Yuri seemed torn inside, as if he would lose control finally. But he remained motionless, leaning against the wall, merely watching.
Ash's eyes were now playful, yet adoring, as he rocked his head and swayed more freely, and moved even more quickly.
On and on they danced, spinning along the edge of the pool of light, into shadow and out of it, serenading one another. Tessa's face was ecstatic as that of a little girl whose greatest wish has been granted her.
It seemed to Michael that they should withdraw--Rowan, Yuri, and he--and leave them to their poignant and gentle union. Perhaps it was the only embrace they'd ever really know with each other. And they seemed now to have forgotten their watchers, and whatever lay ahead of them.
But he couldn't go. No one moved to go, and on and on the dance went until the rhythm slowed, until the instruments played more softly, warning that they would soon take their leave, and the overlapping lines of the canon blending in one last full-throated voice and then slacking, drawing away, the trumpet giving forth a final mournful note, and then silence.
The couple stopped in the very center of the floor, the light spilling down over their faces and their shimmering hair.
Michael rested against the stones, unable to move, only watching them.
Music like that could hurt you. It gave you back your disappointment, and your emptiness. It said, Life can be this. Remember this.
Silence.
Ash lifted the hands of the fairyqueen, looking at them carefully as he did so. Then he kissed her upturned palms and he let her go. And she stood staring at him, as if in love, perhaps not with him, perhaps with the music and the dance and the light, with everything.
He led her back to her loom, gently urging her to sit again on her stool, and then he turned her head so that her eyes fell on her old task, and as she peered at the tapestry, she seemed to forget that he was there. Her fingers reached for the threads, and began immediately to work.
Ash drew back, careful not to make a sound, and then he turned and looked at Stuart Gordon.
No plea or protest came from the old man, fallen to one side in the chair, his eyes moving without urgency from Ash to Tessa and then to Ash again.
The awful moment had come, perhaps. Michael didn't know. But surely some story, some long explanation, some desperate narrative would forestall it. Gordon had to try. Somebody had to try. Something had to happen to save this miserable human being; simply because he was that, something had to prevent this imminent execution.
"I want the names of the others," said Ash in the usual mild fashion. "I want to know who your cohorts were, both within and outside the Order."
Stuart took his time in answering. He didn't move, or look away from Ash. "No," he said finally. "Those names I will never give you."
It sounded as final as anything Michael had ever heard. And the man, in his pain, seemed beyond any form of persuasion.
Ash began to walk calmly towards Gordon.
"Wait," said Michael "Please, Ash, wait."
Ash stopped, politely looking to Michael.
"What is it, Michael?" he asked, as if he could not possibly presume to know.
"Ash, let him tell us what he knows," Michael said. "Let him give us his story!"
Seventeen
EVERYTHING WAS CHANGED. Everything was easier. She lay in Morrigan's arms and Morrigan lay in hers and--
It was evening when she opened her eyes.
What a great dream that had been. It was as if Gifford and Alicia and Ancient Evelyn had been with her, and there was no death and no suffering, and they had been together, dancing even, yes, dancing, in a circle.
She felt so good! Let it fade; the feeling remained with her. The sky was Michael's violet.
And there was Mary Jane standing over her, looking so goddamned cute with her flaxen yellow hair.
"You're Alice in Wonderland," said Mona, "that's who you are. I should nickname you Alice."
Going to be perfect, I promise you.
"I cooked the supper," said Mary Jane. "I told Eugenia to take the night off, hope you don't mind, when I saw that pantry I went crazy."
" 'Course I don't mind," said Mona. "Help me up, you're a real cousin."
She jumped up refreshed, feeling so light and free, like the baby tumbling inside, the baby with its long red hair swishing in the fluid, like a teeny rubbery doll with the teensiest little knobby knees....
"I cooked yams, rice, and baked oysters in cheese, and broiled chicken with butter and tarragon."
"Wherever did you learn to cook like that?" asked Mona. Then she stopped and threw her arms around Mary Jane. "There's nobody like us, is there? I mean, you know your blood, don't you?"
Mary Jane beamed at her. "Yeah, it's just wonderful. I love you, Mona Mayfair."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it," said Mona.
They had reached the kitchen doors, and Mona peered inside.
