Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

The Return of the Yellow Piggies

I stopped in front of Mr Ambrose’s door. Or, to be more exact, my mind stopped. The rest of me needed a moment or two of wobbling to catch on. For a moment, I gazed consideringly at the three doorknobs on the door. Finally, I grabbed my favourite, before it disappeared, and turned it. It actually stayed substantial.

‘Yay! Victory!’

Triumphant, I pushed open the door and swung into the room with it, dangling from my trusty friend the doorknob. It really was a nice doorknob. I should come visit it more often in future, maybe start exchanging news on women’s rights and brass polish…

‘Mr Linton?’

My philosophical reflections on human-doorknob relations were rudely interrupted by a familiar cool voice. Glancing up, I saw a tall, dark figure standing at the window. Or maybe two. Or three. Math was so difficult to deal with when some nefarious character had stuffed your head full of cotton wool. The Ambrose(s) stood with their back to me, not moving an inch.

‘You’ve concluded your interviews for today, Mr Linton?’

‘Yep!’

‘And? Did you find out anything?’

‘Y-yep!’ I announced, cheerily. ‘I f-found out that those French singers carry some s-strong strong stu…stubledywubledy…stuff.’

He stiffened. Hm…was he tense? Did he need a backrub?

Slowly, so slowly he could have counted the dust moats in the air, Mr Ambrose turned around, his dark eyes flashing.

‘No. No. Not that again.’

‘Hello!’ With a bright smile, I waved at him, then turned a bit to the left, towards the yellow piggies dancing in the corner. ‘Hello to you, too! I’ve missed you! Where’ve you been?’

‘I’ve been here the whole time, Mr Linton!’

‘Not you! I’m talking to my friends over there. And psht!’ I held an admonishing finger to my lips. ‘You’ll interrupt their performance.’

Mr Ambrose turned to glance into the corner, then turned back to me. ‘Mr Linton—how much alcohol exactly did you consume?’

‘Enough to be completely rat-arsed,’ I announced proudly.[16]

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Funny expression, that, isn’t it? Rat-arsed? I mean it’s not as if tipple came out of a rat’s arse. Or maybe it does? I’ve never seen alcohol be made. Hm…I wonder if someone ought to look into that…Only not too closely unless they want their nose bitten off.’

‘Mr Linton! Cease talking immediately!’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told you to!’

‘That’s no reason!’ I told him, raising a hand to wag an accusing finger in his face. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. You can’t—’

Unfortunately, the hand I had raised to admonish him was the one I had used to cling to the doorknob before. Without its friendly support, my face decided it was time to French kiss the floor.

‘Ow!’

‘Mr Linton!’

Suddenly, strong arms were around me, lifting me up, holding me close.

‘Oh, sure,’ I muttered into a comfortingly warm chest. ‘Now you rescue me, after I’ve rammed my head into the floor. Very gentlemanly, I’m sure.’

‘Rescue you?’ Icicles were hanging from Mr Ambrose’s voice. ‘I gave you the task to undertake an important investigation, Mr Linton, a very important investigation—and you return to me dead drunk. I don’t think you’re in a position to throw around accusations. Besides…’ Fingers slid down my cheek. Fingers that felt hard as steel and at the same time unbelievably gentle. ‘I’ve been reliably informed that women have just as much right as men to smash their heads into the floor. It’s called equality.’

The insult I wanted to throw at the hypocritical son of a bachelor was muffled by his tailcoat. Struggling free, I bent my head back until I could meet his gaze and jabbed a finger against his chest.

‘D-dead drunk? Ha! I’m just a little tipsywipsy. Besides…how do you know I didn’t start on your investigigi…investititty…investic nation?’

Dark, sea-coloured eyes seared into mine.

‘I would say that the fact you cannot pronounce the word “investigation” is a pretty strong hint.’

‘Ha! That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ I thumped his chest. ‘I made huge leaps in the investiture…investmentality…in…in…oh, heck! In my job!’

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh yes indeed, Sir!’ I beamed up at him. ‘I persuaded a very nice lady to translate for me when I interview the staff tomorrow.’

‘And how did you do that?’

‘I drunk her under the table,’ I announced proudly. ‘Bloody hell, those French singers can drink a lot of plonk![17] But I beat her! She’s sleeping the sweet sleep of approaching hangover. Which reminds me…maybe someone should scrape her off the floor.’

‘So let me recapitulate.’ Mr Ambrose was as deadpan as a skillet that had just committed a tragic suicide by hurling itself into a furnace. ‘You got drunk on the job in order to do the job.’

‘Yep!’ I grinned up at him, proud of myself at having found such fabulous reason to be nefarious. The yellow piggies clapped and applauded, their cute little tails wiggling. ‘I absolutely did. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have a translator, and I’ll be able to investimalate to my heart’s content.’

His grip tightening around me, he pulled me up until I was standing on my feet—or at least wobbling.

