The Fire Rose em-1 Read online

  "You have me at a disadvantage, for I must agree with you." Oh, she was enjoying fencing with words with this man! He was probably unprincipled in many ways, possibly without morals to speak of, but he was witty and intelligent, and he gave her the accolade of treating her as equal in intelligence. "There; now you know another weakness of mine, I am vain, and I fear, greedy as a child for pretty things. Greedy enough to accept your ostentatious gift. Thank you." There. I have said it, so you cannot assume superiority.

  "You are welcome." Another chuckle. "It is very refreshing to find someone who knows when blunt and plain speaking can be as clever a weapon as dissimulation. Touche. Now, if you are ready to begin?"

  "I am," she said, with a chuckle of her own, and resumed her task, pouring herself a cup of tea and adding cream and sugar in the English style, to ease her voice.

  It was past one by both the watch and the clock when she finished, and she was suppressing yawns as she closed the last book. "Miss Hawkins, you give me cause to rejoice that you accepted my offer," came the harsh voice from the speaking-tube. "And now, I shall leave you to your virtuous rest. Good night."

  "Good night, Mr. Cameron," she replied, as she drank the last of her tea. "I am looking forward with curiosity to see what you shall have unearthed for me to read to you tomorrow."

  If he chuckled at that sally, she did not hear it; she had already moved to blow out the lamps and leave the fire to burn itself out.

  Once again, a silk nightdress had been laid out for her on the invitingly-turned-down bed. She wavered between bed and bath, and finally her yawns overcame her. I can bathe in the morning, she told herself, as she stepped out of her clothing and left it lying, neatly folded, on the chair beside her bed. The cool silk of the nightdress against her skin only confirmed the rightness of her decision in her own mind.

  This might have been a mistake-but she didn't think so. If Jason Cameron happened to be slightly crazed, well, then so were thousands of others, who went to Spiritualist meetings and flocked to hear Madame Blavatsky. What harm was there in his seeking some redress for an intolerable situation? And what harm was there in her aiding and abetting that search? Clearly, she amused him, and that in and of itself was healthy for him. Better that he should take amusement in her audacity than that he should sink into apathy and despair.

  With that comforting thought, she fell asleep, with the bed curtains drawn securely about her and the watch ticking quietly away beside her glasses on the nightstand.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Cameron the Firemaster watched his newest acquisition in his mirror as she read to him, unaware she was being observed. Here in his own domain he had no need of the Salamander's aid to watch whomever he chose; the mirrors were his eyes, mirrors formed in the white-heat of his furnaces and enchanted before they cooled. Needless to say, he had mirrors everywhere, though he chose not to activate the ones in her bathroom. He was no voyeur, at least not of innocents.

  And she was innocent, despite her intellect and all her reading. He found that both charming and touching. How like the Tarot card she was, of the Wise Fool, full of knowledge and utterly unworldly! How easily she could be led to a fall, unaware and unwary of the precipice, of the void gaping beneath her feet!

  The Salamander watched her too, dancing above its volcanic mirror as he watched her in the mirror of man-made glass. "She is more attractive, properly dressed," it said, sounding surprised. "Even with the glasses."

  "There is nothing unattractive about a woman with glasses," he snapped sharply. "A woman who is neither self-conscious about them, nor a prim and prudish old maid, wears such objects as any other accessory, and they become a statement of strength and character."

  Now why had he leapt to her defense like that?

  Perhaps because she impresses me. I had expected a mouse; I have been given a lioness. I prefer the lioness; it will be a challenge to keep her tame and choosing to come to my hand.

  She had certainly stood up to him with spirit and wit. "I know in precise detail what Caligula did to, and with, his sisters, and I can quote it to you in Latin or my own translation if you wish. " How many other women would have dared to make a statement like that? How many could have done so without stammers or blushes? How many would have accepted his gift and laughingly told him they were greedy for pretty things, daring him to think of her as an opportunist? Oh, it was a valuable gift, but less valuable than the furs and jewels he had flung at his light ladies. Yet he could not have given her less, and what other women would have faced him the way she had?

  None, in his acquaintance. Rosalind Hawkins was unique. And even when the passages she read held nothing of value for him, he preferred to let her read on to the end, enjoying the sound of her voice, the cadence of her words.

  Unfortunately, his memory had proved to be faulty in regards to the books he had chosen for her to read today. There were only one or two passages burned into the oversized pages of the special book he'd had constructed, a book with tabs at each page so that this misshapen paws could turn them. He would do better tomorrow.

  On the other hand, his choice of books was not entirely due to his own needs. He would be educating her in the ways of Magick as she read, tutoring her with his selections. By the time she was ready for the books he truly needed to have her read aloud, she would no longer be surprised by anything she read to him. She might well be repulsed, but she would not be surprised, and she had already proved to him that she could face what repulsed her without flinching.

  "We like her," the Salamander said, unexpectedly. "There is Fire in her, though she is mostly Air. Fire and Air dancing together; it is a goodly dance."

