The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

But what was really going on? It was a great warm house, full of laughter and singing, with its many fires burning, and outside the snow floating down, covering the trees and the shrubbery and the paths with luminous whiteness. And why shouldn't they all be having a wonderful time?

How they'd laughed as they slipped on the snow-covered flagstones, and crunched through the ice in the gutters. There had been enough snow even for the children to make, snowballs. In their caps and mittens they had skittered along the frozen crust that covered the lawn.

Even Aunt Viv had loved the snow. She had drunk too much sherry, and in those moments reminded him frighteningly of his mother, though Bea and Lily, who had become her dearest friends, did not seem to care.

Rowan had been perfect all evening, singing carols with them at the piano, posing for the pictures before the tree.

And this was his dream, wasn't it, full of radiant faces and ringing voices, people who knew how to appreciate this moment--glasses clinked together in toasts, lips pressed to cheeks, and the melancholy sound of the old songs.

"So sweet of you to do this so soon after the wedding ... "

" ... All gathered like in the old days."

"Christmas the way it ought to be."

And they had so admired his precious ornaments, and though they had been cautioned not to, they piled their little presents beneath the tree.

There were moments when he couldn't stand it. He'd gone upstairs to the third floor and climbed out on the roof of the north bedroom and stood near the parapet wall, looking towards downtown and the city lights. Snow on the rooftop, snow etching windowsills and gables and chimneys, and snow falling thin and beautiful, as far as he could see.

It was everything he'd ever wanted, as full and rich as the wedding, and he had never been more unhappy. It was as if that thing had its hand around his throat. He could have put his fist through a wall in his anxiety. It was bitter, bitter as grief is bitter.

And it seemed in the pockets of quiet through which he wandered, upstairs away from them, that he could feel that thing. That when he laid his naked fingers on the door frames and the doorknobs, he caught great raging glimpses of it in the shadows.

"You're here, Lasher. I know you're here."

Something stepped back for him in the shadows, playing with him, sliding up the dark walls away from him, and then dispersing so that he found himself in the upper hallway, in the dim light, alone.

Anyone spying on him would have thought he was a madman. He laughed. Is that how Daniel McIntyre had seemed in his drunken, wandering old age? What about all the other eunuch husbands who sensed the secret? They went off to mistresses--and certain death, it seemed--or drifted into irrelevance. What the hell was going to happen to him?

But this wasn't the finish. This was only the beginning, and she had to be playing for time. He had to believe that behind her silent pleas her love waited to reveal itself in truth again.

At last they'd gone.

The very last invitations to Christmas dinner had been tactfully refused, and promises had been made for future get-togethers. Aunt Viv would dine with Bea on Christmas Eve and they weren't to worry about her. They could have this Christmas to themselves.

Polaroid pictures had been exchanged and sleeping children gathered up from couches, and last-minute hugs given, and then out they all went into the clean bright cold.

Weary of the strain and sick with worry, he'd taken his time locking up. No need to smile now. No need to pretend anything. And God, what had the strain been like for her?

He dreaded going up the stairs. He went through the house checking windows, checking the little green tiny pinpoints of light on the alarm panel, and turning on the faucets to save the pipes from the freeze.

Finally he stood in the parlor, in front of his beautiful lighted tree.

Had there ever been a Christmas as bitter and lonely as this one? He would have been in a rage if it had served any purpose.

For a while he lay on the sofa, letting the fire burn itself out in the fireplace, and talking silently to Julien and Deborah, asking them as he had a thousand times tonight, what was he meant to do?

At last he climbed the stairs. The bedroom was hushed and dark. She was covered with blankets, so he saw only her hair against the pillow, her face turned away.

How many times this evening had he tried to catch her eye, and failed? Had anyone noticed that they spoke not a single syllable to each other? Everyone was too certain of their happiness. Just as he'd been so certain.

He walked silently to the front window and pulled back the heavy damask drape so that he might look at the falling snow for the last time. It was well after midnight--Christmas Eve already. And tonight would come that magic moment when he would take stock of his life and his accomplishments, when he would shape in dreams and plans the coming year.

