This one just kept growing and growing . . . When Liz Hand first talked to me about "Cleopatra Brimstone"
that a neat title?) she thought it would come in somewhere around eight thousand words. Then it began to grow
next time we chatted (this is e-mail I'm talking about; which, as I've said before, is equivalent to the Victorian p
system—you can get "mail" in the morning, again at noon, and yet again in the late afternoon), she said it
come in at about fourteen thousand words. By that time I was getting tight for space in the book but thought fou
thousand would be just fine—then the story landed on my doorstep (with a solid ka-thump!j and I noted with h
that it had grown to almost twenty thousand words!
    As things were really tight by that time, I thought about asking Liz to cut the story—but I just couldn't. Her w
(as in her novels Black Light and Glimmering) is so full-bodied and evocative that I had to present it as written.

                                              Cleopatra Brimstone
                                                  Elizabeth Hand

    Her earliest memory was of wings. Luminous red and blue, yellow and green and orang
black so rich it appeared liquid, edible. They moved above her, and the sunlight made
glow as though they were themselves made of light, fragments of another, brighter world fa
to earth about her crib. Her tiny hands stretched upward to grasp them but could not: they w
too elusive, too radiant, too much of the air.
    Could they ever have been real?
    For years she thought she must have dreamed them. But one afternoon when she was ten
went into the attic, searching for old clothes to wear to a Halloween party. In a corner ben
a cobwebbed window she found a box of her baby things. Yellow-stained bibs and tiny f
jumpers blued from bleaching, a much-nibbled stuffed dog that she had no memor
whatsoever.
    And at the very bottom of the carton, something else. Wings flattened and twisted ou
shape, wires bent and strings frayed: a mobile. Six plastic butterflies, colors faded and
wings giving off a musty smell, no longer eidolons of Eden but crude representation
 monarch, zebra swallowtail, red admiral, sulphur, an unnaturally elongated skipper
Agrias narcissus. Except for the narcissus, all were common New World species that
child might see in a suburban garden. They hung limply from their wires, antennae long s
broken off; when she touched one wing it felt cold and stiff as metal.
    The afternoon had been overcast, tending to rain. But as she held the mobile to
window, a shaft of sun broke through the darkness to ignite the plastic wings, bloodred,
green, the pure burning yellow of an August field. In that instant it was as though her e
being were burned away, skin hair lips fingers all ash; and nothing remained but the butter
and her awareness of them, orange and black fluid filling her mouth, the edges of her
scored by wings.

   As a girl she had always worn glasses. A mild childhood astigmatism worsened when
was thirteen: she started bumping into things and found it increasingly difficult to concen
on the entomological textbooks and journals that she read voraciously. Growing pa
her mother thought; but after two months, Janie's clumsiness and concomitant heada
became so severe that her mother admitted that this was perhaps something more serious,
took her to the family physician.
   "Janie's fine," Dr. Gordon announced after peering into her ears and eyes. "She needs to
the opthamologist, that's all. Sometimes our eyes change when we hit puberty." He gave
mother the name of an eye doctor nearby.
    Her mother was relieved, and so was Jane—she had overheard her parents talking the n
before her appointment, and the words CAT scan and brain tumor figured in their hu
conversation. Actually, Jane had been more concerned about another odd phy
manifestation, one that no one but herself seemed to have noticed. She had started menstru
several months earlier: nothing unusual in that. Everything she had read about it mentioned
usual things—mood swings, growth spurts, acne, pubic hair.
    But nothing was said about eyebrows. Janie first noticed something strange about hers w
she got her period for the second time. She had retreated to the bathtub, where she spent a g
half hour reading an article in Nature about oriental ladybug swarms. When she finished
article, she got out of the tub, dressed, and brushed her teeth, and then spent a minute frow
at the mirror.
    Something was different about her face. She turned sideways, squinting. Had her
broken out? No; but something had changed. Her hair color? Her teeth? She leaned
the sink until she was almost nose-to-nose with her reflection.
    That was when she saw that her eyebrows had undergone a growth spurt of their own. A
inner edge of each eyebrow, above the bridge of her nose, three hairs had grown remark
long. They furled back toward her temple, entwined in a sort of loose braid. She had
noticed them sooner because she seldom looked in a mirror, and also because the hairs did
arch above the eyebrows, but instead blended in with them, the way a bittersweet vine tw
around a branch.
    Still, they seemed bizarre enough that she wanted no one, not even her parents, to no
She found her mother's tweezers, neatly plucked the six hairs, and flushed them down the to
They did not grow back.
    At the optometrist's, Jane opted for heavy tortoiseshell frames rather than contacts.
optometrist, and her mother, thought she was crazy, but it was a very deliberate choice. J
was not one of those homely B-movie adolescent girls, driven to science as a last resort.
had always been a tomboy, skinny as a rail, with long slanted violet-blue eyes; a small
mouth; long, straight black hair that ran like oil between her fingers; skin so pale it had
periwinkle shimmer of skim milk.
    When she hit puberty, all of these conspired to beauty. And Jane hated it. Hated
attention, hated being looked at, hated that the other girls hated her. She was quiet, not shy
impatient to focus on her schoolwork, and this was mistaken for arrogance by her peers.
through high school she had few friends. She learned early the perils of befriending boys,
earnest boys who professed an interest in genetic mutations and intricate computer simula
of hive activity. Janie could trust them not to touch her, but she couldn't trust them not to fa
love. As a result of having none of the usual distractions of high school—sex, social
mindless employment—she received an Intel/ Westinghouse Science Scholarship fo
computer-generated schematic of possible mutations in a small population of vic
butterflies exposed to genetically engineered crops. She graduated in her junior year, took
scholarship money, and ran.
    She had been accepted at Stanford and MIT, but chose to attend a small, highly prestig
women's college in a big city several hundred miles away. Her parents were apprehen
about her being on her own at the tender age of seventeen, but the college, with its eleg
cloister-like buildings and lustily wooded grounds, put them at ease. That and the de
assurances that the neighborhood was completely safe, as long as students were sensible a
not walking alone at night. Thus mollified, and at Janie's urging—she was desperate to m
away from home—her father signed a very large check for the first semester's tuition.
September she started school.
    She studied entomology, spending her first year examining the geni-talia of male and fe
scarce wormwood shark moths, a species found on the Siberian steppes. Her hours in
zoology lab were rapturous, hunched over a microscope with a pair of tweezers so minute
were themselves like some delicate portion of her specimen's physiognomy. She would rem
the butterflies' genitalia, tiny and geometrically precise as diatoms, and dip them first
glycerine, which acted as a preservative, and next into a mixture of water and alco
Then she observed them under the microscope. Her glasses interfered with this work—
bumped into the microscope's viewing lens—and so she switched to wearing contact lense
retrospect, she thought that this was probably a mistake.
    At Argus College she still had no close friends, but neither was she the solitary creature
had been at home. She respected her fellow students and grew to appreciate the compan
women. She could go for days at a time seeing no men besides her professors or the comm
driving past the school's wrought-iron gates.
    And she was not the school's only beauty. Argus College specialized in young women
Jane: elegant, diffident girls who studied the burial customs of Mongol women or
mating habits of rare antipodean birds; girls who composed concertos for violin
gamelan orchestra, or wrote computer programs that charted the progress of potent
dangerous celestial objects through the Oort cloud. Within this educational greenhouse, J
was not so much orchid as sturdy milkweed blossom. She thrived.
    Her first three years at Argus passed in a bright-winged blur with her butterf
Summers were given to museum internships, where she spent months cleaning
mounting specimens in solitary delight. In her senior year Janie received permission to de
her own thesis project, involving her beloved shark moths. She was given a corner in a d
anteroom off the zoology lab, and there she set up her microscope and laptop. There wa
window in her corner, indeed there was no window in the anteroom at all, though the adjoi
lab was pleasantly old-fashioned, with high-arched windows set between Victorian cabin
displaying Lepidoptera, neon-carapaced beetles, unusual tree fungi, and (she f
these slightly tragic) numerous exotic finches, their brilliant plumage dimmed to dusty h
Since she often worked late into the night, she requested and received her own set of k
Most evenings she could be found beneath the glare of the small halogen lamp, entering
into her computer, scanning images of genetic mutations involving female shark moths exp
to dioxane, corresponding with other researchers in Melbourne and Kyoto, Siberia
London.
    The rape occurred around ten o'clock one Friday night in early March. She
locked the door to her office, leaving her laptop behind, and started to walk to the sub
station a few blocks away. It was a cold, clear night, the yellow glow of the crime lights gi
dead grass and leafless trees an eerie autumn glow. She hurried across the campus, seeing
one, and then hesitated at Seventh Street. It was a longer walk, but safer, if she
down Seventh Street and then over to Michigan Avenue. The shortcut was much quicker
Argus authorities and the local police discouraged students from taking it after dark, Jane s
for a moment, staring across the road to where the desolate park lay; then, staring resolu
straight ahead and walking briskly, she crossed Seventh and took the shortcut.
    A crumbling sidewalk passed through a weedy expanse of vacant lot, strewn with br
bottles and the spindly forms of half a dozen dusty-limbed oak trees. Where the grass ende
narrow road skirted a block of abandoned row houses, intermittently lit by crime lights. M
of the lights had been vandalized, and one had been knocked down in a car accident—the
fender was still there, twisted around the lamppost. Jane picked her way carefully am
shards of shattered glass, reached the sidewalk in front of the boarded-up houses, and bega
walk more quickly, toward the brightly lit Michigan Avenue intersection where the sub
waited.
    She never saw him. He was there, she knew that; knew he had a face, and clothing
afterwards she could recall none of it. Not the feel of him, not his smell; only the knif
held—awkwardly, she realized later, she probably could have wrested it from him—and
few words he spoke to her. He said nothing at first, just grabbed her and pulled her int
alley between the row houses, his fingers covering her mouth, the heel of his hand pres
against her windpipe so that she gagged. He pushed her onto the dead leaves and wad
matted windblown newspaper, yanked her pants down, ripped open her jacket, and then
her shirt open. She heard one of the buttons strike back and roll away. She thought despera
of what she had read once, in a Rape Awareness brochure: not to struggle, not to fight, n
do anything that might cause her attacker to kill her.
    Janie did not fight. Instead, she divided into three parts. One part knelt nearby and pr
the way she had done as a child, not intently but automatically, trying to get through the str
of words as quickly as possible. The second part submitted blindly and silently to the ma
the alley. And the third hovered above the other two, her hands wafting slowly up and dow
keep her aloft as she watched.
    "Try to get away," the man whispered. She could not see him or feel him though his h
were there. "Try to get away."
    She remembered that she ought not to struggle, but from the noises he made and the wa
tugged at her realized that was what aroused him. She did not want to anger him; she ma
small sound deep in her throat and tried to push him from her chest. Almost immediatel
groaned, and seconds later rolled off her. Only his hand lingered for a moment upon her ch
Then he stumbled to his feet—she could hear him fumbling with his zipper—and fled.
    The praying girl and the girl in the air also disappeared then. Only Janie was left, yan
her ruined clothes around her as she lurched from the alley and began to run, screaming
staggering back and forth across the road, toward the subway.

   The police came, an ambulance. She was taken first to the police station and then to the
General Hospital, a hellish place, starkly lit, with endless underground corridors that led
darkened rooms where solitary figures lay on narrow beds like gurneys. Her pubic hair
combed and stray hairs placed into sterile envelopes; semen samples were taken, and she
advised to be tested for HIV and other diseases. She spent the entire night in the hosp
waiting and undergoing various examinations. She refused to give the police or hospital
her parents' phone number or anyone else's. Just before dawn they finally released her, wit
envelope full of brochures from the local Rape Crisis Center, New Hope for Women, Pla
Parenthood, and a business card from the police detective who was overseeing her case.
detective drove her to her apartment in his squad car; when he stopped in front of her build
she was suddenly terrified that he would know where she lived, that he would come back,
he had been her assailant.
    But, of course, he had not been. He walked her to the door and waited for her to go in
"Call your parents," he said right before he left.
    "I will."
    She pulled aside the bamboo window shade, watching until the squad car pulled a
Then she threw out the brochures she'd received, flung off her clothes and stuffed them into
trash. She showered and changed, packed a bag full of clothes and another of books. Then
called a cab. When it arrived, she directed it to the Argus campus, where she retrieved
laptop and her research on tiger moths, and then had the cab bring her to Union Station.
    She bought a train ticket home. Only after she arrived and told her parents what
happened did she finally start to cry. Even then, she could not remember what the man
looked like.

