The Web Weaver

the workhouses. Their humanity has been taken from them. We treat them worse than slaves. ‘Lax, lax!’” She laughed savagely. “They call this the greatest nation on earth. They speak of evolution, progress, and survival of the fittest. They boast so, and it is only a cesspool, a filthy cesspool.

“Oh, but I must not forget the whores.” She rose slowly to her feet. “All the whores—old or young; fat or thin; inexpensive or very dear; male or female—someone for every taste, every appetite. No act is too vile or disgusting that you cannot pay...” She choked off her words and clenched her fists. “Lord Harrington, the great Lord Harrington, had his little whore—they all do, every one of them! That is why it is all part of the same nightmare—all the same—all the same!”

Michelle groaned and hid her face against my shoulder. I put my hand on her hair. “Don’t,” I said both to her and Violet.

Violet put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God—oh...” She bit into her hand so hard I thought she would draw blood, but Holmes yanked her hand away. She stared up at him.

“One can always find reason to despair. One can always transfer the inner darkness to the outside.”

Some of the fury went out of her eyes, and she grew pale. “But it is so dreadful.”

“Of course it is. Men do have a great capacity for evil. At least we no longer hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread. Nor do we cut off his right hand.”

“Oh, no, we only lock him up for years in some stinking prison.”

Holmes drew in his breath and set a big hand on each of her shoulders. “My mistake. I cannot win such an argument. No one can. I happen to believe—fitfully—in progress, but it certainly cannot be proven. One can always find examples of evil and cruelty, but there are other examples as well. Kindness is possible. Honor is possible.”

“Honor?” she laughed. “Falstaff was right about honor.”

“No, he was not. Had Hamlet or Lear no honor? Shakespeare believed in honor. His plays are full of it. And there is...” He paused abruptly. “There is goodness, there is... the love between parent and child, between members of a family.” I saw the tendons in his hand tighten.

Violet swayed slightly. “Is there?”

“Did you not say you still loved your father?”

The tears flowed from Violet’s dark eyes. She managed to nod.

“And there is...” He turned to me and Michelle, his eyes hot. “Look at them.”

“Oh, God,” Violet moaned.

“And does Michelle not love you? Can you possibly doubt she is your dearest friend?”

Violet’s hands clawed at his sides, and she clamped shut her eyes, her teeth. He held her back for an instant, and then she collapsed against him, her hands clutching desperately at his back, her face hidden against his chest. I could see her body quaking, but she made hardly any sound. Holmes’ face was pale, the oddest expression in his eyes, as he held her to him.

Michelle had sat up. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped resolutely at her eyes. She stared at Sherlock and Violet, frowned slightly, then looked at me. I took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

The high thin clouds had covered most of the blue sky, and the sun was noticeably lower. It was very quiet, the only sounds the murmur of the wind in the nearby trees and the faint splash of a fish down in the water.

At last Violet straightened up and drew away from Holmes. He did not try to hold on to her. “Oh, we must not—I cannot. I’m sorry.” She turned away from us. “You must all be convinced I am a lunatic. I must go.”

She almost ran to the path. Michelle glanced at me, then rose and rushed after her. “Wait, Violet— wait.”

Violet turned and regarded her warily. She waited until Michelle was almost to her, then reached out and embraced her.

They drew apart, and Violet rubbed at her eyes. “You will not always have to put up with my nonsense. You deserve better from me. Whatever happens—and I shall not ask you to make any more promises—always remember... A sister could not be dearer to me than you.” She looked at Holmes, biting at her lip. “Oh, I must go back.” She started down the path, and Michelle followed.

I took a deep breath, then sat back down on the stump. I felt rather lightheaded. Holmes stood silently beside me, his fists clenched.

“I wonder...” I murmured, “if she is quite sane.”

Holmes laughed. “Few people are quite sane. Mostly sane is the best one can hope for. Violet is mostly sane.” He put his hand on his forehead, and then let it drop. “Whatever am I thinking of? Could you follow them, Henry—please? She must not be left alone.”

I stood up, fingers of dread caressing my heart, my lungs.

“I would go,” he said, “but I want to be alone for a few minutes.” His voice was suddenly anguished.

“Are you certain you want to be alone? I...”

“Yes—go! I doubt there are black fiends lurking in the forest, but we must not take chances.”

I strode off at once. The shadows of the oaks were longer. Less light reached the forest floor, and the sky was nearly all gray. It was probably the spell Violet had woven with her voice, but I was immensely relieved when I caught sight of the two women, especially the taller of the two.

I followed them silently, not wanting my presence known. The wind picked up, shook the trees, and sent dried leaves hurtling down to earth. With the sun gone, the wind was very cold. When I reached the lawn, I leaned against a gnarled trunk, watching them.

The afternoon had begun so well, the lunch delightfully casual after the fussy, overabundant meals at the house. However much I sympathized with Violet, I was angry with her for spoiling everything and upsetting Michelle. I tended to agree with Violet’s view of life. It was a sordid business, and the self-importance and self- righteousness of Victorian England grew tiresome. The poverty and suffering of the urban poor were certainly depressing. It wore on me. Somehow the work at the clinic invigorated Michelle. I, instead, felt overwhelmed, exhausted and disheartened, but some notion of duty kept me at it. Perhaps I wanted to show that I was different from those who either ignored such misery or who, like the Reverend Killingsworth, considered it part of some divine plan. God could not be such a sadist.

When the women were halfway to the house, I started after them. They were almost to the door when Michelle turned and saw me. We smiled at one another. Violet is wrong, I thought. It need not be a nightmare. Violet’s face was pale, but she had again mastered herself. With a smile, she gave Michelle a nudge and went inside.

Michelle walked toward me. “I think Violet is better.”

“And how are you?”

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “She made it all sound... so horrible. I felt so bad for her.”

I grasped her hand. “I wish I could take you away from here.”

“I wish you could, too. But you cannot.”

I stared up at the stone facade rising before us with its dark slate roof. “It is an ugly house.” I lowered my gaze. “Sometimes when I wake up late in the night, I have thoughts like hers, a sense of how weak and evil we all are. Usually the brightness of day dispels my dark mood.” I looked up at her. “You dispel it.”

“Oh, Henry.”

I sighed. “I suppose the old man will be joining us for dinner. Lord, I hope he leaves soon.”

Neither of us wanted to go back into the house. The wind rose, soaring in over the grass and rattling the many windowpanes overhead. A faint uneasiness, a sense of having forgotten something, made me frown.

“Are you cold?” Michelle asked.

“Yes.”

“So am I. I think it may snow.”

The cold, unyielding sky made me shiver. “I do not doubt it. Oh, good Lord!” I started for the house at almost a run.

“What is it?”

“We must not leave Violet alone—Sherlock said she must not be left alone!”

“Surely there can be no danger?” Michelle did not sound convinced.

The door was open, and I went quickly up the stairs. The great hall echoed with our footsteps. Under the dim