Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

I realized that she had not once looked at Holmes. Perhaps she was embarrassed about what had happened that afternoon. “I was just saying,” I said, “that you should have a deer or ox roasting on a spit here.”

“I shall have to suggest that to cook, although I doubt she will like the idea. She may have difficulty concocting a sauce to serve on a side of beef.”

We heard more footsteps on the stairs, echoing faintly through the hall. Donald Wheelwright and his father were descending. They appeared almost comical side by side: the one all thin bone, his features sharp and predatory; the other all muscle, flesh and fat, towering above his progenitor. They were like a pair from an Aesop’s fable—the stork and the ox, the weasel and the elephant, or the rat and the plow horse, both animals in formal attire.

Violet’s distaste was obvious. She finished her sherry, and then said, “I must speak with Donald.” She set down the glass, nearly knocked it over, but caught it and set it upright. She started for the two men. The Lovejoys hovered about the dining table.

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on Violet. His mouth twitched, and he turned away toward the fire and sipped his sherry. Michelle gave me a pained look. I stepped nearer to my cousin. The flaming log cast a reddish glow, tinting his white shirt and bow tie, his pale thin face and prominent nose.

“I think,” I said, “that we will all be happier when dinner is finished.”

His eyes watched the flames. “I cannot bear it. I feel as if...” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

I seized his arm. “I believe I am supposed to say, ‘Steady now, old man,’ or some such thing.”

Holmes laughed, and then looked at me. “I have faced physical danger many times. Sometimes I was fearful, sometimes not, but I have never fled from hazard.”

I nodded. “Your bravery has always amazed me. I have watched you in awe, even as I quaked in my boots. There were all those times in that dark maze beneath the Paris Opera, and then the way you faced down that mob in Underton. I wish I had a fraction of your courage.”

Holmes smiled. “But you never ran away either.” He watched the fire. “That is what I would like to do now—run away—flee. And not because I am afraid, but because...” His free hand formed a fist even as he drank. “It pains me so. It is as if I were starving to death—some street urchin with a feast spread before him, but absolutely forbidden to touch anything.”

Michelle had wandered away, no doubt thinking Sherlock and I wished to be alone. I could think of no easy comfort. “You said it would be over soon.”

“So it will.” He drew in his breath, then turned and stared past me.

Donald Wheelwright and his father were taking glasses of sherry from Lovejoy’s silver tray, while Mrs. Lovejoy fussed over the table’s floral display. Michelle stared up at a boring painting, even though it was so dark you could hardly tell whether sheep or cows were in the meadow. Donald Wheelwright stepped toward us.

Something smashed on the tile at my feet—Sherlock’s half-empty sherry glass. He drew himself up on the balls of his feet, his eyes sweeping about the room. He strode forward, and I followed.

“Where is Mrs. Wheelwright?” he asked.

Donald stared curiously at him. “She had something to tell the cook.”

“Oh, good.” I was relieved, but Holmes was not.

“You let her go alone?” Holmes did not wait for an answer, but headed for the doorway. I was right behind him.

A dim corridor led toward the back of the house, the only light a solitary oil lamp. We descended a narrow stairway. At the bottom was a door to the outside. We were only halfway down when we felt icy air sweep about us.

The door stood open, a few flakes of snow swirling about in the muted gray light.

“Oh, Lord,” I whispered, suddenly afraid. “Could she...?”

Holmes pushed open the door and stepped outside. It was bitterly cold, and the sky had almost no daylight left. However, because of the cloud cover, we could still see fairly well. The snowflakes stung my cheeks and made me blink. The snow had not yet accumulated on the ground, but it would before long.

“Perhaps she is still inside,” I said. We had passed the door leading to the kitchen.

Holmes said nothing, only peered about trying to decide where Violet might have gone. We had come out at the back of the house. A few feet from the gray stone facade was a jungle of darkling foliage—ferns, trees, and rhododendrons. A stone path wound around the house.

“Perhaps...” I began, but a scream interrupted me, a sharp pained cry.

Holmes turned right and ran along the side of the house, turning right again at the corner. “Violet!” he shouted. “Violet!” The wind was worse on that side, but I hardly felt it.

He stopped at the front of the house. “I think the cry came from that way.” He pointed away from the dwelling where the gravel driveway sloped downward. Before us the lawn was an unfamiliar dark sea, which ended at the black oak forest on the horizon.

“I could not tell,” I said.

We heard a faint noise, perhaps a sob, from the direction he had pointed, and he was off at once. “Violet!”

We found her only a few feet away slumped against the stone wall. She was crying, her right hand clutching at her shoulder, her white shoes with the pointed toes and her legs sprawled out before her on the cold gravel. There was not enough light to see much color, but something black stained the sleeve of her dress where her fingers grasped her shoulder. She looked up at us, her mouth a pained O in the oval of her face.

“Thank God,” Holmes murmured. “Oh, thank God.”

We helped her to her feet, but he did not let go of her.

“I thought you were gone—I thought you were lost forever.”

She stared up at him, her hair all disheveled, her eyes wild. “Did you?”

He said nothing. One hand grasped her uninjured shoulder; the other slipped about her waist. I took a step back. She put her arms about him. I shall never know who moved first, but she rose up onto her toes, her head twisting about as he drew her to him. The kiss had a fearsome energy, some desperate, long-repressed passion on both sides released at last. I stepped back, unsure what to do. The left shoulder of Violet’s gown had been almost completely torn away: the white flesh of her slender upper arm gleamed in the dim light, three dark, bloody wounds marring her shoulder. Fear slithered quicksilver through my belly, and I turned away.

“Violet!” someone shouted. It was Michelle’s voice.

The two of them must have heard, for they drew apart, although they still held one another.

“Forgive me,” Holmes murmured.

A pained sound burst from her lips. “Oh, it is too late. I am lost. I was lost long before I ever met you.”

“ No .” Holmes’ eyes almost glowed in the dark. He shook his head. “You cannot be.”

“Violet!” Michelle was nearer.

“Here!” I shouted.

Holmes and Violet started at my cry, then he released her. Their hands touched, his fingers lingering briefly about her palm. She bit at her lip. Blood had oozed from the wounds, and she clutched at her shoulder, wincing with pain

“Who has done this to you?” I asked.

“Henry!”

“Here, Michelle!” I cried again.

Violet stared at me, but seemed unable to speak. Michelle, Collins, Lovejoy, and Donald Wheelwright all came running down the path. Behind them, the house was a looming black shadow, a few of the windows feeble squares of yellow light in the dark monstrosity. The wind swept about us, the snow heavier than before, and I was aware of how cold I felt. All about us, the ground had at last begun to turn white.