Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ he whispered reassuringly, his hand squeezing my shoulder. ‘I’m sure they will.’

  The last thing I felt before darkness swallowed me up was a hand on my cheek, stroking gently.

  Hallucination Manicure

  ‘Mr Linton.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Mr Linton, wake up. We have to go inside.’

  ‘Why?’ I mumbled, unwilling to open my eyes.

  ‘Because… Well, because I say so!’

  I chuckled. I knew that voice. Cold. Commanding.

  ‘Not good enough,’ I murmured.

  ‘You are still in my employ, Mr Linton. You have to do what I say.’

  ‘Not after hours, Sir.’ A yawn escaped me. Talking was tiring business. Maybe I should just go back to sleep. I was lying on something so comfortable…

  The comfortable thing shifted and grabbed me.

  ‘If you don't get up, Mr Linton, I’m going to carry you. Either way, you will get out of this chaise.’

  Oh. Mr Ambrose. It was Mr Ambrose I was lying on. How had that happened? I was sure he hadn’t volunteered to be my personal sofa.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mr Linton? I will drag you out of here, whether you want to or not.’

  For a moment I considered letting him do it. Truth be told, I felt too warm and fuzzy to think about walking. Being carried might actually be nice. However, the moment that thought of weakness popped into my head, the vigilant feminist inside me reasserted herself. I might utilize men as a couch, I might even allow them to pay me wages. But the day I allowed a man to carry me in his arms because I felt too unsteady on my poor little feminine feet would be the day I publicly confessed to being a chimpanzee.

  Never.

  Ever.

  Blindly I groped around, grabbing Mr Ambrose and pushing myself into a sitting position.

  ‘Be careful with my coat, Mr Linton! It’s only ten years old and-’

  ‘…still in mint condition.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. You’ve told me before. I’m not stupid, you know.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you are drunk.’

  ‘Drunk? Me? Of course I’m not drunk!’ Outraged, I staggered out of the chaise. How dare he suggest such a thing? I was stone-cold sober! And I had plenty of witnesses to the fact. Grasping the carriage wheel to support me, I pointed with my free hand at the yellow piggy sitting beside the driver. ‘Ask him over there, if you don't believe me.’

  ‘Me?’ The driver looked taken aback. ‘Well, Sir, I could not hazard a guess as to-’

  ‘Not you! The Pig.’

  ‘Pig? What pig?’

  The driver’s nervousness seemed to increase. What was the matter with him? A yellow pig wasn’t something you could miss easily, was it?

  ‘Forget it, Godwin.’ Mr Ambrose appeared beside me. With a jerk of his head, he indicated to the driver and the yellow piggy that they should leave. ‘Take the chaise away and care for the horse.’

  He was obviously bent on ignoring my logical arguments! So typically male!

  ‘Yes, Sir, only…’ the driver hesitated. ‘What about the other men, Sir? I should go back and-’

  ‘Warren will have reached the tavern by now with all the reinforcements he could muster,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘Do as you’re told. I and Mr Linton will go inside now.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’

  Climbing from the box, the driver and the yellow piggy started doing Mr Ambrose’s bidding, leading the horse and carriage away. The power of this man was unbelievable! Even little yellow animals were under his power, even though I was sure they weren’t on his payroll!

  ‘Come along.’ Mr Ambrose strode ahead, gesturing for me to follow with a flick of his fingers. Taking a cautious step forward I lifted my head - and my eyes widened in shock. Before me stood the vast, gaunt façade of Empire House. The chaise had deposited us in Leadenhall Street, right in front of Mr Ambrose’s business headquarters. Like the bow of a gargantuan wreck in the dark depth of the ocean, the two-columned portico loomed up in front of me, white and ghostly. Ornate gas lanterns were spread out all along the street, throwing their yellowish light across the empty street. The whole scene looked even colder now than it had in daylight.

  What were we doing here? Why wasn’t I at my own home? I was sure I had one of those, tucked away somewhere in London.

  My eyes flicked to Mr Ambrose. Honestly, surprisingly enough, he had not strode ahead, ignoring me - instead, he was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, tapping his foot on their foot in impatience.

