Chapter 1: 01. With Bells On!

The death knell rang out with resounding finality. I raced forward, my heart pounding, my hands clenched into fists. Please! It couldn't happen like this! It just couldn't! I had to reach it in time, before—

Ba-dum ba-dum-ba-dum!

With deafening drums and brass, the black-clad marching band rounded the corner and blocked the street.

Crap!

Screeching to an abrupt halt, I bent over, panting. On either side of me, everyone trying to cross the street stopped and respectfully stepped back, removing their hats in sympathy, as the bearers of the coffin appeared. I, for my part, snatched my hat off my head and hurled it to the ground in frustration. Bloody hell! Now the street was blocked! I was going to be late for work!

Everyone said death waits for no man. But I knew better. Mr Rikkard Ambrose waits for no man, and would demand I postpone my appointment with death till the weekend and take care of it in my free time.

Hm... I eyed the funeral procession thoughtfully. I wonder, is it socially acceptable to practice pole vaulting over coffins?

Probably not.

Fishing out my watch, I tapped my foot in time to the sombre music as the funeral procession passed by at a brain-meltingly slow pace. Two minutes...three...drat! Couldn't they move any faster? And why was that weeping woman at the front insisting on collapsing every few feet and sobbing onto her fellow mourners' shoulders?

'He's deahahahaaad!' Stumbling, she clutched one of the innocent bystanders. 'Deeaad!'

'Ehem...yes ma'am.' The elderly gentleman cleared his throat. 'I can see that.'

'Where will I ever f-find someone like h-him again?'

'Um...the graveyard?'

The woman abruptly stopped weeping, whacked him with her fan and strode on. Mentally, I gave the gentleman a high five. Unfortunately, even though the woman in the lead was moving slightly faster now, the coffin in the middle of the procession was only just passing by me.

Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peered down the street, trying to make out how popular Mr Six Feet Under had been. To judge by the mellifluous multitudes marching after the coffin, including everything from musicians over funeral guests to several black, plumed carriages, I was going to be stuck here for quite a while. Unless...

''scuse me.'

Before anyone could shriek, I smiled at the coffin bearers, ducked underneath their load and dashed across the street. Behind me, I heard a yelp, but I was already around the nearest corner. Yay! Coffin parkour number one finished!

Not slowing down for a minute, I took another turn, and another—and finally, there it was! The huge building towered right in front of me, on the other side of the street: Empire House. Tallest building in this part of the city, place of employment for hundreds of unfortunate, oppressed, underpaid souls, home to a multinational financial and industrial empire, and headquarters of my husband-to-be.

Who, by the way, still hadn't given me a raise.

Suppressing the eager leap of my heart in my chest at the thought of him (or possibly at the thought of a raise), I dashed across the street and pushed open the front door. The patter of hundreds of busy little feet greeted me the moment I stepped inside. As always, people were rushing about, carrying cartons full of sample goods and stacks of documents. In the centre of the hall, like a particularly sallow-faced idol on the altar of overwork, sat Mr Pearson, the front desk clerk. Everything was just as always.

Except soon, all of this would be mine.

The thought made me slightly dizzy. Sure, in our deplorably chauvinistic world, a wife wouldn't have real power over all her husband's money, as he had over hers—but then again, I wouldn't be a typical wife. I had lived and worked in a man's world for over two years now, and I knew where to go and what to do to achieve what I wanted. Did that mean I could have actual influence on what happened here? Did it mean I could give the employees here a day off, or even—God forbid—Christmas holidays?

The mere thought made me tremble in awe. As did the thought of what Mr Ambrose would do to me in retribution, incidentally. Grinning, I let my gaze wander through the hall. Ah, the possibilities...

Suddenly, a frown formed on my brow.

I had been wrong.

