A Study in Charlotte

Even if Holmes had asked me to be her date.

I wondered if her misanthropy was beginning to wear off on me.

I’d left her in Sciences 442, after a long, trying day. The spectacularly bitchy text war she pitched with her brother wasn’t even the worst of it. She didn’t show me the original message she sent him, but I saw the ones he’d returned. No, you didn’t find my spy, he insisted. He’s obviously still at large. For instance, I can tell you right now that you’re wearing all black, and that Jamie Watson is annoyed with you. I have eyes watching you right now.

THAT IS NOT SPYING THAT IS SHODDY AMATEUR DEDUCTION AND IT IS INCORRECT, she replied furiously.

She was, of course, wearing all black.

“Can we do some actual research, please?” I finally asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

We’d spent an unsuccessful afternoon running down rattlesnake owners in Connecticut. Even after we extended our search to Massachusetts, and then to Rhode Island, we drew a blank. No one was missing their pet snake—at least, no one who would admit it to me, in the guise of a chipper cub reporter researching a book on deadly animals and the owners who, goshdarnit, loved them anyway.

Holmes, still fuming from her conversation with her brother, sat and watched me work.

I scratched the last name off our list. “So maybe we should start calling the zoos—”

“This is unbearably tedious,” Holmes snapped. “Do you know, if I had my Yard resources I’d have this case solved. God, in England, even my name would be opening us doors. Instead, I’m sitting here while you try to determine down the phone if these small-minded idiots with pet jaguars are lying to you, which you’re not at all equipped to do.” She flung herself down on the love seat, cradling her violin to her chest like a teddy bear.

“Right, then,” I said, standing. “What was that thing you pulled out of that car last night? The thing you wouldn’t show me?”

She stared at me evenly.

I threw up my hands. “Fine. I’ll just go pack my things. You know. For jail.”

When she realized I was waiting for her to reply, she picked up her bow and began sawing out a Dvorˇák concerto so savagely that it quite literally drove me out the door. We had no leads, no real information, and tomorrow we’d have to account for whatever Detective Shepard had dug up to indict us with.

And if I wasn’t arrested, I still had homework.

Which left me in my room, with my blank journal page. I tried to push the rest of it from my mind and get to work. Our assignment for Mr. Wheatley’s Monday class was to compose a poem that was difficult for us to write. The prompt didn’t help me much, since all poems were difficult for me to write. They were like mirrors you held up to a black hole, or surrealist paintings. I liked things that made sense. Stories. Cause and effect. After an hour or two of agonizing cross-outs, I dropped my head down onto my desk.

There was a rap at the door. “Jamie?” I heard Mrs. Dunham say. “I brought you a cup of tea. And some cookies.”

I let her in. She looked a bit dotty, as usual, with her crooked glasses and frizzy hair, but the cookies were chocolate chip and still warm.

“You’re the only one in the dorm that stayed in tonight,” she said, handing me the steaming mug. “I thought I’d come say hi. I know things have been hard for you lately.”

“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed. “I needed to finish some homework. Writing a poem.”

She made a sympathetic noise. “Any luck?”

“Nope.” She’d brought me English breakfast, and the steam fogged up my glasses. Right then, I wasn’t sure who was more of a cliché, me or her. “Any advice?”

She hummed, thinking. “I’ve always liked that Galway Kinnell poem. ‘Wait, for now. Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now?’” She had a fine voice for reciting poetry, deep-timbered and slow. “Doesn’t that just make everything better?”

“It does,” I said, and wished it were true.

Behind her, in the doorway, a girl appeared.

“Are you ready, Watson?” It was her strange, fantastic voice, even smokier than usual, and Holmes stepped into my room.

I blinked rapidly. She’d done something with her hair. Instead of its usual glossy fall, it was tousled, in unfinished-looking ringlets. Her dress looked nothing like I imagined. It looked, in fact, like the night sky. I could see why Lena had coveted it: the cut of it brought my eye to certain places I’d tried to avoid looking at.

“You look very nice,” I said. It was true. She also looked disturbingly like a girl. Hailey had been made from plastic and wet dreams, and everyday Holmes was all exact angles, but this . . . whatever this was, it was something else entirely. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. From the way she shifted her weight from one heel to the other, it seemed Holmes wasn’t sure either. What plot was she brewing?

“Hi, Charlotte,” Mrs. Dunham said. “Jamie didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Yes, I’m sure he forgot,” she said. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. The dance is nearly halfway done.”

“We are, and I—ah—” I was wearing my glasses and a pair of Highcombe sweatpants.

With an expressive sigh, Holmes began rifling through my drawers. “Braces,” she muttered. “Or as they say here, suspenders. I know you own the ridiculous things. Here.” She tossed them to me, and kept looking.