The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

"How so?"

"It's not a grand house at all. It's some sort of domicile for something. It's a trap, you might say. It's made up of all sorts of patterns. And the patterns form a sort of trap." He shook his head. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm speaking off the top of my head. It's just ... well, all of us have a little talent for feeling things ... "

"I know."

"And well, I guess I wanted to warn you. You don't know anything about us."

"Did Carlotta say that about the patterns, about its being a trap?"

"No, it's only my opinion. I came here more than the others. I was the only one Carlotta would see in the last few years. She liked me. I'm not sure why. Sometimes I was only there out of curiosity, though I wanted to be loyal to her, I really did. It's been like a cloud over my life."

"You're glad it's finished."

"Yes. I am. It's dreadful to say it, but then she didn't want to live on any longer. She said so. She was tired. She wanted to die. But one afternoon, when I was alone here, waiting for her, it came to me that it was a trap. A great big trap. I don't really know what I mean. I'm only saying perhaps that if you feel something, don't discount it .... "

"Did you ever see anything when you were here?"

He thought for a moment, obviously picking up her meaning with no difficulty.

"Maybe once," he said. "In the hallway. But then again, I could have imagined it."

He fell silent. So did she. That was the end of it, and he wanted to be going.

"It was very nice to talk to you, Rowan," he said with a feeble smile. "Call me if you need me."

She went inside the gate, and watched almost furtively as his silver Mercedes, a large sedan, drove slowly away.

Empty now. Quiet.

She could smell pine oil. She climbed the stairs, and moved quickly from room to room. New mattresses, still wrapped in shining plastic, on all the beds. Sheets and counterpanes neatly folded and stacked to one side. Floors dusted.

Smell of disinfectant from the third floor.

She went upstairs, moving into the breeze from the landing window. The floor of the little chamber of the jars was scrubbed immaculate except for a dark deep staining which probably would never scrub away. Not a shard of glass to be seen in the light from the window.

And Julien's room, dusted, straightened, boxes stacked, the brass bed dismantled and laid against the wall beneath the windows, which had also been cleaned. Books nice and straight. The old dark sticky substance scraped away from the spot where Townsend had died.

All else was undisturbed.

Going back down to Carlotta's room, she found the drawers empty, the dresser bare, the armoire with nothing left but a few wooden hangers. Camphor.

All very still. She saw herself in the mirrored door of the armoire, and was startled. Her heart beat loudly for a moment. No one else here.

She walked downstairs to the first floor, and back down the hallway to the kitchen. They had mopped these floors and cleaned the glass doors of the cabinets. Good smell of wax again, and pine oil, and the smell of wood. That lovely smell.

An old black phone stood on the wooden counter in the pantry.

She dialed the hotel.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Lying here in bed feeling lonely and sorry for myself. I went over to the cemetery this morning with Aaron. I'm exhausted. I still ache all over, like I've been in a fight. Where are you? You aren't over there, are you?"

"Yes, and it's warm and empty and all the old woman's things are gone, and the mattresses are gone, and the attic room is scrubbed clean."

"Are you the only one there?"

"Yes," she said. "And it's beautiful. The sun's coming out." She stood looking about herself, at the light pouring through the French windows into the kitchen, at the light in the dining room, falling on the hardwood floor. "I'm definitely the only one here."

"I want to come over there," he said.

"No, I'm leaving now to walk back to the hotel. I want you to rest. I want you to go for a checkup."

"Be serious."

"Have you ever had an electrocardiogram?"

"You're going to scare me into a heart attack. I had all that after I drowned. My heart's perfect. What I need is erotic exercise in large doses sustained over an endless period of time."

"Depends on your pulse when I get there."

"Come on, Rowan. I'm not going for any checkup. If you're not here in ten minutes, I'm coming to get you."

"I'll be there sooner than that."

She hung up.

For a moment she thought about something she'd read in the file, something Arthur Langtry had written about his experience of seeing Lasher, something about his heart skipping dangerously, and about being dizzy. But then Arthur had been a very old man.

Peace here. Only the cries of the birds from the garden.

She walked slowly through the dining room and through the high keyhole doorway into the hall, glancing back at it to enjoy its soaring height and her own seeming smallness. The light poured in through the sun room, shining on the polished floor.

