The Fire Rose

CHAPTER NINE

Rose waited on the platform for the train to arrive, bundled warmly in her new fur cape, but too tired to really feel the excitement that she knew was within her. The last two weeks had been brutal; Cameron was making her earn her holiday. She read the Apprentice books feverishly until after dinner, sometimes even reading them while she ate, then went on to read and translate his books until very nearly dawn and they were both having a hard time staying awake. She hadn't had time to encounter du Mond much; once every few days he would intercept her as she returned from visiting Sunset, but she could always plead duty to get away from him. Taking a short walk to visit Sunset was nearly the only exercise she was getting at the moment.

She wouldn't even have been doing that, but for two factors. The stallion himself was so pathetically pleased to see her that she couldn't bear to disappoint him of his daily visit (or apple; she wasn't sure which he was looking forward to)—and Cameron had asked her to make sure he wasn't being neglected, once he knew that she and Sunset were getting along. The concern in his voice had been unmistakable, and she had promised immediately. She'd even gotten so far as to have one of the Salamanders show her how to use a brush and comb, and did some of his grooming herself. It had been very strange, and just a bit frightening the first time, to stand in the paddock with such a big, strong beast, without even a single fence rail to protect her if he should take it into his head to dislike her. But although it had been frightening, it had also been exhilarating, and the more she handled him, the more confident he became with her, and vice versa.

Now he's just like a big dog; I believe he might even let me ride him in the paddock if I only knew how to ride.

She hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed that she did not come to visit him for three days.

She stifled a yawn behind her hand; this was actually morning, and she had gotten no more than four hours of sleep. Jason had been very clear about her instructions, though, and he had explained the reason for them. "There is only a given amount of time when the main track is clear," he had told her. "If we want to have the proper margin of safety between trains, there is only one time today that we can insert my private carriage on the track. You must be at the platform by ten, or you will be waiting until late at night to get into the city. You would be exhausted, and the area down by the station can be a bit rough after dark."

She rubbed her eyes with a gloved finger, and stifled another yawn, then smiled at the hand as she lowered it. Kidskin gloves! She hadn't had a pair of kidskin gloves in ages; she'd had to make do with knit woolen gloves that had been darned and redarned so many times there wasn't much left of the original material on the fingers.

She had a trunk, not a valise, and a brand-new trunk at that. A Salamander had transported it down here for her, and a human porter would presumably be taking care of it once she reached the city. Someone named "Snyder" would be waiting for her at the station. It had all been arranged effortlessly, so far as she could tell.

Wealth can certainly work miracles of efficiency. Well, she would enjoy all of this while she had access to it; there was certainly no reason why she should not. There was no telling when Cameron would find his answer—or decide that it was not to be found—and dismiss her. She only wished that she knew exactly what he was looking for.

A plume of white smoke above the trees and the distinct chuffing of an engine in the distance alerted her to the arrival of that odd abbreviated engine and carriage that Jason used for his own excursions. In a few minutes it appeared through the gap in the trees, and groaned to a stop with a creaking and squealing of metal. They were backing it into place—she knew there was a place where it could turn around farther down the line, but apparently they didn't want to take the time to do that today.

As it pulled into place alongside the platform, one of the men operating it jumped down out of the cabin to help her; the other peered around the side of the cab and waved. To her pleasure, it was the same two men as the last time, and they evidently remembered her.

The one who had been so friendly before aided her into the carriage with a bow and a flourish. "Glad to see you again, ma'am," he told her, grinning as happily as if he had arranged the whole thing. "I reckon you're getting along all right here."

She laughed. "Quite all right," she told him, as he lifted her trunk as if it weighed next to nothing and stowed it in the rear of the carriage. "But I am ready for a little holiday."

"We'll have you in the city in no time, ma'am," he told her as he turned and headed back towards the engine. "Track's clear as a bell, and the weather's grand." He jumped up into his own place beside the engineer before she had a chance to reply, and she took that as a signal that she should get inside the carriage and take a seat.

She had wondered if fatigue and contrast had made her memory paint a much rosier picture of the carriage than reality, but she realized as she surveyed the interior that she should have known better than to doubt its luxury. It was Jason Cameron's, after all, and he never seemed to skimp on anything. The stove in the front part of the carriage was burning well, heating the whole interior until it was just as cozy as her own sitting room. The carpet and furniture were as clean and as free of soot as a proper dowager's parlor, and if anything, the levels of sophistication and luxury were more evident by daylight.

The vehicle began to move with a little lurch. She sat down quickly on the divan, and loosened the collar of her cape. Beyond the windows, as the train picked up speed, an endless wall of tall, green trees flowed by.

I wish the landscape was a little more varied here. She stifled another yawn. I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to lie down. There isn't much to see, and I don't think I can keep my eyes open if I try to read. She changed her position, lying down to rest her head for just a little—

And the next thing she knew, something had awakened her from a deep, sound sleep, and the train was slowing.

It might have been the increase in noise that had awakened her, for when she sat up and peered out a window, she saw that they had reached the station, and it was quite a busy place, fully as busy as the one in Chicago.

No more than half an hour later, she was seated in an open carriage across from the very proper gentleman who had introduced himself as "Snyder." The mysterious Mr. Snyder proved to be the butler and valet at Cameron's townhouse. He had brought with him this small carriage that had been hired for her convenience.

