The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,518

the clock’s just stopped chiming. It’s the witching hour, darlin’, and we have it all to ourselves.”

Again, they looked at each other, and both began to laugh softly, feeding each other’s laughter, and quite unable to stop. They were too tired to do more than fall into bed beneath the covers, and they both knew it.

“Well, we ought to drink the champagne at least,” Rowan said, “before we collapse.”

He nodded, throwing aside the cutaway coat and tugging at the ascot. “I’ll tell you, Rowan, you have to love somebody to dress up in a suit like this!”

“Come on, Michael, everybody here does this sort of thing. Here, the zipper, please.” She turned her back to him, and then felt the hard shell of the bodice released at last, the gown falling loosely down around her feet. Carelessly, she unfastened the emerald and laid it on the end of the mantel.

At last everything was gathered away, and hung up, and they sat in bed together drinking the champagne, which was very cold and dry and delicious, and had foamed all over the glasses, as it ought to do. Michael was naked, but he loved caressing her through the silk nightgown, so she kept it on. Finally, no matter how tired they were, they were caught up in the deliciousness of the new bed, and the soft candlelight, and their usual heat was rising to a boil.

It was swift and violent, the way she loved it, the giant mahogany bed sturdy as if it were carved out of stone.

She lay against him afterwards, dozing and contented, and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Finally she sat up, straightened out the wrinkled nightgown, and drank a long cool sip of the champagne.

Michael sat up beside her, naked, one knee crooked, and lighted a cigarette, his head rolling against the high headboard of the bed.

“Ah Rowan, nothing went wrong, you know, absolutely nothing. It was the perfect day. God, that a day could be so perfect.”

Except that you saw something that scared you. But she didn’t say it. Because it had been perfect, even with that strange little moment. Perfect! Nothing to spoil it at all.

She took another little drink of the champagne, savoring the taste and her own tiredness, realizing that she was still too wound up to close her eyes.

A wave of dizziness came over her suddenly, with just a touch of the nausea she’d felt in the morning. She waved the cigarette smoke away.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, just nerves I think. Walking up that aisle was sort of like lifting a scalpel or something for the first time.”

“I know what you mean. Let me put this out.”

“No, it’s not that, cigarettes don’t bother me. I smoke now and then myself.” But it was the cigarette smoke, wasn’t it? Same thing earlier. She got up, the light silk nightgown feeling like nothing as it fell down around her, and went barefoot into the bath.

No Alka-Seltzer, the one thing that always worked at such moments. But she had brought some over, she remembered. She had put it in the kitchen cabinet along with aspirin and Band-Aids and all the other household supplies. She came back and put on her bedroom slippers and peignoir.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Downstairs, for Alka-Seltzer. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait a minute, Rowan, I’ll go.”

“Stay where you are. You’re not dressed. I’ll be back in two seconds. Maybe I’ll take the elevator, what the hell.”

The house was not really dark. A pale light from the garden came in through the many windows, illuminating the polished floor of the hallway, and the dining room, and even the butler’s pantry. It was easy to make her way without switching on a light.

She found the Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, and one of the new crystal glasses she had bought on a shopping spree with Lily and Bea. She filled the glass at the little sink on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stood there drinking the Alka-Seltzer and then closed her eyes.

Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.

“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”

“Thank you,” she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn’t it? A beautiful melodious voice.

She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.

He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been