A great lovely sense of well-being came over her. All mine.

She stood still for a few seconds, listening, feeling. Trying to take full possession of the moment, trying to remember the anguish of yesterday and the day before, and to feel this in comparison, this wonderful lighthearted feeling. And once again the whole lurid tragic history comforted her, because she with all her own dark secrets had a place in it. And she would redeem it. That was the most important thing of all.

She turned to walk to the front of the house, and for the first time noticed a tall vase of roses on the hall table. Had Gerald put them there? Perhaps he had forgotten to mention it.

She stopped, studying the beautiful drowsy blooms, all of them bloodred, and rather like the florist-perfect flowers for the dead, she thought, as if they'd been picked from those fancy sprays left in the cemetery.

Then with a chill, she thought of Lasher. Flowers tossed at Deirdre's feet. Flowers put on the grave. In fact, she was so violently startled that for a moment she could hear her heart again, beating in the stillness. But what an absurd idea. Probably Gerald had put the flowers here, or Pierce when he had seen to the mattresses. After all, this was a commonplace vase, half filled with fresh water, and these were simply florist roses.

Nevertheless the thing looked ghastly to her. In fact, as her heartbeat grew steady again, she realized there was something distinctly odd about the bouquet. She was not an expert on roses, but weren't they generally smaller than this? How large and floppy these flowers looked. And such a dark blood color. And look at the stems, and the leaves; the leaves of roses were invariably almond-shaped, were they not, and these leaves had many points on them. As a matter of fact, there wasn't any leaf in this entire bouquet which had the same pattern or number of points as another. Strange. Like something grown wild, genetically wild, full of random and overwhelming mutation.

They were moving, weren't they? Swelling. No, just unfolding, as roses often do, opening little by little until they fall apart in a cascade of bruised petals. She shook her head. She felt a little dizzy.

Probably left there by Pierce. And what did it matter? She'd call him from the hotel just to make sure, and tell him she appreciated it.

She moved on to the front of the house, trying to capture the feeling of well-being again, breathing in the luxurious warmth around her. Very like a temple, this house. She looked back at the stairs. All the way up there, Arthur had seen Stuart Townsend.

Well, there was no one there now.

No

one. No one in the long parlor. No one out there on the porch where the vines crawled on the screens.

No one.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked out loud. It gave her a curious tingling excitement to speak the words. "Or is it that you expected me to be afraid of you and you're angry that I'm not? That's it, isn't it?"

Only the stillness answered her. And the soft rustling sound of the rose petals falling on the marble table.

With a faint smile, she went back to the roses, picked one from the vase, and gently holding it to her lips to feel its silky petals, she went out the front door.

It really was just an enormous rose, and look how many petals, and how strangely confused they seemed. And the thing was already withering.

In fact, the petals were already brown at the edges and curling. She savored the sweet perfume for another slow second, and then dropped the rose into the garden as she went out the gate.

PART THREE

COME INTO MY

PARLOR

Thirty-three

THE MADNESS OF restoration began on Thursday morning, though the night before over dinner at Oak Haven with Aaron and Rowan, he had begun to outline what steps he would take.

As far as the grave was concerned, and all his thoughts about it and the doorway and the number thirteen, they had gone into the notebook, and he did not wish to dwell on them anymore.

The whole trip to the cemetery had been grim. The morning itself had been overcast yet beautiful, of course, and he had liked walking there with Aaron, and Aaron had shown him how to block some of the sensations that came through his hands. He'd been practicing, going without the gloves, and here and there touching gateposts, or picking sprigs of wild lantana, and turning off the images, pretty much the way one blocks a bad or obsessive thought, and to his surprise it more or less worked.

But the cemetery. He had hated it, hated its crumbling romantic beauty, and hated the great heap of withering flowers from Deirdre's funeral which still surrounded the crypt. And the gaping hole where Carlotta Mayfair was soon to be laid to rest, so to speak.

Then as he was standing there, realizing in a sort of stunned miserable state that there were twelve crypts in the tomb and the doorway carved on the top made thirteen portals, up came his old friend Jerry Lonigan with some very pale-faced Mayfairs, and a coffin on wheels which could only belong to Carlotta, which was slipped, with only the briefest ceremony by the officiating priest, into the vacant slot.