#Chapter8

The Art of Dancing

Mr Ambrose seems to be in a good mood today. After he got the letter from Miss Higgins, the demands for various files stopped almost immediately. I don't even know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. All day, all I did was to sit on my chair. I would casually stand up and pace the room, then I would sit back down again. I did just that for my last couple of work hours for the day. I'm not complaining, since I was practically being paid to do nothing. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect a message from Mr Ambrose any time soon.

Whatever was in that letter anyway? What was so utterly and completely essential to its content that had Mr Ambrose in his good mood? Okay, maybe he's not smiling and his angry face is no different to his happy face. But I've been working for him long enough to differentiate his emotions.

Or lack thereof.

So since I have nothing to do, I wrote a message;

Dearest Mr Ambrose,

Today seems like a busy day. No file requests, sir? I could bring you another hundred. I'm a dedicated worker, sir.

Yours truly,

Miss Linton

After that, I sent it to Mr Ambrose. Almost immediately, there was a soft plink! on my desk. I excitedly opened it up like a child receiving a Christmas present. I was hoping the present was solid chocolate. My smile turned upside down as I read the sweetest, most loving message in the world, you'd think I really received solid chocolate;

Mr Linton,

No.

Rikkard Ambrose

I glared at the message in my hands. Anger in me is bubbling up as lightning struck from outside. Usually, I would jolt and gasp every time a lightning surprisingly roars. This time, however, seems like my reflex was too busy to do its job properly. I huffed before tearing the paper apart and threw it around my office like confetti. I was celebrating Mr Ambrose's upcoming death. Yippie!

I wrote another message;

Dearest Mr Ambrose,

Are you sure? How about file 33VX818? It's about the discrepancies in your factory in Whitechapel. I'm sure problems like these should be solved as early as possible.

Yours truly,

MISS Linton

And without skipping a beat, I received;

Mr Linton,

You're wasting money and time. No.

Rikkard Ambrose

As soon as I stopped reading it, I crumpled it into a small ball and threw it somewhere on the floor. When it made a soft thud, it started raining outside. I stood up from my seat and marched towards our connecting door. I opened it, surprised it wasn't locked. I stormed inside of his office as he calmly sat on his chair. He was doing nothing, but I noticed the letter from Miss Higgins lay softly on his work table.

I was raging with fire. I don't even know what's inside that letter that riles me up.

Mr Ambrose stared at me as I stood in the middle of his office, probably waiting for me to explain why I was here. I cleared my throat, "If I have nothing left to do, sir, I shall call it a day."

"Indeed?" He asks, his eyes boring through mine as if he sees the fire burning in me. He didn't even shift in his seat. It was as if he was a rock sculpture, not able to move.

"Yes, I'd rather not waste time, sir, as you so adamantly insist," I tried to smile, but it turned out to be more like a grimace.

Without a word, he stood up just as another lightning struck. This time, I slightly jolted because the lightning was suddenly louder than the first one. As expected, Mr Ambrose gracefully walked across his office past me. He didn't give any hint that he was surprised of the abrupt tantrum of the sky. He reached his office door and opened it. Without turning to look at me, he stepped out. I blinked at the door where he left.

Why did he leave?

I was the one who wants to call it a day! I ran to catch up on him, "Mr Ambrose, sir!" I called after him as he went downstairs. I ran past Mr Stone who gave me a confused look. I didn't have the time to talk as I ran after my employer.

Mr Ambrose's legs were long enough to keep me behind. His every step was thrice as mine, so I really was lagging behind. He had a steady pace, as if his every move was accurate. While I, on the other hand, tried my best not to stumble upon my death with every step I take. I was panting, trying to even out my breathing as I ran. However, my office tyrant went on as if he didn't break a sweat.

Life is so unfair.

"Sir!" I called out as we reached the doors of the building. I watched as he opened it and stepped out. I groaned in frustration as the rain outside became heavier. When I reached the door, I opened it and stepped out. I almost broke my nose as I hit a wall; or rather, the back of Mr Ambrose. I grunted, taking a step back. I held my nose, making sure it was still there, "Blast! That hurt!"

"I would be surprised if it doesn't, Mr Linton," Mr Ambrose says as he stood still, his back in front of me.

"Why are we even here?" I asked, my voice needed to be louder because the rain kept on pouring. I was still rubbing my nose, as I moved to stand beside Mr Ambrose rather than behind him.

"We walked."

I tried my best to control myself before I hit him on his head. "Of course, we walked. But what are we doing here?"

"We're standing, Mr Linton," he says, glancing at me before he kept his eyes forward, "Is your cognitive capability so limited to decipher such things?"

Before I could strangle my dear employer, Karim walked towards us with an umbrella in one hand. He was ridiculously humongous that the thing he was holding looked minuscule. He stopped just in front of Mr Ambrose and put the umbrella over his head. Seeing me standing beside Mr Ambrose, Karim's face fell like the rain from the sky. He didn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Words aren't enough to express how happy he is to see me.

"Move, Mr Linton," Mr Ambrose tells me as he walked towards the coach that was waiting for him.

Karim waited for Mr Ambrose to enter the coach, making sure he had him covered with the umbrella he was holding over his head. I stayed on my place, watching them as the rain grew angrier with every second. When Mr Ambrose settled down, Karim closed the umbrella before going to his driver position on the coach. Of course, why would Mr Ambrose waste money to pay a driver when he has Karim?