A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(72)

Still, he hadn’t forgotten his sister. That was something. Despite her protests, sometimes he sent her groceries, or paid her water bill, and she huffed for a day or two about him meddling in her business and then texted him to say thank you.

“No,” she said, frowning. “I think I’ll have to get a flatmate.”

“Oh.”

She turned to face me. I was still getting used to the new sorts of clothes she wore—a forest-green sweater over a pair of black jeans, a long necklace with a pendant that looked like a tooth, the fawn-colored jacket slung over her arm. She looked like herself. She looked nothing like herself. The changes had been both gradual and incredibly sudden. In this light, her eyes weren’t gray, but slate-blue.

“Are you going to advertise? For a flatmate?”

“The bookshop you like,” she said. “The secondhand one, not the Waterstone’s. They have a help wanted sign in the window. I went in and the owner asked about you, since we’re always in there, and I—I told him you might be looking for a summer job.”

“Am I?” I asked slowly.

“And then on Fridays, we can work together. It’s not publishing, I know.”

I looked around. There was a fireplace, an armchair; there was a wall of built-in bookcases. There was Charlotte, standing in front of me, biting her lip.

“I don’t have to take it,” she said, as I stood there, saying nothing. “I can find my own—”

“What happens after the summer?” I interrupted. “My classes start up again in September.”

“I thought we’d decide then,” she said.

“And then you might end up without a flatmate.”

“I could move again.”

I was stalling for time, I knew it. “That’s a pain. Three months in, and—”

“You could commute. It’s only an hour.”

“Maybe—”

“I can’t plan my whole future all at once. I’m done with that. I just thought—”

“Watson,” she said, and I nearly bit my tongue. I hadn’t heard that name from her in forever. “Don’t you want to try it? Don’t you want to know?”

“I—I don’t know if I trust it,” I said. “You. I don’t know if I trust you.”

The two of us so long ago in Berlin, talking about getting a place, taking cases together. The two of us hand in hand, running through the night. After all the missteps, all the mutual destruction, we’d been strong together, steady and right and true—and it had been then, and only then, that she had wanted to be alone.

“Not like that,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “Not like before.”

“And not like it is now?”

“Watson—”

“Holmes,” I said, then winced. “Sorry.”

“You can call me that.”

“It isn’t your name anymore.”

“You can call me that. You can,” she said.

“Holmes,” I said. “What is it that you want?”

She reached out and took my hand, her fingers twining with mine.

I stepped toward her. “We’ll be taking cases? You’ll have to double your rates. I don’t come cheap.”

“You’re not that expensive. Anyway, we don’t have to decide today. I know you need to catch your train home.”

There was a reckless light in her eyes I’d thought I’d never see again.

“Is it that late already?” I asked her, smiling. “We should go.”

It was so bright there in the flat that I had to blink against it. We’d have to put in curtains. I didn’t tell her that, though, as we went down to the street. I was too busy counting the steps down to the door. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Outside, she was waiting for me, her hands clasped together in the sun. I hadn’t had to say a word. She’d already known what I was thinking.