    She lived at home for three months. Her parents insisted that she get psychiatric counse
and join a therapy group for rape survivors. She did so, reluctantly, but stopped attending
three weeks. The rape was something that had happened to her, but it was over.
    "It was fifteen minutes out of my life," she said once at group. "That's all. It's not the re
my life."
    This didn't go over very well. Other women thought she was in denial; the therapist tho
Jane would suffer later if she did not confront her fears now.
    "But I'm not afraid," said Jane.
    "Why not?" demanded a woman whose eyebrows had fallen out.
    Because lightning doesn't strike twice, Jane thought grimly, but she said nothing. That
the last time she attended group.
    That night her father had a phone call. He took the phone and sat at the dining ta
listening; after a moment stood and walked into his study, giving a quick backward glanc
his daughter before closing the door behind him. Jane felt as though her chest had sudd
frozen, but after some minutes she heard her father's laugh; he was not, after all, talking to
police detective. When after half an hour he returned, he gave Janie another quick look, m
thoughtful this time.
    "That was Andrew." Andrew was a doctor friend of his, an Englishman. "He and Fred
going to Provence for three months. They were wondering if you might want to house-si
them."
    "In LondonT' Jane's mother shook her head. "I don't think—"
    "I said we'd think about it."
    "I'll think about it," Janie corrected him. She stared at both her parents, absently ran a fi
along one eyebrow. "Just let me think about it."
    And she went to bed.

   She went to London. She already had a passport, from visiting Andrew with her par
when she was in high school. Before she left there were countless arguments with her mo
and father, and phone calls back and forth to Andrew. He assured them that the flat was sec
there was a very nice reliable older woman who lived upstairs, that it would be a good
for Janie to get out on her own again.
   "So you don't get gun-shy," he said to her one night on the phone. He was a doctor, after
a homeopath not an allopath, which Janie found reassuring. "It's important for you to ge
with our life. You won't be able to get a real job here as a visitor, but I'll see what I can do

    It was on the plane to Heathrow that she made a discovery. She had splashed water onto
face, and was beginning to comb her hair when she blinked and stared into the mirror.
    Above her eyebrows, the long hairs had grown back. They followed the contours of
brow, sweeping back toward her temples; still entwined, still difficult to make out unless
drew her face close to her reflection and tilted her head just so. Tentatively she touched
braided strand. It was stiff yet oddly pliant; but as she ran her finger along its length a su
surge flowed through her. Not an electrical shock: more like the thrill of pain when a den
drill touches a nerve, or an elbow rams against a stone. She gasped; but immediately the
was gone. Instead there was a thrumming behind her forehead, a spreading warmth
trickled into her throat like sweet syrup. She opened her mouth, her gasp turning int
uncontrollable yawn, the yawn into a spike of such profound physical ecstasy that she grab
the edge of the sink and thrust forward, striking her head against the mirror. She was d
aware of someone knocking at the lavatory door as she clutched the sink and, shudde
climaxed.
    "Hello?" someone called softly. "Hello, is this occupied?" "Right out," Janie gasped.
caught her breath, still trembling; ran a hand across her face, her finger halting before
could touch the hairs above her eyebrows. There was the faintest tingling, a temblo
sensation that faded as she grabbed her cosmetic bag, pulled the door open, and stumbled
into the cabin.

   Andrew and Fred lived in an old Georgian row house just west of Camden To
overlooking the Regent's Canal. Their flat occupied the first floor and basement; there w
hexagonal solarium out back, with glass walls and heated stone floor, and beyond th
stepped terrace leading down to the canal. The bedroom had an old wooden four-poster p
high with duvets and down pillows, and French doors that also opened onto the terr
Andrew showed her how to operate the elaborate sliding security doors that unfolded from
walls, and gave her the keys to the barred window guards.
   "You're completely safe here," he said, smiling. "Tomorrow we'll introduce you to Ke
upstairs and show you how to get around. Camden Market's just down that way, and
way—"
   He stepped out onto the terrace, pointing to where the canal coiled and disappeared ben
an arched stone bridge. "—that way's the Regent's Park Zoo. I've given you a membership—
   "Oh! Thank you!" Janie looked around delighted. "This is wonderful."
   "It is." Andrew put an arm around her and drew her close. "You're going to ha
wonderful time, Janie. I thought you'd like the zoo—there's a new exhibit there, 'The W
Within' or words to that effect—it's about insects. I thought perhaps you might wan
volunteer there— they have an active decent program, and you're so knowledgeable about
sort of thing."
   "Sure. It sounds great—really great." She grinned and smoothed her hair back from her
the wind sending up the rank scent of stagnant water from the canal, the sweetly poiso
smell of hawthorn blossom.
   As she stood gazing down past the potted geraniums and Fred's rosemary trees, the h
upon her brow trembled, and she laughed out loud, giddily, with anticipation.

    Fred and Andrew left two days later. It was enough time for Janie to get over her jet lag
begin to get barely acclimated to the city, and to its smell. London had an acrid scent: d
ashes, the softer underlying fetor of rot that oozed from ancient bricks and stone buildings
thick vegetative smell of the canal, sharpened with urine and spilled beer. So many thous
of people descended on Camden Town on the weekend that the tube station was restri
to incoming passengers, and the canal path became almost impassable. Even late
weeknight she could hear voices from the other side of the canal, harsh London voices ech
beneath the bridges or shouting to be heard above the din of the Northern Line trains pas
overhead.
    Those first days Janie did not venture far from the flat. She unpacked her clothes, which
not take much time, and then unpacked her collecting box, which did. The sturdy wooden
had come through the overseas flight and customs seemingly unscathed, but Janie found he
holding her breath as she undid the metal hinges, afraid of what she'd find inside.
    "Oh!" she exclaimed. Relief, not chagrin: nothing had been damaged. The small glass v
of ethyl alcohol and gel shellac were intact, and the pillboxes where she kept the tiny #2
she used for mounting. Fighting her own eagerness, she carefully removed packets of
archival paper; a block of Styrofoam covered with pinholes; two bottles of clear Maybe
nail polish and a small container of Elmer's Glue-All; more pillboxes, empty, and em
gelatine capsules for very small specimens; and last of all a small glass-fronted display
framed in mahogany and holding her most precious specimen: a hybrid Celerio harm
kordesch, the male crossbreed of the spurge and elephant hawkmoths. As long as the first
of her thumb, it had the hawkmoth's typically streamlined wings but exquisitely del
coloring, fuchsia bands shading to a soft rich brown, its thorax thick and seemingly feathe
Only a handful of these hybrid moths had ever existed, bred by the Prague entomologist
Pokorny in 1961; a few years afterward, both the spurge hawkmoth and the elephant hawkm
had become extinct.
    Janie had found this one for sale on the Internet three months ago. It was a former mus
specimen and cost a fortune; she had a few bad nights, worrying whether it had actually be
legal purchase. Now she held the display box in her cupped palms and gazed at it ra
Behind her eyes she felt a prickle, like sleep or unshed tears; then a slow thrumming wa
crept from her brows, spreading to her temples, down her neck and through her bre
spreading like a stain. She swallowed, leaned back against the sofa, and let the display
rest back within the larger case; slid first one hand and then the other beneath her sweater
began to stroke her nipples. When some time later she came it was with stabbing f
and a thunderous sensation above her eyes, as though she had struck her forehead agains
floor.
   She had not; gasping, she pushed the hair from her face, zipped her jeans, and reflexi
leaned forward, to make certain the hawkmoth in its glass box was safe.

    Over the following days she made a few brief forays to the newsagent and greengro
trying to eke out the supplies Fred and Andrew had left in the kitchen. She sat in
solarium, her bare feet warm against the heated stone floor, and drank chamomile te
claret, staring down to where the ceaseless stream of people passed along the canal path,
watching the narrow boats as they piled their way slowly between Camden Lock and L
Venice, two miles to the west in Paddington. By the following Wednesday she felt b
enough, and bored enough, to leave her refuge and visit the zoo.
    It was a short walk along the canal, dodging bicyclists who jingled their bells impatie
when she forgot to stay on the proper side of the path. She passed beneath several arch
bridges, their undersides pleated with slime and moss. Drunks sprawled against the st
and stared at her blearily or challengingly by turns; well-dressed couples walked dogs,
there were excited knots of children, tugging their parents on to the zoo.
    Fred had walked here with Janie, to show her the way. But it all looked unfamiliar n
She kept a few strides behind a family, her head down, trying not to look as though she
following them; and felt a pulse of relief when they reached a twisting stair with an arro
sign at its top.

                                    REGENT'S PARK ZOO
   There was an old old church across the street, its yellow stone walls overgrown with
and down and around the corner a long stretch of hedges with high iron walls fron
them, and at last a huge set of gates, crammed with children and vendors selling ball
and banners and London guidebooks. Janie lifted her head and walked quickly past the fa
that had led her here, showed her membership card at the entrance, and went inside.
   She wasted no time on the seals or tigers or monkeys, but went straight to the n
renovated structure where a multicolored banner flapped in the late-morning breeze.

                                  AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE:
                               SECRETS OF THE INSECT WORLD
    Inside, crowds of schoolchildren and harassed-looking adults formed a ragged queue
trailed through a brightly lit corridor, its walls covered with huge glossy color photos
computer-enhanced images of hissing cockroaches, hellgrammites, morpho butterf
deathwatch beetles, polyphemous moths. Janie dutifully joined the queue, but when the corr
opened into a vast sunlit atrium she strode off on her own, leaving the children and teache
gape at monarchs in butterfly cages and an interactive display of honeybees dancing. Ins
she found a relatively quiet display at the far end of the exhibition space, a floor-to-ce
cylinder of transparent net, perhaps six feet in diameter. Inside, buckthorn bushes and bloom
hawthorn vied for sunlight with a slender beech sapling, and dozens of butterflies fl
upward through the new yellow leaves, or sat with wings outstretched upon the beech
They were a type of Pieridae, the butterflies known as whites; though these were not w
at all. The females had creamy yellow-green wings, very pale, their wingspans per
an inch and a half. The males were the same size; when they were at rest their flattened w
were a dull, rather sulphurous color. But when the males lit into the air, their wings reve
vivid, spectral yellow undersides. Janie caught her breath in delight, her neck prickling
that same atavistic joy she'd felt as a child in the attic.
    "Wow," she breathed, and pressed up against the netting. It felt like wings against her
soft, webbed; but as she stared at the insects inside, her brow began to ache as with migr
She shoved her glasses onto her nose, closed her eyes, and drew a long breath; then she to
step away from the cage. After a minute she opened her eyes. The headache had diminishe
a dull throb; when she hesitantly touched one eyebrow, she could feel the entwined hairs th
stiff as wire. They were vibrating, but at her touch the vibrations, like the heada
dulled. She stared at the floor, the tiles sticky with contraband juice and gum; then she loo
up once again at the cage. There was a display sign off to one side; she walked over t
slowly, and read.

                                     Cleopatra Brimstone
                             GONEPTERYX RHAMNI CLEOPATRA
   This popular and subtly colored species has a range that extends throughout the nort
hemisphere, with the exception of arctic regions and several remote islands. In Europe
brimstone is a harbinger of spring, often emerging from its winter hibernation under
leaves to revel in the countryside while there is still snow upon the ground.

