Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

Sneaking Away

Late at night, long after I had come home from work, and long after I should have gone to bed, considering what awaited me tomorrow morning, I snuck up the stairs towards a very special room in our house. My only light was a solitary candle, throwing flickering shadows on the wall. In its faint glow, I could see the thick layer of dust on the wooden steps, broken only by a few solitary foot

prints.

God, Lilly…What are you going to do if he’s not up at this hour? Or worse, if he says no?

A stair creaked under my foot, and I froze. Except for me and the one I was going to visit, the entire family was deep asleep. Aunt Brank had no idea that I was up this late. If she had known, and if she’d had any idea what I was going to do, she would have been spitting fire.

You can only hope that he receives your plans better than she would.

It was probably a vain hope. But I had to try, at least.

Cautiously, I continued up the stairs and, at the top, continued down the hallway until I reached the solitary door that was my destination. Raising my hand, I knocked twice, softly.

‘Uncle Bufford?’

There was a moment of hesitation from behind the door, like the moment you would expect to pass if a vampire found someone knocking at the door of his coffin looking for blood donations. Then, a gruff, weary voice from inside called: ‘Enter.’

And I did.

It was dark inside the room. Only a single candle, burned down to a stump, illuminated Uncle Bufford’s study. He was sitting bent over his ledgers behind his massive oak desk, a frown on his face and a pipe jammed into the corner of his mouth. I knew that there wasn’t anything in the pipe. Uncle Bufford would die before spending a penny on anything as frivolous as tobacco. But the pipe was an heirloom from his great-grandfather, and it provided a convenient barrier that kept him from constantly gnashing his teeth together.

Just as he was trying to do now.

‘You?’

He pronounced the word as if London’s most wanted lecher and murderer had just entered his study.

‘Yes.’ I gave my best imitation of a demure curtsy. ‘Me.’

‘Put your candle out! Have you any idea how much candles cost, nowadays? One candle in the room is more than enough light!’

‘Yes, Uncle.’ Immediately, I moistened my fingers and extinguished the candle, giving him a look-how-obedient-I-am smile.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You want something.’

Damn!

‘Why would you think that?’ I almost managed to make my voice sound injured.

‘Because people only ever come to see me when they want something. Usually money.’

‘Last time I saw you, I refused your money,’ I reminded him.

‘True.’ The frown on his gnarled old face loosened a little. ‘So - what is it that you want?’

I decided that it was no use beating around the bush. Uncle Bufford, like Mr Ambrose, was not an admirer of wasted time.

‘I’m going away on a trip, Uncle.’

‘Are you, now?’

‘I might be away for a while.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes.’