They know that. It doesn't matter now. It's small. You are so like a Mayfair, to want to be fierce and reckless, and then be guilt-ridden! Don't you know that's how it is with us? Nobody gets off light.
Are you certain she wouldn't hate me for it? That it was so small? I didn't think you would think it was small. That's the whole trick of it, deciding what is small and large.
It's small.
Finally, her head against the rough bark of the oak, she slept.
Thirty
HE LIKED THE house. It stood on the street, that is Esplanade Avenue, rather like a palazzo in Rome or a town house in Amsterdam, and though it was brick stuccoed over, it had the appearance of stone. It was painted in Roman colors, the dark Pompeian red, with a deep ocher trim.
Esplanade Avenue had seen better days. But it was architecturally fascinating to Yuri, all these marvelous vintage buildings, amid the other commercial makeshift trash. He'd enjoyed his long walk through the Quarter, meandering, and then coming upon this house just as he reached the border of the district, the grand avenue which had once been the high street of the French and Spanish, and was now still full of mansions such as this. Of course two men were following him. But so what?
He felt the big heavy gun in his pocket. Wooden handle, long barrel. All right.
Beatrice let him in.
"Oh, thank God, darling, Aaron is on tenterhooks. What can I get for you?" She glanced past him. She saw the man under the tree across the street.
"Nothing, madam, thank you," said Yuri. "I like my coffee very black and strong, and I stopped for a nice quick shot of it in one of the little cafes."
They stood in a massive center hall, with a grand stairway flowing up beyond them, branched at its landing, sending narrow stairs up the right wall and the left. The floor was mosaic tile and the walls were like those outside, a deep terra-cotta red.
"That's exactly the kind of coffee I make," said Beatrice, taking his raincoat from him, virtually helping him out of it. The gun was in his jacket, thank God. "Brewed regular but from espresso roast. Now go into the parlor. Aaron will be so relieved."
"Ah, then I will accept, thank you," said Yuri.
Parlors lay to the left of him and to the right. But he could feel the warmth coming from the one just before him, and then he saw Aaron in one of his worn gray wool cardigans, pipe in hand, standing by the fire. Again, he was impressed with the vigor in Aaron and how it seemed mingled with his anger, and his suspicion. There was a hard line to Aaron's mouth but it made him look more the conventional man.
"We have a communication from the Elders," said Aaron without preamble. "It came in on the fax line at the Pontchartrain Hotel."
"The Elders used such a means?"
"It's written entirely in Latin. It's addressed to us both. There are two copies, one for each of us."
"How considerate of them."
Deep oxblood leather couches faced each other before the fireplace, revealing only the center of a dark blue Chinese rug. The table was glass, littered with papers. There were large rich modern paintings, abstracts mostly, in gilt frames. Marble-top tables; armchairs of tufted velvet, a little worn. Fresh flowers, such as one usually sees only in public lobbies. Big gorgeous blooms arranged in porcelain vases before various mirrors, here and there, and above the mantel with its solemn marble lion's head beneath it. All very beautiful and comfortable to behold. Communications from the Elders, dear God.
"Sit down, I'll translate it for you."
Yuri sat down. "You don't have to translate it for me, Aaron. I read Latin." He gave a little laugh. "I sometimes write to the Elders in Latin, just to keep sharp."
"Ah, of course you do," said Aaron. "How could I not know that? That was stupid of me." He gestured to the two shiny fax copies on the table, strewn, as it were, over the magazines--those large expensive compendiums of furnishings and architecture full of designer names and famous faces and advertisements for the sort of fine items which were everywhere in this very room.
"You don't remember Cambridge?" asked Yuri. "Those afternoons when I read Virgil to you? You don't remember my translation of Marcus Aurelius that I made for you?"
"Remember it." Aaron pressed his lips together. "I carry it with me. I'm going soft in the head. I'm so used to those of your generation not reading Latin. Just a slipup. The day I first laid eyes on you, how many languages did you speak?"
"I don't know. I know what I don't know. Let me read it."
"Yes, but tell me first what you found out."
"Stolov is at the Windsor Court, very fancy, very expensive. He has two other men with him, possibly three. There are others from the Order. They were following me when I came back down Chartres Street to come here. There is a man across the street. All of them same age, same style--young Anglo-Saxon or Scandinavian, dark suits, same thing. I would say there are six of them I know now by face. They took no pains to conceal themselves. Indeed, I think it is their motive to frighten, or to compel, if you know what I mean."
Beatrice came sweeping into the room, her high heels clicking glamorously on the tile floor. She set down the tray with small cups of steaming espresso. "There's a potful," she said. "Now I'm going to call Cecilia."
"Is there any more family news?" asked Yuri.
"Rowan's doing well. There's no change. There is brain activity, but it's minimal. Yet she's breathing on her own."
"Persistent vegetative state," said Aaron softly.
"Oooh, why do you have to say those words again?" Beatrice scolded gently.
"You know why. Rowan is not--at this time--recovering. One must keep that in mind."
"But the mysterious man himself," asked Yuri.
"No sight of him anywhere," said Beatrice. "They are saying he couldn't be in Houston. You can't imagine how many people are searching the city of Houston. He may have cut his hair, of course, but there's nothing he can do about being six and half feet in height. God only knows where he is. I'm going to leave you with Aaron. I don't want to think about it. I am cooking dinner with an armed guard in my kitchen."
"He wo
n't eat very much," said Aaron with a little smile.
"Oh, hush up." She seemed on the verge of something, then simply went to Aaron and kissed him brusquely and affectionately, and dashed out in a flurry of silk and clicking heels as she had come.
Yuri loved the coffee. A pot of it. His hands would soon be trembling and he would have indigestion, but he didn't care. When you love coffee you abandon everything to that love.
He picked up the fax. He knew Latin so well he did not have to translate in his mind. It was as clear to him as any tongue he spoke:
From the Elders
to
Aaron Lightner
Yuri Stefano
Gentlemen:
Seldom have we been faced with such a dilemma: the defection of two members of the Order who are not only dear to us all, but invaluable, seasoned investigators who have both become models for the incoming novices and postulants. We are hard put to understand how this situation came about.
We fault ourselves. Aaron, we did not inform you of all that was involved in the Case of the Mayfair Witches. Wishing to focus your attentions upon the Mayfair family, we withheld certain relevant information concerning the legends of Donnelaith in Scotland, indeed, concerning the Celts in that area of north Britain and in Ireland. We realize now we should have been more explicit and open from the start.
Please understand it was never the intention of the Order to manipulate you or exploit you. In the spirit of good investigation, we were reluctant to present presumptions or suspicions, lest we control the answers to the very questions we asked.
We know now that we have in a very practical sense made an error in judgment. You have abandoned us. And we know also that this is not something you would have ever done lightly. Once again the burden for this tragedy lies with us.
Let us now come to the point. You are no longer members of the Talamasca. You are excommunicated without prejudice, which means simply that you are honorably separated from the Order, from its privileges, its obligations, its records and its support.
You have no further permission from us to make any use of records compiled by you while you were under our wing. You cannot reproduce, discuss, circulate any knowledge you have now or may come to have on the subject of the Mayfair Witches. We wish to be very explicit on this point.