A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(3)

“I’m sure that Ophelia ate breakfast.”

“Pedant,” I said, and pulled my legs up to my chest. “I’m just not particularly interested in playing a character whose most striking characteristic is her virginity.”

Watson reddened, which was fascinating, and so I studied him until he began to squirm. Finally he said, “But you’d be doing it so you can solve a mystery, and also you’ve always wanted to be an actress. I mean, like, you are an actress. A good one. You have a literal wig box under your bed.”

It was now in pride of place on my dresser, but that was beside the point. “It will be an interesting exercise,” I allowed. “And anyway, I’m not playing Ophelia straight out, I’m understudying. Less time onstage, more time backstage. I need that freedom of movement.”

“At least it isn’t Macbeth,” Watson said, hugging a pillow to his chest.

“I thought we did Macbeth last year, you and I.”

“What, starring Lucien Moriarty? In the Scottish access tunnels? Sherringscotland? What does that make you . . . MacHolmes?”

“And you Lady MacHolmes?” I snorted. “I think those are the technical terms, yes.”

“So what about me?” Watson asked. He was struggling to stay awake; his eyes were half-closed. “How do I help with all of this?”

“Well, I’ll be quite busy. I’ll need someone to do my poetry homework,” I said, and he roused himself enough to poke me with his shoe. “No, there are a few different options to get you in. You could assist with the production. Set painting, lighting, et cetera. You could write a piece on the precollege Dramatics Society. Make up some American college newspaper to do it for. Or you could audition, but I doubt you’d want to, or—”

“I could be a good Hamlet,” Watson murmured, and with that he fell asleep altogether.

I watched him for ten minutes or so before I went to go organize my lockpicks.

Later, closer to noon, Leander knocked on my door. He went for a luxurious lie-in some weekend mornings, and today wasn’t an exception. “Breakfast?” he asked, popping his head in.

“Breakfast,” I confirmed.

There were hash browns and sausages on the stove, and I perched in my usual seat at the counter, twisting back and forth on my stool. It was childish to do it, but we had nothing this whimsical in my house growing up. A seat with a mechanism!

In an attempt to stop “paying my whole bank balance to Starbucks,” as he put it, Leander had invested in an espresso maker, and this morning, he was making the two of us cappuccinos. Despite its racket and the smell of the fry-up on the stove, Watson stayed asleep on the sofa, his arms around one of the paisley cushions.

“It’s going to be a bit different for you two,” Leander said, following my line of sight.

“Different how, exactly?” I stopped turning about on my stool. I wasn’t willing to have a conversation about my love life with Watson sleeping five feet away.

No matter how much breakfast I was bribed with.

He tipped the tomato he’d sliced into the skillet. “Oh, come,” he said. “You’re both of age. You’re both finished with school. You’re free to run around setting things on fire as much as you’d like.”

“We were more or less doing that before.” I padded over to pick up my cappuccino.

“And now, my little arsonist, you have three months to figure out your next move,” Leander said, stirring the baked beans. With his other hand he peeled bacon out of the package. I made to help him, but he brandished his spoon.

“I’m defending this little fiefdom,” he said. “Sit. Have your cappuccino.”

“University,” I said, obediently taking a sip. “Oxford. That’s what’s next. That’s been settled. I sat A levels. I forged papers so I could sit A levels without having taken the classes. I did an interview with a tutor and solved maths problems on a whiteboard for an audience.”

“I encouraged it,” he reminded me. “I still think it’s an excellent plan. But I want you to understand the possibility here. Sometimes I worry that . . .”

I waited for him to finish, but he was looking up into the hood above the stove as though the rest of his sentence was kept there.

“This,” Leander said finally, “is where your map runs out, Charlotte. We’ve reached the edge of the page. Nothing about you has ever been traditional, and so a traditional education might be precisely what’s on order, starting with this summer program. But allow room for possibility. I know you don’t need me to tell you this, but Lucien—”

My hateful, treacherous heart began to hammer just at the sound of his name.

“—is locked away. You don’t need to make your decisions on the run. No one’s hunting you.”

“He’s not the only Moriarty,” I reminded him. “Remember?”

“Yes,” Leander said, “but Philippa’s hardly going to round up the producers of her antiquing show and set them on you with machetes.”

“You never know,” I said darkly.

He took down plates from the cupboard. “And Hadrian isn’t after you. He sent you a bloody graduation card, God knows why.”

“He might be trying to get back in your good graces,” I said. “Didn’t you snog him in—”