The fresh air managed to wake her up, and the rest in the carriage had certainly helped bring her back to her normal state of alertness. Snyder was no Paul du Mond; he was very proper in his manners, but gave her an impression of intelligence and shrewdness. She noted that he was giving her a very close, if relatively unobtrusive, examination as they rolled along, and she returned the favor.

He was a tall, thin man, balding, with the demeanor she would have associated with a "superior" servant from the East Coast, although his accent had the faint drawl she knew was characteristic of the Southeast. She wondered where Cameron had found him, for here was certainly a superior servant of the old school. And had he always been in charge of the townhouse, or had Snyder once been the ruler of the Cameron mansion as well?

"Master Cameron normally makes use of cabs when he is in the city, ma'am," Snyder said, breaking the silence. "But I thought that would be rather inconvenient for a lady wishing to shop."

She thought of a number of replies, but settled for the simplest. "That was extremely thoughtful of you, Mr. Snyder," she told him, hoping that she sounded appropriately sincere. "Thank you very much."

He eyed her a bit longer, then asked, hesitantly, "Forgive me. This is hardly polite, but—might I ask, Miss Hawkins, just what your position is in Master Cameron's household? It has not been clarified to me."

It's not polite, and he must be in agony over it! Poor man. I don't quite fit into the hierarchy, the way I would if I were the tutor I was originally told I would be. She raised one eyebrow to show him that she was conversant enough with proper manners to know the question was impertinent, then answered him with the same directness he had used. "I am Mr. Cameron's research assistant, Mr. Snyder; I have both a Bachelor and Master's degree and I am very close to achieving my Doctorate. I am actually closer to a colleague than a member of the household, although he is technically my employer as well as yours. I came here from Chicago at his request, interrupting my own studies, because he was in need of my specific skills. He has some various papers and books he needs translated, and I am an expert in ancient languages."

That was close enough to the truth to pass muster without making her feel guilty.

Snyder relaxed; as she had suspected, his unease had been caused by the fact that he did not know where to place her in the household hierarchy. Now he did.

I'm somewhere above a servant, just below a guest, and not a member of the demimonde, which I expect was what he was afraid of. She smiled at him, and was glad she had chosen to wear one of her more severe and business-like walking-suits. She looked like a serious scholar, and she knew it.

"Chicago! That's a cold part of the country, this time of year, ma'am," Snyder said. "Gracious, they must be knee-deep in snow by now! I hope you aren't missing the colder weather."

She shivered, and smiled. "Not at all, I assure you. If your university here accepts female students, I may well remain here when my work for Mr. Cameron is complete. I had not been aware that this part of the nation was so lovely."

Snyder beamed, an odd expression on that long, melancholy face. "It's a great deal like North Carolina, where I come from, ma'am," he told her, as if imparting a precious secret.

Well, that explains his accent.

He coughed. "Now, I hope you'll forgive me again. I've been asked to advise you that it wouldn't be wise to go out at night—except straight to the theater and back—without taking me as an escort. Parts of the city are pretty rough after dark, and you don't know where they are."

So are parts of Chicago—but I didn't go out at night much, and never without Father. She nodded an absent assent; the hills of San Francisco rose all about them now, covered with buildings—for someone used to a flat cityscape, the effect was both strange and delightful. She couldn't get enough of looking. The houses, rising in two, three, or four stories, all seemed to be painted in shades of sand, peach, pink, or pale blue. They were like something out of an illustrated children's book, vaguely hinting at the Arabian Nights.

"Is it safe to visit China-town?" she asked, trying to see everything at once, failing, and not caring.

"Only by broad daylight, and not without an escort," he warned her. "I know what parts there are safe, and what are not. Perhaps you could make up a list of what you are interested in, ma'am, and I can arrange excursions for you."

She sighed with a little regret; she had wanted to go exploring unencumbered, but—

But I also don't want to find myself stowed away in the hold of a ship bound for the Orient, either. Tales of white slavery might be lurid and sensational, but there must be some truth in them or they would not persist.

"That's probably the best," she admitted, and Snyder relaxed a bit more. Obviously he had been anticipating resistance on her part.

I can understand that, and I really hope that some day I will know the city well enough to walk about alone—but that time is not now.

She looked her fill, as the carriage-horses labored up and down the hills; poor things, this was not a very heavy conveyance, and they were still toiling in the traces.

Snyder removed a small, leather-bound book from his breast-pocket and consulted it. "Your occulist appointment is in the morning, tomorrow," he told her. "Around nine. Is there anything you'd care to see this afternoon before you dine? There's just time enough before the shops close."

"A bookshop?" she asked hopefully. "A really good bookshop? And a stationer's?"

I can select ancient books from a catalog easily enough, but how can I select contemporary books without browsing?

He nodded, as if that was precisely what he had expected. Perhaps it was, once he knew she was a scholar. "We'll just leave your trunk at the townhouse for Miss Sylvia, the maid, to unpack, and go straight there. It's Master Cameron's favorite store, Miss Hawkins, and the stationery-supply is right next door. We can certainly arrive there before they close." implicit, though not overtly stated, was that for someone connected with Jason Cameron, both stores would gladly remain open long past their ordinary closing-times.

