“I don’t think blood is beautiful. Why should it be?”

“Why not? We live with blood. We’re full of blood. You’re a walking blood bag. Did you ever think of that?” Her mind raced with what to say, to get him off the subject of blood.

“When you put the knife in,” he went on and stuck the point of the blade against his thumb, “the blood blooms.” A dark bead of blood appeared on the end of his finger. He licked it off. “Like a flower,” he said, enraptured. “Want a taste?”

Again, she turned away. It upset him. He grabbed her chin and made her look at him. “Scared now?”

“No,” she managed to say shakily.

Suddenly he let her go, seemed to lose interest, began haphazardly touching papers on Muriel’s desk. “All my efforts were wasted in this town. I left clues but the idiots never understood them.” He looked back at Rose. “Westa, you know? That’s our name. The town I found to live in, Westley, that was a good clue. And my mark in the sealing wax. Red as blood, the imprint of a dancer’s foot with a perfect arch. But they wouldn’t print it in the newspaper.” He was suddenly sullen. “Christmas is a bad time. I have to do certain things to make the pain go away. Certain things with girls. It helps.” His smile was surprisingly artless, boyish now. “Perhaps you understand. But she … ” He gestured again toward the dressing room. “She was always against me.” He gave himself a shake and his expression changed. A crazy look in the eyes.

He waved the knife in front of Rose. “When you put the knife in, blood blooms like a flower.

Goes in soft like a knife through …”

She had been in his mind. She knew. “ butter,” she finished for him. “Like jam on a sliced open bun.”

It was gratifying to see him jump like a startled rabbit.

“Scared now?” she said.

But it lasted only a second and she realized he might be even more dangerous than before. Yet he looked at her with new interest. Could she get him to trust her … or to fear her?

“Little pumpkin,” he said, sticking his face right into hers and smacking his lips so near that she tasted his spit.

She spit back in disgust instinctively; a bad move, his reaction was fierce. He leapt up again and began wiping his face with the cloak, his sleeve, some paper he grabbed from the desk.

“Dirty bitch,” he screamed. “I’ll get you for that.”

He raised the knife, and she waited for it to come down into her. Thinking: Knives are more hideous than guns; the sight of the blade makes your skin crawl, you can’t push a knife away because it eats your flesh, it is indeed like going through butter.