The Fire Rose

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

February was not Paul du Mond's favorite month, not even in San Francisco, where the winter was mild by most standards. But this February was proving to be a very good month indeed; one that marked a whole new high point in satisfaction.

As he left the front door of his small, rented dwelling, he waved a negligent hand at the handyman Beltaire had provided for him—a hardened man with double virtues. He did not seem at all surprised or disturbed by anything that went on around du Mond's rented bungalow, nor did he make any objections when he was required to dispose of the remains when du Mond entertained Beltaire, or indulged in a little private amusement of his own.

"I'm afraid this one didn't last very long, Smith," he said lazily as he took the reins of his horse from the fellow. "Do take care of it, will you?"

The latest Chinese slave had been surprisingly fragile—but that may have been due to the supplier's foresight. After all, if the slaves proved too sturdy, du Mond would not need one as often. The supplier didn't care what he did with them; there were always a dozen more where the last came from. And du Mond didn't care if his playthings didn't hold up through too many sessions; Beltaire was providing the money to buy them.

He had the feeling that he was being used as a way to dispose of girls who had become difficult—girls who refused to cooperate without punishments even most Chinese would consider extreme—at least, if one intended to be able to sell the girl afterwards. Such girls were useless in the cribs and brothels, since few customers anticipated bruises and bites upon their person when they paid for an hour of pleasure. Most customers even preferred that their whores at least pretend to be pliant and cooperative. There had been some girls that du Mond himself, when he was acting as a "breaker," had been unable to sufficiently tame without inflicting damage the owners objected to. He had never asked what happened to those particular slaves; he had always assumed that, like the whores too diseased or drug-raddled to serve anymore, they were disposed of.

The slave-owners had an interesting custom for getting rid of useless merchandise; the slave was locked into a closet-like room containing a pallet and a single cup of water. Then they were locked in, without light or fresh air, for about a week. That usually took care of the matter, and if it didn't, well, the slave was in no condition to fight those who came to dispose of the body.

He had assumed something of the sort happened to the ones that continued to fight, but now he realized that there was a market for them, as well. Certainly he was not the only buyer for such slaves. Those fighters were the kind he got now; since he was paying for them, their purveyors did not care what he did with them, so long as the police were not moved to make inquiries afterwards.

Smith made sure that the police were not inclined to make inquiries. Paul was not certain what he did with the bodies, but evidently they never resurfaced in any condition to be awkward. Smith had remarked once that the police were amazed by the number of Chinese girls who killed themselves by jumping into the Bay with heavy objects tied about their necks, and thought it must be a form of suicide peculiar to the Orient.

When the man was not needed, he either tended Paul's horse, or spent the rest of his time in his room, injecting himself with vast amounts of cocaine. Paul was utterly astonished at the quantities Smith required to satisfy him—half the dose Smith used would kill an ordinary man. The other two servants that Beltaire sent him—a maid and a cook—paid no attention whatsoever to Smith or his habits. Aside from being amazed at the man's tolerance for drugs, Paul didn't, either. Smith did his job, and he did it well, and that was all that du Mond cared about.

Beltaire had told him the history of each of his new servants, and Paul had found it fascinating that Beltaire had managed to locate three such amazing felons and see to it that they had employment that would satisfy their cravings and the needs of their employer without drawing the attention of the law. Smith was a former jockey and a horse-owner—the horse Paul used now had been one of his own racehorses. Both had been banned from the track for drug use, and Paul suspected that Smith was still doping the horse as well as himself. Those were the sins that Smith had been caught at; according to Beltaire, he had also made a habit of sabotaging other horses and jockeys—one or two with fatal results, though he had never been charged with the fatalities.

The maid was a pretty case—she had gotten pregnant by a married man, given birth to and smothered the baby, and left it on its father's doorstep in that condition—with a note, made public, naming him as the parent. This had had the desired effect of not only destroying the man's reputation and ruining his business as a consequence, but of driving his wife into the divorce court. Then, with his life in tatters, the man mysteriously died. Some said it was because of the burden of his sins, and some even claimed he might have killed himself—but other women sometimes came to visit the maid, and men in their lives had a high mortality rate as well...

And as for the cook—Beltaire had cautioned Paul always to specify the kind of meat he wanted, and never, ever to share what the cook made for himself. And du Mond had noted that when Smith disposed of one of the used-up slaves, he always paid a visit first to the cook...

Still, they were all perfectly satisfactory servants in every way that involved du Mond, and that was all that mattered.

Du Mond mounted his horse, with its peculiarly glassy eyes, and guided it on its way towards Beltaire's home. The visible portion was modest by the standards of Cameron's mansion—but that was only what could be seen by passers-by. The building was much, much longer than it was wide; what appeared to be a small, two-storied building was an enormous, narrow, two-storied building, with the greater part of it concealed by trees and the angle of the hills among which it was nestled. Beltaire, unlike Cameron, saw no reason to advertise his prosperity. Then again, what transpired behind those doors was not something Beltaire would want anyone interested in.

The city of Oakland was hardly imposing on the surface, but in its way it held just as much to intrigue du Mond as San Francisco. Here was where Chinese slave-merchants brought merchandise in danger of being liberated by overzealous Christian missionaries. Here was where many imports difficult to pass by the eyes of the Customs agents in the harbors of San Francisco were brought. This place suited du Mond; beneath the middle-class respectability sheltered an entire culture that the law-abiding inhabitants of the town never dreamed of. And Simon Beltaire was the monarch of that community.