    "I must ask you please not to touch the cages."
    Janie turned to see a man, perhaps fifty, standing a few feet away. A net was jammed u
his arm; in his hand he held a clear plastic jar with several butterflies at the bottom, appare
dead.
    "Oh. Sorry," said Jane. The man edged past her. He set his jar on the floor, opened a s
door at the base of the cylindrical cage, and deftly angled the net inside. Butterflies lifted
yellow-green blur from leaves and branches; the man swept the net carefully across the bo
of the cage and then withdrew it. Three dead butterflies, like scraps of colored paper, dr
from the net into the open jar.
    "Housecleaning," he said, and once more thrust his arm into the cage. He
slender and wiry, not much taller than she was, his face hawkish and burnt brown from the
his thick straight hair iron-streaked and pulled back into a long braid. He wore black jeans
a dark-blue hooded jersey, with an ID badge clipped to the collar.
    "You work here," said Janie. The man glanced at her, his arm still in the cage; she could
him sizing her up. After a moment he glanced away again. A few minutes later he emptied
net for the last time, closed the cage and the jar, and stepped over to a waste bin, pulling bi
dead leaves from the net and dropping them into the container.
    "I'm one of the curatorial staff. You American?"
    Janie nodded. "Yeah. Actually, I—I wanted to see about volunteering here."
    "Lifewatch desk at the main entrance." The man cocked his head toward the door. "They
get you signed up and registered, see what's available."
    "No—I mean, I want to volunteer here. With the insects—"
    "Butterfly collector, are you?" The man smiled, his tone mocking. He had hazel e
deep-set; his thin mouth made the smile seem perhaps more cruel than intended. "We get
of those."
    Janie flushed. "No. I am not a collector," she said coldly, adjusting her glasses. "I'm doi
thesis on dioxane genital mutation in Cucullia artemisia." She didn't add that it wa
undergraduate thesis. "I've been doing independent research for seven years now."
hesitated, thinking of her Intel scholarship, and added, "I've received several grants fo
work."
    The man regarded her appraisingly. "Are you studying here, then?"
    "Yes," she lied again. "At Oxford. I'm on sabbatical right now. But I live near here, and
thought I might—"
    She shrugged, opening her hands, looked over at him, and smiled tentatively. "Make m
useful?"
    The man waited a moment, nodded. "Well. Do you have a few minutes now? I've got t
something with these, but if you want you can come with me and wait, and then we can
what we can do. Maybe circumvent some paperwork."
    He turned and started across the room. He had a graceful, bouncing gait, like a gymna
circus acrobat: impatient with the ground beneath him. "Shouldn't take long," he called ove
shoulder as Janie hurried to catch up.
    She followed him through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY, into the ex
laboratory, a reassuringly familiar place with its display cases and smells of shellac
camphor, acetone and ethyl alcohol. There were more cages here, but smaller ones, shelte
live specimens—pupating butterflies and moths, stick insects, leaf insects, dung beetles.
man dropped his net onto a desk, took the jar to a long table against one wall, blindingly l
long fluorescent tubes. There were scores of bottles here, some empty, others filled with p
and tiny inert figures.
    "Have a seat," said the man, gesturing at two folding chairs. He settled into one, grabbe
empty jar and a roll of absorbent paper. "I'm David Bierce. So where're you staying? Cam
Town?"
    "Janie Kendall. Yes—"
    "The High Street?"
    Janie sat in the other chair, pulling it a few inches away from him. The questions made
uneasy, but she only nodded, lying again, and said, "Closer, actually. Off Gloucester R
With friends."
    "Mm." Bierce tore off a piece of absorbent paper, leaned across to a stainless-steel sink
dampened the paper. Then he dropped it into the empty jar. He paused, turned to her
gestured at the table, smiling. "Care to join in?"
    Janie shrugged. "Sure—"
    She pulled her chair closer, found another empty jar and did as Bierce
dampening a piece of paper towel and dropping it inside.
    Then she took the jar containing the dead brimstones and carefully shook one
the counter. It was a female, its coloring more muted than the males'; she scooped it up
gently, careful not to disturb the scales like dull green glitter upon its wings, dropped it into
jar and replaced the top.
    "Very nice." Bierce nodded, raising his eyebrows. "You seem to know what you're do
Work with other insects? Soft-bodied ones?"
   "Sometimes. Mostly moths, though. And butterflies."
   "Right." He inclined his head to a recessed shelf. "How would you label that, then?
ahead."
   On the shelf she found a notepad and a case of Rapidograph pens. She began to w
conscious of Bierce staring at her. "We usually just put all this into the computer, of co
and print it out," he said. "I just want to see the benefits of an American education in
sciences."
   Janie fought the urge to look at him. Instead she wrote out the information, making
printing as tiny as possible.

   Gonepteiyx rhamni cleopatra
   UNITED KINGDOM: LONDON
   Regent's Park Zoo
   Lat/Long unknown
   21.IV.2001
   D. Bierce
   Net/caged specimen

    She handed it to Bierce. "I don't know the proper coordinates for London."
    Bierce scrutinized the paper. "It's actually the Royal Zoological Society," he said.
looked at her, and then smiled. "But you'll do."
    "Great!" She grinned, the first time she'd really felt happy since arriving here. "When do
want me to start?"
    "How about Monday?"
    Janie hesitated: this was only Friday. "I could come in tomorrow—"
    "I don't work on the weekend, and you'll need to be trained. Also they have to process
paperwork. Right—"
    He stood and went to a desk, pulling open drawers until he found a clipboard holding sh
of triplicate forms. "Here. Fill all this out, leave it with me, and I'll pass it o
Carolyn—she's the head volunteer coordinator. They usually want to interview you, but I'l
them we've done all that already."
    "What time should I come in Monday?"
    "Come at nine. Everything opens at ten; that way you'll avoid the crowds. Use
staff entrance, someone there will have an ID waiting for you to pick up when you sign in—
    She nodded and began filling out the forms.
    "All right then." David Bierce leaned against the desk and again fixed her with that
almost taunting gaze. "Know how to find your way home?"
    Janie lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes."
    "Enjoying London? Going to go out tonight and do Camden Town with all the yobs?"
    "Maybe. I haven't been out much yet."
    "Mm. Beautiful American girl—they'll eat you alive. Just kidding." He straightened, sta
across the room toward the door. "I'll you see Monday then."
    He held the door for her. "You really should check out the clubs. You're too young not to
the city by night." He smiled, the fluorescent light slanting sideways into his hazel eyes
making them suddenly glow icy blue. "Bye then."
  "Bye," said Janie, and hurried quickly from the lab toward home.

    That night, for the first time, she went out. She told herself she would have
anyway, no matter what Bierce had said. She had no idea where the clubs were; Andrew
pointed out the Electric Ballroom to her, right up from the tube station, but he'd also wa
her that was where the tourists flocked on weekends.
    "They do a disco thing on Saturday nights—Saturday Night Fever, everyone gets all don
in vintage clothes. Quite a fashion show," he'd said, smiling and shaking his head.
    Janie had no interest in that. She ate a quick supper, vindaloo from the take-away d
the street from the flat; then she dressed. She hadn't brought a huge amount of clothes
home she'd never bothered much with clothes at all, making do with thrift-shop finds
whatever her mother gave her for Christmas. But now she found herself sitting on the edg
the four-poster, staring with pursed lips at the sparse contents of two bureau drawers. Fin
she pulled out a pair of black corduroy jeans and a black turtleneck and pulled on her snea
She removed her glasses and for the first time in weeks inserted her contact lenses. Then
shrugged into her old navy peacoat and left.
    It was after ten o'clock. On the canal path, throngs of people stood, drinking from pin
canned lager. She made her way through them, ignoring catcalls and whispered invitat
stepping to avoid where kids lay making out against the brick wall that ran alongside the
or pissing in the bushes. The bridge over the canal at Camden Lock was clogged
several dozen kids in mohawks or varicolored hair, shouting at each other above the din
boom box and swigging from bottles of Spanish champagne.
    A boy with a champagne bottle leered, lunging at her.
    " 'Ere, sweetheart, 'ep youseff—"
    Janie ducked, and he careered against the ledge, his arm striking brick and the b
shattering in a starburst of black and gold.
    "Fucking cunt!" he shrieked after her. "Fucking bloody cunt!"
    People glanced at her, but Janie kept her head down, making a quick turn into the
cobbled courtyard of Camden Market. The place had a desolate air: the vendors would
arrive until early next morning, and now only stray cats and bits of windblown trash move
the shadows. In the surrounding buildings people spilled out onto balconies, drinking
calling back and forth, their voices hollow and their long shadows twisting across the i
central courtyard. Janie hurried to the far end, but there found only brick walls, closed-up
doors, and a young woman huddled within the folds of a filthy sleeping bag.
    "Couldya—couldya—" the woman murmured.
    Janie turned and followed the wall until she found a door leading into a short passage.
entered it, hoping she was going in the direction of Camden High Street. She felt like A
trying to find her way through the garden in Wonderland: arched doorways led not into
street but headshops and brightly lit piercing parlors, open for business; other doors op
onto enclosed courtyards, dark and smelling of piss and marijuana. Finally from the corne
her eye she glimpsed what looked like the end of the passage, headlights piercing through
gloom like landing lights. Doggedly she made her way toward them.
    "Ay watchowt watchowt," someone yelled as she emerged from the passage onto
sidewalk and ran the last few steps to the curb.
    She was on the High Street—rather, in that block or two of curving no-man's-land whe
turned into Chalk Farm Road. The sidewalks were still crowded, but everyone was hea
toward Camden Lock and not away from it. Janie waited for the light to change and r
across the street, to where a cobblestoned alley snaked off between a shop selling lea
underwear and another advertising "Fine French Country Furniture."
    For several minutes she stood there. She watched the crowds heading toward Cam
Town, the steady stream of minicabs and taxis and buses heading up Chalk Farm Road tow
Hampstead. Overhead, dull orange clouds moved across a night sky the color of charred w
there was the steady low thunder of jets circling after takeoff at Heathrow. At last she tug
her collar up around her neck, letting her hair fall in loose waves down her b
shoved her hands into her coat pockets, and turned to walk purposefully down the alley.
    Before her the cobblestone path turned sharply to the right. She couldn't see what
beyond, but she could hear voices: a girl laughing, a man's sibilant retort. A moment late
alley spilled out onto a cul-de-sac. A couple stood a few yards away, before a doorway w
small copper awning above it. The young woman glanced sideways at Janie, quickly loo
away again. A silhouette filled the doorway; the young man pulled out a wallet. His
disappeared within the silhouette, reemerged, and the couple walked inside. Janie waited
the shadowy figure withdrew. She looked over her shoulder and then approached the buildi
    There was a heavy metal door, black, with graffiti scratched into it and pale blurred s
where painted graffiti had been effaced. The door was set back several feet into a brick rec
there was a grilled metal slot at the top that could be slid back, so that one could peer out
the courtyard. To the right of the door, on the brick wall within the recess, was a small b
plaque with a single word on it.

