Silence Breaking (Storm and Silence 4)

Next I was engulfed by the squealing whirlwind that was Flora and Eve. It went on like that for quite a while - Patsy uttering curses against the patriarchy, Ella sniffling into her handkerchief, and Eve and Flora showering me with their best wishes for my health and happiness, which earned them a few confused looks from my little sister. I hugged everyone at least three times, and when I finally had gotten Patsy to let go of me, I hurried down the street, trying to tell myself that, no, those were not tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. It had simply rained on my face at some point during the day, and I hadn’t noticed up until now.

*~*~**~*~*

Ten minutes later, I stood in Smithfield Market in Clerkenwell, London, beside the most rickety, uncomfortable, and, most of all, cheapest rental carriage within the entire United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. In front of the coach stood a team of four horses, led by the irritable old nag that had drawn Mr Ambrose’s chaise since I could remember. I had changed in the garden shed before setting out, and now wore my usual tailcoat, pinstriped trousers and peacock vest. And I was stomping my feet, profoundly wishing I was wearing more. It was freezing outside, the winter chill biting into me from all sides, snow and slush spattered all over my trousers.

And do you want to know why I was out here, freezing my butt off? Why I wasn’t already in the coach and on my way?

Yep, that’s right: Mr Ambrose was late. Mr Rikkard ‘knowledge is power is time is money’ Ambrose was late!

‘Blast him!’ I managed to get out through my chattering teeth. ‘Blast him all the way to hell and back! All this because he is afraid of his mo-’

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’ came a cool voice from right behind me.

I shut up.

I swallowed.

Slowly, I turned around and faced him. He was standing there, not a speck of snow on his impeccable black trousers, his cold eyes glinting as if he were the Prince and Supreme Ruler of this frozen world.

‘You’re late,’ I told him.

Reaching into his pocket, he let his watch snap open. ‘Six a.m. precisely. Your watch must be fast. Kindly correct this deplorable imprecision.’ And without another word, he stepped past me into the coach. A set of heavy footsteps approached, and there was Karim, Mr Ambrose’s personal bodyguard and beggar-deterrent. The huge Mohammedan gave me his customary greeting - a sinister look and a growl - and swung himself up onto the box, gripping the reins.

‘What are you waiting for, Mr Linton?’ Mr Ambrose called from inside. ‘The road awaits!’

Squaring my shoulders, I straightened, and stepped towards the carriage with a smile. You have no idea. The road isn’t the only thing that awaits you…

South and North

‘So…where does this family of yours live, exactly?’

‘In the North.’

I gave him a look. ‘I had surmised as much from the fact that we’re travelling on the Great Northern Road.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’

I waited for more. Nothing came. Nothing but the pictures my own imagination could conjure up. In the beginning, from the moment Mr Ambrose had first hinted he came from the North, I had always pictured some ice-cold, windy Scottish castle on top of a cliff, with no glass in the windows, and an underground vault filled with a life’s worth of hoarded treasure. However, when I had voiced these theories, Mr Ambrose had looked at me as if I were a particularly repellent cockroach and informed me coolly that he had not and did never intend to live in Scotland, that he was a one hundred per cent English gentleman and did not appreciate my suggesting anything to the contrary.

Of course I didn’t believe a word. The man had to be Scottish! He had to be! He hadn’t bought new underwear in over ten years. If that didn’t scream ‘Highlander’, I didn’t know what did.

Still, it was a sensitive subject, so it might be best to proceed with caution.

‘Okay, let’s start crossing off possibilities,’ I murmured. ‘Do your parents live in a castle?’

‘No.’

‘A palace?’

‘No.’

‘A townhouse?’

‘No.’

‘A henhouse?’