‘You’re late, Mr Linton!’

The warm greeting of my dear employer immediately made me feel at home. His cold glare, and the arctic waves of disapproval radiating off of him completed the congenial working atmosphere.

‘Yes,’ I cheerfully agreed, dropped my briefcase on the desk and flopped into my chair. ‘One hour, fifteen minutes and….’ Quickly, I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out my very own watch that I had purchased from my first pay cheque, ‘…thirty-two seconds.’

Letting the watch snap shut again, I stowed it away.

‘Admirable, how exactly you keep an eye on the time of day, Mr Linton.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘It would be even more admirable, however,’ he added with a glare, stepping from the shadowy doorway of his office, where he had been standing, fully into mine, ‘if you would devote the same amount of attention to the time of day when you are supposed to appear for work. Punctually!’

I fought to ignore the shiver that went down my back as our eyes met. Mr Rikkard Ambrose was an overpowering personality under any circumstances, but if you had experienced those eyes of his looking into yours from only a few inches away, if you had felt those long, elegant fingers capturing your face while his lips captured other parts of you…

Let me put it this way: it gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘powerful’.

‘Indeed it would, Sir.’

‘Why exactly are you late, Mr Linton?’

‘I got arrested.’

He stood there for a moment, his arms folded, his posture stiff as a stone statue. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but other than that, he showed not the slightest sign of any emotion whatsoever. The temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees.

‘Ordinarily, this would surprise me, Mr Linton. But, coming from you, it does not. Why do you think that is?’

‘Because you know I’m a little demon from hell?’ I suggested cheerfully, and pulled open a desk drawer. As expected, I found the correspondence of the day there, which Mr Stone from the lobby had left for me. Pulling it out, I started busily sorting through the envelopes.

‘A pertinent point, Mr Linton.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘The time lost will be deducted from your wages.’

‘Of course it will, Sir.’

There was a pause. No, not a pause. A silence. A negative opposite of noise that seemed to stretch, tickle my ears and send a cold shiver through me. Nobody could say nothing like Mr Ambrose. There was a question in that silence. A question he wanted me to answer without having to actually waste his words on asking it.

Ha! Fat chance.

Opening one of the envelopes, I grinned, hiding my face behind the letter. Not a word crossed my lips.

Silence.

More silence.

And a pinch more silence, with a bit of reticence and stillness thrown in.

Finally, he forced himself to say: ‘So…’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Why, Mr Linton?’

My grin widened, and I held the letter closer to my face, just in case the grin was so broad it peeked out at either end. ‘Why what, Sir?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me! Why were you arrested?’

‘Oh…’ I tugged at my ear thoughtfully. ‘I don’t remember, exactly…’

‘Theft? Manslaughter?’

‘My, my, you do think rather highly of me, don’t you, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

‘Answer the question, Mr Linton!’

‘Well, as I said, I don’t remember exactly, but one of the accusations was disturbing the Queen’s peace, I believe.’

I heard a sigh from beyond the letter. ‘Oh. Well, that is not so ba-’

‘Oh, and yes!’ I snapped my fingers. ‘The other was indecent exposure.’

From beyond the letter, I heard a gagging noise. ‘Indecent…. Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’ I managed to say without keeling over from silent laughter. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Why, I just took these letters out of the desk, and now I’m looking through them, just like every morning. There’s one from the Bank of England, and one from-’

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

‘Are you toying with me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare, Sir.’

‘Then tell me: What did you do to get arrested? What did you do to get accused of…something like that?’

I shrugged. ‘Nothing really special. I just climbed up the stairs of St Paul’s Cathedral and showed my naked butt to passers-by, that’s all.’

The noise that now came from the direction of Mr Ambrose could definitely not be described as gagging. Oh no. Not unless you’d want to apply the adjective ‘gagging’ to the growl of a lion.

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

‘Are you trying to make fun of me?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.’

‘But reality is another matter, I presume.’

‘I don’t know what you could possibly mean, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

‘Of course not, Mr Linton.’

There was another moment of Silence - Mr Ambrose’s silence. Then, his footsteps started to move away. I peeked out from behind my letter and saw him pulling open the door to his office. Just before he vanished into his hermitage, he paused. The sight of his tall, lean black figure against the fiery morning light streaming in through the window did things to me, deep inside.

‘When you are done with those letters, Mr Linton, come into my office. I have work for you.’

The door slammed shut behind him.

