by Rice, Anne
Saint Juan Diego, make it go away. Work another miracle!
“What is it?” Stirling asked softly.
I sighed. In the distance the white fence of the pasture looked pretty, and the smell of the grass was good.
“I’ve failed at something here,” I said, “and it’s a major failure.” I studied the man to whom I’d just spoken.
Patient Stirling, the English scholar, the Talamasca saint. The man who got down with monsters. Starved for sleep yet ever attentive.
He turned to look at me. Clever, quick eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What failure?”
“I cannot impress upon her a sense of the gravity of her transformation.”
“Oh, she knows,” he said.
“You surprise me,” I answered. “Surely you don’t forget who I am. You don’t buy this facade. There’s some reservoir of goodness and wisdom in you that never lets you forget what’s behind this mask. And now you think you know her better than I do?”
“She’s reeling from one shock after another,” he said calmly. “How can it be helped? What did you expect of her? You know she worships you. And what if she teases you with outrageous propositions? It was always her way. I feel no fear when I’m near her, no instinctive wariness of an undisciplined power. In fact, quite to the contrary. I sense that there may come a moment when you look back and realize that somewhere along the line her innocence was lost and you can’t even remember when it happened.”
I thought of the massacre last night, the ruthless elimination of Lord Rodrigo and his soldiers. I thought of the bodies heaved into the everlasting sea. I thought of nothing.
“Innocence is not our stock-in-trade, my friend,” I said. “We don’t cultivate it in one another. Honor, I think we can have, more than you may know, and principles, yes, and virtue as well. I’ve taught her that, and every now and then we can behave magnificently. Even heroically. But innocence? It’s not to our advantage.”
He drew back to think on this, with just a little nod. I sensed that there were questions he wanted to ask me, but he didn’t dare. Was it propriety or fear? I couldn’t tell.
We were interrupted and perhaps it was for the best.
Jasmine came across the lawn with another carafe of coffee for Stirling. She was in a sharp tight red dress and high-heel shoes. She was singing loudly:
“Gloria! Gloria! In Excelsis Deo!”
“Where’d you pick up that hymn?” I asked. “Is everybody around here committed to driving me to madness?”
“Well, of course not,” she said. “What would make you say a thing like that? That’s a Catholic hymn, don’t you know that? Grandma’s been singing it in the kitchen all day. Says it’s from the Latin Mass in the old days. Says she saw Patsy in a dream singing that hymn. Patsy all dressed in pink cowboy clothes, with a guitar.”
“Mon Dieu!” A shiver passed through me. No wonder Julien was leaving me alone tonight. Why not?
She poured two cups of the steaming coffee. She set down the carafe. Then she kissed me on top of my head.
“You know what Aunt Queen said to me last night in my sleep?” she asked in a cheery voice, her hand on my shoulder. I kissed her satin cheek.
“No, what?” I asked. “But please break it to me gently. I teeter on the brink.”
“She said she was tickled you were sleeping in her bed, said she always wanted a man handsome as you in her bed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Grandma says when the dead come laughing and laughing in your dreams that means they’re in Heaven.”
“I think it does mean that,” said Stirling very sincerely. “This coffee is perfection. How do you do this?”
“Drink up,” I said. “You have that powerful little MG TD with you, don’t you?”
“I certainly do,” he said. “You could see it right out there in front of the house if you had eyes in the back of your head.”
“I want you to take me for a ride in that thing. I have to deliver this saint here to Oberon.”
“Can you hold this carafe and this cup for me while I drive? Jasmine, you mind if I borrow them?”
“Don’t you want the saucer? That’s Royal Antoinette, the saucer’s the prettiest part. Just look at it. Come in a big package from Julien Mayfair, this pattern, service for twelve, present for ‘La Famille.’ ”
Zap. “No,” I said. “Not from Julien Mayfair.”
“Oh, yes, it did!” she said. “I have the letter. Keep forgetting to give it to Quinn. Was Julien Mayfair at the wake? I never met a Julien Mayfair.”
