Rising Waves

Mr Ambrose had suggested that the bushes would cushion our fall. I didn't know what kind of cushion he preferred, but the landing in the bushes gave me a pretty good idea. Basalt, maybe? Sandstone?

By the time I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill on which the bushes were perched, I felt as though I had been squeezed through a meat-grinder. A strangled moan escaped from my throat.

‘You should have rolled,' a cool voice commented from above me.

‘I did roll! I did nothing but roll and jump and bump! I feel like a flipping football!'

‘I mean actively. To break your fall.' A firm hand gripped mine and pulled me up so quickly I couldn't even try to protest. In a moment, I was standing beside Mr Ambrose, whose red uniform - curse him! - somehow still looked immaculate. He hadn't even gotten one twig in his smooth, shiny black hair.

For a moment, we stood like this, each close enough to hear the other's heart beating, our hands intertwined. Then he let go and abruptly turned.

‘Let's go!'

‘There they are!' The gruff voice from the tunnel entrance was much too familiar. ‘Get them!'

Behind us, a shot rang out. It was the starting signal for our race. We dove into the brushes, and now I blessed the thick foliage I had cursed a moment ago. Bullets whipped through the forest to my right and left, but none hit Mr Ambrose or me. We were too well hidden among the green leaves. As quickly as possible, we slid between the trees, farther away from the tunnel.

Suddenly, Mr Ambrose stopped.

‘Be quiet!'

‘Oh really?' I hissed. ‘This isn't the right time for your obsession with silence! We've got to run, and I don"t care how loudly we do it! We-'

‘No. I mean, I heard something. Be quiet and listen, just for a second.'

Grudgingly, I did as he told me. Over the hammering of my own heart I couldn't hear anything, at first. Then, slowly, I began to hear a low chatter, far off on the other side of the undergrowth.

‘Voices!' I exclaimed.

Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Yes. Probably the crowd at the harbour. If we can reach it in time, we'll be safe!"

Without another word, he dove between two bushes and disappeared.

Muttering a low curse, I followed. The farther I got, the louder the voices became. I redoubled my effort, almost running headlong, raising my arms to shield my face from the sharp branches that attacked me from all sides. It was with a shocking suddenness that I stumbled out of the trees and into the open, onto a square paved with cobblestones.

The harbour. We had really managed to reach the harbour. In front of me stretched a wide, seaside promenade, with dozens of people strolling up and down, enjoying the view. Some of them glanced towards the forest when I burst out from between the trees, and looked more than a little surprised by the sight of a soldier with leaves and twigs in his bird's nest of hair, but most were too busy watching the ships arrive and leave.

Or, to be more precise - two ships arriving, one ship leaving. The ones that were arriving looked older, but the one that was about to embark was a brand-new steamship. Passengers were just getting on board the shiny, new vessel, all looking like wealthy tourists returning to England after a wonderful holiday. For a moment, my eyes fixed on the cursive word emblazoned on the ship's hull: Urania.

Quickly, I threw a sideways glance at Mr Ambrose and saw in his eyes the mirror of my own thought: our only chance. We rushed forward, slipping into the line at the gangway of the luxurious ship, and ignoring the protest of a thick-set French gentleman right behind us.

‘Two tickets to England, please,' I gasped, slamming my hands on the counter of the official at the gangway to steady myself.

‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?' the man asked, looking at me with his nostrils instead of his eyes. But I worked for Mr Rikkard Ambrose! This little Frenchman's derisive glances were nothing in comparison to the ones I had learned to withstand.

‘Tickets. To England. You do sell tickets to England, don"t you?'

‘Naturalement, Monsieur - since this is our vessel's only destination.'

‘Well, then, you heard my companion.' Mr Ambrose stepped up beside me and fixed the official with an icy glare. ‘Two tickets to England, third class.'