He had been as good as his word about initiating du Mond into a new Magickal path; Paul felt he had made enormous progress, and his personal feelings were confirmed by his new Master. In fact, he had at this point learned everything there was to know about every aspect of Sex Magick, delving right down into the darkest depths where Sex Magick met Blood and Death Magick. Tonight he would take another enormous step forward, he would begin exploring the avenues offered by the ingestion of potent drugs, and combinations of drugs. Then, under Beltaire's tutelage, he would combine the two, forging a potent weapon that would enable him to master not only his own Element of Fire, but Air, and perhaps Earth as well. The possibilities were astounding....

And he had Cameron to thank for it all!

Of course, he thought cheerfully, as he guided his horse up Simon Beltaire's driveway, by the time Simon finishes with him, there won't be a great deal left to thank. But I can certainly arrange for an impressive flower-arrangement to be sent to the funeral!

December had given way to January; the short days of January had slipped through Rose's fingers like the beads of a rosary in the hands of a particularly fervent nun. Now they were halfway through February, and she had begun to feel as if she and Cameron had always been working together. She felt more completely comfortable around him than she ever had around any of her fellow graduate students at the University.

Now that she had a working knowledge of Fire Magick through his journals, she joined him in searching through his personal library for more clues. Thus far, their attempts to find the Unicorn manuscript anywhere in San Francisco had been fruitless. There was nothing matching the little they knew in any of the collections of occult or esoteric writings in any of the collections, public or private, to which Jason had access. And the Unicorn had said that it was in the hands of a man that Jason himself knew. She had even made a foray into San Francisco to consult with Master Pao, and he had not been able to uncover any clues concerning it either. Pao had been somewhat distracted by trouble of his own, concerned with the "temper of the Dragons." He did not go into any great detail, but he had said rather abstractly that the Dragons were restless lately, and were growing more restless by the the moment. "They may dance," he had muttered, as if to himself, "they may yet dance."

She had known enough to feel a tremor of concern; if the Dragons were restless—the Elementals that ruled the Earth—then the Earth itself was restless. She had experienced several small earthquakes by now, and was in no great hurry to learn what it was like to feel a large one rock the ground beneath her!

But she must have shown her apprehension, for Pao had smiled suddenly and told her that she need not bother herself, for he would speak to the Dragons and lull them with his persuasion. "The Dragons cannot be ruled," he told her, "but they are capable of being soothed. And I am an old hand at soothing the restless."

He then changed the conversation, and she did not attempt to resume that subject, not when she had so many other things to concentrate on. And what could she do, if Master Pao was unable to quiet his dragons? Nothing, of course; and she had never envied the ancient prophets their foreknowledge of the future. She would rather not know than be aware of what was coming and be helpless to stop it.

It was from Master Pao that she learned something Jason had not told her; that her own Magickal Nature was not that of Fire, but of Air. Now, it occurred to her that as long as she was serving as an Apprentice, she might as well become an Apprentice in truth. So in addition to doing research for Jason, she was learning as much as she could of the Magick of that Element without the help of a Master of Air.

It was not all that difficult; the Work was very similar, the discipline required identical. The only real differences lay in the trappings and the abilities represented by the Elementals themselves. The framework of the Magick was absolutely identical; in many ways, the situation was similar to being an artist in glass; one could make a set of red goblets, or green, or blue—but they would all be goblets, in sets of four, or eight, or twenty. One could create the lead frame for a bird and insert the stained glass panels that made it a scarlet bird or a yellow—but the windows, in the end, would be identical except for color. Thanks to Jason, she knew what the framework was, and more importantly, why one did things thus-and-so. She knew the details of the Magick of Fire, and as importantly, she knew the reasons why, had she tried any of these Magicks alone, they would have worked poorly, if at all.

There is no Water in my Nature to negate the Fire Magick, but there is so little of Fire compared to Air that I doubt I would get very far.

Just as electricity would not flow through wire made of lead, the Magician's Nature had to be suited to carrying the "current" of the particular Element with which he was trying to Work. The purer the Nature, the better the Magick would flow.

She knew the theory, she knew some of the practice, and she had been learning the details of the Element of Air. But the time had come for her to stop simple study, and begin her real Apprenticeship and that meant that the time had come for her to confess to Jason her "divided loyalties."

She always waited for him to call her by means of the speaking-tube before going down to his suite for the day. He was extremely sensitive about his appearance and the difficulties his changed form caused him, and she would not for the world embarrass him by bursting in on him before he was fully and correctly clothed and prepared to meet with her. This time, though, when she descended the staircase, she brought with her a basket of those things she would need that were not part of the Work Room of a Firemaster. I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb; if I am going to "tell all," I'm going to ask for permission to use the Work Room for my first conjuration of a Sylph.

She was so used to his appearance by now that seeing her own face in a mirror sometimes gave her a little shock, because she did not have upstanding, pointed ears, nor a muzzle full of the sharp teeth of a carnivore, nor fur. He was so completely himself in any form, that the outward appearance was hardly worth noting. But today, she paused after her greeting to search his face intently, and acknowledged for the first time that not only did she not find him monstrous or repulsive—she found him remarkably handsome, in and of himself. He might consider his current form warped, but there was nothing misshapen about it to her.