  I smiled. His foot on their foot. That sounded funny.

  Leisurely, I strolled towards him. With fuzzy curiosity, I gestured up at the towering monument of mammon above me.

  ‘Why here?’ I asked, directing my unsteady smile at Mr Ambrose. ‘I don't live here. Not that I’m aware of, anyway,’ I added, as an afterthought. Nothing seemed to be too sure, lately. ‘Do I?’

  Mr Ambrose’s face was hidden in shadow, his voice as terse as ever.

  ‘No, you don't. But I thought I would bring you here first and give you the chance to clean up. Unless you want to go home in blood-spattered clothes, that is.’

  ‘What?’

  He gestured, and I looked down at myself. Even in the pale light of the gas lamps, it was undeniable that the upper part of my uncle’s old tailcoat had distinct signs of red on it. If they weren’t blood spatters, they were the experiment of a deranged tomato-enthusiast.

  ‘Hell’s whiskers!’ A giggle escaped me. ‘That looks dashed nifty!’

  ‘Nifty, is it?’ The dark figure of Mr Ambrose took a step towards me. ‘You consider blood spattered all over your clothes nifty? Maybe even chic? You have interesting fashion tastes, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Sir.’ I bowed and nearly toppled over. Strong arms caught me and put me upright again.

  ‘Still,’ his cool voice continued, ‘I doubt your aunt shares your tastes in that direction.’

  Thoughtfully, I tugged at my lower lip. He might be right about that. Aunt Brank was often completely unreasonable in regard to modern fashion.

  ‘Might be interesting to see her reaction, though.’ I giggled again. ‘The look on her face…’

  ‘…would undoubtedly be a sight to be seen. Still, in the interest of secrecy, I would advise against it.’

  ‘Oh, all right! Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.’

  He turned. ‘I assure you I am not in the habit of sticking sticks into mud, Mr Linton. Follow me.’

  Marching up the stairs, he pulled a ring of keys out of his coat pocket. I had never before met anyone who could truly march on stairs, not without breaking their toes, anyway, but he managed it just fine. He reached the door well ahead of me and had unlocked it in a jiffy.

  The huge wooden doors squealed like the tortured souls of the undead as they were pushed open. I looked around with interest, just in case some of the tortured souls of the undead happened to be around and wanted to swap recipes, but there was only Alexander the Great, atop his horse, winking at me from the other side of the street.

  ‘Nighty night, Alexander! Conquer Persia for me!’ I called, waving to him energetically - until Mr Ambrose grabbed me and pushed me towards the door.

  ‘Hey! There’s no need to be so rough,’ I protested, resisting his grasp. ‘I was only being polite.’

  ‘To a hallucination. And you were waking the whole street up in the process, which is not a good idea. Or have you forgotten that the headquarters of the East India Company is right across the street?’

  I furrowed my brow in concentration. For some reason, I was sure that was important, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember why.

  ‘Well, no,’ I explained, and started grinning again. It was easy to grin right now, and very difficult to frown. ‘Actually, I hadn’t forgotten. I just don't care. I mean… Alexander the Great conquered parts of India, right? He’s surely not afraid of some stuffy old company board members.’

 
‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘We need to get you inside.’

  ‘Yessir! Why, Sir?’

  Without answering, he renewed his grip and began to push me forward again. This time, I didn’t react fast enough, and he managed to manoeuvre me through the entrance into the darkness of the hall beyond.

  ‘Why do we have to go?’ I demanded, trying to push my heels into the ground. But it was no use. My shoes just slipped on the polished stone floor. ‘I was talking to Alexander the Great!’

  That didn’t seem to make Mr Ambrose want to let me go, the ill-bred lout! Didn’t he know you couldn’t behave like that to an Emperor?

  ‘We have go back. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly.’

  ‘We can’t go back. We have to go upstairs, and you have to sit down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are drunk, Mr Lin-’

  ‘I’m not! Just ask the yellow piggies!’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well… then let’s just say that I’m not on the best of terms with Alexander the Great. I wish to avoid him, if possible.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now this was interesting news, and my curiosity spiked immediately. ‘Why’s that?’

