dolorous. Menus at University were full of fish, a dish that Rose got weary of rather quickly, given the limited imagination of the University cooks. Their illiterate Irish cook had always insisted on honoring the Lenten custom as well, and her ideas beyond fish were limited to vegetable soups and stews, and Welsh rarebit. By the time Lent was over, Rose was generally ready to kill for a pot roast.
San Francisco did not seem to notice that it was the Lenten season. This was the month that Caruso and the Met were coming to perform at the Opera. Fish had no greater share in the city's menus than any other time of year. Flowers had been in full bloom for two weeks and more, and if it rained a great deal, well, the fresh greenery looked very pretty in the rain.
Rose had resumed her walks as a guarantee that Jason would ride Sunset at least once a day. She had no trouble encouraging him if she called out that she was about to get her exercise, but if she said 'I believe I'll continue working, so why don't you go take your ride,' he would always find some excuse to remain. As long as it wasn't pouring rain, a fast walk down to the sea and back was a good way to shake off discouragement and depression-it was very hard to think of one's self as a martyr when there were birds singing in every tree, and flowers filling the air with perfume.
And today it was impossible to think of herself as anything but incredibly lucky. Tomorrow she would take Jason's private train into San Francisco again, and she would listen to Caruso for the following two days from Jason's private box.
Cameron had asked her to consult Master Pao about some disturbances he had felt lately among his Salamanders that he thought might be Earth-related. She had resolved to tell Master Pao the whole truth about Jason's problem-for he still was unaware of the extent of the damage the 'accident' had caused and see if there was something Eastern Magick could do that Western could not.
Perhaps we will never be able to undo what was done to him. That thought had occurred to her several times over the last two weeks, sounding what could have been a pessimistic note with overtones, for her, of hope. If Cameron remained in his half-lupine form....
It would be sad, of course, but not the tragedy it might otherwise have been. He didn't need servants as long as he had Salamanders and Sylphs. He was able to get out on his estate again, atop Sunset. Granted, he could no longer entertain his old friends, but he didn't seem to miss them.
He does miss music, but there are gramophones, and there are inventions like the radiophone that hold some promise of bringing distant concerts to listeners. I should persuade him to get a gramophone and a collection of recordings. Soon enough, electricity would come to Pacifica, and thus to the estate; with electricity would come the telephone. He could conduct all of his business from his office here, and for what needed the personal touch, there was his agent, and there was Rose.
I don't need a degree to do research and publish. I certainly don't need one for Magick. I could stay here with him forever ...
Could her company-and yes, her love-make up for his restricted life? She liked to think so. Certainly he seemed to be enjoying himself more now than he had been when she first arrived.
She did not want to hope for something so selfish, and so tragic, as his continued imprisonment in his altered form-but it was difficult not to.
Time for research was at a premium with her departure so soon, and she thought seriously about turning back halfway down the path. But the distant roar of the waves lured her on, and she told herself that they would have plenty of research-time when she returned. It is not as if we are pursuing this under some deadline, after all.
Sunlight showing past the trees ahead of her pointed to the clearing at the top of the cliffs, and her turn- around point. I'll just enjoy the sea and the wind for a moment, and get some sun, then I'll walk back at a faster pace-
Her ears warned her a fraction of a second before it happened; there was the crackle of underbrush, and she had just enough time to half turn before something heavy hit her from behind, grappling her around the waist.
But her assailant did not get a firm grip on her, nor did he manage to pin her arms. With a shrill scream startled out of her by sudden fear, she clawed and struggled her way free, leaving her jacket in his hands. As she wrenched herself away, she let her momentum take her and staggered a few paces away in the direction of the cliffs.
That was not where she wanted to go-nor did she want this attacker between herself and the mansion! She staggered about to face him, her hands crooked instinctively into claws to tear at his face and eyes, her hair draggling down into her eyes, and one sleeve of her shirtwaist half torn off.
To her utter shock and horror, when he scrambled to his feet and glared up at her, she recognized the face of Paul du Mond. And to her deeper horror, she recognized by his dilated, glassy eyes, his pale complexion, and his fixed stare that he was not his normal self. She had already marked him with a long scratch down one cheek; he did not seem to notice it, not even to wipe the blood away. Nor did he speak, or alter his predatory stance in any way although he must have recognized her, and knew that she now knew him.
Her stomach knotted and her heart chilled. For some reason, known only to him, he had come to attack her. If he is drugged-he won't feel anything I do. I could claw his face to ribbons and he won't feel it-
He lunged for her again, his lips twisted into a snarl, a thin line of spittle drooling from one corner of his mouth. She tried to evade him, but this time his luck was better, or hers worse; he caught her by the skirt, and
