The Fire Rose

CHAPTER SIX

Somehow, even though she had hardly seen Paul du Mond for more than a few minutes at a time, knowing that he was going to be in San Francisco for a week made Rose feel much more relaxed. She woke uncommonly cheerful, and knew immediately that du Mond's absence had a great deal to do with that cheer.

She stretched like a cat and blinked at the blurred beam of sunlight creeping past the bedcurtains. I could almost believe in six impossible things before breakfast, like Lewis Carroll's White Queen. This is such an incredible home...

Last night, she'd had the oddest feeling while reading one of Jason Cameron's books, that this nonsense she was translating for him wasn't nonsense at all. She had gone to bed only to lie awake for some time, staring at a single moonbeam that had found its way past both her window and bed curtains to fall on a single carved rose on one of the bedposts. At least, I thought it was a moonbeam and a rose. Without my glasses it's rather hard to tell what I'm looking at. Magic... in this house, with its invisible servants, its incredible luxury, and its odd master, did not seem so impossible, especially not in the moonlight.

But that had been last night, well past midnight, with the wind rushing in the branches of the trees outside and moonlight shining in her sitting-room window. Now, with the scents of breakfast coffee and bacon drifting through the bedroom door, and sunlight replacing the moonlight, she had to laugh at her own fantasy. Magic indeed! I might as well believe in Santa Claus or genies in lamps! If Cameron wished to continue to deceive himself, that was his doing. She would collect her wages and continue to amuse him, and meanwhile, with the help of the books he was ordering for her, she would continue her own researches. Then, when he finally tired of this farce, she would take her savings and enroll in another university. Leland Stanford had founded one here, in fact, that was well thought of. Would they admit a woman?

I'll worry about that when the time comes, she decided. There had been one book among all the ones she had read last night that had been well-written and coherent—unlike most of the rest, which were written as if the author had been granted a Doctorate in Confusion and Obfuscation. She had saved that one out of the pile with an eye to reading it straight through from beginning to end. Maybe if she had some notion of what Cameron thought was real, she'd be closer to understanding what be was looking for.

She had not planned on going for a walk, and by the time she had finished breakfast she was just as glad, for she would have been greatly disappointed. The sunshine had given way to a drizzling rain that didn't look as if it was going to let up any time before dark.

Well, she could get her exercise by doing a more thorough, daylight exploration of more of the house, and then she could settle in with that book until Cameron needed her.

She took the book with her, thinking that it might be pleasant to spend some time reading in the conservatory, among the exotic hothouse plants.

She had already examined the ballroom, the dining room, the music room... most of the rooms that a casual visitor would have seen. Now she decided to pry just a little, and take a good look around those bastions of masculine power, the smoking room, the billiard room, and the library.

I've never actually been in a smoking room... Women, other than maidservants who cleaned them, were not welcome in such places. Cameron had very sensibly arranged his entertaining area with the billiard and smoking rooms to the right of the drawing room, and the ladies' parlor and "withdrawing room" to the left. The smoking room was disappointing; her father had never had one, and she had actually expected something a great deal more—well—decadent. She wrinkled her nose a little at the heavy scent of tobacco as she entered, but other than that slightly disagreeable and penetrating aroma, there was not much to distinguish this room from the ladies' parlor. Instead of cut-crystal bottles of genteel sherry on the sideboard, there was a bar holding a variety of glasses and hard liquors, but other than that, it was fundamentally identical. The real differences between the rooms intended for ladies and men were in the materials used to decorate; in the parlor, the furniture was covered in damask satin and velvet. Here, it was covered in leather. There, the lampshades were fringed and elaborately painted; here, they were plain parchment.

In short, it was a luxuriously appointed version of a little boy's clubhouse, with cigars and strong liquor replacing chewing gum and lemonade; the only thing lacking was the sign on the door saying "No Girlz Aloud." No paintings of naked odalisques, no illustrated risque versions of the Thousand Nights and a Night lying about on the table. No opium pipes! I expected a den of iniquity, a recreation of Caligula's orgy-rooms, and I find a harbor of hearty male gamesmanship! What a disappointment! She had to laugh at herself, and wondered what most men thought lay in the ladies' parlor! Did they have similar fantasies, or did they assume that it was a room of such overwhelming femininity that they were afraid to venture in lest they break or soil something with their mere presence?

The billiard room was not much different; besides the billiard table, there was a truly lovely chess set carved from black onyx and white marble, and a substantial round poker table with a sealed deck of cards on it. Other than that, it was furnished in the same uncompromisingly comfortable and unadorned style as the smoking room.