                                              HIVE
   There was no doorbell or any other way to signal that you wanted to enter. Janie st
wondering what was inside; feeling a small tingling unease that was less fear than
knowledge that even if she were to confront the figure who'd let that other couple inside,
herself would certainly be turned away.
   With a skreek of metal on stone the door suddenly shot open. Janie looked up, into
sharp, raggedly handsome face of a tall, still youngish man with very short blond ha
line of gleaming gold beads like drops of sweat piercing the edge of his left jaw.
   "Good evening," he said, glancing past her to the alley. He wore a black sleeveless T-
with a small golden bee embroidered upon the breast. His bare arms were muscular, stri
with long sweeping scars: black, red, white. "Are you waiting for Hannah?"
   "No." Quickly Janie pulled out a handful of five-pound notes. "Just me tonight."
   "That'll be twenty then." The man held his hand out, still gazing at the alley; when J
slipped the notes to him he looked down and flashed her a vulpine smile. "Enjoy yourself."
darted past him into the building.
   Abruptly it was as though some darker night had fallen. Thunderously so, since the enfol
blackness was slashed with music so loud it was itself like light: Janie hesitated, closing
eyes, and white flashes streaked across her eyelids like sleet, pulsing in time to the music.
opened her eyes, giving them a chance to adjust to the darkness, and tried to get a sens
where she was. A few feet away a blurry grayish lozenge sharpened into the window
coat-check room. Janie walked past it, toward the source of the music. Immediately the f
slanted steeply beneath her feet. She steadied herself with one hand against the wall, follow
the incline until it opened onto a cavernous dance floor.
   She gazed inside, disappointed. It looked like any other club, crowded, strob
turquoise smoke and silver glitter coiling between hundreds of whirling bodies clad in c
pink, sky blue, neon red, rainslicker yellow. Baby colors, Janie thought. There was a boy
was almost naked, except for shorts, a transparent water bottle strapped to his chest and
tubes snaking into his mouth. Another boy had hair the color of lime Jell-O, his face corrug
with glitter and sweat; he swayed near the edge of the dance floor, turned to stare at Janie,
then beamed, beckoning her to join him.
   Janie gave him a quick smile, shaking her head; when the boy opened his arms to he
mock pleading she shouted "No!"
   But she continued to smile, though she felt as though her head would crack lik
egg from the throbbing music. Shoving her hands into her pockets she skirted the dance f
pushed her way to the bar and bought a drink, something pink with no ice in a plastic cu
smelled like Gatorade and lighter fluid. She gulped it down and then carried the cup
before her like a torch as she continued on her circuit of the room. There was nothing els
interest, just long queues for the lavatories and another bar, numerous doors and stairw
where kids clustered, drinking and smoking. Now and then beeps and whistles like birdson
insect cries came through the stuttering electronic din, whoops and trilling laughter from
dancers. But mostly they moved in near silence, eyes rolled ceiling-ward, bodies explo
into Catherine wheels of flesh and plastic and nylon, but all without a word.
   It gave Janie a headache—a real headache, the back of her skull bruised, tender to
touch. She dropped her plastic cup and started looking for a way out. She could see pas
dance floor to where she had entered, but it seemed as though another hundred people
arrived in the few minutes since then: kids were standing six deep at both bars, and the ac
on the floor had spread, amoebalike, toward the corridors angling back up toward the stree
   "Sorry—"
   A fat woman in an Arsenal jersey jostled her as she hurried by, leaving a smear of
sweat on Janie's wrist. Janie grimaced and wiped her hand on the bottom of her coat.
gave one last look at the dance floor, but nothing had changed within the intricate lattic
dancers and smoke, braids of glow-lights and spotlit faces surging up and down, up and do
while more dancers fought their way to the center.
   "Shit." She turned and strode off, heading to where the huge room curved off into rela
emptiness. Here, scores of tables were scattered, some overturned, others stacked agains
wall. A few people sat, talking; a girl lay curled on the floor, her head pillowed on a Ba
knapsack. Janie crossed to the wall and found first a door that led to a bare brick wall, th
second door that held a broom closet. The next was dark-red, metal, official-looking: the
of door that Janie associated with school fire drills.
   A fire door. It would lead outside, or into a hall that would lead there. Wit
hesitating she pushed it open and entered. A short corridor lit by EXIT signs stretched ahea
her, with another door at the end. She hurried toward it, already reaching reflexively fo
keys to the flat, pushed the door-bar, and stepped inside.
   For an instant she thought she had somehow stumbled into a hospital emergency room. T
was the glitter of halogen light on steel, distorted reflections thrown back at her from cu
glass surfaces; the abrasive odor of isopropyl alcohol and the fainter tinny scent of blood,
metal in the mouth.
   And bodies: everywhere, bodies, splayed on gurneys or suspended from gleaming m
hooks, laced with black electrical cord and pinned upright onto smooth rubber mats. She st
openmouthed, neither appalled nor frightened but fascinated by the conundrum before her:
did that hand fit there, and whose leg was that'? She inched backwards, pressing he
against the door and trying to stay in the shadows—just inches ahead of her ribbon
luminous bluish light streamed from lamps hung high overhead. The chiaroscuro of p
bodies and black furniture, shiny with sweat and here and there red-streaked, or brown
mere sight of so many bodies, real bodies—flesh spilling over the edge of tabletops, too m
hair or none at all, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy or terror and mouths open to reveal sta
teeth, pale gums—the sheer fluidity of it all enthralled her. She felt as she had, once, pu
aside a rotted log to disclose the ant's nest beneath, masses of minute fleeing bodies, sold
carrying eggs and larvae in their jaws, tunnels spiraling into the center of another world.
brow tingled, warmth flushed her from brow to breast. . .
   Another world, that's what she had found then, and discovered again now.
   "Out."
   Janie sucked her breath in sharply. Fingers dug into her shoulder, yanked her b
through the metal door so roughly that she cut her wrist against it.
   "No lurkers, what the fuck—"
   A man flung her against the wall. She gasped, turned to run, but he grabbed her shou
again. "Christ, a fucking girl."
   He sounded angry but relieved. She looked up: a huge man, more fat than muscle. He w
very tight leather briefs and the same black sleeveless shirt with a golden bee embroid
upon it. "How the hell'd you get in like that?" he demanded, cocking a thumb at her.
   She shook her head, then realized he meant her clothes. "I was just trying to find my
out."
   "Well you found your way in. In like fucking Flynn." He laughed: he had gold-capped t
and gold wires threading the tip of his tongue. "You want to join the party, you know the r
No exceptions."
   Before she could reply he turned and was gone, the door thudding softly behind him.
waited, heart pounding, then reached and pushed the bar on the door.
   Locked. She was out, not in; she was nowhere at all. For a long time she stood there, tr
to hear anything from the other side of the door, waiting to see if anyone would come
looking for her. At last she turned, and began to find her way home.

   Next morning she woke early, to the sound of delivery trucks in the street and childre
the canal path, laughing and squabbling on their way to the zoo. She sat up with a p
remembering David Bierce and her volunteer job; then she recalled this was Saturday
Monday.
   "Wow," she said aloud. The extra days seemed like a gift.
   For a few minutes she lay in Fred and Andrew's great four-poster, staring abstracted
where she had rested her mounted specimens atop the wainscoting—the hybrid hawkmo
beautiful Honduran owl butterfly, Caligo atreus; a mourning cloak she had caught and mou
herself years ago. She thought of the club last night, mentally retracing her steps to the hi
back room, thought of the man who had thrown her out, the interplay of light and sha
upon the bodies pinned to mats and tables. She had slept in her clothes; now she rolled o
bed and pulled her sneakers on, forgoing breakfast but stuffing her pocket with ten-
twenty-pound notes before she left.
    It was a clear cool morning, with a high pale-blue sky and the young leaves of nettles
hawthorn still glistening with dew. Someone had thrown a shopping cart from the ne
Sainsbury's into the canal; it edged sideways up out of the shallow water, like a fr
shipwreck. A boy stood a few yards down from it, fishing, an absent, placid expression on
face.
    She crossed over the bridge to the canal path and headed for the High Street. With e
step she took the day grew older, noisier, trains rattling on the bridge behind her and vo
harsh as gulls rising from the other side of the brick wall that separated the canal path from
street.
    At Camden Lock she had to fight her way through the market. There were ten
thousands of tourists, swarming from the maze of shops to pick their way between score
vendors selling old and new clothes, bootleg CDs, cheap silver jewelry, kilims, feather b
handcuffs, cell phones, mass-produced furniture and puppets from Indonesia, Moro
Guyana, Wales. The fug of burning incense and cheap candles choked her; she hurried to w
a young woman was turning samosas in a vat of sputtering oil and dug into her pocket f
handful of change, standing so that the smells of hot grease and scorched chickpea b
canceled out patchouli and Caribbean Nights.
    "Two, please," Janie shouted.
    She ate and almost immediately felt better; then she walked a few steps to whe
spike-haired girl sat behind a table covered with cheap clothes made of ripstock fabri
Jell-O shades.
    "Everything five pounds," the girl announced. She stood, smiling helpfully as Janie bega
sort through pairs of hugely baggy pants. They were cross-seamed with Velcro and
zippered pockets. Janie held up a pair, frowning as the legs billowed, lavender and gree
the wind.
    "It's so you can make them into shorts," the girl explained. She stepped around the table
took the pants from Janie, deftly tugging at the legs so that they detached. "See? Or a skirt."
girl replaced the pants, picked up another pair, screaming orange with black trim, an
matching windbreaker. "This color would look nice on you."
    "Okay." Janie paid for them, waited for the girl to put the clothes in a plastic bag. "Than
    "Bye now."
    She went out into Camden High Street. Shopkeepers stood guard over the tables spilling
from their storefronts, heaped with leather clothes and souvenir T-shirts: MIND THE G
LONDON UNDERGROUND, shirts emblazoned with the Cat in the Hat toking on a cheroot.
CAT IN THE HAT SMOKES BLACK. Every three or four feet someone had set up a b
box, deafening sound bites of salsa, techno, "The Hustle," Bob Marley, "Anarchy in the U
Radiohead. On the corner of Inverness and the High Street a few punks squatted in a doorw
looking over the postcards they'd bought. A sign in a smoked-glass window said
HAIRCUTS 10 £, MEN WOMEN CHILDREN.
    "Sorry," one of the punks said as Janie stepped over them and into the shop.
    The barber was sitting in an old-fashioned chair, his back to her, reading the Sun. A
sound of her footsteps he turned, smiling automatically. "Can I help you?"
    "Yes please. I'd like my hair cut. All of it."
    He nodded, gesturing to the chair. "Please."
    Janie had thought she might have to convince him that she was serious. She had beau
hair, well below her shoulders—the kind of hair people would kill for, she'd been hearing
her whole life. But the barber just hummed and chopped it off, the snick snick of his sh
interspersed with kindly questions about whether she was enjoying her visit and his accou
a vacation to Disney World ten years earlier.
    "Dear, do we want it shaved or buzz-cut?"
    In the mirror a huge-eyed creature gazed at Janie, like a tarsier or one of the owlish ca
moths. She stared at it, entranced, and then nodded. "Shaved. Please."
    When he was finished she got out of the chair, dazed, and ran her hand across her scal
was smooth and cool as an apple. There were a few tiny nicks that stung beneath her fin
She paid the barber, tipping him two pounds. He smiled and held the door open for her.
    "Now when you want a touch-up, you come see us, dear. Only five pounds for a touch-u
    She went next to find new shoes. There were more shoe shops in Camden Town than
had ever seen anywhere in her life; she checked out four of them on one block before deci
on a discounted pair of twenty-hole black Doc Martens. They were no longer fashionable
they had blunted steel caps on the toes. She bought them, giving the salesgirl her old snea
to toss into the waste bin. When she went back onto the street it was like walking in
cement—the shoes were so heavy, the leather so stiff that she ducked back into the shoe
and bought a pair of heavy wool socks and put them on. She returned outside, hesitating on
front step before crossing the street and heading back in the direction of Chalk Farm R
There was a shop here that Fred had shown her before he left.
    "Now, that's where you get your fetish gear, Janie," he said, pointing to a shop win
painted matte black. THE PLACE, it said in red letters, with two linked circles beneath.
had grinned and rapped his knuckles against the glass as they walked by. "I've never bee
you'll have to tell me what it's like." They'd both laughed at the thought.
    Now Janie walked slowly, the wind chill against her bare skull. When she could make
the shop, sun glinting off the crimson letters and a sad-eyed dog tied to a post out front,
began to hurry, her new boots making a hollow thump as she pushed through the door.
    There was a security gate inside, a thin, sallow young man with dreadlocks nodding a
silently as she approached.
    "You'll have to check that." He pointed at the bag with her new clothes in it. She hand
to him, reading the warning posted behind the counter.
                                 SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE BEATEN,
                              FLAYED, SPANKED, BIRCHED, BLED,
                                   AND THEN PROSECUTED TO
                                 THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW
    The shop was well lit. It smelled strongly of new leather and coconut oil and pine-sce
disinfectant. She seemed to be the only customer this early in the day, although she cou
seven employees manning cash registers, unpacking cartons, watching to make sure
didn't try to nick anything. A CD of dance music played, and the phone rang constantly.
    She spent a good half hour just walking through the place, impressed by the rang
merchandise. Electrified wands to deliver shocks, things like meat cleavers made of stain
steel with rubber tips. Velcro dog collars, Velcro hoods, black rubber balls and balls in
shades; a mat embedded with three-inch spikes that could be conveniently rolled up and c
with its own lightweight carrying case. As she wandered about more customers arrived, s
of them greeting the clerks by name, others furtive, making a quick circuit of the shelves be
darting outside again. At last Janie knew what she wanted. A set of wristcuffs and on
anklecuffs, both of very heavy black leather with stainless steel hardware; four adjust
nylon leashes, also black, with clips on either end that could be fastened to cuffs or loo
around a post; a few spare S-clips.
    "That it?"
    Janie nodded, and the register clerk began scanning her purchases. She felt almost gu
buying so few things, not taking advantage of the vast Meccano glory of all those shelves fu
gleaming, somber contrivances.
    "There you go." He handed her the receipt, then inclined his head at her. "Nice to
that—"
    He pointed at her eyebrows. Janie drew her hand up, felt the long pliant h
uncoiling like baby ferns. "Thanks," she murmured. She retrieved her bag and went hom
wait for evening.

