Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(152)
Author: Anne Rice

“The Bru, are you familiar with the Bru, the big French doll? My princess.”

“The Bru, sir, yes sir, oh, that doll.”

“Bru Jne 14; thirty-six inches in height; wig, shoes, dress, slip, et cetera, all original. Exhibit Number One.”

“Yes, sir, I know exactly.”

“She’s to be packed by you, and no one else, with appropriate assistance, and then properly insured, and see to that yourself, and then shipped … shipped to …” But to whom? Was it presumptuous to send it directly to the unborn child? No, it should go to Rowan Mayfair, shouldn’t it? Of course it should. And for Michael, some other memento, just as precious in its own way, something carefully crafted of wood, one of the very, very old toys, the knight on its horse, yes, all made of wood, that one, with the original paint clinging to it …

But no, that was not the right gift, not for Michael. There was one gift, one precious gift, something as fine as the Bru, and something he wanted to put in Michael’s hands.

He rose from the desk, bidding the young Leslie to keep her chair, and moved across the spacious sitting area and down the hall to his bedroom.

He had placed it beneath the bed, the simple signal to Remmick that it was precious and must not be touched by the most well-meaning of servants. He dropped to his knees, felt for it, then slipped it out, the light blazing beautiful on the jeweled cover.

The moment of long ago was right there, the pain, the humiliation, Ninian laughing at him, telling him what a terrible blasphemy he had done, to put their tale into sacred style with sacred language.

For a long moment he sat, cross-legged, shoulder against the side of the bed. He held the book. Yes, for Michael. Michael, the boy who loved books. Michael. Michael would never be able to read it perhaps; it did not matter. Michael would keep it and it was rather like giving it to Rowan, too. She would understand that.

When he came back into the inner office, he had the book wrapped in a large white towel.

“This, this book, for Michael Curry, and the Bru for Rowan Mayfair.”

“The Bru, sir, the princess?”

“Yes. That one. The packing is terribly important. I may want you to take these gifts down yourself. The fact that the Bru might break, it’s unthinkable. Neither present must be lost. Now let’s get on to other things. Send out for food if you’re hungry. I have a memo here that the Prima Ballerina is out of stock worldwide. Tell me this is a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

“Take dictation. This is the first of seven faxes pertaining to the Prima Ballerina….”

And on they went down the list, and when he did finally look at the clock again, with any serious intent, it was well past midnight. Indeed, the hour had dwindled to one. The snow still fell. Little Leslie’s face had turned the color of paper. He was tired enough to sleep.

He fell into the large soft empty bed, vaguely conscious that the young Leslie was still hovering about, asking questions he could no longer hear that well. Extending her invitation.

“Good night, darling,” he said.

Remmick opened the window just a little bit, the way he’d been instructed to, and the wind made a fierce howl that blotted out all sounds, all time, any conceivable lesser noise rising up the narrow margins between the dark and mournful buildings. A bit of icy air touched his cheek, making the warmth of the heavy covers all the more delicious.

Don’t dream of witches; don’t think of their red hair; don’t think of Rowan in your arms. Don’t think of Michael with the book in his hands, cherishing it as no one else ever did, except those evil brethren who betrayed Lightner. Don’t think of the three of you sitting together at their hearth; don’t go back to the glen, not now, not for a long long time; don’t walk among circles of stone; don’t visit caves; don’t succumb to the temptation of mortal beauties who may die at your touch…. Don’t call them, don’t beg to hear a coldness, estrangement, evasion in their voices.

And by the time the door was closed, he was slumbering.

The Bru. The street in Paris; the woman in the store; the doll in its box; the big paperweight eyes looking up at him. The sudden thought beneath the streetlamp that a point had come in history where money could make possible all manner of miracles, that the pursuit of money even for one single individual could have great spiritual repercussions for thousands…. That in a realm of manufacture and mass production, the acquisition of wealth could be utterly creative.

In a shop on Fifth Avenue only steps from his door, he had stopped to look at The Book of Kells, the perfect reproduction which anyone could own now, and leaf through and love, the precious book that had taken so many to create at Iona.

“For the Man Who Loves Books” is what he would write on the card to Michael. He saw Michael smiling at him, hands in his pockets, just the way Samuel shoved his hands in his pockets. Michael asleep on the floor, and Samuel standing over him, saying drunkenly, “Why didn’t God make me into this?” It had been too sad for laughing. And that strange statement Michael had made, as they stood near the fence in Washington Square, all of them so cold, why do people do these things, stand outdoors in snow, and Michael had said, “I always believed in the normal. I thought being poor was abnormal. I thought when you could choose what you wanted, that was normal.” Snow, traffic, the night prowlers of the village, Michael’s eyes when he looked at Rowan. And she remote, quiet, the words for her so much harder than for him.

This isn’t a dream. This is worry, this is going back over it, and making it come to life again, and holding tight. What’s it like when they lie together? Is her face a sculpture of ice? Is he the satyr of the wood? Witch touching witch; witch upon witch …

Will the Bru see these things from a marble mantel?

“Something about the way you held it.” That’s all he would write on the card to Rowan. And there would be the blue-eyed Bru staring up from the tissue, make the tissue the color of her eyes, remember to tell Leslie.

And it would be Rowan’s decision, and Michael’s decision, whether or not to keep those cherished gifts close, as he had done, decade after decade, like idols with which one prays, or to pass them on to Michael and Mona’s baby. And maybe the big paperweight eyes of the gorgeous Bru Jne 14 would gaze upon that little child, and would they see the witches’ blood as he might if ever, if ever he dared to journey there, some time after the baby had come into this world, as they say—if he dared, just to spy upon them all—The Family of Witch Kind—from the fabled garden where once the ghost of Lasher walked, and his remains were committed to the earth—from that garden which could hide another phantom, could it not, peering through a small, unnoticed winter window.