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leaked in before he closed the door behind him.

    “Did you see that?” Roscuro said to Botticelli.
    “Hideously ugly,” said Botticelli. “Ridiculous. What can they possibly mean by letting all that light in at once. Don’t they know that this is a dungeon?”
    “It was beautiful,” said Roscuro.
    “No,” said Botticelli. “No.” He looked at Roscuro intently. “Not beautiful. No.”
    “I must see more light. I must see all of it,” said Roscuro. “I must go upstairs.”
    Botticelli sighed. “Who cares about the light? Your obsession with it is tiresome. Listen. We are rats. Rats. We do not like light. We are about darkness. We are about suffering.”
    “But,” said Roscuro, “upstairs.”
    “No ‘buts,’ ” said Botticelli. “No ‘buts.’ None. Rats do not go upstairs. Upstairs is the domain of mice.” He took the locket from around his neck.
    “What,” he said, swinging it back and forth, “is this rope made of?”
    “Whiskers.”
    “The whiskers of whom?”
    “Mice.”
    “Exactly. And who lives upstairs?”
    “Mice.”
    “Exactly. Mice.” Botticelli turned his head and spat on the floor. “Mice are nothing but little packages of blood and bones, afraid of everything. They are despicable, laughable, the opposite of everything we strive to be. Do you want to live in their world?”
    Roscuro looked up, past Botticelli to the delicious sliver of light that shone out from underneath the door. He said nothing.
    “Listen,” said Botticelli, “this is what you should do: Go and torture the prisoner. Go and take the red cloth from him. The cloth will satisfy your cravings for something from that world. But do not go up into the light. You will regret it.” As he spoke, the locket swung back and forth, back and forth. “You do not belong in that world. You are a rat. A rat. Say it with me.”
    “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