Inside the factory, it was as dark as in a coalminers unwashed pants, and it smelled nearly as bad. The thick mix of smoke, sweat and unidentifiable filth in the air made me cough and cover my mouth and nose with my arm. Mr Ambrose seemed to suffer under no such problems. He strode directly towards the large crowd of factory workers, men women and children, gathered at one end of the hall.

No, not a crowd – a mob. They had all the paraphernalia essential to the modern, self-respecting mob: torches, axes, protest signs heavy enough to bash people on the head with, and most of all: bloodlust in their eyes.

'...ain't gonna suffer under the yoke of oppression any longer!' one of the men who had climbed onto one of the machines was yelling. People all around him were nodding and cheering him on. 'The pittance that bugger Ambrose pays us ain't worth pissing for, let alone working!'

I winced.

The crowd cheered.

Mr Ambrose stared up at the man. Very intently. Very coldly.

'We'll have our due at last!'

More cheers.

Another wince.

More staring. Very, very cold staring. I wondered how the man was still able to move his arms. Hadn't they frozen yet?

'When that tosser Ambrose shows his bloody face here, I ain't gonna be afraid of him! I'll step up to him, and tell to go bugger himself! Aye, I will!'

Oh dear...

There were more cheers from the crowd.

And then, someone cleared his throat. Technically, it shouldn't even have been possible to hear it. The cheers were as thunderous as a hurricane. But this was a very special cough. Not the kind of cough you make when you have phlegm in your throat, oh no. It was a cough as cold as a knife blade, and cut through the cheers with ease. Slowly, they subsided, and everyone began to turn towards the cough's originator.

Mr Ambrose met their gazes steadily. Somehow, he managed to twirl his exotic, demon-faced club as if it were nothing but a simple walking stick. Somehow, he managed to make that effortless twirl seem like the most dangerous movement anyone had ever seen. Not even blinking once, he bent his head a fraction of an inch.

'If I might introduce myself – Rikkard Ambrose, not at your service. You were waiting for me?' His eyes focused on the man up on the machine, whose mouth was hanging open. 'I believe you had something to say to me.'

The man's open mouth moved – but no sound came out. Mr Ambrose started forward, ignoring the mob. It parted for him, lowering torches and axes, some people trying to hide signs behind their backs. Mr Ambrose only stopped when he was standing directly in front of the man on the machine. Somehow, even though on his impromptu pedestal, the worker stood far above his employer, it was Mr Ambrose who seemed taller.

'Tell me what you have to say to me. I'm most interested to hear it.'

Giving a little squeak, the man turned, jumped off the machine and vanished into the maze of mechanics behind him. I could hear the patter of his feet receding into the distance.

Nodding to himself, Mr Ambrose turned to the rest of the crowd.

'Now – does anybody else have something to say? What is the matter here?'

Some shouts rose again, particularly from the back of the crowd, out of sight of Mr Ambrose.

'Oppression! Against oppression!'

'Down with the capitalists!'

'Justice for–'

Mr Ambrose let the flood build and wash over him. Then, when it had reached its highest point, he stepped forward and plucked a man out of the crowd, hauling him to the front, where everyone could see him.

'Silence!'

It wasn't a roar, not even a shout, but Mr Ambrose's command had immediate effect. The crowd fell into silence, all staring at their employer and the man he had singled out at his victim. The man himself seemed to wish for the ability to crawl out of his own skin.

'You. Tell me what seems to be the trouble. Slowly, and clearly.'

The man straightened. He didn't want to be out here, but now that he was, it was clear he meant to die bravely in the face of the capitalist enemy.

'We want more money!' he exclaimed. 'Sir,' he added as an afterthought. His demand was supported by shouts of 'Yay!' and 'Hear, hear!'.

Mr Ambrose cocked his head. 'If you want more money, why are you standing around idly? You should be working! You'll have to work at least two hours longer than usual to get more money out of me, and if you laze about now, you'll have to do overtime until one in the morning.'

The workers threw each other uncertain glances. Finally, the man facing Mr Ambrose gathered his courage. 'Err... No, Mr Ambrose, Sir. You don't understand. We want more money without doing overtime.'

Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. 'Do I understand you correctly? You want more money without working for it?'

Colour was beginning to rise to the man's cheeks. More people were beginning to lower their signs and hide them away. One man even tried to hide a burning torch behind his back, but stopped with a yelp when his trousers began to smoke.

'Um... Aye, Sir.'

'In case you haven't noticed, man, this is a factory, not a charity. In a factory, you work to earn money. That's what a factory is for.'

'I know, Sir.'

