The witching hour

PART FOUR. THE DEVIL’S BRIDE
Forty

WOULD SHE REMEMBER this afterwards, she wondered, as one of the happiest days of her life? Weddings must work their magic on everyone. But she was more susceptible than most, she figured, because it was so very exotic, because it was Old World, and old-fashioned, and old-fangled, and coming as she did from the world of the cold and the alone, she wanted it so much!

The night before, she’d come here to church to pray alone. Michael had been surprised. Was she really praying to someone?

“I don’t know,” she said. She wanted to sit in the dark church, which was readied for the wedding with the white ribbons and bows and the red carpet down the aisle, and talk to Ellie, to try to explain to Ellie why she had broken her vow, why she was doing this, and how it was all going to work out.

She explained about the white wedding dress and how the family had wanted it, and so she had given in happily to the yards and yards of white silk lace and the full shimmering veil. And she explained about the bridesmaids-Mayfairs all, of course-and Beatrice, the matron of honor, and how Aaron was going to give her away.

She explained and she explained. She even explained about the emerald. “Be with me, Ellie,” she said. “Extend to me your forgiveness. I want this so much.”

Then she had talked to her mother. She had talked simply and without words, feeling close to her mother. And she had tried to blot all memory of the old woman out of her mind.

She had thought of her old friends from California, whom she had called in the last few weeks, and with whom she had had wonderful conversations. They were so happy for her, though they did not fully grasp how rich and vital this old-fashioned world here really was. Barbara wanted to come but the term had already begun at Princeton, and Janie was leaving for Europe, and Mattie was going to have a baby any day. They had sent such exquisite presents though of course she had forbidden it. And she had the feeling they would see each other in the future, at least before her real work on the dream of the Mayfair Medical Center began.

Finally, she had ended her prayers in a strange way. She had lighted candles for her two mothers. And a candle for Antha. And even one for Stella. It was such a soothing ritual, to see the little wicks ignite, to see the fire dance before the statue of the Virgin. No wonder they did such things, these wise old Catholics. You could almost believe that the graceful flame was a living prayer.

Then she’d gone out to find Michael, who was having a wonderful time in the sacristy reminiscing about the parish with the kindly old priest.

Now at one o’clock, the wedding was at last beginning.

Stiff and still in her white raiment, she stood waiting, dreaming. The emerald lay against the lace that covered her breast, its burning glint of green the only color touching her. Even her ashen hair and gray eyes had looked pale in the mirror. And the jewel had reminded her, strangely, of the Catholic statues of Jesus and Mary with the exposed hearts, like the one she’d smashed so angrily in her mother’s bedroom.

But all those ugly thoughts were very far away from her now. The huge nave of St. Mary’s Assumption was packed. Mayfairs from New York and Los Angeles and Atlanta and Dallas had come. There were over two thousand of them. And one by one to the heavy strains of the organ, the bridesmaids-Clancy, Cecilia, Marianne, Polly, and Regina Mayfair-were moving up the aisle. Beatrice looked more splendid even than the younger ones. And the ushers, all Mayfairs too of course, and what a comely crew they were, stood ready to take the arms of the maids, one by one. But now had come the moment-

It seemed to her that she would forget how to put one foot before the other. But she didn’t. Quickly she adjusted the long full white veil. She smiled at Mona, her little flower girl, lovely as always with the usual ribbon in her red hair. She took Aaron’s arm, and together they followed Mona, in time with the stately music, Rowan’s eyes moving dimly over the hundreds of faces on either side of her, and dazzled, through the haze of whiteness, by the tiers of lights and candles at the altar ahead.

Would she remember this always? The bouquet of white flowers in her hand, Aaron’s soft radiant smile as he looked at her, and her own feeling of being beautiful the way brides must always be beautiful?

When at last she saw Michael, so perfectly adorable in his gray cutaway and ascot, she felt the tears rise to her eyes. How truly splendid he was, her lover, her angel, beaming at her from his place beside the altar, his hands-without the awful gloves-clasped before him, his head bowed slightly as if he had to shelter his soul from the bright light that shone on him, though his own blue eyes were the most brilliant light of all to her.

He stepped up beside her. A lovely calm descended on her as she turned towards Aaron, and he lifted her veil and gracefully threw it back over her shoulders, bringing it softly down behind her arms. A shiver ran through her. Her life had never included any such time-honored gesture. And it was not the veil of her virginity or her modesty, but the veil of her loneliness that had been lifted away. He took her hand; he placed it in Michael’s.