She bit her lip, wondering if she ought to change her mind. If the shop was Cameron's favorite, the selection would be extensive—and expensive.

"You are to put your purchases on Master Cameron's account, of course, at both establishments," Snyder continued, as if it was a matter of course. "He left orders to give you access to his shop accounts, just as Mr. du Mond does."

Another reason why Snyder was uneasy about my position in the household, no doubt.

"He's never seen me in a bookstore," she said wryly. "He may live to regret his generosity."

Snyder looked at her for a moment with open astonishment, then actually unbent enough to laugh, though he would not tell her why.

They stopped at the townhouse just long enough to leave the trunk with a burly fellow who appeared to do all the heavy work about the place, and then proceeded straight on. And the moment that Rose walked through the door of the bookstore, she was in heaven.

The interior of the shop was all of polished wood and brass, a reddish wood she could not immediately identify. The bookshelves, which ran from floor to ceiling, were placed as closely together as possible and still permit passage of customers. It was at least as large as Brentano's in Chicago, and just as well-stocked. There actually were a few "frivolous" writers whose work she admired—Lord Dunsany, for one, though she thought she might die of embarrassment if Cameron actually caught her reading one of his fantasies of the Realms of Faery and if she ever got a chance to read for pleasure instead of research, she wanted to have a few things on hand. For the rest, there were some reference works she thought might come in handy that were not on Cameron's shelves. Then again, there was no real reason why they should be, for ordinarily one did not associate the works with Magick; not hard-headed things like engineering texts from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, nor herbals, nor some of the theological works she wanted.

But there were hints in there, clues to alternate translations, that she thought might be very, very useful. Cameron approached his texts as a pure Magician, but she thought the approach might be aided by attempting to replicate the world the writer was brought up in, and see possible meanings through his eyes. There were shades to the meanings of words and phrases then that might not occur to a modern man—and as for slang, it could be as much of a code as anything devised for the purpose.

She kept finding more books she wanted every time she looked at a new case. She simply gave up the struggle against temptation after a while; she consoled herself with the promise that many of her selections would be remaining in the Cameron library when she left. She collected quite a tidy pile of volumes before she was finished; it took two boys to carry them to the carriage, but Snyder didn't raise a brow over it at all. Evidently Cameron's expeditions to this place yielded similar harvests.

Perhaps that was why he laughed. She thought about the library, and realized that this must look like a perfectly normal shopping expedition to Snyder.

Next door at the stationer's, she purchased several blank, leather-bound books of the sort used for sketching and journals. Those would become her reference books, where she would organize her own gleanings. With them, she gathered up reams of foolscap and boxes of pencils; Cameron had nothing but pens available, and with all the notes she would be taking, she was not going to risk oversetting inkwells. Nor was she going to waste good paper on scribblings.

Then, strictly because she saw them and lusted after them, she acquired a supply of soft, colored pencils and watercolors for sketching. They were beautiful—"From Japan," the clerk said. The colors were fabulous, rich and saturated, and she craved them the moment she saw them.

And since color seemed to play a prominent role in Magick, perhaps they might be as useful as anything else she had bought today.

Then, since she had bought the art supplies, she acquired watercolor paper and Bristol board as well. She felt positively giddy as she led the shop-clerk out to the waiting carriage with the brown-paper-wrapped parcels, and settled herself back into her seat, surrounded by wonderful, heavy packages. I haven't spent this much money all at once in—in my life! It was intoxicating as strong drink. The idea, to be able to walk into a shop and order anything one pleased! Even at the best of times, she had never been able to do that!

"Shall I have these taken to the railway carriage, or do you need any of this now, ma'am?" Snyder asked, interrupting her reverie.

"Oh—" She rummaged about for two of the novels and one of the reference-works. "This is all I need for now; the rest can go. There's certainly no need to clutter up the house with them when I won't need them until I'm back with Mr. Cameron."

"I'll see to it." Snyder settled back into his seat with the air of a man who has done a good day's work; she clasped her hands over the books in her lap, and did the same.

Already the sun was descending into the sea, surrounded by thin, scarlet-tinged clouds, and the air was growing colder—and damper. She was glad of the fur cape; the dampness of the air made the chill more penetrating.

Snyder handed her out, and stayed to instruct the driver. She went up the steps of the townhouse unescorted, but the door opened before she could reach for the big, brass handle.

For a moment she expected to see a Salamander there, but it was only a perfectly human maid, who must have been watching for them. "Please follow me, miss?" the woman said—she was a little more mature than Rose had expected, actually about middle-age. Rose complied, going up the steps to the second floor, and a little ways down the hall, where the maid opened a door almost immediately at the top of the stairs for her. Behind it lay a very luxurious little bedroom, decorated in chaste blues and whites. The furnishings were neither masculine nor feminine, but struck a neat androgynous balance; it was obviously a guest-room, neatly calculated to make someone of either sex comfortable. There was a bright fire going in the fireplace—

But the illumination came from electrical lights on the wall! Rose stared at them as if they were Salamanders. She had not expected that—very few private homes were lit electrically. In fact, neither the bookshop nor the stationer's had been illuminated electrically, although they did have gaslight. Oh, I wish Cameron had these back at the mansion—no flickering, nothing but bright, even light! It would be so much easier to read by these!

