The Case of the Displaced Detective: Omnibus Edition

December 30

We are, at long last, en route to England: London specifically—Heathrow Airport. The good Billy and his Aerotech Drive Irregulars will see to the ranch in our absence. Sergeant Alan Barwell is house-sitting; little Anna seems quite taken with him. We have already departed Dulles Airport on a British Airlines flight, with seven hours in the air yet ahead of us before landing at Heathrow. I must admit to some difficulty keeping still in my seat; if hands itch to touch a desired object, what do feet do in response to the desire to tread one’s old paths?

Nevertheless, still I must remain, for awhile at any rate. The bonny lass who now shares my life is sound asleep in the seat beside me, her head pillowed upon my shoulder. She advised me to rest as well, to avoid “jet lag,” which I experienced mildly when I visited Washington late last summer. I can only imagine how severe this jet lag shall be upon travelling halfway around the world.

Which is why I am sipping a brandy, which I found could be purchased from the flight attendants. What with the quiet darkened cabin, my dear Skye resting upon my shoulder, and the soporific effects of the brandy, I have no doubt I shall soon sleep.

Ryker met them at Heathrow, seeing them through customs and baggage claim before escorting them to a waiting vehicle. He climbed in beside them, and the driver whisked them off to their hotel.

There, they discovered that not only was it a decidedly upscale establishment, but they had a suite reserved within it. Ryker and the bellman carried their luggage to their bedroom, and Skye gaped at the luxury of the suite while Holmes tipped the bellhop.

“Ryker,” she whispered in an aside to the operative, “I know I told you to set us up in a nice hotel, but…I didn’t budget for this.”

“Not to worry,” Ryker smirked, sotto voce, “everything is taken care of. Just like it was when the two of you stayed at the Cimarron Springs last summer. Consider it a combined wedding and Christmas present from…um, some very important people.”

“Now, I hope the two of you rested on the flight,” Ryker noted aloud, “because the top boss wants to meet you in about an hour. Put on your spiffiest clothes and your fanciest shiny stuff and I’ll meet you downstairs in forty-five.”

Holmes turned to stare knowingly at the agent, eyes narrowed. Then he drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“She won’t be put off any longer, Mr. Holmes. And my head’s on the line for this,” Ryker replied firmly.

Skye glanced back and forth between the two men, then she felt the blood drain from her face as understanding hit.

“Under no circumstances,” Holmes and Ryker chorused. “If you’re not both there, she’ll have my hide,” Ryker added.

Skye glanced uncertainly at her groom. He appeared calm, but there was a plea in the grey eyes. She shook her head in anxious defeat.

“Okay,” she grumbled, “but it be on y’all’s heads if I end up starting a war.”

“I’ll take it,” Ryker grinned. “Now hurry and change. I’ll be downstairs in the lobby. The car is still waiting.”

In an hour’s time they were in a famous residence, being escorted into the presence of a very special Lady. Ryker’s top boss indeed, Holmes thought. The detective was calm, but the high cheekbones were flushed. Skye was pale, trying desperately to hide her uncertainty and discomfort.

For the Queen sat regally before them, with the Prince Consort standing ramrod straight at her shoulder.

It could be a portrait straight from Victorian times, Skye decided, trying not to tremble as she watched the royal couple.

Ryker, their escort, saluted smartly. Holmes bowed snappily, and Skye executed what she apprehensively hoped was a passable curtsy. If I keep my mouth shut, the anxious scientist thought, maybe I won’t accidentally cause an international incident. Damn, I wish Ryker had warned us! I could have studied up on the protocol. But then he’d never have gotten Sherlock here. At least it’s a private room, she observed, surreptitiously glancing about at their surroundings. There aren’t twenty bazillion retainers standing around to watch me make a fool of myself.

“Your Majesty, Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes have arrived,” Ryker formally announced. “I personally escorted them from Heathrow.”

“Very good, Ryker,” Her Highness smiled. “I am most gratified to meet them at last. They make quite the impressive team. I must admit, news of their nuptials took us entirely by surprise. Mr. Holmes is the last man I should have thought to take such a step. Did it prove advantageous to the business, then?” This last was directed at the couple in question.

Skye’s eyes widened, and she dropped her gaze demurely. Does she think it’s only a business arrangement? Skye wondered, shocked. Some sort of…what do they call ‘em? “Marriage of convenience”? But how do you dare correct the Queen on something like that? So she steeled herself to hear an agreement, swallowing the pain and humiliation.

“No, Your Majesty. I can assure you, our marriage is based on a much more substantial foundation than that,” he replied.

A surprised Skye raised her head and gazed at her husband with something nigh unto adoration. Holmes chose that moment to shoot his wife a reassuring glance; he saw her loving expression, and his breath hitched. Ryker tucked his head to hide his fond smile. The Queen exchanged gentle, amused looks with the Prince Consort.

“So I see,” the Queen remarked dryly. “It seems Sir Arthur got a few things wrong, then.”

“No, Madam,” Holmes offered, returning his attention to his liege, “say rather I found the one woman in the multiverse capable of changing my mind on the matter.” The grey eyes crinkled, and the Queen laughed.

“Let it be so said,” she agreed with a smile. “Well, let us get on with it. Ryker, fetch the sword.”

Skye’s sapphire eyes grew round as Ryker moved to a nearby table, where a decorative ceremonial sword lay waiting. He donned white gloves, then picked it up and brought it to the Queen, who rose to her feet. He offered the sword to her hilt-first, with the blade lying across his arm, and she took it in hand.

“Such things are never ‘necessary,’ Mr. Holmes, but that does not argue they should not be done.”

The Prince Consort hadn’t thought Mrs. Holmes’ eyes could get any bigger, but they did at that statement.

“I beg your pardon,” Skye interjected, feeling herself flushing in embarrassment as everyone in the room turned to look at her; they were the first words she’d said since entering the presence of the Queen. “I know I’m probably breaking a couple of hundred rules of etiquette in this situation, and I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve never met royalty before, although I’ve met a congressman or two, not that it compares. I don’t know what proper protocol is in this circumstance, Your Majesty, so please forgive my ignorance. But if you’ll permit me to elaborate on my husband’s statements…”

Skye took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. Holmes was watching her with those hawklike grey eyes, pride and curiosity mingled in them as he patently tried to ascertain what he thought she was about to say. She shot him a swift, wry smile, then focused her attention on the Queen, moving to stand before that august personage; consequently she missed the gratified flash in a certain pair of silver-grey eyes at her next words.

