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 brilliant 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.
And it will save me endless effort in hiding it all from her. It is worth the risk. 'And if I told you that the reason was because all work in this house, on these grounds, is accomplished by what you would refer to as Magick?' he asked, just as flatly.
She flinched, and did not answer him directly. 'I must be mad,' she said under her breath. 'I cannot be hearing this-or discussing these things. It is not reasonable.' She was shivering, though she tried not to show it.
She's afraid. She's afraid that it might be true, yet at the same time she wants it to be true. If I told her it was because my servants were all working only while she slept, she might believe me ...
'You could make her believe you,' hissed a voice in his ear. 'You could make up almost anything and make her believe you.'
He did not have to turn; it was one of his Salamanders, and by the voice and assertiveness, the cleverest one. 'I know,' he told it, covering the speaking-tube, with one hand. 'I could have you cloud her mind again. She has drunk so much wine it would be child's play to make her believe me.'
