Anne Rice - Lasher (The Mayfair Witches)

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One
IN THE beginning was the voice of Father.
"Emaleth!" whispering close to her mother's belly while her
mother slept. And then singing to her, the long songs of the past. Songs
of the Glen of Donnelaith and of the castle, and of where they would
sometime come together, and how she would be born knowing all that
Father knew. It is our way, he said to her in the fast language, which
others could not understand.
To others it sounded like humming, or whistling. It was their secret
tongue, for they could hear syllables which ran too fast for the others
to grasp. They could sing out to each other. Emaleth could almost do
it, almost speak-
"Emaleth, my darling, Emaleth, my daughter, Emaleth, my mate."
Father was waiting for her. She had to grow fast and grow strong for
Father. When the time came, Mother had to help her. She had to drink
Mother's milk.
Mother slept. Mother cried. Mother dreamed. Mother was sick.
And when Father and Mother quarreled, the world trembled. Emaleth
knew dread.
But Father always came after, singing to her, reminding her that the
words of his song were too rapid for Mother to comprehend. The
melody made Emaleth feel as if the tiny round world in which she lived
had expanded and she was floating in a place without limits, pushed
hither and thither by Father's song.
Father said poetry which was beautiful, especially words that
rhyme. Rhymes made a thrill pass through Emaleth. She stretched her
legs and her arms, and turned her head this way and that, it felt so good,
the rhymes.
Mother didn't talk to Emaleth. Mother wasn't supposed to know
that Emaleth was there. Emaleth was tiny, said Father, but perfectly
formed. Emaleth already had her long hair.
But when Mother talked, Emaleth understood her; when Mother
wrote, Emaleth saw the words. Emaleth heard Mother's frequent whis-
per. She knew that Mother was afraid. Sometimes she saw Mother's
dreams. She saw the face of Michael. She saw fighting. She saw Father's
face as Mother saw it and it made Mother sad.
Father loved Mother, but Mother made him fiercely angry, and
when he struck Mother, Mother suffered, even falling, and Emaleth
screamed, or tried to scream. But Father always came after, while
Mother slept, and said Emaleth must not fear. That they would come
together in the circle of stones at Donnelaith, and then he told stories
to her of the old days, when all the beautiful ones had lived on an island,
and it was Paradise, before the others and the little people had come.
Sad and sorrowful the weakness of humans and the tragedy of the
little people, and is it not better that all be driven from the Earth?
"I tell you the things I know now. And things that were told to me,"
he said. And Emaleth saw the circle of stones, and the tall figure of
Father as he was now, strumming the strings of the harp. Everyone was
dancing. She saw the little people hiding in the shadows, spiteful and
angry. She did not like them, she did not want them to steal down into
the town. They loathe us instinctively, said Father, of the little people.
How can they not? But they do not matter now. They are only a
lingering from dreams which failed to come true. /
Now is the hour. The hour for Emaleth and Father. \
She saw Father in the old days, with his arms outstretched. This was
Christmas and the glen was filled with snow. The Scots pines were
close. Hymns rose from the people. Emaleth loved the rise and fall of
the voices. There was so much she must see and learn later on.
"If we are separated, my beloved, come to the glen at Donnelaith.
You can find it. You can do this. People are searching for Mother,
people who would divide us. But remember, you will be born into this
world knowing all you need to know. Now can you answer me?"
Emaleth tried but she could not.
"Taltos," he said, and kissed Mother's belly, "I hear you, darling,
I love you." And while Mother slept Emaleth was happy, because when
Mother woke, Mother would cry.
"You think I wouldn't kill him in an instant?" Father said to
Mother. They were fighting about Michael. "I would kill him just like
that. You leave me, and what makes you think that won't happen?"