  There were a few moments of contemplative silence.

  ‘He kicked my favourite dog once.’

  ‘Really, Sir?’

  We had reached the other end of the hall by now. There, the floor suddenly vanished, and instead there were these angular thingamies… what were they called again?

  ‘Yes, really, Mr Linton. And a very harsh kick it was.’

  Oh yes. Steps! Pride flooded through me! I had actually managed to remember what steps were called! And Mr Ambrose thought I was drunk. Hah! I’d show him.

  I took a confident step forward - and a hand shot out to grab me.

  ‘No, not those stairs, Mr Linton. Those lead to the cellars, that’s why the steps go down. We want to go to my office and need to find some stairs that go up.’

  I pondered this. He might actually be right, I finally decided.

  ‘How clever, Sir! I would never have thought of that.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Somehow, another staircase appeared in front of me. Had he pushed me around again? I decided, just this once, to let it go without protesting. My mind was engaged on a much more serious and enthralling topic than stairs, anyway.

  ‘You have a pet dog?’ I asked, the incredulity clear in my voice.

  He hesitated. I could feel it: he didn’t like to give anything away, be it money or personal information.

  ‘Two,’ he finally snapped. From what I could see of his face in the dark it was as impassive as the stone I set my feet on.

  ‘But… aren’t dogs expensive, Sir?’ I nudged him in the ribs, grinning. ‘Really expensive, from what I heard. Why waste money on pets that don't do anything useful?’

  ‘They do do something useful. They bite people I don't like.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He gripped my arm again. ‘Stop! Don’t try to go any higher, there are no more steps.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I blinked into the gloom. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Yes. Now we have to go down the hallway. Here, down this hallway, you see. We’re almost there.’

  ‘Down? No problem… no problem at all, Sir.’

  ‘I didn’t mean lie down, I mean walk down! My office is over there. You can rest there.’

  He stopped me in time before I could rest my head on the floor of the hallway. Honestly, had I lain down there, I would not have been able to get up again. Despite the fact that I was definitely not drunk, I felt effects which, to the amateur eye, might look considerably like drunkenness.

  With unusual gentleness, Mr Ambrose helped me up again and manoeuvred me to his office door. There, he took me by both shoulders and looked sternly down into my eyes.

  ‘I have to unlock the door now, and for that I have to let go of you, Mr Linton. Do you think you can stand upright on your own long enough for me to do that?’

  I blinked up at him, deeply curious. I would never have thought that he cared whether I keeled over or not - except perhaps that he might regard me bashing my head in on the stone floor as a very beneficial occurrence. But here he was, looking down at me with… well, it wasn’t exactly concern. It wasn’t as if he looked at me like I was someone he cared for - instead, he stared at me like I was a priceless object in his possession, and he was expressly forbidding me to damage myself and thus lessen my value.

  ‘I must admit,’ I muttered, bracing myself against the doorframe, ‘I feel a tiddly little bit unsteady on my feet.’ I looked around for help and smiled. ‘Hey, Napoleon! Come over and help me, your Imperial Menagerie, while he gets the door open!’

  For some reason, my application for help to the emperor, who was leaning against the wall next to me, cleaning his nails with a dagger, didn’t seem to alleviate Mr Ambrose’s concerns. He just doubled his efforts to get the door open as quickly as possible. Hmm. Maybe he had a beef with Napoleon, too, not just with Alexander. These powerful tyrants were always at each other’s throats.

  ‘There!’ The door swung open, and Mr Ambrose grasped my arm again. ‘Get in and sit down, will you?’

  ‘Why not lie down on the floor out here?’ I asked, blinking back longingly at the hallway. For some reason its stone floor looked a lot more comfortable than stone floors usually did. It felt soft, too, and was wobbling under my feet like a mattress. ‘I could keep the Emperor company.’

  ‘He’ll manage just fine without you. Come in, please? You need to rest.’

  My ears needed cleaning. Did I just hear Mr Ambrose say please? And that in what could almost be described as a gentle tone of voice, compared to the deep-frozen tyrant’s voice he usually employed?

  A moment later, he squeezed my shoulder. ‘Please?’

