellas—Lou, Tray—had taken a step. Miranda went to Camillo and quietly put her arms about him.

"I'm so glad," said Miranda. "This is so wonderful."

And then Sasha came, and Eric last of all. They touched Camillo, his shining carapace and knotted hair, little weightless touches.

Camillo suffered it. He was a prodigal. But then, he had always been.

"Come out," he said, "come and see my trike. Can't keep it waiting. My fine horse."

"We'd like the toilet, please," said the rusty golden Cinderella to Cheta.

Cheta led the Cinderellas both away, into the passage where the downstairs bathroom was.

Camillo went back out into amber shadow, and Eric, Sasha, and Miranda followed him. Rachaela went as far as the house porch.

She watched as Camillo showed the trike to the Scarabae. Between the handlebars the burned frame of the horse head, set with two eyes of Sauterne crystal, stared fiercely, not incongruous but perfect. The bodywork was shot with silver rosettes, streaks of fire in vermilion paint. It was a beast.

Camillo activated a CD player raised like an altar over the velvet seat. Deep pouring Gothic rock swelled up like an organ, and in the trees the birds fell silent.

"Daisy, Daisy," said Camillo. There were spurs on his boots. "Give me your answer do."