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I lay there for a moment, unmoving, staring at him. Had that really just happened, or had it just been my imagina—
His eyelids fluttered again.
Yes, yes, yes, thank you, God, Zeus, Odin and anybody else up there! Thank you, and please excuse that I don’t believe in you!
‘Mr Linton…w…w…’
‘Yes?’ Quickly, I leant forward, trying to catch his words. ‘What do you need? Water?’
‘W…why is my wallet lighter?’
It was then that I knew he was going to be all right.
*~*~**~*~*
It took time, of course. Much more time than was to Mr Ambrose’s liking. But after I was sure that the danger of his wound festering was past, it was rather enjoyable to have him at my mercy. Alas, it wasn’t a state that was to last for long. Three days after we arrived back in Paris, a messenger boy knocked at the door of the opera house.
‘The minister is expecting us,’ Mr Ambrose told me when he had perused the missive. ‘It appears he’s rather eager to know if he should expect a world-wide war to break out in the next couple of days.’
‘But you can’t go! You’re still much too weak!’
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I could have kicked myself. I might as well have set his bed on fire.
‘Weak?’ The word was spoken softly. Coolly. Like the first whisper of an arctic storm approaching. ‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’
‘No! No, I didn’t mean—’
Ignoring me, Mr Ambrose swung his legs out of the bed. Grabbing his hat off the nightstand, he pushed himself to his feet. I held my breath, watching him intently for any sign of weakness. But his legs were straight, his feet as steady as iron.
‘Do I seem weak to you, Mr Linton?’
‘No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.’
Because if I answer ‘yes’, you’ll probably insist on marching all the way to the ministry and collapse from exhaustion.
‘Adequate. Karim!’
The Mohammedan stuck his head in through the door. When he caught sight of Mr Ambrose standing, his eyes widened. ‘Sahib! You shouldn’t be out of bed alrea—’
I shook my head vigorously. Karim’s jaw slammed shut.
‘What was that, Karim?’
‘Nothing, Sahib. Nothing whatsoever.’
‘Hm. Order a cab. We are going to the ministry.’
‘Yes, Sahib. Immediately, Sahib.’
He vanished, and I gave Mr Ambrose a look. ‘All right, all right. You can go. But you have to stop playing the stoic, do you hear? Tell me when it hurts!’
He lifted an eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘Hurt? What, pray, are you speaking of, Mr Linton?’
I jabbed a finger into his side.
‘Aarrr!’
‘That,’ I informed him, and grabbed my tailcoat from a hook on the wall. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