“When did this package arrive?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Two days ago?” she shrugged. “Right after Mona Mayfair came to join the menagerie. Which one is Julien Mayfair? Julien Mayfair been out here?”
“What did the letter say?” I asked.
“Oh, something about if he was going to be visiting Blackwood Farm all the time, he wanted to see his favorite pattern of china. What’s the matter with you? That china’s beautiful!”
I hadn’t the slightest intention of explaining to her that Julien Mayfair was a spirit, and that this very pattern had figured years ago in a spell created by Julien in which he’d entertained an unsuspecting and all too human Quinn with hot chocolate and cookies and a long tale of how he, Julien, had coupled with Quinn’s great-grandmother. Damn the infernal spirit.
“You don’t like it?” Jasmine said. “I just really do think it’s a lovely pattern. Aunt Queen would have been thrilled with it. This is Aunt Queen’s style, these roses. You know that.”
Stirling was concentrating on me too steadily. Of course Stirling knew Julien Mayfair was a ghost. Or dead. Why was I concealing the activities of this demon? What was I ashamed of?
“Yes, it’s very quaint,” I said. “Has an old-fashioned delicacy to it. Stirling, what about you drink all you want and then we take a ride?”
“I’m quite fine,” Stirling said. He was on his feet.
So was I.
I clutched Jasmine to me with reckless abandon and kissed her madly. She shrieked. I held her face in my hands, looking into her pale eyes. “You’re a lovely woman,” I said softly.
“What are you so sad about?” she asked. “Why you look so miserable?”
“Do I? I don’t know. Maybe because Blackwood Farm is a moment in time. Just a moment. And it will pass.…”
“Not in my lifetime,” she said smiling. “Oh, I know Quinn’s going to marry Mona Mayfair and she can’t have any children. We all know that. But Jerome’s growing up here. That’s my boy, and he’s Quinn’s son, and Quinn has put his name on the birth certificate. I never asked Quinn to do that. Tommy’s growing up here. And he’s Tommy Blackwood. And Nash Penfield will grow old taking care this place, he loves it so much. And then there’s Terry Sue, Tommy’s mother. I don’t know if you ever reckoned on Terry Sue, but if ever there was a sow’s ear beaten into a purse of silk it’s Terry Sue, that’s Aunt Queen’s little miracle, I’m telling you, and Terry Sue’ll be giving the tours on the weekends soon, and so will her daughter Brittany. That’s Tommy’s sister now. Now that’s a lovely girl, a polite girl. And she’s going off to a good school, thanks to Quinn, all of it thanks to Quinn. And Aunt Queen. You don’t know what all Aunt Queen taught Brittany. Blackwood Farm’s just fine. You should have that faith. How can you help Patsy’s ghost across the bridge and not know the future?”
“Nobody really knows the future,” I said. “But you’re right. You know all kinds of things I don’t know. It figures.” I picked up Saint Juan Diego.
“It’s you and Quinn and Mona that’ll move on,” she said. “I feel your restlessness. But Blackwood Farm? It will outlast all of us.”
She gave me one more quick kiss. Then off she went, hips swaying beautifully in the tight red dress, pencil heels making her legs fine, her tightly cropped blond head high—the lady with the keys, and the future.
I went with Stirling.
We climbed into the low-slung car,
delicious smell of leather, Stirling slipping on a pair of handsome beige driving gloves, and we roared down the drive, rattling over every rock and pebble.
“Now this is a sports car!” I declared.
Stirling flashed his lighter in front of his cigarette, then threw the car into high gear. “Yes, baby!” he shouted over the wind, sloughing off twenty years of his life, “and when you want to stub out your cigarette, you can do it right on the road,” he said. “It’s a beauty.”
We went roaring on into the swampland.
We didn’t leave the paths of speed and recklessness for Mayfair Medical until about three hours before dawn.
For a long time I walked the corridors, marveling at the murals and the benches and seating areas for the patients’ families, and the finery of the waiting rooms with their warm furniture and paintings. And the lobbies with their grand sculptures and sparkling marble floors.
