No! I don’t want to look! I can’t even stand to look at that grey beast of a horse you own, and this - this is a thousand times worse! Run! Run for your life, you granite-headed idiot!
What apocalyptical demon had he set loose in the streets of London, while the unsuspecting public slept in their beds, and the police were nowhere to be seen?
‘Look, Mr Linton. That is an order.’
Unwillingly, I moved my eyes to rest on the red-and-golden monster. For a moment, I just stared in fear as the wild eyes moved from left to right and the head jerked in wild contortions. Then…
Then I saw the pair of legs protruding from the lower part of the head.
Dear, merciful God! Has the monster already devoured somebody?
But no. Those legs weren’t sticking out of the beast’s mouth. They were just protruding from the bottom of the head, as if a man were standing inside it, holding it up. For the first time, I noticed that the face of the beast was hard and immovable as wood, and that its tongue did not move, and neither did its jaws. I saw the glint of paint on its features, and it dawned on me that I might have slightly overreacted.
My body relaxed.
Mr Ambrose’s arms, still around me, did not.
And, for the second time in half an hour, I realized that I could feel his fingers on my lips, and his stone-hard, sinuous body pressed against my back. Suddenly, the fake monster was only a dim memory. Suddenly, I was wondering whether he remembered the last time, too, and what it felt like to him. My derrière was pressed very tightly against him, soft flesh against hard muscle. More soft flesh than was probably advisable. I found myself wishing that I had tied my corset a bit more tightly in that area.
Don’t be ridiculous, I chided myself. Why should you care what Mr Ambrose thinks about how you feel, or that he probably thinks your bottom is too fat?
Not that it was, mind you. A little on the generous side, maybe, but not fat. No, definitely not.
Mr Ambrose cut short my posterior musings by releasing me and stepping back.
‘Be quiet, Mr Linton,’ he warned me, his voice as cool as ever. No. He definitely hadn’t been thinking of anything… down there.
Quickly, I tried to push all thoughts of the feel of his body out of my mind. It wasn’t too difficult, considering the circumstances. My eyes were drawn once more to the giant beast, of which now, not only the head, but a long, snake-like body was in view, each part of it supported by another pair of legs. The snake-like thing had by now started advancing towards the western side of number 97.
‘What in St George’s name is that?’ I panted, pointing at the wagging head of the fake monster.
‘Chinese New Year celebrations,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as straight as a ruler. ‘The performance is called “The Dance of the Dragon”, I believe.’
‘Is it the Chinese New Year?’
‘No. But I doubt Lord Dalgliesh’s guards know that. They are not Chinese.’
‘Well, fortunately, neither am I,’ I said, watching the head of the monster with trepidation. ‘Real animals are scary enough. I have no idea why any people would want to dream up even more monstrous creatures, and for a celebration, to boot. Give me a nice, quiet suffragist demonstration any day…’
‘If you’re quite finished, we should get going.’ Mr Ambrose jerked his head in the direction of number 97. ‘Or we will get shot in spite of the performance of our Chinese friends, and I’d hate to have spent enough money for an entire dragon and twenty-four pairs of legs for nothing.’
Without waiting for my response, he whirled. Drawing his cloak in closely around himself, he started across the street. Crouching low, he stayed out of the light of the street lamps, jumping from shadow to shadow. Karim followed without hesitation.
I gazed at the thirteen steps or so that separated me from number 97 with trepidation. At any one of the thirteen steps I would have to take, I might get shot. I wondered what it would feel like, having a bullet pierce my flesh. Yet - the longer I stood here wondering, the more likely I would be to find out. And he was already halfway across.
You don’t really have a choice, do you?
I threw myself forward.
When I had just taken my first step, I thought I saw a glint on the rooftop of number 97, and my heart almost stopped. The barrel of a gun! I expected the crack of the shot, the bullet hitting me - nothing came. It must simply have been a drainpipe, glinting in the moonlight.
Ten steps left.
Inwardly, I cursed the London authorities for making this road so damnably wide. Couldn’t they have reduced the size a bit? Couldn’t they have felt compassion for poor girls who were running across the street in the darkness, hoping not to get shot by villainous assassins? I was sure if there had been a woman on the planning committee, she would have thought of it! It was such an obvious point to consider in city planning.
Seven steps left.
Every time one of my feet hit the ground it sounded like a drumbeat in my ear. I wondered at the fact that the men on the roof hadn’t heard it yet and put a nice, round hole into me. But in reality, the clash of the cymbals and dozens of thundering feet on the opposite side of the building were probably more than covering the noise of my advance.