The Fire Rose

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

Now why had he leapt to her defense like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Even Simon?" the Salamander asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just as he had promised.

A quick glance at her new watch told her that there would be plenty of time to explore before Cameron needed her services. The only question was—inside, or out? There was a great deal about the house she had only glimpsed last night; she would like to see it all in daylight.

But the sun shining warmly outside her window made up her mind immediately. If all she had heard was true, bright, sunny days were not all that frequent in this season. She should take advantage of this one. Tomorrow it might ram; she could explore the mansion then.

She hurried through her breakfast and took up the basket. The map showed her a side entrance not far from the staircase on the first floor, letting out near the stables for the benefit of those who wanted to take an early-morning ride; she would take that. She felt shy about confronting any more of Cameron's strange servants—people who could slip in and out of a room without her even hearing a footfall or people like Paul du Mond.

Especially people like Paul du Mond.

A breeze of no particular direction swirled around her as she stepped out into the sunshine, tugging her skirt around her ankles. She smiled and kicked free, turning at the same time to her right as movement attracted her attention.

The stable lay to her left, a building that could well have been mistaken for a fine home, painted in the traditional red with white trim and surrounded by white-painted fences. Behind it lay a forest of dark green trees, through which wind played, bringing her the scent of the woodland. In the middle of a lushly green field attached to the stable, surrounded by a wooden fence painted so pure a white that it hurt the eyes, a horse reared and danced with the breeze. Rose was not familiar enough with horses to know what kind he was, but it was clear to even the amateur eye that this was a stallion, and an extremely expensive one. His coat gleamed a pure copper, his mane and tail a fiery bronze; his muscles rippled beneath the shining coat with every move he made, and he was more alive than any other horse she had ever seen. He reared again, pawing playfully at the breeze, then glanced at her as she drew nearer the fence, attracted by his vibrant vitality. His dark eyes flashed, and she could have sworn he was laughing as he settled again on four hooves and whirled, neck curved in a perfect arch and tail flagged, turning towards her.

Fascinated and entranced by the beautiful stallion, she did not realize that she was walking towards the fence until she actually ran into it. The horse danced sideways towards her, as daintily as any ballet dancer, stopping just out of reach, where he posed as if perfectly well aware how lovely he was, and intending to show off for his appreciative audience.

"That's Sunset," said a dry tenor behind her. "Or, strictly speaking, 'Cameron's Fiery Sunset,' a pure Arab from a line that reaches back farther than your lineage and mine put together, imported at immense expense from somewhere near Mecca. Pampered beyond belief. Only Jason can ride him, of course."

She did not have to turn to know that Paul du Mond had once again approached her without her realizing it. Her shoulders tensed, and her hands clenched on the wicker handle of the basket. She did not know why she was developing such an aversion to the man, but every time she encountered him, that distaste grew more pronounced. "Oh?" she replied, without turning. "I wouldn't know an Arab stallion from a plowhorse, but even I can tell he's beautiful."

The horse stared at a point behind her, and gave a snort that sounded disgusted, although she would not ordinarily have attributed an emotion to an animal. He kicked up his heels and pranced away to the far side of the enclosure, where he resumed his dance with the breeze, glancing from time to time at her and ignoring Paul du Mond disdainfully.

Du Mond laughed, a sound with no humor in it. "He doesn't like me, and I'm afraid it's mutual. He was a gift from some Arabian chieftain, or whatever they call themselves. He was escorted here by a half a dozen of the nastiest-looking barbarians you ever could imagine, bedecked with flowing robes and great, curved swords, and evil expressions. While they were here, they lived in a tent on the lawn and took time out for praying to Mecca ten times a day. I'm told the horse had his own cabin on the boat that brought him to New York; he certainly had his own special car on the train that took him from there to here. Walnut and redwood interior, special spring-water to drink, and every strand of hay and oat he was fed examined by his entourage before he was given it."

"Really." If Cameron went to all that trouble for a mere horse—well, now she had some notion of her position in the scheme of things. Oddly enough, that was comforting. The less extraordinary Cameron's attentions, the better she liked the situation.

I am a pair of eyes and a voice, and that is all he needs of me. Good. She had rather be an object of utility than of interest. The one thing she did not want was for Cameron to take her for anything other than—say—a colleague.

