Then a surprise; English versions of virtually every book ever considered "holy" by any culture, East or West, again with copies in the original tongues. They were all here-from the Mahabharata to the Koran, from the Talmud to the works of the Zen Masters. She raised an eyebrow at that; Cameron had not struck her as being anything like interested in religion. Perhaps, once he came to the inevitable conclusion that his search for "magical" help was in vain, she might send him here for consolation. Perhaps ... Buddhism? Somehow I can't imagine Jason Cameron becoming a proper Christian lamb. But I can't imagine him seeking enlightenment with serenity either.
She was halfway around the room when she came to the next subject-change; pure mythology, with interpretations and volumes of scholarly speculation. Then a surprise, in the form of medieval romances, ballads, and minstrel-tales.
Interesting. That certainly doesn't fit. Is this the remains of a younger, more romantic Jason Cameron? Or is this fodder for something quite the opposite? At any rate-there was more than enough material here for her to write several dissertations. I wonder if the world could tolerate another analysis of the cult of the Virgin Mary and the reflection of that cult in troubadour-ballads ... no, wait! What about something allied but different? What about reflections of Mary Magdalene in the 'fallen heroines" like Kundrie, Guinevere and Yseult.
That would be new-She happily pursued this notion for some time, making mental notes on a rich lode of source-material Cameron had available here. Why, she might even be able to fashion a doctoral dissertation just from what was here!
And how "proper" it would be for a lady, too-pious reflection on sin and redemption-One of the problems with her previous research had been resistance by her professors to the "appropriateness" of the subjects she found interesting. They could hardly argue with this! Not like the last one, where I was trying to prove that the "allegorical" nature of the courtly love-poem was anything but allegorical!
That brought her all the way to the end, which proved to be all huge, unwieldy, handwritten volumes. Some were old atlases, some she couldn't make head or tail of, and some were rather laughable "natural history" works of the previous century, showing all manner of imaginary beasts and claiming improbable things about them. There was certainly nothing of any use there, and the volumes themselves were so musty they made her sneeze. She dusted her hands off on her skirts and descended.
The weight of the book in her pocket reminded her that she had intended to read it this afternoon. While there was still plenty of light, it would be a good time to look the conservatory over and see if there were any surprises growing in the linked hothouses.
The conservatory was heated by steam and was as warm in this late-fall day as the warmest summer in Chicago - which was quite warm indeed. The conservatory was quite an affair of glass, wood, and wrought-iron, with graveled paths to walk on and wrought-iron benches placed at intervals for seating. In the main greenhouse, the largest one, was the expected tropical paradise, this one complete with two fountains, a waterfall, and towering palm trees.
There was another aspect of this delightful place she had missed in the dark, however-the birds. There were dozens of tiny, brightly-colored birds about the size of a wren flitting among the trees and bushes, bathing in the shallow pools and basins, and helping themselves to half-hidden feeders full of seeds and fruit. She recognized canaries both brown and yellow, but the others were new and entirely baffling. Their twittering blended pleasantly with the falling water, and by placing the benches in open spaces, away from overhanging branches, the unpleasant but inevitable droppings at least were not lurking on the seats.
There were four greenhouses attached to the main one. One held vegetables, one was clearly a forcing-house for flowers, and one for more tropical plants, both to decorate the mansion and to replace others in the conservatory. But the fourth one held herbs-and most of those herbs she didn't recognize.
More of Cameron's obsession with magic? Perhaps; many of the books she had been reading specified odd plants and herbs as components of spell-casting and ritual.
Or he could simply have a very sophisticated cook.
She took her book back to the conservatory and settled onto a bench to read.
In part because the book itself was so well-written, and in part because the concepts were not altogether foreign to her, she finished it quickly and closed the book on the last page just as the sun began to set. She remained with the book closed in her lap, thinking.
If one simply began with the assumption that there is some power that can be tapped with these cantrips and incantations ... there is a logic about all this that is difficult to dismiss out of hand.
It had not been all that long ago that the mysterious force of electricity had been as arcane as any of this magic. Claims of what it could do-besides providing light and heat-were still being made for it that were similar to those made for spells.
Was she being logical, or close-minded? Until now, she would have opted for the former without hesitation. Her understanding of the world was firm-until she read this book that was as reasoned as any of those modern books on science back there in the library.
The sun set, the birds settled into to groups to sleep for the night, some of them packing themselves five and six at a time into round basket-nests made of gourds. The fountains and waterfall continued to play, filling the usual silence of the house with welcome music.
And that, in itself, set off another train of thought. Usual silence ... I have become so accustomed to it, that I haven't thought about it. But there are no sounds of people, ever, anywhere in this place. No sounds of cooking in the kitchen, not even a whisper or a footfall. Yet this place is kept clean, meals are prepared, the animals tended-and the only human I have ever seen within these four walls is Paul du Mond.