   It was nearly midnight when she left the flat. She had slept for most of the afternoon, a
but restless sleep, with anxious dreams of flight, falling, her hands encased in metal glov
shadowy figure crouching above her. She woke in the dark, heart pounding, terrified f
moment that she had slept all the way through till Sunday night.
   But, of course, she had not. She showered, then dressed in a tight, low-cut black shirt
pulled on her new nylon pants and heavy boots. She seldom wore makeup, but tonight
putting in her contacts she carefully outlined her eyes with black and then chose a very
lavender lipstick. She surveyed herself in the mirror critically. With her white skin, huge v
eyes, and hairless skull, she resembled one of the Bali-nese puppets for sale in
market—beautiful but vacant, faintly ominous. She grabbed her keys and money, pulled on
windbreaker, and headed out.
   When she reached the alley that led to the club, she entered it, walked a
halfway, and stopped. After glancing back and forth to make sure no one was coming,
detached the legs from her nylon pants, stuffing them into a pocket, and then adjusted the Ve
tabs so that the pants became a very short orange-and-black skirt. Her long legs were shea
in black tights. She bent to tighten the laces on her metal-toed boots and hurried to the
entrance.
   Tonight there was a line of people waiting to get in. Janie took her place, fastidio
avoiding looking at any of the others. They waited for thirty minutes, Janie shivering in her
nylon windbreaker, before the door opened and the same gaunt blond man appeare
take their money. Janie felt her heart beat faster when it was her turn, wondering if he w
recognize her. But he only scanned the courtyard, and, when the last of them darted in
closed the door with a booming clang.
    Inside, all was as it had been, only far more crowded. Janie bought a drink, orange squ
no alcohol. It was horribly sweet, with a bitter, curdled aftertaste. Still, it had cost two pou
she drank it all. She had just started on her way down to the dance floor when someone c
up from behind to tap her shoulder, shouting into her ear.
    "Wanna?"
    It was a tall, broad-shouldered boy a few years older than she was, perhaps twenty-f
with a lean ruddy face, loose shoulder-length blond hair streaked green, and deep
very dark blue eyes. He swayed dreamily, gazing at the dance floor and hardly looking at h
all.
    "Sure," Janie shouted back. He looped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her with him
striped V-neck shirt smelled of talc and sweat. They danced for a long time, Janie moving
calculated abandon, the boy heaving and leaping as though a dog were biting at his shins.
    "You're beautiful," he shouted. There was an almost imperceptible instant of silence a
DJ changed tracks. "What's your name?"
    "Cleopatra Brimstone."
    The shattering music grew deafening once more. The boy grinned. "Well, Cleopatra. W
something to drink?"
    Janie nodded in time with the beat, so fast her head spun. He took her hand and she race
keep up with him, threading their way toward the bar.
    "Actually," she yelled, pausing so that he stopped short and bumped up against her. "I t
I'd rather go outside. Want to come?"
    He stared at her, half-smiling, and shrugged. "Aw right. Let me get a drink first—"
    They went outside. In the alley the wind sent eddies of dead leaves and newspaper flyin
into their faces. Janie laughed and pressed herself against the boy's side. He grinned dow
her, finished his drink, and tossed the can aside; then he put his arm around her. "Do you
to go get a drink, then?" he asked.
    They stumbled out onto the sidewalk, turned and began walking. People filled the
Street, lines snaking out from the entrances of pubs and restaurants. A blue g
surrounded the streetlights, and clouds of small white moths beat themselves agains
globes; vapor and banners of gray smoke hung above the punks blocking the sidewalk
Camden Lock. Janie and the boy dipped down into the street. He pointed to a pub occup
the corner a few blocks down, a large old green-painted building with baskets of flow
hanging beneath its windows and a large sign swinging back and forth in the wind: THE E
OF THE WORLD. "In there, then?"
    Janie shook her head. "I live right here, by the canal. We could go to my place if you w
We could have a few drinks there."
    The boy glanced down at her. "Aw right," he said—very quickly, so she wouldn't ch
her mind. "That'd be awright."
    It was quieter on the back street leading to the flat. An old drunk huddled in a doorw
cadging change; Janie looked away from him and got out her keys, while the boy s
restlessly, giving the drunk a belligerent look.
    "Here we are," she announced, pushing the door open. "Home again, home again
    "Nice place." The boy followed her, gazing around admiringly. "You live here alone?"
    "Yup." After she spoke Janie had a flash of unease, admitting that. But the boy only am
into the kitchen, running a hand along the antique French farmhouse cupboard and nodding.
    "You're American, right? Studying here?"
    "Uh-huh. What would you like to drink? Brandy?"
    He made a face, then laughed. "Aw right! You got expensive taste. Goes with the name
guess." Janie looked puzzled, and he went on, "Cleopatra—fancy name for a girl."
    "Fancier for a boy," Janie retorted, and he laughed again.
    She got the brandy, stood in the living room unlacing her boots. "Why don't we go in the
she said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "It's kind of cold out here."
    The boy ran a hand across his head, his blond hair streaming through his fin
"Yeah, aw right." He looked around. "Urn, that the toilet there?" Janie nodded. "Right b
then . . ."
    She went into the bedroom, set the brandy and two glasses on a night table, and
off her windbreaker. On another table, several tall candles, creamy white and thick as
wrist, were set into ornate brass holders. She lit these—the room filled with the sw
scent of beeswax—and sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. A few minutes later the t
flushed and the boy reappeared. His hands and face were damp, redder than they had been
smiled and sank onto the floor beside her. Janie handed him a glass of brandy.
    "Cheers," he said, and drank it all in one gulp.
    "Cheers," said Janie. She took a sip from hers, then refilled his glass. He drank again, m
slowly this time. The candles threw a soft yellow haze over the four-poster bed with its g
velvet duvet, the mounds of pillows, forest-green, crimson, saffron yellow. They sat wit
speaking for several minutes. Then the boy set his glass on the floor. He turned to face J
extending one arm around her shoulder and drawing his face near hers.
    "Well, then," he said.
    His mouth tasted acrid, nicotine and cheap gin beneath the blunter taste of brandy. His
sliding under her shirt was cold; Janie felt goose pimples rising across her breast, her ni
shrinking beneath his touch. He pressed against her, his cock already hard, and reached d
to unzip his jeans.
    "Wait," Janie murmured. "Let's get on the bed. . . ."
    She slid from his grasp and onto the bed, crawling to the heaps of pillow and fee
beneath one until she found what she had placed there earlier. "Let's have a little fun first."
    "This is fun," the boy said, a bit plaintively. But he slung himself onto the bed beside
pulling off his shoes and letting them fall to the floor with a thud. "What you got there?"
    Smiling, Janie turned and held up the wristcuffs. The boy looked at them, then at
grinning. "Oh, ho. Been in the back room, then—"
    Janie arched her shoulders and unbuttoned her shirt. He reached for one of the cuffs, bu
shook her head. "No. Not me, yet."
    "Ladies first."
    "Gentleman's pleasure."
    The boy's grin widened. "Won't argue with that."
    She took his hand and pulled him, gently, to the middle of the bed. "Lie on your back,"
whispered.
     He did, watching as she removed first his shirt and then his jeans and underwear. His
lay nudged against his thigh, not quite hard; when she brushed her fingers against it he mo
softly, took her hand and tried to press it against him.
     "No," she whispered. "Not yet. Give me your hand."
     She placed the cuffs around each wrist, and his ankles; fastened the nylon leash to each
and then began tying the bonds around each bedpost. It took longer than she had expecte
was difficult to get the bonds taut enough that the boy could not move. He lay there watchf
his eyes glimmering in the candlelight as he craned his head to stare at her, his breath shal
quickening.
     "There." She sat back upon her haunches, staring at him. His cock was hard now, the ha
his chest and groin tawny in the half-light. He gazed back at her, his tongue pale as he li
his lips. "Try to get away," she whispered.
     He moved slightly, his arms and legs a white X against a deep green field. "Can't," he
hoarsely.
     She pulled her shirt off, then her nylon skirt. She had nothing on beneath. She le
forward, letting her fingers trail from the cleft in his throat to his chest, cupping her palm
his nipple and then sliding her hand down to his thigh. The flesh was warm, the little hairs
and moist. Her own breath quickened; sudden heat flooded her, a honeyed liquid in her m
Above her brow the long hairs stiffened and furled straight out to either side: when she l
her head to the candlelight she could see them from the corner of her eyes, twin barbs b
and glistening like wire.
     "You're so sexy." The boy's voice was hoarse. "God, you're—"
     She placed her hand over his mouth. "Try to get away," she said, commandingly this t
"Try to get away."
     His torso writhed, the duvet bunching up around him in dark folds.
     She raked her fingernails down his chest, and he cried out, moaning "Fuck me, god, fuck
. . ."
     "Try to get away."
     She stroked his cock, her fingers barely grazing its swollen head. With a moan he c
struggling helplessly to thrust his groin toward her. At the same moment Janie gasped, a
rush arrowing down from her brow to her breasts, her cunt. She rocked forward, crying out
head brushing against the boy's side as she sprawled back across the bed. For a minute she
there, the room around her seeming to pulse and swirl into myriad crystalline shapes,
bearing within it the same line of candles, the long curve of the boy's thigh swelling up into
hollow of his hip. She drew breath shakily, the flush of heat fading from her brow; then pu
herself up until she was sitting beside him. His eyes were shut. A thread of saliva traced
furrow between mouth and chin. Without thinking she drew her face down to his, and kissed
cheek.
     Immediately he began to grow smaller. Janie reared back, smacking into one of
bedposts, and stared at the figure in front of her, shaking her head.
     "No," she whispered. "No, no."
     He was shrinking: so fast it was like watching water dissolve into dry sand. Man-
child-size, large dog, small. His eyes flew open and for a fraction of a second stared horr
into her own. His hands and feet slipped like mercury from his bonds, wriggling until they
his torso and were absorbed into it. Janie's fingers kneaded the duvet; six inches away the
was no larger than her hand, then smaller, smaller still. She blinked, for a heart-shred
instant thought he had disappeared completely.
    Then she saw something crawling between folds of velvet. The length of her mi
finger, its thorax black, yellow-striped, its lower wings elongated into frilled arabesques
those of a festoon, deep yellow, charcoal black, with indigo eyespots, its upper win
chiaroscuro of black and white stripes.
    Bhutanitis lidderdalii. A native of the eastern Himalayas, rarely glimpsed: it lived am
the crowns of trees in mountain valleys, its caterpillars feeding on lianas. Janie held her br
watching as its wings beat feebly. Without warning it lifted into the air. Janie cried out, fa
onto her knees as she sprawled across the bed, cupping it quickly but carefully between
hands.
    "Beautiful, beautiful," she crooned. She stepped from the bed, not daring to pause
examine it, and hurried into the kitchen. In the cupboard she found an empty jar, set it do
and gingerly angled the lid from it, holding one hand with the butterfly against
breast. She swore, feeling its wings fluttering against her fingers, then quickly brought
hand to the jar's mouth, dropped the butterfly inside, and screwed the lid back in plac
fluttered helplessly inside; she could see where the scales had already been scraped from
wing. Still swearing she ran back into the bedroom, putting the lights on and dragging
collection box from under the bed. She grabbed a vial of ethyl alcohol, went back into
kitchen and tore a bit of paper towel from the rack. She opened the vial, poured a few drop
ethyl alcohol onto the paper, opened the jar and gently tilted it onto its side.
slipped the paper inside, very slowly tipping the jar upright once more, until the paper
settled on the bottom, the butterfly on top of it. Its wings beat frantically for a few mom
then stopped. Its proboscis uncoiled, finer than a hair. Slowly Janie drew her own hand to
brow and ran it along the length of the antennae there. She sat there staring at it until the
leaked through the wooden shutters in the kitchen window. The butterfly did not move again