*~*~**~*~*

My darling office tyrant had not promised too much. He had a wonderful surprise waiting for me when I entered his office: the checking of the balance of all his accounts. All of them. In one day. Apparently, he didn’t particularly trust his accountants - no great surprise, since he didn’t trust God, the saints, himself, the Queen or Father Christmas - and was determined to discover any who might be cheating him and squash them like bugs. And guess what? I had been declared his assistant bug-squasher. That was why I, Miss Lilly Linton, sat on a perfectly good Friday afternoon, going through balance sheet after balance sheet.

If I had been working for a normal man, going through a few balance sheets might not have been so bad. But I was working for Mr Rikkard Ambrose, a man who had to continually keep opening new banks because the old ones got stuffed full with his money so quickly. The day wore on and on. The numbers piled up in endless rows and columns, and soon, my brain was a labyrinth of zeroes, fives and sevens. Where the rest of the numbers went I had no idea. I wasn’t a born mathematician.

When the sun began to set, Mr Ambrose threw down his ledger.

‘This isn’t going the way it ought to. At this rate, we’ll never be finished today. How far are you, Mr Linton?’

‘Seven plus seven makes…hm…fifteen, minus twelve, makes-’

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Hm…? What?’

‘How far along are you?’

‘Two thirds of the way to Limbo, Sir.’

‘With the accounts, Mr Linton!’

‘Oh. Um, well, I think about halfway through.’

The noise Mr Ambrose made in the back of his throat then was pure disapproval. An old lady who held her teacup with her little finger jutting out couldn’t have done it better if a dog had peed on her carpet.

‘This won’t do. We’ll have to postpone the remainder of the work until tomorrow.’

I sat up, my face brightening. ‘We will?’

‘Yes. We’ll have to work on something else this evening.’

The brightened expression drained from my face. ‘Oh. We will, will we?’

‘Yes! Get out my calendar. Take down my schedule for next week.’

‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’

I dug the calendar out of my pocket and started to flip through it on the lookout for the appropriate page.

‘We’ll start with Friday, Mr Linton, and work our way back through the week, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Adequate. On Friday, at eight o’clock…’

He started to rattle off dates at a machine gun pace, and I tried my best to take all of them down in a script I would later be able to decipher. But, sooner rather than later, my eyes strayed away from the calendar in my hand to the window, beyond which lay a stunning view of the City of London, bathed in fiery evening sunlight. I could be doing anything right now! Instead, I was stuck in this office with a cold, stone-hearted tyrant who couldn’t even appreciate subtle jokes about indecent exposure.

I sighed. I could be out riding on my new bicycle right now! Or choosing a nice suit to wear for the Royal Wedding on Monday - or a dress, if I was in a girlish mood. But no, what I had told Eve had been the truth: none of us had the power or the prestige necessary to get good seats, or indeed any kind of seats.

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Hm?’

‘Mr Linton, I don’t pay you to daydream!’

‘What a pity.’

‘Pay attention! We were at Wednesday.’

‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’

‘At five pm on Wednesday, I have an appointment with Mr Schenkelbräuer from Rothschild & Sons. Then I have to pay a visit to the Bank of England to talk with Mr Carson.’

‘Yes, Sir. Just as you say, Sir.’

It is such a lovely evening outside. Even if you might not want to risk cycling in Green Park again so soon after being dragged in front of the magistrate, you could take a nice little walk, feed bread to the ducks and solid chocolate to yourself. There’s no such thing as a bad time for solid chocolate.

‘On Wednesday, I have to visit my factory in Whitechapel. Production there has fallen under the maximum, and I have to fire a few people.’

‘Um…surely you mean “under the minimum”, Sir?’

‘Do I usually say things I don’t mean, Mr Linton?’

‘No Sir! How long will that take, Sir?’

Or you could be sitting at home, fantasising with your little sister Ella about what it would be like to attend a real royal wedding. For once, there would actually be a subject about which you and your favourite sibling could both get excited. Or you could just sit and dream about what it would be like to be queen, and to be able to command men to do anything you like.

‘Two to three hours, depending on how many fools I have to sack. Then, after that, we return to the office and work on the balance sheets.’

‘How wonderful, Sir. I really look forward to it. But why not do it on Monday?’

Or you could simply spend this evening in front of the mirror, imagining what you would wear to the Royal Wedding if you ever had the opportunity to go…

‘Because for Monday I already have an appointment which will last all day.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Hm…maybe blue silk…or perhaps…

‘And I will need you, Mr Linton, to come in an hour early that day, and come in your very best attire. As a personal guest of the Queen, I do not need my secretary to embarrass me at her Majesty’s wedding.’

‘Yes, Si- Wait, what did you say?’