Page 64 of Storm of Bells
Mr Ambrose considered the matter for a momentor two.
‘Invite them,’ he finally decided. ‘Then,when they arrive, send out Karim to tell them there’s been amisunderstanding, and the invite was sent to them by mistake.’
A grin spread across my face. ‘You, Sir, arefiendishly evil.’
‘Thank you, Mr Linton.’
‘I’m glad I’m marrying you.’
Something flashing deep in his dark eyes, heleaned over to caress my cheek. ‘Believe me,’ he whispered. ‘So amI.’ Abruptly, he straightened. ‘Which does not mean, however, thatI will tolerate any further delay of our work schedule. Time totype, Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’
Turningtowards the machine I sat up straight, waiting for the dictation tobegin. Over the last few days, the hellish machine and I had strucka Faustian bargain.[17]It had promised not to suckout my soul and drown me in frustration, and I had promised not tobeat it into smithereens with my office chair. So far, it hadworked out fine.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose on the other hand…he wouldcertainly not be as peaceful and amiable as a soulless piece ofmetal. The clock was ticking, slowly but surely counting theseconds to the moment we would embark on our journey into thecountry. My heart pounded at the thought, and not just because Iwas burning to see this mysterious place that he called ‘home’,though he had not visited it in years.
No, the main reason why excitement waspounding through my veins, was that once the two of us had leftLondon to be married, I would have won, once and for all. Hewouldn’t be able to try and get rid of me ever again. I would be athis side, standing on my own two feet, where I belonged.
Unable to help it, my eyes were drawn awayfrom the keyboard—and when they found him, they met his, as hewatched me.
‘Concentrate on the keyboard, Mr Linton!’ hecommanded.
I cocked my head. ‘Concentrate on your notes,Sir.’
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
So did mine.
‘I said concentrate, Mr Linton!’
I felt sparks flitting through the airbetween us.
‘I am concentrating.’
‘On my dictation!’
‘What dictation, Sir? You’re nottalking.’
With all his might, Mr Ambrose tore his gazeback to his notes. ‘…to facilitate this process, we mustencourage intercontinental communication. Such intercontinentalintercourse—um…’
‘Pardon, Sir?’ I blinked up at Mr Ambrose.‘“Intercontinental intercourse”? What an exciting development. Ididn’t know technology had developed that far.’
Mr Ambrose gave me an icy stare that mighthave scared me more if I didn’t love it so much. Love him somuch.
‘Communication, Mr Linton.Intercontinental communication.’
‘Of course, Sir. Just as you say, Sir.’
He continued dictating. And what’s more, hedid it at an astonishingly moderate pace. Something was brewing inhis head, all right. Something besides intercontinentalintercourse.
The last battle was coming. What would it bethis time? A trap? Another horrifying machine? What would he comeup with this time? A machine with teeth for ripping up confidentialdocuments? One with a brain that did the thinking for hisemployees?
I shook my head, smiling.
You’re getting fanciful, Lilly! Nobody wouldever be crazy enough to try and build something like that.
***
