The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,511

poisoned by it, and hoping it wasn’t true, and afraid.

“Please, don’t go on with this,” Aaron said gently. “The old man was a little bit of a fool, Rowan.” His voice was like soothing music, drawing the tension out of her. “Fielding wanted to feel important. It was a boasting match among the three of them—Randall, Peter, and Fielding. Don’t be harsh with him. He’s simply … too old. Believe me, I know. I’m almost there myself.”

She wiped her nose and looked up at Aaron. He was smiling and she smiled too.

“Are they good people, Aaron? What do you think?” She was deliberately ignoring Michael for the moment.

“Fine people, Rowan. Far better than most, my dear. And they love you. They love you. The old man loves you. You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in the last ten years. They don’t invite him out much, the others. He was basking in the attention. And of course, for all their secrets, they don’t know what you know.”

“You’re right,” she whispered. She felt drained now, and miserable. Emotional outbursts for her were never cathartic. They always left her shaky and unhappy.

“All right,” she said, “I’d ask him to give me away at the wedding, damn it, except I have another very dear friend in mind.” She wiped her eyes again with the folded handkerchief, and blotted her lips. “I’m talking about you, Aaron. I know it’s late notice. But will you walk up the aisle with me?”

“Darling, I’d be honored,” he said. “Nothing would give me greater happiness.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Now, please, please don’t think about that old fool anymore.”

“Thank you, Aaron,” she said. She sat back, and took a deep breath before she turned to Michael. In fact she had been deliberately leaving him out. And suddenly she felt terribly sorry. He looked so dejected and so gentle. She said: “Well, have you calmed down or have you had a heart attack? You’re awfully quiet.”

He laughed under his breath, warming at once. His eyes were so brilliantly blue when he smiled. “You know, when I was a kid,” he said, taking her hand again, “I used to think that having a family ghost would be wonderful! I used to wish I could see a ghost! I used to think, ah, to live in a haunted house, wouldn’t that be great!”

He was his old self again, cheerful and strong, even if he was a little ragged at the edges. She leaned over and pressed her lips against his roughened cheek. “I’m sorry I got angry.”

“I’m sorry, too, honey. I’m really sorry. That old man didn’t mean any harm. He’s just crazy. They all have a little craziness. I guess it’s their Irish blood. I haven’t been around lace curtain Irish very much. I guess they’re as crazy as all the others.”

There was a little smile on Aaron’s lips as he watched them, but they were all shaken now, and tired. And this conversation had sapped their last bit of vigor.

It seemed to Rowan that the gloom was descending again. If only this glass were not so dark.

She slumped back, letting her head rest against the leather, and watched the glum shabby city roll by, the outlying streets of wooden double shotgun cottages with their fretwork and long wooden shutters, and the low sagging stucco buildings that seemed somehow not to belong among the ragged oaks and high weeds. Beautiful, all beautiful. The veneer of her perfect California world had cracked, and she’d been thrown into the real true texture of life at last.

How could she let them both know that it was all going to work, that she knew in the end she would triumph, that no temptation conceivable could lure her away from her love, and her dreams, and her plans?

The thing would come, and the thing would work its charm-like the devil and the old women of the village—and she would be expected to succumb, but she would not, and the power within her, nurtured through twelve witches, would be sufficient to destroy him. Thirteen is bad luck, you devil. And the door is the door to hell.

Ah, yes, that was it exactly, the door was the door to hell.

But only when it was over would Michael believe.

She said no more.

She remembered those roses again in the vase on the hall table. Awful things, and that iris with the dark black shivering mouth. Horrid. And worse than all the rest, the emerald around her