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gingery-furred ferret began. The waterfront was dead quiet, except for the soughing of the summer wind; the taverna was empty. Kore and Anthe, nominally in charge, were sitting by the wall of the dining room in cool shadow, talking about art.
    I could have hustled them into helping me, but the whitewashing job was a peaceful, mindless one. Popo the housepainter had been around, trying to persuade us that we wanted a few red shells or blue dolphins to add to ourfestive finery. We’d politely declined, but he’d left his colors, saying he’d be back later, to talk to the boss. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Anthe, who kept touching the pots of yellow, red and blue that Popo carried around with him in a bucket. She was fascinated; she couldn’t leave them alone. I was interested to see what would happen.
    “I don’t like these old pictures,” said our wildcat. “I know they’re ancient, and precious. But if you’re just going to copy what already exists in life, why bother? Art should be about making something new.”
    “The court ladies aren’t lifelike,” answered Kore sleepily. “They all have the same face. And whoever saw swallows flying in a double row like that? It’s the patterns that mattered to the painter, you can tell.”
    “All right, but still, why imitate things?” Anthe’s small, strong hand had lifted the brush out of the red paint pot, as if she couldn’t help it. She looked at the wall beside her. Unluckily, there was a bare patch, at a convenient height. “When you’re weaving, don’t you often make patterns without pictures? Don’t you think that your colors are
enough on their own?
The way the best meat should be served almost raw, and the best salad vegetables barely dressed?”
    “But dyes are imitation colors, Anthe, and so is paint. It’s not ‘redness’ in that pot. It’s ground-up Egyptian beetles. Oh, Anthe,
don’t …
“
    Too late.
    “I know about the beetles,” said Anthe. “Don’t tell meabout beetles.” She looked at the bright red splash she had made, and seemed to decide there was no use stopping now. A sweep of blue, a splotch of yellow, a gaudy orange swirl over the place where red and yellow had dripped into each other. “You see what I mean? Honest colors, and nothing but!”
    It had happened so fast. At least, so far, only a gap in one of the precious paintings was affected. I dumped my whitewash brush and came over, moving like a hunter. Anthe was armed and dangerous; we had to get the yellow brush away from her,
carefully
, before worse happened….
    I shifted the bucket of paint pots out of reach. “But what is it meant to be, Anthe dear?” asked Kore, edging to grab the wildcat’s wrist.
    “Nothing! It’s just
color
.“
    Palikari and Papa Dicty came hurrying in from the street.
    “You have to come with us!” Pali was out of breath. “Trouble! We need to move the refugees, right now!”
    The boss looked at the daubs of paint on the wall, and then at Anthe, who was standing there red-handed (or yellow-handed). “Have you changed your trade, child?”
    “No-o-o!” Anthe wailed, coming out of her mad fit. “Oh no! I’ve ruined my life! I don’t know why I did that! Master! Forgive me!”
    “If you haven’t changed your trade, then get started inthe kitchen. You’re on your own. People still want to eat, even in hot weather. Send Koukla out to mind the front desk. Perseus, Kore, come with us. You’re both needed at the Enclosure.”
    They told us what had happened as we hurried through the streets. The boss had been making his usual rounds with Moumi, talking to people as they rested in the heat of the day: hearing grievances, picking up news. He’d been met by an informant of ours, who brought an ugly rumor. The king had decided that those ill-omened earthquake refugees had been camped in the Great Mother Enclosure for long enough.
    “Your king would invade a sanctuary!” Kore cried.
    “Oh yes,” said Pali grimly.
    “I