Emaleth saw this person, Michael, whom Mother loved and Father
did not. Michael lived in New Orleans in a great house. Father wanted
to go back to the great house. He wanted to possess it, it was his house,
and it made him deeply angry that Michael was there. But he knew he
must bide his time. Emaleth had to come to him, tall and strong. There
had to be the Beginning. He wanted them to come together in the Glen
of Donnelaith. Beginning was everything. There was nothing if there
was no beginning.
Prosper, my daughter.
Taltos.
No one lived in Donnelaith anymore. But they would live there-
Father and Emaleth and their children. Hundreds of children. It would
become the shrine of the Beginning. "Our Bethlehem," he whispered
to her. And that would be the beginning of all time.
It was dark. Mother cried against the pillow, Michael, Michael,
Michael.
Emaleth knew when the sun rose.
The color of everything brightened, and she saw Mother's hand
high above her, dark and thin and immense, covering the whole world.
Two
THE HOUSE was all dark now. The cars were gone, and only one
light burned in Michael Curry's window, in the old room where
Cousin Deirdre had died. Mona understood exactly what had happened
tonight and had to admit she was glad. She had almost planned it,
almost . . .
She'd told her father she would go back to Metairie with Uncle
Ryan and Cousin Jenn and Clancy, but then she hadn't told Uncle
Ryan. And Uncle Ryan was long gone, assuming as everyone would
that Mona had gone home to Amelia Street with her father, which of
course she had not.
She'd been in the cemetery losing her bet that David wouldn't do
it with her, right there on Mardi Gras Night in front of the Mayfair
tomb. David had done it. Not so very great, actually, but for a fifteen-
year-old not bad. And Mona had loved it-sneaking away with him, his
fear and her excitement, their climbing the whitewashed wall of the
cemetery together and creeping through the alleyways of high marble
tombs. To lie right down on the gravel path in the dampness and cold,
that had been no small part of the dare, but she'd done it, smoothing
her skirt under her, so that she could pull down her panties without
getting dirty. "Now do it!" she'd said to David, who hadn't needed any
more encouragement, or direct orders, by that time at all. She'd stared
past him at the cold cloudy sky, at a single visible star, and then let her
eyes move up the wall of little rectangular tombstones to the name:
Deirdre Mayfair.
Then David had finished. Just like that.
"You're not afraid of anything," he had said after.
"Like I'm supposed to be afraid of you?" She'd sat up, cheated,
having not even pretended to enjoy it, overheated and really not much
liking her cousin David, but still satisfied that it had been done.
Mission accomplished, she would write in her computer later, in the
secret directory \ WS\ MONA \ AGENDA, where she deposited all
her confessions of the triumphs she could not share with anyone in the
world. No one could crack her computer system, not even Uncle Ryan
or Cousin Pierce, each of whom she had caught, at various times, firing
up her system, and searching through various directories-"Some
setup, Mona." All it was, was the fastest 386 IBM clone on the market,
with max memory and max hard drive. Ah, what people didn't know
about computers. It always amazed Mona. She herself learned more
about them every day.
Yes, this was a moment that only the computer would witness.
Maybe they would start to be a regular occurrence now that her father
and mother were truly drinking themselves to death. And there were
so many Mayfairs to be conquered. In fact, her agenda did not even
include non-Mayfairs at this point, except, of course, for Michael
Curry, but he was a Mayfair now, most definitely. The whole family
had him in its grip.
MichaeLCurry in that house alone. Take stock. It was Mardi Gras
Night, ten p.m., three hours after Comus, and Mona Mayfair was on
her own, and on the corner of First and Chestnut, light as a ghost,
looking at the house, with the whole soft dark night to do as she pleased.
Her father was surely passed out by now; in fact somebody had
probably driven him home. If he'd walked the thirteen blocks up to
Amelia and St. Charles, that was a miracle. He'd been so drunk before
Comus even passed that he'd sat right down on the neutral ground on
St. Charles, knees up, hands on a naked bottle of Southern Comfort,
drinking right in front of Uncle Ryan and Aunt Bea and whoever else
cared to look at him, and telling Mona in no uncertain terms to leave
him alone.
