The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,171

others who were then painting in our city, some friends of ours then as they are today. And she appeared to warm to this, and to come alive as it were, her face at moments most gentle and sweet.

But it was when we passed the shops of the jewelers that she begged me with a light touch of her white fingers on my arm to stop. White fingers. I write this because I remember it so well—her delicate hand shining like a lady’s hand as she touched me, and the weak desire for her I felt at this touch.

She showed a great fascination with those who were cutting and polishing diamonds and with the comings and goings of the merchants and the rich patrons who had come from all over Europe, nay the world, to buy their fine jewels. I wished that I had the money to buy something pretty for her, and of course the merchants being much taken with her beauty, and her fine clothes—for Roemer’s wife had turned her out beautifully—began to play to her, and ask would she like to see their wares.

A fine Brazilian emerald set in gold was being shown to a rich Englishman, and this caught her eye. When the Englishman forswore it on account of the expense, she sat down at the table to look at it, as if she could well purchase it or I might for her, and it seemed she fell into a spell staring at this rectangular gem, fixed in its filigree of old gold. And then in English, she asked the price of it, and did not bat an eye when told.

I assured the merchant we would take it under consideration most deeply, as obviously the lady wanted it, and with a smile, I helped her to the street. Then I fell into sadness that I could not buy it for her.

And as we walked along the quay together back to the house, she said to me, “Do not be sad. For who expects such things of you?” and for the very first time she smiled at me, and pressed my hand. My heart leapt at this, but she lapsed again into her coldness and her silence and would say nothing more.

I confessed all this to Roemer, who advised me that we had not taken vows of chastity but that I was behaving most honorably, which was as he expected, and that I should study my English books now, as my writing in English was still dreadful, and thereby occupy my mind.

On the seventh day of Deborah’s time in the Motherhouse, one of our members of whom you have heard and studied much, though she is dead these many years, came home from Haarlem where she had been visiting her brother, a rather ordinary sort of man. But she was no ordinary woman, and it is of the great witch, Geertruid van Stolk, that I speak. She was at that time the most powerful of all our members, be they men or women; and at once the story of Deborah was told to her, and she was asked to speak to the child and see if she could read Deborah’s thoughts.

“She will not tell us whether she can read or write,” said Roemer, “in fact, she will tell us nothing, and we cannot divine what she reads from our minds or of our intentions, and we do not know how to proceed. We feel in our hearts that she has powers, but we are not sure of it; she has locked her mind to us.”

At once Geertruid went to her, but Deborah, on merely hearing this woman approach, rose from her stool, overturning it, and threw down her sewing and backed up against the wall. There she stared at Geertruid with a look of pure hatred on her face, and then sought to get out of the room, clawing at the walls as if to go through them, and at last finding the door and rushing down the passage towards the street.

Roemer and I restrained her, begging her to be calm, and telling her that no one meant to hurt her, and at last Roemer said, “We must break the silence of this child.” Meantime Geertruid gave to me a note, hastily scratched on paper, which said in Latin, “The child is a powerful witch,” and this I passed on to Roemer without a word.

We implored Deborah to come with us into Roemer’s study, a large and