The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

"Can you touch a spirit? That man, I mean. Can you touch him with your hand?"

"Well, there are times when I think that would be entirely possible ... At least you could touch something. But of course, whether or not the being would allow himself to be touched is quite another story, as you'll soon see."

Michael nodded. "It's all connected, then. The hands, the visions, and even you ... and this organization of yours. It's connected."

"Wait, wait until you've read the history. At each step of the game ... wait and see."

Ten

WHEN ROWAN AWOKE at ten she began to doubt what she had seen. In the flood of sunlight warming the house, the ghost seemed unreal. She tried to reinvoke the moment--the eerie noises of the water and the wind. It all seemed thoroughly impossible now.

She began to be thankful that she hadn't reached Michael. She didn't want to appear foolish, and above all, she didn't want to burden Michael again. On the other hand, how could she have imagined such a thing as that? A man standing at the glass with his fingers touching it, looking at her in that imploring way?

Well, there was no evidence of the being here now. She went out on the deck, walked the length of it, studied the pilings, the water. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. But then what sort of signs would there be? She stood at the railing, feeling the brisk wind for a while, and feeling thankful for the dark blue sky. Several sailboats were making their way slowly and gracefully out of the marina across the water. Soon the bay would be covered with them. She half wanted to take out the Sweet Christine. But she decided against it. She went inside.

No call from Michael yet. The thing to do was to take out the Sweet Christine, or go to work.

She was dressed and leaving for the hospital when the phone rang. "Michael," she whispered. Then she realized that it was Ellie's old line.

"Person to person, please, for Miss Ellie Mayfair."

"I'm sorry, she can't answer," said Rowan. "She's no longer here." Was that the way to say this? It was never pleasant telling these people that Ellie was dead.

Conference on the other end.

"Can you tell us where we might reach her?"

"Can you tell me who is calling, please?" Rowan asked. She set down her bag on the kitchen counter. The house was warm from the morning sun, and she was a little hot in her coat. "I'll be glad to have you reverse the charges, if the party is willing to speak to me."

Another conference, then the crisp voice of an older woman: "I'll speak to this party."

The operator rang off.

"This is Rowan Mayfair, can I help you?"

"You can tell me when and where I can reach Ellie," said the woman, impatient, perhaps even angry, and certainly cold.

"Are you a friend of hers?"

"If she cannot be reached immediately, I would like to talk to her husband, Graham Franklin. You have his office number perhaps?"

What an awful person, Rowan thought. But a suspicion was growing in her that this was a family call.

"Graham can't be reached either. If you'll only tell me who you are, I'll be glad to explain the situation."

"Thank you, I don't care to do that." Steely. "It's imperative that I reach Ellie Mayfair or Graham Franklin."

Be patient, Rowan told herself. This is obviously an old woman, and if she is part of the family, it is worth holding on.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," Rowan said. "Ellie Mayfair died last year. She died of cancer. Graham died two months before Ellie. I'm their daughter, Rowan. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything else perhaps that you want to know?"

Silence.

"This is your aunt, Carlotta Mayfair," said the woman. "I'm calling you from New Orleans. Why in the name of God was I not notified of Ellie's death?"

An immediate anger kindled in Rowan.

"I don't know who you are, Miss Mayfair," she said, deliberately forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly. "I don't have an address or a phone number for any of Ellie's people in New Orleans. Ellie left no such information. Her instructions to her lawyer were that no one be notified other than friends here."

Rowan suddenly realized she was trembling, and her hand on the phone was slippery. She could not quite believe that she had been so rude, but it was too soon to be sorry. She also realized that she was powerfully excited. She didn't want this woman to hang up.

"Are you still there, Miss Mayfair?" she asked. "I'm sorry. I think you caught me a bit off guard."

"Yes," said the woman, "perhaps we were both caught off guard. It seems I have no choice but to speak to you directly."

"I wish you would."

"It's my unfortunate duty to tell you that your mother died this morning. I presume you understand what

I'm saying? Your mother? It was my intention to tell Ellie, and leave it entirely in her hands as to how or when this information should be conveyed to you. I'm sorry to have to handle it in this fashion. Your mother died this morning at five minutes after five."

Rowan was too stunned to respond. The woman might as well have struck her. This wasn't grief. It was too sharp, too awful for that. Her mother had sprung to life suddenly, living and breathing and existing for a split second in spoken words. And in the same instant the living entity was pronounced dead; she existed no more.

Rowan didn't try to speak. She shrank into her habitual and natural silence. She saw Ellie dead, in the funeral home, surrounded by flowers; but there was no coherence to this, no sweet bite of sadness. It was purely terrible. And the paper lay in the safe, as it had for over a year. Ellie, she was alive and I could have known her and now's she dead.

"There is no need whatsoever for you to come here," said the woman with no perceptible change of attitude or tone. "What is necessary is that you contact your attorney immediately, and that you put me in touch with this person as there are pressing matters regarding your property which must be discussed."

"Oh, but I want to come," Rowan said, without hesitation. Her voice was thick. "I want to come now. I want to see my mother before she's buried." Damn the paper, and this unspeakable woman, whoever she was.

"That's scarcely appropriate," said the woman wearily.

"I insist," said Rowan. "I don't wish to trouble you but I want to see my mother before she's buried. No one there need know who I am. I simply want to come."

"It would be a useless journey. Surely Ellie would not have wanted this. Ellis assured me that--"

"Elite's dead!" Rowan whispered, her voice scraping bottom in her effort to control it. She was shaking all over. "Look, it means something to me to see my mother. Ellie and Graham are both gone, as I told you. I ... " She could not say it. It sounded too self-pitying and too intimate to confess that she was alone.

"I must insist," said the woman in the same tired, worn-out feelingless voice, "that you remain exactly where you are."

"Why?" Rowan asked. "What does it matter to you if I come? I told you, no one needs to know who I am."