Perhaps the library would be more rewarding, although she had the suspicion that she would not be finding any of the strange books she had been reading on the shelves of so public a room. It was far more likely that Cameron had a second library in his own suite where he kept such things. But at least she would see what his casual taste ran to.

The room she sought now was on the other side of the dining room, and covered as much or more floor space than any other large room in the mansion. She already knew that the library was a big one—that is, it contained a huge number of books; the room was two stories tall with a balcony around the second floor to give access to the higher shelves and ladders on rolling tracks to reach the books nearer the ceiling. She strolled down the hallway and found the door already open, as if she had been expected. All of the curtains were drawn back from the windows, which were not just plain glass, but also beautiful artworks of stained and leaded glass. Interestingly, the furniture here was of a piece with the smoking room, oversized and not particularly comfortable for women; evidently Cameron did not expect many female visitors to this room—or else, he had decorated it to suit his personal taste.

Perhaps his fancy runs to women who don't read, she thought, a bit acidly. Just because he finds me entertaining now, that doesn't mean I am the style of female he is likely to wish to associate with socially.

Of course not. No man of wealth wished to spend any time in public with a bookworm, a girl with her nose so deeply in ancient volumes that there was dust in her hair. No, she had seen her share of the style of girl he would associate with, in the fiancees of her fellow students; wealthy, beautiful, schooled in the proper manners and life of a lady of the upper crust and often enough without a thought in their heads beyond the latest mode. Lady scholars were not among those invited to the opera. Why was she even considering that this man, her employer, would spend one minute of time with her if he did not need her skills? Just because she was coming to like him, that did not mean that the opposite was true. With his money, he must have dozens of girls flinging themselves at him, and more whose parents are doing the flinging, I shouldn't wonder. All with proper womanly interests, who grow property faint at the merest hint of the excesses of the ancient Romans. And no matter how disfigured he might be now, there are plenty of women who would be happy to become Mrs. Jason Cameron. Once he decides that his quest for healing is in vain, he will dismiss me and get on with his life. And even if that life does not include a bride, it will hardly include me. I am an employee, not a friend, and I must always keep that fact in mind.

She should be planning on what to do with herself after he dismissed her—and on how to keep that moment at bay until after she had amassed enough money to make the future she envisioned possible.

Well, let me see what literary face Jason Cameron shows his visitors. Perhaps that can help me decide how to proceed.

There was a section of popular literature and poetry, light novels and romances in the bookcase nearest the door, all bound in matching leather with hand-tooled titles on the spine and the cover. The Bronte Sisters, Jane Austen, Walter Scott, Kipling, Doyle... oh, Lord Byron—now there's something a bit racier! Cooper, Defoe, Melville, Emerson, Hawthorne, that was to be expected. How could an American tycoon not have the American literary lions in his library? Longfellow, of course. Verne, now there's a surprise! Dumas and Stevenson. Oh dear, what are Corelli, Alexander, Hodgson, and Braeme doing in such exalted company? Probably for those whose tastes are a bit more plebian. After a cursory examination she moved on to more fruitful territory.

Fruitful territory began with the very next case, which held general history books, arranged in time-sequence by author. Many of them were, as she well knew from her undergraduate courses, as dry as the Sahara, and guaranteed to encourage a "proper" young lady to return to the first case! Following the general histories were general geographies, then natural history and the sciences. The farther she went, the more pleased she became. All in all, a person could acquire quite a complete post-graduate education just by reading the books on the first floor.

So what was on the second floor?

She picked up her skirts in both hands and ascended the spiral, wrought-iron stair with anticipation.

Her anticipation was rewarded. Now this is a great deal more like it! Excellent translations of the Greek and Roman classics met her eye first—multiple translations, in fact—housed snugly next to the same books in the original. Other ancient works followed in the same pattern; translations, more often than not, multiple translations, followed by copies of the originals. Oh my—there is dear old Wallis Budge, all of his Egyptian translations! If ever I suffer from insomnia, I shall know where to find the cure for it!

Then a surprise; English versions of virtually every book ever considered "holy" by any culture, East or West, again with copies in the original tongues. They were all here—from the Mahabharata to the Koran, from the Talmud to the works of the Zen Masters. She raised an eyebrow at that; Cameron had not struck her as being anything like interested in religion. Perhaps, once he came to the inevitable conclusion that his search for "magical" help was in vain, she might send him here for consolation. Perhaps... Buddhism? Somehow I can't imagine Jason Cameron becoming a proper Christian lamb. But I can't imagine him seeking enlightenment with serenity either.