Fine with Mona. Michael Curry had picked her up just like she
weighed nothing and put her on his shoulders for the entire parade.
How good it had felt to be riding that strong man, with one hand in
his soft curly black hair. She'd loved the feeling of his face against her
thighs, and she'd hugged him just a little, much as she dared, and let
her left hand rest against his cheek.
Some man, Michael Curry. And her father much too drunk to
notice anything that she did.
As for Mona's mother, she'd passed out Mardi Gras afternoon. If she
ever woke up to see Comus pass St. Charles and Amelia, that was a
miracle too. Ancient Evelyn was there of course, her usual silent self,
but she was awake. She knew what went on. If Alicia set the bed on
fire, Ancient Evelyn could call for help. And you really couldn't leave
Alicia alone anymore.
The point was, everything was covered. Even Michael's Aunt
Vivian was not at home at First Street. She'd gone uptown for the night
with Aunt Cecilia. Mona had seen them leave right after the parade.
And Aaron Lightner, that mysterious scholar, he'd taken off with Aunt
Bea. Mona had heard them planning it. Her car? His? It made Mona
happy to think of Beatrice Mayfair and Aaron Lightner together.
Aaron Lightner sloughed off ten years when he was around Beatrice,
and she was that kind of gray-haired woman who can make men look
at her anywhere and everywhere she goes. If she went into Walgreen's,
the men came out of the stock room to help her. Or some gentleman
asked her opinion on a good dandruff shampoo. It was almost a joke,
the way Aunt Bea attracted men, but Aaron Lightner was a man she
wanted, and that was new.
If that old maid, Eugenia, was there, that was OK because she was
tucked away in the farthest back bedroom and they said, once she drank
her nightly glass of port, nothing could wake her up.
Nobody in that house-practically speaking-but her man. And
now that Mona knew the history of the Mayfair Witches-now that she
had finally got her hands on Aaron Lightner's long document-there
was no keeping her out of First Street any longer. Of course she had
her questions about what she'd read; thirteen witches descended from
a Scottish village called Donnelaith where the first, a poor cunning
woman, had been burnt at the stake in 1659. It was just the kind of juicy
history you dreamed about having. Well, she did anyway.
But there had been things in that long family tale that had special
meaning for her, and the long account of Oncle Julien's life had been
the most intriguing part of all.
Even Mona's very own Aunt Gifford was far away from New Or-
leans tonight, in her house in Destin, Florida, hiding from everyone
and everything, and worrying about the entire clan. Gifford had
begged the family not to go up to the house for Mardi Gras. Poor Aunt
Gifford. She had banned the Talamasca History of the Mayfair Witches
From her house and from her consciousness. "I don't believe those
things!"
Aunt Gifford lived and breathed fear. She shut her ears to the tales
?f the old days. Poor Aunt Gifford could be around her grandmother,
Ancient Evelyn, only now because Ancient Evelyn said almost nothing
inymore. Aunt Gifford didn't even like to say that she was Julien's
granddaughter.
Sometimes Mona felt so deeply and hopelessly sad for Aunt Gifford,
he almost burst into tears. Aunt Gifford seemed to suffer for the whole
'amily, and no one was more distraught over Rowan Mayfair's disap-
aearance than Gifford. Not even Ryan. Aunt Gifford was at heart a
tender and loving soul, and there was no one better when you needed
to talk the practical things of life-clothes for a school dance; whether
or not to shave one's legs yet; which perfume was best for a girl of
thirteen? (Laura Ashley No. i.) And these were the dumb things Mona
actually did not know, half the time.
Well, what was Mona going to do now that she was out on Mardi
Gras Night, free, and nobody knew it, or might ever know it? Of course
she knew. She was ready. First Street was hers! It was as if the great
dark house with its white columns were whispering to her, saying,
Mona, Mona, Come in. This is where Oncle Julien lived and died. This
is the house of the witches, and you are a witch, Mona, as surely as any
of them! You belong here.