Rowan, it's not going to end like this. It's only a skirmish. We knew at the beginning, so much more than the others ...

He turned and saw her hand on the pillow, slender and beautiful, fingers lightly curled.

Silently he drew close to her. He wanted to touch her hand, to feel its warmth against his fingers, to grab hold of her as if she were floating away from him in some dark perilous sea. But he didn't dare.

His heart was tripping and he felt that warm pain in his chest as he looked back out into the snowfall. And then his eyes settled on her face.

Her eyes were open. She was staring at him in the darkness. And her lips slowly spread in a long, vicious smile.

He was petrified. Her face was white in the dim light from outside, and hard as marble, and the smile was frozen and the eyes gleamed like pieces of glass. His heart quickened and the warm pain spread through his chest. He continued to stare at her, unable to take his eyes off her, and then his hand shot out before he could stop it and he grabbed her wrist.

Her entire body twisted, and the vicious mask of her face crumpled completely and she sat up suddenly, anxious and confused. "What is it, Michael?" She stared at her wrist, and slowly he let her go. "I'm glad you woke me," she whispered. Her eyes were wide and her lip trembled. "I was having the most terrible dream."

"What did you dream, Rowan?"

She sat still, peering before her, and then she clasped her hands as if tearing at one with the other. And he was vaguely aware that he'd once seen her in that desperate gesture before.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what it was. It was this place ... centuries ago, and these doctors were gathered together. And the body lying on the table was so small." Her voice was low and full of agony and suddenly the tears spilled down as she looked up at him.

"Rowan."

She put up her hand. As he sank down on the side of the bed, she pressed her fingers against his lips.

"Don't say it, Michael, please. Don't say it. Don't speak a word."

She shook her head frantically.

And sick with relief and hurt, he merely slipped his fingers around her neck, and as she bowed her head, he tried not to break down himself.

You know I love you, you know all the things I want to say.

When she was calmer, he took both of her hands and squeezed them tightly and he closed his eyes.

Trust me, Michael.

"OK, honey," he whispered. "OK." Clumsily, he stripped off his clothes, and he climbed in under the covers beside her, catching the warm clean fragrance of her flesh, and he lay there, eyes open, thinking that he would never rest, feeling her shiver against him, and then gradually as the hours ticked by, as her body softened and he saw that her eyes were closed, he slipped into uneasy sleep.

It was afternoon when he woke. He was alone, and t

he bedroom was suffocatingly warm. He showered and dressed and went downstairs. He couldn't find her. The lights of the tree were burning, but the house was empty.

He went through the rooms one by one.

He went outside in the coldness and walked all through the frozen garden, where the snow had become a hard glistening layer of ice over the walks and the grass. Back around the oak tree, he searched for her, but she was nowhere to be found.

And finally, he put on his heavy coat and he went out for a walk.

The sky was a deep still blue. And the neighborhood was magnificent, all dressed in white, exactly as it had been that long-ago Christmas, the last one that he was ever here.

A panic rose in him.

It was Christmas Eve and they had made no preparations. He had his little gift for her, hidden away in the pantry, a silver hand mirror which he'd found in his shop in San Francisco, and carefully wrapped long before he left, but what did it matter when she had all those jewels and all that gold, and all those riches beyond imagination? And he was alone. His thoughts, were going round in circles.

Christmas Eve and the hours were melting away.

He went into the market on Washington Avenue, which was jammed with last-minute shoppers, and in a daze he bought the turkey and the other makings, rummaging in his pockets for the bills he needed, like a drunk searching for every last penny for a bottle he couldn't afford. People were laughing and chatting about the snowfall. White Christmas in New Orleans. He found himself staring at them as if they were strange animals. And all their funny noises only made him feel small and alone. He hefted the heavy sack into one arm, and started for home.

He'd walked only a few steps when he saw the firehouse where his dad had once worked. It was all done over; he scarcely recognized it now except that it was in the same place and there was the enormous archway through which the engine had roared out into the street when he was a boy. He and his dad had sat together in straight-back chairs out there on the sidewalk.