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‘Two,’ he finally snapped. From what I could see of his face in the dark it was as impassive as the stone I set my feet on.
‘But… aren’t dogs expensive, Sir?’ I nudged him in the ribs, grinning. ‘Really expensive, from what I heard. Why waste money on pets that don't do anything useful?’
‘They do do something useful. They bite people I don't like.’
‘Oh.’
He gripped my arm again. ‘Stop! Don’t try to go any higher, there are no more steps.’
‘Oh really?’ I blinked into the gloom. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Yes. Now we have to go down the hallway. Here, down this hallway, you see. We’re almost there.’
‘Down? No problem… no problem at all, Sir.’
‘I didn’t mean lie down, I mean walk down! My office is over there. You can rest there.’
He stopped me in time before I could rest my head on the floor of the hallway. Honestly, had I lain down there, I would not have been able to get up again. Despite the fact that I was definitely not drunk, I felt effects which, to the amateur eye, might look considerably like drunkenness.
With unusual gentleness, Mr Ambrose helped me up again and manoeuvred me to his office door. There, he took me by both shoulders and looked sternly down into my eyes.
‘I have to unlock the door now, and for that I have to let go of you, Mr Linton. Do you think you can stand upright on your own long enough for me to do that?’
I blinked up at him, deeply curious. I would never have thought that he cared whether I keeled over or not - except perhaps that he might regard me bashing my head in on the stone floor as a very beneficial occurrence. But here he was, looking down at me with… well, it wasn’t exactly concern. It wasn’t as if he looked at me like I was someone he cared for - instead, he stared at me like I was a priceless object in his possession, and he was expressly forbidding me to damage myself and thus lessen my value.
‘I must admit,’ I muttered, bracing myself against the doorframe, ‘I feel a tiddly little bit unsteady on my feet.’ I looked around for help and smiled. ‘Hey, Napoleon! Come over and help me, your Imperial Menagerie, while he gets the door open!’
For some reason, my application for help to the emperor, who was leaning against the wall next to me, cleaning his nails with a dagger, didn’t seem to alleviate Mr Ambrose’s concerns. He just doubled his efforts to get the door open as quickly as possible. Hmm. Maybe he had a beef with Napoleon, too, not just with Alexander. These powerful tyrants were always at each other’s throats.
‘There!’ The door swung open, and Mr Ambrose grasped my arm again. ‘Get in and sit down, will you?’
‘Why not lie down on the floor out here?’ I asked, blinking back longingly at the hallway. For some reason its stone floor looked a lot more comfortable than stone floors usually did. It felt soft, too, and was wobbling under my feet like a mattress. ‘I could keep the Emperor company.’
‘He’ll manage just fine without you. Come in, please? You need to rest.’
My ears needed cleaning. Did I just hear Mr Ambrose say please? And that in what could almost be described as a gentle tone of voice, compared to the deep-frozen tyrant’s voice he usually employed?
A moment later, he squeezed my shoulder. ‘Please?’
Holy moly! Miracles did happen!
Almost involuntarily, I started forward. Under his firm but gentle guidance, I stumbled into the room. This was becoming a very strange night… Maybe I really had drunk a tiny bit too much of that burning stuff.
Inside, the office was dark. Mr Ambrose reached to his left. There was a soft noise, and the shimmering light of a gas lamp illuminated the room with a warm, golden glow, throwing long shadows against the walls. Suddenly, the office, so stark in daylight, looked totally different.
‘Well, will you look at that?’ A broad smile spread over my face as I spread my arms in an attempt to hug the room. Mr Ambrose ducked just in time to not be cuffed around the ears. ‘It looks almost cosy! Now all you need is a carpet on the floor and a couple of nice pictures on the walls.’
Mr Ambrose rose out of his crouch again. ‘Which, Mr Linton, would be a needless waste of time and money.’
‘Oh, come on! Don’t you ever feel the urge to make this place a little less… cold?’
‘No. I have a very warm cloak, should I need it.’
‘I was speaking metaphorelly… metareferain… metaphorically!’
‘I was aware of that.’ Half-turning to the door, he kicked it shut behind us. ‘Metaphors, Mr Linton, are also a waste of time and money’
‘Bah! With your attitude, I’m surprised you have gas light in the house. It’s supposed to be pretty expensive.’
