Mr Rikkard Ambrose stiffened as if electrocuted. His gaze flicked between me and the man in the doorway. And the look in his eyes...

Up until now, I had not understood the true meaning of the word "torn". But right at this moment, Mr Ambrose looked as if he might tear himself in two at any moment. If one half could run up north to save his sister, and the other stay to protect his wife and child, why not? After all, it would save so much time. Or maybe—

"Don't you dare!" I hissed into his ear.

"What do you mean, Mrs Ambrose? I—"

"Don't play games with me! You can't be in two places at once!" Sliding my arms around him, I hugged him fiercely. "I know you want to be. I do, too. But you can't."

"I...I know. But I have to! I can't leave Adaira alone with him!" He looked at me. He looked at me in a way that hurt. "I...if I leave Karim here with you—"

"Don't even think about it, Mister!" I jabbed a finger into his face. "Don't you dare think about leaving me behind! Adaira is like my sister! If you go to save her, I go to save her!"

"But you...in your condition..."

"Don't worry!" I forced a smile on my face. "I already feel much better! I could run a mile and be perfectly fine. Let me show you!" Leaving Berty in his arms, I swiftly slid my legs out of bed, stood up—and promptly fell forward. "Aaagh!"

"Lilly!"

Faster than a flash, Mr Ambrose leapt to his feet and caught me just before I could hit the ground. Lifting me in a princess carry ere I could utter a single word of protest, he firmly placed me back onto the bed beside my son, who was watching the whole show with interest.

"You." He stabbed a finger at me. "Don't. Move."

"But—"

"No argument! You've just given birth today! You are not going anywhere until you've had a chance to recuperate. A week, at the very least!"

"A week?!"

His stern gaze didn't waver. "You are aware that the usual lying-in period for new mothers can go up to two months, correct?"

At that, I almost started to shoot fire from my eyes. Lying-in? Confinement? Me?

"Of course, I am a man who supports modern and feminist views," Mr Rikkard Ambrose lied with admirable shamelessness, "so I will only insist on a confinement of one week, for your own good, naturally."

My eyes narrowed. "Three hours."

His eyes narrowed in response, if only infinitesimally. "Six days. You will be of no use to anyone if you can't even walk."

"Six hours. I recover fast."

"Says the woman who spent several weeks puking her guts out due to morning sickness. Five days."

"Twelve hours. I don't think I'll be having any morning sickness now, do you?"

"One never knows with you, Mrs Ambrose. Four days."

"Oh, I know a few things for certain." I gifted him with a beatific smile. "For example, if a certain someone continues to be unreasonable, said someone is going to have to live without female companionship for the next two years. Twenty-four hours."

"I have lived for over two decades without it. I think I can manage. Three days."

"That was before you met me. A day and a half."

"You do think highly of yourself, don't you? Two days. My last offer, Mrs Ambrose."

"Says the man who asked to marry me." I took a deep breath, considered—then nodded. "Acceptable."

"Indeed?"

"Yes."

"Hrm."

Mr Ambrose bored into me with his stern gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, and straightened from where he'd been leaning over me.

"Um...am I still needed, Sir?"

The both of us looked over at the bowler-wearing man in the corner.

"Are you still here?" asked Mr Ambrose.

"Err...yes?"

"Well then, get moving! You said the weapons are still being prepared? As in not ready?"

"Well, ehem...yes?"

"Then make them ready! Now! If everything isn't perfectly prepared for departure in two days..."

My dear husband's voice trailed off ominously. He didn't need to finish the sentence.

"Y-yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir! I shall see to it that everything is prepared to your satisfaction, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"

Whirling around, the harried-looking fellow dashed from the room, nearly losing his bowler in the process. I didn't waste any attention on him. No, all my focus was on my dear husband.

"Mr Ambrose...after those two days..."

He met my gaze head-on. "We leave immediately. That Frenchman is going to rue the day he first set his sights on my sister."

I smiled.

***

The next two days were the longest ones in my entire life. Well...that wasn't exactly true. That time when I was seventeen and I had been forced by my aunt to participate in a week-long series of balls for single ladies had probably been worse. But it wasn't really the two days waiting time I feared. No...what I feared was what we would find when we went north.

So I did the only thing I could think of to distract me.

Was it evil? Yes. Was it devious? Yes. Would I get in trouble for it? Yes. Would it be fun and help distract me?

Most definitely.

"Now, little fellow, let's get started, shall we?"

"Waah! Waah!" Berty agreed, happily clapping his hands. To be honest, I couldn't blame him. This was going to be educational.

"Now, where were we..." Leafing through the copy of A Christmas Carol in my hand, I found the spot where we'd left off last time and nodded happily. "Ah, yes. We were just reading about that horrible old skinflint getting visited by a ghost to punish him for his sins. Now, Berty, you must pay close attention. Stingy people are the scum of the earth, the most despicable people imaginable. Whatever happens, you must remember to never ever become such a terrible person, all right?"

"Waaah wah!"

"That's my boy. Now let's start, shall we? Scrooge was a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and—"

Just then, the door opened, and Mr Ambrose came in.

"—and they all moved to the big, white castle and lived happily ever after! The end!"

"Reading aloud?" Cocking his head, Mr Ambrose stared at me. "Isn't that a bit early, Mrs Ambrose?"