Du Mond finally came up beside her and leaned on the fence, ostensibly watching the horse. "There are hundreds of children in the city that have less spent on their welfare than Sunset—and all for a horse that no one can ride since Jason's... accident." He cast a sardonic glance at Rose. "Jason is like that; if something benefits him personally, then he spares no expense on it, but if it's for anyone else's well-being, unless their welfare helps him in some way—well, that's just too bad." The man shrugged. "He's peculiar in other ways, too; he has odd interests and odder habits. He's got some notions many people would find unsettling. And some would say that he is dangerous."

"Oh?" She kept her attention on the horse. While she did not know a great deal about animals, she had noticed that they tended to reflect the way they were treated in the way they behaved. This was an animal that had never known a harsh word or a blow when young, and even now feared no one and nothing. He had never been mistreated, only controlled, which was interesting in itself. She knew many, many men who, to prove that they could, would have "broken" a horse like this one. She guessed that Paul du Mond was one of them.

Another of those oblique glances came her way. "He likes to own people as well as things; he likes to control them. When he can't, he prefers to make certain no one else ever can or will."

She echoed his earlier shrug, and said nothing. Du Mond waited for her to say something, then suddenly conjured up a charming manner and ingratiating smile.

"I'm sure you've met men like him before, so that hardly surprises you," he said, as he edged a little closer to her. She pretended to adjust her skirt to give herself the excuse to step away, keeping him at the same distance as before. "Powerful men tend to use their power without thinking it might crush those beneath them. We underlings have to remember our place, but it always helps to have someone about who knows how to handle an employer, don't you think? Jason has some strange talents, and stranger friends than that Arab to help him enforce his will; it's best to be warned in advance, it seems to me."

"I suppose so; I've never been an employee before," she replied without committing herself. If I was as foolish as he seems to think I am, to be won over by a charming smile and a comradely manner, I might even believe what he's saying. Now, finally, she realized who he reminded her of—a particularly facile graduate student who had been everyone's friend—and who had used his ability to ingratiate himself with people to crib shamelessly from their research.

She had heard things like this, before. Like Paul du Mond, Steven Smythe-David had also hinted darkly of conspiracies among the other students and even the professors, conspiracies aimed at "eliminating the competition."

She had been one of the first to be taken in, but fortunately she was quick to recognize her own researches when she saw them in someone else's presentation; particularly when she knew that he had never read a single one of the medieval letters he had quoted. All of her weeks of research had been for nothing, since he was as quick to write a paper as he was to steal the work, and beat her by a good week.

She might have allowed the friendship to persist anyway because he had also pretended to the beginnings of a romantic interest. She even started to convince herself that if his interest went far enough, marriage was an option. She toyed with the notion of making a husband and wife partnership with him. She would conduct the research, and he would write the papers. Of course, she would get no credit, but that was no new thing; many men of science and letters had similar arrangements with their wives, if the wife had a scholarly bent... and certainly, this was often the only way that a woman's research would ever be given credence.

Then she realized that such an arrangement would be nothing less than absolute falsehood. Her realization coincided with the point when her father's fortunes went into decline, and there were no more gowns, parties, or opera excursions, only economy after economy. When her money evaporated, so did Steven's interest in her. When he ceased to call, she was hurt for a while, but not deeply, and she soon got over it when she saw what a shallow creature he was.

She had thought about warning some of the other students when he began approaching them, but they had treated her so shabbily that she decided to have a subtle sort of revenge by letting them find out for themselves why this charming fellow had decided to cultivate a friendship.

And they did, as Steven presented paper after purloined paper, the spread of his subjects seemingly demonstrating a great breadth of expertise and interest. One of the professors even remarked in ignorance that Steven showed enough knowledge for ten people.

Of course he did, since he was cribbing from ten people. Once Steven had presented his paper, of course, none of those he had defrauded could present their own without it looking as if they had cribbed from him instead of the other way around. Eventually he was caught and expelled, but she guessed that he had probably gone on to another university to begin the same game all over again—and eventually, he would get his degree out of his machinations. And then—probably a professorship, where he would bungle his way through teaching unsuspecting undergraduates the rudiments of classical literature. Half of what he taught would be wrong, but they would never know that, having no interest in the subject beyond passing the course. He would probably woo and wed the daughter of a wealthy man or of the president of the college, and so settle himself comfortably for life. He would exert himself only enough to see that his life was comfortable with a minimum of effort required to keep it that way.

