Free Taltos by Anne Rice

stick shift of that old truck and rushed off, waving at everybody.
    A cowboy hat. It had always been Mona’s dream to wear a cowboy hat, especially when she was really rich and in control of things, and flying about the world in her own plane. Mona had for years pictured herself as a mogul in a cowboy hat, entering factories and banks and … well, Mary Jane Mayfair did have a cowboy hat. And with her braids on top of her head, and her slick, tight denim skirt, there was something all together about her. She had, in spite of everything, a sort of deliberate and successful style. Even her chipped and peeling purple fingernail polish had been part of it, giving her a kind of earthy seductiveness.
    Well, it wouldn’t be hard to verify that, would it?
    “And those eyes, Mona,” Beatrice had said as they walked back into the garden. “The child is adorable! Did you look at her? I don’t know how I could ever … And her mother, her mother, oh, that girl always was insane, nobody should have ever let her run away with that baby. But there had been such bad blood between us and those Fontevrault Mayfairs.”
    “You can’t take care of all of them, Bea,” Mona had reassured her, “any more than Gifford could.” But they would, of course. And if Celia and Beatrice didn’t, well, Mona would. That had been one of the keenest revelations of that afternoon, that Mona was now part of the team; shewasn’t going to let that kid not fulfill her dreams, not while she had breath in her little thirteen-year-old body.
    “She’s a sweet thing in her own way,” Celia had admitted.
    “Yeah, and that Band-Aid on her knee,” Michael had muttered under his breath, not thinking. “What a girl. I believe what she said about Rowan.”
    “So do I,” said Beatrice. “Only …”
    “Only what?” Michael had asked desperately.
    “Only what if she never makes up her mind to speak again!”
    “Beatrice, shame on you,” Celia had said, glancing pointedly at Michael.
    “You think that Band-Aid’s sexy, Michael?” Mona had asked.
    “Well, er, yeah, actually. Everything about that girl was sexy, I guess. What does it matter to me?” He’d seemed sincere enough, and sincerely exhausted. He’d wanted to get back to Rowan. He’d been sitting with Rowan and reading a book, by himself, when they’d all come together.
    For a while after that afternoon, Mona could have sworn, Rowan looked different, that her eyes were tighter now and then, and sometimes more open, as though she were posing a question to herself. Maybe Mary Jane’s big gush of words had been good for Rowan. Maybe they ought to ask Mary Jane back, or maybe she’d just come back. Mona had found herself actually looking forward to it, or maybe just asking the new driver to fire up the monstrous stretch limo, pack the leather pockets with ice and drinks, and drive down there to that flooded house. You could do that when you had your own car. Hell, Mona had not gotten used to any of this.
    For two or three days Rowan had seemed better, showing that little frown more and more, which was, after all, a facial expression.
    But now? On this quiet, lonely, sticky sunny afternoon?
    Mona thought that Rowan had slipped back. Even the heat did not touch her. She sat in the humid air, and the droplets of sweat appeared on her brow, with no Celia toboldly wipe them away, but Rowan didn’t move to wipe them herself.
    “Please, Rowan, talk to us,” Mona said now in her frank, almost brash girlish voice. “I don’t want to be the designee of the legacy! I don’t even want to be the heiress if you don’t approve of it.” She leaned on her elbow, her red hair making a veil between her and the iron gates to the front garden. Felt more private. “Come on, Rowan. You know what Mary Jane Mayfair said. You’re in there. Come on. Mary Jane said you could hear us.”
    Mona reached up for her own hair ribbon, to adjust it, to make her head stop itching. There was no hair ribbon. She