Cal selected Professor Toffin because he was published, highly regarded, a patient teacher, and seventy-five years old, scarcely five-foot-three, and possessed a romantic interest toward math and history, not people.

Rose loved him. She loved his thick glasses, the wisps of gray hair, the excitement with which he taught her calculus, European history, and English literature. She was a studious learner, meticulous in her homework assignments and eager to impress Prof. Toffin, who she researched and learned had taught at Princeton.

Rose divided her time between the ballroom and the study, while Camille happily accepted Cal's weekend and dinner invitations.

What had he been thinking taking Rose out and demanding intimacies from her? Cal reproached himself. She was a child, a grieving child, who had no one else to turn to. She was young, impressionable, probably jealous of Camille and her graceful confidence. She didn't harbor romantic feelings for him. He was a letch. She was humoring him so as not to end up on the streets.

Still, Cal believed he understood Rose better than she understood herself. Take this "dance for myself" business. The girl was too sheltered and had no idea how real life worked. She didn't realize that she needed a profession, some sort of marketable skill to make her feel that she had self-worth. "Dance for myself" would never do. She should be going to auditions, receiving private lessons . . . oh, but it was fun to watch her rehearse for herself in the ballroom. She was talented, no doubt about that. Did she like kids? Maybe she could open a dance studio? Surely he could help her with this endeavor? The girl needed a path, a pursuit for her life. She was too talented and too beautiful to fade away.

But what to do about the undeniable dark little thrilled glint in her eyes when he ordered her around? She loved it, and he knew it. She got off on it. She liked being told what to do and trusted that he knew how to properly lead her. She could play sweet innocence all she wanted. Cal sighed, pushing thoughts of Rose out of his mind—thoughts of Rose sighing beneath him, Rose with his hand around her neck, Rose undressed . . . Cal loosened his tie, took a deep breath, and resumed work.

That evening Cal and Camille got in late, Camille already half-asleep. Cal walked her to her bedroom, planted a kiss on her forehead, and wished her goodnight. He had just had time to clean up and change his clothes before he heard a scream, a clatter, and rushing footsteps.

Cal bolted from the room and took the servants' stairs to reach the second floor quickly. He found the doors to Rose's suite both flung open, and, when he cautiously stepped inside, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. He first saw Gertie, a maid who'd worked at the estate for two dozen years, leaning over Rose's bed and frantically chanting something. Then he saw arms—pale, delicate—hitting at the blankets, as if trying to put out flames that weren't there. Cal made out crying, loud sobbing, then made out what Gertie was repeating, "Please stop! Miss, miss, please stop!"

He rushed to the side of the bed and pressed against Gertie's shoulder to guide her to step back. He caught up Rose in his arms. She was covered in a cold sweat, still crying, and trying to flail at the blankets.

"Rose! Rose! Sweetheart, calm down! What's the matter? You had a bad dream. It was only a bad dream!" He hugged Rose tighter to him and motioned for Gertie to leave and shut the door. He pressed Rose's face into the hollow of his neck and pressed her arms tight against her body. Eventually her cries dulled to a continuous upset sob. He placed a hand over her cheek and cautiously loosened his hold. She sucked in a big gulp of air and slowly calmed. Cal tilted her head so that she looked at him.

"Sweetheart, did you have a bad dream?"

"Yes, Sir," she murmured.

"It's fine now. You're with me. I will always keep you safe, understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

Cal hugged Rose to him, then pulled her back again.

"What was it?" he asked. "Did you dream there was a fire? Were you trying to beat back the flames?" he guessed.

Rose shook her head, then again batted at the blankets, but with less force than before. "I dreamt . . . my legs! I dreamt I lost my legs!"

"Ohhhh," Cal said on a deep exhale. "I see. Your legs are here," he said, flinging the blankets back. "You're whole. You're safe." He wrapped his arm around her waist and squeezed. "Will you be alright? Do you want Gertie to sit with you until you fall asleep?"

She tilted her head to look him in the eye. She'd stopped crying, and she was pale and beautiful in the moonlight filtering in. "Couldn't you stay with me, Sir?"

And then . . . she nuzzled him. She rested her head on the side of his neck and rubbed a bit for comfort. He comforted her. How could he deny her? What sort of monster would leave a frightened young woman alone in the dark?

"Of course I'll stay here with you, kitten," he answered.