"Rose—" he touched her shoulder to awaken her out of the little daze she had fallen into. "Are you quite all right?"

She shook herself mentally, and smiled at him. "Perfectly, Jason. But I have something of a confession to make—"

But before she could say it, he had taken the basket from her hands, and replied with a laugh, "You wish to tell me that you have been studying Air Magick in your free hours. And, I would guess, given this little burden of yours, that you wish to undertake your first Elemental Conjuration."

She froze with shock. "How—how did you know?"

He shrugged, as if it should have been obvious how he knew. "It was inevitable, my lady. Once you had a taste of Apprenticeship, once your need for Magick was awakened, you would never be able to deny the craving. And since your Nature is that of Air, even though there is no Master available to you, you would find a way to study it."

She stared at him, and he laughed teasingly, holding the basket just out of her reach. "Shall I continue to amaze you with my sagacity? Today, of course, you wish to undertake your first attempt at raising a Sylph, and you felt that you had to confess your activities but were afraid I would be offended that you 'stole' time from my researches for your own."

"But—" she spluttered, indignantly, her whole, carefully-rehearsed speech having gone up in smoke as he spoke. "But—"

Taking pity on her, he gave her back the basket, and placed one hand atop hers as she took it. "My dear lady, you could not help it, and I knew you could not help it. I have been attempting to guide your efforts as best I could without betraying that I knew your little secret. And since the first attempt at Conjury is best done in the presence of a Master, if not a Master of your own element, I was planning on overseeing you from the beginning."

Her indignation vanished; how could she be offended at such generosity? She had no reason to expect such understanding from him! "You were?" she said, astonished and relieved beyond measure. "But your own work—"

"Can wait, my lady." He offered her his arm, and she took it. "To be quite selfish, it is entirely possible that our combined work will proceed much faster with the devotees of two Disciplines pursuing it. I will be the first to admit that my own Mastery may blind me to possibilities obvious to those of another. And—"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Never mind," he ended. "It was not important."

But his expression said otherwise, and she raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You never look that way unless something is important, Jason," she chided, as they came to the door of the Work Room. "Now, out with it! Else I'll ask your Salamander to ferret it out for me!"

"You would," he growled, but not as if he was really displeased. "Well enough. I am perfectly pleased that you are not pursuing Fire. It is not possible for two Firemasters to remain together in the same area. That was why I had to leave my home and my Master when my Magickal education was complete. However, it is possible for a Firemaster and a Master of either Earth or Air to remain in close proximity. Even—" Was it her imagination, or did his voice grow just a trifle hoarse? "—even in the same dwelling."

She cast a sharp glance at him, but his expression was opaque, and she was not certain just what to make of that statement. But he gave her no chance to think about it.

"I have also sent a letter to that charlatan Pao, and gotten his reply," he continued. "The Orientals have slightly different Disciplines than us of the West, as you are aware, and I asked him if it was possible in his experience for a Master of one Element to serve as the teacher for an Apprentice in another." He pulled a set of folded papers from his breastpocket and waved them, before returning them to the pocket. "According to him, not only is it possible, but it is quite the usual thing in the East. He even sent me suggestions as to how I might employ the Eastern methods in your Western education."

Now she stopped quite dead in her tracks, and turned to stare at him, her lips parted in utter amazement. He gave her a droll and triumphant grin over his shoulder, and tugged on her hand.

"So, Apprentice, as you can see, I am quite prepared to see you through this. You are, as you probably already know, far ahead of most Apprentices of your short experience, simply because you are used to conducting research and are possessed of formidable self-discipline and concentration." His grin widened at her reaction to that astounding statement. "I expect you to achieve Mastery within a year, quite frankly. Perhaps sooner. The Sylphs are gentler creatures than the Salamanders, and less wary; the usual weaknesses of one destined for Air Mastery are a lack of concentration and a general flightiness, and you suffer from neither—if you ever were burdened with such faults, you overcame them long ago. Now, come along, and you'll prove what I already know to yourself."

Once again he tugged on her hand, and she perforce followed him into the Work Room, taking the irrevocable steps down a path that would govern all she did for the rest of her life.

In the end, the conjuration proved just as easy as Cameron had claimed it would be for her. In fact—as she moved through the Work, with its studied gestures, poetic incantations, and all the attendant ritual, she felt a growing sense of joy, of rightness, as if she was doing something she had been born to do. By the time the moment arrived for the actual appearance of the Sylph, her happiness was bubbling out of her like an effervescent spring bubbling into life after being frozen over during the winter. It was all she could do to keep from dancing a little as she spoke the final words.

The Work as written in the reference she had used called for a circle of containment as well as invocation, but Cameron had advised against it, making the alterations in her copy of the diagram himself. "If you wish to follow my example, and persuade your Elementals rather than coercing them, you had better begin as I did, and do without the containment circles altogether."

"Isn't that—well—dangerous?" she had asked, doubtfully. "The book says it is. Without the containment circle, there is no way to be certain the Sylph will cooperate."