Physically, Paul du Mond looked nothing like Steven, who had been the tall, athletic, hearty and flaxen-haired collegiate to the core. That was what had kept her from recognizing the similarity at first. Perhaps it was his tone, perhaps something in the way he gestured; perhaps it was something else entirely but now that she had the reference, her instinctive urge not to trust him had something she could base it on, and she was not about to let him charm her.

Much less seduce me, she thought grimly. But she allowed none of this to show, as she eased herself a little further away from him. "Well, although my duties will not commence until after dinner, I am sure I am keeping you from very important work, Mr. du Mond," she said lightly, swinging her basket in the hand nearest him to keep him from making the excuse to pick it up and carry it for her, and to force him to keep his distance. After all his hints about how important he was to Jason Cameron, he could hardly reverse himself and claim he had plenty of time to waste now! "I have a great desire to view the ocean, since I have never seen it this closely before. I'll be getting along now, so that I can be back before sunset. Good afternoon!"

And with that, she struck off down the path that the map said eventually led to the sea, leaving du Mond staring after her. Evidently he had never been cut dead quite so cleverly before; she'd left him speechless.

Perhaps now he thinks that I am even more foolish than I seem! She had no objection to that—provided he did not think that would make her easier to seduce.

Not that I have any illusions about my beauty—or rather, lack of it. But so far she had seen no other females about, and had certain knowledge only of the housekeeper, who was presumably of middle age or older. Hardly competition—

Assuming I was competing. She was not that desperate to change her single status.

Her path led beside the fence for a goodly way, and the horse left off his wind-dancing to trot along beside her, giving every evidence of enjoying her company. She had no objection, particularly if Sunset's presence would ensure du Mond's absence.

"I wish I knew how to ride," she said aloud to the frisking stallion. I think you might let me on your back."

The horse bobbed his head wildly, for all the world as if he was answering her in the affirmative, and she had to laugh aloud. "Perhaps Mr. Cameron will get you a nice little mare to keep you company, and you can settle down together," she said lightly. "Be good, Sunset. I will try to remember to bring you an apple next time."

Her path left the fenced-in field and plunged into a stand of lush trees at that point, and she left the horse standing at the fence, watching wistfully after her. Doubtless, he was longing for a good gallop outside of the fences. She felt cooler air close around her as she entered the shadows of the forest, and was glad she had worn clothing appropriate to the chill.

The path was well-groomed and she had no fear of losing her way, although it turned and twisted so many times she quite lost track of where on it she was supposed to be. The noise of the sea grew louder, so she knew she had to be going in the right direction, but she did not know if she would come upon the shore in another few feet or another half mile.

But there was another surprise waiting for her, as she broke at last into the open. A stretch of perhaps twenty yards of closely cropped turf lay between her and nothingness. Although the path did, indeed, lead to the sea, it gave out on a cliff overlooking waves pounding the shore far beneath her.

Seagulls hung in the air at the level of her eyes, hardly bothering to move more than a wingtip to keep themselves aloft, as a strong wind along the cliff-face did all of the work of flying for them. Below her, at the foot of a rocky escarpment, waves crashed against tumbled rock and sent spray halfway up the face of the cliff. There was a scrap of a beach down there as well, and what appeared to be a path leading up. She was not adventurous enough to care to trust it.

She walked cautiously to the very edge and looked down. It was several stories'-worth, at least, in height. It felt for a moment as if she were swaying, and she backed hastily away.

"Well," she said aloud, "if there were ever a place for a picnic more picturesque than this, I have never seen it. What's more, I'm hungry."

She checked the map again to make sure that she wasn't inadvertently trespassing, before settling in. A group of rocks made a convenient shelter from the wind, and in their lee side, the sun had soaked into them until they were quite comfortably warm. She spread out her napkin and the contents of the basket, and proceeded to enjoy herself. Once again, someone had anticipated her taste. There were no ladylike cress and cucumber dainties in this luncheon, but a thick slice of honey-cured ham on more of that tangy bread, garnished with lettuce and a hearty mustard, and accompanied by good sharp cheese and soft rolls. A bottle of lemonade was more welcome than wine would have been with a long walk in front of her. The only concession to femininity was a delicate jam tart.

