Sinister Sentiments by K.C. Finn Page A

and inky stamps, I pause occasionally to look at the photograph on my desk. Annette and I had it specially commissioned on the first anniversary of our marriage; it is a scene taken in deep snow in front of a Ferris wheel on the seventh of July. Mr Metero provided the weather for a hefty sum of money, but it was worth it to see the look on Annette’s face when the powdery substance fell all around us. I look at the satisfied smile on my younger face, remembering how proud I felt to have made it snow for her.
    “That is the smile of a young man in love.”
    I don’t recognise the croaking voice, but when I look up, my breath catches a little in my throat. A hooked nose protrudes from between glossy eyes, so pale blue that one could almost call them silver. The gentleman wears a golden cravat about his neck and a crimson top hat covered in shiny brass gears. They click and hum all the time around a miniscule printing press, which is producing a thin strand of paper that dangles down to the old man’s shoulder. He tears the paper strip off as I gape at him, reading the information before casting it down onto my floor.
    “Mr Metero, Sir,” I stammer. “I had no idea you were inspecting the department.”
    “Far from it, dear boy,” he croaks. “I have come to commend your efforts for my company, Mr Steed. It is time I reviewed your employment here properly.”
    Dear boy. The affectionate name gives me hope that my little scheme to climb the career ladder has begun to take hold. I stand up to give Mr Metero a little bow and the old man approaches, looking me over with a faint smile on his greying lip. He has a light, wispy beard that curls like white foam on his chin. His head bows a little as he appraises my desk, one liver-spotted hand reaching out to take hold of my photo frame.
    “My, my,” he says with a sigh. “Aren’t you and your wife a pretty pair?”
    “Thank you, Sir,” I say without delay, inclining my head again.
    Mr Metero holds the photograph up, comparing it to my current features, I suppose. His free hand reaches out, barely a half-inch from my bare chin, so close that I can feel the frozen air coming from his fingertips.
    “You’re darker-skinned than you look in the company records,” he tells me.
    “My grandmother was a Turk, Sir,” I answer. I try to sound apologetic of the fact, even though I rather like the hue of my skin in private.
    “Still,” Mr Metero muses. “There’s something very pleasant about your aspect, my boy.”
    He touches me properly then, and an uncomfortable jolt hits my stomach at the contact. Only Annette ought to have her fingertips on my face, but it isn’t polite to rebuff one’s employer. Fortunately, the tape emanating from the old man’s hat has reached his elbow, and he backs away to rip it off and study it once more.
    “It’s official!” he exclaims with sudden, hoarse joy. “The Empire has acquiesced to my request for sky engines over Africa! Look here, do you see?”
    He holds out his latest paper strip, but all I can make out are strange, shorthand symbols that I don’t understand. I reply brightly all the same.
    “That’s wonderful, Sir.”
    “I shall have to depart at once for the continent if I’m to be there in time to oversee the launch.”
    Mr Metero turns on his heel, ready to depart in his sudden excitement, but when he reaches my door, just a pace or two away, he stops. His frosted eyes fall on my face and my stomach jolts again.
    “I suppose,” he begins slowly, “that I shall need someone to take care of the factory whilst I’m gone.”
    He can’t possibly mean me, and yet the smile on his thin lips tells me otherwise. I raise my eyebrows, unable to vocalise the question that all my dreams might come true, if only for a week or so. Mr Metero just nods, as though he can hear every word I’m thinking.
    “You’re a diligent chappie, Mr Steed,” he says merrily. “Why don’t you come up to the top floor with me? We’ll see