"Of course it is!" he had replied. "Friendship is inherently more dangerous than slavery. A friend always has the option to tell you that he will not do something, and that may happen, especially at first. My Salamanders disobeyed me once or twice to test my resolve not to coerce them, and I suspect your Sylphs will do the same, although they may simply confine themselves to impudence. But a slave will never offer his help unasked, and that is what you gain from persuasion rather than coercion."

So, she stood now before the marble altar, trembling with joy and nervousness, and spoke the last words of her invocation, as Jason watched her from outside the chalked diagram.

For a moment, she thought that nothing had happened—that she had failed.

Then, out of nowhere, a lively breeze whirled around her, a breeze full of a sense of laughter, tugging at her garments, teasing her hair until it fell out of its carefully pinned-up coiffure. It stole all of her hairpins and disarranged her clothing, twirling around her faster and faster until she looked as if she had been running up a hill in a strong March wind.

Then it gave a final tug on her sleeves, formed into a tiny vortex in which all of her hairpins danced, and dropped down onto the altar. Then it wasn't a vortex at all, but a creature that could have been the original for all of the illustrations in every children's fairy-book ever written.

She had not been quite certain what to expect, since the Salamander was so patently unhuman, but this ethereal, semitransparent creature was quite human in appearance. It had a narrow face with a pointed chin, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes tilted upwards at the outer corners. It was androgynous, disturbingly pretty, more-or-less "clothed" in long, flowing, pale hair and what seemed to be a series of gauzy, ever-moving scarves, and even had a suggestion of transparent hummingbird-wings at the small of its back. The colors of the Salamander were intense golds, reds, and oranges—the colors of this creature were the palest of blues, violets, and pinks. The expression on its face suggested that its chief motivation was mischief, and now Rose understood why Sylphs were notoriously difficult to control.

"Well!" it said, quite cheerfully. "It certainly took you long enough! We thought you'd never get up the courage to call us!"

She took a step nearer, and the elfin creature widened its eyes playfully until its eyes were twice their original size. She stared into them, distracted and entranced; she had never seen eyes like those before, as blue as the skies over the desert, as infinite, and as hypnotic.

"So, what will you have of me?" it murmured, in a soft, silken voice, a voice that beguiled and bewitched her. "Shall I show you the world? Everywhere the Air goes, we go. I can show you anything, anywhere. Would you care to hear music? The Air carries all music—I can bring you the voice of Caruso, the piano of Rachmaninov, the violin of—"

Behind her, Jason cleared his throat. Only that, but it jarred her back to sanity and out from under the hypnotic spell of those eyes, that voice. And now she understood the danger the Sylph represented, the danger of the Lotus-eater, the opium-smoker, the one who dreams without direction and purpose. This was the first test—to see if she could withstand the temptation of the endless dream.

"I would really prefer if we made the Pact first," she murmured diffidently. "Please, it would really be better so. And once the Pact is sworn, you may depart if you wish."

That was a departure from the standard—if she had cast a containment circle, she would have said, "I give you leave to depart." But Jason's Salamanders came and went as they wished when he did not specifically need them, and he took no harm from them—if she was to follow in his footsteps, she must give the Sylphs the same freedom.

The books had all warned that when presented with the Pact that bound Magician and Elementals, the Sylph might turn angry and refuse to swear-another reason for the containment circle, which would prevent it from departing until it had sworn on behalf of all its kind.

But that did not happen, not this time; this seemed to be another example in favor of Jason's policy of cooperation instead of coercion. It laughed, long and merrily. "Too clever, too cautious, too disciplined to be caught!" it crowed. "You will be a good friend, and a good Master. Very well, Rosalind Hawkins, we will swear the Pact with you, for you will not abuse it, but neither will you be seduced by us!"

It remained solemn—although its eyes danced with merriment—just long enough to repeat the phrases that bound them Magickally together. But the moment the Pact was sworn, it became a laughing breeze again, and whirled around the room one more time, before vanishing.

And it took all her hairpins with it.

Rose sat down, all in a heap, right where she was, feeling completely drained of energy and emotion. Jason allowed her to remain long enough to catch her breath, then crossed the now-superfluous chalked lines to extend a hand to her.

She looked up at him without taking his hand. "It nearly had me," she said, reaction to what she had so narrowly escaped setting in. "It nearly pulled me in, and I would never have come out again."

"And depending on whether or not I could persuade the Sylphs to listen to my Salamanders, I would either have spent several days trying to bring you back, or regretfully sent what was left of you off to a lunatic asylum," he replied gravely. "Yes. I could not warn you; you had to face that danger, that temptation, all yourself. Now you see the danger inherent in treating with the Sylphs. The Salamanders invite one to unregulated passion when they first appear; the Sylphs to losing one's self in dreaming. The Gnomes tempt to the extreme of sloth, self-indulgence, and if you will forgive me—sexual excess; and the Undines to the extreme of self-deception, particularly where one's own abilities are concerned. That is the danger with all the Elementals; they can entice the would—be Magician into fatal excess of the worst kind—the kind that always lives within him, because of his unbalanced Nature."

"You didn't tell me—the books didn't tell me—" She felt somehow shocked and betrayed.

