Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [73]
Mona went off at once, darting across the lawn and towards the pool, high heels clicking when they hit the flagstones, and off around the bend on her errand.
Michael sat there musing and shaking his head. “You drink that on top of all that rum and you’re going be sick,” he murmured.
“I was born sick,” said the old woman.
Stirling stared at Dolly Jean as though she was something perfectly horrible. I almost burst out laughing.
Rowan continued to smile at Dolly Jean. It was sweet and secretive and honest.
“I’m going to pour that bottle of Amaretto down your throat,” Rowan said gently in her husky confidential voice. “I’m going to drown you with it.”
Dolly Jean bobbed up and down in the chair with squeals of laughter. She grabbed Rowan’s face and held her tight.
“Now, I made you laugh, I did, you’re all right, my genius girl, my doctor, my boss lady, my mistress of the house, I love you, girl, I’m the only one in the entire Mayfair clan that’s not afraid of you.” She kissed Rowan on the mouth and then let her go. “You just keep on taking care of everybody, that’s what God put you here to do, you understand, you take care of everybody.”
“And I fail and fail again,” said Rowan.
“No, you don’t, darlin’,” said Dolly Jean. “Put another wing on that hospital. And don’t you fret anything, you sweet girl.”
Rowan sank back in her chair. She looked dazed. Her eyes closed.
Across the lawn, Mona came flying, silver tray in hand, with several bottles of liqueurs and bright shiny glasses. She set this down on the iron table.
“Now, let me see,” she said. “We have three human beings.” She put the glasses in front of Stirling, Michael, Dolly Jean, and Rowan. “Oh, no, four human beings. Okay, now here you are, all human beings have glasses.”
I thought Quinn would perish from mortification on the spot. I merely cringed.
Michael picked up the bottle of Irish Mist and poured himself a small amount. Dolly Jean took the bottle of Amaretto for herself and swallowed a good mouthful. Stirling poured a shiny nugget of cognac and sipped it. Rowan ignored the proceedings.
A silence ensued in which Mona took her old place.
“Rowan,” I said, “you were trying to explain how you knew about us. You were talking about Merrick Mayfair, about when she disappeared from the Talamasca.”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” said Dolly Jean. She drank more of the Amaretto. “I can’t wait for this. Go on, Rowan, if you’ve a mind to talk for once, I want to hear it. Carry on as if I wasn’t here to cheer you along.”
“You have to understand what the Talamasca meant to us,” Rowan said. She paused. Then went on in a low voice, filling the quiet completely. “The Talamasca has known the Mayfair family through all its thirteen generations. Mona understands. Quinn, I don’t know that you ever understood, but we could tell them anything. They knew all about the Taltos. They knew. It was like going to Confession to go to them. They have the solidity and the eternal self-confidence of the Roman Church. And Stirling was so patient. Mona loved him.”
“Don’t talk about us as if we’re not here,” said Mona.
“Patience, Mona,” I said.
Rowan continued as if she hadn’t even heard:
“Then it was Dolly Jean, our precious Dolly Jean Mayfair from Fontevrault Plantation, who said that Merrick Mayfair had become a Blood Child: ‘Sure enough! That’s what happened to that one!’ Dolly Jean knew it. She’d called Tante Oscar. Tante Oscar had told her.”
Rowan smiled at Dolly Jean, who nodded and took another huge mouthful of Amaretto. Rowan leaned over and so did Dolly Jean and their foreheads touched, and then they kissed tenderly on the mouth. It was as if these two women were lovers.
“You do right by me, now,” Dolly Jean retorted. “Or I’ll shout you down. Truth is I can’t recollect what happened.”
“Hush up,” said Rowan softly, with another tender smile.
Dolly Jean nodded and took another drink.
Rowan sat back and went on:
“Dolly Jean had Henri take her and me downtown in the big car to