Genevieve didn't want to eat. Her meat was overcooked, grey through to the heart, and she didn't care for vegetables, particularly the black-eyed grey-white potatoes produced by the estate's garden. She took a little red wine, ignoring Flaminea's dagger looks, but it only served to sting her palate. She thirsted, but not for wine, and she hungered, but not for cooked-through beef The meal was mainly eaten without conversation. The clatter of knives and forks on plates was backgrounded by driving rain, and the constant crescendo of thunder.

The storm excited Genevieve, aroused in her a hunting instinct. She wanted to be outside, slaking her thirst.

The maids took away her uneaten main course, and there was a pause. Zschokke signalled, and new bottles of wine were presented to Schedoni for his approval. He blew dust off a label, coughed, and nodded.

'I hardly think innocent children should be exposed to such vice and debauchery, father,' snapped Flaminea, thin lips pinching as she enthusiastically chewed her morsels of meat. 'We do not want to raise another generation of sybarites and libertines.'

Flora and Young Melmoth looked at each other and smiled. Their teeth were tiny and sharp, their eyes nearly almond-shaped. Genevieve had seen them playing games with the castle cats, and could not think of them as innocents.

She sipped her wine.

'You see,' Flaminea said, 'my niece is on the slope to degradation already, swilling wine at her tender years, wearing silks and satins to inflame the l.u.s.ts of vile men, combing out her long, golden hair. The rot has started. You can't see it yet, but it will show on her face before long. Another sixteen years, and her face will be as corrupted and monstrous as'

There was a loud thunderclap, and Flaminea refrained from naming the name. Schedoni stared her down, and she collapsed in her seat, shut up by her father's glance.

Genevieve had heard her grandmother was hideously disfigured by disease, and that she was always veiled as she grovelled in her rooms, awaiting Morr's last kiss.

Genevieve raised her goblet in a toast to her aunt, and drained it. The wine was as tasteless and unsustaining as rainwater.

Ambrosio had shown some interest when the subject of inflamed l.u.s.ts was raised, and his swollen, purple-veined face wobbled as he licked his lips, his hand under the table fastening upon the upper thigh of Lily, the maid pouring his wine. A smile spread over his features as he reached higher, and Lily betrayed no sign of the attentions he was paying to her. A thin string of drool dangled from the cleric's mouth. He wiped it away with a finger.

Schedoni drank, and surveyed the family and its retainers. His face was the template from which everyone else around the tableeven the beautiful Christabelseemed to have been struck. But before Schedoni, the long nose and deep eyes had belonged to Old Melmoth. And before Old Melmoth, there were generations of the House of Udolpho, all the way back to Smarra's father, the Black Cygnet. There was a portrait of the pirate, standing aboard the deck of his vessel supervising the execution of an Araby captain, and he too bore the Udolpho features. He must have been the originator of the line, Genevieve realized. Before the pirate, there had been no family. It was his stolen fortune that had created the house.

Ravaglioli and Pintaldi were arguing quietly, their old quarrel revived again, and making threatening gestures with their dinner knives. Once Pintaldi had ended an argument by thrusting a skewer into Ravaglioli's throat between the meat course and the game, and then, with a flourish, taken his soup spoon to the other man's eyes. Ravaglioli had not forgotten or forgiven that.

'After dinner, I shall play the harpsichord,' Christabel announced. She was not contradicted.

Genevieve's cousin had learned music in Nuln, and possessed a pleasant although not outstanding voice. At the academy, she had also begun to get the measure of her own charms, and was clearly more than a little frustrated to be removed from the society of the Empire back to Udolpho, where her opportunities for breaking hearts were severely limited. Since she had driven Praz the gamekeeper to suicide, there had been no one to torment with her sable-black hair, liquid eyes and silky skin. She spent much of her time wandering the broken battlements of Udolpho, fretting and plotting, shroudlike dresses flapping in the breeze, petting the ravens.