The official didn't back down. If anything, his look became even more disgusted. ‘Third class, Monsieur? I am afraid you have the wrong vessel. This is a ship of a respectable line, offering its services only to the better classes of society. We have no cabins of third class on board.'

Behind the granite mask on Mr Ambrose's face, a momentous struggle seemed to be going on. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His left little finger jerked erratically. Finally, he managed to say: ‘Fine! Second class, then! How much does it cost?'

The official seemed to decide that looking at us with his nostrils was too great an honour for us, and he switched to regarding us with his wobbly chin instead.

‘There is no second class, either, Monsieur. Please remove yourself. You are holding up the line.'

I saw Mr Ambrose's little finger twitch again, violently.

‘Two tickets, first class, to England,' I said, before he could do anything he would later regret.

His head whipped around to stare at me. ‘What are you doing?' he demanded, his tone low and hard.

‘Saving our skins from your miserly ways,' I shot back amiably. ‘I hope you have enough money on you.'

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short by the official.

‘First class? As you could pay half the sum required! I have no time for your silly jokes, Messieurs. Remove yourselves immediately, or I will be forced to call security.'

Slowly, Mr Ambrose turned back towards the man. When the Frenchman caught sight of his eyes, he flinched back.

Mr Ambrose reached into his jacket and drew out a wallet. Opening it with deliberation, he pulled out two one hundred pound notes and slammed them down on the counter.

‘You can give me my change when we arrive in England,' he said, his voice cold enough to freeze sunlight in mid-air. ‘I wish to be shown to my cabin. Now.'

‘W-why, certainly, Monsieur. At once, Monsieur.'

Staring incredulously at the banknotes, the official waved one of his underlings over. ‘Quick! Pierre! Take these two gentlemen to the best cabins on the ship. Now!'

‘But Monsieur, the best cabins on the ship are occupied by…'

‘Do it!'

As we were led off by the bewildered young man, who kept sneaking glances back at his superior, Mr Ambrose leant over to me and whispered:

‘The money for the tickets shall be deducted from your wages, Mr Linton.'

And for some reason, this didn't make me want to snarl back at him. It made me smile.

*~*~**~*~*

‘Get them! Get the-'

The soldiers fell silent the moment they stumbled out of the undergrowth onto the seaside promenade, and several hundred people turned to stare at them. They seemed to realize several things at once: firstly, their prey was nowhere to be seen, secondly, they were wearing British Indian Army uniforms on French territory, and thirdly, the crowd did not seem to appreciate the guns they were waving around.

‘Ehem.' One of the soldiers, probably the commanding officer, cleared his throat. ‘S-sorry if me and my friends gave you alarm. We… just had a bit too much to drink. Got a bit above ourselves, that's all.'

Weak though the explanation was, it was generally accepted, and as the soldiers lowered their guns, the crowd slowly returned to their business. The men - there were only two; Mr Ambrose had indeed hit the third one, apparently - huddled together and began whispering.

Up on the deck of the Urania, Mr Ambrose and I crouched behind the ship's railing, peering through the gaps down into the harbour.

‘What do you think they will do now, Sir?' I asked.

‘They are alone and do not know what to do. They will not risk attracting the attention of the crowd in order to find us. They have no authority here. Were Dalgliesh present, it might be different, but with things being as they are, we have a chance - if the ship leaves before they get reinforcements or, worse, support from the French authorities.'

‘Do you really think the French are in on this?'

Mr Ambrose's face was grim. Even more so than usual.

‘I'm convinced of it. Dalgliesh is no fool. He wouldn't set up his base in an environment he cannot control. Our only chance is to get away before the authorities can be notified.'

As he spoke, one of the soldiers darted off and up towards the centre of the island like a bullet shot from a gun. The other one began moving among the crowd, stopping people, asking questions. We remained where we were, watching, our anxiety rising with every minute. Or at least my anxiety was rising with every minute. I wasn't sure about that of Mr Ambrose, or about whether he had any at all. His face still looked like the bust of some stoic philosopher, only without the long beard and the toga.

