Mercedes Lackey: The Fire Rose

Her temper snapped. Outraged, she jumped to her feet while the lout was still puzzling over the Greek letters.

How dare he!

"Conductor!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, and in her most piercing voice.

The lout looked up at her, startled in his turn by her anger and her willingness to stand up to his rudeness. The conductor, who fortunately happened to be at the other end of her car collecting tickets, hurried up the aisle, walking as easily in the swaying car as a sailor would on a swaying deck. Before he could even voice an inquiry, she pointed at the miscreant with an accusatory finger, her face flushed with anger.

"That man is a thief and a masher!" she said indignantly. "He has been bothering me, he would not leave me alone, and now he has stolen my book! Do something about him!"

But the cad was not without a quick wit-probably a necessity when confronted with angry husbands , fiances and fathers. "I don't know what that woman's talking about," he protested, lying so outrageously that her mouth fell open in sheer amazement at his audacity. "I was just sittin' here readin' my book, when she jumps up and screeches for you."

That wolf-in-sheep's-clothing! Her hand closed into a fist as she restrained herself from hitting him. Any other woman might have shrunk from confronting him further, given that it was her word against his, but her blood was up-and besides, the book had been a birthday gift from her first Greek teacher. She was not going to surrender the book, the truth, or the field without a fight. 'Well, then," she said with venom-dripping sweetness, "If it's your book, I presume you can read it. Aloud."

As it happened, he had the book upside down not that it would have mattered to him. If he did not recognize the name of the great poet Homer, he could hardly recognize one Greek letter from another. He gaped at her in shock of his own, and she neatly plucked her prize from his nerveless fingers, turned it right side up, and declaimed the first four lines on the page in flawless tones. By now, everyone in the car was staring at the drama unfolding at her end.

"Translated roughly," she continued, "It says, 'The One-eyed giant howled his anguish as his bleeding eye burned and tormented him. His fellow giants rushed to learn what had befallen him. "No man has blinded me!" he cried to them. "If no man has blinded you," they replied, "Then it must be the punishment of the gods." ' Anyone who has the faintest knowledge of the classics will recognize that scene."

The boor was not to be so easily defeated. "Why, she could make any gabble, say it meant anything!" he cried. "She's a crazy woman!"

She put the book into the conductor's hands. "Look inside the front cover," she ordered imperiously. "On the flyleaf. It reads, 'To little Rose, one of the greatest flowers of literature, from a humble gardener. With affection, Lydia Reuben.' If this is his book, then how could I know that? And while I may or may not be a scholar of Greek, I have never yet met a man named Rose."

Those sitting nearest her giggled at that, as the rogue flushed. The conductor read the dedication, his lips moving silently, and looked up with a nod. "That's what she says, all right," he rumbled, and turned a stern gaze on the masher. The man coughed, and turned pale, and looked around hastily, as if searching for a way to escape.

Rose felt a bit faint, but she was not going to show it in front of him. "Conductor," I she replied, in more normal tones, "Do you normally permit thieves who compound their crime with an attempt to molest honest women to continue traveling on this train?"

The man turned paler still as the conductor seized his collar. "That we don't, miss," the conductor said, handing her book back to her and pulling the man to his feet. "Sometimes, though, we let the train stop before we throws 'em off."

He blew a whistle, which brought two burly train-guards from the next carriage up, and together they removed lout and baggage, hauling both off towards the rear of the train, as he protested every step of the way at the top of his lungs. Curious stares followed this procession down the aisle, and more curious stares were directed at her after they left the car, but she no longer cared about what anyone thought. Now she let her shaking knees give way, and lowered herself back into her seat, holding onto the back with her free hand, precious book clutched in the other.

Now she let the reaction set in. How had she dared to face that man down? She'd never done such a thing before in her life! Oh, she had argued with men, and told them what she thought; she had made free with her opinions on paper, but she had never actually stood up to anyone who was not a gentleman. She had never confronted someone who was obviously prepared to do whatever he wanted, and determined to get his way. No lady would ever have faced down someone like that.

The conductor returned to make certain that she was all right. She murmured something appropriate at him, and he went back to his duties, evidently satisfied. She did not ask him what he had done with the boor. She really didn't want to know.

Probably he'd been escorted to a dank, nasty corner of a baggage car and put under lock and key. But she was a bit appalled to find that she hoped he and his case really had been pitched out of the back of the train.

Despite the bent heads and murmurs of delicious shock up and down the car, she must have convinced the conductor that she was properly helpless, for he kept a solicitous eye on her after that. And her first glimpse of the ocean was not marred by any unwelcome and uninvited presence, for no one else would sit with her. Or even near her.

She looked out across the endless expanse of water for as long as it was visible. She had seen Lake Michigan, of course, but this was so much bigger! She forgot her weariness, forgot everything. Huge-and fierce-even over the cacophony of the train, she heard the roar of the waves against the cliff below.

The train rounded a curve and scrolled away from the ocean, which vanished behind the hills. With the vista blocked, the tossing of the train threw her back to the sordid reality of the carriage. She turned back to her book, still feeling rather shaky inside.

And still angry and puzzled by the drummer's behavior. She simply could not divine what had driven him to persist, and that kept her worrying at the subject. Did he really believe that I was only feigning indifference? Did he think I was trying in some perverse way to flirt with him by ignoring him? He was obviously expecting no resistance to his advances. What had been in his mind? Was he so used to having his way with women that he saw everything she did in terms of what he wanted and expected?

What did he think I was reading, anyway? Walter Scott? A dreadful dime novel? A romantic love story? Wuthering Heights, perhaps?

Probably the latter, and the memory of his expression when he tried to read the book sent her into a fit of giggles she tried to stifle with her gloved hand. When he saw the Greek-oh my! I don't think I've ever seen anyone so surprised since-since I proved to Professor Smythe that I was just as conversant with Chretian des Troyes in the original as any of his other students.

It did occur to her, however, that the works of the Bronte sisters would not have been inappropriate reading given her current situation. Or perhaps Jane Austen. There is not much difference between going off to become a governess and going off to become a housekeeper. Perhaps reading the Brontes could prepare me for Jason Cameron.

From a masher to her future employer-both male, both unfathomable. Neither responded to her attempt to analyze them. She simply did not know enough about either of them to grasp them and pin them beneath the white light of intellect. She gave up trying, and read until darkness fell and it became impossible to read any further. There were oil-lamps suspended in each carriage, but they were too far away to cast enough light for comfortable reading-shadows moved as the lamps swayed, obscuring the letters and revealing them in a way that made her eyes ache. So she didn't bother to try; she just propped herself in the corner of the seat and half-dozed. This last leg of the journey, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, had begun before dawn and would continue until well after midnight. Perhaps her stamina had finally been exhausted; perhaps it was just the knowledge that the trip was nearly over and she was about to confront her employer and learn the truth or falsehood about him. Perhaps it was both, but she was conscious of leaden depression that weighed down her spirits.