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‘I liked you better in your hunting costume,’ I grumbled.
‘What did you say?’
‘Forget it.’
I did my best to dry my hair with fingers and towel. Beside me, the piggy had switched to the inner jacket pockets, still searching for truffles.
‘Try the upper left one,’ I whispered to it. ‘Take his wallet and you can buy all the truffles you’ve ever dreamed of.’
The piggy squeaked excitedly and proceeded to take my advice. I leaned back in the chair with a contented sigh, imagining how it would find Mr Ambrose’s wallet and sneak off with all his money to buy truffles in Brussels. Suddenly, my hair felt much drier, and I myself better in a general way, though my feet were still a bit cold.
I sneaked a peek at Mr Ambrose, to see if he had taken notice of the piggy’s activities. But he was still standing at the dark window, his back to the room, looking out over the city. In the distance, beyond the glass, one could just see the lights glowing at the docks. Work went on there, even through the night.
‘Mr Linton?’
Exasperated, I tapped on the armrest of the chair. ‘You still persist in calling me that? Even after what you’ve seen?’
Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I could have sworn his ears turned a tiny bit red. So, this creature of stone actually had some blood in him.
‘Especially after all I’ve seen, Mr Linton.’ His voice was as frosty as the heart of an iceberg. ‘Not,’ he added immediately, ‘that I actually saw anything. I turned away and closed my eyes very quickly. I saw nothing at all.’
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘Mr Linton!’
He started to turn - then thought better of it and folded his arms in front of his chest. So I folded my arms in front of my chest, too, in defiance. And for the sake of gender equality, of course. Peeking at him out of the corner of my eye, I saw he was still glaring out of the window, trying to freeze the city of London with his gaze alone. I didn’t have a window to stare through belligerently, so I had to make do with the wall, but my stare was nevertheless a match for his.
For a while we just remained like this, glaring in angry silence. Finally, he spoke again:
‘I wanted to ask you something, Mr Linton.’
‘Well, why didn’t you?’
‘You distracted me.’
‘I’m quite skilled at that,’ I admitted.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘So ask now.’
There was another moment of silence. Then, abruptly:
‘Why do you do it, Mr Linton? Why work for me? Why insist on doing work that is meant for men? You saw that it is dangerous. If you didn’t believe me before, you cannot doubt it after tonight. Why do you do it?’
It was the first time he had asked me this question - outright, without cold disdain, sounding as if he really were interested in hearing the answer. For a moment, I considered giving a smart reply like ‘because of the cheerful working atmosphere at your office’ or ‘because I like gun fights’, but… I was feeling strangely drowsy and unprotected, robbed of my usual defensive layers of sarcasm against the masculine world. The truth slipped out of my mouth before I could help it.
‘I want to be free.’
He whirled around, and I jerked in surprise. I had not expected my simple statement to get such a reaction. His eyes were like shards of dark ice.
‘That is it? That is all? You are free. England is a free country. Nobody can hold you against your will!’
I wanted to laugh out loud. But the subject really wasn’t anything to laugh about.
