"Excuse me sir, do you know which building on Market Street belongs to a Mr. Rikkard Ambrose?" I asked.

"That one, right there." He pointed directly past me, his accent so thick I could barely understand it.

I frowned. Was he referring to the building that looked like it could be a palace, with numerous porticos and sidings and balconies? "California Pacific Railroad Company?" I queried, squinting at the sign carved into the slab of stone hanging above the grand door.

"No, ma'am," he clarified, tipping his hat at me. "The one next to it. Empire House."

And here, I saw an establishment that seemed much more suited to a man such as Rikkard Ambrose. It was tall, and imposing and built narrowly from granite, the dark stone rising so far up I had to strain my neck to reach the top. "Oh, wow," I breathed, sounding for one moment like one of the swooning damsels I loathed.

"It sure is impressive, innit ma'am," he said. "I must be on my way now. Will you be all right by yourself, ma'am?"

He spoke the words 'by yourself' as though he was waiting for some maiden aunt or older sister or husband to come along chaperoning me. The very thought made me shudder in revulsion. Yes, I had come to discover what had happened to my friend, but if I was being perfectly honest with myself, I was also in search of adventure.

"I'll be fine. Thank you for your help, sir." I set off for Empire House at a brisk pace, and pulled open the heavy door sharply. I took a deep breath, gathering my scattered—but still impressive, despite what so-called scientists have said about women's brains—wits about me. I was Lilly Linton: suffragette, feminist, and champion of women's rights. I was a woman on a mission. One I would definitely not fail!

Or at least a mission I definitely could not afford to fail.

I took in my surroundings and suddenly worried about what trouble I had managed to charge headlong into this time. Despite being bare and stark enough to serve as a Spartan's dwellings, Empire House's interiors managed to be as intimidating its exterior. Dark paint covered the walls, and darker wood or stone made up the floor, which was so polished I could see my own dishevelled appearance in it. If it wasn't so large a space, I would have considered it the abode of someone who was highly impoverished. Across the room, clerks scurried back and forth, toting papers as they pushed through the myriad doors set into the walls surrounding the cavernous room. Despite it being hot as the blazes outside, it was as cold as an icebox in here, but I refused to shiver. 

"Can I be of service to you, Miss?" A cordial man standing behind the desk asked me. He looked at me superciliously, as though he questioned whether I deserved to be in the very building, breathing the same air as him, let alone be aided by him.

I straightened, sticking out my unimpressive chest and raising my chin. I summoned every bit of Patsy's unwavering confidence and steely courage. 

"Yes. I'm looking for a Mr. Rikkard Ambrose," I told him.

Every man in the room stopped moving for a moment at the sound of his name, paralyzed, before the receptionist dropped his pen on the desk with a loud thud that set them back into motion.

"Oh?" His disdainful expression didn't change as he surveyed me over his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have you an appointment with him, Miss...?"

"Miss Linton. Miss Lillian Linton." I longed to use my parasol and whack the condescending moue off of his sallow face. But, if he was to help me—however reluctantly it may have been—violence was an unwise course of action.

"I am loath to repeat myself. Have you an appointment, Miss Linton, or do you enjoy wasting the time of powerful and busy men?"

"You are powerful and busy?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "If you were, I should think that you would not be here, wasting time talking to a simple woman like me."

I plastered on a smile as sweet as solid chocolate.

It did not faze him. "I was referring to the time of my employer, Mr. Rikkard Ambrose."

"If you refuse to allow me to see him, then allow me to leave him a message. Tell him I am here concerning a Captain James Carter."

His eyes widened. He turned away from me, and for a moment I thought he would call someone to escort me out onto the streets, but then he picked up a strange-looking device, and spoke into it. My eyes widened this time. Had the man gone mad? Were all the men I would meet in America this barmy?

"Stone? Are you there?"

Stone? He was conversing with a mineral deposit?

To my shock, a tinny voice came out the other end of the horn! I stood their gape-mouthed as I eavesdropped on their conversation.

"Yes, there's a... lady here claiming knowledge of Captain James Carter..."

"What do you mean, let her in?"

"Well yes, I see your point... I suppose..."

After much convincing by whoever this stone was—or perhaps he really was a lunatic, and was merely talking to himself—Sallow Face decided to let me see his employer. I couldn't tell if it was a gift or a punishment, given by how people had reacted to the very mention of the man.

"You may go to the inquiry desk, where Mr. Stone is waiting for you."

I curtsied as best as I could, though I didn't care much if he thought me a shake* or a lady at this point. "Thank you, sir."

I began to walk, then stopped myself. "And, erm, where is the inquiry desk, Mr. Sa—I mean, mister?"

"I am Mr. Pearson and to answer your question, it is on the top floor. The twelfth floor."

Sakes alive! I was going up twelve flights of stairs? I could see Mr. Sallow—that was, Pearson's face turn smug, as though he were taunting me into giving up.

No, Lilly! You can do this! You are capable of running up twelve flights of stairs to discover where your friend is!

Although... is it really worth it?

Yes! Now get to running!

• • •

"I'm... here!" I panted, twelve bone-shattering, leg-burning, lung-aching flights of stairs later. "Mr. Stone? I'm Miss Lillian Linton!"

I staggered towards another desk, which I presumed to be the inquiry desk. Behind it sat a tall, rigid man with dark hair who was rapidly leafing through some files.

"Mr. Stone?" I repeated.

The man looked up. He was most definitely not Mr. Stone. Unless Mr. Rikkard Ambrose had an identical twin brother whom went by Mr. Stone, or he himself had taken to calling himself and. Stone...

"What," Rikkard Ambrose said slowly as he stood up, "do you want?"

I raised myself to meet his icy gaze. "Have I done something to offend you, sir?"

"Wasting my time is equivalent to wasting my money, Miss Linton. Either answer my question, or leave." He spoke the words without inflection; he was not rude in the way of impolite people—though he certainly was impolite—but in the way that the sky was blue, or an iceberg was capable of sinking ships. Naturally cold and frigid.

I bristled. "I am here on account of Captain James Carter. And I was sent here, by your man, Mr. Pearson, who moments ago told me to find Mr. Stone!"

"Mr. Stone?" He sounded mildly, slightly, the tiniest bit shocked. I would have done a dance of victory at the small triumph if I were not so concerned about the news shaking such a seemingly unflappable man. "Mr. Stone has not worked here for a week now."

"Oh really?" I had the upper hand now! Didn't I? "Then why did your man, Mr. Pearson just speak to him using that whats-it-called?"

"You mean the telephone, Miss Linton?" A minuscule furrow formed between his brows. He stalked out from behind the desk. "Do not move an inch, Ms Linton. I will be back."

Ha! Me? Take orders from a man? Never!

So, I went with him.

• • •

Dear Fellow Ifrits,

Finally they meet! Any thoughts? Comment and tell me your predictions!

(1) Prostitute. Why did the Wild West have so many names for prostitutes?