But beside each of them, and on the bedside table and the dresser, was a reminder that electricity was not completely reliable; candles in sconces, and several small boxes of safety-matches.

Although the room was small, it was as comfortable as her suite back in Cameron's mansion. It held a divan placed perfectly for reading, a dressing-table and small chair, a bureau, a wardrobe, the bed and a bedside table. All were covered or upholstered in blue slub-satin that she suspected was raw silk; a deeper blue carpet covered the floor, and the walls were papered in blue and white stripes. A door in the far wall led to a bathroom; she peeked inside and saw it was shared with an identical bedroom on the other side. The maid had already put her things away in the dresser and wardrobe, and was hanging up her cape in the latter when she returned from exploring the bathroom.

"Dinner is at eight, miss, but if you'd like something now, I can bring some tea and something light—?" the maid said, her tone rising in inquiry.

"If it's not too much trouble—" Rose replied, torn between hunger and not wanting to be a bother.

"Oh, it's not. I'll bring a tray right up." The maid smiled at her. "There's always a nice pot of tea going. Do you prefer your tea served in the English style?"

"English, definitely, please. And if it would be less trouble, I would really rather have meals in my room." She'd gotten into the habit of taking cream and sugar in her tea because of all the British scholars visiting her father, and had never dropped it. Somehow it always seemed a much more substantial drink that way.

Though I wonder why Cameron's servants always have tea going, when at the mansion he has always sent me coffee at meals?

When the maid brought the promised tray up, she got part of her answer; it was a proper English lady's tea—tea, and tiny watercress and cream-cheese sandwiches, and the tea was "pukkah Khyber," (which, roughly translated, meant "the real, genuine, Khyber tea"), as black as sin without the cream and absolutely impossible to drink without sugar. Only the British ever drank tea like that, fully as powerful as the strongest coffee. Evidently Cameron's cook was from the Empire. Hence, the "Pot of tea."

The sandwiches weren't much, but they were enough to stave off hunger until the promised dinner hour. As she expected, it was less trouble for the servants to make up a tray and bring it to her; that meant they didn't have to set up the dining room for a single person. And when dinner arrived, she knew that the cook was not only British, he—or she—was from India, for the main course was a powerful curried beef dish. And she suspected that it was something of a test, to see how she would react.

It was just as well that she and her father had entertained so many British; she had acquired a taste for curry.

"Curried beef!" she exclaimed with pleasure. "And saffron rice! Oh, this is marvelous, I haven't had a good curry in so long!"

The maid actually beamed. "Oh, well, we're alone here so much lately that my Charlie tends to make what we like, and we've all gotten a taste for his curries. Master Cameron, he likes 'em fine, he even brags on Charlie to his guests. Mr. du Mond, though, he's got a tender stomach. He says."

From the tone of her voice and the expression she wore, Rose gathered that Paul du Mond was not beloved in this house.

"Charlie—that would be the cook?" Since the maid was lingering, Rose took the time for a bite. The curry bit back, precisely as it should, and the beef was so tender it practically melted on the fork. She did not have to feign an enthusiastic reaction. "Oh! Oh, this is perfect! This is pukkah curry! Please tell him I haven't had as good a meal since—since Professor Karamjit made curry for Papa with his own hands."

Now the maid blushed, and Rose knew then that she was definitely married to this "Charlie." She confirmed it with her next words. "Charlie's my husband; he's the cook, and he does the heavy lifting and all," she said, answering Rose's first question. "He's the one that brought in your trunk. He was in the Army in India, he was the orderly and cook for an English officer there, but there wasn't much to go home to when his duty was over, so he decided to try his luck as a cook here. It was come here to the States or Australia, and he didn't like the notion of sheepherding."

"Well, I'm glad he's here," Rose responded warmly. "Please tell him not to go to any great trouble about my meals; I'll have whatever you're having, because it's bound to be marvelous."

"Thank you, miss, I'll tell him. That will make things easier on us." The maid positively twinkled as she gathered up the tea-tray and prepared to leave. Her pleasure in Rose's compliments took ten years from her appearance. "Mr. du Mond, he's always so particular about special meals; it's not a lot of trouble when there's Master Cameron and his guests here, but when it's only one—" She shrugged. "If you like, you can leave your tray outside your door when you're done, and I'll be along to collect it when I close up for the night. Would you be having coffee or tea with breakfast?"

Pukkah Khyber was not something she really wished to face first thing in the morning, although it certainly would wake her up! "Coffee, please," she said with an apologetic smile. "I'm American enough to require my daily dose."

"Well, and so am I, though Charlie can't see how we abide it." She smiled as if the two of them were in a conspiracy together. "And if you want coffee, that means I can get my cup, for he'll have to make a pot. I'll be up around seven with your breakfast, miss. Would you like a bath tonight or in the morning?"

"Tonight, but I'm fully capable of drawing a bath, honestly!" she laughed. "Don't go to such trouble over me!"

"If you're sure—then I'll leave you alone, unless you need something." She nodded at the expected satin cord ending in a tassel that hung down beside the bed. "If you need something, just ring."

With that, she left with the tray, leaving Rose to enjoy an excellent—and very, very British—meal. It even ended with a bowl of trifle smothered in whipped cream!

