The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,501

and hooked it over the back of the chair. He ignored her.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he said. “She let it fall to ruin! It’s a wonder it can be restored at all.”

“Granddaddy,” said Gifford, almost desperately.

“Oh, let him talk, darling,” said Lily, with a little palsy to her small head, eyes flickering over Rowan, her thin hand knotted around her drink.

“You think anyone could shut me up,” said the old man. “She said he was the one who wouldn’t let her, she blamed it all on him. She believed in him and used him when she had her reasons.”

A hush was falling over those around them. It seemed the light died a little as the others pressed in. Rowan was vaguely aware that the dark gray figure of Randall was moving in the corner of her eye.

“Granddaddy, I wish you wouldn’t … ” said Gifford.

Oh, but I wish you would!

“She was the one,” Fielding said. “She wanted it to fall down around her. I wonder sometimes why she didn’t burn it, like that wicked housekeeper in Rebecca. I used to worry that she’d do it. That she’d burn all the old pictures. You see the pictures? You see Julien and his sons standing in front of the doorway?”

“The doorway. You mean the keyhole door at the front of the house?”

Had Michael heard him? Yes, he was coming towards them, obviously trying to silence Cecilia who whispered nonstop in his ear, oblivious to the dazed expression on his face, and Aaron stood not very far away, under the magnolia, unnoticed, eyes fixed on the group. If only she could put a spell on them so that they didn’t see Aaron.

But they weren’t noticing anything except each other, Fielding nodding, and Felice speaking up, her silver bracelets jangling as she pointed at Fielding.

“Tell her about it,” said Felice, “I say you should. You want my opinion? Carlotta wanted that house. She wanted to rule in that house. She was mistress of it till the day she died, wasn’t she?”

“She didn’t want anything,” grumbled Fielding, with a flopping dismissive gesture of his left hand. “That was her curse. She only wanted to destroy.”

“What about the doorway?” asked Rowan.

“Granddaddy, I’m going to take you … ”

“You’re not going to take me anywhere, Gifford,” he said, his voice almost youthful in its determination. “Rowan’s moving back into that house. I have things to say to Rowan.”

“In private!” Gifford declared.

“Let him talk, darling, what’s the harm?” said Lily. “And this is private. We’re all Mayfairs here.”

“It’s a beautiful house, she’ll love it!” said Magdalene sharply. “What are you all trying to do, scare her?”

Randall stood behind Magdalene, eyebrows raised, lips slightly pursed, all the wrinkles of his saggy old face drawn long and deep, as he looked down at Fielding.

“But what were you going to say?” asked Rowan.

“It’s just a package of old legends,” said Ryan, with a faint touch of irritation, though he spoke more slowly, obviously trying to hold it in. “Stupid old legends about a doorway and they don’t mean anything.”

Michael drew up behind Fielding, and Aaron came a little closer. Still they took no notice.

“I want to know, actually,” said Pierce. He was standing to the left behind Felice and beside Randall. Felice stared intently at Fielding, her head wagging ever so slightly because she was drunk. “My great-grandfather was painted in front of the doorway,” said Pierce. “That portrait’s inside. They were always in front of that doorway.”

“And why shouldn’t they stand on the front porch of the house in these pictures?” asked Ryan. “They lived there. We have to remember, before Carlotta it was our great-great-grandfather’s house.”

“That’s it,” Michael murmured. “That’s where I saw the door. In the pictures. God, I should have taken a closer look at those pictures … ”

Ryan glanced at him. Rowan reached out for him, gestured for him to come to her, and Ryan’s eyes followed as Michael came around to the back of Rowan’s chair. Pierce was talking again as Michael slipped down on the grass beside Rowan, so that she could rest her hand on his shoulder. Aaron now stood quite close by.

“But even in the old photos,” Pierce was saying, “they’re in front of the door. Always a keyhole door. Either the front door or one of the doors … ”

“Yes, the door,” said Lily. “And the door’s on the grave. The same keyhole doorway carved right above the crypts. And nobody even knows who had it done.”

“Well, it was Julien, of