She was halfway around the room when she came to the next subject-change; pure mythology, with interpretations and volumes of scholarly speculation. Then a surprise, in the form of medieval romances, ballads, and minstrel-tales.

Interesting. That certainly doesn't fit. Is this the remains of a younger, more romantic Jason Cameron? Or is this fodder for something quite the opposite? At any rate—there was more than enough material here for her to write several dissertations. I wonder if the world could tolerate another analysis of the cult of the Virgin Mary and the reflection of that cult in troubadour-ballads... no, wait! What about something allied but different? What about reflections of Mary Magdalene in the 'fallen heroines" like Kundrie, Guinevere and Yseult.? That would be new—She happily pursued this notion for some time, making mental notes on a rich lode of source-material Cameron had available here. Why, she might even be able to fashion a doctoral dissertation just from what was here!

And how "proper" it would be for a lady, too—pious reflection on sin and redemption—One of the problems with her previous research had been resistance by her professors to the "appropriateness" of the subjects she found interesting. They could hardly argue with this! Not like the last one, where I was trying to prove that the "allegorical" nature of the courtly love-poem was anything but allegorical!

That brought her all the way to the end, which proved to be all huge, unwieldy, handwritten volumes. Some were old atlases, some she couldn't make head or tail of, and some were rather laughable "natural history" works of the previous century, showing all manner of imaginary beasts and claiming improbable things about them. There was certainly nothing of any use there, and the volumes themselves were so musty they made her sneeze. She dusted her hands off on her skirts and descended.

The weight of the book in her pocket reminded her that she had intended to read it this afternoon. While there was still plenty of light, it would be a good time to look the conservatory over and see if there were any surprises growing in the linked hothouses.

The conservatory was heated by steam and was as warm in this late-fall day as the warmest summer in Chicago—which was quite warm indeed. The conservatory was quite an affair of glass, wood, and wrought-iron, with graveled paths to walk on and wrought-iron benches placed at intervals for seating. In the main greenhouse, the largest one, was the expected tropical paradise, this one complete with two fountains, a waterfall, and towering palm trees.

There was another aspect of this delightful place she had missed in the dark, however—the birds. There were dozens of tiny, brightly-colored birds about the size of a wren flitting among the trees and bushes, bathing in the shallow pools and basins, and helping themselves to half-hidden feeders full of seeds and fruit. She recognized canaries both brown and yellow, but the others were new and entirely baffling. Their twittering blended pleasantly with the falling water, and by placing the benches in open spaces, away from overhanging branches, the unpleasant but inevitable droppings at least were not lurking on the seats.

There were four greenhouses attached to the main one. One held vegetables, one was clearly a forcing-house for flowers, and one for more tropical plants, both to decorate the mansion and to replace others in the conservatory. But the fourth one held herbs—and most of those herbs she didn't recognize.

More of Cameron's obsession with magic? Perhaps; many of the books she had been reading specified odd plants and herbs as components of spell-casting and ritual.

Or he could simply have a very sophisticated cook.

She took her book back to the conservatory and settled onto a bench to read.

In part because the book itself was so well-written, and in part because the concepts were not altogether foreign to her, she finished it quickly and closed the book on the last page just as the sun began to set. She remained with the book closed in her lap, thinking.

If one simply began with the assumption that there is some power that can be tapped with these cantrips and incantations... there is a logic about all this that is difficult to dismiss out of hand.

It had not been all that long ago that the mysterious force of electricity had been as arcane as any of this magic. Claims of what it could do—besides providing light and heat—were still being made for it that were similar to those made for spells.

Was she being logical, or close-minded? Until now, she would have opted for the former without hesitation. Her understanding of the world was firm—until she read this book that was as reasoned as any of those modern books on science back there in the library.

The sun set, the birds settled into to groups to sleep for the night, some of them packing themselves five and six at a time into round basket-nests made of gourds. The fountains and waterfall continued to play, filling the usual silence of the house with welcome music.

And that, in itself, set off another train of thought. Usual silence... I have become so accustomed to it, that I haven't thought about it. But there are no sounds of people, ever, anywhere in this place. No sounds of cooking in the kitchen, not even a whisper or a footfall. Yet this place is kept clean, meals are prepared, the animals tended—and the only human I have ever seen within these four walls is Paul du Mond.

She might have said, jestingly, that it was all done by magic. But what if that was no jest, but a fact?

