Storm and Less Silence Than Is Preferred

Fye Messes Up

The look on Ambrose's face was worth everything. Worth the years of dreary research, worth trying to sell his soul to Doctor Who (who rejected it because of its negative value on the black market), worth paying Fye with lessons on warfare to build a time machine, and even worth convincing Ayla that time travel was perfectly safe (minus the small chance that a miscalculation would activate the Butterfly Effect and cause the entire universe to explode. Not that he'd mentioned that particular fact).

"What did you say?" Ambrose asked.

Reuben smirked as he sat down on the boardwalk. "I'm forcing you to tell me about your love life. What do you think? Have I done my research or have I done my research? Studies have proven that this is the worst torture available on the face of the earth for you."

Ambrose lifted an eyebrow. "Studies?"

"Conducted by some scribe by the name of Sir Rob. He sits in my dungeon and works black magic." Quite a decent fellow, actually. He seemed to find almost as much pleasure in half-rotten heads as Reuben did. "But enough of that. Let's get on with the process."

Ambrose set his jaw.

Fye sighed as she tapped her stick against the wood. "This is boring. Can I poke him?"

"Not yet," Reuben said, leaning toward Ambrose. "I want to see what I can get out of him first. Come on, Dick."

"I don't have a love life," Ambrose said through his teeth.

Reuben looked at Fye. "It's because he's inconceivably ugly and incapable of attracting any persons of the opposite gender. How sad."

"I did not say that," Ambrose said.

Fye held her stick out, waving it two inches in front of Ambrose's nose. "But it's true."

"It most certainly is not."

"So you're capable of attracting females?"

"Of course I am capable," Ambrose said. "It doesn't mean that I—"

Fye jabbed his stomach with the stick, cutting him off. "Sir Reuben?"

"Yes, Fye?" Reuben answered.

"I conclude from the divulged information that the subject has a love life."

"So do I. And I am going to make him tell me about it." He turned his attention to Ambrose. "Well?"

A glare. A hard, temperature-of-the-sublimation-of-ice glare that somehow managed to radiate heat at the same time. What was the temperature of the sublimation of ice, anyway?

Suddenly a sweet female voice rang high above the shipyard, shaking the boardwalk and causing ripples on the water. Fye slammed her hands over her ears as the voice thundered in the air. "DRY ICE IS ACTUALLY SOLID, FROZEN CARBON DIOXIDE, WHICH HAPPENS TO SUBLIMATE, OR TO TURN TO GAS, AT A CHILLY -78.5⁰ C (-109.3⁰ F)."

Reuben jolted to his feet. "Who goes there? Speak or I'll tear your ears off!"

No one said a word. The voice faded to a murmur, leaving only the sound of lapping water against the sides of ships.

He turned in a full circle. "What the devil...? I wasn't the only one who heard that, was I?"

Fye shook her head, her hands still over her ears.

Why had a voice just come from the sky? And a female voice? He'd never heard of any female angels before. Then again, it wasn't like he read the Bible regularly...

"Um... Sir Reuben?" Fye said in a small voice.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"I—I think I might have possibly left the fourth wall open."