She could not possibly want to remain here. That much was certain; what woman could have faced what he had done and have any shred of feeling left for the monster that had done it?
He must give her the means of escape from this place before she felt trapped, did something rash and tried to run away from him by herself. That was the only course of honor left to him. And after that? Somewhere, at the back of his soul, there was still a tiny shred of hope. She might, possibly, consent to return-but only if he could guarantee that the beast would never break loose again, and only if he gave her this means of escape freely.
I will drug myself senseless if that is what it takes to bring her back....
The body. He must get rid of the body.
"I have burned the attacker to ash, Firemaster." His special Salamander appeared at his elbow. "The ash is scattered. The train is coming, the woman is going down to the platform to wait for it. She seems unwell."
"She is unwell," he told it. "Watch over her. Protect her, if you can."
The Salamander vanished.
Was she still wearing his watch? She seemed to put it on automatically; he called up the link in his mirror, and saw to his relief that she was. She was at the platform, and more Salamanders had already delivered her luggage; she was sitting on the steamer-trunk. She was wearing light gloves and long sleeves that would conceal her mistreated hands; she not only had sense to do that, she had the sense to wear a modish, but very concealing veil, as well. He had telegraphed the men that an emergency had come up; that they were to insert the train as soon as the track was open, and make all speed into the city. He knew them; they were good men. They would not tarry, but would get her and her things into the carriage and get out on the main track as soon as the signals cleared. They would not plague her with questions-they probably would not look at her too closely. From now until the time she reached the hotel, she was safe.
The Salamander he had sent to Pao returned at that moment-and it had a folded sheet of Pao's handmade paper with it. He snatched it up and unfolded it.
The Dragons are restless; I am attempting to calm them, but fear the wont. I will help as circumstances permit, but cannot now. Trust in your courage and her heart. Pao.
His first reaction was relief so great it made him lightheaded. Pao had not cut him off! That was better fortune than he'd had any reason to expect-
But hard upon the relief came irritation-why the devil did the man have to speak like a damned fortune-cookie! The Dragons are restless indeed! Just what was that supposed to mean? He had never discussed Eastern Magick with Pao; didn't the old goat remember that? All they had ever discussed-in the rare moments when they were in a less-than-public place-was Chinese Herbalism as it related to Western Magick and Western medicine.
Trust in your courage and her heart. Charming sentiment, but not too damned useful.
All right, then; he would keep a watch over her himself, and if anything happened, either send word to Pao or deal with it in the form of his Salamanders. He could not leave her alone in the city without someone to see that she was safe, not in her current mental condition. He called her image in his mirror again; the train had arrived, and the last of her baggage was being loaded. The men seemed respectful and sympathetic, but not at all alarmed, as she murmured something about a riding accident and an urgent telegram from Chicago. No, she had no details yet, but she wished to be in San Francisco in case she was summoned home. Yes, she was quite upset, but would be all right.
A riding accident! That is not something I would have thought of. It would be a reasonable explanation for bruises, scratches, even broken bones! How was she thinking of these things?
The same way I did, I suppose; part of her is having fits of hysteria, but it is not the part that is in control of what everyone sees.
He had not intended to watch her in the mirror during the train trip, for after all, nothing was likely to happen to her there-but he could not help himself. There wasn't a great deal to see; she sat in her chair with her hands clasped in her lap, and did not even raise her head to look out the window. That alone told him of her state of shock, for he had never once seen her sitting idle. If she had nothing else to do, she always had a book in her hands.
He knew that his own men could be trusted to care for her properly, but he had not expected the same consideration from strangers. Yet the driver of the taxi that was waiting for her, the doorman of the hotel, and the hotel concierge all seemed to sense her precarious mental state and treated her with amazing delicacy. And once she was safely in her room, with the door locked, he felt himself able to attend to other matters. More telegraphs went off to his agent; arrangements for the transfer of a substantial sum into her account, for someone to replace du Mond in Oakland, for notices of termination to be sent to the servants and his landlord. Cameron's lips twitched as his hand sent further signals to ensure that no one would inquire after the deceased; authorizing his agent to have an audit done of the accounts du Mond handled, and to report du Mond's disappearance together with a large sum of cash and other valuables kept in the safe of the townhouse. The police would go to the townhouse, of course; the safe would be opened, and there would be no cash there. That would be because a Salamander took it, not du Mond. The police would question the servants, who would give them the evidence that although du Mond had not been seen at the townhouse for many months, he had every opportunity to make a key to the front door. Cameron would post a reward asking for information concerning du Mond's activities. People would come to claim the reward, and although there would be nothing forthcoming about his whereabouts, his unsavory pastimes in the Barbary Coast would soon be uncovered. The police would eventually assume that du Mond had bought his way aboard one of the many tramp freighters that used San Francisco as a port-of-call, and advise Cameron's agent to that effect. A reward would be posted, which would never be claimed. And the trail would be neatly covered.
