Storm and Silence

  Edmund wet his lips. He opened his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse:

  ‘But what then will you say when this great and powerful man asks you to become his wife?’

  Ella rocked back on her heels. The question had hit her like a kick in the stomach.

  I, for my part, was feeling an urge to kick Edmund in the stomach.

  ‘Edmund, I…’ Her words trailed off into nothingness. She seemed not capable of forming a response.

  ‘This is what it all comes down to,’ Edmund persisted, his eyes burning with passion - or maybe hay fever. I wasn’t exactly an expert in the different nuances of burning eyes. ‘Last time we could wait and hope. Last time we could imagine that it was only a passing fancy on his part, hope that Wilkins would be gone soon and we would be safe. But now? I tell you, my love, my darling, he intends to marry you. Sooner or later, he will ask you. The question that remains now is: what will be your answer?’

  ‘Please, Edmund, don't!’

  ‘Will you answer yes?’

  ‘I… I…’

  ‘I see reluctance in your eyes. I see tears streaming down your face. It is enough. I see, you do not wish to have him. Will you do the only other thing possible, then? Will you save our love? Will you deny him?’

  Burying her face in her hands, Ella gave an anguished wail. Tears spilled right and left, and she still wasn’t using any onions. Really impressive. This ‘love’-thingy really had to be something if it could make people act this crazy.

  ‘My aunt spoke of the wedding as a certain thing,’ Ella whispered through her fingers. ‘She told me how great a match it would be for me and how happy she was for me, knowing that I would be provided for, and happy, and safe for the rest of my life.’

  Slowly, her hands fell from her face, which was stained with salty moisture.

  ‘Tell me, Edmund, how could I disappoint her hopes? How could I be that ungrateful a child?’

  Hm… maybe by taking a leaf out of the book of your favourite sister?

  But I knew that this solution wouldn’t appeal to Ella. She and I lived in different worlds and by different rules, with her rules being pretty ridiculous and problematic. Edmund seemed to realize the same thing at this very moment.

  ‘Ella… you don't mean… you don't mean you’re going to say yes?’

  Ella didn’t reply anything, just sprang to her feet.

  ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered, and with another sob she ran off, back towards the house.

  Bugger!

  *~*~**~*~*

  I pretended not to notice Ella crying herself to sleep. But I noticed. Oh yes, I noticed all right. Not even a bedtime chapter of Mary Astell could comfort me that night.

  My dreams were full of evil lords with oversized ears trying to snatch my little sister away from me and choke her under a mountain of flowers. For the umpteenth time I regretted that I, as a girl, didn’t have the same rights as a man. If I had, I would have learned how to handle a weapon long ago, and then I could just go to Wilkins and challenge him to a duel.

  One bullet right between the eyes. That would do the trick!

  As things stood, though, the only thing I could do was get to work. Despite my worry for my sister and my determination to figure something out to help her, I had to admit I was also curious as to whether Simmons' night in the cellar had yielded any results.

  Oh yes, you are. And you’re even more curious whether one of these results is Simmons’ ice-cold, mutilated corpse, aren’t you?

  I shook my head. Mr Ambrose would never do something like that!

  Well… probably.

  Before I left, I sneaked over to Ella’s bedside and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks as best I could without waking her. It would do no good for my aunt to see them. Although she was probably delusional enough to imagine them to be tears of joy, I was sure Ella had rather not let them be seen. Finished with my demoisturization, I stroked my little sister’s cheek one final time affectionately and then hurried down the stairs and out the back. It was time to get going, or Mr Ambrose would skin me alive!

  At Empire House, Sallow-face let me pass upstairs without comment. I couldn’t suppress a tiny, triumphant smile.

  Yay! He had accepted me. I only hoped Mr Ambrose had done the same and not decided to change his mind.

  Exchanging friendly nods, I passed Mr Stone in the upper hallway and entered my office. I had hardly sat down at my desk when, with a little plink, a message plopped out of the pneumatic tube.

  Oh dear… Here we go.

  Mr Linton,

  I have been waiting for you for hours. Where have you been? I do not tolerate tardiness, as I believe I have told you before.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  What the heck…? Late? I could have sworn that I arrived on the dot!

  Rising from my chair along with my temper, I looked around the room - but Mr Ambrose was too stingy to even buy a clock for his secretary’s office, and I still didn’t have a watch. So I marched to the door and flung it open.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Stone, what time is it?’

  A bit startled, he looked up from his papers and, being confronted with an angry fury in baggy striped trousers, hurriedly fished his watch out of his pocket. ‘Eight o'clock exactly, Mr Linton. Um… Why?’

  ‘Nothing! Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Linton, wait!’ He held out a hand with a couple of envelopes. ‘I almost forgot to give you these. The correspondence of the day.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  Grabbing the letters out of his hand, I marched back to my desk like the wrathful angel of justice, and snatched up pen and paper to scribble furiously:

  My dear and most beloved Master,

  It is exactly eight o'clock, the time I usually arrive at your palatial office, which, by the way, doesn’t even have clocks in its rooms

  Yours ever

  Miss Lilly Linton

  The reply wasn’t long in coming.