She might have said, jestingly, that it was all done by magic. But what if that was no jest, but a fact?
I feel very much as if I have been sleep-walking and have awakened to find myself in a foreign land! She had been lured by the isolation of this place, and by the fact that she wanted that isolation, into ignoring the fact that she did not want the company of others about her. She did not want anyone to know that she was nothing more than a glorified servant in someone else's home, especially not other servants. As long as she could remain in her beautiful, luxurious suite without anyone seeing her here, she could pretend she was not Cameron's paid hireling, but a guest.
So she had willfully put the inconsistency of a huge, well-run establishment without any sign of a menial about completely out of her mind. She had purposefully closed her eyes to things that should have been screaming at her.
Or was I "encouraged" to ignore these things?
The book had also hinted that the power of magic-or rather, "Magick"-could be used to influence the thoughts and even actions of others. Had Cameron been playing with her mind?
A chill ran down the back of her neck, and spread over her entire body. If that was the case, what else could he have been doing to her? Could he be-
Her vision of the world and her common sense warred with what she had observed in this place, and now she was no longer certain of what was true and what was false.
There could be an even more sinister, yet completely mundane explanation. Cameron might be drugging her food, keeping her sleeping so soundly that the noise of staff working in the morning didn't disturb her. Then, once she was awake, he banished the staff to somewhere else on the estate so that she would not come into contact with them. Why he would do something like that, she had no idea-but a man who engineered a plot like that one was hardly sane.
But the situation as it stood was no longer tenable. "I have to talk with him," she said aloud. "I have to confront him, and know the truth about this place." She almost expected to hear a reply come out of the shadows gathering in the dusk beneath the tropical trees, but there was no response but the twittering of sleepy birds.
In a way, that was comforting. If magic
really was a true force in the world, at least Cameron wasn't using it to spy on her every movement and thought.
Cameron was not paying a great deal of attention to the girl as she prowled the halls and rooms of his home; she was not being overly curious-she was not opening drawers or trying cabinet doors, for instance. He didn't see any point in giving her more than cursory attention, although he was too suspicious by nature to let her make her explorations unwatched. He noted with a bit of amusement her enthusiasm for his library, once she got past the first bookcase. She spent a great deal of time where he had expected her to, in front of the medieval section. After that, she retired to the conservatory with a book, one he assumed she had borrowed from those same shelves. Probably more of those ballads the trouveres created, I suspect my selection is as good as that in her university. Trust a woman to be fascinated by the roots of romance and ignore all the open descriptions of Magick as practiced by Masters!
He simply dealt with the mundane affairs of his business while she read, telegraphing orders to his underlings in the city. It was very convenient, having his own telegraphy instrument on his desk; he didn't need to write down the code as it came in, for he was so fluent in Morse he could translate it immediately in his head. If he hadn't had one, he would have had to depend upon Paul to an uncomfortable extent.
It is a pity I cannot give du Mond a watch like Rosalind's-but even if I did, he would probably find a way to be rid of it. Even he is capable of sensing something of that nature.
Having paws instead of hands did not greatly interfere with his telegraphy. With his instructions complete, he turned his attention to shelving his books of Magick and making the selections for tonight. He often ordered the Salamanders to perform this little task, but only when he was busy with other concerns. Even with misshapen paws instead of hands, he could still manage to shelve and remove books-
Then, as he shelved the last one, he knew that there was something wrong. One of the books was missing; there should have been seven, and there were only six. He hadn't noticed because the light was kept so low.
He knew immediately which one it was: The Arte and Science of Magick by Dee. He'd chosen it for her to read, even though it was really an Apprentice's book, because of a partial chapter on transformations, a chapter he thought might jog some associations loose for him if he heard it again.
It was also one of the books he had planned for her to read in its entirety later-when she was ready to believe, to prepare her for the more dangerous books he would ask her to peruse. But he had not planned that to occur for several months at least.
Swiftly he spun, and with a gesture of his black-tipped claws, called the mirror to life. She was still reading, although by the thickness left, there were only a few pages remaining. It was certainly too late to stop her.
He knew her; she was a scholar, and if she had not already deduced that Marcus Dee was a descendent of John Dee, the personal Magician and Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth, she would soon make that connection. The modern Dee had written his book for the instruction of the offspring of High Magicians who also bore the Powers in their blood, offspring presumably under the tutelage and guidance of their parents. To that end, it was clear, concise and erudite, rather than reveling in obscurity. Because it was meant for the eyes of those who were already being competently guided, there was no need to shroud secrets in formulas that required other information from other sources to be decoded.
Even as he watched her, she finished the last few pages and closed the book. In the gathering dusk, she stared straight ahead, her blue eyes behind the lenses of her glasses focused deep within herself. As she sat there, thinking, a myriad of emotions crossed her face. Speculation, alarm, fear-she must be going through incredible turmoil at this moment.