I feel very much as if I have been sleep-walking and have awakened to find myself in a foreign land! She had been lured by the isolation of this place, and by the fact that she wanted that isolation, into ignoring the fact that she did not want the company of others about her. She did not want anyone to know that she was nothing more than a glorified servant in someone else's home, especially not other servants. As long as she could remain in her beautiful, luxurious suite without anyone seeing her here, she could pretend she was not Cameron's paid hireling, but a guest.

So she had willfully put the inconsistency of a huge, well-run establishment without any sign of a menial about completely out of her mind. She had purposefully closed her eyes to things that should have been screaming at her.

Or was I "encouraged" to ignore these things?

The book had also hinted that the power of magic—or rather, "Magick"—could be used to influence the thoughts and even actions of others. Had Cameron been playing with her mind?

A chill ran down the back of her neck, and spread over her entire body. If that was the case, what else could he have been doing to her? Could he be—

Her vision of the world and her common sense warred with what she had observed in this place, and now she was no longer certain of what was true and what was false.

There could be an even more sinister, yet completely mundane explanation. Cameron might be drugging her food, keeping her sleeping so soundly that the noise of staff working in the morning didn't disturb her. Then, once she was awake, he banished the staff to somewhere else on the estate so that she would not come into contact with them. Why he would do something like that, she had no idea—but a man who engineered a plot like that one was hardly sane.

But the situation as it stood was no longer tenable. "I have to talk with him," she said aloud. "I have to confront him, and know the truth about this place." She almost expected to hear a reply come out of the shadows gathering in the dusk beneath the tropical trees, but there was no response but the twittering of sleepy birds.

In a way, that was comforting. If magic really was a true force in the world, at least Cameron wasn't using it to spy on her every movement and thought.

Cameron was not paying a great deal of attention to the girl as she prowled the halls and rooms of his home; she was not being overly curious—she was not opening drawers or trying cabinet doors, for instance. He didn't see any point in giving her more than cursory attention, although he was too suspicious by nature to let her make her explorations unwatched. He noted with a bit of amusement her enthusiasm for his library, once she got past the first bookcase. She spent a great deal of time where he had expected her to, in front of the medieval section. After that, she retired to the conservatory with a book, one he assumed she had borrowed from those same shelves.

Probably more of those ballads the trouveres created, I suspect my selection is as good as that in her university. Trust a woman to be fascinated by the roots of romance and ignore all the open descriptions of Magick as practiced by Masters!

He simply dealt with the mundane affairs of his business while she read, telegraphing orders to his underlings in the city. It was very convenient, having his own telegraphy instrument on his desk; he didn't need to write down the code as it came in, for he was so fluent in Morse he could translate it immediately in his head. If he hadn't had one, he would have had to depend upon Paul to an uncomfortable extent.

It is a pity I cannot give du Mond a watch like Rosalind's—but even if I did, he would probably find a way to be rid of it. Even he is capable of sensing something of that nature.

Having paws instead of hands did not greatly interfere with his telegraphy. With his instructions complete, he turned his attention to shelving his books of Magick and making the selections for tonight. He often ordered the Salamanders to perform this little task, but only when he was busy with other concerns. Even with misshapen paws instead of hands, he could still manage to shelve and remove books—

Then, as he shelved the last one, he knew that there was something wrong. One of the books was missing; there should have been seven, and there were only six. He hadn't noticed because the light was kept so low.

He knew immediately which one it was: The Arte and Science of Magick by Dee. He'd chosen it for her to read, even though it was really an Apprentice's book, because of a partial chapter on transformations, a chapter he thought might jog some associations loose for him if he heard it again.

It was also one of the books he had planned for her to read in its entirety later—when she was ready to believe, to prepare her for the more dangerous books he would ask her to peruse. But he had not planned that to occur for several months at least.

Swiftly he spun, and with a gesture of his black-tipped claws, called the mirror to life. She was still reading, although by the thickness left, there were only a few pages remaining. It was certainly too late to stop her.

He knew her; she was a scholar, and if she had not already deduced that Marcus Dee was a descendent of John Dee, the personal Magician and Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth, she would soon make that connection. The modern Dee had written his book for the instruction of the offspring of High Magicians who also bore the Powers in their blood, offspring presumably under the tutelage and guidance of their parents. To that end, it was clear, concise and erudite, rather than reveling in obscurity. Because it was meant for the eyes of those who were already being competently guided, there was no need to shroud secrets in formulas that required other information from other sources to be decoded.

Even as he watched her, she finished the last few pages and closed the book. In the gathering dusk, she stared straight ahead, her blue eyes behind the lenses of her glasses focused deep within herself. As she sat there, thinking, a myriad of emotions crossed her face. Speculation, alarm, fear—she must be going through incredible turmoil at this moment.

