Passing the checkout desk, she studied the adjoining rooms warily but didn't see the beast. It gave her the creeps to approach a table or the book stacks thinking she might suddenly see the cat wander out under her feet. Just thinking about it made her ankles itch, as if any minute it might find her and rub against her.

The woman behind the desk kept staring, so she smiled brightly back at her. What was she looking at? Watching her like she was some kind of character. Didn't she like floppy pink hats and pink lipstick?

Well I like them, and I'm the one wearing them. And she had to smile-if she was a character, that was just fine, she didn't give a fig what some librarian thought.

In Casa Capri, Dulcie woke beneath the parlor couch, curled up warmly on the thick Chinese rug. Joe was gone. Looking for him, out past the squat couch legs and through the glass to the patio, she stiffened to full alert.

The garden was alive with birds, with the swift flitting and chirping of sparrows among the low bushes and flower beds, with quickly winging finches darting under the leaves to harvest the morning's insects; that busy, winged feast beckoned and enticed, begging to be sampled.

She saw Joe at the glass doors, standing on his hind legs working at the latch, pawing at the lock, his teeth chattering as if he was already crushing succulent sparrow bones.

She settled back. She wasn't particularly hungry; really she felt too lazy to leave the soft, warm rug. She'd like to nap a little longer. Let Joe hunt, she'd catch breakfast later.

Rolling over, she pawed at the rug's intricate, labyrinthian patterns. Then, rolling onto her back, she reached a paw above her to stroke the bottom of the couch. Through the black gauze dust cover-it did smell dusty-she could see the rows of springs and the couch's thick wooden frame. Patting at the black gauze, smoothly she let her claws slide into the thin, flimsy fabric.

She raked hard, ripped down through the thin material a long, straight tear, felt her blood surge at the delicious sound of ripping cloth.

She clawed again. Again. In long straight gashes. She had no idea why the underside of a couch roused such an irresistible urge to tear and shred. She was about to kick with all four feet, really give the dry, frail gauze a workout, when she heard the front door open.

Flipping over, she peered out toward the front entry.

The door opened slowly, as if someone were not sure of a welcome. A nurse slipped in, a small woman, and thin. She wore the requisite immaculate white uniform, white oxfords, a white nurse's cap tipped over her dark, sleek pageboy. Her hair was beautifully done, not a strand out of place, as if she had just come from an expensive beauty parlor. Her face was made up with blusher and dark eyeliner, and with a touch of green eye shadow that made her brown eyes look larger, made her look far older and very sophisticated. Her lipstick was bright and carefully applied, her gold earrings small and tailored.

But even beneath the scent of cosmetics, the young nurse still smelled like Dillon. Dulcie hardly knew the child-a casual observer would guess this young woman to be at least eighteen.

She watched Dillon move away quickly toward the social room and on through, among the couches, to the dining room. Watched her push the door open with casual assurance and slip into the kitchen. The door swung back and forth behind her, slowed to a stop.

Dulcie watched the closed door, expecting any minute to hear angry scolding from within, and see Dillon come flying out again.

Nothing happened. There was a long silence. She waited nervously, her tail twitching, her paws growing hot with wary anticipation. Any minute she was going to hear enraged shouts, and Dillon would be hustled out by some irate kitchen employee, would be roughly scolded and sent packing for her effrontery.

But after a few minutes the door swung out again and a breakfast cart appeared. Dillon pushed it out swiftly and efficiently, letting the door swing closed, looking as if she did this job every morning. The top shelf was heavily laden and covered with a white cloth, the rubber tires made the same soft sticky hum that the snack cart had made over in the Nursing wing.

Dillon pushed the cart past her toward the admitting desk and around the corner toward Nursing, trailing the scent of eggs and toast. Dulcie was about to follow her when Joe returned from the patio, licking blood from his whiskers, slipping under the couch beside her.

He stared toward the passing cart, sniffed the child's scent, got a glimpse of her sleek hair and grown-up face. "What the… That can't be Dillon?"

Dulcie smiled. "Would you take her for twelve years old?"

Joe licked his whiskers. "More power to the kid. She might get away with it."

"But if they catch her again, what will they do? Those nurses… She's only a little girl. Would they…?"

"They won't hurt her. Get a grip. Why would they hurt her? This isn't some den of murderers; it's an old people's home. If they catch her, they'll give her hell and pitch her out and maybe that would do the kid good. Got to admit she's pretty nervy."

"How did she learn to make herself up so beautifully? If I didn't know her…"

"She's a girl, Dulcie. Girls are born reaching for the eyeliner. To a girl, that stuff comes naturally, you ought to know that better than anyone. Look at how you fuss over silk nighties, dragging them home. And you should see Clyde's sleep-over girlfriends. Lipstick and junk all over the dresser. They drive Clyde crazy, hogging the bathroom mirror."

"But she's only twelve. She-"

"So she's twelve. So look at those child models you read about. Eleven years old, and they look like they could buy a double martini."

He slipped out from under the couch and returned to the glass, fixing his gaze again on the birds. "I could eat another; guess I didn't get my fill. Come on, we can-" But when they heard footsteps and a sharp voice in the hall, he slid back under.

Around the corner, a woman was hurrying down the hall, scolding. The nurse rounded the corner, pulling Dillon along by one arm.

Dillon had abandoned her cart. Her nurse's cap was gone, and her pretty pageboy hair was all mussed, her uniform awry, and one white shoelace untied. But though the nurse was scolding, pushing her out into the entry toward the front door, Dillon didn't look repentant. She looked mad, red-faced and scowling.

The nurse reached around her, opening the door. "If I see you back there again, young lady, if there's a hint of trouble because of you-if I lose my job over this, you're going to be a sorry little girl." The woman pushed her out onto the porch. Dulcie crouched to leap after Dillon, but Joe grabbed her leg in his teeth. She stared at him and hung her head.

The nurse slammed the door, shutting Dillon out, and turned away.

"What were you going to do?" he whispered. "Run after her and tell her you're sorry?" He licked her ear. "She'll be okay. She'll cry and then go home." He groomed Dulcie's ears and her face until she calmed. He was washing his own whiskers when they heard a car door close softly, heard high heels on the walk, heard the knob turn.

Adelina came in quickly, seeming preoccupied. She did not seem unduly upset, had evidently not seen Dillon slinking-the kid must have gotten out of there fast. Adelina was dressed in another little black suit, this one with a low-cut jacket over a fluff of white lace. She wore patent spike heels, black sheer stockings. Behind her, as the door swung in, they glimpsed the pearl red Bentley standing in the drive.

Slamming the big double door, she moved toward her office, her black skirt swishing in soft friction against her silky legs. Her keys jangled, and they heard the click of the lock opening. She disappeared into her office, leaving the door ajar.