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By Root 634 0

burning. 'Perhaps you would like a refund,' he said with theatrically silky menace that was, somehow, actually menacing. 'I would be pleased to escort your attractive friend by herself.'

"Thanks, but no,' said Fitz. 'In for a penny, in for a pound.'

Dupre smirked. 'Be careful you do not find yourself being penny-wise and pound-foolish, as you English say' He whirled and started down the pavement 'Follow me, all of you. If you dare.'

'Swan,' the man hissed, his face pressed between the banisters. 'Swan!'

His wife stopped and looked up through the fake cobwebs. He gestured furiously. Without hesitation, she mounted the stairs and sat beside him, her hand on his.

'What is it, darling?'

"That man.'

'Which man? Has someone upset you? Where is he?'

'Yes. No. to the front room. He's perfect.'

Swan nodded solemnly, never taking her eyes from his. 'Perfect,' she repeated.

'Talk to him.' She nodded again and stood up. He gripped her hand. T have to have him, Swanny. I have to. Make sure.'

'I understand,' she said. 'Don't worry.'

* * *

In spite of himself, the Doctor found the art at Death's Door impressive. The front room was the main gallery, and he and the girl in the chartreuse shoes had it almost to themselves. The occasional partygoer would drift in from the back but, after a bored look around, quickly withdraw. Perhaps all the guests had previously seen the sculptures, the Doctor thought, because he didn't think you could honestly call them boring.

The pieces were a series of ceramic reproductions, from a foot to three feet high, of above-ground tombs, frozen images of decay. Some of them had miniature iron fences and fallen urns. One boasted an angel. None was topped with a cross. The front of these tiny buildings could be moved aside to reveal a tableau - in each case, a naked man having some form of sexual congress with a skeleton. That the skeleton was meant to be female was illustrated by the flowing human hair meticulously fastened to its skull.

'He's a genius,' said a woman's voice beside him. Turning, the Doctor saw that the chartreuse-shoes girl had been replaced by a woman of around thirty with long, thick, copper-coloured hair. His eyes went back to the tableau in front of him. 'Yes,' she said, twining a strand around a finger, 'it's my hair. He's my husband.'

'"He" being the artist.'

'Teddy Acree.'

'And you are '

'Swan Acree.' She didn't offer her hand but kept twining the strand of hair.

'A pretty and unusual name.'

'Short for Swannanoa.'

Swannanoa, the Doctor was sure, was a woman a human judge would find very beautiful. She was gracefully full-bodied under her intricately embroidered robe, and her eyes were violet, a colour he knew was rare in human beings.

'How flattering of him to include you in his art.'

She inclined her head, almost reverently. 'It is a privilege.'

Something about the gesture made the Doctor look at the tomb tableau again, half recalling something. Bones. And deep respect. Worshipping bones? No, that wasn't quite it. He shook his head. It was gone.

'My husband wants to meet you,' she said impressively.

'That's nice.' He was aware that the answer wasn't quite what her tone required, but he didn't really feel like falling flat on his face and howling with joy and amazement.

'He's upstairs.'

'Upstairs, yes,' said the Doctor after a beat.

'He never comes down.'

'Never?'

'I do all that for him.'

'Go up and down the stairs for him?'

'Among other things.'

There was another pause.

'So I gather,' said the Doctor, 'that I'm to go up.'

'Yes.'

She didn't move.

'Now?' he said uncertainly.

A group of young, pierced Goths surged into the room. 'Swan,' said one, 'there's no more ice -'

'Send Serge for some.'

'- and the cat's fallen in -'

"The cat!' Swan cried, and rushed from the room.

'What about the cat?' said the Doctor, concerned, but everyone had gone.

'- governor of the colony sent for prostitutes from France to be wives to these early, criminal settlers. And each