by Anne Rice
All this while Rowan's gray eyes were fixed on her, scanning her, weighing her response to every word.
"I don't agree with him," said Rowan. "I think the villains of the piece killed Aaron to cover their tracks. That's why they've also tried to kill Yuri. That's why they may be arranging some sort of accidental death for me. On the other hand ..."
"Then you are in danger! And what happened to Yuri? When did it happen, where?"
"This is my simple point," Rowan said. "We don't know the limits of the danger for anyone who's in any way involved. We can't know because we don't really know the motives of the killers. Yuri's theory, that they won't give up until they've bred a Taltos, is obviously the most pessimistic and the most inclusive. And that's what we should go with. You and Michael both have to be protected. And Michael is the only one in the family, really, who knows why. It's imperative you remain within the house."
"So you're leaving us together here? All cozy and comfortable under your own roof? Rowan, I want to say something to you that takes a lot of nerve."
"You shouldn't have any problem," said Rowan simply.
"You're underestimating Michael. You're selling him short in every respect. He's not going to go for this. And if you leave him without telling him, he's not likely to hang around and play the assigned role. If he does, what do you think the man in him is going to want? And if he does want to do it--sleep with me, that is--what do you think I am? Rowan, you're arranging all this as if we were pawns you're moving on a chessboard. Rowan, we're not."
Rowan didn't answer. After a little pause, she smiled.
"You know, Mona, I wish I could take you with me," she said. "I wish you'd come."
"I will! Take me and Michael! The three of us should go."
"The family would never tolerate such a betrayal on my part," said Rowan. "And I couldn't do it to you myself."
"That's crazy, Rowan. Why are we having this conversation? Why are you asking me things like what I think about what's going on?"
"There are too many reasons, Mona, why you have to stay here with Michael."
"And what if we do get in the sack together?"
"That's up to you."
"Terrific, punch him out, and expect me to comfort him but not to--"
Absently, Rowan slipped out a cigarette, then stopped exactly as she had before, gave a little sigh, and pushed it back in the pack.
"I don't care if you smoke," said Mona. "I don't do it, due to my superior intelligence, but--"
"You'll care very soon."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Don't you know?"
Mona was flabbergasted. She didn't answer. "You're saying ... oh God, I should have known."
She sat back. Still, there had been so many near misses in the past. She was always on the phone to her gynecologist. "I think I did it this time."
"It's no near miss," said Rowan. "Is it Yuri's child?"
"No," Mona answered. "That's impossible. Sir Galahad was too careful. I mean, that is flatly impossible."
"It's Michael's child."
"Yes. But are you certain I am pregnant? I mean, this was only a month ago, and ..."
"Yes," said Rowan. "The witch and the doctor know the same thing."
"So this could be the Taltos," said Mona.
"Do you want a reason to get rid of it?"
"No, absolutely not. There's nothing on earth that's going to make me get rid of it."
"You're certain?"
"How certain do I have to be?" Mona asked. "Rowan, this is a Catholic family. We don't do away with babies. Besides, I wouldn't do away with this baby no matter who the father was. And if it's Michael's, that's all the more reason for everybody to be happy, because Michael's part of the family! You really don't know us so well, Rowan. You're not getting it, even now. If it's Michael's baby ... if it's really there, that is ..."
"Please finish."
"Why don't you finish for me?"
"No, I would like to hear you say it, if you don't mind."
"If it's Michael's, then Michael would be the father of the next generation that will inherit this house."
"Yes."
"And if the baby were a girl, I could designate it as the one to inherit everything, and ... you and Michael could be its godparents and we could stand at the baptismal font together. We could stand there and then Michael would have a baby, and I'd have a father who I wanted for the baby that everyone will trust and love."
"I knew you would paint a more colorful description than I would," said Rowan softly, a little sadly. "That went beyond my expectations. You're right. There are still things about this family I have to learn."