   The next day passed in a metallic gray haze, the only color the saturated blues and yell
of the lidderdalii's wings, burned upon Janie's eyes as though she had looked into the
When she finally roused herself, she felt a spasm of panic at the sight of the boy's clothes on
bedroom floor.
   "Shit." She ran her hand across her head, was momentarily startled to recall she had no
"Now what?"
   She stood there for a few minutes, thinking; then she gathered the clothes—striped V-
sweater, jeans, socks, Jockey shorts, Timber-land knockoff shoes—and dumped them in
plastic Sainsbury's bag. There was a wallet in the jeans pocket. She opened it, g
impassively at a driver's license—KENNETH REED, WOLVERHAMPTON—and a few five-po
notes. She pocketed the money, took the license into the bathroom, and burned it, letting
ashes drop into the toilet. Then she went outside.
   It was early Sunday morning, no one about except for a young mother pushing a
in a stroller. In the neighboring doorway the same drunk old man sprawled surrounded
empty bottles and rubbish. He stared blearily up at Janie as she approached.
    "Here," she said. She bent and dropped the five-pound notes into his scabby hand.
    "God bless you, darlin'." He coughed, his eyes focusing on neither Janie nor the notes. "
bless you."
    She turned and walked briskly back toward the canal path. There were few w
bins in Camden Town, and so each day trash accumulated in rank heaps along the path, ben
streetlights, in vacant alleys. Street cleaners and sweeping machines then daily cleared i
away again. Like elves, Janie thought. As she walked along the canal path she dropped
shoes in one pile of rubbish, tossed the sweater alongside a single high-heeled shoe in
market, stuffed the underwear and socks into a collapsing cardboard box filled with ro
lettuce, and left the jeans beside a stack of papers outside an unopened newsagent's shop.
wallet she tied into the Sainsbury's bag and dropped into an overflowing trash bag outsid
Boots. Then she retraced her steps, stopping in front of a shop window filled with
polyester lingerie in large sizes and boldly artificial-looking wigs: pink Afros, platinum b
falls, black-and-white Cruella De Vil tresses.
    The door was propped open; Schubert lieder played softly on 3 2. Janie stuck her hea
and looked around, saw a beefy man behind the register, cashing out. He had orange lip
smeared around his mouth and delicate silver fish hanging from his ears.
    "We're not open yet. Eleven on Sunday," he said without looking up.
    "I'm just looking." Janie sidled over to a glass shelf where four wigs sat on Styrof
heads. One had very glossy black hair in a chin-length flapper bob. Janie tried it on, ey
herself in a grimy mirror. "How much is this one?"
    "Fifteen. But we're not—"
    "Here. Thanks!" Janie stuck a twenty-pound note on the counter and ran from
shop. When she reached the corner she slowed, pirouetted to catch her reflection in a
window. She stared at herself, grinning, then walked the rest of the way home, exhilarated
faintly dizzy.

    Monday morning she went to the zoo to begin her volunteer work. She had mounted
Bhutanitis lidderdalii, on a piece of Styrofoam with a piece of paper on it, to keep
butterfly's legs from becoming embedded in the Styrofoam. She'd softened it first, putting it
a jar with damp paper, removed it and placed it on the mounting platform, neatly spearin
thorax—a little to the right—with a #2 pin. She propped it carefully on the wainscoting be
the hawkmoth, and left.
    She arrived and found her ID badge waiting for her at the staff entrance. It was a c
morning, warmer than it had been for a week; the long hairs on her brow vibrated as th
they were wires that had been plucked. Beneath the wig her shaved head felt hot and moist
first new hairs starting to prickle across her scalp. Her nose itched where her glasses pre
against it. Janie walked, smiling, past the gibbons howling in their habitat and the py
hippos floating calmly in their pool, their eyes shut, green bubbles breaking around them
little fish. In front of the insect zoo a uniformed woman was unloading sacks of meal fro
golf cart.
    "Morning," Janie called cheerfully, and went inside. She found David Bierce standin
front of a temperature gauge beside a glass cage holding the hissing cockroaches.
    "Something happened last night, the damn things got too cold." He glanced over, handed
a clipboard, and began to remove the top of the gauge. "I called Operations but they're at
fucking morning meeting. Fucking computers—"
    He stuck his hand inside the control box and flicked angrily at the gauge. "You k
anything about computers?"
    "Not this kind." Janie brought her face up to the cage's glass front. Inside were half a d
glossy roaches, five inches long and the color of pale maple syrup. They lay, unmoving, ne
glass petri dish filled with what looked like damp brown sugar. "Are they dead?"
    "Those things? They're fucking immortal. You could stamp on one, and it wouldn't
Believe me, I've done it." He continued to fiddle with the gauge, finally sighed, and repl
the lid. "Well, let's let the boys over in Ops handle it. Come on, I'll get you started."
    He gave her a brief tour of the lab, opening drawers full of dissecting instruments, mou
platforms, pins; showing her where the food for the various insects was kept in a serie
small refrigerators. Sugar syrup, cornstarch, plastic containers full of smaller insects, g
and mealworms, tiny gray beetles. "Mostly we just keep on top of replacing the ones that
David explained, "that and making sure the plants don't develop the wrong kind of fun
Nature takes her course, and we just goose her along when she needs it. School groups are
constantly, but the docents handle that. You're more than welcome to talk to them, if that'
sort of thing you want to do."
    He turned from where he'd been washing empty jars at a small sink, dried his hands,
walked over to sit on top of a desk. "It's not terribly glamorous work here." He reached d
for a Styrofoam cup of coffee and sipped from it, gazing at her coolly. "We're none o
working on our Ph.D.'s anymore."
    Janie shrugged. "That's all right."
    "It's not even all that interesting. I mean, it can be very repetitive. Tedious."
    "I don't mind." A sudden pang of anxiety made Janie's voice break. She could feel her
growing hot, and quickly looked away. "Really," she said sullenly.
    "Suit yourself. Coffee's over there; you'll probably have to clean yourself a cup, though.
cocked his head, staring at her curiously, and then said, "Did you do something different
your hair?"
    She nodded once, brushing the edge of her bangs with a finger. "Yeah."
    "Nice. Very Louise Brooks." He hopped from the desk and crossed to a computer set u
the corner. "You can use my computer it you need to, I'll give you the password later."
    Janie nodded, her flush fading into relief. "How many people work here?"
    "Actually, we're short-staffed here right now—no money for hiring and our grant's run
It's pretty much just me and whoever Carolyn sends over from the docents. Sweet
bluehairs mostly; they don't much like bugs. So it's providential you turned up, Jane."
    He said her name mockingly, gave her a crooked grin. "You said you have experi
mounting? Well, I try to save as many of the dead specimens as I can, and when there's
slow days, which there never are, I mount them and use them for the workshops I do with
schools that come in. What would be nice would be if we had enough specimens that I c
give some to the teachers, to take back to their classrooms. We have a nice Web site and
might be able to work up some interactive programs. No schools are scheduled to
Monday's usually slow here. So if you could work on some of those—" He gestured to w
several dozen cardboard boxes and glass jars were strewn across a countertop. "—that w
be really brilliant," he ended, and turned to his computer screen.
    She spent the morning mounting insects. Few were interesting or unusual: a numbe
brown hairstreaks, some Camberwell beauties, three hissing cockroaches, several brimsto
But there was a single Acherontia atropos, the death's-head hawkmoth, the pattern of gray
brown and pale yellow scales on the back of its thorax forming the image of a human skul
proboscis was unfurled, the twin points sharp enough to pierce a finger: Janie touche
gingerly, wincing delightedly as a pinprick of blood appeared on her fingertip.
    "You bring lunch?"
    She looked away from the bright magnifying light she'd been using and blinked in surp
"Lunch?"
    David Bierce laughed. "Enjoying yourself? Well, that's good, makes the day go faster.
lunch!" He rubbed his hands together, the harsh light making him look gnomelike, his s
features malevolent and leering. "They have some decent fish and chips at the stall over by
cats. Come on, I'll treat you. Your first day."
    They sat at a picnic table beside the food booth and ate. David pulled a bottle of ale
his knapsack and shared it with Janie. Overhead scattered clouds like smoke moved sw
southward. An Indian woman with three small boys sat at another table, the boys tossing
at seagulls that swept down, shrieking, and made the smallest boy wail.
    "Rain later," David said, staring at the sky. "Too bad." He sprinkled vinegar on his
haddock and looked at Janie. "So did you go out over the weekend?"
    She stared at the table and smiled. "Yeah, I did. It was fun." "Where'd you go? The Ele
Ballroom?"
    "God, no. This other place." She glanced at his hand resting on the table beside her. He
long fingers, the knuckles slightly enlarged; but the back of his hand was smooth, the same
brown as the Acherontia's wingtips. Her brows prickled, warmth trickling from them
water. When she lifted her head she could smell him, some kind of musky soap,
the bittersweet ale on his breath.
    "Yeah? Where? I haven't been out in months, I'd be lost in Camden Town these days."
    "I dunno.The Hive?"
    She couldn't imagine he would have heard of it—far too old. But he swiveled on the be
his eyebrows arching with feigned shock. "You went to Hive'? And they let you in?"
    "Yes," Janie stammered. "I mean, I didn't know—it was just a dance club. I just—dance
    "Did you." David Bierce's gaze sharpened, his hazel eyes catching the sun and sending
an icy emerald glitter. "Did you."
    She picked up the bottle of ale and began to peel the label from it. "Yes."
    "Have a boyfriend, then?"
    She shook her head, rolled a fragment of label into a tiny pill. "No." "Stop that." His
closed over hers. He drew it away from the bottle, letting it rest against the table edge.
swallowed: he kept his hand on top of hers, pressing it against the metal edge until she fel
scored palm began to ache. Her eyes closed: she could feel herself floating, and see a d
feet below her own form, slender, the wig beetle-black upon her skull, her wrist like a
stalk. Abruptly his hand slid away and beneath the table, brushing her leg as he stoope
retrieve his knapsack.
    "Time to get back to work," he said lightly, sliding from the bench and slinging his bag
his shoulder. The breeze lifted his long graying hair as he turned away. "I'll see you
there."
   Overhead the gulls screamed and flapped, dropping bits of fried fish on the sidewalk.
stared at the table in front of her, the cardboard trays that held the remnants of lunch,
watched as a yellow jacket landed on a fleck of grease, its golden thorax swollen
moisture as it began to feed.

