Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 3)

"What will we do now?"

"I don't know the next step. If Yuri hasn't returned by morning, I suppose that we should leave here."

"But I like Claridge's," Samuel grumbled. He keeled over, eyes closing the moment he hit the pillow.

"Samuel, refresh my memory," Ash said.

"About what?"

"What is a syllogism?"

Samuel laughed. "Refresh your memory? You never knew what a syllogism was. What do you know about philosophy?"

"Too much," said Ash. He tried to remember it himself. All men are beasts. Beasts are savage. Therefore all men are savage.

He went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. For one moment, he saw again the pretty-haired witch, Yuri's beloved. He imagined that her naked breasts were pressed gently against his face, and that her hair covered them both like a great mantle.

Then he was fast asleep. He dreamed he was walking through the doll museum in his building. The marble tile had just been polished, and he could see all the many colors, and how colors changed depending upon what color was right beside them. All the dolls in their glass cases began to sing--the modern, the antique, the grotesque, the beautiful. The French dolls danced, and swung their little bell-shaped dresses as they did so, their round little faces full of glee, and the magnificent Bru dolls, his queens, his most treasured queens, sang high soprano, their paperweight eyes glistening in the fluorescent lights. Never had he heard such music. He was so happy.

Make dolls that can sing, he thought in his dream, dolls that can really sing--not like the old ones that were bad mechanical toys, but dolls with electronic voices that will sing forever. And when the world ends, the dolls will still sing in the ruins.

Ten

"THERE'S NO QUESTION," said Dr. Salter. She set down the manila folder on the edge of the desk. "But it didn't happen six weeks ago."

"Why do you say that?" said Mona. She hated this little examining room because it didn't have any windows. Made her feel she was going to smother.

"Because you're almost three months along, that's why." The doctor approached the table. "Here, you want to feel it yourself? Give me your hand."

Mona let the doctor lift her wrist and then place her hand on her own belly.

"Press hard. You feel that? That's the baby. Why do you think you're wearing that loose thing? You can't stand anything tight against your waist, now, can you?"

"Look, my aunt bought me these clothes. They were hanging there, or it was hanging there." What was it, damn it, oh yeah, linen, black for funerals, or for looking nifty with fancy high-heeled black-and-white string shoes. "I can't be that pregnant," said Mona. "That's just not possible."

"Go home and check your computer log, Mona. You are."

Mona sat up, and jumped down from the table, smoothing down the black skirt and quickly slipping into the fancy shoes. No need to lace or unlace, though if Aunt Gifford had seen her stuffing her foot like that into an expensive shoe, she would have screamed.

"I gotta go," she said. "I'm expected at a funeral."

"Not that poor man who married your cousin, the one killed by the car?"

"Yep, that poor man. Listen, Annelle. Can we do one of those tests where you see the fetus?"

"Yes, and it will confirm exactly what I've been telling you--that you're twelve weeks along. Now listen, you have to take all the supplements I'm giving you. A thirteen-year-old body is not ready to have a baby."

"Okay, I want to make an appointment for that test where we look at it." Mona started for the door, and had her hand on the knob when she stopped. "On second thought," she said, "I'd rather not."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know. Let's just leave it alone in there for a while. Tests can be scary, can't they?"

"My God, you're turning white."

"No, I'm not, I'm just going to faint like women in the movies."

She went out, passing through the small, carpeted outer office, and out the door, though the doctor was calling to her. The door swished shut heavily, and she hurried through the glass-enclosed lobby.

The car was waiting at the curb. Ryan stood beside it, arms folded. Dressed in dark blue for the funeral, he looked almost the same as always, except that his eyes were watery now, and he was plainly very tired. He opened the door for her.

"Well, what did Dr. Salter say?" he asked. He turned to look at her, up and down and with care.

She really wished everybody would stop looking at her.

"I'm pregnant all right," said Mona. "Everything's OK. Let's get out of here."

"We're going. Are you unhappy? Perhaps this has all begun to sink in."

"Of course I'm not unhappy. Why would I be unhappy? I'm thinking about Aaron. Has Michael or Rowan called?"

"No, not yet. They're probably asleep right now. What's the matter, Mona?"

"Ryan, chill, OK? People keep asking me what's the matter. Nothing's the matter. Things are just happening ... awfully fast."

"You have a very uncharacteristic look on your face," said Ryan. "You look frightened."

"Naw, just wondering what it's going to be like. My own child. You did tell everybody, didn't you? No sermons or lectures."

"It wasn't necessary," he said. "You're the designee. No one is going to say anything to you. If anyone were likely, it would be me. But I can't bring myself to make the requisite speeches, to issue the usual warnings and reservations."

"Good," she said.

"We've lost so many, and this is a brand-new life, and I see it rather like a flame, and I keep wanting to cup my hands around it and protect it."

"You're flipping out, Ryan. You're really tired. You need to rest for a while."

"Do you want to tell me now?"

"Tell you what?"

"The identity of the father, Mona. You do plan to tell us, don't you? Is it your cousin David?"

"No, it's not David. Forget about David."

"Yuri?"

"What is this? Twenty questions? I know who the father is, if that'

s what you're wondering, but I don't want to talk about it now. And the identity of the father can be confirmed as soon as the baby's born."

"Before then."

"I don't want any needles going into this baby! I don't want any threat to it. I told you I know who the father is. I'll tell you when it's ... when I think it's time."

"It's Michael Curry, isn't it?"

She turned and glared at him. Too late now to field the question. He had seen it in her face. And he looked so exhausted, so without the usual backbone. He was like a man on strong medicine, a little punchy, and more open than usual. Good thing they were in the limo, and he wasn't driving. He would go straight into a fence.

"Gifford told me," he said, speaking slowly, in the same druggy fashion. He looked out the window. They were driving slowly down St. Charles Avenue, the prettiest stretch of newer mansions and very old trees.

"Come again?" she asked. "Gifford told you? Ryan, are you OK?" What would happen to this family if Ryan went off his rocker? She had enough to worry about as it was. "Ryan, answer me."

"It was a dream I had last night," he said, turning to her finally. "Gifford said the father was Michael Curry."

"Was Gifford happy or sad?"

"Happy or sad." He pondered. "Actually, I don't remember."

"Oh, so that's great," said Mona. "Even now that she's dead, no one is paying attention to what she says. She comes in a dream, and you don't even pay attention."

This startled him, but only a little. He took no offense, as far as she could tell. When he looked at her, his eyes were remote and very peaceful.

"It was a nice dream, a good dream. We were together."

"What did she look like?" There was really something wrong with him. I'm alone, she thought. Aaron's been murdered. Bea needs our sympathy; Rowan and Michael haven't called in yet, we're all scared, and now Ryan is drifting, and maybe, just maybe, that is all for the best.

"What did Gifford look like?" she asked again.

"Pretty, the way she always looked. She always looked the same to me, you know, whether she was twenty-five or thirty-five, or fifteen even. She was my Gifford."

"What was she doing?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I believe in dreams. Ryan, please tell me. Think back--was Gifford doing anything?"

He shrugged, and gave a little smile. "She was digging a hole, actually. I think it was under a tree. I believe it was Deirdre's oak. Yes, that's what it was, and the dirt was piled high all around her."