“There probably isn’t anyone on this planet that’s any prouder of Sherlock—er, Mr. Holmes—than I am,” she declared. “And being an American, knighthood seems like a really huge deal to me; maybe even more so than to y’all. Nothing would make me happier than to see you do this for him. But, for one thing, Sherlock isn’t into fuss and fancy titles; when he says the work is its own reward, he means it. It’s a lot like how an artist views his work. If the work is good, he sees the fact, and doesn’t need someone else to validate it to know it’s good.”

“And Mr. Holmes is nothing if not an artist, is that what you are saying, Mrs. Holmes?” the Prince queried.

“Exactly,” Skye nodded. “But there’s something even more important, and that’s the continuum.”

“Well, I guess everyone here knows Sherlock isn’t from this continuum,” Skye pointed out with a rueful chuckle, and was joined by the others. “And I guess you know the apparatus that brought him here has been dismantled, and why?” She glanced at the Queen and the Prince Consort; they nodded. Ryker, too, added his verification by way of a nod.

“As Mr. Holmes was, and is, a citizen of Great Britain, the entire matter was shared as a state secret between allied nations,” Ryker explained. “They are aware of events, even as your President is.”

“Then you know we barely averted a dreadful catastrophe,” Skye pointed out solemnly. “If you knight Sherlock, nothing could make me prouder. But if you do, won’t the secret get out that he exists, and why? And won’t that indicate how he got here? And if the wrong people find out, there could be a tesseract built by, uhm, ‘irresponsible’ people—and everything we went through this past summer will have been for nothing, because it’ll all start over again. No matter how proud I am of Sherlock, I’d rather have him here, beside me, with everything intact and safe, than be ‘Sir Great Detective’ at the risk of everything around us.”

Skye felt Holmes move to stand behind her; felt his hand, light and gentle, on her shoulder. She glanced back at him to see an impassive face—with grey eyes warm and full of emotions: pride, gratitude, appreciation, strong affection, the barest glimmer of the love hidden deep inside, and a kind of firm agreement over all. Suddenly completely calm, the pair raised their eyes to the royal couple.

“You did,” the Queen agreed with a smile. “And I note they are united on the matter, as well.”

“They do,” the Queen vouched. “You will please to note there are no others in this room—which is a secure room—save myself, the Prince Consort, and Captain Ryker, your liaison. The issue has already been taken into consideration and protocol duly modified to accommodate. All due security measures are in place, and the matter of your knighthood shall not become public record until such time as it is safe for the entire affair to be made public, even if that is long after we are all dead and gone; or until a reasonable cover story can be devised that includes a knighthood. But I shall not renege on this honour nor be dissuaded, unless you intend to cause affront to your sovereign by a direct refusal to her face.”

“No, Madam.” Holmes flushed. “In all honesty, I should wish to do so; but I would neither insult you, nor disappoint my wife, by refusing. So I suppose let the thing be done.”

“Good. I have no doubt you already know the form of the ceremony for the Royal Victorian Order. No?” she wondered, as a mildly abashed Holmes shook his head.

“Queen Victoria would have instituted it a couple of years after his removal from that timeframe, Your Majesty,” Ryker murmured, then addressed Holmes. “But it is little different from those in use at the time.”

“Very well; please kneel before me, Mr. Holmes.” The Queen hefted the sword.

Grey eyes and blue widened, and the proud detective, with no more aces up his sleeve, knelt before his sovereign.

“Congratulations, Sir Sherlock, Lady Skye,” he informed them in the privacy of their suite’s sitting room. “I’m honoured to serve you.”

Holmes snorted in embarrassed annoyance and continued tucking away his medal and vestments in a suitcase, intent on getting them out of sight; but Skye held up a hand, startled.

“There is no reason for her to have known, Ryker,” Holmes retorted mildly. “She is American, after all, and has never been taught such things. Skye, as my wife, you are now automatically the Lady Skye Holmes, or simply Lady Holmes. We would thus be formally introduced to the Royal Family, the Prime Minister and a few top attachés and select members of the Secret Service—though to none other, because of security considerations—as Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye Holmes. With, I suppose, a few letters added after our surname.”

“Oh dear,” Skye murmured, shocked. “I didn’t know it would apply to me, too.”

“Well,” Holmes’ lips quirked, “it is generally considered—though not always true—that the wife of a man so honoured is likely also to be worthy of the honour, and so it is accorded her. In the event it is false, and I have known that to be so in more than one circumstance, it is still accorded her in deference to her husband. In this case, however, I should say it was true.”

Skye blushed as Ryker added, “I’d have to agree with that, sir. As a matter of fact, Her Majesty wanted to find some way of honouring Lady Skye as well, and was considering making her a dame in her own right, but the citizenship and security clearance raised an issue. The U.S. Congress would have to approve it, you know, and that WOULD make it public. Not to mention, the Queen didn’t want to do anything that might cause a conflict of interest for Lady Holmes. I don’t know if she’s still looking into the matter or not.”

“Well, so far your own country has not seen fit to honour you,” Holmes replied with asperity. “In all honesty, that rankles me yet. Regardless of the instinctive—and noble—reaction that brought me here, and their negative response to it, you still risked your virtue, not to mention your very life, to protect the tesseract. That should have received SOME recognition, to my way of thinking.”

“Oh, great Scot,” Holmes exclaimed in exasperation, “Ryker, do stop going on about it! I am MISTER Sherlock Holmes, or simply Holmes to the closer of my associates, and I intend to remain so. If it pleased Her Majesty to do the thing, so be it, but I wish to hear no more of the matter.”

“As procurer of pillows, I should think you would not need to ask,” Holmes retorted acerbically, and Ryker laughed outright.

“Aha! Now the truth comes out!” Skye crowed. “I wondered where all those pillows came from, last summer! You had help!”

“Well, of course, my dear Skye. You were in danger and recuperating from being shot. I could hardly go off and leave you in order to acquire them myself.”

“Actually, I didn’t get them personally, either,” Ryker admitted. “I contacted one of my people offsite and had her fetch ‘em. She hadn’t a clue why, though,” he added hastily, as Skye blushed. “For that matter, we practiced a ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy all around. I didn’t ask, and Holmes didn’t tell. Well, is there anything the two of you need before I go?”