Maybe it was Oncle Julien himself speaking to her. No, just a fancy.
With an imagination like Mona's you could make yourself see and hear
whatever you liked.
But who knew? Once she got inside, maybe she'd actually see the
ghost of Oncle Julien! Ah, that would be absolutely wonderful. Espe-
cially if it was the same debonair and playful Oncle Julien about whom
she incessantly dreamed.
She walked across the intersection under the heavy dark roof of the
oak branches, and quickly climbed the old wrought-iron fence. She
came down heavily in the thick shrubbery and elephant ears, feeling
the cold and the wet foliage against her face and not liking it. Pushing
her pink skirt down, she tiptoed out of the dampish earth and onto the
flagstone path.
Lamps burned dim on either side of the big keyhole doorway. The
porch lay in darkness, its rocking chairs barely visible, painted black
as they were to match the shutters. The garden seemed to gather round
and press in.
The house itself looked to her as it always had, beautiful, mysteri-
ous, and inviting, though she had to admit in her heart of hearts she
had liked it better when it was a spidery ruin, before Michael came
with his hammer and nails. She had liked it when Aunt Deirdre sat
forever on the side porch in a rocker, and the vines threatened to
swallow the whole place.
Of course Michael saved it, but oh, if only she'd gotten into it once
while it was still ruined. She'd known all about that body they found
in the attic. She'd heard her mother and Aunt Gifford arguing about
it for years and years. Mona's mother had been only thirteen when
Mona was born, and Gifford had been there from the time of Mona's
earliest memories.
In fact there had actually been a time when Mona wasn't sure which
one was her mother-Gifford or Alicia. And then there had been An-
cient Evelyn always holding Mona on her lap, and even though An-
cient Evelyn wouldn't talk very much she still sang those old
melancholy songs. Gifford had seemed the logical choice for a mother,
because Alicia by that time was already a prodigious drunk, but Mona
had it right and had for years. Mona was the woman of the house at
Amelia Street.
They'd talked a lot in those days about that body upstairs. They'd
talked about Cousin Deirdre, the heiress, who wasted away in her
catatonia. They'd talked about all the mysteries of First Street.
The first time Mona had ever come into First Street-right before
Rowan's marriage to Michael-she had fancied she could smell that
body still. She'd wanted to go up and lay her hands on the spot. Michael
Curry had been restoring the house, and workmen were up there
painting away. Aunt Gifford had said for Mona to "Stay put!" and
given her a stern look every time Mona tried to wander.
It had been a miracle to watch Michael Curry's work. Mona
dreamed such a thing would someday happen to the house on St.
Charles and Amelia.
Well, Mona would get to that third-floor room now. And thanks to
the history she knew who the dead man had been, a young investigator
from the Talamasca called Stuart Townsend. Still wasn't clear who had
poisoned the man. But Mona's bet was it had been her Uncle Cortland,
who really wasn't her uncle at all, but actually her great-great-grandfa-
ther, which was really one of the most fun puzzles in the family history
to figure out.
Smells. She wanted to investigate that other smell-the scent that
lingered in the hallway and the living room of First Street. Nothing
to do with a dead body, that one. The smell that had come with disaster
at Christmas. The smell which no one else could smell, it seemed,
unless Aunt Gifford had been lying when Mona asked her.
Aunt Gifford did that. She wouldn't admit to "seeing things" or
picking up strange scents. "I don't smell anything!" she'd said with
annoyance. Well, maybe that was true. Mayfairs could read other peo-
ple's minds a lot of the time, but they were good at blocking out each
other.
Mona wanted to touch everything. She wanted to look for the Vic-
trola. She did not care about the pearls. She wanted the Victrola. And
she wanted to know THE BIG FAMILY SECRET-what had happened to
Rowan Mayfair on Christmas Day. Why had Rowan left her new
husband, Michael? And why had they found him drowned in the ice-
cold swimming pool? Just nearly dead. Everybody had thought he was
going to die after that, except Mona.
