"Mercedes Lackey - EM 1 - The Fire Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

that could be laundered at home. All of her expensive gowns had been sold long ago to dealers in
second-hand clothing. Much of her own wardrobe had come from the stores of those same worthies.
I told Papa I didn't care about dresses, that I would rather have books ... I wonder if he
believed me. Did he ever guess how much I missed the silks and velvets?
She wondered, too, what her new employer would think. Or would he even notice the sad state of her
wardrobe?
She arranged her hair-her one real beauty-into a neat French braid, and set a pathetic little
excuse for a hat squarely on the result, securing it with a dagger-like hatpin. Putting Jason
Cameron's letter into her reticule, she stepped out into the hallway.
She would need to contact Mr. Cameron to let him know that she was accepting the post, so that he
didn't hire someone else while she was making the arduous journey across the country, Her ticket
was really a series of tickets, a rainbow of colored pasteboard, each of them for a different pair
of cities. Evidently one did not simply "get on" a train in Chicago and arrive at San Francisco to
"get off" the same train. From Chicago, one went to Kansas City; there one boarded a train from a
second rail company bound for Los Angeles. Once there, a third and final change of rail companies
took one to the final destination. But within the three stages, there were other options, other
changes of trains, depending upon what day one traveled. It was all very bewildering.
No doubt-she must get in touch with Mr. Cameron, and the only one who knew how to do that was
Professor Cathcart. So she must venture back into the beloved and hallowed halls of learning and
endure a veritable barrage of memories in order to find the Professor himself.
She bundled herself in her old wool coat and slipped down the stairs and out the front door
without meeting anyone. She walked to the University, since she could not afford street-car fare,
much less a cab. It was not much more than a mile, and she was used to walking. It was going to be
another grim, grey day, but at least it wasn't raining anymore.
What would the weather be like in San Francisco?
Wasn't California supposed to be hot, even tropical? She occupied her thoughts with such
speculations until she reached the University campus, ignoring the shouts of a group of young men
playing football in the Quadrangle.
Every step brought out another memory that hurt, and she felt like the little mermaid in the Hans
Anderson tale, who felt as if she walked upon knives with every step she took on her conjured
legs. Somehow she found Professor Cathcart, who took one look at her and insisted that she sit
down while he sent for some coffee. She had always ignored his secretary before this; now, acutely
sensitive to women in subservient positions, she watched the drab woman carefully. I must learn to
move and talk like that, she thought, paying careful attention to the little things that made
Cathcart's secretary so inconspicuous. I will have no choice but to learn ...
"Are you certain that you wish to pursue this offer?" the Professor was saying anxiously, as he
pressed a cup of coffee into her cold hands. "Are you positive?"
Beneath his questioning, she detected something else, and after a moment, she identified it with
some surprise.
Relief. He was already regretting his hasty impulse in setting himself up as her protector and
rescuer, and he wanted her off his hands as quickly as possible!
Resentment built, and was quickly vanquished by weariness. This should have been expected. The
Professor, a confirmed bachelor, had suddenly found himself burdened with an unwanted female who


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was not even related to him. Yes, he was her mentor and teacher, but he had never expected to find
himself caring for her mundane needs, only the intellectual ones. Now that he had the time for