    She did not return to Hive that night. Instead she wore a patchwork dress over her jeans
Doc Martens, stuffed the wig inside a drawer, and headed to a small bar on Inverness St
The fair day had turned to rain, black puddles like molten metal capturing the amber glo
traffic signals and streetlights.
    There were only a handful of tables at Bar Ganza. Most of the customers stood on
sidewalk outside, drinking and shouting to be heard above the sound of wailing Spanish
songs. Janie fought her way inside, got a glass of red wine, and miraculously found an em
stool alongside the wall. She climbed onto it, wrapped her long legs around the pedestal,
sipped her wine.
    "Hey. Nice hair." A man in his early thirties, his own head shaved, sidled up to Ja
stool. He held a cigarette, smoking it with quick, nervous gestures as he stared at her. He t
his cigarette toward the ceiling, indicating a booming speaker. "You like the music?"
    "Not particularly."
    "Hey, you're American? Me, too. Chicago. Good bud of mine, works for Citibank, he
me about this place. Food's not bad. Tapas. Baby octopus. You like octopus?"
    Janie's eyes narrowed. The man wore expensive-looking corduroy trousers, a rum
jacket of nubby charcoal-colored linen. "No," she said, but didn't turn away.
    "Me neither. Like eating great big slimy bugs. Geoff Lanning—"
    He stuck his hand out. She touched it, lightly, and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Geoff."
    For the next half hour or so she pretended to listen to him, nodding and smi
brilliantly whenever he looked up at her. The bar grew louder and more crowded,
people began eyeing Janie's stool covetously.
    "I think I'd better hand over this seat," she announced, hopping down and elbow
her way to the door. "Before they eat me."
    Geoff Lanning hurried after her. "Hey, you want to get dinner? The Camden Brasserie's
up here—"
    "No thanks." She hesitated on the curb, gazing demurely at her Doc Martens. "But would
like to come in for a drink?"
    He was very impressed by her apartment. "Man, this place'd probably go for a half
easy! That's three quarters of a million American."
    He opened and closed cupboards, ran a hand lovingly across the slate sink. "Nice hardw
floors, high-speed access—you never told me what you do."
    Janie laughed. "As little as possible. Here—"
    She handed him a brandy snifter, let her finger trace the back of his wrist. "You look
kind of an adventurous sort of guy."
    "Hey, big adventure, that's me." He lifted his glass to her. "What exactly did you hav
mind? Big-game hunting?" "Mmm. Maybe."
   It was more of a struggle this time, not for Geoff Lanning but for Janie. He
complacently in his bonds, his stocky torso wriggling obediently when Janie commanded.
head ached from the cheap wine at Bar Ganza; the long hairs above her eyes lay sleek ag
her skull, and did not move at all until she closed her eyes and, unbidden, the image of D
Bierce's hand covering hers appeared. "Try to get away," she whispered.
   "Whoa, Nellie," Geoff Lanning gasped.
   "Try to get away," she repeated, her voice hoarser.
   "Oh." The man whimpered softly. "Jesus Christ, what—oh, my God, what—"
   Quickly she bent and kissed his fingertips, saw where the leather cuff had bitten into
pudgy wrist. This time she was prepared when with a keening sound he began to twist upon
bed, his arms and legs shriveling and then coiling in upon themselves, his shaven
withdrawing into his tiny torso like a snail within its shell.
   But she was not prepared for the creature that remained, its feathery antennae a tremb
echo of her own, its extraordinarily elongated hind spurs nearly four inches long. "
she gasped.
   She didn't dare touch it until it took to the air: the slender spurs fragile as icicles, sca
their saffron tips curling like Christmas ribbon, its large delicate wings saffron with slate-
and scarlet eyespots, and spanning nearly six inches. A Madagascan moon moth, one o
loveliest and rarest silk moths, and almost impossible to find as an intact specimen.
   "What do I do with you, what do I do?" she crooned as it spread its wings and lifted
the bed. It flew in short sweeping arcs; she scrambled to blow out the candles before it c
get near them. She pulled on a bathrobe and left the lights off, closed the bedroom door
hurried into the kitchen, looking for a flashlight. She found nothing, but recalled Andrew te
her there was a large torch in the basement.
   She hadn't been down there since her initial tour of the flat. It was brightly lit,
long neat cabinets against both walls, a floor-to-ceiling wine rack filled with bottles of c
and vintage burgundy, compact washer and dryer, small refrigerator, buckets and bro
waiting for the cleaning lady's weekly visit. She found the flashlight sitting on top of
refrigerator, a container of extra batteries beside it. She switched it on and off a few ti
then glanced down at the refrigerator and absently opened it.
   Seeing all that wine had made her think the little refrigerator might be filled with b
Instead it held only a long plastic box, with a red lid and a red biohazard sticker on the
Janie put the flashlight down and stooped, carefully removing the box and setting it on
floor. A label with Andrew's neat architectural handwriting was on the top.
                                      DR. ANDREW FILDERMAN
                                        ST. MARTIN'S HOSPICE
   "Huh," she said, and opened it.
   Inside there was a small red biohazard waste container and scores of plastic bags f
with disposable hypodermics, ampules, and suppositories. All contained morphine at var
dosages. Janie stared, marveling, then opened one of the bags. She shook half a d
morphine ampules into her palm, carefully reclosed the bag, put it back into the box,
returned the box to the refrigerator. Then she grabbed the flashlight and ran upstair
   It took her a while to capture the moon moth. First she had to find a killing jar large eno
and then she had to very carefully lure it inside, so that its frail wing spurs wouldn'
damaged. She did this by positioning the jar on its side and placing a gooseneck lamp dire
behind it, so that the bare bulb shone through the glass. After about fifteen minutes, the m
landed on top of the jar, its tiny legs slipping as it struggled on the smooth curved sur
Another few minutes and it had crawled inside, nestled on the wad of tissues Janie had
there, moist with ethyl alcohol. She screwed the lid on tightly, left the jar on its side,
waited for it to die.

    Over the next week she acquired three more specimens. Papilio demetrius, a Japa
swallowtail with elegant orange eyespots on a velvety black ground; a scarce copper,
scarce at all, really, but with lovely pumpkin-colored wings; and Graphium agamemno
Malaysian species with vivid green spots and chrome-yellow strips on its somber br
wings. She'd ventured away from Camden Town, capturing the swallowtail in a pri
room in an SM club in Islington and the Graphium agamemnon in a parked car behi
noisy pub in Crouch End. The scarce copper came from a vacant lot near the Tottenham C
Road tube station very late one night, where the wreckage of a chain-link fence stood in fo
bedposts. She found the morphine to be useful, although she had to wait until immediately
the man ejaculated before pressing the ampule against his throat, aiming for the carotid ar
This way the butterflies emerged already sedated, and in minutes died with no damag
their wings. Leftover clothing was easily disposed of, but she had to be more careful
wallets, stuffing them deep within rubbish bins, when she could, or burying them in her
trash bags and then watching as the waste trucks came by on their rounds.
    In South Kensington she discovered an entomological supply store. There she bought m
mounting supplies and inquired casually as to whether the owner might be intereste
purchasing some specimens.
    He shrugged. "Depends. What you got?"
    "Well, right now I have only one Argema mittrei." Janie adjusted her glasses and gla
around the shop. A lot of morphos, an Atlas moth: nothing too unusual. "But I might be ge
another, in which case . . ."
    "Moon moth, eh? How'd you come by that, I wonder?" The man raised his eyebrows,
Janie flushed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to turn you in. Christ, I'd go out of business. W
obviously I can't display those in the shop, but if you want to part with one, let me know
always scouting for my customers."
    She began volunteering three days a week at the insect zoo. One Wednesday, the night
she'd gotten a gorgeous Urania kilns, its wings sadly damaged by rain, she arrived to
David Bierce reading that morning's Camden New Journal. He peered above the newsp
and frowned.
    "You still going out alone at night?"
    She froze, her mouth dry, turned, and hurried over to the coffee-maker. "Why?" she
fighting to keep her tone even.
    "Because there's an article about some of the clubs around here. Apparently a few pe
have gone missing."
    "Really?" Janie got her coffee, wiping up a spill with the side of her hand. "W
happened?"
    "Nobody knows. Two blokes reported gone, family frantic, that sort of thing. Probably
runaways. Camden Town eats them alive, kids." He handed the paper to Janie. "Although
of them was last seen near Highbury Fields, some sex club there."
    She scanned the article. There was no mention of any suspects. And no bodies had
found, although foul play was suspected. ("Ken would never have gone away wit
notifying us or his employer. . . .")
    Anyone with any information was urged to contact the police.
    "I don't go to sex clubs," Janie said flatly. "Plus those are both guys."
    "Mmm." David leaned back in his chair, regarding her coolly. "You're the
hitting Hive your first weekend in London."
    "It's a dance club!" Janie retorted. She laughed, rolled the newspaper into a tube, and b
him gently on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."
    David continued to stare at her, hazel eyes glittering. "Who says it's you I'm worried abo
    She smiled, her mouth tight as she turned and began cleaning bottles in the sink.
    It was a raw day, more late November than mid-May. Only two school groups w
scheduled; otherwise the usual stream of visitors was reduced to a handful of elderly wo
who shook their heads over the cockroaches and gave barely a glance to the butterflies be
shuffling on to another building. David Bierce paced restlessly through the lab on his wa
clean the cages and make more complaints to the Operations Division. Janie cleaned
mounted two stag beetles, their spiny legs pricking her fingertips as she tried to force the
through their glossy chestnut-colored shells. Afterwards she busied herself with straighte
the clutter of cabinets and drawers stuffed with requisition forms and microscopes, comp
parts and dissection kits.
    It was well past two when David reappeared, his anorak slick with rain, his hair tu
beneath the hood. "Come on," he announced, standing impatiently by the open door. "Let's g
lunch."
    Janie looked up from the computer where she'd been updating a specimen list. "I'm re
not very hungry," she said, giving him an apologetic smile. "You go ahead."
    "Oh, for Christ's sake." David let the door slam shut as he crossed to her, his snea
leaving wet smears on the tiled floor. "That can wait till tomorrow. Come on, there'
a fucking thing here that needs doing."
    "But—" She gazed up at him. The hood slid from his head; his gray-streaked hair hung l
to his shoulders, and the sheen of rain on his sharp cheekbones made him look carved
oiled wood. "What if somebody comes?"
    "A very nice docent named Mrs. Eleanor Feltwell is out there, even as we speak, in
unlikely event that we have a single visitor."
    He stooped so that his head was beside hers, scowling as he stared at the computer scr
A lock of his hair fell to brush against her neck.
    Beneath the wig her scalp burned, as though stung by tiny ants; she breathed in the w
acrid smell of his sweat and something else, a sharper scent, like crushed oak-mas
fresh-sawn wood. Above her brows the antennae suddenly quivered. Sweetness coated
tongue like burnt syrup. With a rush of panic she turned her head so he wouldn't see her fac
    "I—I should finish this—"
    "Oh, just fuck it, Jane! It's not like we're paying you. Come on, now, there's a good girl—
    He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, Janie still looking away. The bangs of
cheap wig scraped her forehead, and she batted at them feebly. "Get your things. W
don't you ever take days off in the States?"
    "All right, all right." She turned and gathered her black vinyl raincoat and knapsack, pu
on the coat, and waited for him by the door. "Jeez, you must be hungry," she said crossly.
    "No. Just fucking bored out of my skull. Have you been to Ruby in the Dust? No? I'll
you then, let's go—"
    The restaurant was down the High Street, a small, cheerfully claptrap place, dim in the
afternoon, its small wooden tables scattered with abandoned newspapers and overflow
ashtrays. David Bierce ordered a steak and a pint. Janie had a small salad, nastur
blossoms strewn across pale green lettuce, and a glass of red wine. She lacked an app
lately, living on vitamin-enhanced, fruity bottled drinks from the health food store and bak
from a Greek bakery near the tube station.
    "So." David Bierce stabbed a piece of steak, peering at her sideways. "Don't tell me
really haven't been here before."
    "I haven't!" Despite her unease at being with him, she laughed, and caught her reflec
in the wall-length mirror. A thin plain young woman in shapeless Peruvian sweater
jeans, bad haircut, and ugly glasses. Gazing at herself she felt suddenly stronger, invisible.
tilted her head and smiled at Bierce. "The food's good."
    "So you don't have someone taking you out to dinner every night? Cooking for you? I tho
you American girls all had adoring men at your feet. Adoring slaves," he added dryly.
slave girls, I suppose. If that's your thing."
    "No." She stared at her salad, shook her head demurely, and took a sip of wine. It made
feel even more invulnerable. "No, I—"
    "Boyfriend back home, right?" He finished his pint, flagged the waiter to order another,
turned back to Janie. "Well, that's nice. That's very nice—for him," he added, and gave a s
harsh laugh.
    The waiter brought another pint, and more wine for Janie. "Oh really, I better—"
    "Just drink it, Jane." Under the table, she felt a sharp pressure on her foot. She w
wearing her Doc Martens today but a pair of red plastic jellies. David Bierce had pla
his heel firmly atop her toes; she sucked in her breath in shock and pain, the bones of
foot crackling as she tried to pull it from beneath him. Her antennae rippled, then stiffened,
heat burst like a seed inside her.
    "Go ahead," he said softly, pushing the wineglass toward her. "Just a sip, that's right—"
    She grabbed the glass, spilling wine on her sweater as she gulped at it. The vicious pres
on her foot subsided, but as the wine ran down her throat she could feel the heat thrusting
into the air, currents rushing beneath her as the girl at the table below set down her wineg
with trembling fingers.
    "There." David Bierce smiled, leaning forward to gently cup her hand between his. "N
this is better than working. Right, Jane?"