With meals like these, it's a wonder the English can govern their Empire; I should think they wouldn't have the energy to do anything but digest!

She put the tray outside the door when she was done with a sigh of satiation. It's a good thing I'm not staying here long. I would be willing to bet that Charlie puts on a full High Tea, complete with cream-cakes and Bath buns. I would need my corset pulled tight just to get into my dresses after a few of those!

There was more than enough time for a bath and some reading before she slept, although after the "early" start she'd had, she expected that she would sleep like the dead. She was torn between her Dunsany novel and the book on Magick that she had brought with her. Pleasure or duty? Botheration! This is supposed to be a holiday for me!

But her sense of duty was too strong to abandon altogether; she compromised, reading the book on Magick while the bath filled, then taking The King of Elfland's Daughter with her into the bathroom to read.

But her immersion in the Story was not as complete as she would have liked, for her new knowledge that Magick was a real and living force in the world kept intruding on what should have been a tale to escape into. If Magick was real, could elves be pure fantasy? Did Dunsany know that Magick was real?

What he had written certainly sounded as if he did.

So, with regret, she put aside the novel for her Magickal tome to read herself to sleep with. As an aid to slumber, it wasn't too far off from old Wallis Budge; she soon found herself nodding, and put the book on the bedside table, then turned off the unfamiliar electrical light.

If she dreamed, she didn't remember the dreams. Surrounded by the city, with all the night-time sounds she was used to back in Chicago, she slept more deeply than she had in Cameron's mansion. The next thing she knew, the maid was drawing the curtains and it was morning.

After a hearty breakfast—again, typically British, complete with thick oatmeal and cold toast, and she thanked Providence quietly that there were no kippers—she dressed and sat down to make out a list for Snyder of the places she needed to go. They included one that she thought might raise an eyebrow—a Chinese herbalist. That was the main reason why she wanted to go to China-town.

Among her father's many-visitors had been a gentleman who was both an Oxford graduate and a traditional herbalist, and she had the feeling that if her father had actually followed his friend's advice and taken the medicines he had left, Professor Hawkins might still be alive. If I am going to do as much for Jason as I need to, I am going to have to have more stamina, and it isn't going to come from pukkah Khyber tea and coffee. And there was another problem; she simply could not afford to be incapacitated two or three days out of the month with pain, yet she also could not afford to be giddy with doses of laudanum. That same gentleman had left remedies for her that she had faithfully used, but they were almost gone. A "real" doctor would ascribe her problem to "typical female hysteria" and dose her with opiates; she preferred to see if one Chinese could duplicate the recipe concocted by another.

As for the rest—I've had my bookshop. I still need a regular pharmacy. And a general dry-goods store, and a department store. Perhaps I should ask Snyder to suggest some sights, if there's time. What else did she need? I wonder if I ought to get Jason a Christmas present? But what could she get him? What could she possibly afford that he did not already have twelve of?

Perhaps I could find something in China-town.

For the moment, she had enough on her list to occupy the rest of the day. Tonight—ah, tonight there would be opera! She would sit in a private box, a luxury she had never, ever indulged in! It would be glorious, and as she gazed at the dress she had laid out, she had to laugh as she recalled the last time she had imagined herself attending the opera in San Francisco.

One could have made that the culminating scene of an opera itself—the poor, embittered, lonely heroine, expiring to the glorious melodies of Puccini! The girl that had made those plans of despair was so far removed from Rose as she was now that Rose didn't even recognize her.

Strange, how much difference a little hope makes.

She gazed on the dress with unabashed pleasure and a little greed. What woman wouldn't revel in the prospect of wearing a silk-velvet gown of deep red, trimmed in sparkling jet beadwork three inches deep, with silk elbow-length opera-gloves and satin shoes dyed to match? Her gown for tomorrow night was simpler, suiting the venue: sky-blue silk with handmade lace.

With her list in hand, she ventured down the stairs to find Snyder waiting for her patiently in the front entry-way. "With your permission, Miss Hawkins, I have arranged for the driver to deliver you to the occulist and return here with you. On your return, we can have luncheon awaiting you, and afterwards I shall guide you to your various destinations." He held out his hand for her list, which she gave to him, quite impressed with his efficiency.

"We can accomplish all of these within a few blocks of each other," he told her. "I believe you will wish to spend the entire day in China-town, so we will save that for the morrow. I have arranged for your new spectacles to be delivered here tomorrow, should you require them."

Goodness, he has everything organized! No wonder Jason keeps him here!

She could not possibly be in better hands. With that assurance, she stepped out the front door and into the sun.

She didn't need the maid to wake her the next morning; she bounced out of bed on the strength of her own newly-found energy and enthusiasm. The opera had been glorious, everything she could have hoped for. Tonight would be pure confection. And between then and now, she would be exploring mysterious China-town.

She dressed quickly, and bolted her breakfast and yet, by the time she skipped downstairs, Snyder was already waiting for her.

He licked his lips as if he wanted to say something. She waited, giving him a chance to speak.

"Master Cameron himself patronizes a Chinese apothecary, Miss Hawkins," he said at last. "He is said to be a very good one. Would you have any objection to visiting him, rather than seeking out your own?"

"Not at all," she replied, puzzled by the question.

Although she waited a little further, he did not elaborate, simply opening the door for her.