"They hinted at it—though I will admit that I did not," he told her. "As I said, your Master is not permitted to give you an obvious warning; it is a test, and one you had to face without a real warning. You wouldn't understand it until you felt it for yourself. Now you do. And you will never fall prey to it, because you did not in your moment of greatest vulnerability." He shrugged. "From this moment on, your Mastery is largely a matter of increasing skill and practice. You have learned the trick of juggling; now you will simply learn to add more balls until you can juggle as many as I can."

He offered her his hand again; this time, she took it, but she was still shaken. "If you hadn't cleared your throat—"

"That is why I am the Master. It was my duty to remind you of yours." Now he smiled. "My own Master made a particularly cutting remark about fools who let their emotions get the better of them to one of his Salamanders when I was in danger of forgetting my priorities. You required a much subtler reminder, and that in itself is impressive. I cannot speak for every Apprentice, but I suspect most of them require prodding by their Masters at the moment of truth."

"Oh." She said nothing more, but felt immensely relieved that she had not done as badly as she had thought.

Now that she was on her feet, and the initial shock had worn off, she was able to think again. There would always be one Sylph about her now, waiting and watching. Whether or not it came when she called and did as she asked would be largely a matter of concentration and willpower—and her ability to persuade it. Jason no longer had to persuade his Salamanders, in no small part because they were in the habit of obeying him. She had to remember that although the Sylph had looked human, most of them were not particularly intelligent. Once they got into the habit of obeying her, they wouldn't think of doing otherwise.

It might also do things just because it thought she would like them done; and a rare, very intelligent Sylph would perform actions even because it thought she needed them done. Jason's "pet Salamander" was certainly inclined that way. It held intelligent conversations with him, and even contradicted him if he was wrong. Perhaps one of her Sylphs would develop that kind of intelligence.

She had not realized that Jason had led her out of the Work Room until she found herself standing beside the sofa in the study.

She started to turn to go back to clean up the mess she had left behind. "The Work Room—" she said, vaguely. "The mess—" She couldn't have the Sylph erase the diagrams and clean up the remains of the invocation—that was impossible, by the Pact that bound her to the Sylphs and vice versa.

He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently down onto the sofa. "The Salamanders can take care of the mess," he said. 'That is another aspect that is useful about having two Disciplines operating in the same household. My Salamanders are perfectly free to clean up after Air Work, and your Sylphs are permitted to clean up after Works of Fire. They will even enjoy doing so. Here—"

He handed her a cup of restorative tea, and she drank it down, thankfully. Her exhaustion was largely a matter of nerve and emotion—the effects of reaction after having successfully completed what really had been a dangerous task. In a moment or two, she would feel better.

But for right now, I believe I would really prefer to sit here on the couch!

Finally, after fifteen or twenty minutes, her nerves felt steady again, and her hands had stopped shaking. In all that time, Jason had not said a word. He simply sat in his chair and watched her carefully, as if he was studying her. Perhaps he was; after all, he was a Master, and it was part of his obligation to be aware of the mental, physical, and emotional state of his Apprentice.

"Did this happen to you?" she demanded.

He evidently understood precisely what she meant. "The reaction? Of course. But I am curious about something." He leaned forward, and focused on her intently. "When you became comfortable with your role—when you were thinking about nothing except the work, how did it feel to you?"

"How did it feel?" she repeated. It felt wonderful, but how do I describe that? "It felt—I'm not certain. I think I must have felt the way an opera singer feels, when everything comes together in a perfect performance. As if I was born to do this, as if nothing in the world was more natural or right for me. There was a joy, a feeling of completion, a feeling of coming home—" She shook her head. "All that, and more. I can't describe it properly."

He sat back, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his eyes. "You don't have to. This was something du Mond never felt, and I should have known then that there was something wrong with him. The true Magician, the one who is born to it, comes to his work with pleasure, and not as if it is work. I suspect this must be the case with anyone who is doing what he is truly suited to, whether he be a Magician or a singer, a poet or a priest, or even a plumber. You had that joy about you; this is what you were born to do."

So he has felt the same way! She had thought perhaps that the feeling had been chimerical—or even simply the effect of her own imagination.

"You won't always have so pure an experience," he warned. "No singer has a perfect performance every night, after all. But some of that joy will always be there for you, reminding you of the moments when it does all come together into a perfect whole." He sighed wistfully. "The only other time I have ever felt that perfection was when I was riding Sunset. Now, I dare not go near him, for fear that I'll frighten him."

She put down her cup and got to her feet, extending her hand to him. "That reminds me—I have something I would like to show you," she told him. "That is, if you think we have time for a brief stroll outside."

"Outside?" He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, and stood up. "Well, why not? After all, there's no one here to see me, is there?"

"Precisely." She said nothing more, but simply led him down the stairs to the side door—the one leading to the stables. He followed her as far as the walk, then stopped when he realized that she was heading towards Sunset's paddock.

"We can't go there—" he protested.

She stopped, and turned around to face him. She had not put her hair up after the encounter with the Sylph, and the wind flirted with it. "I have been doing other reading," she said, "but as a horseman, you can probably confirm what I read. Just how good is a horse's eyesight?"

"Not very," he admitted. "They tend to rely as much on scent and sound as on sight. That is one reason why they are so prone to shying at things they don't expect. They can sense movement very well, but they have to stare fixedly at something they don't recognize in order to identify it."

