The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,548

have it. I believe in you! It’s a war between you and him, and once again, you reached down and you touched me at the very moment of his contrivance, as his carefully orchestrated calamity was taking place.

I have to believe that. Because if I don’t I’ll go out of my mind. Go home, Monsieur. That’s where you’re needed.

He was lying there, his eyes closed, dozing, when the phone rang.

“Michael?” It was Ryan.

“Yeah.”

“Listen; I’ve arranged for you to come back by private plane. It’s much simpler that way. It’s the Markham Harris Hotels plane, and they’re more than delighted to assist us. I have someone coming to pick you up. If you need help with your bags … ”

“No, just tell me the time, I’ll be ready.” What was that smell? Had he put his cigarette out?

“How about an hour from now? They’ll call you from the lobby. And Michael, please, from now on, don’t hesitate to ask us for anything, anything at all.”

“Yeah, thanks, Ryan, yeah, I really appreciate it.” He was staring at the smoldering hole in the bedspread where he’d dropped the cigarette when he fell asleep. God, the first time in his life he’d ever done anything like this! And the room was already full of smoke. “Thanks, Ryan, thanks for everything!”

He hung up, went into the bathroom, and filled the empty ice bucket with water, splashing it quickly onto the bed. Then he pulled the burnt spread away, and the sheet, and poured more water into the dark, smelly hole in the mattress. His heart was tripping again. He went to the window, struggled with it, realized it wasn’t going to open, and then sat down heavily in a chair and watched the smoke gradually drift away.

When he was all packed, he tried Rowan again. Still no answer. Fifteen rings, no answer. He was just about to give up when he heard her groggy voice.

“Michael? Oh, I was asleep, I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Listen to me, honey. I’m Irish, and I’m a very superstitious guy, as we both know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m having a string of bad luck, very bad luck. Do a little Mayfair witchcraft for me, will you, Rowan? Throw a white light around me. Ever hear of that?”

“No. Michael, what’s happening?”

“I’m on my way home, Rowan. Now just imagine it, honey, a white light around me protecting me from everything bad in this world until I get there. You see what I’m saying? Ryan’s arranged a plane for me. I’ll be leaving within the hour.”

“Michael, what’s going on?”

Was she crying?

“Do it, Rowan, about the white light. Just trust me on this. Work on protecting me.”

“A white light,” she whispered. “All around you.”

“Yeah. A white light. I love you, honey. I’m coming home.”

Forty-five

“OH, THIS IS the very worst winter,” said Beatrice. “You know they’re even saying we might have snow?” She stood up and put her wineglass on the cart. “Well, darling, you’ve been very patient. And I was so worried. Now that I see you’re all right, and that this great big house is so deliciously warm and cheerful, I’ll be going.”

“It was nothing, Bea,” said Rowan, merely repeating what she had already explained. “Just depressed because Michael has been gone so long.”

“And what time do you expect him?”

“Ryan said before morning. He was supposed to leave an hour ago but San Francisco International is fogged in.”

“Winter, I hate it!” she said.

Rowan didn’t bother to explain that San Francisco International was often fogged in during the summer. She simply watched Beatrice put on her cashmere cape, drawing the graceful hood up over her beautifully groomed gray hair.

She walked Beatrice to the door.

“Well, don’t retreat in your shell like this, it worries us too much. Call me when you’re down, I’ll cheer you up.”

“You’re wonderful,” said Rowan.

“We just don’t want you to be frightened here. Why, I should have come over before now.”

“I’m not frightened. I love it. Don’t worry. I’ll call you sometime tomorrow. Soon as Michael gets in, everything will be fine. We’ll decorate the tree together. You must come and see it, of course.”

She watched Beatrice go down the marble steps, and out the gate, the cold air gusting into the hallway. Then she shut the front door.

She stood quiet for a long time, her head bowed, letting the warmth seep around her, and then she walked back in the parlor and stared at the enormous green tree. Just beyond the arch it stood, touching the ceiling. A more perfectly triangular