'Indeed?' Mr Ambrose clapped his hands. 'Well, then that problem is solved. Back to work, everyone!'

Again, the workers through each other uncertain glances. Several of them actually turned and started back towards the machines. The voice of the man opposite Mr Ambrose halted them.

'Stop, everyone! Stop, you bloody buggers! You're not supposed to be working!'

'Yes, they are, actually,' Mr Ambrose contradicted him, coolly.

'No, they aren't!' The poor man sounded almost desperate now. 'This is a strike! A strike for our rights, people, and you're just going to let him talk you out of it?'

'Much the more sensible options,' Mr Ambrose pointed out, his dark gaze sweeping over the hesitant crowd. His fingers flexed around the cudgel. 'You don't want me to have to do more than talk.'

'There! There, now 'e's threatening you! Are you gonna put up with that?'

Mr Ambrose's dark eyes returned to the man again, who had one trembling hand raised, pointing at him accusingly.

'That,' he said, his voice as cool as the winter night before a blizzard, 'was no threat. Trust me, when I threaten you, you'll know for certain.'

'We ain't gonna put up with your threats, you bloody bugger! We're free men, and we 'ave rights.'

'True. You have the right to work, and the right to get fired if you don't.'

'There!' The pointing hand jabbed at Mr Ambrose, as if pointing out the devil. 'There! That's what we're fighting against! Capitalism! Exploitation! We 'ave a right to fair wages! We have a right to shorter work hours! We have a right to protection from...'

It went on a while, like that. The list of rights workers had was long, apparently. Most of these rights I found very interesting, particularly because Mr Ambrose had shown no signs of extending these rights to me, or any of the other staff in his office. I wondered whether it might not be a good idea to join the strikers.

Then I looked at Mr Ambrose's face.

Hm.

Probably not.

'...we have a right to grngg–'

The man's long list cut off in a garbled choke when Mr Ambrose's hand shot forward and grabbed him by the collar. The other workers, instead of coming to their companion's aid, retreated a step or two.

'Listen to me very carefully,' Mr Ambrose said. His voice was low, but perfectly audible in the entire hall. 'I wish for you to go back to work. If you don't, well....'

Bending forward, he whispered something into the man's ear. The man's face paled, and his knees nearly buckled under him.

Pulling the fellow a little closer towards him, Mr Ambrose pierced him with lances of ice shooting out of those dark eyes of his. 'That was a threat.'

The man nodded, jerkily. 'Yes, Sir! I understand, Sir.'

'I want you to consider my next question very carefully, man. Think about what I just told you before you answer, and take a good look at me.' The lances of ice bored deeper. 'Now, the question is this: do you really expect to get more money out of me by stopping your work than by going on?'

'Err... no, Sir.'

'Ah. You're reasonably intelligent, after all.'

'Um... thank you, Sir.'

Letting go of the man's collar, Mr Ambrose wiped his hands on his trousers. He didn't take his eyes off the man. 'And since you are reasonable intelligent, can you tell me what you should do now?'

'Um... get back to work, Sir?'

'How perceptive. I'll leave you to it, then.' Swivelling around, he marched back towards the exit, parting the crowd of workers before him like Moses had parted the red sea – only that the fish in the red sea probably hadn't been so afraid of Moses.

I was just as flattened as the workers. He was past me before I realized.

'Come, Mr Linton!' came his cool command from outside, and I hurried after him.

'How...' I paused, fighting to catch my breath. He was marching fast, blast him! Why did he have to have such long legs? 'How the hell did you do that?'

He shrugged. 'It was my warm and winning personality, Mr Linton. Couldn't you tell?'

*~*~**~*~*

Over the following weeks, my dear employer, master and general tyrant took me with him on trips to a coal mine, a bank and several other business where he busied himself bullying and browbeating people. It didn't take long for me to realize what his strategy was: apparently, he reasoned that if I saw him being nasty to enough people, I would get so disgusted with him that I'd leave my job of my own free will.

However, in that, he had considerably underestimated both my tenacity and my own capacity for nastiness. The end of the month was approaching, and I was still his secretary. And do you know what that meant?

Well, I knew what it bloody meant, because I had been counting down to the end of the month by crossing out the days on my calendar at home. One after the other, the days passed, until finally, at last, the day of days had arrived! The day more important than a king's coronation! The day more important than judgement day itself!

Pay day!

That morning, I arrived at Mr Ambrose's inner sanctum ten minutes early. The broad grin on my face was probably not very wise, but I just couldn't wipe it off. Marching right past Mr Stone with a cheerful 'Good Morning', I knocked at Mr Ambrose's door.