The soldier down on the promenade moved closer and closer to the Urania. Not long and he would figure out that it was the only ship due for departure, the only way his prey could get off this island. But at the same time, the line in front of the Urania was dwindling. People were hurrying to get aboard. The sun was setting, and they seemed eager to get to their warm cabins before the cold of the night set in.

Beside me, I could hear Mr Ambrose let air hiss through his teeth, and turned my head to see what was wrong. He was staring at a point far above the crowd, where a road led up towards the centre of the island.

‘What is it, Sir?'

‘There might be slight difficulties for our departure. There, Mr Linton. Look!'

He pointed to the very top of the road, where several riders in blue uniforms, accompanying a rider in red uniform, were racing down towards the harbour. Slight difficulties indeed.

‘Don't tell me those are the French, Sir.'

‘Those are the French, Mr Linton.'

I grimaced. ‘Thank you so much, Sir.'

By now, the soldiers were halfway down the road. I saw the foremost rider waving, trying to catch the attention of somebody on the ship, but the crowd was getting in the way. He shouted, but his words were drowned in the babble of the people admiring the sea view. Never had I been this grateful for the thriving French tourism industry.

‘What will they do if they catch us?' My mouth felt dry. For some reason, my hand snaked along the railing, towards that of Mr Ambrose.

‘The French? Or Dalgliesh?'

‘I don"t know. Which is worse?'

‘Both.'

‘Oh.'

My fingers found his. He twitched, and I was about to draw back, but then his fingers closed around mine like a vice, and held them tightly in place. I was so surprised that I almost didn't hear the shout from directly beneath us.

‘Larguez les amarres!'

‘W-what does that mean?' I whispered. ‘"Seize the spies"?'

‘No.' Mr Ambrose's voice was just as cold as ever, but underneath the ice, there was triumph, waiting to break through. ‘It means "Cast off"!'

Before I could even process what that meant, I felt a shudder underneath us and saw the gangway retract. Helpless, the faint cries of the French officers rose over the babble of the crowd as the ship detached itself from the jetty and lurched forward, its steam engine roaring to life like some giant, ancient beast. But unlike the Nemesis, this was a friendly beast. It had come to take us to safety.

With a dizzying mix of relief and disbelief, I watched as the harbour moved away from us, slowly at first, then faster and faster, as the ship gathered speed and moved away from the island into the channel. The French and British Indian soldiers shouted in vain, their voices drowned out by the engine that carried us farther and farther away from the danger.

Mr Ambrose's hand didn't loosen its grip on mine.

‘We made it!' I whispered. ‘We actually made it!'

He turned towards me. There was something in his dark gaze - not cold, this time. Something else. Something indefinable. He opened his mouth. But before he could speak, we heard a gentle cough from behind us.

Letting go of his hand as if it were a block of ice, I whipped my head around and stared up into the concerned face of a member of the ship's wait staff, looking down at the two of us crouching on the floor with concern.

‘Um… we do have seats on this ship, Messieurs. It is not necessary to sit on the floor. Would you like me to show you?'

*~*~**~*~*

The helpful young member of the wait staff guided us to our cabins. I didn't know what Mr Ambrose did after disappearing into his. Stand in a corner and calmly calculate how much money he was going to make out of his new canal, maybe? I, for my part, slumped onto the thing that vaguely resembled a bed nailed to the wall. Bunk, dunk, shwunk - I couldn't care less what it was called or what it was for. It was relatively soft. That was all I needed to know.

The knock that woke me from my sleep was tentative but resolute. I blinked and yawned. How long had I been out? I didn't really care. My clothes had dried, so it had to have been some time.

Again, there came a knock from the door. Drowsily, I lifted my head. This didn't look like my room at my uncle's house. What was this? Oh yes, the ship! It all came back to me then: The island, the mine, the race, getting on the ship…

What was its name again? Urania. Yes. Had we really managed to escape, or had it all been just a dream? Was I still dreaming?