“Information on the New Year’s celebrations tomorrow night,” Skye replied immediately. “Other than that, I think Sherlock and I plan to wander London. I’ve never been here, and he’s interested in seeing what’s changed in the interim.”

“Good plan,” Ryker said sagely. “I’ll bring along the info in the morning. If I might suggest, though, I’d strongly recommend that the two of you stay here for the rest of the day and take it easy; the jet lag from the States is hell if you’re not used to it. The hotel has a four-star restaurant, which also does room service, so you don’t even have to leave your room to eat if you don’t want to. You might enjoy some of the BBC stations on the telly, too. Our British programming isn’t quite like the norm in the States.”

“Tonight at eight, as a matter of fact.” Ryker grinned. “Another fan of the Doctor, eh?”

“Yes, she most certainly is,” Holmes agreed before Skye could speak. “The airing of episodes is, I understand, rather delayed in America over what it is here, and somewhat more sporadic. But Skye is generally firmly planted before the television whenever it is on. I find it a bit bemusing, personally, but I can see why a hyperspatial physicist would enjoy watching this…Time Lord gibberish.”

“I’ll bring along some jelly babies, fish fingers, and custard tomorrow, then,” Ryker smirked, and Skye burst out laughing.

The newlywed couple did spend the majority of the day resting, and did not venture out for dinner, choosing room service, dressing gowns, and curling up on the sofa together instead. The next day Ryker indeed brought jelly babies, fish fingers, and custard—and an invitation to a very private New Year’s party, courtesy of the Director General of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

The elegant private party was in a hotel penthouse near the Ministry of Defence, opposite the Millennium Wheel. The rooms and the rooftop patio overlooked the site of the fireworks display along the Thames, and the party was attended almost exclusively by members of the Secret Service. Consequently, the couple could relax their guard, as virtually all of the partygoers were already cognizant of Holmes’ existence. The pair were duly received and welcomed; though most guests were bemused, and a few distressed, to discover that Skye was now Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes smoothed the matter gracefully, much to Skye’s gratitude, as the scientist simply had no idea what to say in response to, “Married?! Mr. HOLMES??”

As the fireworks began, everyone donned cloaks and coats and moved to the patio to watch, amid many oohs and aahs.

But when the clock neared midnight, Holmes took Skye’s hand and drew her inside, into an empty alcove.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” she asked, concerned something had occurred to either offend him, or trigger his bloodhound response.

“Nothing, my dear,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I merely thought to steal a brief kiss from my wife at the turn of the year.”

They emerged onto the patio only a moment later, in time for the rest of the fireworks.

As the party progressed and the champagne flowed, the Director General approached the couple. “The two of you are having a good time, I hope?” she asked amicably.

“We are, indeed, madam,” Holmes smiled, holding up his champagne flute. “I cannot imagine a more elegant way to spend my first New Year’s in this continuum.”

“And you,” the Director General dropped her voice as she turned to Holmes’ companion, “Lady Skye?”

“Oh, please, just Skye, or maybe Dr. Chadwick-Holmes, or, um, Mrs. Holmes if you’d rather,” Skye murmured. “I feel like a total fraud with all this ‘Lady’ business. Yes, I’m enjoying myself immensely. Thank you for inviting Sherlock and me.”

“Ah, but I would not have missed meeting the two of you for worlds,” the other woman smiled. “It is an absolute delight to meet a personal hero AND his wife, especially when that wife is a celebrated scientist in her own right.”

“Well, thank you,” Skye said, embarrassed. “That’s…um, not usually the reaction I get.”

“I noticed,” the director grinned sympathetically. “But I meant it, all the same. In fact, I’m very glad you both came. I should like to discuss some business matters with the two of you in a few days.”

“Yes. I shan’t discuss business tonight, but I understand you’ve already received some preliminary briefings regarding the Bentwaters affair?” the head of the Secret Service confirmed.

“Yes, I have,” Holmes verified, “and I, in turn, discussed the matter with Skye, as requested.”

“Very good,” the director agreed. “The situation is continuing to develop—further sightings—and is becoming increasingly complex. We may soon desire your expertise.”

“Is there any particular rush?” Skye wondered casually. “Sherlock’s birthday is coming up, and…well, this is the first birthday he’ll celebrate where we’ve been together. I’d like to be able to do something nice for him without having to worry about getting shot at, or whatever. You know how it is.”

“Ah, yes, I’d almost forgotten. No, I think you may safely celebrate Sir Sherlock’s birthday without fear of interference. Perhaps we can meet the day before?”

“Um, well, maybe the day after would be better?” Skye suggested nonchalantly. “Uh, I—”

“Skye, I see your champagne glass is empty. Allow me to refill it, my dear. Would you like anything to eat?” Holmes offered, realizing something was in the wind, and his wife was struggling to talk around it to avoid spoiling the surprise. And, had this conversation not taken place, she might well have gotten away with it completely, the adorable little minx. She has learned exceedingly well.

“Oh, thanks, Sherlock,” Skye smiled at him. “Yes, some sort of protein to offset the alcohol, if you don’t mind.”

“Why?” the director wondered, grinning, as Holmes headed for the bar with Skye’s champagne flute. “We provided a driver, so you haven’t to worry.”

“Oh, neither of us particularly likes the idea of not having our wits about us,” Skye explained. “You, of all people, know how it is.”

“I do, indeed. A wise practice. So you should prefer to meet on the seventh?”

“Oh, be careful!” Skye murmured, dropping her gaze. “Sherlock just glanced this way, and he’s excellent at reading lips.”

“Oh dear, I hope I didn’t spoil anything,” the other woman breathed, shifting her posture in order to innocuously avert her face from the detective. “Do forgive me.”

“No problem. Either he saw, or he didn’t. I’ll be surprised if I can keep it a secret until I can get him there, anyway. Whether we take the Underground, our driver, or a taxi, he’s gonna know pretty quick, I expect.”

“It’s what happens once you get there that counts,” the director agreed with a matching grin. “I’ve already arranged things for you on this end. But you know he will not recognise…?”

“Yeah,” Skye nodded acknowledgement. “I’ll have to handle that delicately. I’m sure it’ll hurt.”