When she had finished, she amused herself by flinging the remains of the rolls to the gulls. Although they were probably unused to being fed by humans, it did not take long for such supreme scavengers to grasp the fact that she was throwing edibles over the side of the cliff. Before long, they were swooping in and catching what she tossed long before it reached the foaming sea below.

The edge of the cliff seemed quite open in either direction, although the coastline made such twists and turns that it was not possible to see anything past the nearest promonotories. But if she followed the coastline north, she would, eventually, come to San Francisco. It would take a long time to walk there, particularly if she was burdened with a valise, but Jason Cameron did not have her trapped while she had two feet and shoe leather to cover them.

She did not need to consult the map again; there were no paths leading here other than the one she had taken. She lingered a while longer to give Paul du Mond ample opportunity to take himself about his business, then returned along the way she had come. There had been an apple among the luncheon things; remembering her promise to Sunset, she had not eaten it, but had tucked it back into the basket.

She was irrationally pleased when Sunset greeted her with a friendly whicker and trotted up to her before she presented him with the apple. Of course, he could have scented it—

Nevertheless, the feeling of his soft, warm lips on her palm as he gently took pieces from her made her smile, and when he followed along beside her like a puppy as she headed back towards the house, she smiled even more. If only she knew how to ride! But she was not foolish enough to dare putting a saddle on a stallion that no one but Cameron could ride, no matter how gentle and friendly the horse seemed!

It was just about sunset when she reached her room, leaving the basket just outside her door for one of the invisible servants to take away. There was a hot dinner waiting for her—one of the servants must have seen her feeding Sunset—and she found that she was starving although it seemed as if she had just eaten lunch. According to her watch, it had taken two hours to stroll down to the sea, but three to return, and the return trip had been all uphill.

It's just a good thing that I'm used to walking and I am still going to feel the results of my bravado in the morning, she thought as she attacked her meal with zest. Chicago is not known for its hills, after all!

She had just enough time by her watch to tidy up before her evening session of reading. She found, once she had done so, that she was a hundred times more relaxed than she ever recalled being for the past three years and more.

Well, she thought, as she lit the reading-lamp and waited for the voice of her employer to request the first book of the night, Perhaps there is something to be said for jumping off into the unknown, after all. What you cannot anticipate, you cannot dread.

As always, the study was in darkness except for a lamp, glowing under its heavy red-velvet shade. Jason Cameron folded his misshapen paws together beneath the shelter of his desk and regarded his employee and putative Apprentice with what he hoped was an icy calm. Of course, the lupine mask that was now his face was not well suited to expressing subtleties; if he was not in a deep and fiery rage, he tended to look calm and unruffled. But although Paul du Mond was a lazy fool he was not an unobservant lazy fool, and the less Paul knew, the better.

The younger man was dressed impeccably as usual, in an expensive tailored suit that Cameron's money had furnished, silk tie held with the diamond pin that was all that was left of his own "fortune." His handsome face bore an expression of dissatisfaction that he attempted to cover with an imperfect mask of deference.

Jason already knew about the encounter at the stable, but he was waiting to see if Paul reported it. If he did, well and good. If he did not—he would bear closer watching than Cameron had anticipated.

"Oh—and I met with Miss Hawkins just outside Sunset's paddock," du Mond said casually. "She was carrying a basket, so I assumed you knew she was going wandering and arranged for a luncheon." The slight rise of his eyebrow turned that into a question.

He nodded.

Du Mond frowned. "Do you think that's entirely wise? She might encounter one or more of your neighbors—"

Cameron laughed. "And what harm could that possibly do? What is wrong with my engaging another servant?"

But Du Mond grimaced. "She is not precisely a servant," the man pointed out. "Nor is she a guest. And she is unchaperoned."

