Storm of Bells

13. Home Sweet Home

'You know, I don't think I gave my little sister enough credit. Weddings really are a fiendishly difficult thing to plan.'

'Indeed, Mr Linton?'

'Yes, indeed, Sir. Take this matter of inviting people whom you dislike, for instance. No, that's not quite right...perhaps I should say inviting people whose guts you hate and who you wish would slowly roast in hell over a small flame, subsequently to serve as food for a deserving little brood of hungry demon children.'

'Indeed, Mr Linton?'

'Yes. You see, on the one hand, you really don't want to invite them, because you don't want them within a hundred miles of your special day. On the other hand, you really want to invite them, to rub it in their faces how incredibly happy you are, and how you are marrying the most fantabulous man in the world, while all three of their daughters are still single.'

Mr Ambrose considered the matter for a moment or two.

'Invite them,' he finally decided. 'Then, when they arrive, send out Karim to tell them there's been a misunderstanding, and the invite was sent to them by mistake.'

A grin spread across my face. 'You, Sir, are fiendishly evil.'

'Thank you, Mr Linton.'

'I'm glad I'm marrying you.'

Something flashing deep in his dark eyes, he leaned over to caress my cheek. 'Believe me,' he whispered. 'So am I.' Abruptly, he straightened. 'Which does not mean, however, that I will tolerate any further delay of our work schedule. Time to type, Mr Linton!'

'Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!'

Turning towards the machine I sat up straight, waiting for the dictation to begin. Over the last few days, the hellish machine and I had struck a Faustian bargain. It had promised not to suck out my soul and drown me in frustration, and I had promised not to beat it into smithereens with my office chair. So far, it had worked out fine.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose on the other hand...he would certainly not be as peaceful and amiable as a soulless piece of metal. The clock was ticking, slowly but surely counting the seconds to the moment we would embark on our journey into the country. My heart pounded at the thought, and not just because I was burning to see this mysterious place that he called 'home', though he had not visited it in years.

No, the main reason why excitement was pounding through my veins, was that once the two of us had left London to be married, I would have won, once and for all. He wouldn't be able to try and get rid of me ever again. I would be at his side, standing on my own two feet, where I belonged.

Unable to help it, my eyes were drawn away from the keyboard—and when they found him, they met his, as he watched me.

'Concentrate on the keyboard, Mr Linton!' he commanded.

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 air between us.

'I am concentrating.'

'On my dictation!'

'What dictation, Sir? You're not talking.'

With all his might, Mr Ambrose tore his gaze back to his notes. '...to facilitate this process, we must encourage intercontinental communication. Such intercontinental intercourse—um...'