“Yes,” the director agreed, then smoothly changed subjects as Holmes returned deftly juggling two champagne flutes and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres, which latter he intended to share with his wife. “Brooks?” The director waved over a young woman, a petite brunette, attractive in a bookish sort of way. The woman approached, and the director said, “Brooks, do you have your palm computer with you?”

“Of course, madam,” Brooks responded, extracting the small device from her evening bag.

“Good. You’re a gem, my dear. Holmes, Doctor, this is my assistant, Sherry Brooks. Brooks, this is Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye.”

“Oh, my,” Brooks murmured, gazing in amazement at Holmes. “This is really him? THE Sherlock Holmes?”

“The last time I checked,” Holmes responded dryly. But he smiled to take any sting out of the comment, and waved one of the champagne flutes at his wife, his hands still full. Brooks dropped a curtsy.

“It’s an honour, sir. A-and milady,” she added hastily. Holmes shot Skye a “not again” glance just in time to catch her trying not to roll her eyes. He narrowly avoided an undiplomatic snort.

“Do I have any openings this Wednesday?” the director wondered. “Preferably as early as possible?”

“Yes, madam,” Brooks said, manipulating her palm computer. “From about eight forty-five until nearly eleven. Then you have to prepare for the meeting with the Prime Minister.”

Holmes nudged Skye’s elbow, attempting to get her to relieve him of one of the glasses, but her attention was upon the appointment discussion. He rolled his own eyes and tried to shift his grip without spilling anything.

“Oh, that’s right. And I’ll undoubtedly need time to arrange the data for the Holmeses,” the director decided.

Another subtle—and failed—attempt to get Skye’s attention brought a memory to Holmes’ mind: of a time when he had been in Skye’s position, with Watson beside him juggling several hefty reference tomes Holmes had requested, and which he then had refused to take in hand. The sleuth was suddenly hard pressed to avoid snorting aloud for the second time in as many minutes. Poor Watson, he thought in mingled amusement and guilt. Now I know what it must have been like.

“Yes, that sounds about right,” the director considered. She turned back to the Holmeses. “So may I expect you in my office on Wednesday the 7th? Say, half-past nine?”

“That will be fine,” Skye nodded, then corrected herself as she turned and espied Holmes’ predicament. She hastily accepted the champagne and snagged a cracker with crab dip from the plate, adding deferentially, “Sherlock, is that okay with you?”

“I suppose,” Holmes decided affably, now easily handling the single flute and the plate. “I am on no particular schedule myself, so if it suits you, wife, I am in accord.”

“Excellent,” the Director General remarked, as Brooks entered the appointment into the schedule. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

1 January

What a lovely gift, to celebrate the turn of a New Year in London with my new wife. Skye has no notion, I wager, how much I look forward to showing her around “my” city. Though I know this is not truly my London, still I cannot think it will be so very different. I understand many areas were severely bombed during World War II and had to be rebuilt, but the street layout is by and large unchanged. I plan on spending the next fortnight exploring it once more, and moreover, in introducing my Skye to it. I have hopes she will love it as much as I.

My fortieth birthday is fast approaching, and the lovely scamp to whom I am wed evidently has something special in mind. And she very nearly pulled off the matter as a total surprise—but not quite. I would not disappoint her for the world, but I already know she intends to take me back to Baker Street, though why she plans it for the day previous to my birthday I have, as yet, no notion. No matter. This will be the greatest treat of all. I can show her my old lodgings, and how Watson used to sit across from me, and where Mrs. Hudson served our meals—all the thousand and one small details of my old life, about which she has questioned me exhaustively in the time since my arrival in this reality. I do not doubt she anticipates it as eagerly as I. Still, I must guard myself, and try to appear duly surprised when she springs the matter upon me.

Dear God, but my wife is extraordinary.

In the days following the New Year, the pair explored London thoroughly, paying special attention to areas Holmes had been wont to frequent, or in which certain of his more momentous cases had occurred, as well as specific attractions Skye wanted to see.

They prowled the British Museum merely for the pleasure of it, though Holmes admitted he had had occasion to investigate one theft there—successfully solved, of course. “It was before Watson’s time,” he noted, “so few ever heard of it.”

A production of Tristan und Isolde at the Royal Opera House occupied one very elegant evening, much to Holmes’ delight; between the locale, the music, and the formal evening dress, he felt completely at home. As they left the theatre, however, the detective silently reached for his wife’s hand, taking it in his own and folding his fingers around hers. She glanced up at him, meeting his warm, considering silver eyes gazing back.

“Fine,” he replied, then referenced the performance. “I simply find I prefer living with a spouse, to dying with her.”

A quick jaunt to Greenwich Park, and Holmes had the gratified pleasure of watching Skye in a frenzy over visiting the Royal Greenwich Observatory. But they were both disappointed—Skye bitterly so—to discover that it was now little more than an historic building, and the actual observatory organisation was no more.

An unusually heavy overnight snowfall sent them rambling through nearby Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, close by their hotel. Skye raved over the loveliness of the pristine, snow covered landscaped gardens; Holmes merely shoved his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, tucked his chin into his muffler, and wandered on.

“Come on!” Skye prodded, exasperated. “You can’t tell me that artist’s soul of yours doesn’t think this is beautiful!”

“No, but I should think it more beautiful were it less cold,” Holmes decided, privately wishing the cowboy hat he wore more adequately covered his ears and debating why he’d never noticed the lack in his silk hat in former days. “I know it is colder in Colorado, but it does not seem so.”

“It’s the humidity. Colorado is drier, and you don’t feel the cold as much. Not to mention, you’ve probably gotten used to modern heating systems,” she chuckled.

Glancing stealthily at her husband, who had moved ahead some few yards, Skye bent and silently scooped up a handful of snow, packing it in her gloved fingers. With a devilish smirk, she let fly the icy projectile—straight at the back of Holmes’ head.

That worthy, however, had overheard the swish of her coat sleeve as she threw, and correctly interpreted it. He ducked enough to avoid snow down his collar, though not enough to prevent his hat being knocked off into a snowbank.

“Aha, so that is the way of it, is it?” he said with a grin. Long fingers scooped up a huge handful of snow, swiftly packing it into a dense snowball.

“Uh-oh!” Skye exclaimed, spinning and running for a tree, intending to use its trunk for cover. She wasn’t fast enough, however, and the snowball caught her squarely between the shoulder blades with enough force to send her staggering. “Ah!”