  Mr Linton,

  Yes, it is eight o'clock. You may remember our discussion from the day before? The discussion during which you gained the concession from me to be treated like a full employee? You are facing the consequences of that concession. Yesterday, I gave you the afternoon off to recuperate. When I give my employees time off, I expect them to put in longer hours at some later date. I was expecting you at five a.m. this morning.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  Was he kidding?

  A brief image of his stony face flashed in front of my inner eye. No. Of course he wasn’t. My answer was short and to the point.

  Dearest Mr Ambrose,

  How the bloody hell was I supposed to know?

  Yours Sincerely

  Miss Lilly Linton

  There! That would show him!

  I had already shoved the message into the tube when I remembered that now I had a key to his room. I could just have stood up, gone to him and told him to his stony face!

  Or could I? If I were face to face with the tyrant, I might very well use the phrase ‘sincerely up yours’ instead of ‘yours sincerely’. Probably not good for my career prospects. Also I had to admit… this way of communicating was kind of fun.

  I shoved the message into the tube. His answer popped onto my desk only a minute later.

  Mr Linton,

  Mind your language. I will let your tardiness pass once, since you were not familiar with my office policy. Do not let it happen again.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  I had an idea - a rather delicious one, and I caught myself grinning as I wrote the reply.

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  So… were you up in your office at five a.m. this morning, waiting for me?

  Yours truly

  Miss Lilly Linton

  The reply was as quick as it was short.

  Mr Linton,

  Yes, I was. Bring me file S37VI288. The key to the safe is under the door.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  He had been waiting for me! For three hours!
/>
  Whistling, I skipped off to get the safe key, imagining a grouchy Mr Ambrose at five in the morning, sitting in the office and twiddling his thumbs with stony ferocity. The image held a great deal of appeal. I found the file in record time, shoved it under the door and went back to my desk to examine his correspondence of the day.

  A few advertisement letters from some firm or other quickly landed in the bin, so did several charity requests. I very well remembered his reaction to my letting those pass the first time. Then I fished a familiar pink envelope out of the remaining pile.

  What? Another one of those? Yes. The sender read, in curly feminine handwriting: Samantha Genevieve Ambrose. Just like last time. And there was the same coat of arms stamped on the envelope, a lion and a rose, with the rest of the crest, as I now noticed, filled out by stormy waves.

  Whoever she was, you had to give the lady her due; she was persistent. But honestly, I wished she wouldn’t be. What should I do with her letter? Mr Ambrose had given the first one back unopened. I presumed that meant he wouldn’t want another. Was I supposed to throw it away? Or was he just returning the first letter unopened out of principle and would relent to whatever the lady was writing?

  Somehow I didn’t think so. Mr Ambrose wasn’t the relenting kind. Especially if the message came in a pink, scented envelope.

  Still, I couldn’t just destroy the letter. For all I knew, he might want this one, even though he hadn’t wanted the first. I hadn’t forgotten the crest on his watch, exactly like the one on the letter, and was reasonably sure by now that there was some deep connection between the letter-writer and Mr Ambrose.

  But what kind of connection? Not knowing drove me insane! And it made it impossible to decide what to do with the cursed pink thing.

  Well, what are you waiting for, Lilly? The problem of not knowing what’s in there can be solved easily enough!

  Hesitantly, I reached for the envelope.

  Should I? I had to admit, I was more than a little curious to read what was inside. Was it from a relative? Or… maybe from his wife?

  I swallowed. Up until now I had just assumed he was single, but you never knew. Maybe he was a romantic soul and deeply in love with his wife and was just hiding it very, very, very, very, very well. Maybe… maybe the letters even had something to do with the mysterious stolen file! Oh, the suspense of not knowing was killing me! Literally!

  Surely, opening the letter couldn’t really be wrong if it meant saving me from death by acute Nosystic curiositis?

  I reached out for the letter opener - but my hand stopped in mid-air.

  Mr Ambrose had taken me on. He had given me a job when many others wouldn’t. I was his secretary and should behave like it. A professional wouldn’t pry, and I intended to be a professional. That was the whole idea behind getting a job. Agonizingly slowly, my hand drew back from the letter opener.

  Blast! A conscience can be such a nuisance, sometimes!

  But the problem of what to do with the letter still remained.

  Then I had an idea. I was a secretary, right? My job was filing things. And I still had the key to the safe.

  Quickly I got up and searched the shelves until I found an empty file box. I put the letter inside and marched to the safe. Unlocking the safe-room, I entered and stowed the file box in the remotest, darkest corner I could find, where Mr Ambrose himself would hopefully never find it. Then, satisfied with a job well done, I left, closed the safe again and returned to my desk.

  Two messages were already waiting for me.

  The first read:

  Mr Linton,

  Where are my letters? I do not pay you to dawdle.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  The second read:

  Mr Linton,

  Perhaps I was not clear enough regarding my intolerance towards dawdling. Where are my letters?

  Rikkard Ambrose

  Quickly, I looked through the rest of the letters. They all seemed to be strictly business-related, which was sure to be a balm for the soul of Mr Ambrose. No dealing with frightening pink personal letters today!