‘I usually do not make predictions based on feelings, Mr Linton, but I have a feeling that tomorrow morning, you will be busy with other matters. Ones that involve a bucket and an icepack on the forehead.’

I was about to respond when, suddenly, the floor lurched beneath me. Heck! Why did the bloody floor insist on acting up every time I took a little drink?

Of course! The floor was a temperance activist![18] That was it! The evil floor wanted to outlaw my drink and banish the little yellow piggies!

Well, I couldn’t allow that, now, could I?

I kicked the floor.

‘Bad floor! Bad! Take a drink yourself before you judge.’

‘Err…Mr Linton?’

‘Bad floor! Bad! Just because drunk people always end up drooling on you, that’s no reason to be vindictive. How could you want to hurt those cute little piggies? Can’t you see how well they dance?’

‘Mr Linton, I think I’d better get you upstairs to your room.’

‘No! I need to have a serious talk with this floor.’

‘There’s plenty of floor upstairs, Mr Linton.’

Really? Damn! This was a conspiracy. ‘Is he a bloody teetotaller, too?’

For some reason, Mr Ambrose seemed to take this perfectly harmless question as reason for concern. In one swift movement, he bent down, knocked my wobbling legs out from under me and caught me up in his arms.

‘Woah! What are you doing?’

‘I’m taking you upstairs.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘Now.’

He started forward, and his long legs quickly ate up the distance to the door. With the heel of his foot, he pulled the door open and marched through, towards the stairs.

‘P-put me down!’ I protested. ‘I’m not some helpless camel…camsel…damsel!’

‘Agreed. You’re missing a hump.’

‘So you’re going to put me down?’

‘No.’

‘Do it now!’

‘No.’

I tried to find the strength to protest again, but it felt so nice being snuggled against his warm, hard chest, and my head was feeling a bit woozy.

‘You’re a tyrannical son of a bachelor,’ I accused.

Mr Ambrose snorted, and murmured something too low for me to really understand. Something about a pot calling the metal back?

We ascended the stairs in silence, all the way up the opera house that was long asleep by now. No voices of singers rose from below, no chatter of dancers flitted through the corridors. The only things to hear were Mr Ambrose’s quiet footsteps and the ringing of a church bell in the distance.

A church bell.

Mr Ambrose stopped on the last step.

‘Is that why you said no to me? Because I’m a tyrant?’

I thought about it.

‘Yes,’ I finally admitted. ‘And no.’

‘That doesn’t make sense, Mr Linton.’

‘I’m drunk,’ I reminded him happily. ‘I don’t have to make sense.’

‘Oh yes. Yes, you do.’ A powerful hand caught my chin in its grip and lifted my head. Blinking the drowsiness out of my eyes, I gazed up at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his icy gaze boring into me. I felt like whiskey on the rocks. Lots of alcohol with a bit of ice mixed in. ‘I know you—and I know you want me. I told you when I left for France, I’m not just going to walk away from you. I’ll make you mine, one way or another.’

‘There!’ I waggled a finger in his face. ‘That’s what I meant by tyrannical. When a woman tells you no, you have to accept it!’

‘Even if she doesn’t mean it?’

‘Especially then. Agonizing over potentially idiotic decisions is one of the most precious rights of womankind.’

Muttering a low oath, Mr Ambrose continued on his way, and I snuggled back into his chest.

‘You’re impossible!’

‘I’m your little ifrit,’ I grinned up at him. ‘That’s my job description.’

Wordlessly, he pulled me tighter against him and lowered his face into my hair, crushing it against his lips. Not loosening his grip for an instant, he carried me along a corridor, the walls of which seemed rather wobbly and colourful for a scarcely lit house in the middle of the night.

‘W-where are we?’ I murmured.

‘The attic.’

‘You’re going to store me in the attic?’

‘Yes, with the brooms, buckets and old costumes.’

But, contrary to his words, a moment later he pushed open a door and stepped into one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen. True, it was a bit dusty, and there was actually a broom leaning in the corner—but the rest?

I sucked in a breath at the sight.

High, high above us, the two slanting sides of the ceiling med above an intricate labyrinth of rafters. Between the rafters, cobwebs hung like velvet drapes, glittering in the silvery moonlight that fell in through the window.

Oh, and the window…

It was big. It was high. And it was beautiful. Through it, I could see lights glittering as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a dark band cut through the luminous magic of Paris. The Seine. I gazed, unable to look away. If the view was this amazing in the middle of the night, what would it look like in the morning?

‘Up here you won’t bother anyone,’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice cool and detached, while his fingers gently stroked my cheek. ‘And I can lock you in when I need to stop you from causing trouble.’

I gazed once more at the beautiful room—then looked up at his face, only inches away, and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

‘That’s so considerate of you. It’s been some time since I had leisure to practice my lock-breaking skills.’

Making an indistinct noise at the back of his throat, he marched over to the window, to a cot that was already waiting there. A cot without the barest hint of dust on it. This hadn’t been standing here a long time, like everything else in the room, a realization surfaced in my befuddled mind. He’d had it brought up especially for me, long before I’d stumbled drunk into his office downstairs. Warmth rose in my chest. Yet as I looked up into his eyes, I saw nothing but ice there. Quickly, he looked away.

