The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

A little hush fell over them. Beatrice stared at Peter as if he himself were a ghost. Fielding too studied Peter with seeming incredulity and maybe even a sneer.

Randall's face was impassive, behind its massive wrinkles.

"Rowan doesn't know what you're talking about," said Lily.

"No, and I think we should stop all this," said Anne Marie.

"She knows," said Randall, looking directly at Rowan.

Rowan looked at Peter. "What do you mean that he would come into this very world?" she asked.

"He wouldn't be a spirit any longer, that's what I mean. Not just to appear but to remain, to be ... physical."

Randall was studying Rowan, as if there was something he couldn't quite determine.

Fielding gave a dry little laugh, a superior laugh. "Stella must have made up that part. That wasn't what my father told me. Saved, that's what he said. All those who were part of the pact would be saved. I remember hearing him tell my mother."

"What else did your father tell you?" Rowan asked.

"Oh, you don't believe all this!" asked Beatrice. "Good Lord, Rowan."

"Don't take it seriously, Rowan!" said Anne Marie.

"Stella was a sad case, my dear," said Lily.

Fielding shook his head. "Saved, that's what my father said. They'd all be saved when the doorway was opened. And it was a riddle, and Mary Beth didn't know the real meaning any more than anyone else. Carlotta swore she'd figured it out, but that wasn't true. She only wanted to torment Stella. I don't even think Julien knew."

"Do you know the words of the riddle?" Michael asked.

Fielding turned to the left and glanced down at him. And suddenly they all appeared to notice Michael, and to focus upon him. Rowan slipped her hand closer to his neck, clasping it affectionately and drawing her legs closer to him, as if embracing him and declaring him part of her.

"Yes, what were the words of the riddle?" Rowan asked.

Randall looked at Peter, and they both looked at Fielding.

Again Fielding shook his head. "I never knew. I never heard there were any special words. It was just that when there were thirteen witches, the doorway would be opened at last. And the night that Julien died, my father said, 'They'll never get the thirteen now, not without Julien.' "

"And who told them the riddle?" asked Rowan. "Was it 'the man'?"

They were all staring at her again. Even Anne Marie appeared apprehensive and Beatrice at a loss, as if someone had made a fearful breach of etiquette. Lauren was gazing at her in the strangest way.

"She doesn't even know what this is all about," declared Beatrice.

"I think we should forget it," said Felice.

"Why? Why should we forget it?" asked Fielding. "You don't think 'the man' will come to her as he came to all the others? What's changed?"

"You're scaring her!" declared Cecilia. "And frankly you're scaring me."

"Was it 'the man' who gave them the riddle?" Rowan asked again.

No one spoke.

What could she say to make them start talking again, to make them yield up what they possessed. "Carlotta told me about 'the man,' " Rowan said. "I'm not afraid of him."

How still the garden seemed. Every single one of them was gathered into the circle except for Ryan, who had taken Gifford away. Even Pierce had returned and stood just behind Peter. It was almost twilight. And the servants had vanished, as if they knew they were not wanted.

Anne Marie picked up a bottle from the nearby table, and with a loud gurgling noise filled her glass. Someone else reached for a bottle. And then another. But the eyes of all remained fixed upon Rowan.

"Do you all want me to be afraid?" Rowan asked.

"No, of course not," said Lauren.

"Indeed not!" said Cecilia. "I think this sort of talk could ruin everything."

" ... in a big shadowy old house like that."

" ... nonsense if you ask me."

Randall shook his head; Peter murmured no, but Fielding merely looked at her.

Again the silence came, blanketing the group, as if it were snow. A rustling darkness seemed to be gathering under the small trees. A light had gone on across the lawn, behind the small panes of the French windows.

"Have any of you ever seen 'the man'?" Rowan asked.

Peter's face was solemn and unreadable. He did not seem to notice when Lauren poured the bourbon in his glass.

"God, I wish I could see him," said Pierce, "just once!"

"So do I!" said Beatrice. "I wouldn't think of trying to get rid of him. I'd talk to him .... "

"Oh shut up, Bea!" said Peter suddenly. "You don't know what you're saying. You never do!"