Well, he was sharing those emotions! He clutched both paws in his mane and tugged with frustration. All of his carefully choreographed plans, set awry in a single moment! What was she going to do? More importantly, what was she going to believe?

As if she was answering him, she spoke. "I have to talk to him," she said aloud. "I have to confront him and know the truth about this place."

She stood up, clasping the book to her chest, and turned quickly. A moment later, she was well on her way to the staircase, her brisk stride unimpeded by her skirts, the silk petticoats whispering about her ankles.

Is she coming here? From the determined look on her face, he was quite willing to believe that she would march straight up to the door of his suite and demand entry!

But she went right past the second-floor landing without a pause, heading for her own rooms.

"Dinner for her, quickly, before she reaches her room!" he ordered his servants, harshly—thank Heaven he had already decided on the menu! It appeared, on his silver and china, as always, purloined tonight from the kitchens of the Palace Hotel. He always selected items that would not be missed slices of beef off the joint rather than a steak; soup and vegetables from large batches, and so forth. His servants could have prepared food, of course, but cleaning up required water, which Salamanders were not inclined to touch. He could persuade them to lick the china and silver clean with their flaming tongues, but as for cleaning up pots and pans—

The dinner was in place as she opened the door to her rooms, and before she could say anything, he forestalled her by speaking through the tube. He used his most commanding tone, on purpose, hoping she would not be inclined to ignore his authority if he invoked it.

"I sense you are agitated, Miss Hawkins. Please, sit down and enjoy your dinner. You will feel better if you eat first."

She turned and faced the speaking-tube; he noticed then that she was nowhere near as composed as he had thought. Her knuckles were white, she was clasping the book so hard before her breasts, and her voice trembled. "Is it drugged?" she blurted, her eyes wide.

That was so far from his mind that he found himself laughing, and for some reason that seemed to relax her a trifle. "It is not drugged, I pledge you that," he said, when he could speak again. "Please, enjoy your dinner. I believe that you wish to speak with me on an important subject. You will think more clearly if you are not suffering hunger-pangs."

He bolted his own dinner while she ate hers his altered body required only meat, as near rare as possible, and he ate it as a wolf would, bolting it down in large chunks. He was finished long before she was, but he did not take his eyes from the mirror even when he ate. His mind, raised to a fever-pitch of clarity by his own anxiety and alarm, analyzed her every movement. She evidenced none of her usual enjoyment of the food before her, chewing and swallowing it automatically, as if she was not even tasting it. She drank a bit more wine than was her usual wont, and he gathered that she was trying to find courage in the bottom of the bottle, as so many did.

She kept the book on her lap, as if by having it in contact with her, she reminded herself of her resolve. She ate quickly, either out of nervousness or because she did not intend to allow him too much time to contemplate her intentions.

She did not touch the sweet; instead, she emptied her wineglass, poured it full, and emptied it again in a gulp. Then she pushed resolutely away from the table and stood up again, still holding the book as if it was a shield. "Mr. Cameron?" she said, her voice quavering a little on the last syllable.

"I am still here, Miss Hawkins," he replied. "There is, after all, nowhere else I am likely to be."

"Mr. Cameron," she said, her face pale but her mouth set and her eyes behind the glasses hard with resolution and fear. "When I accepted this position, I was not aware of—of the irregularity of this establishment. I believe you owe me an explanation."

He coughed, and prevaricated. "I do not take your meaning, Miss Hawkins. There are no opium dens here, no ladies of dubious repute; I fail to see what you mean by an 'irregular establishment.' Would you care to explain?" Perhaps, given this opportunity, she would decide against confrontation.

"Why are there no servants here?" she asked, flushing a brilliant pink, as the words rushed out of her. "The work of many servants is done, the mansion is cleaned, the lights lit and extinguished, the beds made, meals prepared, animals tended—yet there are no servants! In fact, I only know of two people besides myself who dwell in this place! I have not seen a single soul but Paul du Mond since I entered these grounds, and I have only heard your voice. Where are the servants? And why did I not pay attention to their absence before this?"

"Before I answer that—what is your solution, Miss Hawkins?" he asked, as she reached blindly for the back of the chair beside her to support her. She is unused to confrontation. This is taking all the courage she can muster.

"I—I—" Abruptly she sat down, deflated, her hair coming loose from its careful arrangement and falling in tendrils about her face. "I have no logical solution," she said flatly, after a long moment of silence. "And the illogical solution flies in the face of all reason. I do not want to believe it."

Should he be the one to grasp the bull by the horns? Well—why not? If he could bring her to believe in the reality of Magick he would be able to eliminate a great deal of beating about the bush.