A third knock came from the door. I could tell from the sound alone that it wasn't Mr Ambrose on the other side.

‘Yes?'

‘Monsieur? Diner is ready in the dining hall.'

That decided it. I had managed to have some pretty strange dreams in my lifetime, but never could I dream up a French waiter calling me ‘Monsieur'. Crazy things like that were reserved for reality - my reality with Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Groaning, I pushed myself up from the bunk bed and stumbled towards the door. ‘I'm coming,' I called. ‘I'm coming.'

‘Very well, Monsieur. You are, um, well? You seemed a little pale, earlier.'

Well, what do I say? Getting shot at does that to me.

‘No, no. Everything is fine. Thank you.'

‘Excellent. I shall return to the dining hall. Your companion is awaiting you there.'

Not long after, I stepped out onto the deck of the ship and closed my eyes for a moment as I breathed in the fresh sea air. It was cool, harsh and salty - not the best combination for a city girl like me, under normal circumstances. But just now, I revelled in it, revelled in the fact that it was no longer the dank, dusty air of the mine I had to breathe in, revelled in the fact that I could still breathe because I was alive.

Opening my eyes again, I looked around. I stood on the upper of two decks aboard the Urania. The wooden structures supporting the deck, as well as the walls of the cabins, were painted in a cheerful golden-yellow and only served to re-emphasize the point: I was out of the dark. I was safe. We both were safe.

Stepping towards the railing, I took another deep breath and looked back the way we had come. Past the roiling clouds of smoke from the engine that propelled us forward, past the churning waters behind it, I could see, in the distance, the faint shape of a mountain on the horizon, rising out of the distant waves. ?le Marbeau. It looked like nothing more than a molehill from here. And regardless of how angry the mole that lived there might be right now, regardless of how much he might resemble a lion in his fury, we were out of his reach. I smiled.

Leaving the sea view behind me, I turned and went in search of Mr Ambrose. I hoped for his sake he hadn't eaten without me and already left, or there would be hell to pay!

It didn't take me long to find my way through the luxurious, wood-panelled corridors of the ship. They were not like the corridors of the Nemesis. Light shone in through curtained windows, gold and silver glittered in every corner, and everywhere there were helpful people willing to show you the way, instead of evil people willing to show you the way to your grave. One old lady, Lady Timberlake, even entangled me in a conversation about how small and underfed the young men in military service, like my good self, looked nowadays, when I asked her for the way. She discovered I had the cabin right next to hers, and it took me some time to pry myself away from her. She was sorry to see the young soldier (i.e. me) go; he reminded her so much of her grandson, the brave darling…

I hoped fervently this was due to the excellence of my disguise and not to the freakish anatomy of her grandson.

When I finally entered the dining hall, a grand room with plush leather chairs arranged around small, intricately carved tables, and crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the first thing I saw was Mr Ambrose, sitting at one of the tables and arguing with one of the waiters over the price of a glass of water.

‘…two shillings for one glass?' Mr Ambrose was saying, trying to nail the poor waiter to the wall with his cold glare. The other guests were watching him with apprehensive looks on their faces. ‘What do you put in that water, man? Gold dust? This is not acceptable!'

‘But Monsieur,' the waiter protested. ‘This is special mineral water with many beneficial properties for your health, directly from the wells at…'

‘Well, as it happens, I do not feel sick in the slightest. Is it within your ability to procure some non-healing, but reasonably priced water?'

‘Monsieur! This is a vessel of the very first class. We pride ourselves on the excellence of everything we serve, and it would be a disgrace if we-'

‘Can you or can't you?'

A pained expression crossed the waiter's face.

‘I might be able to, um… obtain some low-quality fluid out of the provisions for the ship's personnel, if Monsieur wishes it.'

‘Yes, Monsieur wishes it.'

