“No. There are none. Several present themselves, but I cannot square any of them with your own motivations, so far as I can discern them.”
“You could offer to take me to one of the other foci, so long as I kept you both safe until we got there.”
I shook my head. “Holmes is hardly fit to travel now; that must have occurred to you. Nor would you let him, for as soon as he clears this magic-deadened area, you know he could overpower you in an instant. But now, this is interesting: do you believe I am in possession of another one of the foci?”
“Not at all. I only assumed that even if you weren’t, it would occur to you to lie.”
“It did,” I admitted. “Yet, what should that accomplish? As I’ve just detailed, even if you believed it, you would not let the three of us walk out of here. More to the point, I’m not sure I could fool you. I see how you watch our faces when we talk. You’re looking for answers in our expressions and our bodies, not our words. I’m sure you must have one or two magical ways of knowing if somebody is telling the truth or not. It would seem you cannot use them here. But do you need them? You’re a very intelligent man, Professor, and let’s not forget you’ve got two and a half centuries’ experience reading people.”
“You’re not even going to try falsehood?” he scoffed.
“I thought I’d try just the opposite. I tell you in all honesty, I do know something of the other foci. And I ask you to be truthful with me. Tell me: which one do you most crave?”
I saw him give a little smile, wondering if he should play my game. After a moment he shrugged and said, “The greatest, of course. Do you know which it is?”
I nodded. “Hope.”
“Hope!” he confirmed, a heartfelt reverence creeping into his tone. “So strange and so potent a thing! Take a moment to think how many of the nine aspects are governing our actions right now! I have the benefit of force over you both, embodied by this revolver. I am applying a significant amount of fear to your decision-making. And to Holmes, I have added pain. Unity and love keep you from suggesting a bargain that saves you but not your friend, though I know you must be considering it. Yet the aspect upon which all hangs is hope. You hope to make it out of here alive. I hope to gain the knowledge I need to pursue my grand plan. This situation is primed to resolve in a very final way. Why does it delay? Because both sides of this debate are paralyzed by hope, Dr. Watson! We continue to balance on the head of a pin—and so we shall until one set of our hopes is either realized or broken. Isn’t it amazing? How subtle its touch; how absolute its grip!”
He wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t feel much hope now, but it guided my every decision. At that moment, I was doing nothing but keeping him talking, hoping an opportunity would present itself. But what opportunity? Honestly, the best option I could envision was to fling myself at him—to try and force him over the edge of the narrow path, into the chasm below. Yet, he was eighteen feet away with Holmes sprawled between us. In all likelihood, he’d have ample chance to blast me with my own pistol. And even if I reached him, what then? Would I be able to force him over before he shot me, stabbed me, or sidestepped enough that I went over without him? If so, I would perish as would Holmes. Even if I succeeded in slaying him, I would slay Mary in the same moment. And would Moriarty even die, or would that blue rune fly free of Mary like it had my Christmas goose, ready to haunt the next unfortunate? My hopes were all so tenuous. At my feet, Holmes looked up at me. Strange, to see him searching for hope, too. His expression was desperate. He studied my face, wondering if I had concocted any grand plan. I gave him a tiny little shake of the head to say, No, I have nothing.
On the path in front of me, Moriarty wondered, “So, Dr. Watson, is there anything you can pretend to tell me on the subject of hope?”
“I don’t need to pretend. The item you are looking for is a black iron tableau. It depicts a man and a woman, holding a child between them on their shoulders, in front of a little house.”
“How big is it?” Moriarty interjected. I wondered if the size was important to him for some reason. Did he really not know? Or was he testing me? Yes, that was the most likely. He was trying to rattle me, to see if I was lying.
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “I have seen it drawn and heard it described, but I have never seen the item. Holmes met its previous owner, though—a man named Ezekiah Hopkins.”
“Its previous owner? What happened?” Moriarty demanded.
“The focus was stolen from him.”
“By whom?”
“He did not know.”
“When?”
“Some time before 1851, for by that year, he’d turned his efforts to prolonging his life in order to have enough time to get the focus back. He was a monster when we met him. Hopkins had learned to take souls to extend his lifespan.”
Moriarty scoffed. “A very imperfect solution. He’d never be alone again—never fully himself.”
“That seems to have been the case,” I admitted.
I paused to consider my situation. I certainly had captured Moriarty’s interest. But no opportunity had presented itself. I had no new avenue to bargain or to act. Indeed, a new risk was growing. Namely, that I must not only consider Mary, Holmes and myself. I must consider the rest of humanity, too. Assuming nothing could be done to help myself and my friends, should I not at