And it will save me endless effort in hiding it all from her. It is worth the risk.

"And if I told you that the reason was because all work in this house, on these grounds, is accomplished by what you would refer to as Magick?" he asked, just as flatly.

She flinched, and did not answer him directly. "I must be mad," she said under her breath. "I cannot be hearing this—or discussing these things. It is not reasonable." She was shivering, though she tried not to show it.

She's afraid. She's afraid that it might be true, yet at the same time she wants it to be true. If I told her it was because my servants were all working only while she slept, she might believe me...

"You could make her believe you," hissed a voice in his ear. "You could make up almost anything and make her believe you."

He did not have to turn; it was one of his Salamanders, and by the voice and assertiveness, the cleverest one. "I know," he told it, covering the speaking-tube, with one hand. "I could have you cloud her mind again. She has drunk so much wine it would be child's play to make her believe me."

"But you do not want to do that," the creature said shrewdly. "You want her to believe, because if she believes, she can help you."

Now how does it know that? The Salamander surprised him more every time it spoke. "If she believes, I will no longer need to waste time and effort concealing your presence from her—and I will not need to depend so much on du Mond for assistance, for she could do some things for me that do not require either experience or her actual presence.

"That would be very good," the Salamander said with emphasis. "Show her, Firemaster. Give her facts. Give her the evidence of her own senses. She is practical, and where she might doubt a mere explanation, she will not doubt what she can see and test for herself."

Show her? Well—why not. She is so annoyingly logical, that just might be the correct approach to take with her "Go collect her supper-dishes," he told the Salamander. "But leave the sweet, and bring coffee. I want the effect of the wine countered. She may need both energy and alertness before the night is out."

The Salamander spun with joy and uttered a breathy laugh. "Yes!" it said. "Warn her I am coming! Let her test me!"

"I will," he told it. "Now you be certain of your path and move slowly, so that she doesn't miss anything."

"I must be mad," Rose muttered again.

"You are not mad, Miss Hawkins," came the hollow, grating voice from the speaking-tube. "Believe me, you are not mad. And if you will not believe me, then believe the evidence of your own eyes and watch your supper-table."

The last words were still hanging in the air as she turned again to stare at the table—and at the flickering shape of flame suddenly hovering above it.

A conjurer's trick, she thought, with disgust—but then the flame took more definite shape, the general aspect of a lizard, which blinked fiery blue eyes at her, and began to spin in place.

Then her supper dishes rose gracefully on their tray, levitating above the tabletop. The dish containing the sweet separated from the rest and wafted gently down to rest on the tablecloth and a minute later, a spoon floated down to lie beside it. She hesitantly touched the latter; it was noticeably warm.

The tray remained above the table.

"Test it, Rose," the voice urged. "Use your own senses to tell you whether or not this is fakery. Make every test on it that you care to."

With exquisite care, she waved her hand beneath it, and encountered no resistance, no hidden supports. She reached out further and waved her hand to either side, and finally rose to her feet to circle the table. She tested the air all about the floating tray, and then waved her hand above it. There was nothing, nothing whatsoever. She circled the table again, looking for any means by which the tray could be moved, and still found nothing. The tray was perfectly ordinary, except for the fact that it was floating in midair, about a foot above the table-top.

No supports, no strings, no wires. And she thought she heard a giggle of delight from the spinning shape, which continued to hover about a foot above the tray. She had even passed her hand repeatedly between the creature and the tray to make certain it was not somehow attached to the tray, and had encountered nothing.

She sat down again, her eyes wide, biting her lip. The tray and the creature of flame sailed towards the door, which opened obligingly for them, then closed again.

But Cameron wasn't done yet, for a moment later, the door opened again, and a coffee service sailed serenely in, below the floating flame, setting itself down on the table. She stared at it. I am seeing this, but I still do not believe it. There must be a way to explain floating trays logically! Surely he's tricking me.

"I thought perhaps after all that wine you might like something to clear your head," Cameron said, with a touch of amusement. "Then you can be certain that you are not being tricked."

The coffee-pot lifted into the air and poured a precise and delicate cup. The cream-pitcher followed, and her usual two lumps dropped neatly into the cup, which lifted, saucer and all, and moved towards her. She put out her hand without thinking, and it settled down on her palm like a pet bird. Finally the creature above the table stopped spinning.

She drank the coffee in silence, glancing obliquely at the little form of flame still hovering in the air, looking down at her. Finally, she put the cup down and addressed it directly.

"What are you?" she asked it.