Holmes grabbed his hat with one hand, scooping snow with the other. Shoving the hat on his head, he compacted the snow as he sprinted toward Skye, who was now making a mammoth snowball of her own. Both snowballs connected solidly with their respective targets, splattering each of them thoroughly.

Realizing Holmes had her outdone in the force of throw department, Skye whipped off her muffler and emulated King David by way of an equalizer. Holmes rapidly discovered it behooved him to dodge behind a tree trunk when she fired a snowball in that fashion. But in her turn, Skye found her mate was a deadly shot, twice taking forming snowballs right out of her hands, and once disrupting the arc of her makeshift slingshot. Their laughter and good-natured shouts rang out over the gardens. Passersby laughed right along with them, giving the couple a wide berth to avoid being caught by potential “friendly fire.”

This went on for fully a quarter of an hour, with many strikes to each combatant. Holmes lost his hat again, and while retrieving it, Skye impudently plastered the seat of his jeans with a large, loose snowball.

“AH!” he cried out, straightening quickly and trying to brush off his rear. “Unfair! That was COLD, Skye!”

“It’s supposed to be, Sherlock!” she yelled back, giggling. “It’s SNOW!”

“I believe retaliation is called for, wife!” He crouched and scooped up a mammoth handful of snow, beginning to shape it into a sphere.

“Be careful what you wish for, my dear Skye!” he replied with a smirk. With a sudden jerk, Holmes flung the loose snowball at his spouse before she could move.

Snow exploded in Skye’s face, filling her eyes, going up her nose and into her mouth. She dropped her own snowball, having lost track of it in her disorientation from the good-natured attack. She tried to make some sort of exclamation, but to Holmes’ ears, it sounded like, “Aghf!” and he began to laugh.

“Stand still, Skye,” he offered, calling a truce, “and I shall help you.” He hurried toward his temporarily disabled mate.

Blind, Skye put her hands to her face, still struggling to get the snow out of eyes, nose, and mouth. As she did, she automatically stepped backward; she hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk and slipped, her feet flying forward as her body lurched backward. Wide-eyed with alarm, Holmes lunged for her—and slipped himself.

The pair landed unhurt in a fortuitous drift of snow, sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs. Hats flew off again, and Holmes found himself face down in the snow bank, his own orifices now as full of snow as Skye’s. Raising his head, he simply blew to clear nose and mouth, then shook his head vigorously. Snow flew everywhere, and he laughed, for by this time Skye had managed to get her own face relatively free of snow, but was still scrunching up her nose in an uncomfortable attempt to dislodge the last of the frozen material.

“Remind me never to start a snowball fight with you again,” Skye said with a wry grin, then started to giggle. “Or at least, to make sure you’re on my side against somebody else!”

Holmes laughed again. “Well, let us untangle ourselves, my dear wife, and get upright and upon our feet. I think we will need to see about putting something warm within us after this, not to mention getting dry. My jeans are quite thoroughly soaked, I fear.”

“Here,” Skye said, retrieving their cowboy hats and knocking off the snow before donning her own and handing Holmes his. “I had no idea you had such a good strong arm and deadly aim!”

“Ah, well, one never knows what skills may be required in a first rate consulting detective,” he grinned, as a liveried young man approached.

The couple exchanged a subtle glance, and Skye read her husband’s thought in his gaze. Acknowledge, but with caution.

“I was instructed to deliver this. Here, madam,” the servant said, handing Skye a small square envelope, the wax seal bearing a royal imprint. He waited while Skye opened the envelope, and Holmes looked over her shoulder. Inside was a handwritten invitation on royal stationery.

The Duchess of Kent respectfully requests Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye Holmes should take tea with her, in appreciation of their most excellent snow battle, that they may the better warm themselves after a winter afternoon’s amusement in the snowy gardens. If you would, please follow Brunton; he will show you the way.

“It seems there are a few other members of the Royal Family who…know,” Holmes observed in a low voice.

“Looks that way,” Skye agreed nervously. “Shall we, or would you rather not?”

“I have no particular objection to getting dry and warm, my dear,” Holmes pointed out. “Lunch was several hours ago, and a cup of hot tea, or better yet coffee, would not come amiss.” He glanced at his companion, perceiving her anxiety over yet another meeting with a royal; then murmured in her ear, “Trust me. You need not be afraid of protocol here; any member of the Royal Family who enjoyed watching us fight in the snow will not be in a frame of mind to stand on formality. And you have only to follow my lead.” Skye noticeably relaxed.

“Lead on, Brunton,” Skye grinned, gesturing to the liveried servant, who turned and led the way into the private quarters of Kensington Palace.

January Fifth dawned clear and cold. Snow was still on the ground, so the Holmeses rose from their big, cozy hotel bed and attired themselves in warm, comfortable clothes for sightseeing. Holmes managed with difficulty to hide his excitement from his wife; and Skye managed with even more difficulty to hide the small overnight bags from her husband, bags Ryker would spirit away once they’d left the hotel. Then they set out, headed for the Hyde Park Corner station of the Underground. It was patently obvious to Holmes that Skye was initiating the birthday “surprise” visit to Baker Street, but he worked very hard to conceal the fact that he was already aware of it.

Skye struggled some with the tube routes, finally concluding after several minutes of studying the map that she didn’t know her way around London quite as well as she’d hoped; she simply couldn’t seem to locate the Baker Street station on the map in order to determine their route. Holmes, eager to be off, was puzzled by the delay, causing him to grow impatient. Skye realized this when he began to fidget, and tried to hurry; but this only resulted in increasing her disorientation.

When he recognized her confusion, Holmes unassumingly offered to help, pointing out that they’d need to change from the Piccadilly line to the Jubilee tube at the Green Park interchange, and Skye sighed.

“You already know, so you might as well take care of it,” she murmured, stuffing her disappointment into a corner of her thoughts and handing him the cash she had reserved to buy the tickets.

Holmes saw the brief flicker of crestfallen defeat in her eyes, and his heart ached. Oh, I am sorry, my dear, he thought contritely. I let my blasted impatience get the better of me, and spoiled your surprise. What he said was, “Wait here, my dear Skye,” here he made sure to use the tone she adored, “and I shall be back momentarily. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be making this trip with you.”

Skye’s knees nearly buckled at his tone, and she leaned against the wall beside the map to ensure she remained upright. Sapphire eyes watched the tall, trim figure of her husband move to the vending panel where he acquired their tube passes. He turned with a smile, and Skye leaned harder against the wall.

