Through a long glass corridor gusting air, they emerge onto the bright lawn with the octagonal section of decking, aglow even in the depths of night. And there upon it sits the rose in its bell jar, every bit as crisp and pure and perfect as before. As they approach, Adam realises that the rose is positioned at an angle by which they might be ambushed from three different sides. It’s been cleverly placed, he thinks.
From somewhere inside his dark coat, Magpie reveals a loupe. Wrinkling his nose, he places it against his eye like a monocle and leans over, posed as if he’s a jeweller inspecting a particularly intricate piece of jewellery. Adam admires the rose, and now that he’s here, seeing it for the second time, he knows he was right to come. He can feel it evoking old memories in him already.
“The genuine article,” mumbles Magpie. “I can’t believe they were foolish enough to—”
“Hello again, Adam.”
The voice comes from the top of the grassy rise, but the first person Adam notices is the Sinclairs’ elderly driver as he advances from between some trees nearby. The driver is barefoot and pads silently across the lawn; he aims a hunting rifle at Magpie’s head. There is something in his poise that tells Adam he has training with firearms. The driver comes to a halt at the foot of the octagonal veranda, eye across the iron sights of his gun.
At the top of the hill is Ada Sinclair, at the fore of a crowd of elderly men and women. All of them are completely naked, except for Ada, who is wearing a single article: her wondrous fur shawl, draped across her shoulders. The party’s eyes flick from Adam, to Magpie, and back to Adam.
“Which one is it?” A greying man with a protruding belly asks.
“Step forward, Adam,” says Ada.
Glancing at Magpie, Adam notices that he’s removed his loupe. He is observing the crowd of naked people with an expression that Adam does not recognise. It might be contempt. Unsure how to proceed, Adam takes a step forward, as commanded.
“Bloody hell, that’s the first man?”
There’s muttering among the crowd.
One of them says, “Looks more like a fucking gorilla.”
Laughter ripples out.
“We weren’t expecting you quite so early,” says Ada. “Frank was hoping to be here when you arrived. He’ll be joining us shortly.” Despite her nakedness, she still wears powder and concealer and mascara. In fact, most of them are made up – desperately trying to appear younger than they are. “It’s good of you to join us, Adam. We’ve been waiting for you. You don’t need to feel ashamed here. You can remove your clothes if you like. Enjoy the warmth of the greenhouse, like the rest of us. Don’t pay any attention to Thompson’s comments.” She smiles, cracking the powder around her lips. “He’s an old rogue, and he’ll learn to love you just like I do. I hope you’ll forgive the gun, as well. While I can vouch for you, I can’t vouch for the creature you’ve brought with you. Now – if you’d be so kind…” Ada slowly makes her way down the hill, at the head of her procession. She halts a few paces away from the decking, and deposits the object she was carrying with her on the ground before it. It’s a gilded cage. An intricate piece of work.
“Tell your fowl to get in the cage,” she says.
Adam feels his brows curl into a tight frown.
“Dominion, Adam. Genesis one: twenty-eight. God told you to ‘have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth’. Exercise your dominion. Tell your bird to get in the cage.”
“Adam,” says Magpie, somewhere behind him. “She’s wearing fox.”
“Cage the bird,” insists Ada.
“Listen,” says Magpie, so softly. “She’s wearing Fox.”
The trembling begins inside Adam’s chest. It flutters there as if there’s a butterfly trapped inside him. It makes its way from his chest, to his arms and his legs, and to the tips of his fingers where it makes the blood tingle through them. He feels his grip on the wrecking bar tighten.
“Look at me, Adam,” commands Ada, and he does. She still has all the colours of sunset cascading across her fragile shoulders. Except, they’re not her colours at all. They’re Fox’s colours. There, at her throat, is the white dash of Fox’s chin.
Ada stands before Adam, small and unafraid and wreathed in stolen fur.
The first blow hits her square in the jaw, making a soft crunching noise. She folds to the floor, probably dead already, but Adam crouches and hammers at her with his fists until her skull is no more than fragments. The wrecking bar is superfluous; he casts it aside.
The murder takes mere moments, and when it is done, Adam carefully removes the bloodstained fur from Ada’s lifeless shoulders.
When Adam stands, he notices that the rest of the party have fled. Magpie is also gone, but the Sinclairs’ driver remains, rifle now trained on Adam. The driver’s aim wavers, finger quivering at his trigger. His uncertainty does him credit, Adam thinks. For all his training, he still hesitates to shoot and potentially kill a man.
Adam approaches the driver, but he stands his ground. “Stop!” he cries. “Stop where you are!”
Pain blooms distantly through Adam as he is shot in the leg. His blood, a deep crimson, showers the grass. The next two shots hit him in quick succession, bursting through the same leg, but he doesn’t stumble. Grabbing the end of the rifle, Adam slams it into the driver’s chest. Then, tearing the gun free of the man’s grip, he turns it on him, firing low. If the driver had enough respect to only shoot