'In Nuln, my playing was often praised by the Countess Emmanuelle von Lie'

Christabel's boast was interrupted by thunder and lightning. And another crash of noise. At once, it was colder and wetter. Everyone in the great hall turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows which had just been blown in. Rain was pouring into the hall like shot, and stung on Genevieve's face. The wind screamed as the candles placed down the spine of the table guttered and went out. Chairs were pushed noisily back, Flaminea gave a polite little squeak of fright, and hands went to swordhilts.

It was dark, but Genevieve could make everyone out. Her eyes were fine at night. She saw Zschokke moving slowly, as if in a dream, across the hall, reaching for a lantern. One of the maids was wrestling with the opened windows, forcing them shut. The wind and the rain were shut off, and the light came up again as Zschokke turned up the wick of the lantern. There were strangers, dripping wet, standing behind Schedoni's huge chair. While the windows were open, someone had come into the hall.

VI.

The company was gloomy, with funereal clothes and long faces, and their great hall was ill-lit and dusty, the upper walls covered with filth and cobwebs.

Some of the diners looked barely alive, and they all had an unhealthy pallor, as if they'd lived all their lives in these shadows, never emerging into the sunlight. There were two pretty girls among them, though, a pale, lithe blonde and a lush, dark-haired beauty. They immediately excited Kloszowski's revolutionary interest. Trapped like Olympia and Julietta by the conventions of their cla.s.s, they might make enthusiastic converts to the cause.

'We were lost,' he explained. 'We made for your light.'

n.o.body said anything. They all looked, hungrily, at the newcomers.

'There's a storm outside,' said Antonia, unnecessarily. 'The road is washing away.'

'They can't stay,' said a thin old woman, voice cracking with meanness. 'Outsiders can't stay.'

Kloszowski didn't like the sound of that.

'We've nowhere else to go. There's no pa.s.sable road.'

'It would be against his will,' the woman said, looking up at the shadowed ceiling. 'Old Melmoth can't abide outsiders.'

They all thought about that, looking at each other. There was an ancient man, a halo of cotton-spun white hair fringing his skull, at the head of the table. Kloszowski took him to be in charge, although he didn't seem to be this Old Melmoth. By his side stood a tall, scar-faced servant, the muscle of the family, typical of the type that leaves their own cla.s.s and helps the aristocracy keep his brothers and sisters in chains.

A dangerous brute, to judge by the height and breadth of him and the size of his hairy-backed hands. Still, his face showed he had, at least once in his life, taken second prize in a fight.

'Shush, Flaminea,' the old man told the woman. 'We've no choice'

Several men of the company had swords out, as if expecting banditti or beastmen.

Kloszowski noticed a p.r.o.nounced family resemblance. Long noses, hollow eyes, distinct cheekbones. He was reminded of the phantom face in the blue light, and wondered whether perhaps they wouldn't be better off taking their chances with the storm.

'See here,' said d'Amato, who seemed to inflate as he dried. 'You'll have to shelter us. I'm an important man in Miragliano. Ysidro d'Amato. Ask anyone, and they'll tell you. You'll be well rewarded.'

The old man looked at d'Amato with contempt. 'I doubt if you could reward us, signor.'

'Hah,' d'Amato said. 'I'm not without wealth.'

'I am Schedoni Udolpho,' the old man said, 'the son of Melmoth Udolpho. This is a rich estate, weighed down with wealth beyond your imagination. You can have nothing we could want.'

D'Amato stepped back, towards a fireplace the size of a stable where whole trees burned, and looked away. He seemed smaller with the fire behind him, and he was still clinging to his bag as if it contained his beating heart. With typical bourgeois sliminess, he'd been impressed by talk of 'wealth beyond your imagination.'

Kloszowski remembered where he'd heard of d'Amato. Miragliano, a seaport built on a network of islands in a salt marsh, was a rich trading city, but it suffered from a lack of drinkable water. Fortunes had been made via water-caravans and ca.n.a.ls, and d'Amato had been the leading water merchant in the city, carving out his own empire, forcing his compet.i.tors out of business. A year or so ago, he had achieved an almost total control over the city's fresh water, and been able to treble the price. The city fathers had protested, but had to give in and pay him.

He had been a powerful man indeed. But then the Yellow Ague had come, and investigating scryers laid the blame on contaminated water. That explained why d'Amato was leaving home Schedoni signalled to the scarred hulk.

