Sarah’s progress was dreamlike. She felt heavy, she thought of sleep. Every detail of the flowerbeds she was passing stood out. There were daisies bobbing, zinnias spreading to the sun, snapdragons and many more exotic varieties. She saw a bee standing on the stipule of a pansy, its pollen sacs dusted gold. Behind her there arose a great crackling, like a bear coming forth.

Miriam’s arms twined about her, the French doors closed with a bang. With a snap of her wrist Miriam locked them, then pulled the curtains. She opened a box on the coffee table and began to press buttons inside it. The row of red lights that winked on suggested it was a burglar alarm.

Of all things, Sarah found herself getting woozy. The lack of sleep was really hitting hard, despite the coffee.

She let Miriam hold her, watched fascinated as the woman’s expression shifted to absolute calm. That was iron control, considering the fear. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

Miriam looked away as if struck by some new realization. “Mine were the best roses in all the world. Did you know that? Do you know roses?”

“I’m sorry, Miriam. They must have been beautiful.” Sarah wanted to calm the woman, wanted also to sit down. She was really quite tired.

“There is no word in this language to describe them. They were—amoenum. It’s Latin, it refers to the heartbreaking beauty of nature. Vergilius Maro used it to describe Aeneas’ last vision of Ilium. Such flowers are like that. A last vision, the hurting beauty of a rainbow.”

“I see.” Sarah knew some Latin, mostly as a professional language. “Why don’t we sit down? I feel a little off.” She smiled. “The excitement.” Nervously, she touched Miriam’s shoulder—and snapped her hand back in surprise. The skin was as hard as stone, for God’s sake. Was it an artificial limb?

“Get some more coffee,” Miriam said. “It’s in the kitchen.” Wishing Miriam would get it for her, but wanting it badly, Sarah found her way through a dining room that had been made over into a den. The kitchen told why; it was completely empty. Nobody ate in this house, not ever. Sarah checked a couple of cabinets. Absolutely pristine. Stove, ancient but perfectly clean. The only litter was on the counter—an open half-pound bag of coffee beans, a grinder and a Melitta pot containing the cooling coffee.

This wasn’t a home.

She didn’t have a chance to think about it, she had noticed a shadow on the curtains of the kitchen window. It moved away, then appeared again before the door, sharply outlined against the white chintz that covered the glass. There was a whisper, but Sarah was too startled to reply. When the doorknob began to rattle she found her voice and called out.