The Firemaster shrugged. "She will style herself as such if she is wise and wishes to preserve her reputation. She won't tell anyone that she is here alone and unchaperoned. If she's foolish enough to do so, she will brand herself as one of my demimonde ladies, and my very proper neighbors will have nothing whatsoever to do with her. If she does not make that mistake, they will assume she is here with the appropriate protections and will not feel any great impetus to place themselves in the position of protector. The one thing I cannot be accused of is taking advantage of an innocent. All of my light-of-loves have been well-known professional ladies, and while my neighbors may find this a bit fast, they also feel it is to be expected in a vigorous man in my position. Moreover, since they have persisted in flinging their daughters at my head, I assume my reputation as a gentleman is intact. They would hardly wish to wed their offspring to a rake."

Du Mond merely grunted, which Cameron took for agreement.

"Did you observe anything unusual about her?" Cameron persisted, curious to see if du Mond had taken note of how positively the stallion had responded.

Du Mond shrugged. "Sunset likes her to the point where he follows her like a puppy, but I don't see that as being very important."

As well not to tell him that Firemaster Prince Ibrahim had told him the stallion was supremely sensitive to personalities and would be a good way to measure whether someone could be trusted. "Animals dote on women," he said dismissively. "It is an indication of their more primitive nature."

When Paul actually smiled and nodded agreement at that piece of balderdash, he had to repress a sigh of disgust. How could he ever have thought the fool had the potential for the Great Magicks? He was facile, yes, and quick—but his fire was all on the surface, with no depth to his personality or his mind. Given fuel, it would burn out and leave no trace of its passing.

Jason Cameron was not going to waste precious fuel. Eventually, he would have to put some thought into finding a way to be rid of the man, but at the moment, Paul was his only access to the outside world.

But if he becomes too troublesome, that can change. I hired Rosalind Hawkins without his help; I could hire an appropriately close-mouthed and discreet manservant the same way. One of the other Elemental Masters might even be willing to help him with the choice of a servant; the local Earthmaster, for instance, who had no interest in Elemental power-struggles and wished only to tend his forest creatures and his garden, dispense herbal medicine, and pursue his charities. Perhaps Ho, the Master of Air he had no love for Simon Beltaire, not after Simon had disfigured him in a quarrel over a Chinese slave-girl. Or I could buy a Chinese boy, see that he learned English, free him, and educate him. Given the new freedom and luxury he would have with me, he would be more securely mine than if I bound him in chains, and as intensely loyal as a mastiff.

Definitely a project for the future. And as for Paul—

If only I could interest Simon in him! They deserve each other. A pity that's too dangerous a prospect.

"Is there anything else that requires my attention?" he asked.

Paul shook his head. "Your elemental servants are performing well, your office can tell you how your investments are doing better than I. When are you going to begin teaching me again?"

He had been expecting this; Paul asked the same question once a week. "When you have mastered the Ninth Summons," he replied smoothly. "Until you do that, there is no point in going further, since virtually everything in the next stage requires that Summons or something like it."

Paul pouted; it was not an attractive expression on the face of a grown man. He could not deny the truth of the Firemaster's words, however, for he could see it in the hand-written tomes of Magick for himself, if he cared to look. Now, if Paul's troubles with mastering the Summons had been related to temperament, Cameron would have found an alternative to the course of study he had set for du Mond. But Paul's failures were due entirely to laziness, an unwillingness to sacrifice anything, not even a moment of leisure or a single luxurious meal. The Summons required a fast of seven days and total dedication for a month. Paul had tried numerous shortcuts; he had met with failure. Until he was prepared to conduct the Summons correctly, he would continue to meet with failure.

And since Jason Cameron would be willing to stake his entire fortune that he would never take the time and effort to conduct the Summons properly, Paul du Mond would never progress beyond Apprentice. And the most ironic thing of all was that in frantically seeking for the easy path he would waste a hundred-fold the time and effort it would have taken to do the Summons properly.

I hope I can rid myself of him without any... unpleasantness. Fortunately, du Mond had no living relations with whom he was still on speaking terms. He had alienated anyone who might ordinarily have felt concern if he vanished without explanation. It would, in fact, be only what most of them expected. Paul had been a clever "confidence artist" when Cameron first encountered him, alternating his time between parting fools from their money by sheer persuasion and by card-sharping. The latter was his court of last resort, as gambling cheaters, even in relatively civilized San Francisco, tended to find themselves facing guns or knives in the hands of very unhappy people.