'Zschokke,' he said. 'Bring more chairs, and mulled wine. Our guests are in danger of catching their deaths.'

Kloszowski had stepped as close to the fire as he could and felt his clothes drying on him.

Antonia had stripped her soaked shawl, and was raising thin skirts to toast her legs. Kloszowski noticed that at least one of the Udolpho clan was especially intrigued by the spectacle, the flabby old fellow with a cleric's skullcap and a lecher's look in his eye.

Antonia laughed gaily, and did a few dance steps.

'I'm a dancer sometimes,' she said. 'Not a very good one.'

Her legs were shapely, with a dancer's muscles.

'I used to be an actress too. Murdered by the end of Act One'

She stuck her tongue out and hung her neck as if it were broken. Her blouse was soaked to her skin, leaving Kloszowski in no doubt as to her qualifications for the entertainment business.

D'Amato swarmed around Antonia, making her drop her wet skirts to cover herself.

'Sorry,' she said. 'Bought and paid for, that's me. The Water Wizard has exclusive rights to all performances.'

She was remarkably cheerful, and d'Amato was obviously embarra.s.sed by his plaything's boldness.

'Harlotry is the path to Chaos and d.a.m.nation,' said the shrivelled killjoy. 'This house was always plagued with harlots and loose women, with their painted cheeks and their sinful laughter. But they're all dead now, and I, righteous and ridiculous Flaminea, am still here. They used to laugh at me when I was a girl, and ask me if I was saving my body for the worms. But I'm alive, and they're not.'

Kloszowski had Flaminea marked as a cheerless maniac straight away. She seemed to derive considerable enjoyment from contemplating the deaths of others, so she wasn't denying herself every earthly pleasure.

The hulk found him a place at the table, next to a moustached gallant who couldn't hold his head properly.

'I'm Pintaldi,' the young man said.

'Aleksandr,' Kloszowski returned.

Pintaldi reached for a candle, and brought it close. Kloszowski felt the heat on his face.

'Fascinating stuff, flame,' he said. 'I've made a study of it. They're all wrong, you know. It's not hot, it's cold. And flames are pure, like sharp knives. They consume the evil, and leave the good. Flames are the fingers of the G.o.ds.'

'Very interesting,' said Kloszowski, taking a swallow of the wine Zschokke had decanted for him. It stung his throat, and warmed his belly.

Flaminea glared at him as if he were molesting a child in her presence.

'You are a cleric of Morr,' said a hairy-faced beast sitting near Old Melmoth. 'What are you doing out in the storm?'

Kloszowski was befuddled for a moment, then remembered his borrowed robe.

'Um, death is everywhere,' he said, holding up his stolen amulet.

'The dead are everywhere,' said the hairy man. 'Especially here. Why, in this very hall the ghostly disembodied hands of the Strangling Steward frequently take shape, and fix about the throats of unwary guests.'

D'Amato coughed, and spat out his wine.

'Only those guilty of some grave crime need fear the Strangling Steward,' said the folklorist. 'He only visits the guilty.'

'My apologies,' said Schedoni. 'We are an old family, and our blood has grown thin. Isolation has made us eccentric. You must think us strange company?'

Everyone looked at Kloszowski, hollow eyes seeming to glow blue in the gloom. 'Oh no,' he said, 'you've been most hospitable. This certainly compares favourably with the last n.o.ble house in which I was a guest.'

That much was true, although Kloszowski suspected Zschokke might share certain talents with Tancredi. All these aristocratic menages kept a pet killer.

'You must stay the night,' Schedoni said. 'The house is large, and rooms can be found for you.'

Kloszowski wondered how long he could maintain the deception. Since the great fog riots, his name had been a byword for insurrection. If he were to be revealed to the Udolpho clan as Prince Kloszowski, the revolutionist poet, he'd probably find himself defenestrated. And the far windows of the great hall overlooked the gorge below. It would be a fall of seven or eight hundred feet onto jagged rocks.

Pintaldi had picked up the candelabrum now, and was holding his palm close to a flame.

'See,' he said. 'It burns cold.'