‘Alors, I shall do my best. Before I leave, what does Monsieur wish to eat?'

Mister Ambrose eyed the bread basket placed in the middle of the table.

‘Does this cost anything?'

‘The bread basket? No, of course not, Monsieur! That is just an appetizer. Which of our delicacies does Monsieur wish to taste?'

‘The one that doesn"t cost anything.' With one hand, Mister Ambrose pulled the bread basket towards him, with the other, he waved the waiter away. ‘This will be quite sufficient. That will be all.'

The waiter was near tears.

‘Monsieur cannot be serious! Water and bread? Water and bread? This is a first-class vessel, not a prison bark!'

‘More's the pity. On a prison bark, I wouldn't have had to pay for the voyage.'

‘Monsieur! I beg you to reconsider. Please, here, I have a menu, will you not look and see if there is something that will please your palate? We have the best-'

He was interrupted by a hand snatching the menu from his grasp. My hand.

Casually, I flicked through the pages with golden corners and embossed, italic writing. Something caught my eye.

‘I would like… Foie Gras avec Sauce Espagnole, then a glass of Champagne…'

‘The sparkling variety or pale red?'

‘Sparkling, definitely sparkling. And as for dessert… well, we shall see. I look forward to tasting your delicacies.'

The waiter bowed so deeply that his head almost smashed into the table.

‘Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you so much!'

Shooting a last, lofty glance at Mr Ambrose, he glided away. I, meanwhile, sank down into the chair opposite my employer and gave him a bright smile.

He did not return it.

‘The price for that extravagant meal shall be deducted from your wages,' he warned.

‘If you keep this up, Sir, there won't be anything left of my wages when you've deducted all you wish.'

‘That would be very convenient indeed, Mr Linton.'

‘Oh, don"t be so grumpy,' I admonished. ‘You got what you wanted, didn't you? We have the file back. We should celebrate!'

‘I am celebrating. I ordered a glass of water, didn't I?'

‘Dear me, you're right. Your extravagant exuberance is overwhelming, Sir.'

He, oh great surprise, didn't reply. The waiter arrived with our drinks, and I raised my glass of champagne towards Mr Ambrose.

‘A toast,' I declared.

He regarded me with those cool, dark eyes of his.

‘Similar to jokes, Mr Linton, toasts are a waste of time and breath. They also present the added hazard of spilling a drink one has paid for.'

‘Well, I like to waste a little breath and time now and again!'

‘I noticed.'

‘A toast,' I repeated, and to my utter astonishment, Mr Ambrose hesitantly raised his glass towards mine. ‘To a successful operation. May you make so much money out of your canal that you choke on it!'

We clinked glasses. I didn't spill anything of my costly drink.

‘A pleasing prospect, Mr Linton. However, quite unlikely. I have never had problems digesting monetary gain.'

I hid a smirk behind my champagne glass. ‘I can readily believe that, Sir.'

He watched me drinking, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. ‘Should you be drinking, Mr Linton? Remember what happened last time.'

My smirk widened into a grin.

‘Yes, that was fun.'

His eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch.

‘There was a gunfight. You were hallucinating. We nearly died.'

‘As I said, fun.'

‘I think we must agree to disagree on that, Mr Linton,' he said coolly.

We lapsed into silence again. I wet my lips and opened my mouth - then closed it again. There was something I really wanted to ask. I didn't, though. I was afraid of what the answer might be.

‘Messieurs! Voilà, your meal has arrived!' The waiter swooped down on us like an eagle on a rabbit, only instead of grabbing us for his next meal, he brought us one. A steaming plate was set down in front of me, with a glistening, brown piece of something on it that looked incredibly soft and succulent. It also looked like nothing I had ever seen before, let alone eaten.

Bowing and smiling at me, the waiter departed. He completely ignored Mr Ambrose. I looked down at my plate, and tentatively picked up the thing on it with a fork. It wobbled.

