Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

Ridiculous, is it?

‘Oh,’ I said pointedly, ‘So he thought I was the centre of your world?’

He froze halfway to his desk. Slowly turning back towards me, he met my eyes with his own. Their dark force took my breath away.

‘Probably.’

‘What is it?’ Why was my voice so low and breathy all of a sudden? ‘What is the centre of the world for you?’

‘I’ll tell you what it is not, Mr Linton. It most certainly not a girl.’

Why this odd tugging sensation in my chest? Had I ever expected the centre of Mr Ambrose’s world to be anything emotional?

‘I asked what it is,’ I told him, forcing my voice to be firm. ‘Not what it is not.’

‘I know.’

‘So are you going to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘But-’

He cut me off with a jerk of his hand.

‘You,’ he said, ‘are not in here to question me. You were in here to answer my questions. You have done so. You can leave. Now.’

‘But-’

‘That is an order, Mr Linton!’

Slowly, I got to my feet and walked away. At the door, I turned to look over my shoulder a last time. He was sitting there at the desk, with that unfathomable lack of expression on his face that belonged solely to him.

‘The world is a heavy thing to bear,’ I told him, ‘whether at the centre or elsewhere. Why won’t you let someone help you?’

Without waiting for a reply, I turned, leaving him behind.

*~*~**~*~*

The longer the day stretched, the more fantastic my imaginings became. In my mind, the centre of the world became the name of a priceless diamond, an heirloom of the noble house Mr Ambrose was a member of, though he refused to acknowledge it. A moment later, it turned into the title of an ancient script that revealed the lost location of

Atlantis. In the next moment, it turned into Buckingham Palace, centre of the British Empire and home of its Queen, and maybe a plan to prevent her assassination.

Though, in the latter case, I couldn’t see Mr Ambrose risking his own life willingly. Not unless there was a healthy reward involved, or… or unless he had a secret affair with the Queen, and she was the writer of the pink letters…

It was probably better that, at this point, another plink from a tube message distracted me from my own thoughts. I wasn’t far away from imagining the missing file to contain a magical portal to Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Or, more likely, to the seventh circle of hell.

The hours flew by as I worked ceaselessly, and thought ceaselessly, always asking: What will happen? What will he do? What is the centre of the world?

I didn’t find any answers. The hours grew longer and turned into days. The closer the deadline came, the more insane became Mr Ambrose’s idea of an appropriate workload. Working seemed to be his way of dealing with anxiety - if he truly was anxious. He seemed just as cool and collected as ever. Maybe it was simply his way of earning more money.

Maybe…

On the last day before the great day, I sat at my desk and gazed out through the window over the city of London. The sun was just sinking beyond the horizon, flooding the city with blood-red light, half-obscured by the black smoke that rose from thousands of chimneys. It seemed like an omen to me. Darkness and blood.

Quickly, I rose from my chair and went to Mr Ambrose’s door. He hadn’t called for a new file yet, in fact, he’d been suspiciously undemanding the last few minutes, but I knew he was still in there. If he had left, I would have heard the keys in the lock.

After a second of hesitation, I raised my hand and knocked.