Trumpeters, aldermen, a gorgeous coach with hammer-cloth of red and gold and then four fine horses bringing in the Lord Mayor and his household cavalry in their crimson coats atop white horses.
When the parade was almost over, I gave Billy over to his brother and told him I was heading to the museum. There was no point waiting any longer for Sherlock. Clearly, he was not coming.
“Kin I come, too, Miss?”
“No, not this time. I’ll see you later back at my uncle’s house for lunch.”
I walked to the museum and just before I went inside, I heard Sherlock call out my name.
I turned.
Out of breath, he bent over and let out a few puffs into the cold, still air. The sun had finally peeked through and seemed to settle behind him like a halo.
“Well, Mr. Holmes. Nice of you to join us at the parade.”
“You know those are not things I wish to attend, Poppy. But I did go. I sought you out; how do you think I knew where to find you? Master Wiggins told me you were on your way here.”
“So what was so pressing that you were detained?”
“Mycroft. What else? He is insane because some of the Queen’s swans have been slaughtered.”
My mind reeled back to my quiet moments in Victoria Park, watching the swans swim. Watching them love.
“But that’s criminal.”
“Indeed, it is. But not something in which I wish to be involved. Nevertheless, I am on my way to inspect one of the creatures to see if something interesting is afoot. I’ve had it taken to the morgue at St. Bart’s. Will you join me?”
“Yes, I will. But not just yet. Run along. I’ll catch up to you.”
He kissed me flagrantly, right out there in the open, and I thought for a moment he might clap his hands.
He is elated, I thought. On to yet another case.
As he turned and walked swiftly down the street, I went into the museum and visited the room with the Buddha Vairocana, his hands still those of a teacher, telling us that truth ends ignorance. I was staring at him, studying him when I heard a voice.
I twirled in the direction of the sound and saw Rabi, the lovely young man from India.
“Rabi, how wonderful to see you. You are still here.”
“Yes. For a bit longer.”
“How are you?”
“Longing for home.”
Longing. I understood longing.
“And you, Miss Poppy. You are still unhappy. You also long for something. Do you wish to be somewhere else?”
I sighed and paced. “Sometimes, Rabi. Sometimes I do.”
“But you are hesitant.”
I nodded.
“You cannot cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”
I stopped and smiled at him. “No, I suppose not.”
“You do look very sad, Miss.”
I started to pace again. “I am sad. And frustrated. You see,” I added, wringing my hands, “it’s just that I have this... this friend who is infuriating. He values work and logic above all else and he is going to miss so many things in life.”
Rabi’s eyes narrowed. “Then I am sad for him as well, for a mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it. One must embrace all of life. One should see each morning for the first time as a newborn that has no name sees it.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, yes!” I cried in a tone a bit louder than my ‘museum voice.’ “You’re exactly right. I agree completely.”
“We should appreciate the boundless fields, the songs of birds, the shade of the trees and the shadows.”
I nodded and felt tears stinging.
“But weeping is wasted, Miss, on one who does not understand why you cry.”
“Yes, Rabi. I’ve thought of that. Often.”
“Maybe you should go away. Find a peaceful village with ancient palms and dark green foliage and paths that go on out of sight.”
I gulped. He was so right. It did me no good to fantasize if I was not prepared to act. It did no good to long for a man who would not give love, who would not give light, who liked living in danger and darkness. And then I thought of Victor, of India. Who knows how I might feel in a new place?
“But this friend... you love him?” Rabi asked.
I nodded again. “God knows why.”
He laughed a laugh that was a like a whisper through the trees. “Perhaps only God knows why, Miss. After all, love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.”
“A mystery. Yes, Rabi, but I know that if only he would open his heart to me...” I stopped and stared at him. Why, I wondered, was I so open with my feelings to this stranger? Yet this stranger seemed to know me so well. Six months earlier, I had thought I was over Sherlock. I thought I had put a stop to my ridiculous fantasies. But when I saw him again, he had stolen in once more like a thief, stealthily watching, descending into my heart and numbing my blood-thirsty ambition. Even after we had parted, I realized now, he lingered like a drowsy rumble in my ear, then settled in by my side, immovable despite his cold arms and icy heart.
“If you love him, Miss, do not try to possess him. Love should not claim possession, but must give freedom.”
How did he know? I wondered. How did he know that I was not prepared to give up on Sherlock just yet?
“Rabi, you are so wise for one so young.”
He shrugged. “It is simply that I believe we should not dwell on the past or worry about the future as much as we do. It is better to be like the butterfly. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”
I felt the blood drain from my face and swallowed a gasp as I recalled my conversation with Oscar about Effie reincarnating as a Swallowtail. “Oh,” was the
