Danvers had never been afraid of heights before. He had climbed the spire of the University Church, like everyone else, and marvelled at the view. He had scaled the old yew in the Botanic Gardens to retrieve a cricket ball – and he had only felt dizzy when he'd reached the bottom, and the affronted scholars had told him it was more than 400 years old.

But here, looking out over the banister of the great oak staircase at the Faculty, he felt unsteady.

It probably had something to do with what he was looking down on. It was an emotional situation waiting to happen – and, as an Englishman, that made him nervous.

He had passed Jack and Miss Syal on his way up the stairs a moment ago. They were sitting in front of the piano in the hall – smiling rather a lot, it was true, but behaving as platonically as could be expected. Jack, either because he couldn't sit still, or because it was intrinsic to the conversation, would play a chord from time to time, or snatch up Miss Syal's fingers and kiss them.

Danvers had then gone into Elsie's room to scrub her face – she had been working in the garden, with the haphazard enthusiasm she brought to every task, and got covered in soil. And, now he had come out to get her some clean clothes, Jack and Miss Syal were closely entwined on the piano seat, talking in low voices. He was kissing her neck, and she was sliding her hand slowly up his thigh.

Danvers turned his back, furiously embarrassed, but he could pinpoint the exact moment when Miss Syal's hand reached the top of Jack's thigh, because there was a scraping sound, as of a chair being suddenly pushed back, a giggle, and then a thunder of heavy footfalls on the stairs. A door slammed below him, and he knew this would be succeeded before too long by the rhythmic furniture-creaking and low moans of their lovemaking.

He couldn't go downstairs now, he knew that. He couldn't walk past that closed door. Elsie would have to wear whatever he could salvage out of the cupboard in her room.

He did not mean to be wretched. He wasn't jealous, except in the generality of things. He was very happy for Jack, and it sounded as though Miss Syal was having a lovely day too, although he had been doing his utmost not to hear or think about it.

It was just... so close to his own concerns. So timely and uncomfortable.

For all the chasteness of his devotion to Elsie, he couldn't help wanting her. But he had been watching her for seven months and had never been able to detect the slightest stirrings of – well, she had no hungers, except the hunger for knowledge.

Even if she was willing – even if she was curious, which was far more likely – he couldn't inflict himself on her. It wasn't just his principles he'd be fighting, but his memory. The elemental and the revelations of the fire-mines had marked him more deeply than he could express.

All things considered, it was extremely unlikely he would ever feel what Jack was feeling right at this moment. And it hurt to be reminded.

Well, there was nothing to do now but duck back into Elsie's room. Perhaps they could play some kind of noisy parlour-game which would drown out all the things he didn't want to hear. He probably wasn't fit for it, but he was certainly not fit for walking down that staircase. Not on his own.

He went in, and Elsie asked him what he was doing back so soon. Her face was pink from the scrubbing. She had tied a new blindfold – a forget-me-not-blue one – across her eyes. He tried not to look at her, even though he knew she couldn't see him looking.

Who was he trying to convince? Who was he fooling, even when he looked at the ground? She was always before his eyes in one form or another.

"We should get you some lunch," he said, raising his voice a little, and doing his best to dust the soil off her old gown. "Sarah says there are some excellent cold meats in the pantry."

She stood up willingly enough. She liked food, although she had to be told when to eat it, and when to stop. As far as he knew, she never felt hungry or full.

Unfortunately, the only way to the pantry was down the staircase, past Jack's bedroom door – which might as well have been glowing white-hot, or rattling on its hinges, to Danvers. He couldn't hope to keep Elsie unaware of the sounds on their way past. He didn't want to talk too loudly, in case Jack or Miss Syal heard him, and knew that he could hear them.

He gave Elsie his arm and led her down the staircase, braced for the hideous moment when she noticed, and asked questions.

In fact, she didn't ask anything. Her first instinct, to Danvers's horror, was to extend a hand and reach for the doorknob – not decisively, but with a wavering, questioning motion that could have gone either way.

He snatched up her hand and hissed, "Are you out of your mind? Elsie, this isn't like a good joke or a warm fire – you can't just walk in there and share it!"

She pulled her hand away from him, but didn't reach for the doorknob again. The frown-lines above her blindfold deepened. "Why are some pleasurable activities private and others sociable?" she asked. "I'm sure eating ice-cream is just as nice as anything they're doing in there, and we're allowed to do that on the street."

"It is not," said Danvers shortly.

"How do you know?"

