"This must take its course," said Althene. She turned her head. Her face was flawless as the still of some film star of 1915. Translucent white, her skin seemed bloodless as that of a pale, young, wondrous child. Like… Ruth's. But Althene was not like Ruth. The coiling of her hair, her brilliant eyes with their azure outer rings recalling those of an Indian woman. Today her lips were coffee as her eyeshadow and her skirt.

"What am I expected to feel?" said Rachaela.

"I wonder," said Althene. And then, "Did you have a wicked stepmother who never let you have emotions?"

"I had a wicked, pathetic mother, ditto."

"Ah."

"My father was Ruth's father."

"I know," said Althene. Her deep hushed voice was restful as the fur of a cat.

"My mother was used and abandoned. With me. She tried to—regiment me. Whatever I liked was wrong. Of course, I didn't have a father. And then, thirty years after, I found Adamus, playing Prokofiev, looking no older than I did."

"Adamus was spent," said Althene.

"I've been made to feel," said Rachaela, "that I helped drive him down into the abyss. That I helped to make Ruth into a monster."

"And who made you feel this?"

"I," Rachaela said. "I have."

"The family thrives on guilt."

"Scarabae," said Rachaela.

"Scarabae."

Up on the terrace the two girls were picking up their toys of nail varnish and magazines, and going into the house.

"Poor little things," said Althene. "Like pretty little flies. They'll break like sugar."

Rachaela saw a wing of darkness on the garden. It was the westering sun, nothing more. But she said, "What the family touches is spoiled."

"Then the family must remain incestuous. It's safer."

"Don't," said Rachaela. "Don't try to push me toward Malach."

"Malach?" Althene laughed. Gold brushed her now, she was like a statue that had been given true life. "Malach is for Ruth. Are you sorry?"

"I know how they think. Continuance. I could still bear children. They might want to breed him to me."

"He does as he wishes," said Althene. "You'd better credit that."

Rachaela felt something relax inside her. It was a flame going out. Yet she was glad.

Malach was for Ruth.

But how? The razor or the kiss?

"It will be a wonderful dinner tonight," said Althene. "Kei is invincible."

"Pleasures of the flesh."

Like a rich nunnery—stomach for loins.

Althene turned to her. How old was she? Old as history, perhaps, in a young white sheath.

But then how old am I?

"Little Rachaela," said Althene.

It was like a caress. Sweet, unthinking, meaning nothing.

In the hall Lou and Tray were huddled, standing each almost on one leg, like storks.

The two dogs, of which they were afraid, were in the hall, thumping with their scimitar tails.

Camillo was petting them.