'Good Morning, Sir,' I chirped. 'May I come in?'

'No!'

My hand froze on the way to the doorknob. When next I spoke, my voice wasn't quite so chirpy. 'I may not come in?'

'You're ten minutes early. Go away!'

I narrowed my eyes. 'I am not going anywhere! Today is the last day of the month, and you have to pay me, Sir!'

'Not yet, Mr Linton.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'As far as working hours are concerned, the last day of the month does not begin for another nine minutes and thirty-four seconds. Go, and return only when this time has elapsed.'

'You... you can't be serious!'

'Do I sound like I am joking?'

'You never sound like you're joking, you son of a bachelor!'

'How observant of you, Mr Linton.'

'Let me in!'

'Respect, Mr Linton. Remember to show respect.'

'Please, let me in, Sir!'

'No. Go.'

'I won't go!'

'Then remain standing outside my door. I don't much care, provided you cease to disturb me.'

'Do you honestly mean I have to stand here for another nine and a half minutes to suit your perverted sense of punctuality?'

'Nine minutes and three seconds, now, actually.'

The truth hit me like a freight train. 'You just don't want to let me in there because you don't want to give wages to a woma– to me!'

'Still quite observant, I see.'

'This is ridiculous!'

'No, Mr Linton, it is not. Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds...'

'You're right – it's not just ridiculous! It's unbelievably, bloody ridiculous! If I arrived early on any other day, you'd jump at the chance to drag me in there and make me slave for you!'

'You're not a slave,' the cool voice from beyond the door told me.

'You're damn right I'm not!'

'Slaves don't complain as much as you do. Besides, their fortunate owners are allowed to use whips on them.'

'You bloody bas...' My voice failed me. This was too much! I should go and chock everything... No! No, that was what he wanted. He wanted to make me angry, to make me quit. I would not!

'There's another reason why I'm not your slave,' I said, sweetly. 'Do you want to hear it?' Silence. A triumphant smile spread across my face. 'Unlike a slave,' I cooed. 'you have to pay me for my work.'

More silence. Ha! That had shown him!

I started to pace up and down in the hallway. From time to time, Mr Stone threw me a half-anxious, half-curious look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cheque for twenty pounds and four shillings sticking out from under his paperweight. Apparently, Mr Ambrose didn't make quite as much difficulties before paying him. Ha!

Finally, I returned to the door, and knocked. Or maybe 'hammered' would be a better word.

'Let me in!'

'Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.'

'Let me in, blast you!'

'Four minutes and fifty-three seconds.'

'Gah!'

I resumed my march, my footsteps thudding a bit louder than before. Now and again, I muttered a few curses. If I only had a watch!

Well, that's something for you to buy once you have your money, isn't it?

Yes – once I had it! Which didn't help me much now, did it?

When I at last returned to the door, I tried to not use it as a punching bag. Be calm, I told myself. Be calm. He wants to make you angry. Don't give him the satisfaction.

'Sir? May I come in now, Mr Ambrose, Sir?'

'One minute forty-seven seconds.'

Be calm. Be calm. Be c–

Oh, to hell with it!

'Let me in, blast you! Let me in, or I'll beat this bloody door down!'

'One minute and forty-three seconds.'

I went back to my pacing. The rest of my waiting time I alternated between fantasizing about the things I would buy, and fantasizing about strangling Mr Ambrose with a piece of washing line. In spite of these two very appealing scenarios, never had one minute and forty-three seconds felt so long. When finally I heard the bell of St Paul's Cathedral strike the hour, I was quicker at the door than a thirsting lion at a Sahara waterhole.

'Mr Ambrose, Sir, I demand that you–'

I was interrupted by the sound of the lock clicking. Slowly, the door swung open. In the doorframe stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his eyes as deep, cool and dark as I had ever seen them.

'Come in, Mr Linton.'

'Why, thank you, Sir.'

If he noticed the sarcasm dripping from my voice, he did not comment on it. He let me into his office and closed the door. Then he turned to face me.

'Are you sure about this, Mr Linton?'

'About finally getting money out of you? Hell yes!'

'I mean,' he said, the shards of ice in his voice clinking threateningly, 'about being my secretary.'

'Ha! Did you think your antics would scare me off?' I snorted. 'Your scare tactics won't work!'

'I noticed.'

'You'll have to think of something better than that to get rid of me!'

'Will I, now?'

He regarded me for a moment. I resisted the urge to blink. Blast him! His stare could make a dead marmot uncomfortable!

I held out my hand. 'The money!'

He hesitated.

'You owe it to me! I've worked for it, and I want my money!'

