She was there in all of them, somewhere.

She had a name, not the name Emma had chosen for her.

They called her The Vixen. Tally Ho, Hunt The Vixen. The Vixen—has she gone to earth? The Black Vixen, where will she strike next?

It was probably the telephone which brought the newspapers to the Scarabae. Eric standing over it, the wreckage of the TV behind him, pushing at the rest of the instrument with the receiver in his hand, trying to get the operator, as perhaps he had sixty years ago. And then, turning round rigidly: "Michael. How do I make this work?" And Michael coming to him and taking the receiver quietly. "It's all right, Mr. Eric. I will dial."

Rachaela had left the room. She had gone up to her apartment and opened wide the windows.

The moon was high and wetted the trees of the common with milky white. The owl hooted in the air.

It was impossible to stay.

Eventually, she went down again.

After the papers came, the Scarabae investigated them. Rachaela too.

Dinner was not served.

Twice more they watched the news, now on a set which Michael had brought up into the room.

Eric did not strike the screen again.

At two in the morning, the dragon trike came roaring up the road. Camillo entered the house with Lou and Tray, and Eric sent Michael out to bring him in.

Camillo walked into the drawing room in his black leathers and his silver adornments, and Lou and Tray stood in the doorway like nymphs.

"My ears," said Camillo, "are full of the beat of enormous musical machines. Drums, guitars, synthesizers, voices."

"Forget them," said Eric. "Ruth is in London."

"Ruth," said Camillo. "Ugh."

Sasha went to him and gave him a paper, the Independent, Rachaela thought.

"Read. They call her The Vixen."

"Yes," said Camillo. "For centuries in this English tongue Vixen has implied a wicked woman."

He glanced at the paper, then put it down.

"Cami," said Lou.

"Hush," said Camillo. Then, "Go up to your room."

Lou shrugged and Tray pulled a tiny little face, then they were gone, obedient as golden greyhounds.

Miranda said, softly, "It's horrible."

"No," said Camillo. "It's what we are."

"Liar," said Eric. But his violence had dissipated. "Michael," he said, "I must use the telephone again."

"Yes," said Sasha.

Miranda put her hands to her lips.

Rachaela stood in stasis. What new demonstration of their dominion was to come?

She did not learn. For Michael dialed a long while, and when Eric spoke into the phone, it was in another language.

CHAPTER 13

PAMELA BELLINGHAM FELT RELIEF AND pleasure when she opened the front door. She had thought Trevor would forget, again, to call the agency. And even if he did, they would just go on being dilatory.

"Mrs. Watt?" asked the girl.