“Be good to her always, Michael,” he whispered. She closed her eyes, wanting this pure sensation to endure forever, and then slowly looked up at the resplendent altar with its row after row of exquisite wooden saints.

As the priest began the traditional words, she saw that Michael’s eyes were glazed with tears also. She could feel him trembling, as his grip tightened on her hand.

She feared that her voice might fail her. She had been faintly sick that morning, perhaps with worry, and she experienced a touch of dizziness again.

But what struck her in a moment of quiet and detachment was that this ceremony itself conveyed immense power, that it wrapped about them some invisible protective force. How her old friends had scoffed at such things, how she herself had once found them unimaginable. And now, in the very center of it, she savored it and opened her heart to receive all the grace that it could give.

Finally the language of the old Mayfair legacy, imposed upon the ceremony and reshaping it, was now being recited:

“ … now and forever, in public and in private, before your family and all others, without exception, and in all capacities, to be known only by the name of Rowan Mayfair, daughter of Deirdre Mayfair, daughter of Antha Mayfair, though your lawful husband shall be called by his own name … ”

“I do.”

“Nevertheless, and with a pure heart, do you take this man, Michael James Timothy Curry … ”

“I do ….”

At last it was done. The final utterances had echoed under the high arched ceiling. Michael turned and took her in his arms as he’d done a thousand times in the secret darkness of their hotel bedroom; yet how exquisite now was this public and ceremonial kiss. She yielded to it completely, her eyes lowered, the church dissolved into silence. And then she heard him whisper:

“I love you, Rowan Mayfair.”

She answered, “I love you, Michael Curry, my archangel.” And pressing close to him, in all his stiff finery, she kissed him again.

The first notes of the wedding march sounded, loud and sharp and full of triumph. A great rustling noise swept through the church. She turned, facing the enormous assembly and the sun pouring through the stained-glass windows, and taking Michael’s arm she commenced the long quick walk down the aisle.

On either side she saw their smiles, their nods, the irresistible expressions of the same excitement, as if the entire church were infused with the simple and overwhelming happiness she felt.

Only as they climbed into the waiting limousine, the Mayfairs showering them with rice in an exuberant chorus of cheers, did she think of the funeral in this church, did she remember that other cavalcade of shining black cars.

And now through these same streets, she thought, nestled with the white silk all around her and Michael kissing her again, kissing her eyes and her cheeks. He was murmuring all those silly wonderful things to her that husbands ought to murmur to brides, that she was beautiful, that he adored her, that he’d never been happier, that if this wasn’t the most perfect day of his life, he couldn’t imagine what it possibly was. And the greatest part was not what he said, but how happy he was himself.

She sank back and against his shoulder, smiling, her eyes closed, thinking quietly and deliberately of all the landmark moments, her graduation from Berkeley, the first day she’d entered the wards as an intern, the first day she’d walked into an Operating Room, the first time she’d heard the words at the end of the operation, Well done, Dr. Mayfair, you can close.

“Yes, the happiest day,” she whispered. “And it’s only just begun.”

Hundreds milled over the grass, under the great white tents which had been erected to cover the garden, the pool, and the back lawn before the garçonnière. The outdoor buffet tables, draped in white linen, sagged beneath their weight of sumptuous southern dishes-crawfish étouffée, shrimp Creole, pasta jambalaya, baked oysters, blackened fish, and even the humble and beloved red beans and rice. Liveried waiters poured the champagne into the tulip glasses; bartenders fixed cocktails to order at the well-stocked bars in the parlor, the dining room, and beside the pool. Fancily dressed children of all sizes played tag among the adults, hiding behind the potted palms which had been stationed through the ground floor, or rushed in gangs up and down the stairway shrieking-to the utter mortification of various parents-that they had just seen “the ghost!”

The Dixieland band played furiously and joyously under its white canopy before the front fence, the music swallowed from time to time by the noisy animated conversation.

For hours Michael and Rowan, their backs to the long mirror at the First Street end of the parlor, received one visiting Mayfair after another, shaking hands, extending thanks, listening patiently to lineages and the tracing of connections and interconnections.

