'I am,' she said, with a chuckle of her own, and resumed her task, pouring herself a cup of tea and adding cream and sugar in the English style, to ease her voice.
It was past one by both the watch and the clock when she finished, and she was suppressing yawns as she closed the last book. 'Miss Hawkins, you give me cause to rejoice that you accepted my offer,' came the harsh voice from the speaking-tube. 'And now, I shall leave you to your virtuous rest. Good night.'
'Good night, Mr. Cameron,' she replied, as she drank the last of her tea. 'I am looking forward with curiosity to see what you shall have unearthed for me to read to you tomorrow.'
If he chuckled at that sally, she did not hear it; she had already moved to blow out the lamps and leave the fire to burn itself out.
Once again, a silk nightdress had been laid out for her on the invitingly-turned-down bed. She wavered between bed and bath, and finally her yawns overcame her. I can bathe in the morning, she told herself, as she stepped out of her clothing and left it lying, neatly folded, on the chair beside her bed. The cool silk of the nightdress against her skin only confirmed the rightness of her decision in her own mind.
This might have been a mistake-but she didn't think so. If Jason Cameron happened to be slightly crazed, well, then so were thousands of others, who went to Spiritualist meetings and flocked to hear Madame Blavatsky. What harm was there in his seeking some redress for an intolerable situation? And what harm was there in her aiding and abetting that search? Clearly, she amused him, and that in and of itself was healthy for him. Better that he should take amusement in her audacity than that he should sink into apathy and despair.
With that comforting thought, she fell asleep, with the bed curtains drawn securely about her and the watch ticking quietly away beside her glasses on the nightstand.
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 this misshapen paws could turn them. He would do better tomorrow.