Of course Mona could conjecture what happened like everyone else.
But she wanted more than that. She wanted the Michael Curry version.
And to date, there was no such version. If he'd told anyone what
happened on Christmas Day, it was his friend Aaron Lightner, from
the Talamasca, who would not tell anyone else. But people felt too
sorry for Michael to press it. They'd thought he was going to die from
what happened to him.
Mona had managed to get into his room in Intensive Care on Christ-
mas Night and hold his hand. He wasn't going to die. There was hurt
to his heart, yes, because he'd stopped breathing for a long time in the
cold water, and he had to rest to heal that hurt, but he was nowhere
near dying, she knew that as soon as she felt his pulse. And touching
him had been rather like touching a Mayfair. He had something extra
to him which Mayfairs always had. He could see ghosts, she knew. The
History of the Mayfair Witches had not included him and Rowan, but
she knew. She wondered if he'd tell the truth about it. Fact, she'd even
heard some maddening whispers to the effect that he had.
Oh, so much to learn, so much to uncover. And being thirteen was
kind of like a bad joke on her. She was no more thirteen than Joan of
Arc had ever been thirteen, the way she saw it. Or Catherine of Siena.
Of course they were saints but only by a hair. They were almost
witches.
And what about the Children's Crusade? If Mona had been there,
they would have gotten back the Holy Land, she figured. What if she
started a nationwide revolt of genius thirteen-year-olds right now-
demand for the power to vote based on intelligence, a driver's license
as soon as you could qualify and see over the dashboard. Well, a lot of
this would have to wait.
The point was, she'd known tonight as they walked back from the
Comus parade that Michael was quite strong enough to go to bed with
her, if only she could get him to do it, which was not going to be an
easy thing.
Men Michael's age had the best combination of conscience and
self-control. An old man, like her Great-uncle Randall, that had been
easy, and young boys, like her cousin David, were nothing at all.
But a thirteen-year-old going after Michael Curry? It was like scal-
ing Everest, Mona thought with a smile. Pm going to do it if it kills
me. And maybe then, when she had him, she'd know what he knew
about Rowan, why Rowan and he had fought on Christmas Day, and
why Rowan had disappeared. After all, this wasn't really a betrayal
of Rowan. Rowan had gone off with someone, that was almost for
sure, and everybody in the family, whether they would talk about it
or not, was terrified for Rowan.
It wasn't like Rowan was dead; it was like she'd gone off and left the
barn door open. And here was Mona coming along, mad for Michael
Curry, this big woolly mammoth of a man.
Mona stared up at the huge keyhole doorway for one moment,
thinking of all the pictures she'd seen of family members in that door-
way, over the years. Great-oncle Julien's portrait still hung at Amelia
Street, though Mona's mother had to take it down every time Aunt
Gifford came, even though it was a dreadful insult to Ancient Evelyn.
Ancient Evelyn rarely said a word-only drawn out of her reverie by
her terrible worry for Mona and Mona's mother, that Alicia was really
dying finally from the drink, and Patrick was so far gone he didn't
know for sure who he even was.
Staring at the keyhole doorway, Mona felt almost as if she could see
Oncle Julien now with his white hair and blue eyes. And to think he
had once danced up there with Ancient Evelyn. The Talamasca hadn't
known about that. The history had passed over Ancient Evelyn and her
granddaughters Gifford and Alicia, and Alicia's only child, Mona.
But this was a game she was playing, making visions. Oncle Julien
wasn't in the door. Had to be careful. Those visions were not the real
thing. But the real thing was coming.
Mona walked along the flagstone path to the side of the house, and
then back the flags, past the side porch where Aunt Deirdre had sat in
her rocker for so many years. Poor Aunt Deirdre. Mona had seen her
from the fence many a time, but she'd never managed to get inside the
gate. And now to know the awful story of the way they'd drugged her.