   He walked her home along the canal path. Janie tried to dissuade him, but he'd had a
pint by then; it didn't seem to make him drunk but coldly obdurate, and she finally gave in.
rain had turned to a fine drizzle, the canal's usually murky water silvered and softly gleamin
the twilight. They passed few other people, and Janie found herself wishing someone
would appear, so that she'd have an excuse to move closer to David Bierce. He kept clos
the canal itself, several feet from Janie; when the breeze lifted she could catch his oaky s
again, rising above the dank reek of stagnant water and decaying hawthorn blossom
    They crossed over the bridge to approach her flat by the street. At the front sidewalk J
stopped, smiled shyly, and said, "Thanks. That was nice."
    David nodded. "Glad I finally got you out of your cage." He lifted his head to g
appraisingly at the row house. "Christ, this where you're staying? You split the rent
someone?"
    "No." She hesitated: she couldn't remember what she had told him about her li
arrangements. But before she could blurt something out he stepped past her to the front d
peeking into the window and bobbing impatiently up and down.
    "Mind if I have a look? Professional entomologists don't often get the chance to see how
quality live."
    Janie hesitated, her stomach clenching; decided it would be safer to have him in rather
continue to put him off.
    "All right," she said reluctantly, and opened the door.
    "Mmmm. Nice, nice, very nice." He swept around the living room, spinning on his heel
making a show of admiring the elaborate molding, the tribal rugs, the fireplace mantel wit
thick ecclesiastical candles and ormolu mirror. "Goodness, all this for a wee thing like
You're a clever cat, landing on your feet here, Lady Jane."
    She blushed. He bounded past her on his way into the bedroom, touching her shoulder;
had to close her eyes as a fiery wave surged through her and her antennae trembled.
    "Wow," he exclaimed.
    Slowly she followed him into the bedroom. He stood in front of the wall where
specimens were balanced in a neat line across the wainscoting. His eyes were wide, his m
open in genuine astonishment.
    "Are these yours?" he marveled, his gaze fixed on the butterflies. "You didn't actually c
them—?"
    She shrugged.
    "These are incredible!" He picked up the Graphium agamemnon and tilted it to
pewter-colored light falling through the French doors. "Did you mount them, too?"
    She nodded, crossing to stand beside him. "Yeah. You can tell, with that one—" She poi
at the Urania leilus in its oak-framed box. "It got rained on."
    David Bierce replaced the Graphium agamemnon and began to read the labels on
others.

   Papilio demetrius
   UNITED KINGDOM: LONDON
   Highbury Fields, Islington
   7.V2001
   J. Kendall

   Isopa katinka
   UNITED KINGDOM: LONDON
   Finsbury Park
   09.V2001
   J. Kendall

   Argema mittrei
   UNITED KINGDOM: LONDON
   Camden Town
   13.IV2001
   J. Kendall

    He shook his head. "You screwed up, though—you wrote London for all of them."
turned to her, grinning wryly. "Can't think of the last time I saw a moon moth in Cam
Town."
    She forced a laugh. "Oh—right."
    "And, I mean, you can't have actually caught them—"
    He held up the Isopa katinka, a butter-yellow Emperor moth, its peacock's-eyes russet
jet-black. "I haven't seen any of these around lately. Not even in Finsbury."
    Janie made a little grimace of apology. "Yeah. I meant, that's where I found them—wh
bought them."
    "Mmmm." He set the moth back on its ledge. "You'll have to share your sources with
I can never find things like these in North London."
    He turned and headed out of the bedroom. Janie hurriedly straightened the specimens
hands shaking now as well, and followed him.
    "Well, Lady Jane." For the first time he looked at her without his usual mocking arroga
his green-flecked eyes bemused, almost regretful. "I think we managed to salvage somet
from the day."
    He turned, gazing one last time at the flat's glazed walls and highly waxed floors,
imported cabinetry and jewel-toned carpets. "I was going to say, when I walked you home,
you needed someone to take care of you. But it looks like you've managed that on your own
    Janie stared at her feet. He took a step toward her, the fragrance of oak-mast and h
filling her nostrils, crushed acorns, new fern. She grew dizzy, her hand lifting to find him
he only reached to graze her cheek with his finger.
    "Night then, Janie," he said softly, and walked back out into the misty evening.

   When he was gone she raced to the windows and pulled all the velvet curtains, then tor
wig from her head and threw it onto the couch along with her glasses. Her heart was pound
her face slick with sweat—from fear or rage or disappointment, she didn't know.
yanked off her sweater and jeans, left them on the living room floor and stomped into
bathroom. She stood in the shower for twenty minutes, head upturned as the water sluiced
smells of bracken and leaf-mold from her skin.
   Finally she got out. She dried herself, let the towel drop, and went into the kitchen. Abru
she was famished. She tore open cupboards and drawers until she found a half-full ja
lavender honey from Provence. She opened it, the top spinning off into the sink, and frantic
spooned honey into her mouth with her fingers. When she was finished she grabbed a ja
lemon curd and ate most of that, until she felt as though she might be sick. She stuck her
into the sink, letting water run from the faucet into her mouth, and at last walked, surfeited,
the bedroom.
   She dressed, feeling warm and drowsy, almost dreamlike; pulling
red-and-yellow-striped stockings, her nylon skirt, a tight red T-shirt. No bra, no panties.
put in her contacts, then examined herself in the mirror. Her hair had begun to grow bac
scant velvety stubble, bluish in the dim light. She drew a sweeping black line across
eyelid, on a whim took the liner and extended the curve of each antenna until they touched
temples. She painted her lips black as well and went to find her black vinyl raincoat.
   It was early when she went out, far too early for any of the clubs to be open. The rain
stopped, but a thick greasy fog hung over everything, coating windshields and shop wind
making Janie's face feel as though it were encased in a clammy shell. For hours she wand
Camden Town, huge violet eyes turning to stare back at the men who watched her, dismis
each of them. Once she thought she saw David Bierce, coming out of Ruby in the Dust
when she stopped to watch him cross the street saw it was not David at all but someone
Much younger, his long dark hair in a thick braid, his feet clad in knee-high boots. He cro
High Street, heading toward the tube station. Janie hesitated, then darted after him.
   He went to the Electric Ballroom. Fifteen or so people stood out front, talking quietly.
man she'd followed joined the line, standing by himself. Janie waited across the street, unti
door opened and the little crowd began to shuffle inside. After the long-haired young man
entered she counted to one hundred, crossed the street, paid her cover, and went inside.
   The club had three levels; she finally tracked him down on the uppermost one. Even
rainy Wednesday night it was crowded, the sound system blaring Idris Mohammed and Jim
Cliff. He was standing alone near the bar, drinking bottled water.
   "Hi!" she shouted, swaying up to him with her best First Day of School Smile. "Wa
dance?"
   He was older than she'd thought—thirtyish, still not as old as Bierce. He stared at
puzzled, and then shrugged. "Sure."
   They danced, passing the water bottle between them. "What's your name?" he shouted.
   "Cleopatra Brimstone."
   "You're kidding!" he yelled back. The song ended in a bleat of feedback, and they wal
panting, back to the bar.
   "What, you know another Cleopatra?" Janie asked teasingly.
   "No. It's just a crazy name, that's all." He smiled. He was handsomer than David Bierce
features softer, more rounded, his eyes dark brown, his manner a bit reticent. "I'm Tho
Raybourne. Tom."
   He bought another bottle of Pellegrino and one for Janie. She drank it quickly, trying to
his measure. When she finished she set the empty bottle on the floor and fanned herself with
hand.
   "It's hot in here." Her throat hurt from shouting over the music. "I think I'm going to ta
walk. Feel like coming?"
   He hesitated, glancing around the club. "I was supposed to meet a friend here. ..." he be
frowning. "But—"
   "Oh." Disappointment filled her, spiking into desperation. "Well, that's okay. I guess."
    "Oh, what the hell." He smiled: he had nice eyes, a more stolid, reassuring gaze than Bie
"I can always come back."
    Outside she turned right, in the direction of the canal. "I live pretty close by. Feel
coming in for a drink?"
    He shrugged again. "I don't drink, actually."
    "Something to eat then? It's not far—just along the canal path a few blocks past Cam
Lock—"
    "Yeah, sure."
    They made desultory conversation. "You should be careful," he said as they crossed
bridge. "Did you read about those people who've gone missing in Camden Town?"
    Janie nodded but said nothing. She felt anxious and clumsy—as though she'd drunk
much, although she'd had nothing alcoholic since the two glasses of wine with D
Bierce. Her companion also seemed ill at ease; he kept glancing back, as though looking
someone on the canal path behind them.
    "I should have tried to call," he explained ruefully. "But I forgot to recharge my mobile."
    "You could call from my place."
    "No, that's all right."
    She could tell from his tone that he was figuring how he could leave, gracefully, as soo
possible.
    Inside the flat he settled on the couch, picked up a copy of Time Out and flipped throug
pretending to read. Janie went immediately into the kitchen and poured herself a glas
brandy. She downed it, poured a second one, and joined him on the couch.
    "So." She kicked off her Doc Martens, drew her stockinged foot slowly up his leg, from
to thigh. "Where you from?"
    He was passive, so passive she wondered if he would get aroused at all. But after a w
they were lying on the couch, both their shirts on the floor, his pants unzipped and his
stiff, pressing against her bare belly.
    "Let's go in there," Janie whispered hoarsely. She took his hand and led him into
bedroom.
    She only bothered lighting a single candle before lying beside him on the bed. His
were half-closed, his breathing shallow. When she ran a fingernail around one nipple he m
a small surprised sound, then quickly turned and pinned her to the bed.
    "Wait! Slow down," Janie said, and wriggled from beneath him. For the last week she'd
the bonds attached to the bedposts, hiding them beneath the covers when not in use. Now
grabbed one of the wrist-cuffs and pulled it free. Before he could see what she was doi
was around his wrist.
    "Hey!"
    She dived for the foot of the bed, his leg narrowly missing her as it thrashed agains
covers. It was more difficult to get this in place, but she made a great show of giggling
stroking his thigh, which seemed to calm him. The other leg was next, and finally she l
from the bed and darted to the headboard, slipping from his grasp when he tried to grab
shoulder.
    "This is not consensual," he said. She couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
    "What about this, then?" she murmured, sliding down between his legs and cupping his e
penis between her hands. "This seems to be enjoying itself."
    He groaned softly, shutting his eyes. "Try to get away," she said. "Try to get away."
    He tried to lunge upward, his body arcing so violently that she drew back in alarm.
bonds held; he arched again, and again, but now she remained beside him, her hands on
cock, his breath coming faster and faster and her own breath keeping pace with it, her h
pounding and the tingling above her eyes almost unbearable.
    "Try to get away," she gasped. "Try to get away—"
    When he came he cried out, his voice harsh, as though in pain, and Janie cried out as w
squeezing her eyes shut as spasms shook her from head to groin. Quickly her head dippe
kiss his chest; then she shuddered and drew back, watching.
    His voice rose again, ended suddenly in a shrill wail, as his limbs knotted and shriv
like burning rope. She had a final glimpse of him, a homunculus sprouting too many legs. T
on the bed before her a perfectly formed Papilio krishna swallowtail crawled across
rumpled duvet, its wings twitching to display glittering green scales amidst spectral washe
violet and crimson and gold.
    "Oh, you're beautiful, beautiful," she whispered.
    From across the room echoed a sound: soft, the rustle of her kimono falling from its hoo
the door swung open. She snatched her hand from the butterfly and stared, through the doo
the living room.
    In her haste to get Thomas Raybourne inside she had forgotten to latch the
door. She scrambled to her feet, naked, staring wildly at the shadow looming in front of he
features taking shape as it approached the candle, brown and black, light glinting across
face.
    It was David Bierce. The scent of oak and bracken swelled, suffocating, fragrant, cut by
bitter odor of ethyl alcohol. He forced her gently onto the bed, heat piercing her breast
thighs, her antennae bursting out like quills from her brow and wings exploding everyw
around her as she struggled fruitlessly.
    "Now. Try to get away," he said.