The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,507

Felice. “And you want my advice, forget the legends. Forget the old foolishness about the thirteen witches and the doorway. And forget about him! He’s just a ghost, and nothing more, and you may think that sounds strange, but truly it isn’t.”

“He can’t do anything to you,” said Lauren, with a sneer.

“No, he can’t,” said Felice. “He’s like the breeze.”

“He’s a ghost,” said Lily. “That’s all he is and all he’ll ever be.”

“And who knows?” asked Cecilia. “Maybe he’s no longer even there.”

They all stared at her.

“Well, nobody’s seen him since Deirdre died.”

A door slammed. There was a tinkling sound, of glass falling, and a commotion on the edge of the circle. People shifted, stepped aside. Gifford pushed her way to the center, her face wet and stained, her hands shaking.

“Can’t do anything! Can’t hurt anyone! Is that what you’re telling her! Can’t do anything! He killed Cortland, that’s what he did! After Cortland raped your mother! Did you know that, Rowan!”

“Hush, Gifford!” Fielding roared.

“Cortland was your father,” Gifford screamed. “The hell he can’t do anything! Drive him out, Rowan! Turn your strength on him and drive him out! Exorcise the house! Burn it down if you have to … Burn it down!”

A roar of protest came from all directions, and vague expressions of scorn or outrage. Ryan had appeared and was trying once more to restrain Gifford. She turned and slapped his face. Gasps came from all around. Pierce was obviously mortified and helpless.

Lily rose and left the group, and so did Felice, who almost fell in her haste. Anne Marie struggled to her feet, and helped Felice to get away. But the others stood firm, including Ryan, who simply wiped his face with his handkerchief, as if to regain his composure while Gifford stood with her fists clenched, lips trembling. Beatrice was clearly desperate to help but didn’t know what to do.

Rowan rose and went towards Gifford.

“Gifford, listen to me,” said Rowan. “Don’t be afraid. It’s the future we care about, not the past.” She took Gifford by both arms, and reluctantly Gifford looked up into her face. “I will do what’s good,” said Rowan, “and what’s right, and what’s good and right for the family. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Gifford broke into sobs, her head bent again as if her neck were too weak to hold it. Her hair fell down into her eyes. “Only evil people can be happy in that house,” she said. “And they were evil—Cortland was evil!” Both Pierce and Ryan had their arms around her. Ryan was becoming angry. But Rowan hadn’t let her go.

“Too much to drink,” said Cecilia. Someone had thrown on the yard lights.

Gifford appeared to collapse suddenly, but still Rowan held her.

“No, listen to me, please, Gifford,” Rowan said, but she was really speaking to the others. She saw Lily standing only a short distance away, and Felice beside her. She saw Beatrice’s eyes fixed on her. And Michael was standing, watching her, as he stood behind Fielding’s chair.

“I’ve been listening to you all,” said Rowan, “and learning from you. But I have something to say. The way to survive this strange spirit and his machinations is to see him in a large perspective. Now, the family, and life itself, are part of that perspective. And he must never be allowed to shrink the family or shrink the possibilities of life. If he exists as you say he does, then he belongs in the shadows.”

Randall and Peter were watching her intently. So was Lauren. Aaron stood very near to Michael, and he too was listening. Only Fielding seemed cold, and sneering, and did not look at Rowan. Gifford was staring at her in a daze.

“I think Mary Beth and Julien knew that,” said Rowan. “I mean to follow their example. If something appears to me out of the shadows at First Street, no matter how mysterious it might be, it won’t eclipse the greater scheme, the greater light. Surely you follow my meaning.”

Gifford seemed almost spellbound. And very slowly Rowan realized how peculiar this moment had become. She realized how strange her words seemed; and how strange she must have appeared to all of them, making this unusual speech while she held this frail, hysterical woman by both arms.

Indeed they were all staring at her as if they too had been spellbound.

Gently she let Gifford go. Gifford stepped backwards, and into Ryan’s embrace, but her eyes remained large, empty, and fixed on Rowan.

“I’m frightening you, aren’t I?”