Mercedes Lackey - The Fire Rose

The staircase, however, daunted her. She was never going to be able to climb all that!

Paul smiled at her dismay, as if he was amused by it. "Do not be concerned, Rosalind. We will not be dealing with that tonight. The Master does not expect weary travelers to exhaust themselves at the end of their journey. The stairs are only for effect and those who insist on showing how strong and fit they are."

He led the way to a door, hidden in the shadows, which he opened, revealing the prosaic iron grating of a lift door. He motioned to her to precede him, which she did.

The lift operated smoothly-disconcertingly so, with no noise or sound of machinery. If she had not been aware of the motion of the stone wall beyond the grating, she would have been sure they were not moving at all. Paul du Mond made no attempt at conversation, and neither did she, although the silence became very uncomfortable after a while.

Finally, a crack of light showed at the top of the lift door; it widened as the lift rose, and she saw they had reached their destination. This was a hallway; floored with black marble, with wall-coverings of wine-red brocade above half-panels of dark wood. Polished brass oil-lamps with shades of ruby glass lit the hallway clearly.

Paul opened the gate of the lift, but made no motion to follow her out into the hall. "I have some things to attend to, but I am certain that a competent lady like yourself will be able to find her way." His smile implied that he rather doubted she would be able to do any such thing. "Go to the right, take the staircase up to the third floor. Your rooms are the first door on the left."

She was taken aback by his brusque behavior. Before she could reply, he closed the lift door behind her, and the lift descended again, leaving her with no choice but to follow his instructions.

Not that they were especially difficult, really. It was only that she found the silence of the house rather unnerving. But that was only to be expected; after all, it was still night-time. It was not reasonable for her to expect that Jason Cameron or many of his servants would be awake to welcome her. It was enough that Paul du Mond-and whatever other servants were taking care of her baggage-had been here to greet her. At least they had a room waiting for her.

She had anticipated a dark, back staircase, a servant's stair to be precise, but the staircase proved to be both broad and handsome in dark wood and oak paneling, and well-lit with more brass lamps, this time with white porcelain shades. It boasted a red carpet, and climbed in a square spiral, with doors at each floor.

She opened the third of these-this time certain it would let out on a mean little hallway-to find that it did nothing of the sort. The hallway here was papered in red-on-red fleur-de-lis, and the floor was of dark wood with a red carpet runner down the center of the hallway. Again, the lamps were of brass and ruby glass; red and gold seemed to be Jason Cameron's preferred colors. The door that Paul du Mond had indicated was a few steps past the door to the staircase; she had just touched the handle, when she noticed that the door itself bore a brass plaque. On it was inscribed a single word.

Rosalind.

Startled, she froze, but the handle seemed to turn beneath her fingers and the door swung open, as if under its own power.

She gasped as she saw the room; she could not help herself. In all her wildest dreams of what might be waiting for her, she had never imagined anything like this.

For a moment, she hesitated. Surely this was a mistake; this room could not possibly be meant for her! But her name was on the door-and Paul du Mond had sent her here. She stepped inside, hesitantly, and the door swung silently shut behind her.

If someone had given her free rein and an infinite budget to design a sitting-room that would best please her, this would have been it. There was a small fire in the fireplace to ward off the chill of the air outside, although a modern steam radiator made it clear that the fireplace was mostly ornamental. Between the cozy fire and the two lamps, there was not a single corner that was unlit.

Unlike the red-and-gold opulence of the parlor-car and the rest of the house, this room was decorated in tones of deep blues and dark silver, both restful colors to her way of thinking. A Roman couch upholstered in teal-blue velvet stood beneath a huge window, curtained in matching material. Two wingback chairs in the same material flanked a small table with one of the lamps on it, and a combination bookcase and writing desk held the second lamp, with a matching armless chair positioned at the desk. The soft Turkey carpet was of a deeper blue than the chairs; the walls were papered in a lighter blue with a stripe of discreet silver.

A second door stood open at the other end of the room, and she let her feet take her to it as in a dream. As she stood in the doorway, she could only stare, for this room was as perfect as the sitting-room.

It held not one, but three wardrobes, all matching and standing side by side, flanked by a pair of dressers; all were of dark maple with silver fittings. There were two chairs like the ones in the sitting-room, and a huge full-length mirror between them. Another radiator promised that this bedroom would never be cold. The carpet, wall-covering, and curtains were the same as in the sitting-room. The bed, which dominated the room, was absolutely enormous. Amazingly enough, it was of the medieval style she had always secretly favored, with curtains of blue-on-blue brocade, and a matching spread now turned invitingly down to reveal the snowy linens.

But there was more, and light through a third door drew her onward, until she found herself in a bathroom whose opulence matched the rest. This room was tiled in pale grey, pale blue, and silver. A bath was drawn and waiting for her, steaming and fragrant with lavender bath salts. The tub, large enough to recline comfortably in, was of the square, Roman style - a huge marble basin enclosed in a tiled box. There were two sinks, an abundance of mirrors, a lounge and two chairs, a vanity with a framed mirror. The vanity held a wealth of green and silver bottles whose contents she longed to explore. Snowy towels hung from a heated towel-rack, and the "convenience" was of the most modern flush-type. The bathroom was as large as her bedroom had been at home, and had its own small wardrobe at one end, with the door opened to display a tempting selection of nightgowns and dressing-robes or kimonos.

Rose didn't even hesitate. Much faster than she had ever remembered undressing before, she shed her clothing down to the last stitch-shirtwaist, skirt, underskirts, stockings, corset-cover, corset, vest, drawers-all of them dropped from her body with a speed that was positively magical. She slipped into the hot water with a gasp of delight, and scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed again until she was pink all over. She ran more hot water into the tub and rinsed again, then undid her hair and washed it as well.

She did not go so far as to appropriate any of the lovely night things in the wardrobe, however. She was certain that they must belong to someone else, and had been left there by accident. Instead, she rebraided her hair, wet as it was, wrapped herself in a towel, and went to look for her valise.

The valise wasn't there-but someone had stolen into the bedroom while she was bathing, had drawn the curtains around three sides of the bed and had left a nightgown lying across the pillow, in an obvious invitation.

It was an invitation too tempting to resist especially given that the mere sight of the bed had started her yawning.

She took the gown into the bathroom to change just in case the unknown "helper" returned. It was silk, a luxury against her skin after the coarse cottons of her traveling clothing that made her dizzy with pleasure. She blew out the lamps in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, to find that all the other lamps had been extinguished except for the one next to the bed.