Everything in the hall was not just as always. A tarpaulin was covering a big chunk of the wall on the right side of the room, right next to the stairs. Now that my ears had gotten used to the hustle and bustle inside, I could make out mumbled conversation from behind the mysterious curtain. Eyes narrowing, I took a step towards it—then stopped, as I felt a pair of eyes on me.

Turning, I gave Sallow-Face a great big smile.

'Ah, Mr Pearson. So nice to see your cherubic features again after such a long time!'

'Mr Linton.' He gave me about half a nod. I gave him back a quarter.

From behind me, I heard a clang and half-turned to glance at the mysterious tarpaulin once again. It shifted, and there was another clang—then everything fell silent once more.

I jerked a thumb towards the tarp. 'Say, Mr Pearson...you don't perchance know what that is all about, do you?'

This encouraged Sallow-Face to gift me with an actual smile. 'I do.'

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing came.

'Well?' I demanded. 'And?'

His smile widened. 'And Mr Ambrose has already informed all the most important members of his office staff of this important change. I'm sure he'll see fit to let you know at some point, Mr Linton.'

Miserable little slimy son of a...!

'Thank you so much.' I gave the man my most brilliant, friendly smile. 'I'll make sure to remember how helpful you were in a few weeks or so.'

Sallow-face frowned. 'Why? What'll happen in a few weeks?'

Reaching into the pocket of my tailcoat, I fingered the large golden betrothal ring that rested there, safe and sound. I smiled.

'Oh, you'll see. You'll see.'

And without wasting any more time on him, I made my way towards the stairs. In passing, I couldn't help try and glimpse past the tarpaulin—but it was fastened too closely to the wall. I didn't have a chance of seeing anything beyond. What the heck was worth going to so much trouble to hide?

Unable to come up with a reason to linger any longer, I started upstairs. Several stories up, at the very top of Empire House, I stepped out of the stairwell and rushed down the corridor, giving the nice young man at the upper desk a smile and a nod in passing. 'Morning, Mr Stone.'

'Good morning, Mr Linton.'

I pushed open the door to my office—and hesitated.

'Mr Stone?'

The receptionist, who somehow had managed not to become emotionally stunted after years and years in Mr Ambrose's service, looked up with a friendly, open smile. 'Yes, Mr Linton?'

'You don't perchance know what all that ruckus downstairs is about, do you? You know, that big tarpaulin?'

He blinked up at me. 'You didn't get the memo?'

I tried to remain calm. I really tried.

'No. I didn't get the memo.'

'Oh. Um.' He blushed. 'Well, I suppose it did say 'confidential'.'

My eyes gave a fiery flicker. 'It did, did it?'

'Err...yes, Mr Linton.'

'I see. Well, thank you for your help, Mr Stone.' Giving him a smile, I pushed the door to my office the rest of the way open. 'Is Mr Ambrose already in?'

'He's in the building. But I think he's not in his office at the moment. He's taking care of some problem in the archives department. But he'll be back any moment now.'

'Excellent.' I rubbed my hands. 'I look forward to having a little chat with him.'

And I stepped into the office, closing the door behind me.

My eyes swept around, taking in the familiar little space. My space. Mine. I had worked hard to get it, and even harder to keep it. After all my adventures in distant lands, all the fabulous sights I had seen, and all the dirty gags that had been stuffed into my mouth by assorted bandits, revolutionaries and god only knows who else, still nothing quite took my breath away like this little office right here in good old London.

And soon, you won't have to pretend anymore, Lillian. Soon, you'll be married to the man in charge, and then you can forget about this ridiculous male costume and just be your fabulous self.

I could hardly wait.

The thought put me in such a good mood that I had almost forgotten about the mysterious tarpaulin downstairs by the time the door to Mr Ambrose's office creaked, announcing his arrival. Rising from my desk, I headed towards the connecting door—but before I had even taken a step, I heard a very familiar noise.

Plink!

I looked down at the desk—and grinned. A tiny metal cylinder was lying on the desk. Ah, what fond memories that brought up...

