The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

"One thing specifically," she said. "How much of this money goes into medicine? Are there any medical institutions involved?"

How startled they were. A declaration of war, it seemed, or so said the face of Anne Marie Mayfair, glancing at Lauren and then at Randall, in the first undisguised bit of hostility which Rowan had witnessed since she'd come to this town. The older Lauren, a finger hooked beneath her lower lip, eyes narrow, was too polished for such a display and merely looked fixedly at Rowan, her gaze now and then shifting very slowly to Ryan, who again began to speak.

"Our philanthropic endeavors have not in the past involved medicine, per se. Rather the Mayfair Foundation is more heavily involved with the arts and with education, with educational television in particular, and with scholarship funds at several universities, and of course we donate enormous sums through several established charities, quite independent of the Foundation, but all of this, you see, is carefully structured, and does not involve the release of the control of the money involved, so much as the release of the earnings ... "

"I know how that works," Rowan said quietly. "But we are talking about billions, and hospitals, clinics, and laboratories are profit-making institutions. I wasn't thinking of the philanthropic question, really. I was thinking of an entire area of involvement; which could have considerable beneficial impact upon human lives."

How curiously cold and exciting this moment was. How private too. Rather like the first time she had ever approached the operating table and held the microinstruments in her own hands.

"We have not tended to go in the direction of medicine," said Ryan with an air of finality. "The field would require intense study, it would require an entire restructuring ... and Rowan, you do realize that this network of investments, if I may call it that, has evolved over a century's time. This isn't a fortune which can be lost if the silver market crashes, or if Saudi Arabia floods the world with free oil. We are talking about a diversification here which is very nearly unique in financial annals, and carefully planned maneuvers which have proven profitable through two world wars and numberless smaller upheavals."

"I understand," she said. "I really do. But I want information. I want to know everything. I can start with the paper you filed with the IRS, and move on from there. Perhaps what I want is an apprenticeship, a series of meetings in which we discuss various areas of involvement. Above all I want statistics, because statistics are the reality finally ... "

Again, the silence, the inner confusion, the glances ricocheting off each other. How small and crowded the room had become.

"You want my advice?" asked Randall, his voice deeper and rougher than that of Ryan, but equally patient in its mellow southern cadences. "You're paying for it, actually, so you might as well have it."

She opened her hands. "Please."

"Go back to being a neurosurgeon; draw an income for anything and everything you will ever need; and forget about understanding where the money comes from. Unless you want to cease being a doctor and become what we are--people who spend their lives at board meetings, and talking to investment counselors and stockbrokers and other lawyers and accountants with little ten-key adding machines, which is what you pay us to do."

She studied him, his dark unkempt gray hair, his droopy eyes, the large wrinkled hands now clasped on the table. Nice man. Yes, nice man. Man who isn't a liar. None of them are liars. None of them are thieves either. Intelligently managing this money requires all their skill and earns them profits beyond the dreams of those with a taste for thievery.

But they are all lawyers, even pretty young Pierce with the porcelain skin is a lawyer, and lawyers have a definition of truth which can be remarkably flexible and at odds with anyone else's definition.

Yet they have ethics. This man has his ethics; but he is profoundly conservative, and those who are profoundly conservative are not interventionists; they are not surgeons.

They do not even think in terms of great goodness, or saving thousands, even millions of lives. They cannot guess what it would mean if this legacy, this egregious and monumental fortune, could be returned to the hands of the Scottish midwife and the Dutch doctor as they approached the sickbed, hands out to heal.

She looked away, out towards the river. For a moment her excitement had blinded her. She wanted the warmth to die away from her face. Salvation, she whispered inside her soul. And it was not important that they understand it. What was important was that she understood it, and that they withheld nothing, and that as things were removed from their control, they were not hurt or diminished, but that they too should be saved.

"What does it all amount to?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the river, on the long dark barge being pushed upstream by the shabby snub-nosed tug.

Silence.

"You're thinking of it in the wrong way," said Randall. "It's all of a piece, a great web ... "

"I can imagine. But I want to know, and you mustn't blame me for it. How much am I worm?"

No answer.

"Surely you can make a guess."

"Well, I wouldn't like to, because it might be entirely unrealistic if viewed from a ... "

"Seven and one half billion," she said. "That's my guess."

Protracted silence. Vague shock. She had hit very close to it, hadn't she? Close perhaps to an IRS figure, which had surfaced in one of these hostile and partially closed minds.

It was Lauren who answered, Lauren whose expression had changed ever so slightly, as she drew herself up to the table and held her pencil in both hands.

"You're entitled to this information," she said in a delicate, almost stereotypically feminine voice, a voice that suited her carefully groomed blond hair and pearl earrings. "You have every legal right to know what is yours. And I do not speak only for myself when I say that we will cooperate with you completely, for that we are ethically bound to do. But I must say, personally, that I find your attitude rather morally interesting. I welcome the chance to talk with you about every aspect of the legacy, down to the smallest detail. My only fear is that you're going to tire of this game, long before all the cards are on the table. But I am more than willing to take the initiative and begin."

Did she realize how very patronizing this was? Rowan doubted it. But after all, the legacy had belonged to these people for over fifty years, hadn't it? They deserved patience. Yet she could not quite give them what they deserved.

"There really isn't any other way for either of us to go about it," Rowan said. "It isn't

merely morally interesting that I want to know what's involved, it's morally imperative that I find out."

The woman chose not to respond. Her delicate features remained tranquil, her small pale eyes widening slightly, her thin hands trembling only a little as they held the pencil at both ends. The others at the table were watching her, though each in his or her own fashion tried to disguise it.

And Rowan realized; this is the brains behind the firm, this woman, Lauren. And all the time, Rowan had thought it was Ryan. Silently she acknowledged her mistake, wondering if the woman could possibly perceive what she was thinking. We have been wrong about each other ...

But one could read anything into such an impassive face and such a graceful slow manner.

"May I ask you a question," the woman asked, still looking directly at Rowan. "It's a purely business question, you understand."

"Of course."

"Can you take being rich? I mean really, really rich? Can you handle it?"

Rowan was tempted to smile. It was such a refreshing question, and again, so patronizing and so insulting. Any number of replies came to her lips. But she settled for the simplest.

"Yes," she said. "And I want to build hospitals."

Silence.

Lauren nodded. She folded her arms on the table, her eyes taking in the entire assembly. "Well, I don't see any problem with that," she said calmly. "Seems like an interesting idea. And we're here to do what you want, of course."

Yes, she was the brains behind the firm. And she had allowed Ryan and Randall to do the talking. But she was the one who would be the teacher and eventually the obstacle.

No matter.

Rowan had what she wanted. The legacy was as real as the house was real, as real as the family was real. And the dream was going to be realized. In fact, she knew: it could be done.

"I think we can talk about the immediate problems now, don't you?" Rowan asked. "You'll need to make an inventory of the possessions at the house? I believe someone mentioned this. Also, Carlotta's things. Is there anyone who wants to remove them?"