In the Eye of the Storm

05. A Study in Golden

At first, I couldn't see anything at all. Apparently, a love of money wasn't the only thing Uncle Bufford and Mr Ambrose had in common: a penchant for muted lighting was also on the list. Probably they thought it was wasteful, letting all that light into a room without enough eyes present to properly utilize it.

So I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. And waited. And waited longer, while silence surrounded me.

Ah. So that would be three things they had in common: stinginess, darkness and taciturnity. I supposed I could expect as much from a man who had spoken to me and my sisters about three times in total since he adopted us over ten years ago.

So I waited some more. And more. The first thing I noticed when my eyes slowly got used to the dark was gold. Piles of it. Coins were heaped on the desk, on chairs, on and inside chests, even on top of the lamp in the corner. Bits of paper were almost as numerous as coins: they littered everything, everywhere, mixing with the coins into an ordered chaos that only one man's mind, I was sure, could understand.

'Step forward, girl!'

I flinched. The voice had come from a high-backed arm chair that stood facing away from the door. Over the backrest I could just see what seemed to be the top of an oddly coloured cannonball. After a moment, I realized it was a man's bald head.

'I step forward! By that I meant around the chair, so I can bloody see you!'

Ah. Another shared characteristic with Mr Ambrose: impatience. Maybe the two knew each other, after all.

Hurrying around the chair, I made a hurried curtsy in front of the sitting figure. It wasn't until I straightened again that I got a good look at Uncle Bufford for the first time in years.

He wasn't a particular beauty, by conventional standards. His bald head was covered with brownish age marks, and so was the over-large beak of a nose protruding from his face. The deep-set eyes that were fixed on me flashed threateningly. His chin might have been firm and manly, but it was hidden behind a gigantic white beard that hung from his chin like an overgrown bush of white spirea. His bushy eyebrows were so large and his forehead so wrinkled that it seemed to be home to a permanent frown, and his bulky form was clad in a cheap tailcoat of a dirty grey-black colour. In short, he looked like Father Christmas after a very bad day full of blocked chimneys.

'Finished with your examination girl?' he growled.

I flinched, and reflexively folded my arms in front of my chest. On both sides of my head, I could feel my ears burning.

'Um... yes.'

Blast you! Don't sound so brazen! You may not like it, but this man could turn you out on the street with a flick of his finger! This isn't some adventure where you boldly stand up to any man you come across! This is real life!

'Sit down!'

Quickly, I sat on the only free chair in the room. There were other chairs besides that, but they were all covered in paper and coins.

Uncle Bufford fixed his penetrating gaze on me. It could not compete with Mr Ambrose in the category of utter, cool, dispassionate power, but had a way of winding around you like gnarled roots and holding you in place that was no less effective.

'You know why you're here, girl?'

'Yes.'

'My wife informs me you left this house recently.'

I swallowed, and nodded. 'Yes.' Then, remembering his similarities to Mr Ambrose, I corrected: 'Yes, Sir.'

One of Uncle Bufford's bushy eyebrows rose. He showed no other reaction.