Reaching for the missive from Ambrose the Mighty, I pulled open the metal capsule, unrolled the message and read:

Mr Linton,

You're late.

Rikkard Ambrose

I closed my eyes in bliss. Ah. The loving words of my future husband. Wasn't he a darling?

Plink.

Lifting one eyelid, I peeked at the desk, where another capsule was lying, ready to be opened. What, two messages in a row? Apparently, Mr Ambrose was feeling quite extraordinarily verbose today. It had to be the approaching nuptials. I had heard an event like that could completely emotionally derail a man, and turn him into a quivering wreck.

Mr Linton,

Bring me file 39XV225.

Rikkard Ambrose

I nodded sagely. Yes, utterly emotionally derailed. I could see he was positively dissolving in pre-wedding panic. He urgently needed the comforting, encouraging words of his future wife and love of his life. Sitting down at the desk, I wrote:

My dearest and most beloved Mr Ambrose,

Why don't you get it yourself, lazy bones?

Yours Faithfully

Miss Lilly Linton

Then I dispatched it, put my feet up on the desk and started whistling. I didn't have long to wait for a response.

Plink!

Mr Linton,

If you are labouring under the delusion I shall tolerate such behaviour merely because we shall in the near future be entering matrimonial relations, you are sorely mistaken. Cease wasting ink this instant, and fetch file 39XV225!

Rikkard Ambrose

Sighing in bliss, I hugged the little paper to me. Just like the good old times!

Snatching up a pen and a piece of paper, I penned my eloquent reply.

My most ardently and unceasingly passionately beloved Mr Ambrose,

I'm on my way.

Lalala Abracadabra, Hokuspokus taterata! I fandangle the slipslopy tootle down into the marvelous malarkey. Insert more ink-wasting here.

Yours Most Faithfully

Miss Lillian Linton

Shoving my masterpiece of prose into the pneumatic tube, I pulled the lever and jumped up to dash towards the shelves of file boxes before he had the chance to shoot back a reply. Only half a minute of searching later—Dear Lord, had I become that efficient an employee? I would have to see what I could do about slacking more!—I returned to the other side of my office, and knocked on the connecting door that lead to Mr Ambrose's private sanctum, where he was breathing in the smell of money and dreaming of world domination.

Well, probably not just dreaming. Most likely also working on getting it.

'Sir? I have the requested documents. Would you like me to slide them under the door?'

There was a moment of silence, and then...

'No. Come in.' I raised an eyebrow. Now here was something that hadn't happened in the old days. Mr Ambrose wanting to see my face when he could avoid it? 'I have something to discuss with you.'

He wanted to talk?

Well, well. Wonders never cease.

Cautiously, in case it was an Ambrose-impostor with murderous intent beyond the door instead of the original, I pushed open the door. Mr Ambrose was sitting behind his desk, writing. And it was the real Mr Ambrose, no doubt. The reason I knew was because he was working with both hands at once, his eyes flitting from left to right and back again.

'Err...Sir?'

'One moment, Mr Linton. I have to finish these two letters. There!'

He put a neat dot at the end of each letter he was writing, then gazed down at the result. 'Adequate.'

'Sir? What are you doing?'

'Writing, of course. Too bad I cannot do it when writing checks. For some mysterious reason, the Bank of England refuses to accept checks I sign with my left hand, even after I explained to them in detail how much time I will be able to save simply by signing two checks at the same time. Wastrels, the lot of them. But that is neither here nor there. Let us get to the matter at hand, Mr Linton.'

Pushing the letters aside, he steepled his fingers and regarded me over their tops. With the kind of look he gave me, I didn't doubt he could send (and had sent) striking workers running for the hills, freeze a water-tank at fifty paces, or make a king quiver in his boots.

I, for my part, just grinned, walked over to the closest chair and sat down, dangling my feet over the armrest.

'You may sit,' Mr Ambrose informed me in a voice frosty enough to give a polar bear a cold.

