Swain’s Notting Hill residence consisted of three interconnected Victorian townhouses situated somewhere in a snowy profusion of squares, crescents, and mews. Petal, with two of Kumiko’s suitcases in either hand, explained to her that number 17 was the front entrance for numbers 16 and 18 as well. »No use knocking there,« he said, gesturing clumsily with the heavy cases in his hand, indicating the glossy red paint and polished brass fittings of 16’s door. »Nothing behind it but twenty inches of ferroconcrete.« She looked down the crescent, nearly identical facades receding along its shallow curve. The snow fell more thickly now, and the featureless sky was lit with a salmon glow of sodium lamps. The street was deserted, the snow fresh and unmarked. There was an alien edge to the cold air, a faint, pervasive hint of burning, of archaic fuels. Petal’s shoes left large, neatly defined prints. They were black suede oxfords with narrow toes and extremely thick corrugated soles of scarlet plastic. She followed in his tracks, beginning to shiver, up the gray steps to number 17. »It’s me then,« he said to the black-painted door, »innit.« Then he sighed, set all four suitcases down in the snow, removed the fingerless glove from his right hand, and pressed his palm against a circle of bright steel set flush with one of the door panels. Kumiko thought she heard a faint whine, a gnat sound that rose in pitch until it vanished, and then the door vibrated with the muffled impact of magnetic bolts as they withdrew. »You called it Smoke,« she said, as he reached for the brass knob, »the city. . . .« He paused. »The Smoke,« he said, »yes,« and opened the door into warmth and light, »that’s an old expression, sort of nickname.« He picked up her bags and padded into a blue-carpeted foyer paneled in white-painted wood. She followed him, the door closing itself behind her, its bolts thumping back into place. A mahogany-framed print hung above the white wainscoting, horses in a field, crisp little figures in red coats. Colin the chip-ghost should live there , she thought. Petal had put her bags down again. Flakes of compacted snow lay on the blue carpet. Now he opened another door, exposing a gilt steel cage. He drew the bars aside with a clank. She stared into the cage, baffled. »The lift,« he said. »No space for your things. I’ll make a second trip.« For all its apparent age, it rose smoothly enough when Petal touched a white porcelain button with a blunt forefinger. Kumiko was forced to stand very close to him then; he smelled of damp wool and some floral shaving preparation. »We’ve put you up top,« he said, leading her along a narrow corridor, »because we thought you might appreciate the quiet.« He opened a door and gestured her in. »Hope it’ll do. . . .« He removed his glasses and polished them energetically with a crumpled tissue. »I’ll get your bags.« When he had gone, Kumiko walked slowly around the massive black marble tub that dominated the center of the low, crowded room. The walls, angled sharply toward the ceiling, were faced with mottled gold mirror. A pair of small dormer windows flanked the largest bed she’d ever seen. Above the bed, the mirror was inset with small adjustable lights, like the reading lamps in an airliner. She stood beside the tub to touch the arched neck of a gold-plated swan that served as a spout. Its spread wings were tap handles. The air in the room was warm and still, and for an instant the presence of her mother seemed to fill it, an aching fog. Petal cleared his throat in the doorway. »Well then,« he said, bustling in with her luggage, »everything in order? Feeling hungry yet? No? Leave you to settle in . . .« He arranged her bags beside the bed. »If you should feel like eating, just ring.« He indicated an ornate antique telephone with scrolled brass mouth and earpieces and a turned ivory handle. »Just pick it up, you needn’t dial. Breakfast’s when you want it. Ask someone, they’ll show you where. You can meet Swain then. . . .« The sense of her mother had vanished with his return. She tried to feel it again, when he said goodnight and closed the door, but it was gone. She remained a long time beside the tub, stroking the smooth metal of the swan’s cool neck.