‘You have no idea what foie gras is, do you?' Mr Ambrose asked.

‘Of course I do!' I sent him an indignant look. How dare he adopt this superior tone with me? I was a member of the gentry, after all. He was nothing but a paltry financier. Why should he just assume he knew more about French cuisine than I did? Granted, he might be right, but it was still a pretty darn cheeky supposition.

‘Indeed?' The way he said that word alone made me want to stuff a fork down his throat. ‘Well, what is it, then?'

‘Um… it's…' I stared at the brown lump, trying to make deductions from the form and size. ‘Fish?' I suggested, hopefully.

‘Not quite. Actually, it's goose liver.'

‘Oh.'

Suddenly, I was acutely aware of how the ship pitched and rolled in the power of the waves, and I wasn't quite so keen on tasting the French delicacy as a moment before. Raising my eyes, I saw Mr Ambrose watching me, his face perfectly expressionless, but his dark eyes slightly smug.

Ha! I'll show him!

Quick as a flash I cut off a piece of the poor goose's innards and stuffed it into my mouth before I could think better of it. Carefully, I bit down. It tasted surprisingly good. Not squishy at all, but soft and buttery.

‘Hmmm…' Swallowing, I cut off another piece. ‘Quite nice. Yes, really quite nice.' I tried the sauce that came with it, and the grin returned to my face. ‘Those Froggies really know what they're doing in the kitchen.'

Cutting off another piece, I offered it to Mr Ambrose. ‘Do you want to try?'

Demonstratively, he took a piece of baguette from the bread basket and took a bite.

‘Oh well, suit yourself.'

We ate in silence for a while. I really enjoyed the meal. When you live off potatoes most of the time, tasting foie gras is something special simply for the scarcity value. Add to that the exquisite taste, and… well, it was just about heaven. I treasured every bite, knowing I wouldn't taste something like this again for a long, long while. Even with my own wages, I would hardly be able to afford this on a regular basis. Especially if…

There it was again. That question. That question I didn't want to ask.

I did it anyway.

‘Am I really that bad?'

My voice was quiet, hesitant. Mr Ambrose looked up from his plate, where he was cutting his baguette into geometrically similar pieces. ‘What?'

‘You intimated that after you had deducted money from my wages for all the things I had done wrong, there wouldn't be anything left. Am I really that bad at my job, Sir?'

For once, there was no teasing, no scorn, no antagonism in my voice. That seemed to throw him off. He stared at me as if really seeing me for the first time. His dark eyes turned even darker.

‘No,' he said, finally. ‘You are not. In fact…' His jaw worked for a moment. ‘In fact, one might say your services have been moderately satisfactory, thus far.'

‘Satisfactory?' Had I heard right? Had he just uttered praise? Praise, moreover, which in Mr Ambrose's limited complimentary vocabulary equalled heavenly trumpets announcing a triumphal procession in honour of my utter perfection?

‘Relatively speaking, of course, Mr Linton. You are still no match for a real man, of course.'

For some reason, this didn't make me want to bash his brains in. Instead, my lips twitched. ‘Of course.'

‘But for a member of the unmasculine persuasion, you showed considerable lack of fear, down in the mine.'

‘Courage, you mean, Sir?' I inquired sweetly.

‘Courage would be too strong a word. I would be more inclined to attribute your actions to an impetuous nature and a tendency to rash behaviour. However, whatever the reasons might be, you exhibited a considerable lack of fear and weakness.'

‘You mean I was resilient, Sir? Strong, even?'

‘Those words are not the ones I would have chosen. It is more likely-'

‘-that my actions originated from some irrational part of my inferior mind, which simply didn't grasp the danger, than from any real strength of character?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Why, thank you, Sir.'

‘You're welcome, Mr Linton.'

