The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

He shook his head. "I don't want to, Rowan," he said.

She stood silent, drawing into herself, it seemed, her eyes becoming vague and unfocused. She hugged her arms again, the way she always did it seemed when she was upset, as if her interior misery made her cold.

"Michael," she said again softly, "would you touch something of Deirdre's? Her nightgown. Maybe the bed."

"I don't want to, Rowan. We said we wouldn't ... "

She looked down, her hair tumbling over her eyes so that he couldn't see them.

"Rowan, I can't interpret it. It will just be confusion. I'll see the nurse that helped her dress, or maybe the doctor, or maybe a car that passed when she was sitting out there, watching. I don't know how to use it. Aaron's taught me a little. But I'm still not very good. I'll see something ugly and I'll hate it. And it scares me, Rowan, because she's dead. I touched all kinds of things for people in the beginning. But I can't now. Believe me, I ... I mean when Aaron teaches me ... "

"What if you saw happiness? What if you saw something beautiful like that woman in London saw, who touched her robe for Aaron?"

"Did you believe in that, Rowan? They aren't infallible, these people in the Talamasca. They're just people."

"No, they aren't just people," she said. "They're people like you and me. They have preternatural powers like you and I have preternatural powers."

Her voice was mild, unchallenging. But he understood what she felt. He stared again at the blessed candles, and then at the broken statue, which he could just see in the shadows behind her on the bathroom floor. Flash of the May procession and the giant statue of the Virgin tilting as it was carried through the streets. Thousands of flowers. And he thought again of Deirdre, Deirdre in the botanical garden, talking in the dark to Aaron. "I want normal life."

He moved around the bed and went to the old-fashioned dresser. He opened the top drawer. Nightgowns of soft white flannel, whiff of sachet, very sweet. And lighter summer garments of real silk.

He lifted one of these nightgowns--a thin sleeveless thing sewn with pale pastel flowers. He laid it down in a wrinkled heap on the dresser, and he took off his gloves. For a second he clasped his hands together tightly and then he picked up the garment in both hands. He closed his eyes. "Deirdre," he said, "only Deirdre."

An enormous place gaped before him. Through the lurid flickering glare he saw hundreds of faces, he heard voices wailing and screaming. An unbearable sound. A man came towards him stepping over the bodies of the others! "No. Stop!" He had dropped the nightgown. He stood there with his closed eyes trying to remember what he'd just glimpsed, though he couldn't bear to be surrounded by it again. Hundreds of people shifting and turning, and someone speaking to him in a rapid ugly mocking voice. "Christ, what was it?" He stared down at his hands. He had heard a drum behind all of it, a marching cadence, a sound he knew.

Mardi Gras, years ago. Rushing through the winter street with his mother. "Going to see the Mystic Krewe of Comus." Yes, that had been the very drum song. And the glare had been the glare of the flickering reeking flambeaux.

"I don't understand," he said.

"What are you saying?"

"I didn't see anything that made any sense." He looked down angrily at the nightgown. Slowly he reached out for it. "Deirdre, in the last days," he said. "Only Deirdre in the last days." He touched the soft wrinkled cloth very gently. "I'm seeing the view from the porch, the garden," he whispered. Yes, the Queen's Wreath vine, and that is a butterfly climbing the screen, and his hand right there beside her. "Lasher's there, she's glad he's there, and he's right beside her." And if he turned his head and looked up from the rocker he'd see Lasher. He set the nightgown down again. "And it was all sunlight and flowers, and she was ... was all right."

"Thank you, Michael."

"I don't want to do it again, Rowan, I'm sorry I can't do it. I don't want to."

"I understand," she said. She came towards him. "I'm sorry." Her voice was low and sincere and soothing, but her eyes were full of bewilderment. What had he seen that first time around, she wanted to know.

So did he. But what chance had he of knowing?

Yet he was here, inside the house, and he had the power, which had been given to him, presumably by them! And he was being a coward with the power, he, Michael Curry, a coward, and he kept saying he meant to do what they wanted him to do.

Hadn't they wanted him to come here? Didn't they want him to touch things? And she wanted him to. How could she not?

He reached out and touched the foot of Deirdre's bed. Flash of midday, nurses, a cleaning woman pushing a tired vacuum, someone complaining, ceaselessly, a whine. It came so fast finally it was blurred; he ran his fingers along the mattress: her white leg like a thing made out of dough, and Jerry Lonigan there, lifting her, saying under his breath to his assistant, Look at this place, will you look at it, and when he touched the walls, her face suddenly, Deirdre, idiot smile, drool on her chin. He touched the door to the bathroom, a white nurse bullying her, telling her to come now, and move her feet, she knew that she could, pain inside Deirdre, pain eating her insides, a man's voice speaking, the cleaning woman coming, going, the flush of the toilet, the hum of the mosquitoes, the sight of a sore on her back, good God, look at it, where she has rubbed against the rocker over the years, a festering sore, caked with baby powder, are you people crazy, and the nurse just holds her on the toilet. I can't ...