Many of Michael’s old high-school chums had come, thanks to the diligent efforts of Rita Mae Lonigan, and they formed their own noisy and cheerful constituency, telling old football stories, very nearby. Rita had even located a couple of long-lost cousins, a nice old woman named Amanda Curry whom Michael remembered fondly, and a Franklin Curry who had gone to school with Michael’s father.

If there was anyone here enjoying all this more than Rowan, it was Michael, and he was far less reserved than she. Beatrice came to hug him exuberantly at least twice in every half hour, always wringing a few embarrassed tears from him, and he was clearly touched by the affection with which Lily and Gifford took Aunt Vivian under their wing.

But it was a time of high emotions for all. Mayfairs from various other cities embraced cousins they hadn’t seen in years, vowing to return to New Orleans more often. Some made arrangements to stay over a week or two with this or that branch of the family. Flashbulbs went off continuously; big black hulking video cameras slowly poked their way through the glittering press.

At last the receiving was over; and Rowan was free to roam from one little group to another, and to feel the success of the gathering, and approve the performance of the caterers and the band, as she felt bound to do.

The day’s heat had lifted completely, thanks to a gentle breeze. Some guests were, taking an early leave; the pool was full of half-naked little creatures, screaming and splashing each other, some swimming in underpants only, and a few drunken adults who had jumped in fully clothed.

More food was being heaped into the heated carafes. More cases of champagne were opened. The hard-core five hundred or so Mayfairs, whom Rowan had already come to know personally, were milling about quite at home, sitting on the staircase to talk, or wandering around in the bedrooms admiring the marvelous changes, or hovering about the huge and gaudy display of expensive gifts.

Everywhere people admired the restoration: the soft peach color of the parlor walls, and the beige silk draperies; the dark somber green of the library, and the glowing white woodwork throughout. They gazed at the old portraits, cleaned and reframed and carefully hung throughout the hallway and the lower rooms. They gathered to worship at the picture of Deborah, hanging now above the library fireplace. It was Lily and Beatrice who assisted Fielding on the entire tour, taking him upstairs in the old elevator, so that he might see each and every room.

Peter and Randall settled in the library with their pipes, arguing about the various portraits and their approximate dates, and which had been done by whom. And what would the cost be, if Ryan were to try to acquire this “alleged” Rembrandt?

With the first gust of rain, the band moved indoors to the back end of the parlor, and the Chinese carpets were rolled back as the young couples, some kicking off their shoes in the mayhem, began to dance.

It was the Charleston. And the very mirrors rattled with the stormy din of the trumpets and the constant thunder of stomping feet.

Surrounded again and again by groups of eager and enthusiastic faces, Rowan lost track of Michael. There was a moment when she fled to the small powder room off the library with a passing wave to Peter, who now remained alone, and seeming half asleep.

She stood there silent, the door locked, her heart pounding, merely staring at herself in the glass.

She seemed faded now, crushed, rather like the bouquet which she would have to toss later from the railing of the stairs. Her lipstick was gone, her cheeks looked pallid, but her eyes were shining like file emerald. Tentatively she touched it, adjusted it against the lace. She closed her eyes and thought of the picture of Deborah. Yes, it was right to have worn it. Right to have done everything the way they wanted. She stared at herself again, clinging to the moment, trying forever to save it, like a precious snapshot tucked in the pages of a diary. This day, among them, everyone here.

It did not mar her happiness to come on Rita Mae Lonigan crying softly next to Peter when she opened the library door. She was more than content to press Rita’s hand and say, “Yes, I have thought of Deirdre often today, myself.” Because that was true. And she had liked thinking of Deirdre and Ellie, and even Antha, and extracting them from the tragedies that ensnared them, and holding them to her heart.

Perhaps in some cold reasoning part of her mind, she understood why people had fled family and tradition to seek the brittle, chic world of California in which she had grown up. But she felt sorry for them, sorry for anyone who had never known this strange intimacy with so many of the same name and clan. Surely Ellie would understand.

Drifting back into the parlor, and back into the din of the band and the dancers, she searched for Michael, and suddenly saw him quite alone against the second fireplace staring all the way down the length of the crowded room. She knew that look on his face, the flush, and the agitation-she understood the way that his eyes had locked on some distant seemingly unimportant point.

He barely noticed her as she came up beside him. He didn’t hear her as she whispered his name. She followed the line of his gaze. All she saw were the dancing couples, and the glittering sprinkle of rain on the front windows.

