Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(69)
Author: Anne Rice

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, it’s him,” said Mary Jane. She jabbed the fork through the last piece of veal, picked it up, and stuffed it in her mouth and chewed it lustily, her smooth brown cheeks working furiously without so much as a line or a wrinkle or any real distortion. This was one beautiful girl. “I know,” she said, as soon as she had swallowed a wad of chewed meat big enough to catch in her windpipe and choke her to death.

“Look,” said Mona. “This is something I haven’t told anybody yet, and …”

“Everybody knows it,” said Mary Jane. “Bea knows it. Bea told me. You know what’s going to save Bea? That woman is going to get over her grief for Aaron on account of one simple reason. She never stops worrying about everybody else. She’s real worried about you and Michael Curry, because he’s got the genes, as everybody knows, and he’s Rowan’s husband. But she says that gypsy you fell in love with is just all wrong for you. He belongs with another kind of woman, somebody wild and homeless and without a family, like himself.”

“She said all that?”

Mary Jane nodded. Suddenly she spied the plate of bread which Eugenia had set out for them, slices of plain white bread.

Mona didn’t consider bread like that fit for consumption. She only ate French bread, or rolls, or something properly prepared to accompany a meal. Sliced bread! Sliced white bread!

Mary Jane grabbed the top slice, mushed it together, and started sopping up veal juice.

“Yeah, she said all that,” said Mary Jane. “She told Aunt Viv and she told Polly and Anne Marie. Didn’t seem to know that I was listening. But I mean, this is what is going to save her, that she’s got so much on her mind about the family, like coming down to Fontevrault and making me leave.”

“How could they all know this about me and Michael?”

Mary Jane shrugged. “You’re asking me? Darlin’, this is a family of witches, you’re supposed to know that better than I do. Any number of ways they could have found out. But, come to think of it, Ancient Evelyn spilled the beans to Viv, if I am not mistaken. Something about you and Michael being here alone?”

“Yeah,” said Mona with a sigh. “So big deal. I don’t have to tell them. So much for that.” But if they started being mean to Michael, if they started treating him any differently, if they started …

“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that, like I said, when it’s a man that age and a girl your age, they blame one or the other, and I think they blame you. I mean, not in a mean way or anything, they just say things like, ‘Whatever Mona wants, Mona gets,’ and ‘Poor Michael,’ and you know, stuff like, ‘Well, if it got him up off that bed and to feeling better, maybe Mona’s got the healing gift.’ ”

“Terrific,” said Mona. “Actually, that’s exactly the way I feel myself.”

“You know, you’re tough,” said Mary Jane.

The veal juice was gone. Mary Jane ate the next slice of bread plain. She closed her eyes in a deliberate smile of satiation. Her lashes were all smoky and slightly violet, rather like her lipstick actually, very subtle however, and glamorous and beautiful. She had a damned near perfect face.

“Now I know who you look like!” cried Mona. “You look like Ancient Evelyn, I mean in her pictures when she was a girl.”

“Well, that makes sense, now doesn’t it?” said Mary Jane, “being’s we’re come down from Barbara Ann.” Mona poured the last of the milk into her glass. It was still wonderfully cold. Maybe she and this baby could live on milk alone, she wasn’t sure.

“What do you mean, I’m tough?” asked Mona. “What did you mean by that?”

“I mean you don’t get insulted easily. Most of the time, if I talk like this, you know, completely open-like, with no secrets, like really trying to get to know somebody??? You know??? I offend that person.”

“Small wonder,” said Mona, “but you don’t offend me.”

Mary Jane stared hungrily at the last thin, forlorn slice of white bread.

“You can have it,” said Mona.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Mary Jane grabbed it, tore the middle out of it, and started rolling the soft bread into a ball. “Boy, I love it this way,” she said. “When I was little??? You know??? I used to take a whole loaf, and roll it all into balls!”

“What about the crust?”

“Rolled it into balls,” she said, shaking her head with nostalgic wonder. “Everything into balls.”

“Wow,” said Mona flatly. “You know, you really are fascinating, you’re the most challenging combination of the mundane and mysterious that I’ve ever run across.”

“There you go, showing off,” said Mary Jane, “but I know you don’t mean any harm, you’re just teasing me, aren’t you? Did you know that if mundane started with a b, I’d know what it meant?”

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’m up to b in my vocabulary studies,” said Mary Jane. “I’ve been working on my education in several different ways, I’d like to know what you think about it. See, what I do is, I get a big-print dictionary??? You know???? The kind for old ladies with bad eyes??? And I cut out the b words, which gives me some familiarity with them right there, you know, cutting out each one with the definition, and then I throw all the little balls of paper … oops, there we go again,” she laughed. “Balls, more balls.”

“So I notice,” said Mona. “We little girls are just all obsessed with them, aren’t we?”

Mary Jane positively howled with laughter.

“This is better than I expected,” said Mona. “The girls at school appreciate my humor, but almost no one in the family laughs at my jokes.”

“Your jokes are real funny,” said Mary Jane. “That’s because you’re a genius. I figure there are two kinds, ones with a sense of humor and those without it.”

“But what about all the b words, cut out, and rolled into balls?”

“Well, I put them in a hat, you know??? Just like names for a raffle.”

“Yeah.”

“And then I pick them out one at a time. If it’s some word nobody ever uses, you know, like batrachian?? I just throw it away. But if it’s a good word like beatitude—‘a state of utmost bliss’???? Well, I memorize it right on the spot.”