The porch was all clean and pretty these days, with no screen on
it anymore, though Uncle Michael had put back Deirdre's rocking
chair and did use it, as if he had become as crazy as she had been, sitting
there for hours in the cold. The windows to the living room were hung
with lace curtains and fancy silk drapes. Ah, such riches.
And here, where the path turned and widened, this was where Aunt
Antha had fallen and died, years and years ago, as doomed a witch as
her daughter, Deirdre, would become, Antha's skull broken and blood
flowing out of her head and her heart.
No one was here now to stop Mona from dropping down to her
knees and laying her hands on the very stones. For one flashing instant,
she thought she saw Antha, a girl of eighteen, with big dead eyes, and
an emerald necklace tangled with blood and hair.
But again, this was making pictures. You couldn't be sure they were
any more than imagination, especially when you'd heard the stories all
your life as Mona had, and dreamed so many strange dreams. Gifford
sobbing at the kitchen table at Amelia Street. "That house is evil, evil,
I tell you. Don't let Mona go up there."
"Oh, nonsense, Gifford, she wants to be the flower girl in Rowan
Mayfair's wedding. It's an honor."
It certainly had been an honor. The greatest family wedding ever.
And Mona had loved it. If it hadn't been for Aunt Gifford watching
her, Mona would have made a sneaky search of the whole First Street
house that very afternoon, while everyone else swilled champagne and
talked about the wholesome side of things, and speculated about Mr.
Lightner, who had not yet revealed his history to them.
But Mona would not have been in the wedding at all if Ancient
Evelyn had not risen from her chair to overrule Gifford. "Let the child
walk up the aisle," she had said in her dry whisper. She was ninety-one
years old now. And the great virtue of almost never speaking was that
when Ancient Evelyn did, everybody stopped to listen. If she wasn't
mumbling, that is.
There were times when Mona hated Aunt Gifford for her fears and
her worry, the constant look of dread on her face. But nobody could
really hate Aunt Gifford. She was too good to everybody around her,
especially to her sister, Alicia, Mona's mother, whom everyone re-
garded as hopeless now that she'd been hospitalized three times for her
drinking and it hadn't done any good. And every Sunday without fail,
Gifford came to Amelia Street, to clean up a bit, sweep the walk, and
sit with Ancient Evelyn. She brought dresses for Mona, who hated to
go shopping. ^
"You know you ought to dress more like a teenager these days,"
Gifford had volunteered only a few weeks ago.
"I like my little-girl dresses, thanks," said Mona, "they're my dis-
guise. Besides if you ask me, most teenagers look tacky. I wouldn't
mind looking corporate, but I'm a bit short for that."
"Well, your bra cup is giving you away! It's hard to find you sweet
cotton frocks with enough room in them, you know."
"One minute you want me to grow up; the next minute you want
me to behave. What am I to you, a little girl or a sociological problem?
I don't like to conform. Aunt Gif, did it ever occur to you that confor-
mity can be destructive? Take a look at men today on the news. Never
in history have all the men in a nation's capital dressed exactly alike.
Ties, shirts, coats of gray. It's appalling."
"Responsibility, that's what I'm talking about. To dress your age
and behave your age. You don't do either, and we're talking about two
contrary directions of course. The Whore of Babylon with a ribbon in
her hair just isn't your garden-variety teenage experience."
Then Gifford had stopped, shocked that she'd said that word, -whore,
her cheeks flaming, and her hands clasped, her bobbed black hair fall-
ing down around her face. "Oh, Mona, darling, I love you."
"I know that, Aunt Gif, but please for the love of God and all we
hold sacred, never refer to me as garden-variety anything, ever again!"
Mona knelt on the flagstones for a long time, until the cold started
to bother her knees.
"Poor Antha," Mona whispered. She stood up, and once again
smoothed her pink dress. She brushed her hair back off" her shoulders,
and made sure that her satin bow was still properly pinned to the back
of her head. Uncle Michael loved her satin bow, he had told her that.
"As long as Mona has her bow," he'd said this evening, on the way
to see Comus, "everything is going to be all right."