  Oh? It wasn't often that the Salamander volunteered anything. It wasn't in its nature to volunteer information, or even an opinion.

  Now Cameron knew something he hadn't known before; Rosalind's Magickal Nature. That was useful; knowing her Nature would make it easier to predict what she would do, how she would react, what things would move her.

  That also explained why she settled in so quickly, why she reacted so positively to the house. It also explained why she seemed to prefer the colors in the suite he had given over to her to the colors of the others. If she had been primarily a Water woman, she would have favored either the Chinese suite or the Emerald suite; if Earth, the Indian. A true Fire woman would have instantly sought the Russian or the Ruby suite, and asked for her rooms to be changed.

  Interesting. Very interesting. What a pity he had not encountered her before!

  Perhaps it was just as well. He could be amused and entertained by her without worrying about anything else. Attractions of the flesh had their place, but not when mixed with the Great Work.

  "Paul doesn't like her," the Salamander volunteered again, surprising Cameron all over again.

  "Paul's opinion was not asked for," the Firemaster said, coldly. "It is of no value. Paul believes that he will become a Master because he deserves to be one, not because be is willing to study, work, and sacrifice. Paul is a fool."

  "Paul is dangerous," the Salamander warned, spinning a little before subsiding again.

  "I know. A dangerous fool and therefore not to be trusted, and I do not trust him with anything of importance." Cameron had once had hopes for Paul du Mond, but the man was lazy, and so had been given everything material he wanted, but no more power than any other menial. "Is he a danger to Rosalind?"

  The Salamander laughed unexpectedly, a sound of tiny silver bells chiming. "She is too clever for him, and she does not like him. He can neither deceive her nor seduce her. He reminds her of someone unpleasant, but she does not yet remember who, so she does not know why she dislikes him."

  "Good." He was relieved, and told himself that it was because this woman was too valuable to lose just at the moment.

  "Why did you give her the watch?" it asked, with childlike curiosity and childlike candor. "It is very costly by the standards she is accustomed to."

  He laughed a
t its boldness. "It is my collar of ownership," he told his creature. "Through it, I can follow her, no matter where she goes; I can hear what she hears and see what she sees. When she enters the city, if any of my rivals or fellows see her, they will know she is mine and not meddle with her."

  "Even Simon?" the Salamander asked.

  "Especially Simon," he replied, his voice turning as hard as tempered steel. Simon Beltaire was the only other Firemaster on this coast, and there was no love lost between the two of them. Fortunately, the accident notwithstanding, he had not lost any of his powers, or Simon Beltaire would not have hesitated to challenge him.

  Just as, were their positions reversed, he would not have hesitated in challenging Simon. There could not be two Firemasters in the same city. He would rather there were not two in the same state. Eventually, one of them would go-living or dead, one would go.

  Rosalind was nearing the end of the last passage in the last book; soon it would be time to send her off to bed. He had enjoyed watching her as she read; she made a very pretty picture in the lamplight. How pleasant that she had turned out to be ornamental as well as useful! And possessed of good taste, fully the match of his own, he suspected. He had feared he would be forced to manipulate her choices of gowns; instead, she had made a choice that was as tasteful as anything he would have chosen, and yet was not what he would have chosen for her.

  Should he order a Worth gown for her? He had never met a woman in San Francisco worthy of a gown from the house of Worth. Perhaps, when I have been restored ... when I am prepared to show myself to the city again, to take my box at the Opera. I wonder what sort of a companion would she make?

  Then he chided himself for even thinking the idle thought. This woman was no potential companion. She was no demimonde, not to be used only for pleasure.

  And before I ended my Apprenticeship I gave up the romantic nonsense of finding a female to share the Work with me as well as my life. There is no such creature, and never can be. Rosalind Hawkins was a worthy tool, and as such, she must be cherished, honed, cared for, and put away when the task for which she had been brought was at an end. She must be sent somewhere as far away as possible. She herself might not know what she had done for him, but anyone who knew him would be able to deduce it with careful questioning.

  She will have a sizable bank account, a fine wardrobe, possibly a generous bonus, and an excellent letter of recommendation. She will have the wherewithal to do whatever she pleases. Perhaps it would even be wise to send her on a trip to Europe out of "gratitude." That would remove her-and her curiosity-from his life quite painlessly. He could arrange for the trip to return her to Chicago, where she could resume her studies. Or better yet, he could arrange for her to be admitted to one of the great universities of England or Europe. France, perhaps; with the example of Madame Curie before them, the French knew how to treat a woman scholar. Or Oxford; women were making great progress there.

  That would be best. The one thing he dared not do would be to leave her where Simon might be able to find her and learn what she had been doing for him. It would tell him altogether too much about what had been going on in this house.

  Definitely a trip to Europe. Perhaps I should arrange a romance?

  He could do it; once he was back to his old self, his powers would reach that far-and the Firemaster held mastery over the hot passions.

  No. No, she would be too wise to be carried away by an impulse, however romantic.