  I scribbled a note, went over to the door, and shoved the letters under the door, together with the safe key and a note which read:

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  Forgive my unforgivable dawdling. There were a lot of letters to sort through.

  Yours always,

  Miss Lilly Linton

  It didn’t take him long to send a reply through the tube.

  Mr Linton,

  Please correct your address of me to coincide with the truth. I am not ‘dear’ to anyone, least of all, I am sure, to you. Also, it is my ink you are wasting by writing unnecessary words. A bottle of ink costs 3 pence apiece. Therefore, I order you to refrain from all endearments in the future.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  I cocked my head.

  Oh, particularly grouchy this morning, are we? I wonder why…

  I quickly scribbled a reply.

  Dearest most honoured and beloved Mr Ambrose,

  Courtesy hasn't killed anybody yet. By the way, has Simmons given any information?

  Your ink-wasting

  Miss Lilly Linton

  He couldn’t have been very absorbed in his letters yet because his reply didn’t take long.

  Mr Linton,

  Courtesy might not have killed anybody yet, but it has ruined quite a few people who didn’t realize how much money it costs. Mr Simmons has not yet divulged anything. I am displeased, to say the least. We will talk about this more later. Now bring me file 28V214. And be quick about it.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  For some reason a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

  Here we go again. Another normal day with Mr Ambrose.

  Getting up from my desk, I made my way towards the shelves in a leisurely stroll.

  I should have known better, I guess. I should have realized by now that no day with Mr Ambrose ever would turn out to be normal.

  Problems? What Problems?

  Remember how I said life with Mr Ambrose would never be normal?

  Don’t get your hopes up. Nothing particularly exciting happened.

  There wasn’t another theft. No two villains staged a sword-fight in the middle of my office or anything like that. Oh no. What happened was far more mundane and far nastier:

  For the very first time, Mr Ambrose did not get rid of me early. For the very first time, I ended up having to working the entire day. The entire day, do you hear me?

  Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not lazy or anything. It was simply that staying at the office the whole day meant that, for the first time, I had to deal with some basic needs that I hadn’t been concerned about before. The half hour Mr Ambrose allowed us for lunch took care of one of those needs: I ran out of the building and purchased something to stuff myself with. With what money, you may ask, since I hadn’t received my first pay cheque yet?

  All right, I admit it. I was a bad girl. I had pawned Uncle Bufford’s walking cane. Since he hadn’t gone out walking for years, I figured he wouldn’t miss it. And I’d get it back as soon as I had my first wages. I had promised myself that.

  So I wasn’t hungry when I returned to work. Yet over the course of the afternoon, another more pressing need made itself known to me. You could stay alive for several weeks without eating anything, I’d heard, but this need in the lower half of my body required more immediate release. Especially since Mr Ambrose kept me on my feet, hurrying around the room, fetching files, which didn’t exactly combine well with the building pressure down there.

  Another message landed on my desk with a plink.

  Mr Linton,

  Bring me file 29IV229.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  I stood up - and suddenly knew that file 29IV229 would have to wait a little longer. I hurried out of the room into the hallway. Mr Stone looked up from his paperwork as I approached.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Stone?’ I squeaked. Quickly, I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me?’ T
hat was better, though my voice was still slightly higher than befitted my role as a gentleman. ‘Do you know where the bathroom is?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Linton.’ He pointed down the hall. ‘Two floors down, then take the first door on the left.’

  Ugh! Stairs. Would I survive that? I could only hope.

  ‘Thank you!’ I squeaked, and hurried off.

  Shortly afterwards, I returned, my steps a lot more measured and careful. My voice was still unnaturally high when I inquired:

  ‘Err… Mr Stone?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Are there any other toilets in the building? Maybe some that actually have cubicles?’

  He frowned. ‘No, I don't think so. Why?’

  ‘Never mind!’

  Back in my office, I saw two messages on my desk. Just as I closed the door behind me, a third landed beside the other two.

  Mr Linton,

  I refer back to my previous message. Bring me the aforementioned file.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  And the second one:

  Mr Linton,

  I’m waiting.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  And the third one.

  Mr Linton,

  I am becoming impatient. Do not try me. Bring me file 29IV229. Now.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  Bugger! What was I going to do? I couldn’t fetch the file! I probably wouldn’t get to the shelves without… well, I might not be a very polite lady, but even I wouldn’t mention that. Quickly, I considered the roads which were open to me. Could I get through the entire day like this? No, definitely not. That left two options:

  A) Do it in the waste paper basket

  B) Talk to Mr Ambrose

  It said a lot about the personality of my dear master that option A actually sounded like the better alternative to me. However, checking the waste paper basket I discovered that, although once made of solid cast iron, it was now so old that it had rusted through at the bottom, making it unsuitable for containing fluids of any kind. There was nothing for it. I had to gather up my courage and confront the monster in its lair.

  *~*~**~*~*

  I knocked.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Do you have the file?’ asked a voice from inside - that terse, cool voice which I already knew so well.