Damn, he’s handsome! And he’s all mine! Whoa, get a grip, girl. If this keeps up, I’m gonna have to drag him back to the hotel, and that WILL spoil the whole thing. He knows where we’re going, but not what we’ll find once we get there, and I’ll need my wits about me to handle that right. So settle down, Skye, get the hormones under control, and give your man a good birthday.

“C’mon,” she told him as they turned toward the tube platform. “Let’s go make a very special visit.”

They finally emerged from the Baker Street Underground station near the Marylebone Road, abstractedly dodging a certain bronze statue with a vaguely familiar visage, and Holmes’ face lit up.

“Baker Street!” he exclaimed eagerly. “We are here at last! Come, my dear, I can travel THIS street blindfolded!”

And before Skye could respond, he had spun, striding north along the eastern sidewalk, his long legs swiftly eating up the distance.

“Sher- honey, wait!” Skye called, practically running after him. “I need to tell you something first!”

But by this time he was already approaching the Melcombe Street intersection, the grey gaze glancing about enthusiastically, taking in everything. Skye finally caught up to him, and he responded.

“No, no, my dear Skye, I well understand things will have changed somewhat, in the many intervening years. Still, it will be nice to see the old lodgings once…more…”

The deep voice tapered off; the firm stride faltered and came to a stop. Holmes turned to stare at the bank office building across the street, but said nothing. Skye looked up at the pale face, taking in the fixed gaze of the grey eyes, and the painful tautness around them; she winced and bit her lip. Way to go, Skye. Too late. Way too late.

Skye laid a gentle hand on his arm and pulled him out of the center of the sidewalk, into an alcove in the buildings behind them, to be less obvious to passersby.

“That’s what I needed to tell you,” she said sadly. “In this continuum…it never was.”

“No. Just like you and Watson. When Doyle wrote the stories, the street numbers on Baker Street only went to 100. Upper Baker Street didn’t even get street numbers until the 1930’s.”

“Why the hell did we come here, then?” Holmes muttered bitterly. “Aside from reminding me of my status…”

Skye affectionately slipped her arm into his, gently urging him farther down the street toward Regents Park, hoping her presence and her tone would provide soothing balm to her husband’s wounded spirit.

“Because there’s something you DO need to see here. It’s probably not set up quite right, and you’ll almost certainly laugh, but you need to see this, so you’ll know what your ‘status’ in this continuum really is.”

She pulled him to a stop across from 239 Baker Street, and turned him to face that building. Holmes stared for a moment in mild disbelief, then his eyes narrowed skeptically.

“A museum,” Skye grinned cheekily, nudging him fondly. “Your fans love you so much, that when they realized there wasn’t a real 221B in this continuum, they had to create one.”

Holmes’ head snapped around to look at her, and Skye saw the question in the grey eyes.

“Yes. They do. Many do, anyway. And from what I understand, to this day they still get scads of letters addressed to you.”

“A recreation of your and Watson’s old rooms, as well as they could manage it from the descriptions in the stories.” Skye shrugged. “That’s why I said it’s probably not set up quite right, but it was the best they could do.”

Just then Captain Ryker emerged from the museum’s doorway, clad in casual civilian wear in order to blend in. He gave the couple an encouraging smile and waved them over. Skye and Holmes crossed the busy street and met the agent.

“I see that,” he offered Skye a smile, all the while taking in the tightness around Holmes’ eyes. “I’m sure the trip was a bit difficult in…places, but hopefully the two of you will enjoy this little stop. C’mon in.”

Holmes was silent for a good ten minutes after entering the museum and going upstairs. As Skye had said, it was not a perfect reproduction, but it was close enough to evoke an odd feeling in the detective. Not unlike becoming lodged in the side of the tesseract, I suppose. Not quite here, and not quite there.

He listened while Ryker told the story of the Special Operations Executive, a World War II branch of MI6, which had been headquartered near the opposite end of Baker Street, and had taken on the mantle of the Baker Street Irregulars. Then he heard the story of the museum itself from the chief curator, who happened to be on duty that day. He shook his head in amazement. I seem to have had an amazing influence upon this world, yet I was never here until this March past. Interesting.

Skye watched her detective husband carefully. The discovery that his former home did not exist here, and never had, had hurt him deeply, far more than he was willing to admit. Ryker was astute enough to have noted the pain, but only Skye recognized how far within Holmes it had run. But she also observed how his current environment was soothing him, and she was relieved.

Because of Ryker’s presence, they were allowed to roam through the rooms relatively freely. The curator, one Soames by name, and a highly intelligent and friendly man, helpfully and very enthusiastically babbled on about this or that artifact; Holmes ignored his chatter for the most part, only occasionally finding himself having to stifle a wry chuckle at some mildly comical, inadvertent inaccuracy. After a bit, the detective decided the man was really quite versed on the subject of his published adventures. Absently he picked up the Persian slipper containing pipe tobacco and moved it to its proper place on the mantel, his other hand automatically reaching for the spot where one of his pipes should have been, but wasn’t.

“Here now!” Soames exclaimed indignantly, descrying the rearrangement. “I really must ask you not to be doing that, sir! We work hard to maintain the exhibit, and we can’t have people moving things around higgledy-piggledy! If you can’t keep your hands off things, I shall have to ask you to leave!”

Holmes spun in shock, rudely jarred from his reminiscent reverie, and Skye stepped forward, dismayed. Ryker put out a hand.

“Let me handle this,” he murmured. The pair nodded reluctantly, and Ryker turned to the curator. “Sir,” he began with deceptive quietness, “you are a retired RAF Flight Lieutenant, are you not? And for a time, you worked in military intelligence?”

“I believe a few days before Christmas, you had a…very special appointment…with my supervisor? Wherein your commission was temporarily reactivated, and you were given a briefing. A briefing about a certain…guest, who would be visiting sometime in the next few weeks?” Ryker pressed.

“Ohmygaw,” Soames whispered, awed. “I see it now. I hardly believed it at the time. I…” The curator stepped forward, seeming almost drawn to Holmes. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes. I…I had no idea. You go right ahead and…and fix anything you like. I…we’d be honoured to have you make it right, sir.”