I inclined my head. 'Why, thank you so much, Sir.'

'I called you in here to discuss an important matter, Mr Linton. As you must be aware, we have some important plans to make, and significant events to schedule.'

I raised an eyebrow—just because it felt great knowing there was something I could do far better than my future husband. Bless you, versatile facial expressions!

'I thought we were going to leave the planning of the wedding to our relatives?' I enquired.

Mr Ambrose cocked his head. 'Which pack of them? Mine or yours?'

I shrugged. 'Oh, I thought we'd let them battle it out and pick whoever is left standing.'

'An idea not without merit, Mr Linton. However, you misunderstood me. I do not wish to discuss the schedule of the wedding at the moment. I wish to discuss a matter of more immediate importance: the schedule of your resignation.'

'My resi—'

My voice cut off abruptly. I stared at him, not quite able to believe I had heard what I thought I'd heard.

'My...resignation?' I repeated, just to make sure I had heard correctly.

'Yes. Now that we shall be entering matrimonial relations, you will naturally wish to resign your position in order to assume your wifely duties. I have a meeting with the directors of my advertising department next week, and it will be difficult to obtain the services of a new secretary before then. So shall we say that you'll stay on for another two weeks? That would give you ample time to resign before the wedding.'

My eyes narrowed. 'So considerate of you, Sir.'

'Indeed.'

'And may I ask...what exactly are these 'wifely duties' you would like me to assume?'

He gave a small twitch of the shoulders, what passed for a shrug in the land of stone statues. 'Oh, nothing much. Just preparing meals for me and any of the few dozen business partners I might host dinners for, keeping the fifty-one rooms of the house clean and orderly, washing and mending the clothes and dishes—'

'Mend the dishes?'

'Certainly. Porcelain glue is a marvellous invention. Kindly do not interrupt again, Mr Linton.'

'Certainly not, Sir. Please do go on.'

'As I was saying, washing and mending dishes and clothes,—incidentally, you shall have to be careful with that, since I do not intend to discard my tailcoat after it has served me so well this last decade—keeping the housing accounts in double-entry accounting, in a manner that will not displease me at my quarterly expenditure review, ironing my suits, acquiring all necessary supplies from nearby shops at the minimum possible price, sewing new clothes for yourself and me to wear, keeping all creditors, alms-seeking clergymen and members of charitable organizations from entering the house, oh, and, of course, directing the servants who will be assisting you in your duties. The latter, you will be happy to hear, will not be a difficult task, because there most likely won't be many.'

'Duties?'

'No. Servants.'

'Ah.' I nodded, smiling sweetly. 'Then why not get rid of them altogether? After all, I could just reduce my sleep to four hours a day like you did and do all the work by myself.'

'What an admirable suggestion, Mr Linton. I can see you will do very well in your new role.'

'And perhaps I could also grow two extra legs and arms so I can work twice as fast.'

Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

'Do I detect a slight note of sarcasm, Mr Linton?'

'No, of course not, Sir.' I leaned forward, still displaying a cheerful smile on my face. 'You detect a shitload of sarcasm!' My smile abruptly disappeared, and fire sparked in my eyes. 'You can take your porcelain glue and use it to glue shut your tight ar—'

'Mr Linton! Mind your language!'

'Just one language? No problem, I have several at my disposal. Que te la pique un pollo! Tuki kalay kutay kahn! Vous avez le cervau d'un Soufflé.'

'If my brains do indeed taste of soufflé, I'm sure the dogs would be delighted to.'

I threw him a dirty look. Damn the man! You couldn't even insult him in three foreign languages without him understanding every single word and firing back a broadside! How were you supposed to live with somebody like that?

Happily, because you love him.

Bloody hell! I hoped very, very much he had not read that part of my inner dialogue in my eyes. Raising my chin, I stared him down.

'You stingy son of a bachelor! You just want to marry me to get an unpaid house slave!'

