The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,441

how they’ve grown up the other side, fighting the bougainvillea? Ah, but it’s the queen of the wall, isn’t it?”

Almost violent the fluorescent purple bracts that everyone thought were flowers.

“Lord God, how many times did I try to make all this in some little backyard in California, before I turned over the key to the new owner. After I’d hung the Quaker Lace curtains on the windows, and done the floors with Minwax Golden Oak, and found the claw-footed tub from the salvage yard. And here the place looms, the genuine article … ”

“And it’s yours, too,” she said. “Yours and mine.” How innocent she seemed now, how full of eager sincerity her soft smile.

She wound her arm around him again, squeezed his gloved hand with her naked fingers. “But what if it’s all decayed inside, Michael? What would it take to cure everything that’s wrong?”

“Come here, stand back here, and look,” he said. “See the way the servants’ porches run completely straight up there? There’s no weakness in the foundation of this house at all. There are no leaks visible on the first floor, no dampness seeping through. Nothing! And in the old days those porches were the hallways by which the servants came and went. That’s why there are so many floor-length windows and doors, and by the way every window and door I’ve tried is level. And the house is all open on this side to catch the river breeze. All over the city, you’ll see that, houses open on the river side, to catch the river breeze.”

She gazed up at the windows of Julien’s old room. Was she thinking again of Antha?

“I can feel the curse lifting from this place,” she whispered. “That’s what was meant, that you and I should come, and love each other here.”

Yes, I believe mat, he thought, but somehow or other he didn’t say it. Maybe the stillness around him seemed too alive; maybe he was afraid to challenge something unseen that watched and listened.

“All these walls are solid brick, Rowan,” he went on, “and some of them as much as twenty inches thick. I measured them with my hands when I walked through the various doorways. Twenty inches thick. They’d been plastered over outside to make the house look like stone because that was the fashion. See the scoring in the paint? To make it look like a villa built of great blocks of stone?

“It’s a polyglot,” he confessed, “with its cast-iron lace and Corinthian columns and Doric and Ionic columns, and the keyhole doorways—”

“Yeah, keyholes,” she said. “And I’ll tell you about another place where I saw a doorway like that. It’s on the tomb. At the very top of the Mayfair tomb.”

“How do you mean at the top?”

“Just the carving of a doorway, like the doorways in this house. I’m sure that’s what it was, unless it’s really meant to be a keyhole. I’ll show you. We can walk over there today or tomorrow. It’s right off the main path.”

Why did that fill him with uneasiness? A doorway carved on the tomb? He hated graveyards, he hated tombs. But sooner or later he had to see it, didn’t he? He went on talking, stifling the feeling, wanting to have the moment and the sight of the house before him, bathed in the lovely sun.

“Then there are those curved Italianate windows on the north side,” he said, “and that’s another architectural influence. But it’s all of a piece, finally. It works because it works. It’s built for this climate with its fifteen-foot ceilings. It’s a great trap for light and cool breezes, a citadel against the heat.”

Slipping her arm around him, she followed him back inside and up the long shadowy stairs.

“See, this plaster is firm,” he explained. “It’s almost surely the original, but it was done by master craftsmen. They probably ran those crown moldings by hand. There aren’t even the minimum cracks you’d expect from settlement. When I get under the house I’m going to find these are chain walls that go clear down to the ground, and that the sills that support this house are enormous. They have to be. Everything is level, firm.”

“And I thought it was hopeless when I first saw it.”

“Take this old wallpaper down with your imagination,” he said. “Paint the walls in your mind’s eyes with bright warm colors. See all this woodwork shining white and clean.”

“It’s ours now,” she whispered. “Yours and mine. We’re writing the file from now on.”

“The