"And you do, I suppose," said Lily sharply, obviously protective of Bea. "Come here, Bea, sit down with the women. If it's going to be war, be on the right side."

Beatrice sat down on the grass beside Lily's chair. "You old idiot, I hate you," she said to Peter. "I'd like to see what you'd do if you ever saw 'the man.' "

He dismissed her with a raised eyebrow, and took another sip of his drink.

Fielding sneered, muttering something under his breath.

"I've gone up there to First Street," said Pierce, "and hung around that iron fence for hours on end trying to see him. If only I'd ever caught one glimpse."

"Oh, for the love of heaven!" declared Anne Marie. "As if you didn't have anything better to do."

"Don't let your mother hear that," Isaac murmured.

"You all believe in him," Rowan said. "Surely some of you have seen him."

"What would make you think that!" Felice laughed.

"My father says it's a fantasy, an old tale," said Pierce.

"Pierce, the best thing you could do," said Lily, "is stop taking every word that falls from your father's lips as if it were gospel because it is not."

"Have you seen him, Aunt Lily?" Pierce asked.

"Indeed, I have, Pierce," Lily said in a low voice. "Indeed I have."

The others registered undisguised surprise, except for the three elder men, who exchanged glances. Fielding's left hand fluttered, as if he wanted to gesture, speak, but he didn't.

"He's real," said Peter gravely. "He's as real as lightning; as real as wind is real." He turned and glared at young Pierce and then back at Rowan, as if demanding their undivided attention and belief in him. Then his eyes settled on Michael. "I've seen him. I saw him that night when Stella brought us together. I've seen him since. Lily's seen him. S

o has Lauren. You, too, Felice, I know you have. And ask Carmen. Why don't you speak up, Felice? And you, Fielding. You saw him the night Mary Beth died at First Street. You know you did. Who here hasn't seen him? Only the younger ones." He looked at Rowan. "Ask, they'll all tell you."

A loud murmuring ran through the outer edges of the gathering because many of the younger ones--Polly and Clancy and Tim and others Rowan did not know--hadn't seen the ghost, and didn't know whether to believe what they were hearing. Little Mona with the ribbon in her hair suddenly pushed to the front of the circle, with the taller Jennifer right behind her.

"Tell me what you saw," said Rowan, looking directly at Peter. "You're not saying that he came through the door the night that Stella gathered you together."

Peter took his time. He looked around him, eyes lingering on Margaret Ann, and then for a moment on Michael, and then on Rowan. He lifted his drink. He drained the glass, and then spoke:

"He was there--a blazing shimmering presence, and for those few moments, I could have sworn he was as solid as any man of flesh and blood I've ever seen. I saw him materialize. I felt the heat when he did it. And I heard his steps. Yes, I heard his feet strike the floor of that front hallway as he walked towards us. He stood there, just as real as you or me, and he looked at each and every one of us." Again, he lifted his glass, took a swallow and lowered, it, his eyes running over the little assembly. He sighed. "And then he vanished, just as he always had. The heat again. The smell of smoke, and the breeze rushing through the house, tearing the very curtains off the windows. But he was gone. He couldn't hold it. And we weren't strong enough to help him hold it. Thirteen of us, yes, the thirteen witches, as Stella called us. And Lauren four years old! Little Lauren. But we weren't of the ilk of Julien or Mary Beth, or old Grandmere Marguerite at Riverbend. And we couldn't do it. And Carlotta, Carlotta who was stronger than Stella--and you mark my words, it was true--Carlotta wouldn't help. She lay on her bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, and she was saying her rosary aloud, and after every Hail Mary, she said, Send him back to hell, send him back to hell!--and then went on to the next Hail Mary."

He pursed his lips and scowled down into the empty glass, shaking it soundlessly so that the ice cubes revolved. Then again, his eyes ran over the circle, taking in everyone, even little red-haired Mona.

"For the record, Peter Mayfair saw him," Peter declared, pulling himself up, eyebrow raised again. "Lauren and Lily can speak for themselves. So can Randall. But for the record, I saw him, and that you may tell to your grandchildren."