It did not take long for the driver to reach their goal, and even at this early hour the city was awake and functioning. By the time they reached China-town it was obvious that the inhabitants of this district were accustomed to rising before dawn, for they were already hard at work at any number of tasks.

Walking in China-town was like walking in another world entirely. Most of the Chinese here wore their traditional dress, though some affected European-style suits and dresses; she even caught sight of a few unfortunate damsels tottering along on tiny, bound feet. Strange aromas filled the air—incense, odd cooking-smells, odors she could not define. And everywhere, the twittering syllables of a myriad of Chinese dialects fell upon her ears.

Snyder led her to a tiny, dark shop with a storefront window displaying bones, dried fish, the preserved body-parts of any number of animals, and bunches of dried herbs. The gentleman behind the counter looked precisely like an ancient Mandarin noble except that his fingernails were of normal length. He wore a round, blue brocade hat surmounted by a button, and a matching quilted, highcollared jacket; his thin, scholarly face was graced with a long, white moustache.

But when he spoke, he sounded exactly like Doctor Lee—his words were formed in a crisp, precise, Oxford accent.

"Mr. Snyder!" he exclaimed. "How good it is to see you! Has Master Cameron an order for me?"

He extended his hand across his counter-top, and Snyder shook it gravely. "Master Cameron does not have an order, but this young lady who is assisting him in his research does, if you would be so kind as to give her the benefit of your expertise." Snyder then turned and indicated Rose. "Master Pao, Miss Hawkins."

She extended her hand, and Master Pao took it with a smile that was neither servile nor ingratiating. His grip was firm and quite strong, and she had the feeling that if she had not been wearing gloves, she would have found his hand to be warm, the skin of his palm dry. It was, as her father would have said, a "proper handshake."

"I would be happy to assist a colleague of Master Cameron," the apothecary said politely. "How can I be of service?"

She explained her needs circumspectly, taking out what was left of her "special tea" and handing it over the counter to him. At once, his eyes brightened with interest. He examined the herbal mixture, stirring it with a fingertip, sniffing it, crushing some between his fingers and sniffing again, and finally tasting it.

"This will be no problem to replicate," he said, finally, looking up at her with his bright, black eyes, "Although it is not a recipe I have prescribed. Now, you said you also needed something for times of long and difficult research?"

She nodded, and clasped her hands together on the countertop. "I believe that there will be a great deal of work ahead of us in the next few months, and I fear I will be working long hours and sleeping little. If you can manage something, a tea perhaps, that will give me the ability to work these hours without falling asleep over my books, that is what I need. Something stronger than coffee, but not something that will keep me awake when I finally get a chance to go to sleep."

Master Pao pursed his lips and fingered his snowy moustache. "This could take a little time," he said, "and in addition—I should like to concoct an alternate recipe to the one you wished me to duplicate." He looked up at Snyder, and something unspoken passed between them.

"Miss Hawkins, if you will be so kind as to wait until I return before venturing further, I have an errand I must pursue," Snyder said unexpectedly. "If you will both excuse me?"

And before she could reply, he turned and left the shop.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Hawkins," the apothecary said apologetically, "But Mr. Snyder know's that if I am to fill your needs properly, I must ask you a few questions, some of which may be a trifle personal. That, no doubt, is why he left, to save you a blush at having a stranger party to your private matters."

She relaxed a little, for this was precisely the sort of questions that her father's friend had wished to ask her, and she was oddly certain that Snyder would never have left her alone with someone who might offend her, inadvertently or otherwise. "You are a doctor, of course," she replied, meaning to give him the accolade whether or not he "qualified" by Western standards. "I am sure you would ask me nothing without having a good reason for it."

"Ah—and not only am I a physician in the ways of my own people, I am also a physician trained in your western medicine," he said, with another of his warm smiles. "I have my diploma from Harvard Medical School, in point of fact, and I honor both the Hippocratic Oath and the vows of my own people regarding the sacred duties of the physician. Now you will find a stool there behind the door. If you will take a seat, we can begin."

She found the stool, a high, backless affair, precisely where he pointed, and set it before the counter. The questions he asked were not all that "personal," and she felt no embarrassment in answering them although she thought of herself as being unusually candid for a female, and poor Snyder probably would have been embarrassed to be present. Finally Master Pao seemed satisfied, and began making up packets of herbs, his hands flying among the various drawers and jars behind the counter. He never seemed to measure anything, and yet she was certain he was portioning each herb with absolute exactness. She watched him, rapt with fascination.

"Do I take it that you are assisting Master Cameron with his Magickal researches, Miss Hawkins?" he asked, as casually as if he were asking if she preferred the color blue over the color green.

She started, then stared at him, quite taken aback, and not certain how to reply. Master Pao looked up at her and caught her in that dumbfounded expression, and laughed softly.

"I am the Earthmaster here in the Land of the Golden Gate, Miss Hawkins," he said, very quietly. "We have been colleagues, Jason and I, since the day he arrived. We exchanged services; I reinforced his townhouse and mansion against the earthquake, and he made my shop fire-resistant. The imprint of Magick is upon you, though you yourself cannot yet see it."

