Honora walked down the halls of her old home, remembering the good times before her disappearance. She unlatched the door to the basement and descended the cold stone stairs of the cellar, her bed room. There had been no need to force her to live down there, only that her father had no wish to see her. She remembered herself as a child, a mere four-year-old girl, shivering in her cot in the winter. She had been terrified by the cool stone walls and the loud echoes. As she had grown up, she resolved to make her living quarters a little nicer. She never had need of anything and she requested paint and brushes. Interments were never lacking and the manor soon became filled with a beautiful melody that never found a source. She danced, sung, painted, read, drew and played to pass the time. Now, as her delicate feet touched the cool stone, she lifted her candle to the wall to admire the paintings of the precious moments she had shared with her brothers, preserved in stone. Her eyes fell upon one of her favorites, a quiet nursery, a seven-year-old boy holding a baby and a three-year-old girl on her tip toes to catch a glimpse of the new born. Honora sighed, she could recall the conversation on that blessed day:
"What's his name, My?" asked the girl with that childish wonder.
"Quiet Aurie! Don't wake him up." Answered the boy sternly.
"What's his name?" she whispered this time.
"His name is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."