The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,508

asked Rowan.

“No, no everything is all right now,” said Ryan.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” said Pierce.

But Gifford was silent. They were all confused. When Rowan looked at Michael she saw the same dazed expression, and behind it the old dark turbulent distress.

Beatrice murmured some little apology for all that had happened; she stepped up and led Gifford away. Ryan went with them. And Pierce remained, motionless, struck dumb.

Lily looked around, apparently confused for a moment, and then called to Hercules to please find her coat.

Randall, Fielding, and Peter remained in the stillness. Others lingered in the shadows. The little girl with the ribbon stared from a distance, her round sweet young face like a flame in the dark. The taller child, Jenn, appeared to be crying.

Suddenly Peter clasped Rowan’s hand.

“You’re wise in what you said. You’d waste your life if you got caught up in it.”

“That’s correct,” said Randall. “That’s what happened to Stella. Same thing with Carlotta. She wasted her life! Same thing.” But he was anxious, and only too ready to withdraw. He turned and slipped off without a farewell.

“Come on, young man, help me up,” said Fielding to Michael. “The party’s over, and by the way, my congratulations on the marriage. Maybe I’ll live long enough to see the wedding. And please, don’t invite the ghost.”

Michael looked disoriented. He glanced at Rowan, and then down at the old man, and then very gently he helped the old man to his feet. Then he looked at Rowan again. The confusion and dread were there as before.

Several of the young ones approached, to tell Rowan not to be discouraged by all this Mayfair madness. Anne Marie begged her to go on with her plans. A light breeze came at last with just a touch of coolness to it.

“Everybody will be heartbroken if you don’t move into the house,” said Margaret Ann.

“You’re not giving it up?” demanded Clancy.

“Of course not,” said Rowan with a smile. “What an absurd idea.”

Aaron stood watching Rowan impassively. And Beatrice came back now with a flood of apologies on behalf of Gifford, begging Rowan not to be upset.

The others were coming back; they had their raincoats, purses, whatever they had gone to gather. It was full dark now; and the air was cool, deliciously cool. And the party was over.

For thirty minutes, the cousins said their good-byes, all issuing the same warnings. Stay, don’t go. Restore the house. Forget all the old talk.

And Ryan apologized for Gifford and for the awful things she’d said. Surely Rowan must not take Gifford’s words as truth. Rowan waved it away.

“Thank you, thank you very much for everything,” said Rowan. “And don’t worry. I wanted to know the old stories. I wanted to know what the family was saying. And now I do.”

“There’s no ghost up there,” said Ryan, looking her directly in the eye.

Rowan didn’t bother to answer.

“You’re going to be happy at First Street,” said Ryan. “You’ll change the image.” As Michael appeared at her side, he shook Michael’s hand.

Turning to take her leave, Rowan saw that Aaron was at the front gate, talking with Gifford of all people, and Beatrice. Gifford seemed entirely comforted.

Ryan waited, patiently, a silhouette in the front door.

“Not to worry about anything at all,” Aaron was saying to Gifford, in his seductive British accent.

Gifford flung her arms around him suddenly. Graciously he returned her embrace and kissed her hand as he withdrew. Beatrice was only slightly less effusive. Then they both stood back, Gifford white-faced and weary-looking, as Aaron’s black limousine lumbered to the curb.

“Don’t worry about anything, Rowan,” said Beatrice cheerily. “Lunch tomorrow, don’t forget. And this shall be the most beautiful wedding!”

Rowan smiled. “Don’t worry, Bea.”

Rowan and Michael slipped into the long backseat, while Aaron took his favorite place, with his back to the driver. And the car slowly pulled away.

The flood of ice-cold air was a blessing to Rowan. The lingering humidity and the atmosphere of the twilight garden were clinging to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

When she looked up again, she saw that they were on Metairie Road, speeding past the newer cemeteries of the city which looked grim and without romance through the dark tinted glass. The world always looked so ghastly through the tinted windows of a limousine, she thought. The worst shade of darkness imaginable. Suddenly it pierced her nerves.

She turned to Michael, and seeing that awful expression on his face again, she felt impatient. She had only been