“Michael, what is it?”

He didn’t move. She tugged on his arm, then lifting her right hand, she very gently turned his face towards her and stared at him, repeating his name clearly again. Roughly he turned away from her, looking again to the front of the room. Nothing this time. It was gone, whatever it was. Thank God.

She could see the droplets of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. His hair was moist as though he’d been outside, when of course he hadn’t. She drew close to him, leaning her head against his chest.

“What was it?” she said.

“Nothing, really … ” he murmured. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. “I thought I saw … it doesn’t matter. It’s gone.”

“But what was it?”

“Nothing.” He took her by the shoulders, kissing her a little roughly. “Nothing’s going to spoil this day for us, Rowan.” His voice caught in his throat as he went on. “Nothing crazy and strange on this day.”

“Stay with me,” she said, “don’t leave me again.” She drew him after her out of the parlor and back into the library and into the powder room, where they could be alone. His heart was still speeding as she held him quietly, her arms locked around him, the noise and the music muffled and far away.

“It’s OK, darlin’,” he said finally, his breathing easier now, “honestly it is. The things I’m seeing, they don’t mean anything. Don’t worry, Rowan. Please. It’s like the images; I’m catching impressions of things that happened long ago, that’s all. Come on, honey, look at me. Kiss me. I love you and this is our day.”

The party moved on vigorously and madly into the evening. The couple finally cut the wedding cake in a tempest of flashing cameras and drunken laughter. Trays of sweets were passed. Urns of coffee were brewing. Mayfairs in long heartfelt conversations with one another had settled in various corners, and onto couches, and gathered in clusters around tables. The rain came down hard outside. The thunder came and went with occasional booming violence. And the bars stayed open, for most of the gathering continued to drink.

Finally, because Rowan and Michael weren’t going to Florida for their honeymoon until the following day, it was decided that Rowan should throw her bouquet from the stairway “now.” Climbing halfway, and staring down at a sea of upturned faces, ranging in both directions and back into the parlor, Rowan closed her eyes and threw the bouquet up in the air. There was a great deal of cordial screaming and even pushing and scuffling. And suddenly beautiful young Clancy Mayfair held up the bouquet, amid shouts of approbation. And Pierce threw his arms around her, obviously declaring to the whole world his particular and selfish delight in her good luck.

Ah, so it’s Pierce and Clancy, is it? thought Rowan quietly, coming back down. And she had not seen it before. She had not even guessed. But there seemed little doubt of it as she watched them slip away. Far off against the second fireplace, Peter stood smiling on, while Randall argued heatedly, it seemed, with Fielding, who had been planted there some time ago in a tapestried chair.

The new band of the evening had just arrived. It began to play a waltz; everyone cheered at the sound of the sweet, old-fashioned music, and someone dimmed the chandeliers until they gave off a soft, rosy light. Older couples rose to dance. Michael at once took Rowan and led her to the middle of the parlor. It was another flawless moment, as rich and tender as the music that carried them along. Soon the room around them was crowded with dancing couples. Beatrice was dancing with Randall. And Aunt Vivian with Aaron. All of the old ones were dancing, and then even the young ones were drawn into it, little Mona with the elderly Peter, and Clancy with Pierce.

If Michael had seen any other awful unwelcome thing, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, his eyes were fixed steadily and devotedly on Rowan.

As nine o’clock sounded, certain Mayfairs were crying, having reached some point of crucial confession or understanding in a conversation with a long-lost cousin; or simply because everybody had drunk too much and danced too long and some people felt they ought to cry. Rowan didn’t exactly know. It just seemed a natural thing for Beatrice as she sat bawling on the couch with Aaron hugging her, and for Gifford, who for hours had been explaining something of seeming importance to a patient and wide-eyed Aunt Viv. Lily had gotten into a loud quarrel with Peter and Randall, deriding them as the “I remember Stella” crowd.

Rita Mae Lonigan was still crying when she left with her husband, Jerry. Amanda Curry, along with Franklin Curry, also made a tearful farewell.

By ten o’clock the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two hundred. Rowan had taken off her white satin high heels. She sat in a wing chair by the first fireplace of the parlor, her long sleeves pushed up, smoking a cigarette, with her feet curled under her, listening to Pierce talk about his last trip to Europe. She could not even recall when or where she had taken off her veil. Maybe Bea had taken it when she and Lily had gone to “prepare the wedding chamber,” whatever that meant. Her feet hurt worse than they did after an eight-hour operation. She was hungry, and only the desserts were left. And the cigarette was making her sick. She stubbed it out.