  Holy moly! Miracles did happen!

  Almost involuntarily, I started forward. Under his firm but gentle guidance, I stumbled into the room. This was becoming a very strange night… Maybe I really had drunk a tiny bit too much of that burning stuff.

  Inside, the office was dark. Mr Ambrose reached to his left. There was a soft noise, and the shimmering light of a gas lamp illuminated the room with a warm, golden glow, throwing long shadows against the walls. Suddenly, the office, so stark in daylight, looked totally different.

  ‘Well, will you look at that?’ A broad smile spread over my face as I spread my arms in an attempt to hug the room. Mr Ambrose ducked just in time to not be cuffed around the ears. ‘It looks almost cosy! Now all you need is a carpet on the floor and a couple of nice pictures on the walls.’

  Mr Ambrose rose out of his crouch again. ‘Which, Mr Linton, would be a needless waste of time and money.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Don’t you ever feel the urge to make this place a little less… cold?’

  ‘No. I have a very warm cloak, should I need it.’

  ‘I was speaking metaphorelly… metareferain… metaphorically!’

  ‘I was aware of that.’ Half-turning to the door, he kicked it shut behind us. ‘Metaphors, Mr Linton, are also a waste of time and money’

  ‘Bah! With your attitude, I’m surprised you have gas light in the house. It’s supposed to be pretty expensive.’

  ‘Much less expensive than the hospital bill for running headlong into a stone wall in the dark, I assure you.’

  He sounded as if he had made the experiment. We were still standing at the door. Neither of us seemed to know what to do, where to go next, now that we had reached our destination.

  Suddenly, the floor gave a lurch and threw me to the side. I knew it! I knew that the floor out in the hallway would have been much nicer to me than the evil floor in here! The floor in here seemed to have it in for me, personally. It didn’t stop, but kept quaking underneath my feet, while Mr Ambrose seemed to have no problems whatsoever remaining upright. Quickly, he was at my side and had an arm around my waist. I could feel
his strong muscles brushing against me, pulling me close -

  Then he stiffened.

  ‘Excuse me.’ His voice was oddly strained. ‘I shouldn’t be touching you like this. I only meant to… well, I’ll let go soon. Only let me help you to a chair.’

  ‘Don’t let go,’ I muttered, groggily. ‘Feels nice…’

  And it did feel nice, having his arm around me. It wasn’t like we were the only ones doing it, either. Two yellow piggies on the other side of the room had their arms (or were those legs?) around each other.

  ‘Mister Linton… I…’

  ‘You can call me Lilly, if you want,’ I offered, not managing to keep a grin off my face. Funny. I didn’t usually smile this much. ‘But if you did, you’d admit I’m a girl, which you don't want. So maybe Victor? No, I have it!’ A giggle escaped me. ‘Call me Ifrit!’

  I heard a strange noise. A noise I would have never expected to hear in this place. Was it really…? Was that a chuckle? From him? Had Mr Ambrose, Mr Rikkard Don’t-waste-time-with-idle-frivolities Ambrose actually laughed? Or had it been one of the yellow piggies?

  ‘My little Ifrit,’ he murmured almost inaudibly, tightening his grip around me. I could feel the reverberations of the chuckle through my whole body. It felt really nice, being held by him like this. I felt safe and warm and, for once, not at war with the rest of the world.

  ‘Yes, I’m an Ifrit,’ I confessed to him in a whisper. ‘You were quite right. I didn’t really believe you in the beginning, but now, well… you can see for yourself.’

  ‘See what?’ For some reason, he sounded confused.

  ‘Why, my huge fiery wings of course! Aren’t they beautiful? So sparkly and pretty.’

  I pointed up to where my wings almost brushed the ceiling. They were a marvel to behold. It was nearly incomprehensible that I hadn’t noticed them before tonight. Maybe it was because I had never much been interested in how I looked before. But tonight, alone in this room with him, I was suddenly glad there was something undeniably beautiful about me, even if I remembered vaguely that a pair of huge fiery wings wasn’t exactly a traditional sign of female beauty.

  ‘Don’t you think they’re pretty, Sir?’ I sighed.