The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

Perhaps in some cold reasoning part of her mind, she understood why people had fled family and tradition to seek the brittle, chic world of California in which she had grown up. But she felt sorry for them, sorry for anyone who had never known this strange intimacy with so many of the same name and clan. Surely Ellie would understand.

Drifting back into the parlor, and back into the din of the band and the dancers, she searched for Michael, and suddenly saw him quite alone against the second fireplace staring all the way down the length of the crowded room. She knew that look on his face, the flush, and the agitation--she understood the way that his eyes had locked on some distant seemingly unimportant point.

He barely noticed her as she came up beside him. He didn't hear her as she whispered his name. She followed the line of his gaze. All she saw were the dancing couples, and the glittering sprinkle of rain on the front windows.

"Michael, what is it?"

He didn't move. She tugged on his arm, then lifting her right hand, she very gently turned his face towards her and stared at him, repeating his name clearly again. Roughly he turned away from her, looking again to the front of the room. Nothing this time. It was gone, whatever it was. Thank God.

She could see the droplets of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. His hair was moist as though he'd been outside, when of course he hadn't. She drew close to him, leaning her head against his chest.

"What was it?" she said.

"Nothing, really ... " he murmured. He couldn't quite catch his breath. "I thought I saw ... it doesn't matter. It's gone."

"But what was it?"

"Nothing." He took her by the shoulders, kissing her a little roughly. "Nothing's going to spoil this day for us, Rowan." His voice caught in his throat as he went on. "Nothing crazy and strange on this day."

"Stay with me," she said, "don't leave me again." She drew him after her out of the parlor and back into the library and into the powder room, where they could be alone. His heart was still speeding as she held him quietly, her arms locked around him, the noise and the music muffled and far away.

"It's OK, darlin'," he said finally, his breathing easier now, "honestly it is. The things I'm seeing, they don't mean anything. Don't worry, Rowan. Please. It's like the images; I'm catching impressions of things that happened long ago, that's all. Come on, honey, look at me. Kiss me. I love you and this is our day."

The party moved on vigorously and madly into the evening. The couple finally cut the wedding cake in a tempest of flashing cameras and drunken laughter. Trays of sweets were passed. Urns of coffee were brewing. Mayfairs in long heartfelt conversations with one another had settled in various corners, and onto couches, and gathered in clusters around tables. The rain came down hard outside. The thunder came and went with occasional booming violence. And the bars stayed open, for most of the gathering continued to drink.

Finally, because Rowan and Michael weren't going to Florida for their honeymoon until the following day, it was decided that Rowan should throw her bouquet from the stairway "now." Climbing halfway, and staring down at a sea of upturned faces, ranging in both directions and back into the parlor, Rowan closed her eyes and threw the bouquet up in the air. There was a great deal of cordial screaming and even pushing and scuffling. And suddenly beautiful young Clancy Mayfair held up the bouquet, amid shouts of approbation. And Pierce threw his arms around her, obviously declaring to the whole world his particular and selfish delight in her good luck.

Ah, so it's Pierce and Clancy, is it? thought Rowan quietly, coming back down. And she had not seen it before. She had not even guessed. But there seemed little doubt of it as she watched them slip away. Far off against the second fireplace, Peter stood smiling on, while Randall argued heatedly, it seemed, with Fielding, who had been planted there some time ago in a tapestried chair.

The new band of the evening had just arrived. It began to play a waltz; everyone cheered at the sound of the sweet, old-fashioned music, and someone dimmed the chandeliers until they gave off a soft, rosy light. Older couples rose to dance. Michael at once took Rowan and led her to the middle of the parlor. It was another flawless moment, as rich and tender as the music that carried them along. Soon the room around them was crowded with dancing couples. Beatrice was dancing with Randall. And Aunt Vivian with Aaron. All of the old ones were dancing, and then even the young ones were drawn into it, little Mona with the elderly Peter, and Clancy with Pierce.

If Michael had seen any other awful unwelcome thing, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, his eyes were fixed steadily and devotedly on Rowan.

As nine o'clock sounded, certain Mayfairs were crying, having reached some point of crucial confession or understanding in a conversation with a long-lost cousin; or simply because everybody had drunk too much and danced too long and some people felt they ought to cry. Rowan didn't exactly know. It just seemed a natural thing for Beatrice as she sat bawling on the couch with Aaron hugging her, and for Gifford, who for hours had been explaining something of seeming importance to a patient and wide-eyed Aunt Viv. Lily had gotten into a loud quarrel with Peter and Randall, deriding them as the "I remember Stella" crowd.

Rita Mae Lonigan was still crying when she left with her husband, Jerry. Amanda Curry, along with Franklin Curry, also made a tearful farewell.