"And are you afraid that you would frighten Sunset because of the way you look—or because your scent has changed?"

"The latter," he said, puzzled. "But—"

"But I have had your Salamander bring me your shirts for the past month and more, and I have been leaving them overnight in Sunset's stall to familiarize him with your new scent!" she said triumphantly. "He was a bit alarmed at first, but evidently there was enough of the old 'you' in the new scent to reassure him. Now he is quite used to it. Won't you please at least try to see if he'll accept you?" she begged shamelessly, looking up into his troubled eyes. "He misses you so much—and I am simply no real substitute for you. Even the company of poor old Brownie is not enough to make up for your loss."

He looked away for a moment, and she sensed he was struggling with himself. She continued with arguments she had rehearsed almost as many times as the apologetic speech she had not had a chance to deliver. "Du Mond told me that he was a gift from another Firemaster, and although I have not had a great deal of experience with horses, it seems to me that he is truly quite out of the ordinary. Given that, don't you think you ought to give him the chance to prove he can tolerate more than any other horse you might have owned?"

"Perhaps," he murmured, but he did not sound convinced.

"He needs more exercise than he gets in that little paddock," she persisted, putting one hand on his arm. "And I cannot ride. I would not even dare to take him for walks, like a dog; I don't know enough about horses to keep him under control if he should take fright. He needs to be ridden, or he will be quite out of condition before long. He needs to see more than the paddock, or I think he will grow stale with boredom."

"Is he in the paddock now?" Cameron asked, still looking away from her, off in the direction of the stable.

He doesn't want to see my pleading expression! she guessed shrewdly. He is afraid he would not be able to resist it!

"Yes, he is—and you know, if he will not come to you, I think we could take that as the sign that he will not accept you as you are," she replied, as persuasively as she could. "After all, he hated du Mond, and the paddock seemed to provide plenty of room for him to feel safe when the man was anywhere near."

"That's true...." Finally, after several minutes, he turned back to her. "All right. I will make your experiment on that basis." His tone turned wry. "I only hope he does not decide to attack me! That is what the lead stallion would do, in defense of his herd, if a wolf came sniffing about."

"He won't," she replied with confidence. Given Sunset's reaction to the scent of Jason's shirts, she was quite certain that Cameron's fears were unfounded. Perhaps if she had not taken the time to accustom the stallion to the scent, he would have been correct—but now whenever she brought a new shirt, Sunset drank in the scent, then looked to the direction of the house or the door of the stable expectantly, whickering as if he thought that Jason himself was about to appear.

It was her turn to take Jason's hand and lead him along the path to the stable and paddock area. He hung back, as though reluctant to go, and yet he kept straining his gaze for the first sight of Sunset.

I thought he missed that horse more than he would admit, precisely because he didn't talk about it. In fact, he had avoided the subject of Sunset and riding as much as possible, once he knew that she did not ride and could not give his beloved stallion his needed exercise. This was a part of his life that had been painful to give up.

As they came into sight of the paddock, she whistled shrilly—another unladylike habit that her father had never asked her to break.

"Whistling girls and crowing hens, both will come to some bad ends." How many times did bratty little boys quote that piece of doggerel at me?

Sunset whickered in immediate answer to her whistle, and soon came trotting into view. He broke into a canter at the sight of her—

And then stopped dead, staring at her companion.

Jason stopped as well, pulling his hand away from hers. "He sees me—he's afraid of me—"

"Nonsense!" she said briskly, seizing his hand again and tugging him insistently onwards. "He thinks you might be Paul du Mond, that's all! Good heavens, du Mond has been the only other human besides myself he has seen in months and months! Of course he doesn't know it's you yet. Call to him, or whistle, whatever you used to do so he knows it is you!"

Oh drat—can he whistle anymore?

But Jason cleared his throat, and made a series of very peculiar, high-pitched yipping sounds. "Sunset!" he called, as the stallion's ears pricked forward, and he took a tentative step or two in their direction. "Ho, Sunset!" Then he called out something else in a guttural tongue that Rose assumed was Arabic.

The stallion whinnied shrilly, and broke into a run towards them, pulling up at the last minute right at the fence, rearing a little in excitement. He continued to dance in place, ears up, tail flagged, showing far more excitement than he ever did when Rose greeted him. Jason ran too, dropping Rose's hand to sprint to the fence, where he met the horse, caught either side of the halter in his hands, and pulled Sunset's head down to his chest. The stallion made little rumbling sounds that Rose assumed were noises of happiness and contentment, as Jason rubbed and scratched his head, ears, and neck. Jason muttered things under his breath that Rose knew were words of affection and contentment, even though she couldn't understand a bit of it.

She made her way in a leisurely manner down to the fence, and stood beside them for several minutes. Stallion and Master were totally oblivious to her.

Which is as it should be, she thought, with great content of her own.

"His tack is all still in the stable," she said aloud. "And he's quite used to having the Salamanders about. I suspect you could have them act as stableboys. I'll be up at the library when you've finished your ride."

For a moment, she thought that he hadn't heard her. Then be turned to her with tears literally standing in his eyes.

