The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,559

by the fire in London and talk about it together. Right now I’m going to go home, and I’m going to stay with her. I’m going to do what you’ve told me to do, and what they’ve told me to do. Because that’s the best thing I can do for her. And for you. I can’t believe she’s going to let that thing hurt you, or hurt me, or hurt anyone. But like you said, the best thing I can do is be near at hand.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Aaron said. “But I can’t stop thinking about what those old men said. About being saved. Such a strange legend.”

“They were wrong about that part. She’s the doorway. I knew it somehow or other when I saw that family tomb.”

Aaron only sighed and shook his head. Michael could see that he was dissatisfied, that there were more things he wanted to consider. But what did they matter now? Rowan was alone in that house with that being, and the being was stealing her away from Michael, and Rowan knew all the answers now, didn’t she? The being was telling her the meaning of everything, and Michael had to go home to her.

He watched anxiously as Aaron rose, a little stiffly, and went to the closet for Michael’s coat and gloves.

Michael stood in the entranceway staring at the Christmas tree, with its lights burning brightly even in the light of the day.

“Why did it have to begin so soon?” he whispered. “Why now, at this time of year?” But he knew the answer. Everything that was happening was connected, somehow. All these gifts were connected with some final dénouement, and even his powerlessness was connected.

“Please be very careful,” said Aaron.

“Yeah, I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow night. You know, to me Christmas Eve has always been like New Year’s Eve. I don’t know why. Must be the Irish blood.”

“The Catholic blood,” said Aaron. “But I understand.”

“If you break open that brandy tomorrow night, hoist one for me.”

“I will. You can count on it. And Michael … if for any reason under God you and Rowan want to come here, you know that the door is open. Night or day. Think of this as your refuge.”

“Thank you, Aaron.”

“And one more thing. If you need me, if you really want me to come and believe that I should, well, then, I shall.”

Michael was about to protest, to say that this was the best place for Aaron, but Aaron’s eyes had moved away; his expression had brightened, and suddenly Aaron pointed to the fanlight window over the front door.

“It’s snowing, Michael, look, it’s really snowing. I can’t believe it. It isn’t even snowing in London, and look, it’s snowing here.”

He opened the door and they walked out on the deep front veranda together. The snow was falling in large flakes, drifting with impossible slowness and grace, down through the windless air towards the earth. It was drifting down onto the black branches of the oaks, coating them with a thick shining layer of whiteness, and making a deep white path between the two rows of trees, all the way to the road.

It was falling on the fields which were already blanketed in the same whiteness, and the sky above was shining and colorless, and seemed to be dissolving into the falling snow.

“And the day before Christmas Eve, Aaron,” said Michael. He tried to see the entire spectacle—this venerable and famous avenue of old trees raising their dark knotted arms into the tumbling and gently whirling flakes of snow. “What a little miracle, that it should come now. Oh, God, it would all be so wonderful if … ”

“May all our miracles be little ones, Michael.”

“Yes, the little miracles are the best, aren’t they? Look at it, it’s not melting when it hits the ground. It’s really staying there. It’s going to be a white Christmas, no doubt about it.”

“But wait a minute,” said Aaron, “I almost forgot. Your Christmas present, and I have it right here.” He reached inside the pocket of his sweater and he took out a very small flat package. No bigger than a half dollar. “Open it. I know we’re both freezing, but I’d like it if you’d open it.”

Michael tore the thin gold paper, and saw immediately that it was an old silver medal on a chain. “It’s St. Michael, the archangel,” he said, smiling. “Aaron, that’s perfect. You’re speaking to my superstitious Irish soul.”

“Driving the devil into hell,” said Aaron.