The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,398

many men of her own choice, was it as good as a mortal man? Think before you speak. He’ll tell you that no mortal man could give you the pleasure he gives. But was it true? It carries a terrible price, that pleasure.”

“I thought it was a dream.”

“But you saw him.”

“That was the night before. The touching was in a dream. It was different.”

“He touched her until the very end,” said the woman. “No matter how much drugs they gave her. No matter how stupid her stare, how listless her walk. When she lay in bed at night he came, he touched her. Like a common whore she writhed on the bed, under his touch … ” She bit down on her words, then the smile came again playing on her lips, like the light. “Does that make you angry? Angry with me that I tell you this? Do you think it was a pretty sight?”

“I think she was sick and out of her mind, and it was human.”

“No, my dear, their intercourse was never human.”

“You want me to believe that this is a ghost I saw, that he touched my mother, that I have somehow inherited him.”

“Yes, and swallow back your anger. Your dangerous anger.”

Rowan was stunned. A wave of fear and confusion passed over her. “You’re reading my mind, you’ve been doing it all along.”

“Oh yes, as best as I can, I do. I wish I could read it better. Your mother was not the only woman in this house with the power. Three generations before I was the one meant for the necklace. I saw him when I was three years old, so clear and strong that he could slip his warm hand in mine, he could lift me in the air, yes, lift my body, but I refused him. I turned my back on him. I told him, You go back to the hell from which you came. And I used my power to fight him.”

“And this necklace now, it comes to me because I can see him?”

“It comes to you because you are the only girl child and choice is not possible. It would come to you no matter how weak your powers were. But that doesn’t matter. Because your powers are strong, very strong, and always have been.” She paused, considering Rowan again, her face unreadable for a moment, perhaps devoid of any specific judgment. “Imprecise, yes, and inconsistent, of course, and uncontrolled perhaps—but strong.”

“Don’t overestimate them,” said Rowan softly. “I never do.”

“Long ago, Ellie told me all about it,” said the old woman. “Ellie told me you could make the flowers wither. Ellie told me you could make the water boil. ‘She’s a stronger witch than ever Antha was, or Deirdre was,’ that’s what she told me, crying and begging me for advice as to what she could do! ‘Keep her away!’ I said. ‘See that she never comes home, see that she never knows! See that she never learns to use it.’ ”

Rowan sighed. She ignored the dull pain at the mention of Ellie, of Ellie speaking to these people about her. Cut off alone. And all of them here. Even this wretched old woman here.

“Yes, and I can feel your anger again, anger against me, anger for what you think you know that I did to your mother!”

“I don’t want to be angry with you,” said Rowan in a small voice. “I only want to understand what you’re saying, I want to know why I was taken away … ”

Again, the old woman lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Her fingers hovered over the jewel case and then folded down upon it and lay still, all too much like the flaccid hands of Deirdre in the casket.

Rowan looked away. She looked at the far wall, at the panorama of painted sky above the fireplace.

“Oh, but don’t these words bring you even the slightest consolation? Haven’t you wondered all these years, were you the only one in the world who could read others’ thoughts, the only one who knew when someone near you was going to die? The only one who could drive a person back away from you with your anger? Look at the candles. You can make them go out and you can light them again. Do it.”

Rowan did nothing. She stared at the little flames. She could feel herself trembling. If only you really knew, if only you knew what I could do to you now …

“But I do, you