The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,186

death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.

For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.

The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.

Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,

Petyr van Abel

Montcleve

Michaelmas, 1689

Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment, his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.

Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.

“That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt,” he said, “do you still have it?”

“Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I’ve already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It’s going to take a little time.”

“Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald—that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher … Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat.”

“But you do not actually remember it?”

“No, but I’m sure … And Aaron—”

“Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn’t much time.”

“I need a pen and paper to take notes.”

“What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions.”

“Exactly, I wish I’d been keeping a notebook all along.”

“I’ll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There’ll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring.”

“That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things … ”

“I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read.”

Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.

At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.

The kindly woman he’d seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.

He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:

“After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.

“And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don’t really remember this. I simply know it.

“And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I’ve been doing, but to touch something specific …

“But it’s too soon to draw conclusions … ”

But if I only had something of Deborah’s to touch, he thought. But he sensed there was nothing, or else Aaron would have sent for it too. He examined the photocopies of Petyr van Abel’s letters. That’s all they were—photocopies. No good for his anxious hands.

He thought for a moment, if such confusion in one’s mind could be called thought, and then he drew a picture in the notebook of a necklace, showing a rectangular jewel in the center, and a filigree border, and a chain of gold. He drew it the way he would draw an architectural design, with very clean, straight lines and slightly shaded detail.

He studied it, the gloved fingers of his left hand working nervously in his hair, and then curling into a fist as he rested his hand on the desk. He was