"How can I ever thank you?" he asked. "You've given me back something I thought I would never have again—"

"You can thank me by saddling up and taking this poor, neglected horse for a long ride," she replied with a laugh. "You both need the exercise. Master Pao said that a great deal of your pain is, frankly, due to the fact that you never leave the house! I take my walks so that I don't turn into a fat little Milwaukee bratwurst-frau—now you go take your rides, or I fear you will do the same!"

And with that, she turned and marched back up to the house, sure that he would take her advice.

She stopped in her room long enough to put her hair and clothing back in order, and looked out the window at the unaccustomed sound of hoofbeats. Sure enough, she reached the window just in time to see Jason, feet somehow crammed into riding-boots, galloping off towards the cliff-top trail.

She wiped a tear or two of her own away, although she was smiling at the same time. I don't think that I have ever seen him so completely happy before. I believe that this time I managed to give him an important part of himself back.

She returned to her mirror, but once her hair was pinned back into place, she didn't rise. Instead, she sat at her dressing-table, staring soberly into the eyes of her reflection. She had not had a moment for contemplation of anything other than Magick in a very long time, but this had brought the question of the future home to her in a way that could not be ignored.

What will happen when he gets the rest of his life back?

Realistically, she already knew what would happen. He wouldn't need her anymore. He would return to his former social round, and there was no room in that for her. She was not the kind of woman that a man of his station would associate with, socially. The only time someone like her would encounter someone like him, perhaps, was as the wife of one of the university professors if he were given a reception following a generous endowment. Or if she somehow achieved scholastic notoriety, and he required advice about a manuscript or something of the sort.

More importantly, she was not the kind of woman a man like Jason Cameron would marry. It was not the thing to have a wife interested in anything other than being the hostess to one's guests, and looking attractive and charming on one's arm when one was a guest elsewhere. Her interests could be in genteel charitable work, fine embroidery, or even gardening, but they could not be scholastic. That might imply she was better educated, or even (heaven forfend!) that she was more intelligent than her spouse.

He'll marry an heiress, of course. Since he has plenty of money of his own, he'll have his pick of an entire flock, and since they have nothing much to do except groom themselves for prospective husbands, they'll all be beautiful, accomplished, and none of them will be as rude or outspoken as I am.

Before he married, of course, he would have to dismiss her in such a way that she would not take offense and cause an inconvenient fuss. He would, no doubt, find her a real Master of Air to Apprentice to, probably as far away as possible. She and all the things he had given her would be packed off—with Jason's heartfelt thanks, eternal gratitude, and a fat check besides her savings to cover any hurt feelings.

Or broken hearts? Oh, I expect he's well acquainted with paying for broken hearts. There. I've admitted it. I'm in love with him.

She sighed, and stared into the eyes of her reflection with resignation; her reflection stared back at her through the lenses of her quite unmodish spectacles. If this had been her first love affair, she probably would have been in tears at this point. But it wasn't, and the fact was, she had never really forgotten the vast social gulf that separated herself and Jason. That gulf was bridged only by the fact of his appearance, and there had never been any illusions on her part that when he got his old self back, the bridge would disintegrate.

And even if he actually proposed to her against all logic, it would probably be out of a sense of duty, of what he owed her. And perhaps out of a notion of avoiding possible scandal—which would not hurt him, but could ruin her. If she accepted, he would be chained to an inappropriate wife, and she would be aware, and resentful, that he had offered her marriage only because he felt he had to. The resentment they both felt would sour everything good that had ever happened between them.

So what does a woman in love with a werewolf do at this point?

The heroine of some popular romance would probably dissolve into tears, and be perfectly incapable of thinking. This would put off any need to plan whatsoever, since she would not be able to face the prospect of such a bleak future, and would live helplessly from day to day. And of course, romantic novels being completely divorced from reality, when Jason did return to normal, like the Prince in Cinderella, he would declare that no matter who or what she was, he would love her forever.

And pigs will doubtless fly before that happens.

But she was not the heroine of a silly romance; her mind seldom stopped working just because her emotions were involved. This was not a fairy tale and even in the originals of the fairy tales, the ending was not guaranteed to be "and they lived happily ever after."

Well, the brave heroines of quite a few fairy tales sacrificed everything for the happiness of the one they loved. She thought about the Little Mermaid, dying so that her prince would never know that it was she who had rescued him, and not the princess he had come to love. Or the half-human, immortal Firebird, giving up Ivan so that the mortal Tsarina could have him. The thought of Beauty and the Beast occurred to her, but she was no Beauty, and her love for him would be no cure for his condition.

Very well, then. I shall be the Little Mermaid, and walk upon legs that stab me with a thousand pains, and in the end, fling myself into the ocean with a smile so that he can have his life again. I will still have my work, I will have a lovely wardrobe, and I shall have the financial means to complete my degree and pursue an academic career. I believe that I will make a fine Professor of Literature in a wonan's college somewhere. I shall attempt to wake the intellect of silly young girls, most of whom will be occupying space until they marry men like Jason, and I will treasure and nurture the intelligence of those few who are different. I will be mysterious and enigmatic, respected, if not loved, perhaps a little eccentric, and I will continue to have Magick.

She practiced the bright smile in the mirror, until she was certain that she had gotten it right. At least she would do better than the poor Mermaid out of this. In the end, she would have a well-fattened bank-account and someplace to go.

