The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,153

can teach you how to block the images. It isn’t really as difficult as you … ”

“I want the file,” said Michael. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and swallowed the rest of his coffee.

“Of course you do, and you shall have it,” said Aaron with a sigh.

“Can I go to my room now? Oh, and if they could manage another pot of this lovely black syrupy coffee and hot milk … ”

“Of course.”

Aaron led Michael out of the breakfast room, stopping only to give the order for the coffee, and then he led Michael back down the broad central hallway to the front bedroom.

The dark damask drapes covering the front floor-length windows had been opened, and through every pane of glass shone the gentle summer light, filtered through the trees.

The briefcase with the bulging file in its leather folder lay on the quilt-covered four-poster bed.

“All right, my friend,” Aaron said. “They’ll bring in the coffee without knocking so as not to disturb you. Sit out on the front gallery if you like. And please read carefully. There’s the phone if you need me. Dial the operator and ask for Aaron. I’m going to be down the hall, a couple of doors, catching a little sleep.”

Michael took off his tie and his jacket, went into the bathroom and washed his face, and was just getting his cigarettes out of his suitcase when the coffee arrived.

He was surprised and a little disturbed to see Aaron reappear, with a troubled expression on his face. Scarcely five minutes had passed, or so it seemed.

Aaron told the young boy servant to set the tray down on the desk facing out from the corner, and then he waited for the boy to leave.

“Bad news, Michael.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just called London for my messages. Seems they tried to reach me in San Francisco to tell me Rowan’s mother was dying. But we failed to connect.”

“Rowan will want to know this, Aaron.”

“It’s over, Michael. Deirdre Mayfair died this morning, around five A.M.” His voice faltered slightly. “You and I were talking at the time, I believe.”

“How awful for Rowan,” said Michael. “You can’t imagine how this will affect her. You just don’t know.”

“She’s coming, Michael,” said Aaron. “She contacted the funeral parlor, and asked them to postpone the Services. They agreed. She inquired about the Pontchartrain Hotel when she called. We’ll check, of course, to see whether or not she’s made reservations. But I believe we can count on her arriving very soon.”

“You’re worse than the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know it?” Michael said. But he wasn’t angry. This was precisely the information he wanted. With a bit of relief he reviewed in his mind the time of his arrival, his visit to the house, and his waking afterwards. No, there was nothing he could have done to effect a meeting with Rowan and her mother.

“Yes, we are very thorough,” said Aaron sadly. “We think of everything. I wonder if God is as indifferent as we are to the proceedings we watch.” His face underwent a distinct change, as he appeared to draw inward. Then he moved to leave, apparently without another word.

“You actually knew Rowan’s mother?” Michael asked.

“Yes, I knew her,” said Aaron bitterly, “and I was never able to do a single solitary thing to help her. But that’s often how it is with us, you see. Perhaps this time things will be different. And then again, perhaps not.” He turned the knob to go. “It’s all there,” he said pointing to the folder. “There’s no time anymore for talk.”

Michael watched helplessly as he left in silence. The little display of emotion had surprised him completely, but it had also reassured him. He felt sad that he had been unable to say anything comforting. And if he started to think of Rowan, of seeing her and holding her, and trying to explain all this to her, he would go crazy. No time to lose.

Taking the leather folder from the bed, he set it on the desk. He collected his cigarettes, and he took his seat in the leather desk chair. Almost absently he reached for the silver coffeepot, and poured himself a cup of coffee, and then added the hot milk.

The sweet aroma filled the room.

He opened the cover, and took up the manila folder inside it, marked simply “THE MAYFAIR WITCHES: Number One.” It contained a thick bound typescript, and an envelope marked “Photocopies of the Original Documents.”

His heart ached for