Paul could not know what Cameron was thinking, but the Firemaster's steady and unflinching gaze clearly made him nervous. He began chattering mostly making excuses why he had not yet completed the Ninth Summons successfully—and Cameron ignored him.

I believe it is time to persuade him to go away. With a whispered word, he caused the lamps on his desk to flare, so that he was no longer hidden in the shadows of his chair.

Du Mond started, and broke off in the middle of his sentence. A second later, he looked completely composed, but Cameron had seen the fear igniting his eyes for a moment before his mask came down. "I still have some letters to write for you," du Mond said, his voice trembling ever-so-slightly, although his expression remained bland. "If that is all, I trust you will excuse me?"

Cameron nodded a gracious dismissal, and du Mond took himself out. Did he know, did he guess, that Cameron had Salamanders watching every move he made so long as he was on the grounds? Did he know that every mirror in the house was a pair of eyes for the Master?

Did it matter if he did?

I am bordering on hubris. Time to remind myself of what that particular vice can bring.

He stood up and turned towards the wall, reached out a misshapen, hairy paw, and pulled the red-velvet drapery away from the mirror behind his desk, staring unflinchingly into the yellow eyes of his reflection.

Into the face of the beast.

Hubris was what had gotten him here, what had led him to attempt a Magick that was no part of a Firemaster's Disciplines. Hubris left him with paws instead of hands, the mask of a lupine-human hybrid instead of his own face—and beneath the elegant clothing, a half-human body with a garnishing of heavy grey pelt, powerful shoulders, and the indignity of a tail. He stared into his own reflection until his stomach turned, and he let the drapery fall again.

What he had attempted, if it came within any Master's purview, would be in the realm of the Earthmaster. But no Earthmaster would ever have defied Nature the way he had, in his pride and over-confidence, to warp and twist Nature herself with the most blasphemous spell in all of the grimoires of the medieval magicians of ancient France. If an Earthmaster wished to experience the sensation of being a wolf, he would have sent his spirit to share the body of a real wolf; he would never have tried to shape his own body into the form of a gigantic, man-sized wolf.

But Jason was proud of his power, certain of his ability, and had foolishly attempted the old French spell of the lycanthrope, the loup-garou.

There were two kinds of werewolves—those who were cursed to change with the moon, and those who could change at will. Jason was hardly likely to endure the first, but the second tempted him.

The spell called for—among other things—a belt made of the skin of a wolf, and Jason had trapped that wolf himself, just as he had gathered the other ingredients personally. There could be no question of their authenticity or purity. He had performed the spell as required—stark naked except for the belt and he certainly had plenty of experience in correctly following spells.

But something went terribly awry.

He lowered himself carefully down into his chair; his joints did not work quite the same, and his balance was all wrong. Perhaps he would get used to this—

No! he told himself fiercely. I will not get used to this form! I will regain my proper face and body! I will not permit myself to think otherwise!

But the ghost of the pain of that night thrilled over his nerves as he sat. He had never felt pain so intense in all of his life, as his flesh writhed, melted, reformed—he had endured the pain of molten lava to earn his title of Firemaster, but this was worse agony even than that moment.

He had collapsed, half-conscious, on the floor of his workroom.

He had awakened to find himself, not in the form of a four-legged creature, but in this half-and-half hybrid. And he could not take the belt off to break the spell, because the belt had merged into his own body.

Paul du Mond had found him; Paul was the only human to know his true condition. Cameron had sent his human servants away once he regained his senses and replaced them with Elemental servants; had instructed his underlings to send all business to the house so that he need no longer go into the city. Rosalind was the only person he had told the spurious tale of an accident to—he had not wanted even a hint of his difficulty to reach his enemy.

Nothing he had tried when he awoke or since had broken him free, and he had exhausted his memory of anything even remotely related to the spell. He needed to do research.

And he couldn't even hold his own books, much less turn the pages. His eyes wouldn't focus properly; he had trouble reading even large print, much less the crabbed scrawls of many of the handwritten volumes.

But now he had Rosalind Hawkins to be his eyes and hands—and in fact, to translate those manuscripts he himself would have had difficulty reading. Now he could find a solution.

Now the real work could begin.

And as soon as he found his solution, his second act would be to find a way to be rid of Paul du Mond.