"Color in St. Alphonsus Church, where Stella and Antha and Deirdre were baptized. And I think ... I think they baptized you over there too."
"That they've never told me."
"Seems I heard it. Seems like something they would do."
"There's no chance that you might decide to get rid of it."
"You gotta be kidding! I want it. I'd want any baby of my own, be serious. Look, I'm going to be so rich I can buy anything in the world, but there's no substitute in existence for my own baby. I can make that happen only one way. Oh, if you knew the family more, if you hadn't spent your life out there in California, you'd understand it's not even a question, unless, of course.... But even then ..."
"Even then?"
"Let's worry about that when it happens. There must be indications, all kinds of little signs, if it's abnormal."
"Perhaps so. Perhaps not. When I carried Lasher, there were no signs until the moment came."
Mona wanted to respond, to say something, but she was too deep in her thoughts. Her own child. Her own child, and nobody, I mean nobody, was going to shove her around anymore. Her own child, and she would have passed over into adulthood regardless of age. Her own child. Suddenly she didn't think thoughts so much as she saw things. She saw a cradle. She saw a baby, a real live little baby, and she saw herself holding the emerald necklace and then she put the necklace around the baby's neck.
"What about Yuri?" asked Rowan. "Will he understand about this?"
Mona wanted to say yes. The truth was she didn't know. She thought of Yuri, quickly, sort of completely. He was sitting on the side of the bed that last night, and saying to her, "There are all sorts of very important reasons why you must marry among your people." She didn't want to think that she was thirteen and fickle. She realized suddenly that Yuri's understanding about the baby was the least of her worries, the very least.
Why, she hadn't even found out yet how they tried to kill Yuri. She hadn't even asked if he was hurt.
"An attempt was made to shoot him," said Rowan, "and the attempt failed. Unfortunately the assassin was killed by the person who foiled him. And the body won't be easy to find. We won't try to find the body anyway. We have a different plan."
"Listen, Rowan, whatever your plan, you've got to tell Michael all this. You can't just leave."
"I know."
"Why aren't you scared that these bad guys will kill you and Yuri both?"
"I have a few weapons that are strictly my own. Yuri knows the Motherhouse completely. I think I can get into it. I can reach one of the very old members, one of the most trusted and revered. I need perhaps fifteen minutes with him to know whether this evil springs from the Order collectively, or from a small group."
"Can't be one person, Rowan. Too many people are dead."
"You're right, and three of their soldiers are dead. But it could be a very small group within the Order, or outsiders who have a connection within."
"You think you can get to the bad guys themselves?"
"Yes."
"Use me for bait!"
"And the child inside you too? If it is Michael's--"
"It is."
"Then they might want that more than they want you. Look, I don't want to speculate. I don't want to think of witches as some sort of rare commodity to those who know how to use them, of
women in the family falling victim to a new species of mad scientist. I've had enough of mad science. I've had enough of monsters. I only want to end this. But you can't go. And neither can Michael. You have to be here."
Rowan pulled back the black silk of her jacket sleeve and looked at a small gold watch. Mona had never seen her wear this watch. Probably Beatrice had bought it too. It was delicate, the kind of watch women wore when Beatrice was a girl.
"I'm going to go upstairs and talk to my husband," said Rowan.
"Thank God," said Mona. "I'm going with you."
"No, please."
"I'm sorry. I'm going."
"For what reason?"
"To make sure you tell him everything that you should."
"All right, then let's go together. Maybe you're one jump ahead of me. You're going to give him the reason to cooperate. But let me ask you one more time, Jezebel. Are you sure this child is his?"
"It was Michael. I can tell you when it probably happened. It happened after Gifford's funeral. I took advantage of him again. I didn't think about precautions any more than I had the first time. Gifford was dead and I was possessed of the devil, I swear it. It was right after that that somebody tried to get in the library window and I smelled that scent."
Rowan said nothing.
"It was the man, wasn't it? He'd come for me after he'd been with my mother. Must have been that way. When he tried to get in, it woke me up And then I went to her and she was already dead."