"Well, for one thing, I've seen Jack eating ice-cream, and he didn't make a noise like that."

He knew he was being too hard on her. The embarrassment – or was it something else? – of standing where they were standing, hearing what they were hearing, was making his head swim.

"Can we try doing it?" said Elsie. "Just to see what it feels like?"

He stared at her, half-angry and half-incredulous. "No, we cannot. And it's unseemly to discuss such matters on the stairs!"

For once, she didn't ask why. She seized his hand and led him back up the staircase to her room, as steadily as she could without the benefit of sight.

Of course, that would be her solution. If it was unseemly to discuss it on the stairs, they could discuss it in her room – as if it was the location, and not the subject-matter, which made him angry. It was such an obstinate compromise that he wanted to laugh.

In the end, though, it wasn't anger or laughter that forced its way up into his throat. It was a lump. He was almost tearful. He was so confused – so plaintively confused. He hung his head and let her lead him up the stairs, his vision wobbling, his stomach tying itself into knots. He realized that all the worries of the past seven months were going to come spilling out of him – they had only needed privacy and desperation to be set loose.

And now here she was closing the door behind them, and there was no getting away from it anymore. He didn't even have a hat to twist in his hands as he unravelled.

Robin Crake's wretched knife was on the dressing-table, nestled in its box. Elsie was in the habit of lifting the lid and prodding at the blade, wincing as its hunger, its memories, its sheer perversity washed over her.

She was fascinated with it. The logic of evil interested her just as much as the logic of morality. She found flaws in them both.

He closed the lid as soon as the door swung shut behind them. He didn't want that wretched thing eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Why can we no-?"

He didn't even wait for her to finish the question. "Because I love you."

Oh Lord. He had said it now. They could never go back to normal. She would remember it the next time he helped her to get dressed. She wasn't to know that he did this through half-closed eyelids for fear that he might see something improper. She thought he was just clumsy.

"What does that mean?" Elsie enquired. She must have sensed that she'd said the wrong thing – or, at any rate, an unconventional thing – because she added, almost nervously, "I beg your pardon, I mean... I know what love means, I just – what does it mean in this particular case?"

Danvers didn't know how he was going to answer her questions reasonably, but he knew he would try his best. The terrible responsibility of giving her the truth was still weighing on him. He took a deep breath. "Well, it means I take pleasure in your company. I feel the need to protect you. The things you say and do delight me."

She laughed, almost with relief. "In that case, I love you too."

"And it means other things," he went on, in a leaden voice.

"Are you talking about animal reproduction?"

The question was so unexpected that he almost looked up from the floor. "Um," he said, his face burning. "Not really..."

"Well, what then?"

"What precedes it, I suppose." Danvers took out his pocket-watch, simply for something to do with his hands. He stared fixedly at the glass face, but he had no idea what time it was. "Do you...? Well, look, you don't feel hunger, do you? I've seen you eat, but I've never heard you complain about-"

"No, I don't feel hunger." She seemed to catch the drift of his argument, because she added, almost defiantly, "But I still take pleasure in eating."

"Well, the thing is, this thing," said Danvers, wrapping the watch-chain around his finger, "this thing can't be done without hunger. I mean, it physically can and frequently is, but... I can't do it without hunger."

"Don't you feel hungry?" said Elsie. She was laughing again. His indirect way of speaking amused her.

Danvers cleared his throat. "Yes, I feel hungry. Not like Jack, but... like any other man. But I would need you to feel hungry."

"I'm curious – isn't that the same thing?"

"No. It really isn't."

"It's a feeling that demands satisfaction."

"It's going to have to demand it from someone else."

She was silent for a moment, frowning, trying to grope her way around the problem the way she groped her way around a room.

Underneath the wretchedness, Danvers felt strangely liberated. It was like vertigo again, but this time he was in control of it.

"And there's something else," he said, putting the watch and chain back in his pocket. "I don't... want to make you more human. You're fine as you are. More than fine. Perfect."

At this, the fight seemed to go out of her. She slumped her shoulders, as if she'd hit a brick wall. Was she touched? Defeated? Frustrated? Was she longing to throw her hands up and declare that he was impossible? He would never know. Because she wasn't human. She was probably feeling an emotion that he could no more imagine than he could paint the taste of strawberries. She was so inhuman, and yet she tried so gallantly to understand them. That was what he loved, more than anything.

"What am I, John Danvers?" she said, in a small voice.

Danvers kissed her forehead, right on the frown-lines. He felt them flow away under his lips. "Just what I said," he murmured. "Perfect."

***

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