"But—I have done nothing but read in his books!" she exclaimed involuntarily. "How could I—"

"You have read the instructions of Apprenticeship, and thus have taken the first true steps towards Apprenticeship," he chided gently, as if she had missed something terribly obvious. "Whether you progress further along the path or not, any Master who knows of your association with Jason will see that invisible mark. Some, an exceptionally sensitive Master of Air for instance, would even see it without that knowledge."

She bit her lip, not at all certain that she wanted such a "mark" upon her. This was not something she had bargained for when she began this! Would she always be so "marked," or would it gradually fade once she disassociated herself from Magick and its practitioners? Would this cause her even more difficulties?

No use complaining now, I suppose. I volunteered for this. Jason only wanted me to read and translate specific passages in specific books, and I suspect that if I had stuck to that, there would be no such "mark" upon me.

"I only mention this, because you should know certain things," the old man continued, with an expression of gentle concern. "Master Jason has collected some powerful enemies, as all who traffic in Magick eventually must." He chuckled, then, his concern softening. "Even so inoffensive a creature as myself can collect enemies, I fear. But if these enemies become aware of your association with Jason, they will seek to use you against him."

"How?" she asked, suspiciously. Now what is he at? Does he think to offer himself as my " protector"—for a cost? Tales of evil Chinese "white slavers" flashed through her mind for a moment.

"Nothing coercive, at least, not in all likelihood," the old man said soothingly. "No wise Magician exposes his powers too much before the multitudes; when people, especially handsome young women, are suddenly missing, the police begin to look suspiciously about." He shrugged. "And at any rate, cooperation is much more easily obtained with charm, tact, persuasion and..." He paused, and raised one eyebrow. "... and gifts? You should know that this may befall you, and you should be wary of men with glib tongues and blandishments. Be even warier of those who offer you much for what seems to be very trifling information. If Jason has taken you even a little into his confidence, what you know already could conceivably harm him."

She flushed, and shook her head a little. "I doubt that anyone is likely to think of me as anything other than insignificant," she replied crisply. "What I am doing is mere translation; if I have been reading certain texts, it is only to assist my own ability to translate. Mr. Cameron could certainly hire another translator at any time, and with very little effort on his part." She strove to control her blushes. "Quite frankly, although I have seen just enough to make me a believer in the power of Magick, I very much doubt that Mr. Cameron has 'taken me into his confidence' at all."

Master Pao gave her an oblique glance, but said nothing. His hands, however, continued to fly among the drawers and boxes of his herbs, until at last he had made up a fourth packet, this one wrapped carefully in red paper.

"Here, in the blue, is the replication of your previous recipe," he said, pushing the packet across to her. "When you look to run short, you need only have an order sent to me, and I will send another supply." He pushed the second packet, wrapped in green, across the counter to stand beside the first. "Here is the recipe that I would recommend for those same complaints. Try it, and see if you find it superior." The third packet, in white, joined the other two. "And here are the herbs you asked for an increase in stamina. Now—these will not act precisely as you requested. They will not keep you awake when you need slumber."

"What will they do, then?" she asked, both a trifle disappointed and a trifle annoyed.

His face took on the expression of a stern teacher. "They will do much better than forcing you to stay wakeful. Such medicines are dangerous, and easily abused, and I do not prescribe them unless there is no other choice. This recipe must be drunk faithfully at every meal and at bedtime, and it will enable you to have a full night's sleep in only four hours' time." He chuckled again at her reaction, a bitten-off exclamation of pleasure.

"I could wish I'd had such a wonder long ago!" she exclaimed. "I have never been able to function on less than eight hours of sleep! This is wonderful!" She reached for the packet; he held his hand on it, keeping her from snatching it up immediately.

"There is, as in all such things, a price to be paid," he warned her. "Your sleep will be—compressed, as it were. This will mean certain changes in your dreams, which may be unpleasant changes if you are not used to recalling your dreams. Your dreams will become very vivid, and very intense, impossible to forget. They may be very disturbing, and possibly—possibly you will see things that will cause you unease. And although you will only require four hours of slumber, you must have that time; you will fall asleep over your books if you attempt to stay wakeful for more than thirty-six hours. The final price, however, is one, I think, no woman would quarrel over." He actually winked at her. "You will find that you use energy as if you were exercising heavily. You will be very hungry, and you should assuage that hunger without fear of gaining weight. As the natives of the North say, 'Sleep is food, and food is sleep.' And you should do without this prescription when you are taking the herbs in the blue or green packet. They do not mix well together."

She nodded solemnly, and picked up all three packets. "I understand—but what, exactly, do you mean when you say that my dreams will be disturbing?"

He stroked his long moustache and beard for a moment, as if he was taking great care in choosing his words. "Several of these herbs are known among the people of India for what is called 'opening the third eye.' They enable one to see the Unseen, the past, or what is yet to be. If you have any such abilities slumbering within you, they may well awake at the touch of these medicines, and you may not like the result. It is a hard thing to see the future; many find such knowledge a burden too great to bear."

For a moment, a chill lay across her shoulders, as if a cold shadow fell there. Then she laughed, if a trifle uneasily. "I doubt that I will have any such difficulties, Master Pao," she replied, with emphasis intended to convince herself as much as him. "I fear that I am as prosaic as a loaf of bread, and as psychically aware as a paving-stone."