The voice, which came from everywhere, was thin, sibilant, and silvery. "Salamander," it said to her, and blinked benignly.

She knew the precise meaning of the word in the mystical sense, which had nothing to do with the amphibians in the garden. The Salamander was a creature commonly referred to in the medieval manuscripts she had studied back in Chicago, as well as the more modern book by Dee. She said it aloud. "Salamander—the Elemental of Fire—"

"Very good. I see your memory is still working." That was Cameron.

"As Sylphs are of Air, Undines of Water, and Gnomes of Earth—" she continued. Did he control all of these creatures? "What about them? Can you—do you—"

He anticipated the question before she formed it. "I am a Firemaster, Rose. Only the Salamanders are my servants. The Sylphs and Gnomes might aid me if they felt like doing so or their Master demanded it of them, the Undines would flee me or try to destroy me if their Master willed it. Water is my opposite; Air and Earth my allies. Every sign is the ally of those next to it, and the enemy of the one opposite."

She remembered that now from the book. Earth and Air were the opposites, and Fire and Water. She recalled the sequence now. Earth supported Fire, Air fed it. Water nurtured Earth, and gave Air substance. Air was transmuted by Fire and Water. Earth received life from Air and Water...

But according to Dee's book, a human could only aspire to be a Master of the Element of his own Magickal Nature, and only those few humans who had learned and mastered their Natures could become Masters of Elements and Elementals. It took years, decades, to become the Master of even one Element, but the resulting power—

"But if you are a Firemaster, why are you confined here—" she stopped herself with a gasp, her hand going to her lips as she flushed. How could she ask such an impertinent question?

But he didn't seem to think it impertinent. "I am confined here in my home, as I am, for precisely the reason I told you when you first arrived. An accident, brought upon by hubris. I attempted a Magick for which my Nature was ill-suited. I am as—disfigured—as I told you I was, but in a far different manner than you had been led to believe." The voice was calm, but under the calm was a welter of emotions. "I dismissed my servants, all but Paul du Mond who is aware of my Magickal ability, and have lived here as a recluse since it happened. I dare not permit anyone to see me as I now am. My Salamanders attend to most of my needs, Paul attends to those things which require an intermediary with the outside world."

"And all of this around me—the books, the reading is this to help you find a way to restore yourself?" There was a logic to this madness that was irresistible, It was all beginning to fall into place in a tight pattern, one she could not easily refute. If one simply assumed that magic power was real... "I take it that Mr. du Mond is no student of languages?"

"Paul is no student of anything," came the dry retort. "He is competent in modern French, English, and Latin, but as you have seen, most of my books are in other tongues, many of them obscure. I am unable by reason of my deformity to read them for myself. Hence... the ruse that brought you here."

She closed her eyes for a moment and digested that, then opened them again and poured herself another cup of coffee. If I had been the meek little bookworm I suspect he wanted, what then? Would I have been kept mind-clouded and in the dark while I prattled his translations away for him? "And if I had told you I would not stay here in the first place?"

A dry chuckle, one with a touch of cruelty. "For myself, there were other candidates besides you. As for you—there are many ways for a penniless woman to make a living in San Francisco, but I do not believe that most of them would have appealed to you."

She felt anger penetrate her bewilderment at that bald statement. "You used me, used my circumstances to put me into a position where I had no choice!"

"I never claimed to be a gentleman, Miss Hawkins," he countered, his voice even and in fact, indifferent. "I am a businessman. You should be aware what that means by now. It is my nature to use people, and I have no responsibility to those people to guide their steps then, or later. It is up to them to make what they can of the situation, to make it mutually beneficial. You are hardly stupid. Can you say honestly that you are not benefiting by being here?"

He has me there. Wages, fine food, beautiful lodgings, lovely clothing—I am certainly worlds better off here. Even if I am at the mercy of a madman. Or a magician. If they're not the same thing. "No," she admitted. "I am much better off than I would have been back in Chicago. But I do not like being used!"

"Then do something about it," he replied, flatly. "Decide to stay or go, decide to be used or decide to use me to get what you want. It is your choice, Miss Hawkins."

She didn't have to decide; she knew already. "I'm staying, of course!" she snapped—and perhaps the wine was to blame for her runaway tongue and temper. "Do you think I am so foolish as to abandon luxurious surroundings and congenial work just because my employer is suffering from the delusion that he is a feudal overlord with wizardly powers?"

That made him laugh, as she flushed again. "It is not a delusion, my dear Miss Hawkins! I am a feudal overlord with wizardly powers. The powers you have seen for yourself, and as for the feudalism, why do you think we are referred to as 'rail barons'? But I am glad that your good sense overcomes any fear you might have, knowing your employer is also dabbling in Magick."

