The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,579

wanted or ever asked for, without specified limit.

Michael said nothing when he heard this.

Ryan assured him that he was there to see to Michael’s smallest wish, that Rowan’s instructions were lengthy and explicit, and that Mayfair and Mayfair was prepared to carry them out to the smallest detail. Whenever Michael was ready to go home, every preparation would be made for his comfort.

He didn’t even hear most of what Ryan was saying to him. There was no need really to explain to Ryan, or anyone else, the full irony of this turn of events, or how his thoughts were running, day in and day out, in a druggy haze, over all the events and turns of his life from the time of his earliest memories.

When he closed his eyes, he saw them all again, in the flames and the smoke, the Mayfair Witches. He heard the beat of the drums, and he smelled the stench of the flames, and he heard Stella’s piercing laughter.

Then it would slip away.

The quiet would return, and he would be back in his early childhood, walking up First Street that long-ago Mardi Gras night with his mother, thinking, Ah, what a beautiful house.

Some time later, when Ryan had stopped talking and sat patiently in the room merely studying Michael, a load of questions obviously crowding Ryan’s brain, all of which he was afraid to voice, Michael asked if the family hated his being in the house. If they wanted him to relinquish it.

Ryan explained that they did not hate it at all. That they hoped Michael would live in the house. That they hoped Rowan would return, that some sort of reconciliation could be effected. And then Ryan seemed at a loss. Embarrassed and obviously deeply distressed, he said in a raw voice that the family “just couldn’t understand what had happened.”

A number of possible responses ran through Michael’s mind. From a cool distance, he imagined himself making mysterious remarks that would richly feed the old family legends; obscure allusions to the thirteen and to the door, and to “the man”; remarks that would be discussed for years to come perhaps, on lawns and at dinners, and in funeral parlors. But it was really unthinkable to do that. In fact, it was absolutely crucial to remain silent.

Then he heard himself say, with extraordinary conviction, “Rowan will come back.” And he didn’t say anything after that.

Early the next day, when Ryan came again, Michael did make one request—that his Aunt Vivian move into the house, if she wanted to. He didn’t see any reason now for her to be alone in her apartment on the avenue. And if Aaron could be his guest at the house, that too would make him happy.

Ryan went into a long-drawn-out lawyerly confirmation that the house was Michael’s house, and that Michael need ask no one’s permission or approval to implement his smallest or greatest wish with regard to things at First Street. To this Ryan added his own deepest concern that Michael call upon him for “absolutely anything.”

Finally in the silence which ensued, Ryan broke down. He said he couldn’t understand where he and the family had failed Rowan. Rowan had begun shifting enormous sums of money out of their hands. The plans for Mayfair Medical had been put on hold. He simply couldn’t understand what had happened.

Michael said, “It wasn’t your fault. You had nothing to do with it.” And after a long time, during which Ryan sat there, apparently ashamed of his outburst, and looking confused and defeated, Michael said again: “She’ll come back. You wait and see. It isn’t over.”

On February 10, Michael was released from the hospital. He was still very weak, which was frustrating to him, but his heart muscle had showed remarkable improvement. His overall health was good. He rode uptown in a black limousine with Aaron.

The driver of the car was a pale-skinned black man named Henri, who would be living in the back garçonnière behind Deirdre’s oak, and taking care of everything for Michael.

The day was clear and warm. There had been a bitter freeze again right after Christmas, and several inundating rains, but the weather was now like spring, and the pink and red azaleas were blooming all over the property. The sweet olive had regained all of its beautiful green leaves in the aftermath of the freeze, and a new bright color was coming out on the oak trees.

Everybody was happy, explained Henri, because Mardi Gras was “just around the