Well, he was sharing those emotions! He clutched both paws in his mane and tugged with frustration. All of his carefully choreographed plans, set awry in a single moment! What was she going to do? More importantly, what was she going to believe?
As if she was answering him, she spoke. "I have to talk to him," she said aloud. "I have to confront him and know the truth about this place."
She stood up, clasping the book to her chest, and turned quickly. A moment later, she was well on her way to the staircase, her brisk stride unimpeded by her skirts, the silk petticoats whispering about her ankles.
Is she coming here? From the determined look on her face, he was quite willing to believe that she would march straight up to the door of his suite and demand entry!
But she went right past the second-floor landing without a pause, heading for her own rooms.
"Dinner for her, quickly, before she reaches her room!" he ordered his servants, harshly-thank Heaven he had already decided on the menu! It appeared, on his silver and china, as always, purloined tonight from the kitchens of the Palace Hotel. He always selected items that would not be missed slices of beef off the joint rather than a steak; soup and vegetables from large batches, and so forth. His servants could have prepared food, of course, but cleaning up required water, which Salamanders were not inclined to touch. He could persuade them to lick the china and silver clean with their flaming tongues, but as for cleaning up pots and pans-
The dinner was in place as she opened the door to her rooms, and before she could say anything, he forestalled her by speaking through the tube. He used his most commanding tone, on purpose, hoping she would not be inclined to ignore his authority if he invoked it.
"I sense you are agitated, Miss Hawkins. Please, sit down and enjoy your dinner. You will feel better if you eat first."
She turned and faced the speaking-tube; he noticed then that she was nowhere near as composed as he had thought. Her knuckles were white, she was clasping the book so hard before her breasts, and her voice trembled. "Is it drugged?" she blurted, her eyes wide.
That was so far from his mind that he found himself laughing, and for some reason that seemed to relax her a trifle. "It is not drugged, I pledge you that," he said, when he could speak again. "Please, enjoy your dinner. I believe that you wish to speak with me on an important subject. You will think more clearly if you are not suffering hunger-pangs."
He bolted his own dinner while she ate hers his altered body required only meat, as near rare as possible, and he ate it as a wolf would, bolting it down in large chunks. He was finished long before she was, but he did not take his eyes from the mirror even when he ate. His mind, raised to a fever-pitch of clarity by his own anxiety and alarm, analyzed her every movement. She evidenced none of her usual enjoyment of the food before her, chewing and swallowing it automatically, as if she was not even tasting it. She drank a bit more wine than was her usual wont, and he gathered that she was trying to find courage in the bottom of the bottle, as so many did.
She kept the book on her lap, as if by having it in contact with her, she reminded herself of her resolve. She ate quickly, either out of nervousness or because she did not intend to allow him too much time to contemplate her intentions.
She did not touch the sweet; instead, she emptied her wineglass, poured it full, and emptied it again in a gulp. Then she pushed resolutely away from the table and stood up again, still holding the book as if it was a shield. "Mr. Cameron?" she said, her voice quavering a little on the last syllable.
"I am still here, Miss Hawkins," he replied. "There is, after all, nowhere else I am likely to be."
"Mr. Cameron," she said, her face pale but her mouth set and her eyes behind the glasses hard with resolution and fear. "When I accepted this position, I was not aware of-of the irregularity of this establishment. I believe you owe me an explanation."
He coughed, and prevaricated. "I do not take your meaning, Miss Hawkins. There are no opium dens here, no ladies of dubious repute; I fail to see what you mean by an 'irregular establishment.' Would you care to explain?" Perhaps, given this opportunity, she would decide against confrontation.
"Why are there no servants here?" she asked, flushing a brillian
t pink, as the words rushed out of her. "The work of many servants is done, the mansion is cleaned, the lights lit and extinguished, the beds made, meals prepared, animals tended-yet there are no servants! In fact, I only know of two people besides myself who dwell in this place! I have not seen a single soul but Paul du Mond since I entered these grounds, and I have only heard your voice. Where are the servants? And why did I not pay attention to their absence before this?"
"Before I answer that-what is your solution, Miss Hawkins?" he asked, as she reached blindly for the back of the chair beside her to support her. She is unused to confrontation. This is taking all the courage she can muster.
"I-I-" Abruptly she sat down, deflated, her hair coming loose from its careful arrangement and falling in tendrils about her face. "I have no logical solution," she said flatly, after a long moment of silence. "And the illogical solution flies in the face of all reason. I do not want to believe it."
Should he be the one to grasp the bull by the horns? Well-why not? If he could bring her to believe in the reality of Magick he would be able to eliminate a great deal of beating about the bush.
The Fire Rose em-1 Page 14