Why was there a smile on my face? His compliments were badly disguised insults! He still was just as abominable a chauvinist as on the first day I met him. I should be shouting at him, demanding recognition of my work and my loyalty. I definitely should not be moving my right hand across the table towards where his left rested on the tablecloth.

And why was his hand suddenly starting to move, too, sliding over the table until his fingers touched mine? His fingertips brushed the back of my hand, and a little gasp escaped me. Suddenly, my mind felt very irrational indeed.

‘Will you pay me my wages?' I asked softly. ‘Will you let me stay on?'

He seemed to weigh my words for an eternity.

‘I shouldn't pay you a penny,' he said, finally. ‘I should get rid of you as quickly as I can.'

It was I who remained silent now, for once. It hadn't escaped my notice that he had told me what he thought he should do, not what he would do. So I waited in silence.

Without knowing why, I squeezed his hand. For some reason, it felt good to hold his hand, as if I were a ship in a storm, and he the line holding me in my safe harbour. Ridiculous, but there it was. The feeling wouldn't go away.

‘Why?' I asked, still in this soft tone of voice that was so totally unlike me. How had I managed to suddenly come up with it, without practising? Why was I even using it? ‘Why would you want to get rid of me? I was helpful, wasn't I? We got your secret file back. Soon, you'll be the unchallenged master of world trade. That's what you wanted, isn't it?'

His fingers grasped mine more tightly.

‘But the danger…'

‘Well, there was a danger of not getting the file back. But it's passed. So why worry?'

His eyes flashed with sharp shards of ice.

‘I was not talking about the file, Mr Linton!' His fingers closed even more tightly around mine. It was as if they were squeezing my heart. I suddenly found I couldn't speak.

‘What were you talking about, Sir?'

His dark eyes bored into mine, answering my question without words.

‘You remember how I told you to be careful?' he asked, his gaze keeping mine prisoner. I nodded.

‘Down in the mine you were not careful. You never are!'

I swallowed, dislodging the lump in my throat that had kept me from speaking, and attempted a smile.

‘It would take all the fun out of life.'

His hand clenched around mine, almost breaking my fingers. Why the heck did feel good anyway?

‘You could have died!'

‘So… that's why you want to get rid of me?'

‘I want to dismiss you from your job all right.' He leaned forward, his chiselled face not betraying a hint of what he thought or felt. His eyes, though… His eyes were another matter. ‘That's not the same as getting rid of you.'

Another one of those lumps had appeared in my throat. I swallowed, hard, but it was a stubborn lump that didn't like attempts to dislodge it. ‘What other reason could I have for staying around, Sir?'

‘What if it's not up to you, Mr Linton? What if I don't want to let you go?'

I felt the floor under my feet sway in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with swell.

‘W-what do you mean?' I asked.

He opened his mouth to speak.

‘Excuse me, Messieurs?'

Our hands jumped apart as if hit with a horsewhip. We stared up at the waiter, who had walked up to our table without either of us noticing. He bowed and flourished a second set of menus. ‘Would you like dessert, now, Messieurs?'

*~*~**~*~*

We ate our dessert in silence. That is, I ate my dessert in silence, while Mr Ambrose chewed another piece of baguette in silence, following the waiter through the room with a venomous, icy glare.

I was glad for his lack of loquaciousness, for once. I had enough to think about - most of all about Mr Ambrose's words. He had said he should get rid of me. And yet… and yet… he hadn't looked at me as if he wished to get rid of me. Quite the contrary, in fact.

‘What if it's not up to you, Mr Linton? What if I don't want to let you go?'

I shivered. What if he didn't plan to sack me? What if he was planning on doing something even worse? Exposing my disguise, maybe? But no. That would also expose himself. But what then? I could not for the life of me decipher his dark, intense looks or sparse words.