Holmes nodded, swallowing once, and Skye realized guiltily that the day was proving an emotional roller coaster ride for her mate, instead of producing the warm fuzzies of acceptance she’d hoped. He located the pipe he’d tried to find earlier, and wordlessly moved it to the correct location as Soames tentatively approached Skye.

“And if I might ask, who may you be, madam?” he addressed her in a polite, friendly fashion.

“She is my wife,” Holmes added over his shoulder in a subdued, mildly preoccupied fashion, turning his attention to the desk and proceeding to rearrange the papers there.

“Wife?” Soames repeated, eyes growing large with something akin to horror. “But…” He shot a quick, confused look at Ryker.

“Do you remember being briefed about Mr. Holmes’ liaison?” Ryker murmured. “Dr. Chadwick, the scientist who brought him here?”

“No. We married just before Christmas. She is my wife.” He shot a fond glance at Skye, who simply stood in the middle of the room, a stiff, neutral expression on her face.

“I…don’t understand,” Soames said, frowning in increasing confusion. “This…this is all some sort of big practical joke, isn’t it?”

“Then what’s SHE doing here?” Soames protested, disgruntled and affronted. “Mr. Holmes wasn’t…except for Miss Adler, he…he never…”

Rummaging through the pigeonholes in the corner, Holmes merely rolled his eyes in amused indifference. Skye remained silent.

“Is a world class scientist not a suitable intellect to match the great detective?” Ryker queried rhetorically and not a little sharply. “A mind that doesn’t detract from his work, but helps it, instead?”

“Oh,” Soames said blankly. “Well, I suppose so…I mean, I thought…the stories said he…” He glanced at the newlyweds uncomfortably, then turned to Ryker, seeking instruction. “So tonight’s plan is…is still in effect?”

“I…I see,” the curator noted hoarsely. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the last minute arrangements. As it’s never been done before, there are a few things to tend.”

“The Boss over there and I thought you might enjoy spending the night here,” Ryker said simply, nodding at Skye as he used his team’s old undercover reference to the scientist. “My organisation…arranged for it.”

Holmes’ eyes began to twinkle, and he grinned as he grasped the full scope of Skye’s special gift.

“Well, that is not such a bad idea. Not at all. Even despite a few differences—which were not uncommon when Mrs. Hudson came through on a cleaning spree, in any case—it does feel very much like my old lodgings. Although,” he admitted, shooting a veiled but mischievous glance at Skye from the corner of his eye, “the accommodations may be a bit cramped. Still, I am sure we can manage—”

Skye spun on her heel and stalked to the window, staring down on a sunlit, snow covered Baker Street. “I think it might be best if I stayed at the hotel tonight, Sherlock,” she offered very quietly. Too quietly.

The two men glanced at each other, suddenly worried: Skye’s back was ramrod straight, but her shoulders slumped disconsolately. As one, they moved toward her, but Ryker held back, allowing Holmes to go to his spouse.

“Skye? What is wrong, my dear?” the detective murmured, sliding a gentle hand across her back, soothing in that special way he had.

“I…it just hurts sometimes, being the Achilles heel of the ‘great detective,’” she admitted in a low voice.

“But you aren’t,” Ryker protested before a startled Holmes could say anything. “You’re one of the few people…maybe the ONLY person…I’ve seen who can keep up with him.”

“I am, to that guy,” Skye said ruefully, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the door through which Soames had so recently departed. “I was, to the Queen. And I am, to just about everybody Sherlock meets who knows who he really is. It’s like…I’m the flaw, the unexpected crack running across the perfect marble sculpture and marring it.”

She looked up at Holmes, wearing a wistful, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I seem to be ruining your reputation just by being here. Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married after all. We could sort of gloss over things then.”

Pain shot through the detective at her statement, pain so great he visibly flinched before regaining control.

“No,” Skye choked, struggling with her own control. “I just…feel bad when…when people don’t understand. When they don’t see you as a real feeling, caring person, but only as a static literary figure sprung to life, like you’re an actor playing a role or something. And I’m ‘out of character.’ It makes me feel…guilty, somehow. Ashamed. Like you’re consorting with a prostitute or some such, and I’m the prostitute.”

“Good Lord, Skye,” Holmes whispered, horrified at this revelation of her feelings. “This will not do. Not at all.”

“I know,” she smiled wanly. “It’s why I said I should probably stay at the hotel tonight.”

“Quite the contrary,” he informed her, and suddenly his voice was full, almost strident in its tones. “The two of you, wait here, please.” He turned toward the door.

“To rectify matters,” Holmes’ voice called up the stairs, as his footsteps bustled down them.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Soames made his way back up the stairs to the recreated flat. Hesitantly he approached Skye, then to her surprise, bowed.

“Mrs. Holmes, please accept my humblest apologies,” he offered softly, as Ryker watched curiously. “I didn’t mean to offend. I had no idea your curriculum vitae was so…impressive.”

“It’s okay.” Skye smiled wanly, waving off the man’s apology. “It’s not like I don’t understand why you were…puzzled…by my relationship with Sherlock.”

“You get it a lot? That reaction?” Soames cocked his head to one side, an expression of sympathy on his face.

“Well, yes and no.” Skye shrugged. “There aren’t a whole lot of people in the general public who know he’s really THAT Sherlock, for reasons I’m sure were briefed to you. But whenever someone finds out, that’s pretty much the usual reaction, yeah.”

“Well, you should have him use your title more often,” Soames considered. “It would settle everybody pretty quick, I’d wager.”

“My title?” Skye wondered, confused. Surely Sherlock didn’t mention meeting with the Queen, did he?

“As soon as he called you The Woman, I knew how things were.” Soames chuckled. “If you can earn HIS respect, you’ve certainly got mine, madam.” Then he and Ryker watched in satisfaction as Skye fairly lit up with love and pride.

After several hours spent in conversation with Soames, a conversation in which Holmes reminisced quietly to his enchanted companions, Ryker led the couple down the street a few blocks to one of his favorite pubs. There he left them to relax and eat, with instructions to return to the museum after six, when it was closed. Soames would be waiting to let them in, and they would have the flat to themselves for the rest of the evening. They would have to be gone by nine o’clock the next morning, so the museum could be set to rights before opening half an hour later; but in the interim, it was theirs—provided, Soames had joked, Mr. Holmes didn’t try to do any indoor target practice.

Holmes rather whimsically refused to promise, and Soames laughed in delight, having come to understand at last that before him stood no rigid literary icon, but a flesh and blood man. And that man was possessed of all the attributes of a brilliantly intelligent, talented, charismatic gentleman.