By ten o'clock the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two hundred. Rowan had taken off her white satin high heels. She sat in a wing chair by the first fireplace of the parlor, her long sleeves pushed up, smoking a cigarette, with her feet curled under her, listening to Pierce talk about his last trip to Europe. She could not even recall when or where she had taken off her veil. Maybe Bea had taken it when she and Lily had gone to "prepare the wedding chamber," whatever that meant. Her feet hurt worse than they did after an eight-hour operation. She was hungry, and only the desserts were left. And the cigarette was making her sick. She stubbed it out.

Michael and the old gray-haired priest from the parish were in fast conversation before the mantel at the other end of the room. The band had moved from Strauss to more recent sentimental favorites. Here and there voices broke out in time with the strains of "Blue Moon" or "The Tennessee Waltz." The wedding cake, except for a piece to be saved for sentimental reasons, had been devoured down to the last crumb.

A group of Gradys, connections of Cortland, delayed on their journey from New York, flooded through the front door, full of apologies and exclamations. Others rushed to greet them. Rowan apologized for being shoeless and disheveled as she received their kisses. And in the back dining room, a large party which had come together for a series of photographs began to sing "My Wild Irish Rose."

At eleven, Aaron kissed Rowan good-bye, as he left to take Aunt Vivian home. He would be at the hotel if needed, and he wished them a safe trip to Destin in the morning.

Michael walked with Aaron and his aunt to the front door. Michael's old friends went off at last to continue their drinking at Parasol's bar in the Irish Channel, after extracting the promise from Michael that he would meet with them for dinner in a couple of weeks. But the stairway was still blocked with couples in fast conversation. And the caterers were "rustling up something" in the kitchen for the New York Gradys.

At last, Ryan rose to his feet, demanded silence, and declared that this party was over! Everyone was to find his or her shoes, coat, purse, or what have you, and get out and leave the wedding couple alone. Taking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, he turned to Rowan.

"To the wedding couple," he announced, his voice easily carrying over the hubbub. "To their first night in this house."

Cheers once more. Everyone reaching for a last drink, and mere were a hundred repeats of the toast as glasses clinked together. "God bless all in this house!" declared the priest, who just happened to be going out the door. And a dozen different voices repeated the prayer.

"To Darcy Monahan and Katherine," someone cried.

"To Julien and Mary Beth ... to Stella ... "

The

leavetaking, as was the fashion in this family, took over a half hour, what with the kissing, and the promises to get together, and the renewed conversations halfway out of the powder room and halfway off the porch and halfway out the gate.

Meantime the caterers swept through the rooms, silently retrieving every last glass and napkin, righting pillows, and snuffing candles, and scattering the arrangements of flowers which had been grouped on the banquet tables, and wiping up the last spills.

At last it was over. Ryan was the last one to go, having paid the caterers and seen to it that everything was perfect. The house was almost empty!

"Good night, my dears," he said, and the high, front door slowly closed.

For a long moment Rowan and Michael looked at each other, then they broke into laughter, and Michael picked her up and swung her around in a circle, before he set her gentry back on her feet. She fell against him, hugging him the way she'd come to love, with her head against his chest. She was weak from laughing.

"We did it, Rowan!" he said. "The way everybody wanted it, we did it! It's over, it's done."

She was still laughing silently, deliciously exhausted and pleasantly excited at the same time. But the clock was striking. "Listen," she whispered. "Michael, it's midnight."

He took her by the hand, hit the wall button to shut off the light, and together they hurried up the darkened stairs.

Only one room on the second floor gave a light into the hallway, and it was their bedroom. They moved silently to the threshold.

"Rowan, look what they've done," Michael said.

The room had been exquisitely prepared by Bea and Lily. A huge fragrant bouquet of pink roses stood on the mantel between the two silver candelabra.

On the dressing table, the champagne waited in its bucket of ice with two glasses beside it, on a silver tray.

The bed itself was ready, the lace coverlet turned down, the pillows fluffed, and the soft white bed curtains brought back and tied to the massive posts at the head.

A pretty nightgown and peignoir of white silk lay folded on one side of the bed and a pair of white cotton pajamas on the other. A single rose lay against the pillows, with a bit of ribbon tied to it, and another single candle stood on the small table to the right of the bed.

"How sweet of them to think of it," Rowan said.

"And so it's our wedding night, Rowan," Michael said. "And the clock's just stopped chiming. It's the witching hour, darlin', and we have it all to ourselves."

Again, they looked at each other, and both began to laugh softly, feeding each other's laughter, and quite unable to stop. They were too tired to do more than fall into bed beneath the covers, and they both knew it.