It was her turn to laugh, for once again he had turned the tables on her. But she still had an arrow in her quiver to sting him with. "I am not afraid of your magic; I haven't seen anything but a convenient replacement for gossiping servants. If you were all that powerful, Mr. Cameron, you would not have needed a railway train to bring me here. For that matter, you would not have needed me. Flying dinner-trays are all very well, but you obviously are dependent on normal people for a great deal, or you would not need Paul du Mond, either."

Silence for a moment made her fear she had said too much, and angered him. He could send her away and find someone more tractable.

"She is right, Jason," the Salamander said merrily, making her turn her head so suddenly to look at it that she nearly overset her coffee-cup.

"I know she's right, damn it!" Cameron growled. The Salamander laughed.

Rose smiled triumphantly. "Can I take it then, that this is about to become less a relationship of overlord and serf, and enter a stage of cooperation? Or—at least let it be an arrangement of lord and knight!"

"Only if you are willing to abide by some rules," Cameron countered swiftly. "If you wish to be my knight, you must obey my decrees, true? I did not show you all this only to have you flout my authority in Magick. I am the authority there. If I am occasionally terse with you, it is because I do not have the time or the leisure to be otherwise. If I give you a direct order, I expect it to be obeyed."

She nodded, primly. "Of course. You are still my employer, and these are deep waters. I may have the rudder, but you are both the navigator and the captain."

"Very well." He sounded calmer, more satisfied. "I shall accelerate your Magickal education, and I shall not trouble to hide the activities of my servants from you. In fact, I shall assign one to you to tend to your needs, the same one that has been cleaning and picking up after you. Simply speak what you want aloud if you have any request, and it will tend to the task."

As unnerving as the floating fire-lizards were, she actually was relieved. At least now she could see the presence in her rooms. And now she knew it wasn't du Mond. That was reassuring all by itself.

Is there a grudging admiration in his voice? At least he won't be tempted to take me for granted now.

"I will still be attending to the matters of my business during ordinary office hours, so you will still have your afternoons free," Cameron continued. "However, I must ask you not to discuss any of this with du Mond. I believe that Paul may be jealous of you, and this would only confirm that jealousy. He wishes more from me than he deserves—or than I intend to give him."

Interesting. What is he to du Mond, or du Mond to him? Master and Apprentice? Or prisoner and keeper? On the other hand, she would really rather not discuss anything with Paul du Mond if she could help it.

This entire situation had an air of such unreality that it should have been a dream. That must have been why she felt bold enough to say incredible things.

I will wake up in the morning, and this will never have happened. This is all a dream; I fell asleep over that book by Dee, and I am dreaming all this.

"I would just as soon see as little of Mr. du Mond as possible," she said slowly. "If it is all the same to you."

"That will suit me perfectly," came the reply, which only made her wonder. Was there something that du Mond might tell her that Cameron did not want her to know? But what could it be? Were there still more secrets to be revealed?

"So, I take it that our schedule is still the same?" she said, vaguely aware that she should say something. It was trivial, but at least it was something.

"Exactly the same," Cameron told her, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice, as if now he had decided that he had accomplished something that he was very pleased with. "The only difference will be that now I will not have to wait for you to be conveniently absent or asleep to send my servants about. And now that you have recalled the schedule, may I assume that you are prepared to resume that schedule?"

"I am not so frail that I am in need of a bottle of smelling salts after all this," she said sharply. She pinched herself sharply. She did not wake up.

All right. This is no dream. And I am reasonably certain neither of us is insane. Well, I'm sure I'm not. This is not medieval moonshine; it is only a new kind of science. Surely, if I had never seen an electric light before, I would find it just as magical as the Salamander "Send me your book, sir, and I shall resume my duties this very instant!"

He laughed; he was very pleased with himself. He sounded just like one of her father's cronies who had soundly trounced another in debate. "You may relax and enjoy your sweet, Miss Hawkins," he said indulgently, as one would to a child. "The events of tonight prevented my selecting your books, and it will take a moment before they appear."

The Salamander giggled again, and vanished soundlessly. Rosalind Hawkins was alone again in her sitting-room, torn between fuming with anger and shaking with emotions she couldn't quite define. Surely Lewis Carroll's Alice had never found herself in quite so strange a situation!

Certainly she had never encountered a male creature quite so infuriating!

Caught between conflicting emotions, she finally did what any sensible person would do.

She ate her dessert, and sat back to wait for the books to appear.