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‘Power, Mr Linton, power. Not pumpernickel.’
‘Oh. Right you are, Sir!’
‘Next time you go in there without informing me, wedge a chair under the door! Understood, Mr Linton?’
I nodded again. That sounded like a sound policy.
‘Yes, Sir. As you say, Sir. And by the way… I think you can stop calling me “Mister” Linton now.’ I giggled a little. ‘You’ve probably seen enough evidence to the contrary.’
‘Mister Linton!’
‘No, no. Not Mister. Didn’t you hear what I just said?’
There was a silence from the other side of the door.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I asked. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I am counting to ten to calm myself. Do not disturb me, Mr Linton.’
‘As you wish, Sir.’
I tried to count along, to know when it would be all right to speak again, but it didn’t quite work. Every time I got to three I sort of stumbled and couldn’t remember the number that came next.
‘Mr Linton?’ His voice finally came from the other side.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Tell me when you are done in there. I, too, am not completely clean and wish to freshen up before retiring for the night.’
‘You can come in now, if you want,’ I offered generously. ‘There’s room enough for both of us here.’
‘No!’
He sounded quite adamant. That was strange. Confused, I looked around the bathroom.
‘Yes, there is. Don’t you know the size of your own bathroom? There’s plenty of room, believe me.’
‘I am not disputing that. However, I still cannot come in.’
I frowned. He was so stubborn sometimes. ‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he explained to me, his voice painfully calm, ‘persons of different sexes do not shower together. Society generally frowns on that kind of thing.’
My frown deepened as I tried to concentrate. If I tried very hard, I vaguely seemed to remember something of the sort.
‘But Napoleon is in here with me, too,’ I pointed out, waving at the Emperor, who was leaning against the opposite wall, playing chess with one of members of the piggy dance troupe.
‘Err, well… he’s a Frenchman. That’s different.’
Before I had a chance to argue, I heard hurried footsteps receding on the other side of the door. Strange. Why had he run away?
Pouting, I removed my towels and stepped under the shower. It would have been a novel experience taking a shower with somebody else. For some reason I couldn’t recall at the moment, I had never done it before. Thoughtfully, I eyed Napoleon on the other side of the room, but he didn’t seem interested. He was much too engrossed in his game of chess. The yellow piggy appeared to be winning, and the Emperor’s face was set in grim lines of concentration.
Ah well, it would be a new experience anyway. To be honest, I had never stood under a shower before. They were a pretty new and fancy invention - expensive, too, by all I had heard. Much more expensive than the traditional bathtub. Mr Ambrose probably only had installed one because he had calculated that in thirty-seven years or so, the water he had saved would justify the additional investment.
Money is power is pumpernickel, right?
Oh well, there couldn’t be that much difference between a hot bath and a hot shower. Shrugging, I grasped the tap and turned it.
A banshee-like scream echoed through the halls of Empire House. Outside the door, I could hear the sound of running footsteps, and then Mr Ambrose’s voice, calling: ‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, has something happened?’
‘Yes!’ I yelled back. ‘Yes! A bucket full of ice water, that is what has happened! Where the dickens does the water in your pipes come from? Antarctica?’
I heard something from the other side that sounded very much like a wall being punched with energy. Or maybe the floor. I hoped it was the floor. He deserved it more.
‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Where the heck do you get your water from?’
‘A rainwater tank on the roof,’ came the cool reply. ‘Why?’
‘You use rainwater?’
‘Yes. You don’t honestly expect me to pay for water when I can get it for free, do you?’
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I asked, as sweetly as I could.
‘Yes?’
‘Is the water in this tank per chance heated in any way?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I waste money on that?’
I proceeded to explain to him exactly why. My explanation might have contained an expletive or two, or maybe a dozen, most directed at him, his ancestry to the tenth generation, and most especially his architect. When I was finished, his cool voice came from outside:
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Do not make any unnecessary noises again. I am trying to work.’
And with that, he was gone.
Quivering with cold, I stood under the shower, cursing the icy water running over my skin, and cursing Mr Ambrose. If he were in here with me, damn him, I was sure I would not be half as cold. He could be surprisingly warm considering how icy he was all the time.
Closing my eyes, I imagined him here with me, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tightly against him. For some reason, I was sure it would feel very nice having him here. He would be much more interesting company than Napoleon, who was still standing against the wall, bent over his chess game.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw him.
He had come after all! Mr Ambrose had entered the room. I wondered briefly why he was dressed in a red hunting costume, but who cared. I smiled a wide smile.
‘You came,’ I mumbled.
He smiled back at me, opened his mouth, and growled like a tiger. Hmm… that wasn’t something he did normally, was it? And normally, he wasn’t so fuzzy around the edges. But you couldn’t expect everything, could you? He was here, that was the main thing. Who cared if I got tiger growls instead of intelligent conversation. It wasn’t as if he was a great talker under normal circumstances.
He stepped closer, his cold eyes raking up and down my body in a way for which any man deserved a slap in the face. Yet, strangely, I felt no urge to slap him. I felt an urge to draw him closer. Maybe then the cold water would be easier to bear. Heat already began to simmer in my belly…
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir…’