"Good." He was relieved, and told himself that it was because this woman was too valuable to lose just at the moment.
"Why did you give her the watch?" it asked, with childlike curiosity and childlike candor. "It is very costly by the standards she is accustomed to."
He laughed at its boldness. "It is my collar of ownership," he told his creature. "Through it, I can follow her, no matter where she goes; I can hear what she hears and see what she sees. When she enters the city, if any of my rivals or fellows see her, they will know she is mine and not meddle with her."
"Even Simon?" the Salamander asked.
"Especially Simon," he replied, his voice turning as hard as tempered steel. Simon Beltaire was the only other Firemaster on this coast, and there was no love lost between the two of them. Fortunately, the accident notwithstanding, he had not lost any of his powers, or Simon Beltaire would not have hesitated to challenge him.
Just as, were their positions reversed, he would not have hesitated in challenging Simon. There could not be two Firemasters in the same city. He would rather there were not two in the same state. Eventually, one of them would go—living or dead, one would go.
Rosalind was nearing the end of the last passage in the last book; soon it would be time to send her off to bed. He had enjoyed watching her as she read; she made a very pretty picture in the lamplight. How pleasant that she had turned out to be ornamental as well as useful! And possessed of good taste, fully the match of his own, he suspected. He had feared he would be forced to manipulate her choices of gowns; instead, she had made a choice that was as tasteful as anything he would have chosen, and yet was not what he would have chosen for her.
Should he order a Worth gown for her? He had never met a woman in San Francisco worthy of a gown from the house of Worth. Perhaps, when I have been restored... when I am prepared to show myself to the city again, to take my box at the Opera. I wonder what sort of a companion would she make?
Then he chided himself for even thinking the idle thought. This woman was no potential companion. She was no demimonde, not to be used only for pleasure.
And before I ended my Apprenticeship I gave up the romantic nonsense of finding a female to share the Work with me as well as my life. There is no such creature, and never can be. Rosalind Hawkins was a worthy tool, and as such, she must be cherished, honed, cared for, and put away when the task for which she had been brought was at an end. She must be sent somewhere as far away as possible. She herself might not know what she had done for him, but anyone who knew him would be able to deduce it with careful questioning.
She will have a sizable bank account, a fine wardrobe, possibly a generous bonus, and an excellent letter of recommendation. She will have the wherewithal to do whatever she pleases. Perhaps it would even be wise to send her on a trip to Europe out of "gratitude." That would remove her—and her curiosity—from his life quite painlessly. He could arrange for the trip to return her to Chicago, where she could resume her studies. Or better yet, he could arrange for her to be admitted to one of the great universities of England or Europe. France, perhaps; with the example of Madame Curie before them, the French knew how to treat a woman scholar. Or Oxford; women were making great progress there.
That would be best. The one thing he dared not do would be to leave her where Simon might be able to find her and learn what she had been doing for him. It would tell him altogether too much about what had been going on in this house.
Definitely a trip to Europe. Perhaps I should arrange a romance?
He could do it; once he was back to his old self, his powers would reach that far—and the Firemaster held mastery over the hot passions.
No. No, she would be too wise to be carried away by an impulse, however romantic.
She finished the book and put it carefully down, taking care not to mar it. Interesting that he had seen her mostly in profile this evening. Most women turned towards mirrors as towards the light; she seldom glanced at the mirror in her parlor and then only by accident.
He bade her good night, then silently ordered the vision in the obsidian to fade.
On the whole, he was far happier with the results of this venture than he had any right to anticipate. Rosalind Hawkins was a redoubtable woman, pleasant to look upon, and quite self-possessed, although she had no idea of her real ability or her potential. He would not have to worry about keeping an eye on her every waking moment—not only because it was clear that she could amuse and defend herself, but because it was also clear that she was not the kind to be ruled by the busy-body curiosity that was the ruin of so many of her sex. He had watched her in his mirrors as she explored his house; when a door was locked, she left it alone. She did not try to force the lock, she did not stoop to peer through the keyhole, she did not listen at the crack. She assumed it was locked for a reason, assumed that the reason was no business of hers, and went on her way. Too many women made it their obsession to find out the heart of every secret. She was content to let secrets remain secrets.
It was a pity that she did not ride, though. He would have been happy to see her take Sunset out; Paul could not ride the stallion without a curb bit and he would not permit any such device of torture to go in Sunset's tender mouth. If a man could not guide a horse by neck and knee, he did not deserve to ride anything more than a mule.
Sunset can wait until I am myself again. He gets enough exercise in the field. He will not suffer for not being ridden.
"Well," the Salamander said, interrupting his thoughts. "Now what have you in mind?"
"See to it that those book catalogs I mentioned are on her desk in the morning," he replied. "Clean up the rooms as soon as she is asleep. I suspect she is going to want to look at the grounds tomorrow, so have a map waiting for her with the catalogs, and see that a luncheon is prepared for her if she decides to walk out. You know the rest."
"Have breakfast waiting when she wakes; tidy the rooms when she is gone." The Salamander spun lazily. "What books do we leave her?"
"I will choose them tonight, before I retire." That would be best. "I will tell you what chapters to mark."
It was a shame that the Salamander could not read; if it could, all of this nonsense could have been done away with.
Then again, he would not have had Rosalind here. The Salamander was occasionally amusing, occasionally surprising, but it took another living human to be a consistent challenge.
Rosalind Hawkins was a challenge; it would be a challenge to educate her, a challenge to keep her unaware of what she was capable of while nurturing that capability. It would be a real challenge to mold her while keeping her ignorant of the fact. It occurred to him that he had been in danger of losing himself to despair and ennui before her arrival. He was certainly in no such danger now.
He raised a glass in his clumsy paw to the obsidian that had so lately held her image. "Welcome, Rosalind Hawkins," he murmured. "May you never fail to surprise me."
When she woke, it was with a feeling of delight, of giddiness. She had thrown all caution to the wind; she had taken a position no prudent woman would have accepted. She might be mad—but she felt truly alive for the first time since she was accepted into graduate studies.
She reached automatically for her glasses and they danced just out of reach as the bed and nightstand shook.
She grabbed for them and caught them somehow before they hit the floor. Just as her hand touched them, the shaking stopped.