"God, you did cook a big supper."
"You better believe it," said Mary Jane proudly, again displaying her perfect white teeth. "I could cook when I was six years old. My mama was living with this chef then?? You know?? And then later on, I worked in a fancy restaurant in Jackson, Mississippi. Jackson's the capital, remember? This was a place where the senators ate. And I told them, 'You want me to work here, then you let me watch when the cook's doing things, you let me learn what I can.' What do you want to drink?"
"Milk, I'm starving for it," said Mona. "Don't run inside yet. Look, it's the magic time of twilight. This is Michael's favorite time."
If only she could remember in the dream who had been with her. Only the feeling of love lingered, utterly comforting love.
For a moment she worried fiercely for Rowan and Michael. How would they ever solve the mystery of who killed Aaron? But together they could probably defeat anybody, that is, if they really cooperated, and Yuri, well, Yuri's destiny had never been meant to involve itself with hers.
Everybody would understand when the time came.
The flowers had begun to glow. It was as if the garden were singing. She slumped against the door frame, humming with the flowers, humming as if the song were being made known to her by some remote part of her memory where beautiful and delicate things were never forgotten, but only securely stored. She could smell some perfume in the air--ah, it was the sweet olive trees!
"Honey, let's eat now," said Mary Jane.
"Very well, very well!" Mona sighed, threw up her arms and said farewell to the night, and then went inside.
She drifted into the kitchen, as if in a delicious trance, and sat down at the lavish table that Mary Jane had set for them. She'd taken out the Royal Antoinette china, the most delicate pattern of all, with fluted and gilded edges to the plates and saucers. Clever girl, such a wonderful clever girl. How unboring of her to have found the very best china by instinct. This cousin opened up a whole vista of possibilities, but how adventuresome was she, really? And how naive of Ryan to have dropped her off here, and left the two of them alone!
"I never saw china like that," Mary Jane was saying, bubbling away. "It's just like it's made of stiff starch cloth. How do they do it?" Mary Jane had just come back with a carton of milk and a box of powdered chocolate.
"Don't put that poison in the milk, please," said Mona, as she snatched the carton, tore it open, and filled her glass.
"I mean, how can they make china that's not flat, I don't get it, unless the china's soft like dough before they bake it, but even then--"
"Haven't the faintest idea," said Mona, "but I have always adored this pattern. Doesn't look good in the dining room. It's overshadowed by the murals. But looks absolutely splendid on this kitchen table, and how smart of you to have found the Battenburg lace table mats. I'm starving again, and we just had lunch. This is glorious, let's pig out now."
"We didn't just have lunch, and you didn't eat a thing," said Mary Jane. "I was scared to death you might mind me touching these things, but then I thought, 'If Mona Mayfair
minds, I'll just slap-bang put them all away, like I found them.' "
"My darling, the house is ours for now," said Mona triumphantly.
God, the milk was good. She'd splashed it on the table, but it was so good, so good, so good.
Drink more of it.
"I am, I'm drinking it," she said.
"You're telling me," said Mary Jane, sitting down beside her. All the serving bowls were full of delectable and scrumptious things.
Mona heaped the steaming rice on her plate. Forget the gravy. This was wonderful. She began to eat it, not waiting for Mary Jane to serve herself, who was too busy dropping spoon after spoon of dirty chocolate powder into her own milk.
"Hope you don't mind. I just love chocolate. I can't live for too long without chocolate. There was a time when I made chocolate sandwiches, you know???? You know how to do that? You slap a couple Hershey bars between white bread, and you put sliced bananas and sugar too, and I'm telling you, that's delicious."
"Oh, I understand, might feel the same way if I wasn't pregnant. I once devoured an entire box of chocolate-covered cherries." Mona ate one big forkful of the rice after another. No chocolate could equal this. The chocolate-covered cherries had faded to an idea. And now the funniest thing. The white bread. It looked good too. "You know, I think I need complex carbohydrates," she said. "That's what my baby is telling me."
Laughing, or was it singing?
No problem; this was all so simple, so natural; she felt in harmony with the whole world, and it wouldn't be difficult to bring Michael and Rowan in harmony also. She sat back. A vision had taken hold of her, a vision of the sky speckled with all the visible stars. The sky was arched overhead, black and pure and cold, and people were singing, and the stars were magnificent, simply magnificent.
