Lasher by Anne Rice Page B

relatives know, being a little girl becomes simply a political decision. Logical. But believe me, I am not what I seem,”
    He gave the most knowing laugh, the most ironic laugh.
    “And what if my wife, Rowan, comes home and finds you here with me, talking about sex and politics?”
    “Your wife, Rowan, isn’t coming home,” she said, and then instantly regretted it. She hadn’t meant to say something so ominous, so depressing. And his face told her that he believed her. “I mean…she’s…”
    “She’s what, Mona? Tell me.” He was quietly and deadly serious. “What do you know? Tell me what’s inside your little Mayfair heart? Where is my wife? Give me some witchcraft.”
    Mona gave a sigh. She tried to make her voice as hushed and quiet as his voice. “Nobody knows,” she said. “They’re plenty scared, but nobody knows. And the feeling I get is…she’s not dead, but…well, it might not ever be the same again.” She looked at him. “Do you know what I mean?”
    “You don’t have a good feeling about her, that she’s coming back? That’s what you’re saying.”
    “Yeah, kind of. But then I don’t know what happened here on Christmas Day, not that I’m asking you to tell me. I can tell this, however. I’m holding your wrist, right? We’re talking all about it, and you’re worried about her, and your pulse is just fine. You aren’t that sick. They’ve doped you. They over-reacted. They got illogical. Detox is what you need.”
    He sighed, and looked defeated.
    She leant forward and kissed him on the mouth. Immediate connection. In fact, it startled her a little, and even startled him. But there wasn’t much follow-up. The drugs took care of that, like folding up the kiss in a blanket.
    Age made such a difference. Kissing a man who’d been to bed a thousand times was nothing like kissing a boy who’d done it twice, maybe. All the machinery was here. She just needed a stronger jolt to turn it on.
    “Hold on, honey, hold on,” he said gently, taking her by the left shoulder, and forcing her back.
    She found it almost painful suddenly that this man was right there, and she probably couldn’t get him to do what she wanted, and maybe never would.
    “I know, Uncle Michael. But you have to understand that we have our family traditions.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Oncle Julien slept with my great-grandmother in this house when she was thirteen. That’s how come I’m so clever.”
    “And pretty,” he said. “But I inherited something from my ancestors too. It’s called moral fiber.” He raised his eyebrows, smiling at her slowly, taking her hand now and patting it as if she really were a little kitten or a child.
    Best to step back. He looked groggier now than when they’d started. It seemed wrong, really, to try to draw him to her. Yet she ached for him. She really did; she ached for intimacy with him and the entire world of adults which he embodied for her. Stranded in childhood, she suddenly felt freakish and confused. She might have cried.
    “Why don’t I put you in the front bedroom?” he said. “It’s all clean and neat in there, has been since Rowan left. You want to sleep in there? That’s a nice room.” His voice wasthick. His eyes were closed as he talked. He stroked her hand affectionately.
    “Front bedroom’s fine,” she said.
    “There are some flannel nightgowns in there. They were Rowan’s. I gave them to her. They’ll be too long. But wait a minute, maybe Aunt Viv is still awake. Maybe I should tell her you’re here.”
    “Aunt Viv is uptown, with Aunt Cecilia,” she said, venturing to squeeze his hand one more time. It was beginning to feel a little warm. “They’ve become famous friends, Aunt Viv and Aunt Cecilia. I think Aunt Viv is now an honorary Mayfair.”
    “Aaron. Aaron is in the second bedroom,” he said, as though thinking aloud.
    “Aaron’s with Aunt Bea. He and Bea have a thing together. They went back to his suite at the Pontchartrain,