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couch at night. My mother was in her dressing-gown, which made it feel very late, and she was reading from a book with no pictures, a story I didn't understand at all, but I sat listening intently just the same, following the cadences of her voice. I was watching from outside, as if my older self were sitting invisibly on the couch beside them. Then I saw that my mother was crying silently as she read. Tears were streaming down her face and splashing over my pale blue sleeping suit, but she made no attempt to wipe them away; she just went on reading and the tears went on falling until I woke again briefly to find my own pillow still damp from the tears I had shed for Alice.

    O N THE S ATURDAY MORNING AFTER THE DREAM , I FOUND myself alone in the house. My father was at a train men's swap meet on the other side of town; my mother had run herself late for the hairdresser. I came out into the hall when I heard the front door slam, and saw that she had—most unusually—left the door to her room open. As I moved closer my gaze fell upon the drawer I had opened on that stifling January afternoon.
    My unspoken pact with my mother had kept me away from her room before this. I won't pry into your secrets if you don't pry into mine. But the door was open, and Alice was so fascinated by Staplefield, and Viola, and anything I could remember about the photograph I had found.
    The drawer was still locked, and there was no small brass key in any of the obvious places. Then I remembered that the tongue—or whatever the bit that worked the lock was called—had been nothing more than a plain metal tag with a slot cut in the front end of it. So I went around the house collecting and trying keys from other pieces of furniture until I found one that fitted.
    The lock clicked over. Kneeling in the half-light, breathing mothballs and insect spray and the faint doggy smell of the carpet, I saw my uneasy reflection staring from the depths of the dressing-table mirror.
Gerard is so like his mother.
    The envelope and the photograph had gone. The only thing in the drawer was the book with the faded grey paper cover, mottled with reddish brown spots.
The Chameleon
—I still didn't know what a chameleon was but I recognised the word—A
Review of Arts and Letters.
Volume I, Number 2, June 1898. Edited by Frederick Ravenscroft. Essays by Richard Le Gallienne and G.S. Street. Poems by Victor Plarr, Olive Custance, and Theodore Wratislaw. I tried to open it and discovered that the pages were joined together at the edges. Except for one section. 'Seraphina: A Tale', by V.H.
    ***

Seraphina
    L ORD E DMUND N APIER LIKED EVERY thing about him pleasant and agreeable, and since he was rich, handsome, unmarried, and possessed of a splendid town house in Cheyne Walk, the world made haste to oblige him. Indeed it had been hastening—with one disagreeable exception, as we shall presently learn—almost from the moment of his birth some forty years before the afternoon upon which we find him gazing at a blank space on the wall of his private gallery.
    Though the main entrance hall and staircase of his house were adorned, as might be expected, with portraits of Napiers past, this gallery was known only to Lord Edmund's most intimate associates. It was a long, vaulted, panelled room, reminiscent in its proportions of a place of worship, but lit so as to draw in as much natural illumination as possible while excluding any direct glare. The merest glance around the walls, however, would reveal Lord Edmund to be, as the phrase goes, a devotee of the female form, lavishly and variously illustrated by over a hundred canvases running the length of the gallery on either side, and supplemented by numerous pieces of statuary in bronze, marble, jade, ebony, and other precious materials; all, I hasten to add, in the finest of taste; the finest, indeed, that money could buy. But to describe Lord Edmund as a worshipper at the shrine of Beauty would be, if not precisely untrue,