He turned and pushed past Rowan, brushing her hand away as she tried to stop him. He touched the post of the stairs. Flash of a cotton dress passing him, beat of footsteps on the old carpet. Someone screaming, crying.

"Michael!"

He ran up the steps after them. The baby was roaring in the cradle. It echoed all the way up the three flights from the parlor.

Stench of chemicals, rotted filth in those jars. He'd glimpsed it last night, she'd told him about it, but now he had to see it, didn't he? And touch it. Touch Marguerite's filthy jars. He'd smelled it last night when he'd come up to find Townsend's body, only it wasn't the body. His hand on the railing, caught a flash of Rowan with the lamp in her hand. Rowan angry and miserable and trying to escape the old woman, who was beating her with words, viciousness, and then the black woman with her dust mop, and a carpenter putting a pane of glass in this window that looked out over the roof. God, that is an awful smell up here, lady. Just do your job. Deirdre's bedroom, shrill clang of other voices, rising to a peak, then washing away, and another wave coming. And the door, the door straight ahead, someone laughing, a man speaking French, what he's saying, let me hear one distinct word, the stench is behind it.

But no, first Julien's room, Julien's bed. The laughing grew louder, but a baby's crying was mixed up with it, someone rushing up the stairs just behind him. The door gave him Eugenia again, dusting, complaining about the stench, Carlotta's voice droning on, the words indistinguishable, and then that awful stain there in the darkness where Townsend died, drawing his last breath through the hole in the carpet, and the mantel, wavering flash of Julien! The same man, yes, the same man he'd seen when he held Deirdre's nightgown, yes, you, Julien, staring at him, I see you, and then footsteps running, no, I don't want to see this, but he reached out for the windowsill, grabbed the little cord of the shade, and up it ran, rattling at the top, revealing the dirty windowpanes.

She flew past him, Antha, through the glass, scuttling out on the roof, terrified, tangle of hair over her wet face, her eye, look at her eye, it's on her cheek, dear God. Sobbing, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me! Lasher, help me!"

"Rowan!"

And Julien, why didn't he do something, why did he stand there crying silently, doing nothing. "You can call on the devil in hell and the saints in heaven, they won't help you," said Carlotta, her voice a snarl as she climbed through the window.

And Julien helpless. "Kill you, bitch, kill you, you will not ... "

She's gone, she's fallen, her scream unfurling like a great billowing red flag against the blue s

ky. Julien with his face in his hands. Helpless. Shimmering gone, a ghost witness. The chaos again, Carlotta fading. He clamped his hands on the iron bed, Julien sitting there, wavering yet distinct for an instant, I know you, dark eyes, smiling mouth, white hair, yes, you, don't touch me! "Eh bien, Michel, at last!"

His hand struck the packing crates lying on the bed, but he couldn't see them. He could see nothing but the light wavering and forming the image of the man sitting there under the covers, and then it was gone, and then it was there. Julien was trying to get out of the bed ... No, get away from me.

"Michael!"

He had shoved the boxes off the bed. He was stumbling over the books. The dolls, where were the dolls? In the trunk. Julien said that, didn't he? He said it in French. Laughter, a chorus of laughter. Rustle of skirts around him. Something broke. His knee struck something sharp, but he crawled on towards the trunk. Latches rusted, no problem, throw back the lid.

Wavering, vanishing, Julien stood there, nodding, pointing down into the trunk.

The rusted hinges broke completely as the lid slammed back into the old plaster and fell loose. What was that rustling, like taffeta all around him, feet scraping the floor around him, figures looming over him, like flashes of light through shutters, here and then gone, let me breathe, let me see. It was like the rustle of the nuns' skirts when he was in school and they came thundering down the hallway to hit the boys, to make the boys get back in line, rustling of beads and cloth and petticoats ...

But there are the dolls.

Look, the dolls! Don't hurt them, they are so old and so fragile, with their dumb scribble scratch faces looking at you, and look, that one, with the button eyes, and the braids of gray, in her tiny little perfect man clothes of tweed to the very trousers. God, bones inside!

He held it. Mary Beth! The flapping gores of her skirts came against him; if he looked up he'd see her looking down; he did see her, there was no limit to what he could see, he could see the backs of their heads as they closed in on him, but nothing would hold steady even for an instant. It was all gossamer, and solid for one second and then nothing, the room full of dusty nothing and crowded to overflowing. Rowan came through as if through the tear in a fabric, grabbing him by the arm, and in a glimmering flash he saw Charlotte, knew it was Charlotte. Had he touched the doll? He looked down, they were all higgledy piggledy and so fragile on the layer of cheesecloth.