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“A rat,” said Roscuro.

“Ah, but you are cheating. You must say, ‘I am a rat,’ ” said Botticelli, smiling his slow smile at Roscuro.

“I am a rat,” said Roscuro.

“Again,” said Botticelli, swinging his locket.

“I am a rat.”

“Exactly,” said Botticelli. “A rat is a rat is a rat. End of story. World without end. Amen.”

“Yes,” said Roscuro. “Amen, I am a rat.” He closed his eyes. He saw, again, the red cloth spinning against the backdrop of gold.

And he told himself, reader, that it was the cloth that he desired and not the light.

ROSCURO WENT, as Botticelli told him he must, to torment the new prisoner and to take the red cloth from him.

The man was sitting with his legs stretched out straight in front of him, chained to the floor. The red cloth was still draped over his shoulders.

Roscuro squeezed through the bars and crept slowly over the damp, weeping stones of the cell floor.

When he was close to the man, he said, “Ah, welcome, welcome. We are delighted to have you.”

The man lit a match and looked at Roscuro.

Roscuro stared longingly into the light.

“Go on,” said the prisoner. He waved a hand in the direction of Roscuro and the match went out. “Yer nothing but a rat.”

“I am,” said Roscuro, “exactly that. A rat. Allow me to congratulate you on your very astute powers of observation.”

“What do ye want, rat?”

“What do I want? Nothing. Nothing for my sake, that is. I have come for you. I have come to keep you company here in the dark.” He crawled closer to the man.

“I don’t need the company of a rat.”

“What about the solace a sympathetic ear can provide? Do you need that?”

“Huh?”

“Would you like to confess your sins?”

“To a rat? You’re kidding, you are.”

“Come now,” said Roscuro. “Close your eyes. Pretend that I am not a rat. Pretend that I am nothing but a voice in the darkness. A voice that cares.”

The prisoner closed his eyes. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But I’m telling you because there ain’t no point in not telling you, no point in keeping secrets from a dirty little rat. I ain’t in such a desperate way that I need to lie to a rat.”

The man cleared his throat. “I’m here for stealing six cows, two Jerseys and four Guernseys. Cow theft, that’s my crime.” He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. He laughed. He closed his eyes again. “But there’s something else I done, many years ago, another crime, and they don’t even know of it.”

“Go on,” said Roscuro softly. He crept closer. He allowed one paw to touch the magical red cloth.

“I traded my girl, my own daughter, for this red tablecloth and for a hen and for a handful of cigarettes.”

“Tsk,” said Roscuro. He was not alarmed to hear of such a hideous thing. His parents, after all, had not much cared for him, and certainly, if there was any profit in it, they would have sold him. And then, too, Botticelli Remorso, one lazy Sunday afternoon, had recited from memory all the confessions he had heard from prisoners. What humans were capable of came as no surprise to Roscuro.

“And then . . .,” said the man.

“And then,” encouraged Roscuro.

“And then I done the worst thing of all: I walked away from her and she was crying and calling out for me and I did not even look back. I did not. Oh, Lord, I kept walking.” The prisoner cleared his throat. He sniffed.

“Ah,” said Roscuro. “Yes. I see.” By now, he was standing so that all four of his paws were touching the red cloth.

“Do you find comfort in this cloth that you sold your child for?”

“It’s warm,” said the man.

“Was it worth your child?”

“I like the color of it.”

“Does the cloth remind you of what you have done wrong?”

“It does,” the prisoner said. He sniffed. “It does.”

“Allow me to ease your burden,” said Roscuro. He stood on his hind legs and bowed at the waist. “I will take this reminder of your sin from you,” he said. The rat took hold of the tablecloth in his strong teeth and pulled it off the shoulders of the man.

“Hey, see here. I want that back.”

But Roscuro, reader,