Hunting for Silence

09. The Truth

I can tell you, the doorman seemed pretty surprised when an armed man dashed past him into the building. Not nearly as surprised as I was, though, to meet a doorman at the entrance of a villain's lair. What kind of bloody place was this? The Villain Hotel for Megalomaniacs and Masterminds?

Another scream ripped through the air. If I'd had any doubt left that there was danger threatening in this place, it was gone now. Whoever that poor woman was, she sounded as if she were having her toenails pulled out with hot tongs. I had to find her! I had to find Mr Ambrose!

Following the distant sound of voices, I rushed down a corridor, the doorman's shouts echoing behind me—but I was too fast for him to catch up! Soon, I reached a big set of double doors, and in front of them—damn! Another doorman!

'Out of the way!' I ordered.

'English, n'est-ce pas?' The doorman smiled, extending his hand. 'Tickets, please.'

Tickets? Tickets? What kind of sick show were they running in there? Were they demanding money so people could watch some poor woman being tortured?

I raised my revolver. 'Out of my way. Now!'

The doorman paled and ducked behind the nearest column. Pushing open the double doors, I ran on, past a staircase, up another, through a door, and...

Light and sound engulfed me.

My chin dropped. Flabbergasted, I stared at the sight before me. I stood at the entrance to a huge room, a hall really, decorated in gold, silver, brocade and every imaginable luxury—more than I had ever seen squashed together in one place, except maybe Buckingham Palace. Seats stretched out as far as the eye could see, an ocean of people filling them. On the gold-decorated walls, boxes with velvet drapes half hid the richest patrons, but from the shadows, pearls shone and diamonds sparkled. At the opposite end of the room from me rose a stage, and on the stage stood two people. A handsome man and a woman, clasped in his arms. The woman parted her lips and screamed.

No.

Not screamed.

Singing. She was singing. The fancy building. The doorman. The audience.

Oh, vous êtes admirateur de l'opéra?

Bloody hell. How could I have been so stupid?

By not learning French, Lilly. That's how.

But...wait just a minute.

Opera?

Opera?

That thing where performers stood at fake balconies for hours upon hours and sang about how lovesick they were, and how they couldn't live without the one man/woman/weird creature they were destined for? The thing that people attended as a pastime, with absolutely no thought of earning money in the process?

And Mr Rikkard Ambrose was supposed to be here?

Listening to an aria about...

'Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro,

Al mio duolo, a'miei sospir!'

About amor.

I didn't know much Italian, but even I knew that word. Rikkard Ambrose was here, listening to this?

No.

No, that couldn't be possible. It had to be a mistake. Maybe I'd entered the wrong building. Maybe I had...maybe...maybe...