"What's that song you're humming?" asked Mary Jane.
"Shhh, hear that?"
Ryan had just come in. She could hear his voice in the dining room. He was talking to Eugenia. How marvelous to see Ryan. But he sure as hell wasn't taking Mary Jane out of here.
As soon as he stepped in the kitchen, Mona felt so sorry for him with his tired expression. He was still wearing his somber funeral suit. Ought to wear seersucker, the way the other men did this time of year. She loved the men in their seersucker suits in summer, and she loved the old ones who still wore the straw hats.
"Ryan, come join us," she said, chewing another huge mouthful of rice. "Mary Jane's cooked a feast."
"Just you sit right down here," said Mary Jane, hopping to her feet, "and I'll serve your plate, Cousin Ryan."
"No, I can't, dear," he said, being punctiliously polite to Mary Jane, because she was the country cousin. "I'm rushing. But thank you."
"Ryan is always rushing," said Mona. "Ryan, before you go, take a little walk outside, it's simply beautiful. Look at the sky, listen to the birds. And if you haven't smelled the sweet olives, it's time to do it now!"
"Mona, you're stuffing yourself with that rice. Is this going to be that kind of pregnancy?"
She tried not to go into spasms of laughter.
"Ryan, sit down, have a glass of wine," she said. "Where's Eugenia? Eugenia! Don't we have some wine?"
"I don't care for any wine, Mona, thank you." He made a dismissing gesture to Eugenia, who appeared for one moment in the lighted door, gnarled, angry, disapproving, and then slipped away.
Ryan looked so handsome in spite of his obvious crossness--a man who'd been polished all over with a big rag. She started to laugh again. Time for a gulp of milk, no, drink the whole glass. Rice and milk. No wonder people from Texas ate these two things together.
"Cousin Ryan, won't take a second--" said Mary Jane. "Just you let me fill you a plate."
"No, Mary Jane, thank you. Mona, there's something I have to tell you."
"Right now, during dinner? Oh, well, shoot. How bad can it be?" Mona poured some more milk from the carton, slopping a bit on the glass table. "After everything that's already happened? You know, the problem with this family is entrenched conservatism. I wonder if that is redundant. What do you think?"
"Miss Piggy," said Ryan dourly, "I am talking to you."
Mona went into hysterics. So did Mary Jane.
"I think I got a job as a cook," said Mary Jane, "and all I did to that rice was throw in some butter and garlic."
"It's the butter!" declared Mona, pointing at Mary Jane. "Where's the butter? That's the secret, slop butter on everything." She picked up a slice of ordinarily pukey white bread, and carved out a glomp of oozy warm butter slowly melting on the saucer.
Ryan was looking at his watch, the infallible signal that he would remain in this spot no more than four more minutes. And God bless us all, he had not said one word about taking Mary Jane away.
"What is it, big boy?" asked Mona. "Hit me with it. I can take it."
"I don't know if you can," he said in a low voice.
That sent her into another reel of laughter. Or maybe it was the blank expression on Ryan's face. Mary Jane couldn't stop giggling. She stood beside Ryan, with her hand over her mouth.
"Mona, I'm off," he said, "but there are several boxes of papers up in the master bedroom. These are things that Rowan wanted, writings that came out of her last room in Houston." He gave a pointed look to Mary Jane, as if to say, She is not to know about all that.
"Oh yeah, writings," said Mona. "I heard you talking about it last night. You know, I heard a funny story, Ryan, that when Daphne du Maurier, you know who she was?"
"Yes, Mona."
"Well, when she was writing Rebecca, it began as an experiment to see how long she could go on without naming her first-person narrator. Michael told me this. It's true. And you know by the end of the book the experiment didn't matter. But you never do know the name of Maxim de Winter's second wife in that novel, or in the movie. Did you see the movie?"
"What's the point?"
"Well, you're like that yourself, Ryan, you're going to go to the grave without ever saying Lasher's name." Again, she broke into laughter.
Mary Jane laughed and laughed as though she knew everything.
There is nothing funnier than someone laughing at a joke, except for someone who does not even crack a smile and stares at you with a face full of outrage.
