The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

She bent down. She withdrew her hands ever so gently from the Englishman. She laid them on her pale hands, her softly melting hands. Hard! Hard as the rosary beads. Cold and hard. She closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers into this unyielding white flesh. So absolutely dead, so beyond any breath of life, so firmly finished.

If Michael were here, could he know from her hands if she had died without pain or fear? Could he know why the secrecy? Could he touch this horrid, lifeless flesh and hear the song of life still from it? Oh, please God, whoever she was, why ever she gave me away, I hope it was without fear and pain that she died. In peace, in a sweetness like her face. Look at her closed eyes, her smooth forehead.

Slowly, she raised her hand and wiped the tears off her own cheek, and realized that her face was relaxed now. That she could speak if she wanted to, and that others around her were crying too, that the woman with the iron gray hair was crying, and that the poor black-haired woman who had been crying all along was sobbing silently against the chest of the man beside her, and that the faces of those who didn't cry--everywhere she looked in the glow beyond the coffin--had become thoughtful and quiet, and rather like those faces in great Florentine paintings where the passive, faintly sad souls regard the world beyond the frame as if from a dream, gazing out from the corners of their eyes, languidly.

She backed away, but her eyes remained fixed on the woman in the coffin. She let the Englishman guide her again, away, to a small room that waited. Mr. Lonigan was saying it was time for them all to come up one by one, that the priest was here, and he was ready.

In astonishment, Rowan saw a tall old man bend gracefully and kiss the dead woman's forehead. Beatrice, the pretty one with the gray hair, came next and whispered something as she kissed the dead woman in the same manner. A child was lifted next to do the same; and the old bald man came, heavy with his big belly making it hard, but he bent to give the kiss, whispering hoarsely for everyone to hear, "Good-bye, darlin'."

Mr. Lonigan pushed her gently down in the chair. As he turned, the crying woman with the black hair suddenly bent near and looked into her eyes. "She didn't want to give you up," she said, her voice so thin and quick it was like a thought.

"Rita Mae!" Mr. Lonigan hissed, turning on her, taking her by the arm, and drawing her back.

"Is that true?" Rowan whispered. Rowan reached out to capture her retreating hand. Mr. Lonigan's face flushed, his jowls shivering slightly. He pushed the black-haired woman away, out of the door, down a small hallway.

The Englishman looked down at her from the door to the big room. He gave her a little nod, his eyebrows rising as if it filled him with sadness and wondering.

Slowly Rowan withdrew her gaze from him. She stared at the procession, still coming one by one, each bending as if to drink from the cool splash of a low water fountain. "Good-bye, Deirdre, dear." Did they all know? Did they all remember, the older ones, the ones who had come up to her at first? Had all the children heard, in one form or another, at some time or another? The handsome one was watching her from far away.

"Good-bye, sweetheart ... " On and on they came, seemingly without end, the rooms behind them dark and crowded as the line pressed in tighter.

Didn't want to give you up.

What must it feel like to kiss her smooth hard skin? And they did it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the simplest thing in the world, the baby held aloft, the mother bending, the man coming so quick and then another very old one with spotted hands and thinning hair, "Help me up, Cecil," her foot on the velvet prie-dieu. The twelve-year-old with the hair ribbon stood on tiptoe.

"Rowan, do you want to be alone with her again?" Lonigan's voice. "That's your time at the end, when they've all passed. The priest will wait. But you don't have to."

She looked into the Englishman's mild, gray eyes. But he wasn't the one who'd spoken. It was Lonigan with his flushed and shining face, and china blue eyes. Far down the little hallway stood his wife, Rita Mae, not daring now to come closer.

"Yes, alone, one more time," Rowan whispered. Her eyes searched out the eyes of Rita Mae, in the shadows at the end of the little hall. "True," Rita Mae mouthed the word, as she nodded gravely.

Yes. To kiss her good-bye, yes, the way they are kissing her ...

