The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,348

that one is being followed. I left before she did and went back to my little downtown hotel.

That afternoon, I again wandered the campus, and as soon as I approached her dormitory, she appeared. This time she wore a white cotton dress with short sleeves and a beautifully fitted bodice, and a rather loose billowy skirt.

Once again, she appeared to be walking aimlessly; however this time she took an unexpected turn towards the back of the campus, so to speak, away from the groomed lawns and the traffic, and I soon found myself following her into a large, deeply neglected botanical garden—a place so shadowy and wild and overgrown that I became fearful for her as she proceeded, way ahead of me, along the uneven path.

At last the large stands of bamboo blotted out all signs of the distant dormitories, and all noise from the even more distant streets. The air felt heavy as it feels in New Orleans, yet slightly more dry.

I came down a small walkway over a little bridge, and looked up to see Deirdre facing me as she stood quite still beneath a large flowering tree. She lifted her right hand and beckoned for me to come closer. Were my eyes deceiving me? No. She was staring straight at me.

“Mr. Lightner,” she said, “what is it you want?” Her voice was low, and faintly tremulous. She seemed neither angry nor afraid. I was unable to answer her. I realized suddenly she was wearing the Mayfair emerald around her neck. It must have been under her dress when she came out of the dormitory. Now it was plainly in view.

A tiny alarm sounded inside me. I struggled to say something simple and honest and thoughtful. Instead, I said, “I’ve been following you, Deirdre.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know.”

She turned her back to me, beckoning for me to follow, and went down a narrow overgrown set of steps to a near secret place where cement benches formed a circle, all but hidden from the main path. The bamboo was crackling faintly in the breeze. The smell of the nearby pond was rank. But the spot had an undeniable beauty to it.

She settled on the bench, her dress a shining whiteness in the shadows, the emerald flashing against her breast.

Danger, Lightner, I said to myself. You are in danger.

“Mr. Lightner,” she said, looking up as I sat opposite, “just tell me what you want!”

“Deirdre, I know many things,” I said. “Things about you and your mother, and your mother’s mother, and about her mother before her. History, secrets, gossip, genealogies … all sorts of things really. In a house in Amsterdam there is a portrait of a woman, your ancestor. Her name was Deborah. She was the one who bought that emerald from a jeweler in Holland hundreds of years ago.”

None of this seemed to surprise her. She was studying me, obviously scanning for lies and ill intentions. I myself was unaccountably shaken. I was talking to Deirdre Mayfair. I was sitting with Deirdre Mayfair at last.

“Deirdre,” I said, “tell me if you want to know what I know. Do you want to see the letters of a man who loved your ancestor, Deborah? Do you want to hear how she died in France, and how her daughter came across the sea to Saint-Domingue? On the day she died, Lasher brought a storm to the village … ”

I stopped. It was as if the words had dried up in my mouth. Her face had undergone a shocking change. For a moment I thought it was rage that had overwhelmed her. Then I realized it was some consuming inner struggle.

“Mr. Lightner,” she whispered, “I don’t want to know. I want to forget what I do know. I came here to get away.”

“Ah.” I said nothing for a moment.

I could feel her growing more calm. I was the one at a loss, quite completely. Then she said:

“Mr. Lightner”—her voice very steady yet infused with emotion—“my aunt says that you study us because you believe we are special people. That you would help the evil in us, out of curiosity, if you could. No, don’t misunderstand me. She means that by talking about the evil, you would feed it. By studying it, you would give it more life.” Her soft blue eyes pleaded for my understanding. How remarkably poised she seemed; how surprisingly calm.

“I understand your aunt’s point of view,” I said. In fact, I was amazed. Amazed that Carlotta Mayfair knew who