And so by seven in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were comfortably ensconced in the sitting room before a crackling fire, which Soames himself had laid for them. Initially Holmes had automatically taken up his accustomed chair to one side of the fireplace, and Skye, with a grin, had taken the other, knowing full well it would have been Watson’s seat, back in the day. Holmes settled in, resting his head against the back of the armchair, steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, letting memory take over for the time. Skye sat quietly, reading the expressions on his face. She knew the instant his mind shifted from fond memories to the present.

“If I could, I’d bring him here and put him in this chair for you,” she murmured, knowing he would immediately recognize of whom she spoke.

“Ha! Well read, my dear,” he answered, opening his eyes and giving her a fond smile. “And that, with my eyes closed. You are getting very good. No, it’s quite all right. I do miss him, and likely always shall; he was, after all, my bosom companion, and one of the very few to whom I ever assigned the appellation ‘friend.’ But it has been nearly a year now—lacking only a few months. There is a…I suppose one may call it a grieving process, and I am dealing with it. No, the reason why I relish this opportunity, and why I did not wish you to return to the hotel, is because I desired to introduce you to my old life.”

“Yes indeed. My one regret, when I returned so very briefly to thwart Professor Haines, was that you were unable to be with me.” He rose and moved to the tantalus in the corner, examining the decanters and bottles and finding several of them actually contained the appropriately labeled liquors, as opposed to the colored water he had half expected. Momentarily he wondered if Soames had made the change, expressly for the evening. “Would you care for a brandy, my dear? Or perhaps some port?” He extracted two glasses from the cupboard and picked up the brandy decanter.

“Some brandy might be nice,” Skye acquiesced, happy to find that not only was Holmes in good spirits, he keenly desired her presence there.

“Here you are,” he said, handing her a glass of the libation as he passed by on his way to the sofa with his own glass. Kicking off his loafers, he tucked his feet underneath himself, curling in the corner of the sofa nearest his bride. “I fear we may lack certain amenities tonight, but I have survived worse.”

“Such as?” Skye wondered, sipping her cognac by way of avoiding his eyes, lest he see the twinkle in her own.

Holmes shot a sharp glance at her, setting his brandy on the table. Without a word he rose and stalked, stocking-footed, out the door of the sitting-room and down the hall. Laughter rang out, and soon he returned, his blue dressing gown wrapped about his body, having divested himself of his sweater and shirt; his bare feet now clad in his slippers.

“Nicely done, my dear; never have I had a thing so thoroughly accomplished right under my nose! I shall have to keep my eye upon you now. And may I presume there are slippers and a nightgown for yourself in the bedroom?” he inquired with a smile.

“Then by all means, go and make yourself comfortable, my dear, then come back and finish your brandy with me on the sofa,” he suggested.

Ten minutes later, Skye returned, clad in a cherry red silk nightgown, her blonde mane loose and spilling about her shoulders. Grey eyes dilated, and Holmes put aside his brandy as Skye sat down beside him on the sofa.

He pulled her into his arms, smiling his approval of her color choice. Hm, he thought as he bent his head to hers, red is, after all, in the same colour family as pink… Firm lips brushed soft ones, and soon the brandy was forgotten.

Some minutes after, Skye observed, “I don’t think this was a regular evening activity, when you lived on Baker Street.”

“Hardly,” Holmes snorted his amusement. “I cannot say for certain, nor should I especially wish to find out, but I suspect Watson’s moustache would have scratched dreadfully.”

“Well,” she gasped between spasms of mirth, “I guess I’ll forego the comment about the bearskin rug on the hearth.”

“Oh, why?” Holmes wondered in a tone of protest, depositing another kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I had thought it might factor into our evening.”

“As long as it never factored into any other evenings, I’m okay with it,” Skye retorted, snickering.

“I give you my word, my dear,” Holmes said, eyes mischievous. “At no time did the bearskin so much as factor into a dream—until I met you. Besides,” he added regretfully, “I fear the bed may be rather too small for such activities. It was never intended for two.”

“Oh, but that’s what’s going to make it fun,” Skye smirked. “Bearskin AND bed.”

“If a Victorian setting has this much favour with you,” he decided, “when we get home we are redecorating the house.”

The bed was indeed small for two occupants, but Skye declared that only made it cozier. The bearskin hearthrug had received due attention earlier, and the limits of the bed’s coziness were thoroughly explored. Now the pair perforce curled close in the dark, the only light filtering through the blinds at the window. Coziness was favored, however, for the room was a trifle cool, as the building’s central air automatically shut off after museum hours, and the fireplace was in the sitting room adjacent; but the connecting wall contained the fireplace, so the bedroom was not unduly chilly. Somewhere in the distance a clock tower chimed midnight.

Skye raised her head at the sound, and looked into her groom’s bright grey eyes in the dim light.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” she breathed tenderly. “I wanted to do something special for your fortieth, and this was the best I could come up with. Sorry for the kind of weird timing on the visit, but I didn’t dare bring you here ON the sixth; from what I understand, the place gets practically mobbed on your birthday. I know it all started out kind of painful, but I hope tonight makes up for it.”

“This visit, this night, is your gift?” Holmes softly verified his earlier surmise, and she nodded shyly. “Then thank you, my dear wife. I cannot imagine how Providence managed to get so large a heart into your body.”

“The same way He got your mind into yours, I suppose,” she said, then added with a devilish grin, “Shoe horns probably help.”

January 6

Skye is nothing if not creative with her gifts. A night in a recreation of my old Baker Street lodgings? Complete with the bride those lodgings never saw? The only things missing were Mrs. Hudson serving my birthday dinner, a congratulatory telegram from Mycroft, and Watson popping in after making his rounds to offer best wishes of the day whilst sharing a brandy by the fire. But as those things could not be, it proved a capital gift, nevertheless.

I must admit, however, this little adventure started out rather dismally. And when the curator hurt Skye, I saw matters must be handled at once. I knew, of course, that she has been rather uncomfortable over reactions to our marital status, but I had no idea the issue was causing her such deep pain. I shall have to remember to refer to her as The Woman more frequently; as soon as the words passed my lips, I noted instant comprehension in Soames’ eyes. It may save my dear Skye a world of hurt in the future.

Chapter 3—New, Old Venues