Twenty-five

THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES

PART X

Rowan Mayfair

STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL THIS SUMMARY AND UPDATED 1989

SEE CONFIDENTIAL FILE: ROWAN MAYFAIR, LONDON, FOR ALL

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Rowan Mayfair was adopted legally by Ellen Louise Mayfair and her husband Graham Franklin, on the date of Rowan's birth, November 7, 1959.

At this point Rowan was taken by plane to Los Angeles, where she lived with her adopted parents until she was three years old. The family then moved to San Francisco, California, where they lived in Pacific Heights for two years.

When Rowan was five, the family made its final move to a house on the shore of Tiburon, California--across the bay from San Francisco--which had been designed by architects Trammel, Porter and Davis expressly for Graham and Ellie and their daughter. The house is a marvel of glass walls, exposed redwood beams, and modern plumbing fixtures and appliances. It includes enormous decks, its own twenty-five-foot pier, and a boat channel, which is dredged twice yearly. It commands a view of Sausalito across Richardson Bay and San Francisco to the south. Rowan lives alone in this house now.

At the time of this writing, Rowan is almost thirty years old. She is five feet ten inches tall. She has short, softly bobbed blond hair and large pale gray eyes. She is undeniably attractive, with remarkably beautiful skin, and dark straight eyebrows and dark eyelashes and an extremely beautiful mouth. Yet for the sake of comparison, it can be said that she has none of the glamour of Stella, or the sweet prettiness of Antha, or the dark sensuality of Deirdre. Rowan is delicate yet boyish; in some of her pictures, her expression--on account of her straight dark eyebrows--is reminiscent of Mary Beth.

It is my belief that she resembles Petyr van Abel, but there are definite differences. She does not have his deep-set eyes, and her blond hair is ashen rather than gold. But her face is narrow like that of Petyr van Abel; and there is a Nordic look to Rowan, just as there is to Petyr in his portraits.

Rowan appears cold to people. Yet her voice is warm, and deep and slightly husky--what is called a whiskey voice in America. People say you have to know her, really, to like her. This is stran

ge because our investigation indicates that very few people know her. But she is almost universally liked.

SUMMARY OF MATERIALS ON ROWAN'S ADOPTIVE PARENTS ELLIE MAYFAIR AND GRAHAM FRANKLIN

Ellen Louise Mayfair was the only daughter of Sheffield, son of Cortland Mayfair. She was born in 1923, and six years old when Stella died. Ellie lived in California almost exclusively from the time that she entered Stanford University at eighteen years of age. She married Graham Franklin, a Stanford law graduate, when she was thirty-one. Graham was eight years younger than Ellie. Ellie seems to have had very little contact with her family even before she went to California, as she went away to a boarding school in Canada when she was only eight, six months after her mother's death.

Her father, Sheffield Mayfair, seems never to have recovered from the loss of his wife, and though he visited Ellie often, taking her on shopping sprees in New York, he kept her away from home. He was the most quiet and reclusive of Cortland's sons, and possibly the most disappointing, in that he worked doggedly in the family firm but seldom excelled or participated in important decisions. Everyone depended upon him, Cortland said after his death.

What is relevant here is that after the age of eight, Ellie saw very little of the Mayfairs, and her lifelong friends in California were people she had met there, along with a few girls from the Canadian boarding school with whom she kept in touch. We don't know what she knew of Antha's life and death, or even of Deirdre's life.

Her husband, Graham Franklin, knew nothing about Ellie's family apparently, and some of the remarks he made over the years are entirely fanciful. "She came from a great plantation down there." "They are the sort of people who keep gold under the floorboards." "I think they were probably descended from the buccaneers." "Oh, my wife's people? They were slave traders, weren't they, honey? They all have colored blood."

Family gossip at the time of the adoption said that Ellie had signed papers for Carlotta Mayfair saying she would never let Rowan discover anything about her true background, and never permit her to return to Louisiana.