"Don't touch the boxes," said Ryan solemnly. "They belong to Rowan! But there is something I must tell you, about Michael, something I found in a genealogy in those papers. Mary Jane, please do sit down and eat your supper."
Mary Jane sat down.
"Right, genealogies," said Mona. "Wow, maybe Lasher knew things we didn't know. Mary Jane, genealogy is not a special interest with this family, it's a full-time obsession. Ryan, your four minutes are nearly up."
"What four minutes?"
She was laughing again. He had to leave. She was going to get sick, laughing like this.
"I know what you're gonna say," said Mary Jane, who jumped up again out of her chair, as though for truly serious conversations she had to be standing. "You're going to say Michael Curry is a Mayfair. I told you!"
All the vitality drained out of Ryan's face.
Mona drank down the fourth glass of milk. She had finished her rice, and lifting the serving bowl, she tipped it and let a new little mountain of soft, steaming rice grains fall on her plate.
"Ryan, stop staring at me," she said. "What is it about Michael? Is Mary Jane right? Mary Jane said Michael was a Mayfair the first time she met him."
"He is," declared Mary Jane. "I saw the resemblance right away, and you know who he looks like? He looks like that opera singer."
"What opera singer?" asked Ryan.
"Yeah, what opera singer?"
"Tyrone MacNamara, the one that Beatrice has pictures of, you know????? Those engravings on her wall???? Julien's father???? Well, Ryan, he must be your great-grandfather. I saw a passel a' cousins at the genealogical laboratory looked like that, Irish as can be, you never noticed? Of course you didn't, but then y'all have got Irish blood, F
rench blood--"
"And Dutch blood," said Ryan in a terse, uncomfortable little voice. He looked at Mona, and then back at Mary Jane. "I have to go."
"Wait a second, is that it?" Mona demanded. She gulped down her mouthful of rice, took another drink of milk. "Is that what you were going to tell me? Michael is a Mayfair?"
"There is a mention," Ryan said, "in those papers, that apparently pertains to Michael, explicitly."
"God damn, you don't mean it," said Mona.
"You all are sooooo divinely inbred!" said Mary Jane. "It's like royalty. And here sits the Czarina herself!"
"I'm afraid you're right," said Ryan. "Mona, have you taken any medicine?"
"Certainly not, would I do that to my daughter?"
"Well, I have no choice but to go," he said. "Do try to behave yourselves. Remember the house is surrounded by guards. I don't want you going out, and please don't devil Eugenia!"
"Shucks," said Mona. "Don't leave. You're the life of the party. What do you mean 'devil Eugenia'?"
"When you've returned to your senses," said Ryan, "would you please call me? And what if this child is a boy? Certainly you aren't going to risk his life with one of those tests to determine gender."
"He's not a boy, silly," said Mona. "She's a girl and I've already named her Morrigan. I'll call you. Okay? Okay."
And away he went, hurrying in his own special quiet way of hurrying. Kind of like the way nuns hurry, or doctors. With a minimum of sound and fuss.
"Don't touch those papers," he called out from the butler's pantry.
Mona relaxed, took a deep breath. That was the last adult scheduled to be looking in on them, as far as she knew.
And what was this about Michael? "God, you think it's true? Hey, Mary Jane, when we're finished, let's go up and look at those papers."
"Oh, Mona, I don't know, he just said those were Rowan's papers, didn't he just say that? 'Don't touch those papers.' Mona, have some cream gravy. Don't you want the chicken? That's the best chicken I ever fixed."
"Cream gravy! You didn't say it was cream gravy. Morrigan doesn't want meat. Doesn't like meat. Look, I have a right to look at those papers. If he wrote things, if he left anything in writing."
"Who's he?"
"Lasher. You know who he is. Don't tell me your Granny didn't tell you."
"She told me, all right, you believe in him?"
"Believe in him, dollface, he almost attacked me. I almost became a statistic like my mother and Aunt Gifford and all those other poor dead Mayfair women. Of course I believe in him, why he's ..." She caught herself pointing to the garden, in the direction of the tree. No, don't tell her that, she'd sworn to Michael, never tell anyone, buried out there, and the other one, the innocent one, Emaleth, the one that had to die, though she'd never done anything to anyone ever.