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

It seemed he could get his mind around it, he could penetrate it, make tight, easily explainable theories, if only—

“Mr. Ash.” It was a soft voice that interrupted him. Nothing more was required. He’d trained them all. Don’t make a sound with the door. Speak quietly. I’ll hear you.

And this voice came from Remmick, who was gentle by nature, an Englishman (with a little Celtic blood, though Remmick didn’t know it), a manservant who had been indispensable in this last decade, though the time would soon come when, for security’s sake, Remmick must be sent away.

“Mr. Ash, the young woman’s here.”

“Thank you, Remmick,” he said in a voice that was even softer than that of his servant. In the dark window glass, if he let himself, he could see Remmick’s reflection—a comely man, with small, very brilliant blue eyes. They were too close together, these eyes. But the face was not unattractive, and it wore always a look of such quiet and nondramatic devotion that he had grown to love it, to love Remmick himself.

There were lots of dolls in the world with eyes too close together—in particular, the French dolls made years ago by Jumeau, and Schmitt and Sons, and Huret, and Petit and Demontier—with moon faces, and glittering glass eyes crowding their little porcelain noses, with mouths so tiny they seemed at first glance to be tiny buds, or bee stings. Everybody loved these dolls. The bee-sting queens.

When you loved dolls and studied them, you started to love all kinds of people too, because you saw the virtue in their expressions, how carefully they had been sculpted, the parts contrived to create the triumph of this or that remarkable face. Sometimes he walked through Manhattan, deliberately seeing every face as made, no nose, no ear, no wrinkle accidental.

“She’s having some tea, sir. She was terribly cold when she arrived.”

“We didn’t send a car for her, Remmick?”

“Yes, sir, but she’s cold nevertheless. It’s very cold outside, sir.”

“But it’s warm in the museum, surely. You took her there, didn’t you?”

“Sir, she came up directly. She is so excited, you understand.”

He turned, throwing one bright gleam of a smile (or so he hoped it was) on Remmick and then waving him away with the smallest gesture that the man could see. He walked to the doors of the adjoining office, across the floor of Carrara marble, and looked beyond that room, to yet another, also paved, as were all his rooms, in shining marble, where the young woman sat alone at the desk. He could see her profile. He could see that she was anxious. He could see that she wanted the tea, but then she didn’t. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Sir, your hair. Will you allow me?” Remmick touched his arm.

“Must we?”

“Yes, sir, we really ought to.” Remmick had his soft little brush out, the kind that men used because they could not be seen using the same kind of brush as women, and reaching up, Remmick brought it quickly and firmly through his hair, hair that ought to be trimmed and cut, Remmick had said, hair that fell sloppily and defiantly over his collar.

Remmick stood back, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Now you look splendid, Mr. Ash,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Even if it is a bit long.”

He made a soft chuckle.

“You’re afraid I’ll frighten her, aren’t you?” he asked, teasingly, affectionately. “Surely you don’t really care what she thinks.”

“Sir, I care that you look your best always, for your own benefit.”

“Of course you do,” he said quietly. “I love you for it.”

He walked towards the young woman, and as he drew closer, he made a polite and decent amount of noise. Slowly she turned her head; she looked up; she saw him, and there came the inevitable shock.

He extended his arms as he approached.

She rose, beaming, and she clasped his hands. Warm, firm grip. She looked at his hands, at the fingers, and at the palms.

“I surprise you, Miss Paget?” he asked, offering her his most gracious smile. “My hair has been groomed for your approval. Do I look so very bad?”

“Mr. Ash, you look fabulous,” she said quickly. She had a crisp California-style voice. “I didn’t expect that … I didn’t expect that you would be so tall. Of course, everyone said you were….”

“And do I look like a kindly man, Miss Paget? They say this of me too.” He spoke slowly. Often Americans could not understand his “British accent.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ash,” she said. “Very kindly. And your hair is so nice and long. I love your hair, Mr. Ash.”

This was really very gratifying, very amusing. He hoped that Remmick was listening. But wealth makes people withhold judgment on what you have done, it makes them search for the good in your choices, your style. It brings out not the obsequious but the more thoughtful side of humans. At least sometimes …

She was plainly telling the truth. Her eyes feasted on him and he loved it. He gave her hands a tender squeeze and then he let them go.

As he moved around the desk, she took her seat again, eyes still locked upon him. Her own face was narrow and deeply lined for one so young. Her eyes were bluish violet. She was beautiful in her own way—ashen-haired, disheveled yet graceful, in exquisitely crushed old clothes.

Yes, don’t throw them away, save them from the thrift-shop rack, reinvent them with nothing more than a few stitches and an iron; the destiny of manufactured things lies in durability and changing contexts, crushed silk beneath fluorescent light, elegant tatters with buttons of plastic in colors never achieved within geological strata, with stockings of such strong nylon they could have been made into braided rope of incalculable strength if only people didn’t rip them off and toss them into wastebaskets. So many things to do, ways to see … If he had the contents of every wastebasket in Manhattan, he could make another billion just from what he would find there.

“I admire your work, Miss Paget,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” He gestured to the top of the desk. It was littered with large color photographs of her dolls.

Was it possible she hadn’t noticed these? She seemed overcome with pleasure, her cheeks reddening. Perhaps she was even a little infatuated with his style and manner, he wasn’t sure. He did tend to infatuate people, sometimes without trying to do it.

“Mr. Ash,” she said. “This is one of the most important days of my life.” She said it as if trying to realize it, and then she became silently flustered, perhaps because she thought she had said too much in saying what really mattered.