“I’m sorry to bother you, Lady Isabella,” Grayling said. I could hear the stiffness in his voice and feel his confusion as he looked at me. “Miss Holmes—er—we believed it was an urgent matter.”
I found my voice at last. “I just learned about Lilly Corteville. I wanted to express my condolences. I understand you were close to the family.” I could think of nothing else to say, and Grayling’s heavy regard continued to weigh me down.
Lady Isabella looked at me. I looked back at her, searching in vain for something in her eyes, some sort of recognition that we’d been face-to-face less than an hour ago.
“Yes, indeed. What a tragedy that was,” she said in a soothing voice that conveyed confusion. “That was your purpose for rousting me from my bed?”
“I—I apologize, my lady. I . . . er . . . didn’t realize how late it was.”
“My apologies as well, Lady Isabella,” said Grayling. “We’ll be off now. Please give Uncle Belmont my regards.”
“Of course,” said the gracious lady.
No sooner had the door closed behind us than Grayling gave me a long, inscrutable look. To my surprise, it was neither condemning nor angry. It was . . . exasperated and a little bemused. And concerned.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you simply wanted an excuse to ride on the steamcycle.”
I couldn’t look at him.
I’d been wrong.
Very wrong.
How could I have made such a mistake?
Miss Holmes
The Game Is Afoot
Dazed by humiliation, I recalled little of my subsequent ride home. Grayling insisted he take me there and nowhere else. I was too stunned to argue otherwise.
I had no idea what time I let myself into a quiet house, but the night was still dark.
How could I have been wrong?
How could I have made such a mistake?
I found myself stumbling into my mother’s empty room. A single beam of silvery moonlight traced the knotted coverlet on her bed, and I sank onto that cold but welcoming furnishing. A soft puff of air escaped from the coverings, and I caught the faintest whiff of my mother’s scent.
My insides churned unpleasantly, and my throat hurt. I couldn’t ever remember a time I felt so ill and lost and empty.
Except the day she left.
From my seat on the bed, I looked at her dressing table. The gray, drassy illumination highlighted the few articles that remained: a small silver jewelry box, a broken hairbrush, two mahogany combs, and a wrist-length piece of lace. I knew that her wardrobe was just as empty.
Why, Mother?
What is wrong with me?
I’d always thought she left me was because I was too much a Holmes.
But after tonight, I realized I wasn’t enough of a Holmes.
I woke, achy and parched, curled up on Mother’s rumpled quilt. Mrs. Raskill said nothing as I stumbled into my own chamber to freshen up and dress, but I caught a flash of sympathy in her gaze. I ignored it.
A short time later, I found my way into the laboratory. The broken glass from my magnifyer still littered the floor. Had it been only yesterday that Grayling had startled me with the news of Lilly Corteville?
Yesterday, when I believed I could observe and deduce and that things would fit together.
Yesterday, when I’d been trusted by the princess to protect and serve my country.
Yesterday. When I’d watched helplessly as a young woman died.
I remembered again the horrific sound of her body thud-thud-thud-thudding against the statue.
I closed my eyes and willed myself not to give in to base emotions. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t think of it. I must keep my mind clear.
I’d have to get a new magnifyer. But the thought didn’t motivate me as it might normally have done. I looked around at my work: my notes, the charred Danish face powder, the other vials and dishes. Was it all for naught? Had all my studying been a waste?
Was Uncle Sherlock correct after all? That women couldn’t remain separate from their emotions in order to make accurate and important observations and deductions?
I needed to report to Miss Adler. I’d have to confess my shameful miscalculation. I’d have to admit that the Ankh had escaped.
And she still had one more instrument to find. One more young woman to kill.
Someone knocked on the laboratory door.
“Come in,” I replied dully.
“You’ve got a visitor.” Mrs. Raskill poked her little nose around the corner as if sniffing for any sign of danger. “I don’t know what’s so importan’ that you’re gettin’ packages from the Met, and letters from all over, and visitors. Every day, it’s sumpin’. It’s up to comin’ like bein’ on Bond Street, all these comin’s and goin’s.”
I followed her out of the laboratory. The last person I wanted to see was Grayling, who I was certain had come to interview me about the events of last night. But to my surprise, it wasn’t Inspector Grayling who stood just inside the front door of our house. I didn’t recognize the male individual, who appeared to be no more than fourteen years of age.
Hat held carelessly in bare hands—not intimidated by upper-class settings or people, but not of the upper class himself.
Met my eyes with confidence but not improperly—respectful of upper-class women.
Underground ticket stub stuck in his cuff—public transportation; limited funds.
“May I help you?”
“Gots a message for ye.” He proffered a folded packet. “Was tole t’wait fer your answer.”
I took the offered packet and examined it briefly, my skin prickling.
Expensive, heavy paper—from Inkwell’s, where the blue ink had come from on the invitation to the Star Terrace.
Faint, pungent scent—the same smell from last night’s events.
My heart racing, I opened the missive.
The diadem in exchange
for your companion.
I read it a second time, noticing the penmanship (a right-handed female), aware of a sudden roaring in my ears and the prickling washing over my body.
The Ankh had Evaline.
How was it possible?
I shook my head. I as well as the young man who carried me to safety had seen her come out of the building last night. She was right there.
But I hadn’t seen her afterward. I hadn’t even spoken to her. I’d been too distracted by the need to prove the identity of the Ankh, and I’d left the scene.
What would have happened if I’d remained there, with the other young women, instead of rushing off with Grayling on a wild goose chase?
Was Miss Stoker’s abduction yet another effect of my gross miscalculation?
I gripped the message, determination flooding through me. The game was afoot.