'That is an unjust accusation, Mr Linton.' He gave me a cool look. 'It is by no means the only reason, just one of the more significant ones.'

One thing you had to give Mr Rikkard Ambrose—he was honest.

Another thing you should probably give Mr Rikkard Ambrose—a good kick in the butt! For now, however, I refrained, mostly because he was currently still sitting on it. It would give me something to look forward to tomorrow.

'I am not a biddable flower in the house, to be ordered around at your convenience! I am an independent woman!'

'Yes, you are.'

I opened my mouth to refute his words—then what he'd actually said reached my brain, and I closed my mouth again. Pardon? Had he just agreed with me?

'You are an independent woman. For...' he glanced at his calendar. 'For about three weeks.' Raising his eyes again, he gazed at me. The intensity of his arctic eyes sent a shiver down my back. And not a bad one, damn him! 'After that, you will be mine.'

I swallowed.

'And you seriously expect me just go along with this? You think I will be all right with all of this? You think I will happily run around performing my 'wifely duties'?'

Leaning across the desk, he stroked one powerful finger over my cheek, sending another hot-cold tingle down my spine. 'Not really. But those are not the only duties of a wife. I intend to make sure that the good outweighs the bad.'

Oh holy moly...that didn't actually sound so bad. Maybe I could just try it out his way, and see how things went and...

No! Bad Lilly! Bad! You're an independent woman with a working brain, remember?

Oh, right. I did have one of those. Somewhere in my head it was, right?

Grabbing his hand, I pulled it away from my face, hard—then placed a gentle kiss on his palms.

'The good will always outweigh the bad between the two of us,' I told him. 'Which is why I will continue to work here, at your side, doing what I do best.'

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. 'Disagreeing with me, you mean?'

I grinned. I couldn't help it. 'That, too. But I was more thinking of serving as your faithful secretary and assistant. After all, if I am not here, who will answer all your pneumatic missives?'

'You will soon be a married woman, Mr...Miss Linton. A married woman's place is in the house.'

With admirable patience, I still didn't give him the kick in the butt he deserved. But neither did I bend, or look away when I told him, 'A married woman's place is wherever the heck she wants it to be! But above all, it's at the side of the husband she loves.'

Mr Rikkard Ambrose opened his mouth—and closed it again.

Well, well, will you look at that? Mr Ambrose was lost for words. Not surprising, really, considering how few of them he probably had stored up to begin with.

I rose to my feet.

'Anything else, Sir?'

His left little finger twitched. 'Not that I can currently think of. Is this your last word on the subject?'

'It is.'

'You will not assume your place as the mistress of my house?'

'I will not. I intend to stay right where I am.'

Nodding, he reached for a nearby pile of documents and began perusing them, a clear sign of dismissal. 'I see.'

I see?

Suspiciously, I gave him a look.

'That's all? You won't try and convince me? You don't have anything more to say?'

His eyes stopped moving. Slowly, they rose from the page to fix upon me. So cold. So dark. So indomitable.

'Throughout my life, Miss Linton, I have found that deeds can be considerably more convincing than words.'

Returning his eyes to the document, he flicked a finger, dismissing me. I retreated, his last words echoing ominously in my ears.

What the hell is he going to do?

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Welcome to "Storm of Bells"! I hope you have enjoyed the first chapter? I thought it was time to revisit the good old times ;) Do you agree?

In case you are wondering about Mr Ambrose's ambidextrous scribbling - there are actually people who can write with both hands at the same time. Some can even write one and the same letter with two hands, starting the line of writing from the left and the right side so that they meet up perfectly in the middle.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

P.S.: Oh, and in case you're wondering about the meaning of Lilly's insults, here you go:

Que te la pique un pollo! - I hope a chicken pecks at your intimate manly bits.

Tuki kalay kutay kahn! - May black dogs eat you.

Vous avez le cervau d'un Soufflé. - You have the brain of a soufflé.