He sent off the Salamander to empty the safe, and leave a note warning the servants that du Mond might have absconded, possibly with valuables. They often received notes slipped in through the mail slot, which they assumed came by special messenger-and in a sense, they had.
He completed his arrangements, and looked in again on Rose. She seemed to have gone directly to bed, which was probably the best place for her.
He glanced longingly at the dust-covered bottle of narcotic pills on the corner of his desk. Oblivion would be very welcome tonight....
But he dared not take the chance-what if he were unconscious and she awoke with the sudden conviction that she must leave the city? What if she awoke, disoriented, and wandered out into the streets?
No; she deserved the respite of sleep, but while she slept, he would remain on guard.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
When Rose awoke, it was late afternoon again. For one moment, she thought perhaps she had not slept at all-but then she realized by the stiffness of her bruised limbs and the hunger-pangs in her stomach that she had actually slept the clock around.
She probed mentally at herself, expecting to trigger a paroxysm of weeping or hysteria. All that she uncovered, however, was a weary confusion. She stirred restlessly beneath the smooth hotel sheets, stretching a little while she thought.
While she had slept, something had resolved itself in her mind. While du Mond's death was horrid, he could have been killed by a fierce mastiff sent to protect her, and the effect would have been the same-
Except that once I got over my fits, I would have made that dog the most pampered canine on the face of the earth. No, the problem is not what happened to that cad. The problem is not that it was Jason who did it. The problem is that it was Jason who acted like a wild beast in order to protect me. And I do not want to leave him-yet I am not sure I can trust myself with him anymore. I simply do not know what to do. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. There was only one thing she could be utterly certain of. She must not, under any circumstanc
es, make any hasty decisions. For one thing, she did not have enough information.
I am in the city, as I planned, just not in the townhouse. I will proceed precisely as I had planned for today-for what is left of today, at any rate. I shall get dressed, have a fine dinner, and go to the Opera. And tomorrow I shall take a taxi to China-town and visit Master Pao. Perhaps he will have some ideas.
Perhaps there were drugs that could help; perhaps even the tea that had been intended to help Jason's condition had led to his berserk rage, who could tell? She realized now that she had made a serious mistake in not revealing all of Jason's secrets to Pao in the first place. It was as if she had described less than half of a friend's symptoms to a doctor, leaving out the most important ones, and expected him to work a cure with only that information.
She rose with a care for her injuries, and went directly to the private bath, already missing the presence of the attentive Salamanders who would have had a bath ready for her. As yet, she did not feel secure enough in her own relationship with the Sylphs to command them as servants. Perhaps that could come later, but she did not want to force anything now.
I particularly do not want to face them as emotionally unsteady as I am. If I lose them once, it will be the Devil's own time to get them back.
As she soaked in another hot bath, relieving the aches of her many bruises and examining the deep scratches her ordeal had left on her arms and legs, she reflected wryly that she might have saved herself a great deal of pain if she had just thought of calling up the Sylphs to help her against du Mond. In his drugged condition-for he must have been drugged, to act as he had-he could never have commanded Salamanders to counter them.
Unfortunately, it simply didn't occur to me. After all, I have only been in "Command" of them for a month or so. I am still very new to all of this....
She wondered what Master Pao would make of the Apprentice of Air appearing in his shop to ask for help. Air and Fire are complements, but Air and Earth are opposites ... though not quite as deadly enemies as Fire and Water I wonder what his reaction will be to me now?
He would probably just smile, and utter something ineffable, inscrutable, and utterly Chinese. Something about Yin and Yang, I suppose, or Dragons dancing with Clouds.
She dressed quickly, and not in either of her Opera gowns; both revealed more flesh than she could cover with cosmetics. There were bruises on both her arms up to the elbow where du Mond had grappled with her, and she looked as if she'd been dumped into a briar patch and had to fight her way out. Out of the steamer-trunk she pulled a heavy black silk moire skirt, and a high-necked, long-sleeved black silk shirtwaist trimmed in black silk embroidery and jet beads. It will look as if I am in mourning, but no matter Perhaps I am, in a way. At any rate, the evening-hat with the best veil was also black, which would enable her to keep her injuries secret, even in the well-lighted restaurant.
The restaurant staff were attentive without being obnoxious; perhaps her look of mourning made them so. They showed her to a secluded table for one, took her order and brought it immediately, and thereafter left her alone. Only once did anyone approach her, just before her entree appeared. One of the waiters, a young, red-haired boy, hesitantly intruded on her solitude, a collection box in hand.
"We wondered, ma'am, if you or Mister Cameron would be interested in contributing to the Palace Hotel Vesuvius relief fund?" he said, very shyly, thrusting forward the cardboard box with a smudgy newspaper photo of a volcano in eruption pasted onto the front of it.
"Vesuvius relief?" she repeated, and shook her head in confusion. What on earth could the boy mean by that? "Why? Has something happened in Italy?"
He stared at her as if she had just crawled out of a cave, and she felt moved to explain lest he begin to suspect that something was wrong and start a train of gossip.
