Few of these locations were complete: most were slivers and snatches, fragments of the Kingdom ceded to the Fugue behind humanity's back. The haunted corners of familiar rooms that would neither be missed nor mourned, where children had perhaps seen ghosts or saints; where the fugitive might be comforted and not know why, and the suicide find reason for another breath.

Amid this disorder, the most curious juxtapositions abounded. Here a bridge, parted from the chasm it had crossed, sat in a field, spanning poppies; there an obelisk stood in the middle of a pool, gazing at its reflection.

One sight in particular caught Cal's eye.

It was a hill, which rose almost straight-sided to a tree-crowned summit. Lights moved over its face, and danced amongst the branches. Having no sense of direction here, he decided to make his way down towards it.

There was music playing somewhere in the night. It came to him by fits and starts, at the behest of the breeze. Drums and violins; a mingling of Strauss and Sioux. And occasionally, evidence of people too. Whispers in the trees; shadowed figures beneath a canopy which stood in the middle of a waist-high field of grain. But the creatures were fugitive; they came and went too quickly for him to gain more than a fleeting impression. Whether this was because they knew him for the Cuckoo he was, or simply out of shyness, only time would tell. Certainly he felt no threat here, despite the fact that he was, in a sense, trespassing. On the contrary, he felt utterly at peace with the world and himself. So much so that his concern for the others here - Suzanna, Apolline, Jerichau, Nimrod -was quite remote. When his thoughts did touch upon them it was only to imagine them wandering as he was wandering, lost among miracles. No harm could come to them; not here. Here was an end to harm, and malice, and envy too. Having this living rapture wrapping him round, what was left to envy or desire?

He was within a hundred yards of the hill and stood before it in amazement. The lights he'd seen from a distance were in fact human fire-flies; wingless, but describing effortless arabesques around the hill. There was no communication between them that he could hear, yet they had the precision of daredevils, their manoeuvres repeatedly bringing them within a hair's breadth of each other.

'You must be Mooney.'

The speaker's voice was soft, but it broke the hold the lights had on him. Cal looked off to his right. Two figures were standing in the shade of an archway, their faces still immersed in darkness. All he could see were the two blue-grey ovals of their faces, hanging beneath the arch like lanterns.

'Yes. I'm Mooney,' he said. Show yourselves, he thought. 'How do you know my name?'

'News travels fast here,' came the reply. The voice seemed slightly softer and more fluting than the first, but he couldn't be certain it wasn't the same speaker. 'It's the air,' said his informant. 'It gossips.'

Now one of the pair stepped into the night-light. The soft illumination from the hill moved on his face, lending it strangeness, but even had Cal seen it by daylight this was a face to be haunted by. He was young, yet completely bald, his features powdered to remove any modulation in skin-tone, his mouth and eyes almost too wet, too vulnerable, in the mask of his features.

'I'm Boaz,' he said. 'You're welcome, Mooney.'

He took Cal's hand, and shook it, and as he did so his companion broke her covenant with shadow.

'You can see the Amadou?' she said.

It took Cal several seconds to conclude that the second speaker was indeed a woman, the processes of his doubt in turn throwing doubt on the sex of Boaz, for the two were very close to being identical twins.

'I'm Ganza,' said the second speaker. She was dressed in the same plain black trousers and loose tunic as her brother, or lover, or whatever he was; and she too was bald. That, and their powdered faces, seemed to confuse all the cliches of gender. Their faces were vulnerable, yet implacable; delicate, yet severe.

Boaz looked towards the hill, where the fire-flies were still cavorting.

This is the Rock of the First Fatality.' he told Cal. 'The Amadou always gather here. This is where the first victims of the Scourge died.'

Cal looked back towards the Rock, but only for a moment. Boaz and Ganza fascinated him more; their ambiguities multiplied the more he watched them.

'Where are you going tonight?' said Ganza.

Cal shrugged. 'No idea,' he said. 'I don't know a yard of this place.'

'Yes, you do,' she said. 'You know it very well.'

While she spoke she was idly locking and unlocking her fingers, or so it seemed, until Cal's eyes lingered on the exercise for two or three seconds. Then it became apparent that she was passing her fingers through the palms of the other hand, left through right, right through left, defying their solidity. The motion was so casual, the illusion - if illusion it was - so quick, that Cal was by no means certain he was interpreting it correctly.

'How do they look to you?' she enquired.

He looked back at her face. Was the finger-trick some kind of test of his perception? It wasn't her hands she was talking about, however.

The Amadou.' she said. 'How do they appear?'

He glanced towards the Rock again.

'... like human beings.' he replied.

She gave him a tiny smile.

'Why do you ask?' he wanted to know. But she didn't have time to reply before Boaz spoke.

There's a Council been called.' he said. 'At Capra's House. I think they're going to re-weave.'

That can't be right.' said Cal. They're going to put the Fugue back?'

That's what I hear.' said Boaz.

It seemed to be fresh news to him; had he just lifted it off the gossiping air? The times are too dangerous, they're saying.' he told Cal. 'Is that true?'

'I don't know any other.' Cal said. 'So I've got nothing to compare them with.'

'Do we have the night?' Ganza asked.

'Some of it.' said Boaz.

Then we'll go to see Lo; yes?'

'It's as good a place as any.' Boaz replied. 'Will you come?' he asked the Cuckoo.

Cal looked back towards the Amadou. The thought of staying and watching their performance a while longer was tempting, but he might not find another guide to show him the sights, and if time here was short then he'd best make the most of it.

'Yes. I'll come.'

The woman had stopped lacing her fingers.

'You'll like Lo.' she said, turning away, and starting off into the night.

He followed, already full to brimming with questions, but knowing that if indeed he only had hours to taste Wonderland he should not waste time and breath asking.

II.

AT THE LAKE, AND LATER.

1.

There had been a moment, back in the Auction House, when Suzanna had thought her life was at an end. She'd been helping Apolline down the stairs when the walls had creaked, and it seemed the house had come down around their ears. Even now, as she stood watching the lake, she was not certain how they'd escaped alive. Presumably the menstruum had intervened on her behalf, though she had not consciously willed it to do so. There was much she had to learn about the power she'd inherited. Not least, how much it belonged to her and how much she to it. When she found Apolline, whom she'd lost in the furore, she would find out all the woman knew.

In the meantime, she had the islands, their backs crowned with cypress trees, to wonder about, and the lisp of the waves on the stones to soothe her. 'We should go.'

Jerichau broke her reverie as softly as he could, touching the back of her neck with his hand. She had left him at the house that stood along the shore, talking with friends he'd not seen in a human life-time. They had reminiscences to exchange, in which she had no place, and which, she sensed, the others had no desire to share. Criminal talk, she'd uncharitably concluded as she left them to it. Jerichau was a thief, after all. 'Why did we come here?' she asked him.