Michael and the old gray-haired priest from the parish were in fast conversation before the mantel at the other end of the room. The band had moved from Strauss to more recent sentimental favorites. Here and there voices broke out in time with the strains of “Blue Moon” or “The Tennessee Waltz.” The wedding cake, except for a piece to be saved for sentimental reasons, had been devoured down to the last crumb.

A group of Gradys, connections of Cortland, delayed on their journey from New York, flooded through the front door, full of apologies and exclamations. Others rushed to greet them. Rowan apologized for being shoeless and disheveled as she received their kisses. And in the back dining room, a large party which had come together for a series of photographs began to sing “My Wild Irish Rose.”

At eleven, Aaron kissed Rowan good-bye, as he left to take Aunt Vivian home. He would be at the hotel if needed, and he wished them a safe trip to Destin in the morning.

Michael walked with Aaron and his aunt to the front door. Michael’s old friends went off at last to continue their drinking at Parasol’s bar in the Irish Channel, after extracting the promise from Michael that he would meet with them for dinner in a couple of weeks. But the stairway was still blocked with couples in fast conversation. And the caterers were “rustling up something” in the kitchen for the New York Gradys.

At last, Ryan rose to his feet, demanded silence, and declared that this party was over! Everyone was to find his or her shoes, coat, purse, or what have you, and get out and leave the wedding couple alone. Taking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, he turned to Rowan.

“To the wedding couple,” he announced, his voice easily carrying over the hubbub. “To their first night in this house.”

Cheers once more. Everyone reaching for a last drink, and mere were a hundred repeats of the toast as glasses clinked together. “God bless all in this house!” declared the priest, who just happened to be going out the door. And a dozen different voices repeated the prayer.

“To Darcy Monahan and Katherine,” someone cried.

“To Julien and Mary Beth … to Stella … ”

The leavetaking, as was the fashion in this family, took over a half hour, what with the kissing, and the promises to get together, and the renewed conversations halfway out of the powder room and halfway off the porch and halfway out the gate.

Meantime the caterers swept through the rooms, silently retrieving every last glass and napkin, righting pillows, and snuffing candles, and scattering the arrangements of flowers which had been grouped on the banquet tables, and wiping up the last spills.

At last it was over. Ryan was the last one to go, having paid the caterers and seen to it that everything was perfect. The house was almost empty!

“Good night, my dears,” he said, and the high, front door slowly closed.

For a long moment Rowan and Michael looked at each other, then they broke into laughter, and Michael picked her up and swung her around in a circle, before he set her gentry back on her feet. She fell against him, hugging him the way she’d come to love, with her head against his chest. She was weak from laughing.

“We did it, Rowan!” he said. “The way everybody wanted it, we did it! It’s over, it’s done.”

She was still laughing silently, deliciously exhausted and pleasantly excited at the same time. But the clock was striking. “Listen,” she whispered. “Michael, it’s midnight.”

He took her by the hand, hit the wall button to shut off the light, and together they hurried up the darkened stairs.

Only one room on the second floor gave a light into the hallway, and it was their bedroom. They moved silently to the threshold.

“Rowan, look what they’ve done,” Michael said.

The room had been exquisitely prepared by Bea and Lily. A huge fragrant bouquet of pink roses stood on the mantel between the two silver candelabra.

On the dressing table, the champagne waited in its bucket of ice with two glasses beside it, on a silver tray.

The bed itself was ready, the lace coverlet turned down, the pillows fluffed, and the soft white bed curtains brought back and tied to the massive posts at the head.

A pretty nightgown and peignoir of white silk lay folded on one side of the bed and a pair of white cotton pajamas on the other. A single rose lay against the pillows, with a bit of ribbon tied to it, and another single candle stood on the small table to the right of the bed.

“How sweet of them to think of it,” Rowan said.

“And so it’s our wedding night, Rowan,” Michael said. “And the clock’s just stopped chiming. It’s the witching hour, darlin’, and we have it all to ourselves.”

Again, they looked at each other, and both began to laugh softly, feeding each other’s laughter, and quite unable to stop. They were too tired to do more than fall into bed beneath the covers, and they both knew it.

