Storm and Silence

66. Hallucination Manicure

"Come along." Mr Ambrose strode ahead, gesturing for me to follow with a flick of his fingers. Taking a cautious step forward I lifted my head – and my eyes widened in shock. Before me stood the vast, gaunt façade of Empire House. The chaise had deposited us in Leadenhall Street, right in front of Mr Ambrose's business headquarters. Like the bow of a gargantuan wreck in the dark depth of the ocean, the two-columned portico loomed up in front of me, white and ghostly. Ornate gas lanterns were spread out all along the street, throwing their yellowish light across the empty street. The whole scene looked even colder now than it had in daylight.

What were we doing here? Why wasn't I at my own home? I was sure I had one of those, tucked away somewhere in London.

My eyes flicked to Mr Ambrose. Honestly, surprisingly enough, he had not strode ahead, ignoring me – instead, he was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, tapping his foot on their foot in impatience.

I smiled. His foot on their foot. That sounded funny.

Leisurely, I  strolled towards him. With fuzzy curiosity, I gestured up at the towering monument of mammon above me.

"Why here?" I asked, directing my unsteady smile at Mr Ambrose. "I don't live here. Not that I'm aware of, anyway," I added, as an afterthought. Nothing seemed to be too sure, lately. "Do I?"

Mr Ambrose's face was hidden in shadow, his voice as terse as ever.

"No, you don't. But I thought I would bring you here first and give you the chance to clean up first. Unless you want to go home in blood-spattered clothes, that is."

"What?"

He gestured, and I looked down at myself. Even in the pale light of the gas lamps was undeniable that the upper part of my uncle's old tailcoat had distinct signs of red on it. If they weren't blood spatters, they were the experiment of a deranged tomato-enthusiast.

"Hell's whiskers!" A giggle escaped me. "That looks dashed nifty!"

"Nifty, is it?" The dark figure of Mr Ambrose took a step towards me. "You consider blood spattered all over your clothes nifty? Maybe even chic? You have interesting fashion tastes, Mr Linton."

"Why, thank you, Sir." I bowed, and nearly toppled over. Strong arms caught me, and put me upright again.

"Still," his cool voice continued, "I doubt your aunt shares your tastes in that direction."

Thoughtfully, I tugged at my lower lip. He might be right about that. Aunt Brank was often completely unreasonable in regard to modern fashion.

"Might be interesting to see her reaction, though." I giggled again. "The look on her face..."

"...would undoubtedly be a sight to be seen. Still, in the interest of secrecy, I would advise against it."

"Oh, all right! Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud."

He turned. "I assure you I am not in the habit of sticking sticks into mud, Mr Linton. Follow me."

Marching up the stairs, he pulled a ring of keys out of his coat pocket. I had never before met anyone who could truly march on stairs, not without breaking their toes, anyway, but he managed it just fine. He reached the door well ahead of me and had unlocked it in a jiffy.

The huge wooden doors squealed like the tortured souls of the undead as they were pushed open. I looked around with interest, just in case some of the tortured souls of the undead happened to be around and wanted to swap recipes, but there was only Alexander the Great atop his horse, who winked at me from the other side of the street.