My dessert was soon gone. There was plenty of baguette in the bread basket still, but Mr Ambrose didn't seem in the mood to continue eating, even if it was for free. That fact alone was very worrying. He simply sat there in brooding silence, a brooding silence that was about three times as brooding as his usual brooding silences. Again, I couldn't suppress a shiver. I thought I had managed to prove myself to him, at least to some extent. To prove that I could be a valuable and reliable asset in spite or even because of my femininity. But the way he was staring at the table, avoiding my eyes… He looked like he had all those times when he had contemplated getting rid of me. What was wrong?

‘Is… is everything all right, Sir?' I asked.

He nodded.

‘You did get all of it? The file, I mean? Is there something missing?'

‘What?' He looked up, seeming to need a moment to realize what I had asked. ‘No, no. The file is complete. Mr Linton?'

‘Yes?'

‘Are you hurt at all? I didn't get a chance to ask before. I should have made sure, after we got away from the soldiers. Are you all right?'

Why did he want to know? Was he worried I had gotten blood on the fake uniform he had paid for?

‘No, Sir. I'm perfectly all right.'

‘Hm.'

He lowered his eyes, and started glaring at the table again. It was a wonder that the piece of furniture hadn't fled from him yet.

Soon after, the waiter appeared with our bill, which didn't exactly improve Mr Ambrose's mood. He paid, but not without giving me a look twice as icy as that he had directed at the poor table. I really hoped my wages would be high enough to cover this bill, otherwise I would be in big trouble.

The waiter bowed and left. For a moment I considered asking Mr Ambrose what was the matter. I hesitated briefly, looking at his chiselled granite face. I hesitated for an instant too long. Pushing back his chair, he rose.

‘I'm tired, Mr Linton. I'm going back to my cabin. You should, too. When we arrive in England, we still have a long coach journey ahead of us.' His dark eyes met mine, holding them for a moment. ‘And we'll have a lot to discuss.'

Before I could say anything, he was gone. I shrugged. It wasn't as if this was the last chance we would ever get to talk. I'd have to get to the bottom of what was the matter with him sooner or later. But it could just as well be later as sooner.

Besides, I had to admit, a few more hours of rest would probably do me good. My muscles still ached from pushing the draisine up those hills, and all I wanted to do was lie down and relax.

When I stepped out onto the deck, Mr Ambrose was nowhere to be seen. Strange. Why was he in such a hurry to disappear? Was he avoiding me? But why would he do that?

The question kept nagging at me, even when I had entered my cabin and lain down. No matter how much I tossed from side to side, or how many blankets I pulled over myself, I couldn't find sleep. The sun started to sink and disappeared behind the horizon, and still my eyes hadn't closed. Mr Ambrose's strange behaviour continued to gnaw at me. Besides, the roar of the steam engine was doing its best to keep me awake. It felt like trying to go to sleep with a raging rhinoceros next door.

In the end, help came from unexpected quarter: the sea. As time passed, its motion became more turbulent, its rush became louder, until it tuned out the drone of the steam engine. The repetitive up and down of the waves, instead of making me sick, turned out to be comforting, like the movement of the cradle, lulling a child into sleep.

Don't worry so much about Mr Ambrose… Whatever his problem is, he'll calm down… Everything will be all right…

With that comforting thought, I drifted off into sleep.

I awoke, startled into consciousness by the ring of a bell. A bell? But why would I hear a bell? There was no church in the vicinity, was there? No, of course there wasn't. I was on a ship! The Urania. Did ships have bells? And when did they ring? Surely not for a wedding?

It was then that I noticed that the motion of the waves had once again changed. Before, it had been like a mother, rocking a child to sleep. Now, it rather resembled a mother bent on infanticide! Over the roar of the sea I could hear thunder rumble in the distance. And were those running feet outside my cabin? Yes, they were! And they were coming closer.

With an almighty crash, my door burst inward, slamming against the wall - and there, framed in the doorway stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his silhouette only visible for a moment as lightning arced across the sky. Then he disappeared into darkness, and I only heard his voice, cold and controlled:

‘Get up! A storm is coming!'