“Well, we ought to drink the champagne at least,” Rowan said, “before we collapse.”

He nodded, throwing aside the cutaway coat and tugging at the ascot. “I’ll tell you, Rowan, you have to love somebody to dress up in a suit like this!”

“Come on, Michael, everybody here does this sort of thing. Here, the zipper, please.” She turned her back to him, and then felt the hard shell of the bodice released at last, the gown falling loosely down around her feet. Carelessly, she unfastened the emerald and laid it on the end of the mantel.

At last everything was gathered away, and hung up, and they sat in bed together drinking the champagne, which was very cold and dry and delicious, and had foamed all over the glasses, as it ought to do. Michael was naked, but he loved caressing her through the silk nightgown, so she kept it on. Finally, no matter how tired they were, they were caught up in the deliciousness of the new bed, and the soft candlelight, and their usual heat was rising to a boil.

It was swift and violent, the way she loved it, the giant mahogany bed sturdy as if it were carved out of stone.

She lay against him afterwards, dozing and contented, and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Finally she sat up, straightened out the wrinkled nightgown, and drank a long cool sip of the champagne.

Michael sat up beside her, naked, one knee crooked, and lighted a cigarette, his head rolling against the high headboard of the bed.

“Ah Rowan, nothing went wrong, you know, absolutely nothing. It was the perfect day. God, that a day could be so perfect.”

Except that you saw something that scared you. But she didn’t say it. Because it had been perfect, even with that strange little moment. Perfect! Nothing to spoil it at all.

She took another little drink of the champagne, savoring the taste and her own tiredness, realizing that she was still too wound up to close her eyes.

A wave of dizziness came over her suddenly, with just a touch of the nausea she’d felt in the morning. She waved the cigarette smoke away.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, just nerves I think. Walking up that aisle was sort of like lifting a scalpel or something for the first time.”

“I know what you mean. Let me put this out.”

“No, it’s not that, cigarettes don’t bother me. I smoke now and then myself.” But it was the cigarette smoke, wasn’t it? Same thing earlier. She got up, the light silk nightgown feeling like nothing as it fell down around her, and went barefoot into the bath.

No Alka-Seltzer, the one thing that always worked at such moments. But she had brought some over, she remembered. She had put it in the kitchen cabinet along with aspirin and Band-Aids and all the other household supplies. She came back and put on her bedroom slippers and peignoir.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Downstairs, for Alka-Seltzer. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait a minute, Rowan, I’ll go.”

“Stay where you are. You’re not dressed. I’ll be back in two seconds. Maybe I’ll take the elevator, what the hell.”

The house was not really dark. A pale light from the garden came in through the many windows, illuminating the polished floor of the hallway, and the dining room, and even the butler’s pantry. It was easy to make her way without switching on a light.

She found the Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, and one of the new crystal glasses she had bought on a shopping spree with Lily and Bea. She filled the glass at the little sink on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stood there drinking the Alka-Seltzer and then closed her eyes.

Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.

“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”

“Thank you,” she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn’t it? A beautiful melodious voice.

She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.

He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been raw, heartfelt. But the expression on his face was a little colder, and entirely human. Slightly hurt perhaps, but not imploring as it had been that night in Tiburon. No, not that at all.

This had to be a real man. It was a joke of some kind. This was a real man. A man standing here in the kitchen, staring at her, a tall, brown-haired man with large dark eyes, and a beautifully shaped sensuous mouth.

The light through the French doors clearly revealed his shirt, and the rawhide vest he wore. Old, old clothing, clothing made with hand stitches and uneven seams, and big full sleeves.

“Well? Where is your will to destroy me, beautiful one?” he whispered, in the same low, vibrant, and heartbroken voice. “Where is your power to drive me back into hell?”

She was shaking uncontrollably. The glass slipped out of her wet fingers and struck the floor with a dull noise and rolled to one side. She gave a deep, ragged sigh, and kept her eyes focused upon him. The reasoning part of her observed that he was tall, perhaps over six feet, that he had heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. That his face was perfect in its proportions, and that his hair was softly mussed, as if by a wind. Not that delicate androgynous gentleman she’d seen on the deck, no.

“The better to love you, Rowan!” he whispered. “What shape would you have me take? He is not perfect, Rowan, he is human but not perfect. No.”