And then I penetrated the halls of the laboratories and research areas, and lost myself in a labyrinth of secret places where white-coated individuals who passed me nodded, assuming I knew where I was going carrying the statue of a saint close to my chest.
Enormous, more than my mind could contain, this monument to a family and to one woman. Affecting the lives of so many thousands. A great garden with so many seeds carefully planted to grow into a forest of self-perpetuating splendor.
What was I doing on the Sacred Mountain of the One Who Walks with God?
Find Oberon in the velvety quiet.
Oberon was standing at the window, in white scrubs, looking out at the lighted arcs of the two river bridges. Soft crystalline glow of downtown buildings. He spun around when I entered the room.
“Saint Juan Diego,” I said, as I put the saint on the table by the bed.
“Oh, thank you,” he said warmly, without a trace of the old disdain. “Now I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Are you unhappy?” I asked.
“No,” he said softly. “Only wondering. In my cell I told myself that all beauty was contained in the ever changing waves of the sea. I had to believe it. But oh, the great world is such a wilderness of marvels. I am very happy. And my soul is not on guard for Miravelle, my sweet foolish Miravelle! I am safe. And so is she. And I am free.”
28
The room was maintained at about 40 degrees. Even I was cold. Rowan’s lips were blue. But she stood, uncomplaining, right inside the door, her arms folded, her back to the wall, allowing for us to take as much time as we wanted. She was wearing her white coat, even her name tag, and white pants. Her shoes were black, simple. Her hair was brushed back from her face. She didn’t look at me. I was glad.
The walls were white. So was the tile floor. There was all kinds of equipment in the room, monitors, wires, tubing, tanks, but it was shut off and retired to the sidelines and into the corners. The windows were covered with white metal blinds, shutting out the colorful night.
Miravelle, dressed primly in a long pink cotton nightgown, cried quietly. Oberon, in white silk pajamas and robe, merely observed with those half-mast gleaming eyes.
Mona stood silent, the wanderer in safari clothes, her left hand against Miravelle’s back, her right arm holding a huge bunch of random flowers. Mona’s eyes were dry and she looked cold and careworn.
Quinn remained against the door with me. Quinn held the bouquet which Mona had asked him to carry for her.
The perfume of the flowers filled the room. There were daisies and zinnias and lilies and roses and gladiolus, and other flowers I didn’t know, lots of different colors.
The bodies were lying on separate gurneys. The limbs looked pliant, the flesh greenish, the faces slightly sunken. Morrigan’s full red hair had been brushed out as though she was lying in water. Did that make Mona think even more of Ophelia? Ash had eyelashes which were extremely long, and his fingers were long. He must have been seven feet tall. He had full black hair, almost to his shoulders, with lots of white above his ears. A beautiful mouth. Morrigan looked very much like Mona. The pair quite lovely to behold.
Their heads were positioned on pillows. The sheets were clean beneath them.
They wore fresh clothes, plain white cotton pants and V-neck shirts, much like the simple clothes they’d been wearing when we found them, which seemed an eon ago.
Their naked feet looked very dead. I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps they were more discolored, or even a little misshapen.
I wanted to see Ashlar’s eyes. I wanted to know if that was possible, to lift the eyelid and see an eye. But I didn’t want to speak, or to ask for anything.
Miravelle finally moved to put her right hand around Ash’s face. She bent to kiss his lips. When she found they were soft, she closed her eyes, and the kiss was long and fervent. With her left hand she reached out, and Mona gave her half of the flowers.
Miravelle took these and distributed them all over Ash, moving up and down, until she had partially covered him. Then Mona gave her the rest, and she finished, leaving only Ash’s face. Before she withdrew, she kissed his forehead.
It was Morrigan who drew the sobs from her. “Mother,” she said. Mona, who cleaved to her, didn’t say a word. But she laid her own hand on Morrigan’s hand, and, finding it flexible, she curled her own fingers around Morrigan’s fingers.
Quinn brought the flowers to Mona. Mona gave half to Miravelle. Together they laid them on the body of Morrigan.
Oberon observed everything in silence, but tears formed in his eyes. Tears wetted his cheeks. A slight frown marred his forehead.
