The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

She wiped her nose and looked up at Aaron. He was smiling and she smiled too.

"Are they good people, Aaron? What do you think?" She was deliberately ignoring Michael for the moment.

"Fine people, Rowan. Far better than most, my dear. And they love you. They love you. The old man loves you. You're the most exciting thing that's happened to him in the last ten years. They don't invite him out much, the others. He was basking in the attention. And of course, for all their secrets, they don't know what you know."

"You're right," she whispered. She felt drained now, and miserable. Emotional outbursts for her were never cathartic. They always left her shaky and unhappy.

"All right," she said, "I'd ask him to give me away at the wedding, damn it, except I have another very dear friend in mind." She wiped her eyes again with the folded handkerchief, and blotted her lips. "I'm talking about you, Aaron. I know it's late notice. But will you walk up the aisle with me?"

"Darling, I'd be honored," he said. "Nothing would give me greater happiness." He clasped her hand tightly. "Now, please, please don't think about that old fool anymore."

"Thank you, Aaron," she said. She sat back, and took a deep breath before she turned to Michael. In fact she had been deliberately leaving him out. And suddenly she felt terribly sorry. He looked so dejected and so gentle. She said: "Well, have you calmed down or have you had a heart attack? You're awfully quiet."

He laughed under his breath, warming at once. His eyes were so brilliantly blue when he smiled. "You know, when I was a kid," he said, taking her hand again, "I used to think that having a family ghost would be wonderful! I used to wish I could see a ghost! I used to think, ah, to live in a haunted house, wouldn't that be great!"

He was his old self again, cheerful and strong, even if he was a little ragged at the edges. She leaned over and pressed her lips against his roughened cheek. "I'm sorry I got angry."

"I'm sorry, too, honey. I'm really sorry. That old man didn't mean any harm. He's just crazy. They all have a little craziness. I guess it's their Irish blood. I haven't been around lace curtain Irish very much. I guess they're as crazy as all the others."

There was a little smile on Aaron's lips as he watched them, but they were all shaken now, and tired. And this conversation had sapped their last bit of vigor.

It seemed to Rowan that the gloom was descending again. If only this glass were not so dark.

She slumped back, letting her head rest against the leather, and watched the glum shabby city roll by, the outlying streets of wooden double shotgun cottages with their fretwork and long wooden shutters, and the low sagging stucco buildings that seemed somehow not to belong among the ragged oaks and high weeds. Beautiful, all beautiful. The veneer of her perfect California world had cracked, and she'd been thrown into the real true texture of life at last.

How could she let them both know that it was all going to work, that she knew in the end she would triumph, that no temptation conceivable could lure her away from her love, and her dreams, and her plans?

The thing would come, and the thing would work its charm-like the devil and the old women of the village--and she would be expected to succumb, but she would not, and the power within her, nurtured through twelve witches, would be sufficient to destroy him. Thirteen is bad luck, you devil. And the door is the door to hell.

Ah, yes, that was it exactly, the door was the door to hell.

But only when it was over would Michael believe.

She said no more.

She remembered those roses again in the vase on the hall table. Awful things, and that iris with the dark black shivering mouth. Horrid. And worse than all the rest, the emerald around her neck in the dark, cold and heavy against her naked skin. No, don't ever tell him about that. Don't talk anymore about any of it.

He was as brave and good as anyone she'd ever known. But she had to protect him now, because he couldn't protect her, that was plain. And she realized for the first time--that when things really did start to happen, she'd probably be completely alone in it. But hadn't that always been inevitable?

PART FOUR

THE DEVIL'S

BRIDE

Forty

WOULD SHE REMEMBER this afterwards, she wondered, as one of the happiest days of her life? Weddings must work their magic on everyone. But she was more susceptible than most, she figured, because it was so very exotic, because it was Old World, and old-fashioned, and old-fangled, and coming as she did from the world of the cold and the alone, she wanted it so much!

The night before, she'd come here to church to pray alone. Michael had been surprised. Was she really praying to someone?

"I don't know," she said. She wanted to sit in the dark church, which was readied for the wedding with the white ribbons and bows and the red carpet down the aisle, and talk to Ellie, to try to explain to Ellie why she had broken her vow, why she was doing this, and how it was all going to work out.

She explained about the white wedding dress and how the family had wanted it, and so she had given in happily to the yards and yards of white silk lace and the full shimmering veil. And she explained about the bridesmaids--Mayfairs all, of course--and Beatrice, the matron of honor, and how Aaron was going to give her away.

She explained and she explained. She even explained about the emerald. "Be with me, Ellie," she said. "Extend to me your forgiveness. I want this so much."

Then she had talked to her mother. She had talked simply and without words, feeling close to her mother. And she had tried to blot all memory of the old woman out of her mind.

She had thought of her old friends from California, whom she had called in the last few weeks, and with whom she had had wonderful conversations. They were so happy for her, though they did not fully grasp how rich and vital this old-fashioned world here really was. Barbara wanted to come but the term had already begun at Princeton, and Janie was leaving for Europe, and Mattie was going to have a baby any day. They had sent such exquisite presents though of course she had forbidden it. And she had the feeling they would see each other in the future, at least before her real work on the dream of the Mayfair Medical Center began.

Finally, she had ended her prayers in a strange way. She had lighted candles for her two mothers. And a candle for Antha. And even one for Stella. It was such a soothing ritual, to see the little wicks ignite, to see the fire dance before the statue of the Virgin. No wonder they did such things, these wise old Catholics. You could almost believe that the graceful flame was a living prayer.

Then she'd gone out to find Michael, who was having a wonderful time in the sacristy reminiscing about the parish with the kindly old priest.

Now at one o'clock, the wedding was at last beginning.

Stiff and still in her white raiment, she stood waiting, dreaming. The emerald lay against the lace that covered her breast, its burning glint of green the only color touching her. Even her ashen hair and gray eyes had looked pale in the mirror. And the jewel had reminded her, strangely, of the Catholic statues of Jesus and Mary with the exposed hearts, like the one she'd smashed so angrily in her mother's bedroom.

But all those ugly thoughts were very far away from her now. The huge nave of St. Mary's Assumption was packed. Mayfairs from New York and Los Angeles and Atlanta and Dallas had come. There were over two thousand of them. And one by one to the heavy strains of the organ, the bridesmaids--Clancy, Cecilia, Marianne, Polly, and Regina Mayfair--were moving up the aisle. Beatrice looked more splendid even than the younger ones. And the ushers, all Mayfairs too of course, and what a comely crew they were, stood ready to take the arms of the maids, one by one. But now had come the moment--

It seemed to her that she would forget how to put one foot before the other. But she didn't. Quickly she adjusted the long full white veil. She smiled at Mona, her little flower girl, lovely as always with the usual ribbon in her red hair. She took Aaron's arm, and together they followed Mona, in time with the stately music, Rowan's eyes moving dimly over

the hundreds of faces on either side of her, and dazzled, through the haze of whiteness, by the tiers of lights and candles at the altar ahead.

Would she remember this always? The bouquet of white flowers in her hand, Aaron's soft radiant smile as he looked at her, and her own feeling of being beautiful the way brides must always be beautiful?