His facial expression didn't change. Still, somehow he managed to look as if a tooth were being pulled from his brain while he forced himself to turn and walk over to his desk. Withdrawing a chequebook from one of the drawers, he sat down. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I thought I could hear the sound of teeth grinding.

'The pen is there, right in front of you, Sir. Go on.'

Throwing me an icy glare, he picked up the pen. The movement of his arm towards the check looked as if he had to pull against a ten ton weight of reluctance.

'From Rikkard Ambrose...' he growled. 'To... Mr Victor Linton...'

'Why not Lillian Linton?'

The next glare he threw me was dangerous.

'Be content I'm doing this, Mister Linton. Don't argue with me.'

On the hole, I decided it was better to keep quiet. At least I was getting my money. Mr Ambrose dragged the pen across the paper. It seemed to take an eternity, but finally he was finished and ripped the offending cheque out of his chequebook. Sliding his hand across the table, he shoved it towards me.

'Here!'

Snatching the check from his hand, I held it up to my face and studied it closely. It was well I did. My eyes fell on the amount, and widened in outrage.

'This cheque says Ten pounds and two shillings!'

'Yes. And?'

'That's half of what you gave Mr Stone!'

'Certainly. After all, you are only half of what he is. He is real. You are only a pretender – or should I say prentenderess?'

My mouth dropped open. He couldn't possibly be trying to...! Yes, of course he could. This was Rikkard Ambrose we were talking about.

'You're paying me less because I haven't got balls?'

'Language, Mr Linton.'

'I'll use any language I bloody well want, thank you very much! And I've got just as much balls as any man in this office!'

His left little finger twitched again. 'You are mixing anatomy and metaphor, Mr Linton.'

'I don't bloody care!' Marching forward, I placed both my hands, clenched into fists, on top of his desk and leaned forward until I was nose to nose with him. Being suddenly so close, I couldn't help notice the perfection of his chiselled features. And his eyes... they were so dark, so deep... deep enough to drown myself in...

Stop this! Get a grip! You're here to bang his head against the wall, not swoon over him, you blasted foolish female!

His eyes were angry. But was wrath the only thing that burned in their dark depths? Or was there hunger, too...?

Stop it!

'Tell me right out,' I hissed. 'Tell me that I haven't shown as much courage as any man in this building. Tell me that I deserve less, not because of what I am, but because of something you think I did wrong. Tell me that, and I'll accept half. Tell me!'

Silence. And more silence. Mr Ambrose's jaw worked as if he were chewing gravel soused in castor oil. His little finger drummed a staccato presto the desktop.

'You can't, can you?'

More silence. The fingertapping changed to a staccato prestissimo furioso.

'Write me another cheque! One for the full amount!'

Sluggishly, crawlingly, abominately slowly, as if he had to pull mountains with his elbows, Mr Ambrose moved his arms forward and once more dipped the pen into the inkwell. A salamander in the middle of winter moved more quickly than the pen did over the check in front of him. I watched him with burning intensity. Finally, crunching a little more gravel with his teeth, he severed the cheque from the chequebook, and slid it across the table towards me.

I pounced! But before my hand could grab the check, Mr Ambrose's fist came down on one corner with a thud, holding the slip of paper in place.

'If you take this money,' he told me, his dark eyes capturing mine, 'If you really wish to be my employee, fully and completely, you'll have to accept the consequences. You'll have to do whatever I say, go wherever I command. Do you understand?'

I didn't hesitate, but snatched the slip of paper from under his hand.

'Yes!'

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Oh dear, oh dear... What kind of pickle has our dear heroine landed herself in now? ;-)

Today, I have two big proclamations to make. Proclamation number one: unfortunately Amazon appears to not have quite decided yet whether or not the published version of 'Storm & Silence' is ready for preorder or purchase. But that won't present be a problem in the long run - all those among you who've ordered "Storm and Silence" will receive a copy, I can promise you! The only difference might be that for some of you there could be a little delay. I have written an email to Amazon to find out more.

Secondly: the big RADISH FICTION LAUNCH is approaching fast! Soon, you shall be able to skip waiting for a whole week for the next chapter to arrive! For just a few cents per installment, you'll be able to go on straight to the next chapter!

Thanks so much to everyone who has already purchased 'Storm & Silence' as an ebook or printed book, and also to those who're planning to sign up on the Radish Fiction App! Every single cent of support brings me a step closer to my dream of becoming a professional writer! :-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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Salamander: For those of my dear readers who are no experts in biology: salamanders are cold-blooded animals, which means they do not move in winter at all, or if they do, it is at a rate so slow it is imperceptible to the human eye.