Miravelle’s broken ragged sobs finally died away. Mona motioned her slowly towards the door. Then Mona looked back.
“Good-bye, Morrigan,” she whispered.
We all filed out of the room and followed Rowan down a short thickly carpeted corridor.
We entered a rather spectacular conference room. Michael was there, and so was Stirling, both in dark suits. That’s how I was dressed, and same with Quinn.
The chairs in this surprising room were genuine Chippendale, around a finely buffed oval table. The walls were a cool lavender and there were wonderful paintings on them, paintings by expressionists, full of rich and throbbing color. I wanted to steal them for my flat. The windows were open to the flickering burning night. There was a marble-top bar against the inside wall, and glittering glasses and decanters.
Michael was drinking bourbon in heavy gulps. Stirling had a glass of Scotch.
Miravelle tried to dry her eyes but with little success. Rowan poured a small glass of sherry for her, and Miravelle laughed as she held up the delicate stem in the light, and then she sipped the sherry. She was laughing and crying at the same time very softly. Her pink nightgown looked very soft.
Oberon waved away any suggestion of a drink. He stared past the assembly out into the night. He didn’t bother to wipe away his tears. Only now did I notice he had cleaned his fingernails of all polish.
Mona said:
“What will you do with them?”
Rowan sat back. She considered for a long time, then she answered:
“What would you do with them if you were me?”
“I can’t imagine being you,” said Mona simply.
Rowan shrugged. But her face was sad. She didn’t disguise it.
Oberon spoke up:
“Do whatever you want with them, Rowan,” he said, with a touch of the old disdain. “Hell, Father told Rodrigo to save the bodies for you, didn’t he? It’s plain enough. Rodrigo wasn’t knowledgeable or reflective enough to imagine such a speech or such an intention. Father wanted something accomplished. The bodies are yours by the wish of Father. No more needs to be said.”
“All that is very true,” said Miravelle with a simple nod. “Rowan, Father loved you. He really did. You do what Father wanted, please.”
Rowan didn’t answer. She sat there staring off as was her custom and then she pressed a button under the table.
Within seconds the door opened, and Lorkyn came into the room.
I was once more utterly shocked by this creature’s appearance, not only because she was unaccompanied but because she wore the white pants and coat of a doctor, along with the name tag, stating her name as Lorkyn Mayfair, and her face was as unreadable as it had been when we first confronted each other on the Secret Isle.
That kitten sweetness—small upturned nose, rosy mouth, big eyes—was, if anything, enhanced by the purity of the white clothes, and she had her hair swept up on top of her head again and pouring down her back, red as Mona’s, and her eyes were just as green.
She took her place at the table freely, across from me and from Oberon and Miravelle.
Mona stared coldly at her. And Oberon was on full alert. Miravelle merely looked at her as though she was a curiosity. Only Rowan seemed to know why she was here.
It was Lorkyn who explained.
“I’ll say this once for you, Oberon, and Miravelle. I do not intend to be mercilessly questioned. It’s my intention to be heard.”
“It better be sensational, darling,” said Oberon bitterly.
“It is,” said Rowan. “Please listen to what Lorkyn has to say.”
“I was shifting money from Rodrigo to numbered accounts for us,” said Lorkyn. “I was also tipping off the authorities in Miami Beach as to his activities there, getting rid of his contacts as quickly as I could. Keep in mind, I never would have had a line out or recourse to the financial info if I hadn’t played the proper role for Rodrigo. I was also trying desperately to find out who Father and Mother were legally, who owned the Secret Isle legally. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have Father’s last name. Years ago, when Father first suspected trouble from Silas, he destroyed every scrap of paper that would have enabled Silas to get control of his finances. Father’s lawyers came in by plane and left with everything in their briefcases.
“If I’d had the names Templeton and Lost Paradise, I could have connected us to Father’s lawyers in New York.
“As for Rodrigo, I had no opportunity to kill him. Wherever we went there were dozens of armed men with us. That held true until the night he died, when this blond-haired archangel managed to slaughter every one of his gunsels before killing him. I never had that kind of power or advantage.