"I turned thirteen in November," she'd told him in a whisper,
drawing near to hold his hand. "They're telling me to turn in my
ribbon."
"You? Thirteen?" His eyes had moved over her, lingering just for
a split second on her breasts, and then he had actually blushed. "Well,
Mona, I didn't realize. But no, don't you dare stop wearing that ribbon.
I see that red hair and the ribbon in my dreams."
Of course he meant all this poetically and playfully. He was an
innocent and wholesome man, just really nice. Anyone could see that.
But then again, there had been a bit of blush to his cheeks, hadn't there?
After all, there were some men his age who did see a thirteen-year-old
with large breasts as just one species of uninteresting baby, but Michael
didn't happen to be one of those.
Well, she'd think a little bit more about strategy when she got inside
the house, and close to him. For now, she wanted to walk around the
pool. She went up the steps and out along the broad flagstone terrace.
The lights were on beneath the surface of the water, making it a
shining blue, and a faint bit of steam rose from the surface, though why
it was heated, Mona didn't know. Michael wouldn't swim in it ever
again. He'd said so. Well, come St. Patrick's Day, whatever the temper-
ature, there would probably be a hundred Mayfair kids in there. So best
to leave the heat on.
She followed the terrace to the far end, near the cabana, where
they'd found the blood in the snow, which meant that a fight had taken
place. All clean now and swept, with only a little sprinkling of leaves.
The garden was still down a bit from the snows of this mad winter, so
unusual for New Orleans, but due to the warmth of the last week, the
four-o'clocks had come back and she could smell them, and see their
tiny little blooms in the dark. Hard to imagine all this covered with
snow and blood, and Michael Curry floating under the surface of the
water, face bleeding and bruised, heart stopped.
Then another scent caught her-that same strange smell she'd
picked up earlier in the hallway of the house and in the front parlor
where the Chinese rug used to be. It was faint but it was here all right.
When she drew near the balustrade she smelted it. All mingled with
the cold four-o'clocks. A very seductive smell. Sort of, well, delicious,
she thought. Like caramel or butterscotch could be delicious, only it
wasn't a food smell.
A little rage kindled in her suddenly for whoever had hurt Michael
Curry. She'd liked him from the moment she laid eyes on him. She'd
liked Rowan Mayfair too. She'd longed for moments alone with them
to ask them things and tell them things, and especially to ask them to
give her the Victrola, if they could find it. But those opportunities had
never come.
She knelt down on the flags now as she had done before. She
touched the cold stone that hurt her bare knees. The smell was here all
right. But she saw nothing. She looked up at the dark servants' porch
of the main house. Not a light anywhere. Then she looked beyond the
iron fence to the carriage house behind Deirdre's oak.
One light. That meant Henri was still awake. Well, what about it?
She could handle Henri. She had figured out tonight at the supper after
Comus that Henri was already scared of this house, and didn't like
working in it, and probably wouldn't stay long. He couldn't quite
figure how to make Michael happy, Michael who kept saying, "I'm
what's called a high prole, Henri. If you fix red beans and rice, I'll be
fine."
A high prole. Mona had gone up to Uncle Michael after supper, just
as he was trying to get away from everyone and take his nightly consti-
tutional, as he called it, and said, "What the hell is ^ high prole, Uncle
Michael?" '
"Such language," he'd whispered with mock surprise. Then before
he could stop himself, he'd stroked the ribbon in her hair.
"Oh, sorry," she'd said, "but for an uptown girl, it's sort of, you
摘要：

OneINTHEbeginningwasthevoiceofFather."Emaleth!"whisperingclosetohermother'sbellywhilehermotherslept.Andthensingingtoher,thelongsongsofthepast.SongsoftheGlenofDonnelaithandofthecastle,andofwheretheywouldsometimecometogether,andhowshewouldbebornknowingallthatFatherknew.Itisourway,hesaidtoherinthefastl...

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