A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(47)

I dropped the window seat and threw the cloth over it, the pillows. There wasn’t any time, I knew that, but I threw myself on the wardrobe anyway. The clothes inside were packed together too tightly for me to separate one-handed—even if my one hand wasn’t bleeding.

Moments. I had moments. I shucked off my jacket, then my shirt, and I wrapped the material around my hand to keep from leaving marks with my bleeding fingers.

There—

The majorette outfit: L. The flapper dress: L. The blue silk: Larissa.

“Anwen?” His steps were coming up the stairs now; I could hear the popcorn swishing in the bowl. “You here? I know you were upset . . .”

Shaking his head violently, Watson backed into the room on his toes. His eyes widened when he saw me. You’re in your bra! he mouthed. What the hell, Holmes—

I gestured frantically with my bleeding hand.

“Anwen?” Rupert was almost on us.

“Goddammit,” Watson said, out loud, and kicked the door shut with his foot. He grabbed his T-shirt by the collar and pulled it over his head.

“Oh!” I said, surprised. “I get it.”

“Do you, now,” he said, a bit hoarsely, and took my hips in his hands, pulling me to him. His pulse was quick, his eyes gone black with fear or with something else, and in the moment before Rupert could open the door, Watson pushed me up against the wardrobe and put his lips to the hollow of my throat.

The door swung open.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Rupert said. “Guys! Shit!”

With a clatter, the bowl of popcorn overturned on the floor. Watson stumbled backward, and I spun to face the wardrobe.

“What are you guys doing!” he yelled. “Guys! Why are you naked!”

“I mean,” I said into the wardrobe door. “The usual reasons?”

“I’m so sorry, dude,” Watson said, reaching for his shirt.

Rupert dropped to his hands and knees. “Your room is downstairs,” he said, picking up handfuls of popcorn and throwing the kernels back into the bowl. “Ugh, it’s all covered in dust now.”

Watson got down to help him. He glanced up at me, a clear your move.

“I know, but Jamie’s room was locked, and he forgot his keys,” I said sheepishly, “and my uncle is at my flat and so we came here, and . . . things just kind of got out of hand?”

“Right,” Rupert said. “Obviously.”

“We were in the bathroom,” Watson said, “but we heard you coming up and she panicked and ran in here and I just kind of followed.” He dusted his hands off and gave Rupert his most winning smile.

Rupert picked up the bowl, rattling it nervously. “I’m sorry. I’m being a grouch. Anwen would have a little bit of a fit over this if she knew, so let’s not tell her, all right? I’ll sweep up here in a moment.”

“Bad day?” I asked. I was still pressing my front into the wardrobe.

He glanced up at me, colored pink, and snapped his eyes back to the ground. “How about—ah. How about we talk about it downstairs? I’ll make some more popcorn!”

“That’s a great plan,” Watson said, clapping him on the back. “Charlotte and I will be right down after we’ve . . . recombobulated.”

As Watson and I dressed, I listened carefully to Rupert descending the stairs. And there it was, what I’d expected: the slightest rattle as he tried the handle on Watson’s door. Making sure it was, in fact, locked.

Of course, since I am the girl I am, it was.





Sixteen


“THAT WAS YOUR BRILLIANT PLAN?” I WHISPERED. I TURNED my T-shirt so the spatter of blood faced my back, then slipped my jacket on over the top.

“You,” he said, sitting on the bed, “were in a state of déshabillé.”

“Since when do you speak French?”

“I did suffer through two solid years of class with Monsieur Cann,” he said. “I wasn’t sleeping the whole time.”

“No, of course not. You woke up during the lesson on how to describe the scandalously underdressed.”

“I also know in flagrante,” he said, “and coitus interruptus—”

“That’s Latin,” I protested, but he was laughing.

“I hope it was worth it.” He swept a hand across the room. “Did you find what you needed?”

“I always do.”

Watson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He didn’t pry further. How glorious that was; it gave my mind time to sort and contextualize what I’d found. “Come on, then,” he said. “Rupert’s waiting for us downstairs.”

In the kitchen, Rupert had a bag of popcorn spluttering away in the microwave, and the kettle was already boiling for tea. “Forgot to turn it off when I went to the shops,” he said. There was a string bag full of vegetables on the counter. “Thought I’d make something nice for dinner, for a change.”

“That’s hard to do on a hot plate,” Watson said, settling down at the table.

“I know.” From the cupboard, Rupert took down a trio of mugs, horrible novelty ones, WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA written in red and another with a penguin-shaped handle. “Anwen and I had a hard morning, though, and I thought maybe she’d like something home-cooked for a change. Just a stir-fry. Nothing complex.” He bit his lip. “Have you ever made a stir-fry?”