For a moment her fear was so great that she felt a tight squeezing inside of her as if she were going to die. Moving against it, defiant and enraged, she came forward, legs trembling, and reached out across the counter, and touched his cheek.

Roughened, like Michael’s. And the lips silky. God! Once again, she stumbled backwards, paralyzed, and unable to move or speak. Tremors moved through her limbs.

“You fear me, Rowan?” he said, lips barely moving as she focused on them. “Why? Leave your friend, Aaron, alone, you commanded me, and I did as you commanded, did I not?”

“What do you want?”

“Ah, that would be a very long time in the telling,” he answered, the Scottish accent thickened. “And he waits for you, your lover, and your husband, on this your wedding night. And he grows anxious that you do not come.”

The face softened, torn suddenly with pain. How could an illusion be this vital?

“Go, Rowan, go back to him,” he said sadly, “and if you tell him I am here, you will make him more miserable than even you know. And I shall hide from you again, and the fear and the suspicion will eat at him, and I will come only when I want to come.”

“All right. I won’t tell him,” she whispered. “But don’t you harm him. Don’t you bring the slightest fear or worry to him. And the other tricks, stop them! Don’t plague him with tricks! Or I swear to you, I will never never speak to you. And I will drive you away.”

The beautiful face looked tragic, and the brown eyes grew soft and infinitely sad.

“And Aaron, you’re never to harm Aaron. Never. Never to harm anyone, do you hear me?”

“As you say, Rowan,” he said, the words flowing like music, full of sorrow and quiet strength. “What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan? Come to me when he sleeps. Tonight, tomorrow, come when you will. There is no time for me. I am here when you say my name. But keep faith with me, Rowan. Come alone to me, and in secret. Or I will not answer. I love you, my beautiful Rowan. But I have a will. I do.”

The figure suddenly shimmered as if a sourceless light had struck it; it brightened and a thousand tiny details of it were suddenly visible. Then it became transparent, and a gust of warm air struck her, frightening her, and then leaving her alone in the darkness, with nothing there.

She put her hand to her mouth. The nausea came again. She stood waiting it out, shivering, and on the verge of screaming, when she heard Michael’s soft but unmistakable tread coming through the pantry and into the kitchen. She forced herself to open her eyes.

He had slipped into his jeans, and his chest and his feet were bare.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he whispered. He saw the glass gleaming in the dark; against the bottom of the refrigerator. He bent down, past her, and picked it up and put it in the sink. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Michael,” she said thickly, trying to control the trembling, the tears springing to her eyes. “I’m sick, just a little sick. It happened this morning, and this afternoon and yesterday too actually. I don’t know what it is. It was the cigarette just now. I’ll be OK, Michael, honestly. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know what it is?” he asked her.

“No, I just … I guess it’s … cigarettes never did that to me before.… ”

“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “You sure you don’t know?”

She felt his hands on her shoulders. She felt his hair brush her cheek gently as he bent to kiss the tops of her breasts. She started to cry, her hands clasping his head, feeling the silkiness of his hair.

“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “Even I know what it is.”

“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “I just need to sleep, to go upstairs.”

“You’re pregnant, honey. Go look at yourself in the mirror.” And very gently he touched her breasts again, and she herself felt the plumpness, the slight soreness, and she knew, knew absolutely from all the other little unnoticed signs, that he was right. Absolutely right.

She dissolved into tears. She let him pick her up and tumble her against him, and carry her slowly through the house. Her body ached from the tension of the awful moments in the kitchen, and her sobs were coming dry and painfully from her throat. She didn’t think it was possible for him to carry her up that long stairway, but he did it, and she let him do it, crying against his chest, her fingers tight around his neck.

He set her down on the bed, and kissed her. In a daze she watched him blow out the candles, and come back to her.

“I love you so much, Rowan,” he said. He was crying too. “I love you so much. I’ve never been so happy … it comes in waves, and each time I think it’s the pinnacle, and then it comes again. And this of all nights to know … God, what a wedding gift, Rowan. What did I ever do to deserve this happiness, I wish I knew.”

“I love you, too, my darling. Yes … so happy.” As he climbed under the covers, she turned away, tucking herself against him, and feeling his knees draw up under hers. She cried against the pillow, taking his hand and folding it over her breasts.

“Everything is so perfect,” he whispered.

“Nothing to spoil it,” she whispered, “not a single thing.”