And she would have Magick. Perhaps among those silly young girls, she would find another with a spirit like her own, to pass the Magick on to.

Jason's Master had never needed anything more than the Magick to make his life complete. Perhaps she could learn to feel the same.

Her throat closed over tears she refused to shed. And pigs will surely fly the day I do....

Jason brought Sunset back into the paddock at a walk; the stallion was sweating from a good run, but not foaming, and his unstrained breathing told the Firemaster that his wind had not suffered in spite of his long idleness. For being confined to the paddock for so long, he was in remarkably good condition; better than Jason had any right to expect.

That he had accepted Jason, changed as he was—it was nothing short of a miracle, and it was a miracle that would never have happened if it hadn't been for Rose. It had never occurred to him to get Sunset used to the changed scent by bringing shirts down to the stallion's stall. It had never occurred to him that the familiar scent could overcome the unfamiliar sight.

Once again, Rose had given him a gift that he could never repay. What a woman she was! Compared to her, the daughters of his business peers were as shallow and empty-headed as the brainless horses they rode, or the idiot little spaniels they carried about with them.

Once, he had taken it as a matter of course that he would, in due time, marry one of them. He would, of course, continue to have an expensive courtesan discreetly kept in town for his real pleasures—a woman of wit and amusement, who would entertain him in more ways than the amorous. If the girl he married, as was all too likely, found her marital duties a burden, he would perform his duty just often enough to produce a family. He probably would have chosen the prospective bride on the basis of whether or not she showed any potential in her family for Magick; if he had children, he wanted them to be magicians if at all possible.

Frankly, now that I have come to know Rose, I would rather marry one of the spaniels. Fortunately, I don't have to marry one of those brainless debutantes if I choose otherwise. I am a self-made man, in a city of self-made men. I have no well-bred parents with familial expectations of my station. This is no monarchy, where I must wed for the sake of the country. There is no reason why, when all this is over, that I cannot marry Rose. There is no one I have to placate through marriage. I have a fortune of my own, and I do not need to wed another. And I need not explain my choice of bride to anyone. She is a Magician, of a Discipline compatible with mine. She will not need to be sheltered from anything, nor will I need to keep any secrets from her. And—I do not believe she will find the sensual side of marriage at all distasteful.

He had to laugh at that, after a moment. Her? The woman who told me crisply that she had read The Decameron in the original? She might well force me to prove my mettle!

But as he dismounted, and pain shot up his legs from his cramped feet, the reality of his situation came home to him.

He was still trapped in the body of a half—beast. And there was no real evidence that he would be able to reverse that condition any time soon. No matter what his dreams and plans, that was the current reality.

He led Sunset into the stable, and with the help of his Salamanders, removed the tack to be cleaned and began to rub him down and groom him.

Such a purely physical occupation gave him plenty of time for reflection, although his thoughts were far from pleasant ones. He was being very confident in her presence about the matter, but the fact was that they were no closer to finding a solution than they had been when he first hired her. And he had a shrewd notion just who owned that manuscript the Unicorn referred to.

Beltaire has it, I'm sure of it, and he'd burn it to ash if he thought there was even a chance that I might get my hands on it. He is the only person I "know" that I have not asked about it, and if he had any inkling of my condition, he is probably gloating over it.

What could he possibly offer her, trapped in this state as he was?

She was being very brave and very controlled, giving no obvious sign that she found his bestial form repugnant, and in fact, he thought that now and again she actually managed to forget the form he wore, at least as long as she was not looking directly at him. But how could any woman look at him without shrinking away? He was hideous, a nightmare, and he would be a fool to think otherwise.

She was willing to be kind to him, but he should not hope for love, could not expect it out of even this most generous-hearted of women.

Even though I am afraid I have actually fallen in love with her myself. She would have to be a saint to love me as I am, and Rose Hawkins is no saint.

What a damnable situation.

He bore down on the brush savagely, and Sunset snaked his head about and nipped him in protest. Not that painful, but a reminder that Sunset would not put up with mistreatment.

If the situation were different—

Then I might well find myself in an equally damnable situation. She is not some pretty fool to be swept off her feet as I impersonate a prince in a fairy tale. How could I possibly propose to her as myself without giving her cause to resent me? "Here I am, handsome, rich, powerful, and shouldn't you be pleased that I, in all my glory, have deigned to make you my bride?" Or she'll think I'm making the offer out of a sense of obligation, and that would make any normal human feel strongly resentful.

Perhaps, in time, he might be able to persuade her that he was sincere—but she might not be willing to grant him the time.

She had a life of her own before her father died. She can resume her education, get her doctoral degree, and go on to a fine and respected career as an historical scholar and Lady Professor. She does not need me or any man—to give purpose to her life, for she already had it, earned by her own effort and no one else's.

With a sigh, he put up the brush and currycomb, and saw to Sunset's dinner.

There was no answer; the prospects were equally bleak whether he reverted to his former self or remained as he was. She could not love him as a beast, and probably would not love him as a man.

The best he could do would be to conceal his true feelings, and continue on as they were. If he could not have her love, he would at least not spoil the friendship.

He left Sunset to his grain, and turned his steps back toward the house, prepared to hide his feelings forever, if need be.

Fortunately, the mask of the beast made it damnably easy to hide the heart of the man.