Once again, he bestowed an oblique glance upon her. "You give yourself too little credit," he said. Then he shook his head, and passed over the last, red-wrapped packet. "This, however, is not for you. It is for Jason—if you can get him to take it. He is that most dangerous of patients, the ones who prefer to diagnose and dose their own ailments. He needs these medicines—I know what he is doing to himself, in part, at least, and he is as a wolf who is so intent on the hunt that he will run until he collapses."

She accepted the third packet dubiously. "I have no idea how I could ever get him to take medicine. I cannot possibly promise anything."

"I know that. I also know that you are more likely to try than that wretched creature du Mond," Master Pao said, with a touch of irritation in his voice as he mentioned the secretary's name. "If you have the opportunity, I beg you to use it. I fear that he is doing himself mischief, and I hope that these medicines will counteract that mischief."

She nodded, and put the packet beside the other three in her handbag. As she slipped from the stool, a thought occurred to her; how was it that Master Pao was so conversant with Western Magick? "I was not aware that the Orient had the same system of Magick as the West. I never heard of Chinese Salamanders, Undines, Sylphs and Gnomes," she offered, and waited for his reply.

"We do not," was his ready answer. "Or at least, our disciplines are quite different, although the ends are the same. We have something so like the Masters of the Elements that I simply use the title of Master of Earth for the sake of convenience. My true title is something—quite different."

The arch way he said that made her pause and turn to look him full in the face. He wanted her to ask, and so she obliged him. "Oh?" she said. "And what is that title?"

He smiled, and for the first time, she sensed the power that this man held, coiled tightly and invisibly, inside him. Irresistibly, she thought of the World Snake, the great Worm, who encircled the world, and whose restless stirrings caused the earth to shake.

"Why," he replied softly, "it is Master of Dragons, of course."

With Snyder at her elbow, she browsed the shops of China-town to her heart's content. Here she spent her own money, and since she had been spared many expenses she had assumed she would have—such as the books she had wanted—she bought things she would otherwise have only looked at, admired, and passed with reluctance.

Enchanted with the beautiful colors, she bought a Chinese robe of silk and another of quilted cotton, both beautifully embroidered. The silk robe was of a rose-pink, embroidered with peonies, and the cotton of pale blue, embroidered with butterflies. One couldn't wear them on the street of course—and that was a pity—but they would be very comfortable for lounging in. If she was to spend hours reading to Cameron, she was going to be comfortable!

She was so enchanted by scenes of trees, pagodas, and cranes made of delicately carved cork sandwiched between two sheets of framed glass and set on a stand that she had to have one for her desk. The tiny scenes were like something out of an Oriental fairy tale....

At another shop, her sense of smell was intoxicated. Two fans of sandalwood, one of the natural brown and one of black, joined her purchases, along with a vial of sandalwood perfume, and also some sandalwood incense, for she had never smelled anything so wonderful before, the whole of her experience with incense being limited to the rather harsh scents burned at church services. She could have spent a small fortune in that shop, for the various perfumes there entranced her.

A fabric shop beckoned, but she resisted the temptations of the luscious silks contained therein. She did not have the skill to transform them into skirts and gowns, and she did not have the wherewithal for the services of a dressmaker.

She did indulge in luncheon in a tiny cafe, at Snyder's suggestion, eating willingly whatever was placed before her and enjoying the strange but savory tastes and textures. This place seemed to specialize in a hundred kinds of steamed dumplings with so many different fillings that she quite lost track, though there were one or two that were so good she quickly learned to recognize the shapes when the bamboo baskets came around, borne by a young Chinese waiter.

She actually found a Christmas gift for Cameron, although she was not certain that she had the temerity to present it to him. It was shockingly expensive, and yet she could not pass it by when she saw it especially once she learned that, as the Dragon was the Oriental Spirit of Earth, the Phoenix was the equivalent Spirit of Fire.

It was a carved statue of fiery carnelian, translucent, about the size of her hand, of a Phoenix in flight. The carving was as delicate as lace, and she sacrificed a hair-clasp of white jade carved in the shape of a butterfly in order to purchase it. She was quite certain that he had nothing of the sort; it was among many other carvings, similar, but nowhere near as finely made. She bought it knowing that if she did not, she would regret it later, and return only to find it gone.

There were so many things to see, to admire! In what must have been the equivalent of a grocer's store, she purchased candied ginger so fresh that the scent permeated the bag, while she covertly watched women with bound feet buying things she couldn't even begin to identify. One store was filled only with images of the Buddha, made of every substance imaginable, with every level of skill, ranging in size from a charm to be worn to a huge statue fit to grace a small temple. There were more apothecaries, more curioshops, stores that specialized in porcelain, carvings of ivory and semi-precious gems, strange cookpots and implements, clothing. But she had spent the last of the money she had with her on that extravagant little Phoenix, and she was willing to look, sigh a bit at the things that caught her eye, and move on.

Snyder conducted her back to the townhouse in a carriage redolent with ginger, incense, and strange spices, leaving her to enjoy her dinner in solitude.

After dinner, she dressed again for the theater. And in a blue-and-white confection of a gown, as sugary and sweet as the Victor Herbert songs, she went off to enjoy Babes in Toyland, feeling as happy and carefree as a child.

Tomorrow would bring the end of her holiday, but for tonight, she would play the role of the lady of leisure to the hilt.