"I have just come from Mister Cameron's estate in the country," she told him, one hand going unconsciously to her throat where she touched the golden round of her watch. "It is very remote, and we have not even had delivery of newspapers. Please, tell me, what is it that has happened? If it is something serious, I shall have Mister Cameron told at once."
The boy relaxed, as if he had not been quite sure of her sanity. "That volcano, Mount Vesuvius, ma'am. It blew its top clean off. There's whole towns under the lava-hundreds killed, thousands hurt. Two hundred fifty people were killed in one market, buried under ash! It's bad, ma'am, there's people collecting all over the city, and the Palace has a special fund going and they asked us waiters to try and get up some of the fund money?"
He spoke the last on an uncertain, interrogative note. She smiled reassuringly, although it hurt one side of her mouth to do so, and dug into her handbag. She hadn't emptied it since the last time she was in the city, and she hadn't spent all the pocket-money Cameron had given her for that trip. Surely there was something in there she could give the boy!
Mount Vesuvius erupting-She remembered now, as from a time ten years in the past, how she had dreamed of fire, earthquake, and disaster the night she arrived here. Had that been a premonition of this calamity in Italy?
Then her hand closed on a thick wad of banknotes, and she froze, looking down into her lap.
There was a roll of bills in her purse at least an inch across. Under cover of the table, she opened the roll and stared at the result. None of the bills were smaller than a ten-dollar note. Beneath the roll, lying loose, were the scattered notes of smaller denomination from the last trip. How had that gotten into her purse? Was it Jason?
Of course it was. How else could it have happened? As clever as the Salamanders were, she did not think they were clever enough to realize that one needed money to pay for things.
She extracted two bills, one of them a twenty, and handed both to the boy, whose eyes went wide as she placed them in his box. "There," she said, "The ten is from me, the twenty from Jason Cameron. It is the least that Mister Cameron and I can do."
He stammered his thanks and went on to the other patrons of the restaurant. She extracted another couple of bills and secreted the rest in a side pocket of her handbag so that she would not pull them all out inadvertently. I am not such a gull as that; even here, I would not be certain of my safety if word passed that I had such a quantity of cash money on my person.
She paid for her dinner-leaving a generous tip and sought the concierge for aid in acquiring a taxi to the Opera.
Perhaps warned by the restaurant staff and in anticipation of a fine gratuity for himself he managed to find her one despite heavy competition. Although it was a Wednesday and a working-day, carriages full of opera-goers were already on their way to Mission Street in the cool breeze of the early evening. The fair weather tempted many out for an evening of entertainment, although the theaters would be dark by midnight. Besides the Opera, Babes in Toyland was still playing at the Columbia Theater, and John Barrymore held forth in Richard Harding Davis' play, The Dictator. And of course, there was vaudeville at the Orpheum, and the disreputable entertainments of the Barbary Coast, which never seemed to close for long.
The concierge handed her into the cab, and smiled his thanks when the gratuity was the size he had hoped for.
Rose hardly noticed the congestion; surrounded by all the bustle of a busy city street, she felt oddly isolated, as if she were not entirely centered in the real world, as if only part of her rode to the Opera, and the rest of her was elsewhere.
The journey from the Palace Hotel to the Opera House was not a long one; soon enough, she descended from the cab to join the rest of the three thousand music-lovers fortunate enough to have tickets to hear the great tenor in his San Francisco debut.
She settled herself in Cameron's box and asked the usher to draw the curtains part way closed. Tonight she had no wish to see or be seen by anyone in the audience. In honest truth, she wanted most to be alone with her thoughts, but the isolation of her hotel room was not the kind of isolation that she craved.
She settled back as the house-l
ights went down, and the first strains of the famous overture rose from the orchestra.
But music did not have the usual effect of taking her out of herself or even of removing her from reality to that fairyland where the incredible events of a lifetime could pass in three or four hours. Not even Caruso's unbelievable voice could lift her spirits, even though the pudgy tenor seemed to grow in stature and nobility the moment he opened his mouth. He easily transformed from a fat little Italian with oily hair, to Don Jose, the noble soldier and tragic lover. Perhaps the problem was with his co-star, a Wagnerian soprano from Germany, normally found filling out the breastplate of a Valkyrie or donning the gold-horsehair braids of Elsa von Brabant. She was making her debut in the role of Carmen, and it was one she was ill-suited for. Instead of being transformed by the music as Caruso was, she seemed ill-at-ease in the role of the Gypsy temptress, as ill-at-ease as Rose herself was tonight. She switched her skirts as if she was chasing flies rather than trying to seduce Don Jose with a glimpse of leg and bosom. And as for the fight with the other cigarette girl-they looked like a pair of hausfraus squabbling ill-naturedly over a cabbage, rather than a pair of ill-bred Spanish cats ready to take knives to each other. The audience was as restless as she, and probably felt the same; when Caruso sang, a perfect hush filled the theater, but when the diva took the stage, she heard whispers, the rustle of programs, and other noises of inattention.
The Fire Rose em-1 Page 37