  She finished the book and put it carefully down, taking care not to mar it. Interesting that he had seen her mostly in profile this evening. Most women turned towards mirrors as towards the light; she seldom glanced at the mirror in her parlor and then only by accident.

  He bade her good night, then silently ordered the vision in the obsidian to fade.

  On the whole, he was far happier with the results of this venture than he had any right to anticipate. Rosalind Hawkins was are doubtable woman, pleasant to look upon, and quite self-possessed, although she had no idea of her real ability or her potential. He would not have to worry about keeping an eye on her every waking moment-not only because it was clear that she could amuse and defend herself, but because it was also clear that she was not the kind to be ruled by the busybody curiosity that was the ruin of so many of her sex. He had watched her in his mirrors as she explored his house; when a door was locked, she left it alone. She did not try to force the lock, she did not stoop to peer through the keyhole, she did not listen at the crack. She assumed it was locked for a reason, assumed that the reason was no business of hers, and went on her way. Too many women made it their obsession to find out the heart of every secret. She was content to let secrets remain secrets.

  It was a pity that she did not ride, though. He would have been happy to see her take Sunset out; Paul could not ride the stallion without a curb bit and he would not permit any such device of torture to go in Sunset's tender mouth. If a man could not guide a horse by neck and knee, he did not deserve to ride anything more than a mule.

  Sunset can wait until I am myself again. He gets enough exercise in the field. He will not suffer for not being ridden.

  "Well," the Salamander said, interrupting his thoughts. "Now what have you in mind?"

  "See to it that those book catalogs I mentioned are on her desk in the morning," he replied. "Clean up the rooms as soon as she is asleep. I suspect she is going to want to look at the grounds tomorrow, so have a map waiting for her with the catalogs, and see that a luncheon is prepared for her if she decides to walk out. You know the rest."

  "Have breakfast waiting when she wakes; tidy the rooms when she is gone." The Salamander spun lazily. "What books do we leave her?"

  "I will choose them tonight, before I retire." That would be best. "I will tell you what chapters to mark."

  It was a shame that the Salamander could not read; if it could, all of this nonsense could have been done away with.

  Then again, he would not have had Rosalind here. The Salamander was occasionally amusing, occasionally surprising, but it took another living human to be a consistent challenge.

  Rosalind Hawkins was a challenge; it would be a challenge to educate her, a challenge to keep her unaware of what she was capable of while nurturing that capability. It would be a real challenge to mold her while keeping her ignorant of the fact. It occurred to him that he had been in danger of losing himself to despair and ennui before her arrival. He was certainly in no such danger now.

  He raised a glass in his clumsy paw to the obsidian that had so lately held her image. "Welcome, Rosalind Hawkins," he murmured. "May you never fail to surprise me."

  When she woke, it was with a feeling of delight, of giddiness. She had thrown all caution to the wind; she had taken a position no prudent woman would have accepted. She might be mad-but she felt truly alive for the first time since she was accepted into graduate studies.

  She reached automatically for her glasses and they danced just out of reach as the bed and nightstand shook.

  She grabbed for them and caught them somehow before they hit the floor. Just as her hand touched them, the shaking stopped.

  It took her a moment to realize that she had just been through an earthquake, and it was not her knowledge of the present that allowed her to identify what it was, but her knowledge of the past. Vesuvius. Pompeii. There had been Roman accounts of Pompeii, Herculaneum-

  For a moment, her imagination took over. At least, she thought it was her imagination. The blue blur of the room vanished; she saw fires, people fleeing, screaming, and fire everywhere; for that moment, she even felt the flames hot on her own skin.

  She saw herself on her knees beside victim after helpless victim, some crushed, some burned beyond recognition; saw herself trying desperately to help those who were beyond aid, or who perished beneath her hands. She felt the terrible despair of one who knows what she does is futile, and yet cannot, in the face of such pathos and need, stay her attempts to do something.

  But no
matter what she did, her actions were as chaff in the whirlwind. The destruction about her was too great, and her two hands too few. Still, defiant in the cause of life, she continued to try as the flames bore down upon her and those still trapped, screaming, in the ruins.

  There are no volcanoes here, she chided herself. I am not about to find myself in a hail of cinders! It was only an earthquake, and there are earthquakes here all the time. This is not ancient Rome! In this modern age, our buildings are proof against the worst that Nature can send.

  But there was a hollow place where her stomach should have been, and for long moments more, as she seized her glasses and settled them carefully on her face, her hands trembled.

  But when she entered her sitting room to find breakfast waiting for her, she had regained her composure, and her knees no longer felt like water. She was looking forward to exploring the house and grounds further, especially the grounds, and to that end had donned a smart walking suit of sapphire-blue silk-broadcloth, a pale blue silk waist with a hunting-stock tied about the neck, and low-heeled walking shoes. Beside the tray holding her meal were the pile of book-catalogs that Cameron had promised her, and a map showing the grounds. Beside the table was a basket just large enough to hold a picnic luncheon for one.