"Was it strong, the scent?"
"Very. Sometimes I can still smell it in the living room here, and upstairs in the bedroom. Can't you?" Rowan didn't reply.
"I want you to do something just because I ask you," Rowan said. "What's that?"
"Don't tell Michael about the baby until the usual tests have been done. There is someone you can confide in, isn't there, someone who can be like a mother? There must be."
"Don't worry about it," said Mona. "I have my secret gynecologist, I'm thirteen."
"Of course," said Rowan. "Look, whatever happens, I'm going to be back here before you have to tell anyone at all."
"Yeah, I hope so. Wouldn't that be something, if you could finish it that quick? But what if you never come back and Michael and I never know what happened to you or to Yuri?"
Rowan thought about this, apparently, and then she merely shrugged. "I'll come back," she said. "One more caution, if you don't mind."
"Hit me with it."
"If you do tell Michael about this baby, and then decide to get rid of it later, that will kill him. Twice before, this has been promised to him and taken away. If there's any doubt, any whatever, don't tell him till that doubt is resolved."
"I can't wait to tell him. I can get my doctor to see me this afternoon. I'll tell her I'm having a nervous breakdown and I'm on my way over. She's used to this stuff with me. When the tests come back okay, nothing's going to keep me from telling him. And nothing, I mean nothing, is going to keep a baby of mine from being born."
She was about to get up when she realized what she'd said, and that Rowan would never face this particular dilemma again. But Rowan seemed not at all offended by her words, and certainly not hurt. Her face was very quiet. She was looking at the cigarettes.
"Get out of here so I can smoke in peace, will you?" Rowan asked, smiling. "And then we'll wake up Michael. I have an hour and a half to make the plane."
"Rowan, I ... I'm still sorry about doing it with him. I just can't be sorry about the child."
"Neither can I," said Rowan. "If he comes out of this with a child of his own, and a mother who'll let him love it, well, maybe he'll find a way to forgive everything as the years pass. Just remember. I'm still his wife, Jezebel. You've got the emerald and the baby. But Michael is still mine."
"Got it," said Mona. "I really like you, Rowan. I really, really like you. That's aside from loving you because you're my cousin and we're Mayfairs. If I wasn't pregnant I'd make you take me with you, for your sake and Yuri's and everybody else's."
"And how would you make me take you, Mona?"
"What were your words? Secret weapons of my own."
They looked at one another, and then slowly Rowan nodded and smiled.
Seven
THE HILL WAS muddy and cold, but never had Marklin made this slippery climb, either in winter or summer, when he had not loved it--to stand on Wearyall Hill beside the Holy Thom and look down upon the quaint and picturesque town of Glastonbury. The country round was always green, even in winter, but now it had the new intense color of spring.
Marklin was twenty-three, and very fair, with blond hair and pale blue eyes, and thin clear skin that chilled easily. He wore a raincoat with a wool lining, and a pair of leather gloves, and a small wool cap on his head that fitted well and kept him warmer than one might expect from such a little article of clothing.
He'd been eighteen when Stuart had brought them here--he and Tommy both eager students, in love with Oxford, in love with Stuart and eager for every word that dropped from Stuart's lips.
All during their Oxford days, they had honored this place with regular visitations. They'd taken small, cozy little rooms at the George and Pilgrims Hotel, and walked High Street together perusing the bookshops and the stores that sold crystals and the Tarot, whispering to each other of their secret research, their keen scientific approach to things which others held to be purely mythological. The local believers, called variously the hippies of yore or the New Age fanatics, or the bohemians and artists who always seek the charm and tranquillity of such a place, held no charm for them.
They were for decoding the past, rapidly, with all the tools at their command. And Stuart, their instructor in ancient tongues, had been their priest, their magical connection to a true sanctuary--the library and the archives of the Talamasca.