His skin was blackening, and there was a nasty, meaty smell.

'Harlots will rot,' said Flaminea.

Kloszowski looked across the table at the fair young girl. She had sat quietly, saying nothing, her eyes demurely cast down. She didn't have the Udolpho look, yet she was obviously part of this bizarre collection. Her lips were unrouged but deep red, and she had white, sharp teeth. She looked up, and caught his gaze. She seemed about sixteen, but her clear eyes were ancient.

'Without harlots, where'd be the fun in the world?' said Antonia.

Flaminea shook a bony fist at the dancer, and spat a chunk of gristle onto her plate. The woman had a fuzz of beard on her chin and her hair was scraggy grey. Dried out, Antonia was as healthy as a ripe apple, and made a distinct contrast with this withered crew.

'I shall play the harpsichord,' said the dark girl sitting by the fat cleric. Schedoni nodded, and the girl got up, daintily walking across the hall to the instrument. She wore something long, black and clinging, like a stylish shroud. Kloszowski was feeling warm again, but somehow the cold was still settled in his bones.

VII.

As Christabel played, Genevieve considered the outsiders. Something about them disturbed her. She saw Ambrosio's lips tighten as Antonia showed her legs. She felt the strange hostility between the cleric of Morr and the merchant of Miragliano. These men hadn't chosen to travel together. And both had things to hide.

She imagined travelling, coaches crossing the Old World, from Estalia to Bretonnia, from the Empire to Kislev. There were great citiesParravon, Altdorf, Marienburg, Erengrad, Zhufbarand unknown, far-distant countriesCathay, l.u.s.tria, Nippon, the Dark Lands. She believed she had spent all her life at Udolpho, never leaving its walls, as much a prisoner as invalid Mathilda or the altered son Ravaglioli and Flaminea were rumoured to have penned in a cellar, fed only on human flesh.

All she could remember was Udolpho, and she couldn't even remember much of that. There were huge gaps in her recollection. And yet, impressions of things she could never have known sometimes came to her.

Christabel played strangely, letting her juicedreams seep through as she embroidered around the edges of a familiar piece. Her tangle of black hair flew back as she nodded her head in time to the savage music.

The music disturbed Genevieve more. In her mind, she was a predator, tearing out the throats of her prey, her teeth sinking into flesh, delicious blood gushing into her mouth, trickling over her chin, flowing over her bosom.

Her nails had become sharp, and her teeth shifted in her mouth, the enamel reshaping There were other dream memories, crowding in. Faces, names, places, events. Things she could never have known, she experienced. She remembered a crowd attacked by invisible forces, and the kiss of a dark, handsome man who had changed her. She remembered a queenly woman, her face and arms red with blood, dressed in the costume of an earlier age. She remembered an iron bracelet and a chain, tying her to a rough-faced man, and a night in an inn. She remembered twice venturing into a castle to face a Great Enchanter. She remembered a theatre and a striking actor, and her flight from him, from his city. She remembered a thing with the body of a sea-creature and the eyes of a man. All these things were more than dreams, and yet they did not fit with the life Genevieve knew she had lived, a quiet, secluded, forgotten life in this castle.

Christabel's shoulders heaved, and sweat fell from her face.

Flaminea grunted from time to time. Music was sinful in her mind, and she rejected her daughter's talent. Sometimes, Christabel killed her mother, choking the life out of her with a silken scarf, or battering her with a stone torn out of the walls of the house.

Sometimes, when Flaminea worked up a righteous frenzy, it was the other way around, and she would denounce her daughter as a witch, standing by smugly while the villagers dragged her to the stake and Pintaldi lovingly nurtured the bonfire.

The cleric of Morr was looking at her. He was a foreigner, and didn't strike her as being a real cleric. Even Ambrosio had something about him that suggested holy orders, no matter how many times his hands reached into skirts or bodices. Aleksandr was not the type to bow to any G.o.d, or to any man.

Was it just that he was too good-looking to be a celibate of Morr?

His hood was down, and his throat was exposed. She saw the delicate blue vein threading up into his unkempt, still-wet beard, and imagined she could detect its pulse by sight.