Anne Rice - The witching hour

“It’s very hard for us to come through,” said the woman.

“But who are you?” she asked.

Rembrandt was sitting by the window, so tired in his old age, his nose rounded, his hair in wisps. He looked up at her sleepily when she asked him what he thought, and then he took her hand in his fingers, and he placed it on her own breast.

“I know that painting,” she said, “the young bride.”

She woke up. The clock had struck two. She had waited in her sleep, thinking there would be more chimes, perhaps ten in number, which meant she’d slept late; but two? That was so late.

She heard music from far away. A harpsichord was playing and a low voice was singing, a slow mournful carol, an old Celtic carol about a child laid in the manger. Smell of the Christmas tree, sweetly fragrant, and of the fire burning. Delicious in the warmth.

She was lying on her side, looking at the window, at the crust of frost forming on the panes. Very slowly a figure began to take shape-a man, with his back to the glass and his arms folded.

She narrowed her eyes, observing the process-the darkly tanned face coming into focus, billions of tiny cells forming it, and the deep glistening green eyes. The perfect replica of jeans and a shirt. Detailed like a Richard Avedon photograph in which every hair of the head is distinct and shining. He relaxed his arms and came toward her. She could hear and see the movement of his garments. As he bent over her, she saw the pores in his skin.

So we are jealous, are we? She touched his cheek, touched his forehead the way she had touched Michael, and felt a throb beneath it, like a body really there.

“Lie to him,” he said in a low voice, the lips barely moving. “If you love him, lie to him.”

She could almost feel breath against her face. Then she realized she was seeing through the face, seeing the window behind it.

“No, don’t let go,” she said. “Hold on.”

But the whole image convulsed; then it wavered like a paper cutout caught in a draft. She felt his panic in spasms of heat.

She reached out to take his wrist, but her hand closed on nothing. The hot draft swept over her and over the bed, and the draperies ballooned for a moment, and the frost rose and turned white on the panes.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Like wisps of hair across her face and her lips. “No. That’s not enough. Kiss me.” Only slowly did the density increase, and the touch become more palpable. He was tired from the materialization. Tired and slightly frightened. His cells and the other cells had almost undergone a molecular fusion. There must be a residue somewhere, or the minuscule bits of matter had been scattered so finely that they had penetrated the walls and the ceiling the same way he penetrated them. “Kiss me!” she demanded. She felt him struggling. And only now did he make invisible lips with which to do it, pushing an unseen tongue into her mouth.

Lie to him.

Yes, of course. I love you both, don’t I?

He didn’t hear her come down the steps. The draperies were all closed and the hallway was dark and hushed and warm. The fire was lighted in the front fireplace of the parlor. And the only other illumination came from the tree, which was now strung with countless tiny, twinkling lights.

She stood in the doorway watching him as he sat on the very top of the ladder, making some little adjustment, and whistling softly to himself with the recording of the old Irish Christmas song.

So mournful. It made her think of a deep, ancient wood in winter. And his whistling was such a small, easy, almost unconscious sound. She’d known that carol once. She had some dim memory of listening to it with Ellie, and it had made Ellie cry.

She leaned against the door frame, merely looking at the immense tree, all speckled with its tiny lights like stars, and breathing its deep woodsy perfume.

“Ah, there she is, my sleeping beauty,” he said. He gave her one of those utterly loving and protective smiles that made her feel like rushing into his arms. But she didn’t move. She watched as he came down off the ladder with quick easy movements, and approached her. “Feel better now, my princess?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s so very beautiful,” she said. “And that song is so sad.”

She put her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder as she looked up at the tree. “You’ve done a perfect job.”

“Ah, but now comes the fun part,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek and drawing her into the room and towards the small table by the windows. A cardboard box stood open, and he gestured for her to look inside.

“Aren’t they lovely!” She picked up a small white bisque angel with the faintest blush to its cheeks, and gilded wings. And here was the most beautiful detailed little Father Christmas, a tiny china doll dressed in real red velvet. “Oh, they’re exquisite. Wherever did they come from?” She lifted the golden apple, and a lovely five-pointed star.

“Oh, I’ve had them for years. I was a college kid when I started collecting them. I never knew they were for this tree and this room, but they were. Here, you choose the first one. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought we’d do it together.”

“The angel,” she said. She lifted it by the hook and brought it close to the tree, the better to see it in the soft light. It held a tiny gilded harp in its hands, and even its little face was correctly painted with a fine reddened mouth and blue eyes. She lifted it as high as she could reach and slipped the curved hook over the thick part of the shivering branch. The angel quivered, the hook nearly invisible in the darkness, and hung suspended, as if poised like a hummingbird in flight.

“Do you think they do that, angels, they stop in midair like hummingbirds?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “You know angels. They’re probably show-offs, and they can do anything they want.” He stood behind her, kissing her hair.

“What did I ever do without you here?” she said. As his arms went around her waist she clasped them with her hands, loving the sinewy muscles, the large strong fingers holding her so tight.

For a moment the fullness of the tree and the lovely play of twinkling light in the deep shadowy green branches utterly filled her vision. And the sad music of the carol filled her ears. The moment was suspended, like the delicate angel. There was no future, no past.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered closing her eyes.

“It was unbearable here without you. Nothing makes any sense without you. I never want to be without you again.” A deep throb of pain passed through her-a fierce terrible quaking that she locked inside her, as she turned to lay her head once more on his chest.

DECEMBER 23. HARD freeze tonight. Lovely, when all the Mayfairs were expected for cocktails and carol singing. Think of all those cars sliding on the icy streets. But it was wonderful to have this clean cold weather for Christmas. And they were predicting snow.

“A white Christmas, can you imagine?” he said to her. He was looking out of the front bedroom window as he put on his sweater and his leather jacket. “It might even snow tonight.”

“That would be wonderful for the party,” she said, “wonderful for Christmas.”

She was snuggled up in the chair by the gas fire, a quilt over her shoulders, and her cheeks were ruddy and she was just a little bit softer and rounder all over. You could see it, a woman with a baby inside her, positively radiant, as if she’d absorbed the glow of the fire.

She had never seemed more relaxed and cheerful. “It would be another gift to us, Michael,” she said.

“Yes, another gift,” he said, looking out the window. “And you know they’re saying it’s going to happen. And I’ll tell you something else, Rowan. It was a white Christmas the year I left.”