Last year, after the discovery of Tessa, it had been on Glastonbury Tor that Stuart had told them, "In you two, I have found everything I ever sought in a scholar, a pupil, or a novice. You are the first to whom I truly want to give all I know."
That had seemed a supreme honor to Marklin--something finer than any honors awarded him at Eton or Oxford, or anywhere in the wide world where his studies had carried him later on.
It had been a greater moment even than being accepted into the Order. And now, in retrospect, he knew that that acceptance had meant something only because it had meant everything to Stuart, who had lived all his life as a member of the Talamasca, and would soon die, as he so often said, within its walls.
Stuart was now eighty-seven, and perhaps one of the oldest active men alive in the Talamasca, if one could call tutoring in language an activity of the Talamasca, for it was more the special passion of Stuart's retirement. The talk of death was neither romantic nor melodramatic. And nothing really had changed Stuart's matter-of-fact attitude to what lay ahead.
"A man of my age with his wits about him? If he isn't brave in the face of death, if he isn't curious, and rather eager to see what happens, well, then, he's wasted his life. He's a damned fool."
Even the discovery of Tessa had not infected Stuart with any last-ditch desperation to lengthen the time remaining to him. His devotion to Tessa, his belief in her, encompassed nothing so petty. Marklin feared Stuart's death far more than Stuart did. And Marklin knew now that he had overplayed his hand with Stuart, and that he must woo him back to the moment of commitment. To lose Stuart to death was inevitable; to lose Stuart before that time was unthinkable.
"You stand on the sacred ground of Glastonbury," Stuart had told them that day, when it all began. "Who is buried within this tor? Arthur himself, or only the nameless Celts who left us their coins, their weapons, the boats with which they traveled the seas that once made of this the isle of Avalon? We'll never know. But there are secrets which we can know, and the implications of these secrets are so vast, so revolutionary, and so unprecedented that they are worth our allegiance to the Order, they are worth any sacrifice we must make. If this is not so, the
n we are liars."
That Stuart now threatened to abandon Marklin and Tommy, that he had turned against them in his anger and revulsion, was something Marklin could have avoided. It had not been necessary to reveal every part of their plan to Stuart. And Marklin realized this now, that his refusal to assume full leadership himself had caused the rift. Stuart had Tessa.... Stuart had made his wishes clear. But Stuart should never have been told what had really happened. That had been the error, and Marklin had only his own immaturity to blame, that he had loved Stuart so much he had felt compelled to tell Stuart everything.
He would get Stuart back. Stuart had agreed to come today. He was no doubt already here, visiting Chalice Well as he always did before coming to Wearyall Hill and leading them up on the tor itself. Marklin knew how much Stuart loved him. This breach would be repaired with an appeal from the soul, with poetry and with honest fervor.
That his own life would be long, that this was only the first of his dark adventures, Marklin had no doubt. His would be the keys to the tabernacle, the map to the treasure, the formula for the magic potion. He was utterly certain of it. But for this first plan to end in defeat would be a moral disaster. He would go on, of course, but his youth had been a chain of unbroken successes, and this too must succeed so that his ascent would lose no momentum.
I must win, I must always win. I must never attempt anything that I cannot do with utter success. This had always been Marklin's personal vow. He had never failed to keep it.
As for Tommy, Tommy was faithful to the vows the three had taken, faithful to the concept and the person of Tessa. There was no worry with Tommy. Deeply involved in his computer research, his precise chronologies and charts, Tommy was in no danger of disaffection for the very reasons that made him valuable; he was not the one to see the whole scheme, or to question the validity of it.
In a very basic sense, Tommy never changed.
Tommy was the same now as the boy whom Marklin had come to love in childhood--collector, collator, an archive unto himself, an appreciator and an investigator. Tommy without Marklin had never existed, as far as Marklin knew. They had first laid eyes, upon each other at the age of twelve, in boarding school in America. Tommy's room had been filled with fossils, maps, animal bones, computer equipment of the most esoteric sort, and a vast collection of paperback science fiction.
