When he had returned to the house, he had locked himself into his chambers, then gone into a frenzy of telegraphing: ordering up the train, passing orders on to his agent. When all of his orders had been confirmed, he sent the Salamanders to Rose's rooms to put the rest of his hasty plan into motion.
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.