‘Here,’ he said, gruffly, and lowered me onto the cot. With one quick jerk, he pulled a blanket over me. ‘Sleep it off. I need you alert in the morning, and ready to continue with the investigation.’

Ready to be out of your way, you mean.

‘Why can’t you look at me? Why do you want to avoid me?’ Would I normally have asked such a question straight out? Probably not. But in my pleasantly befuddled state, it seemed the logical thing to do.

His eyes flashed.

‘I could ask you the same thing. Why, Lillian?’ His voice was like a knife, cutting straight to the chase, and through it, straight into my heart. ‘Why did you say no?’

I flinched. There was no need to ask what he was referring to.

‘You know why.’ Gently I reached up to touch his cheek, but missed and bumped his nose instead. Oh well, who said I couldn’t invent the romantic nosebump?

Capturing my hand between both of his, he stared at me, cold, controlled rage in his eyes. ‘Just because of a few stupid words in a wedding vow? Honour and obey?’

‘Words you would hold me to.’

At least he didn’t try to deny it. Turning away, he gazed out through the dirt-stained window.

‘Why did you leave?’ It was an audacious question. A question about pain, and secrets of the heart. A question I’d probably never have asked if I were sober. Luckily, I was still completely sloshed.[19]

For a moment or two, he didn’t reply. The silence was deafening. But then…

‘When you said no to me, I…’

‘Yes?’

At his sides, his hands balled into fists.

‘It was the first time I wanted to punch something without having a debtor in front of me. Even when directed against a valid target, violence is mostly a waste of time. And there was I, wanting to punch without knowing whom or what or why! And every time the logical part of my mind told me I should probably try punching you, I felt like punching myself, and there is nothing more bloody illogical in the entire world!’

There was a thunderous thud. It was over so quickly, I had hardly time to blink. Had that really just happened? Had I just seen Mr Rikkard Cool-As-An-Icecube Ambrose punch the wall?

‘I needed to get out of there.’ His voice had sunken to an arctic whisper. ‘I grabbed the first file from my “problematic business” pile, and jumped into a carriage. And as the non-existent deity of fate would have it, the business I ended up giving a thorough examination was this one. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to suffer through the last few weeks? If I have to hear one more romantic aria sung by an overweight fool in a parrot costume…!’

‘My condolences. But, you know, my life back in London hasn’t been exactly a picnic, either.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh yes indeed, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Can you imagine how hard it is to make up excuses for why you’re being followed everywhere by a turban-wearing mountain wearing a giant beard and sabre?’

‘I don’t have to imagine. I know the feeling well. And I always say he’s here to cut the throat of anyone who thinks of harming me.’

‘Well, for some reason, that wasn’t something I wanted to tell my lady friends over afternoon tea.’

We lapsed into silence again. And in the silence, in the dark of this dusty attic in Paris, the sadness and hurt between us shifted and morphed into something else. Something warm. Something that drew us together.

‘I missed you,’ I whispered into the darkness.

Silence.

Silence which for once, wasn’t cold.

‘I missed you, too.’

I bit my lip. Was it cruel to tell him this? I’d said no. I’d refused his proposal, and he had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything less than marriage. Would it only hurt him to tell him?

Oh, to hell with it!

‘I love you.’

Silence.

Silence for a long, long moment, that stretched and—

Suddenly, he whirled around to face me. In a blink, he was at my bedside and grabbed hold of me. Digging his fingers into my hair as if it were the thread that connected him to life, he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard, fast, heady.

Holy hell! If this is his punishment for being drunk and disorderly, maybe I should do it more often!

When he finally broke away, he was panting. His eyes held mine captive, ice swirling in their sea-coloured depths.

‘Likewise.’

Wasn’t it wonderful how sweet and loving Mr Rikkard Ambrose phrased his romantic declarations? He should have become a poet.

‘Move over,’ he ordered.

I obeyed him, because it was always a good idea to stay unpredictable. Lifting the covers, he slid into bed beside me and wrapped his arms around me like iron fetters. Only iron wasn’t quite as hard.

‘So, we’ve established the basic parameters, Mr Linton. We both possess mutual affection for one another.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And we both want to be together.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Gripping my shoulders, he turned me around. I lay there, gazing up at him. Darkness was starting to encroach on my vision, heralding the approach of sleep. But even if I’d been as drunk as the whole House of Lords, I would still have seen his stone-hard face, and his eyes, burning with sincerity.

‘So have you changed your mind? Will you be my wife?’

I considered for a moment, then glanced over at the solitary little yellow piggy that had coiled itself up in a comfy corner of the room and was watching us with interest.

‘What do you think?’

‘Oink,’ it said, and wiggled its tail.

‘Good advice,’ I agreed—and promptly dropped into unconsciousness.