The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,369

little girl.”

“Rowan, I’m Pierce Mayfair,” said the handsome young man on her right, extending his hand suddenly. “I’m Cortland’s great-grandson.”

“Darling, I’m Beatrice, your cousin.” Whiff of perfume. The woman with the iron gray hair. Soft skin touching Rowan’s cheek. Enormous gray eyes.

“—Cecilia Mayfair, Barclay’s granddaughter, my grandfather was Julien’s second son born at the First Street house, and here, Sister, come, this is Sister Marie Claire. Sister, this is Rowan, this is Deirdre’s girl!”

Weren’t you supposed to say something respectable to nuns, but this sister couldn’t have heard. They were shouting in her ear. “Deirdre’s girl, Rowan!”

“—Timothy Mayfair, your fourth cousin, we’re glad to see you, Rowan—”

“—glad to see you on this sad … ”

“Peter Mayfair, we’ll talk later on. Garland was my father. Did Ellie ever talk about Garland?”

Dear God, they were all Mayfairs. Polly Mayfair, and Agnes Mayfair, and Philip Mayfair’s girls, and Eugenie Mayfair, and on and on it went. How many of them could there possibly be? Not a family but a legion. She was clasping one hand after another, and at the same time cleaving to the beefy Mr. Lonigan, who held her so firmly. Was she trembling? No, this is what they call shaking, not trembling.

Lips brushed her cheek. “ … Clancy Mayfair, Clay’s great-granddaughter. Clay was born at First Street before the Civil War. My mother is Trudy Mayfair, here, Mother, come, let Mother through … ”

“ … so glad to see you, darling. Have you seen Carlotta?”

“Miss Carlotta’s feeling pretty bad,” said Mr. Lonigan. “She’ll meet us at the church—”

“—ninety years old now, you know.”

“—do you want a glass of water? She’s white as a sheet, Pierce, get her a glass of water.”

“Magdalene Mayfair, Rémy’s great-granddaughter. Rémy lived at First Street for years. This is my son, Garvey, and my daughter, Lindsey. Here, Dan, Dan say hello to Dr. Mayfair. Dan is Vincent’s great-grandson. Did Ellie tell you about Clay and Vincent and … ”

No, never, about anyone. Promise me you will never go back, that you’ll never try to find out. But why, why in the name of God? All these people—why the paper, the secrecy?

“—Gerald’s with her. Pierce stopped by. He saw her. She’s fine, she’ll be at the church.”

“Do you want to sit down, honey?”

“Are you all right?”

“Lily, darling, Lily Mayfair. you’ll never remember all our names, don’t try.”

“Robert, honey. We’ll talk to you later.”

“—here if you need us, Rowan. Are you feeling all right?”

I am. I’m fine. I just can’t talk. I can’t move. I …

There was tightening again of the facial muscles. Rigid, rigid all over. She held tighter to Mr. Lonigan’s hand. He said something to them about her paying her respects now. Was he telling them to go away? A man touched her left hand.

“I’m Guy Mayfair, Andrea’s son, and this is my wife, Stephanie, she’s Grady’s daughter. She was Ellie’s first cousin.”

She wanted to respond, was clasping each hand enough, was nodding enough? Was kissing back the old woman who kissed her enough? Another man was talking to her but his voice was too soft. He was old, he was saying something about Sheffield. The coffin was twenty feet away at most. She didn’t dare look up, or look away from them, for fear she’d see it accidentally.

But this is what you came for, and you have to do it. And they are here, hundreds of them …

“Rowan,” said someone to her left, “this is Fielding Mayfair, Clay’s son.” Such a very old man, so old she could see all the bones of his skull through his pale skin, see the lower and upper teeth and the ridges around his sunken eyes. They were holding him up; he couldn’t stand by himself, and all this struggle, so that he might see her? She put out her hand. “He wants to kiss you, honey.” She brushed his cheek with her lips.

His speech was low, his eyes yellowed as he looked up at her. She tried to hear what he was saying, something about Lestan Mayfair and Riverbend. What was Riverbend? She nodded. He was too old to be treated badly. She had to say something! He was too old to be struggling like this just to pay his respects to her. When she squeezed his hand, it felt so smooth and silky and knotted and strong.

“I think she’s going to faint,” someone whispered. Surely they weren’t talking about her.

“Do you want me to take you up to the coffin?” The young man again, the handsome