"Well, you can never start too early with education, right?" I enquired, making sure to conceal the cover of the book with my hand. Best to keep this quiet until I had time to thoroughly indoctrina—ehem, I mean educate my dear son.

"Besides..." I put on a sad face, lowering my head. "It's not like I can do anything else right now, is it?"

He swallowed. "Lillian..." In three steps, he had crossed the space between us and had enfolded me in his arms. "Come here."

Unseen by him, I grinned into his chest and slipped the forbidden book under a nearby blanket. Yay! Distraction successful!

"Preparations are moving apace," he murmured as his grip on me tightened. "How are you doing?"

"If I said that I'm fine and we can leave right away..."

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Thought as much." I couldn't help but smile again. "You really are a stubborn son of a bachelor, aren't you?"

"I believe I have mentioned this before, but my father is married to my mother. Though..." His voice suddenly turned chilly. "...most likely not for much longer. Once I am finished working him over for what he dared to do to Adaira, I am fairly certain my mother will have grounds for annulment."

My smile widened. "Now that is something I can get behind."

"Or in line for?"

"You've read my mind."

"Or I just know you well, my little ifrit."

Giving me a last, tight squeeze, he released me and stepped back, his eyes still firmly fixed on mine. "We will save her."

I wasn't quite sure whether he was trying to convince me or himself.

"Yes. Yes, we will."

With a long, final look he whirled around and stalked out of the room. It didn't take long for the results of his departure to make themselves felt. The entrance hall below exploded into a beehive of activity. From my window, I could clearly see several dozen nondescript figures in grey tailcoats and bowler hats rushing about, carrying various bags and crates. I had little doubt what all those contained: weapons!

I couldn't help but swallow.

Good God! What does he think he's doing? Going to war?

Then I realised—yes, that was exactly what he was doing. For his family, Rikkard Ambrose would wage a private war without hesitation.

I glanced down at the sleeping baby in my arms.

And so would I.

Time ticked by torturously slowly. I spent that day reading to Berty until I realised that, if I continued, his first word might very well be "ghost" or "skinflint", which might cause some uncomfortable questions from Mr Rikkard Ambrose. So I paused my reading and, for the time being, focused on teaching my child its first words. And if I happened to focus on the word "mama", that was pure coincidence.

It was at night, when I had nothing to distract myself, that the nightmares came.

Adaira forced to dance with an ugly bastard whose face kept morphing between various monstrous creatures...Adaira at the altar, tears running down her cheek...Adaira being dragged off to—

Gasping, I awoke and quickly forced those nightmarish images out of my mind.

Just a nightmare, Lilly! It was just a nightmare! Don't think about it! You're going to stop it, remember? You're going to stop it!

On instinct, I reached out and, in the darkness, my fingers found the comforting form of a familiar stone statue. If anyone has ever told you cuddling up to a granite statue isn't comfortable, don't believe them. They're spouting complete and utter nonsense. Especially if the stone statue in question hugs you back.

Humming, I snuggled into my husband's chest and felt his arms sneak around my waist to hold me. No...somehow, he didn't just hold me. He held back the nightmares. Like that, my eyelids fluttered closed once more and I drifted off to sleep.

The next day was even worse. Mr Rikkard Ambrose stalked through the corridors of Empire House like a vengeful spirit, barking at people to write with both hands, stamp letters with their feet and various other ingenious ideas to speed up the working process. His poor minions seemed to be ready to throw themselves into the river, and only the knowledge that they would have to apply for an unpaid holiday first held them back.

Although the increasing number of heavily armed men outside the office probably also had something to do with it.

"I...I can really move now," I told my husband. By this time, he was carving grooves into the floor of my room by walking in circles. Most likely, he had run out of employees to harass. "I really can! I—"

I moved to slip out of bed—then winced, unable to suppress it.

"Don't! Move!"

He was at my side in a blink, his grip like granite around my arm.

"Oy, let go! I can't just sit here and—"

"Yes, you can! Just for one more day." He pinned me in place with his fierce gaze. "It's getting better, isn't it?"

"...yes," I admitted.

He gave me a look that clearly said You see? That wasn't so hard, was it?

"I just wish we were already there, you know?"

I felt a pair of solid arms come around me. "As do I, Mrs Ambrose. As do I."

"I...I simply don't understand why your father would do this!" Slamming my fist onto the bed, I stared up at him. "I mean, sure, he is kind of a stand-offish son of a bachelor, but so is Uncle Bufford, and that old buzzard would chop off his own beard before selling one of us off! What the heck does your father think he can gain by this?"

The only answer to this was silence. An extraordinarily heavy one.

I felt my heart drop.

"Mr Ambrose?"

No reply.

"Mr Ambrose?" My spine tingled as suspicion rose within me. "You know something I don't, don't you? What does he think he can gain by this?"

He swallowed. "Well..."

-------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

In case you are wondering what the abovementioned "confinement" refers to, here is a little historical tidbit for you: Postpartum confinement—meaning the confinement of women after childbirth—was an almost universal practise in Victorian England. Up to two months' bed rest after birth were perfectly normal, partly because this was believed to be healthy for the mother, partly because women were considered "unclean" after childbirth on a spiritual level. Funnily enough, that idea came from an exclusively male clergy. Strange coincidence, right? ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob