The room was art nouveau. The dark turquoise curtains were figured in peacocks of pale greenish gold. A gilt shawl draped the midnight blue of the bed, and in tall brazen urns fanned brown and emerald feathers. On a polished table with storks' legs lay a platter of milk glass, with three apples on it, one of rose quartz, one of scratched ebony, and one of coal-blue crystal. The mirrors were of reflecting glass, rimmed by glass-paste fruits and leaves. A curtain like those of the window draped the bathroom door.

There were books strewn about. There should have been a mandoline with tassels, or some embroidery on a frame. But clearly Althene was a stylist rather than a liar.

"Isn't it charming," said Althene. "How thoughtful they are."

"Does the window open?"

"I haven't tried. In the bathroom it does. An enormous tree almost brushes the sill. Yesterday a dove came and watched me brush my teeth. It was very flattering."

Rachaela would not give in.

"About the dress. It's very kind of you, but I—"

"You have no long dresses, you said. This is a special dinner. You and I are almost alike. Cheta will come and see to the few alterations. To please them. You must."

"Why is the dinner special?"

"Kei will cook it."

"And is that the only reason?"

"Imagine, if you will," said Althene, "that they want to celebrate a possibility."

"Of what?"

"Renewal, hope, the washing away of sin."

"Whose sin?" asked Rachaela. "Mine?"

"How self-centered you are," said Althene. "If you weren't beautiful, one would want to slap you."

"I'll go." Rachaela turned to the door.

Somehow Althene was past her, blocking the exit. She flicked at a fringed rope, and another peacock curtain came down over the doorway. "I've imprisoned you. No chance to escape until you've seen the dress." She was playful, and oddly dangerous. The power behind her eyes glowed out on Rachaela, a challenge Rachaela did not care to meet.

"You're making everything very difficult," she said.

"No, Rachaela. You are making everything very difficult. But then. Opposition is sometimes stimulating."

The lightning fluttered, and the woman at the window in the window appeared. The tap of rain came from the glass, a million dainty fingers.

"Negative ions," said Althene. "After all, let's see if the window opens."

It did.

A vein of darkness stabbed by diamonds.

Rachaela drew in a breath.

Althene stalked on her effortless high heels to the carven wardrobe. Inside, some twenty or so garments hung in suave gradations of color and texture.

"Here is mine."

Althene swept out on her arm, like a swooning princess, a thing of wine-red satin. She shook it and held it up, a dress with a deep narrow V of neck, long sleeves, a crossover bodice, padded shoulders, and sleek-waisted mermaid body. It had no ornament.

"Let me demonstrate." Althene unzipped her Mocha clothes, which fell around her like fawning dogs.