Basil of Baker Street was feeling a great many things: irritation, fear, far too much blood rushing to his head. But the emotion giving him the most trouble was, of all things, sheepishness. It wasn't that he'd just fallen into the clutches of Adrian Steele, his most recent foe, or that he was hanging by his ankles off the side of a cliff while a well-placed candle slowly burned through the only thing between him and a swift, bone-shattering end. No, Basil's tail was in knots because for once, he could have—should have trusted Dianne Ratigan.

For years, the very mention of her name had been enough to wrinkle his nose, as if he'd encountered something rotten. It was, after all, her father, the late Professor Ratigan, who'd nearly reduced Basil to a pile of whiskers just five years ago. But now? Now he would pay for his misjudgment dearly—and so would she.

"I don't suppose you've got any ideas swimming around in that head of yours." It wasn't a question. It was, however, the first thing the rat had said since they'd been lowered over the cliff's edge.

"I'm still thinking," Basil hissed.

"Oh, well that's comforting."

They'd been tied back to back with the same length of rope, their fingers now brushing as an icy breeze swung them back and forth. It was a dramatic scene, to be sure, complete with one outwitted hero and his "damsel in distress." If only Adrian Steele had realized just how far this was from the truth, the one-eyed stoat may have spared them both the humiliation. Dianne hardly belonged to Basil, or to anyone, for that matter. For as long as the detective had known her, she was and always had been fiercely independent—completely survival-oriented, as if she'd never had any other choice. This was probably accurate. Basil certainly couldn't imagine the Napoleon of crime taking time off to parent.

If Basil had told Steele who Dianne was, perhaps he'd have spared her, offered her some kind of deal. After all, the name 'Ratigan,' if not respected, was at least feared by criminals worldwide. No question, he should have said something. Come to think of it, why hadn't she?

Basil sighed. "Isn't there something you wanted to say to me?"

Dianne scoffed. "If you're suggesting an apology is in order, I quite agree. Although, I do recall being the one to suggest we not waltz into this trap—or has hanging upside down affected your memory?"

Basil sighed again. Of all the infuriating—"I was thinking more along the lines of 'I told you so,' actually." He craned his neck to look down the length of rope (or up, as it were). Unless he was mistaken, there were only about four millimeters of rope between them and the rocky shore below. This gave them approximately six minutes to figure a way out of this mess. "Well, go on, say it. I so rarely get to hear it."

Apparently Dianne hadn't been expecting this; she was quiet for a moment. "Well, if you. . ." She rethought her response. "Look, I don't blame you for not trusting me." She laughed softly. "I'm not exactly deserving of anyone's trust, much less yours."

Basil snorted. She had a point. "You've had your moments, I'm sure."

Dianne laughed again, a pained but sincere laugh. Apparently her head was beginning to throb, too. "Remember the time I cuffed you to the footstool of that Hansom?"

'Did Basil remember': what a question. "I do recall something about trying not to get stepped on," he said bitterly. "Now that you mention it."

"As I recall it, you had to hang from the edge by your wrists for an hour."

Basil cocked an eyebrow.

"I was watching from the rooftops. Your language can be quite colorful when you've been foiled."

"I'm not particularly accustomed to being foiled—and I wasn't foiled, merely caught off guard." He groaned. "Is it just me or are there an unusual amount of stars out this evening?" The mouse tried to blink them away, but these stars were appearing by the dozens. In a minute or two he'd black out completely. Perhaps, in the long run, this was a mercy.

Dianne turned her head until her cheek was touching his ear. "I'd wager you're not particularly accustomed to being kissed either."

This made Basil's cheeks flush (as if they weren't flushed enough). "I—" He stopped himself. What business was it of hers how many women he'd kissed? Or . . . hadn't, as the case may or may not have been. "Your methods are somewhat unorthodox," he snipped, "even for me." It was a pathetic attempt at a bluff and he knew it. He could just see that signature sly grin creeping across her face now, that grin that was far too like her father's.

Three minutes, two and a half millimeters to go.

"What made you send that letter, bring me back to London?" Dianne asked breathlessly; Basil suspected she was beginning to fade from consciousness. "I thought Doctor Dawson was your go-to man for these sorts of things." She let her head hang back, indicating the drop. "Including getting yourselves into impossible predicaments."

"Oh come now, Miss Ratigan," said Basil smugly, "we both know full well you were already in London when you received my letter. I believe you working on a case of your own, were you not?" He could feel Dianne stiffen against him. So, she hadn't noticed he'd been tailing her for the past month. "Don't worry, that's all I know—for now." He allowed himself a brief, self-satisfied smile. "As for Dawson, he happens to be on his honeymoon at the moment."

"Ah," said the rat. "Left you high and dry, did he? What-ever will you do without him?"

"Well"—Basil meant to laugh, but something too raw, too devastated came out instead. He cleared his throat—"it would seem I'm not off to a very good start, am I?"

"No, I suppose not. So . . . that's it, then? You needed a second pair of paws?"

This was not how Basil had envisioned his final few moments panning out. If he'd truly reached his end, he wanted to be calculating, problem-solving, not talking about . . . feelings. He closed his eyes. "I've never trusted you, Miss Ratigan, not past the ends of my whiskers. As far as I'm concerned, you've always been a lying, cheating, conniving, devious rat. Just like your father." These last few words cut through the air like a poisonous dart. "At least," he added hurriedly, taking a deep, shaky breath, "that's what I always believed. But . . ."

But what? He trusted her after all? He liked her, so perhaps it didn't matter that the blood of his arch nemesis pulsed through her veins? What was he trying to say? There was a long moment of silence; Basil suspected he'd slipped in and out of consciousness. "But," he said gasping, "it would seem that . . . in the end . . . I am in your debt."

It was possible Dianne had fainted, or that he'd wounded her too deeply to acquire a reply. He resigned himself to her silence, then—"Whatever for?" she whispered.

The world was spinning around him now, the stars seeping together like smudges of paint. "For proving in the end," he said weakly, "that I'm not . . . a machine."

He may have imagined the long, soft fingers sliding between his, the strange lights that suddenly appeared at the top of the cliff, the frantic voices calling his name. Then again, perhaps not. But there was one thing through all of this that was quite real indeed: the feeling of utmost dread. For Basil of Baker Street, the Great Mouse Detective, had just done the unthinkable—he'd expressed his emotions.

Curse . . . that . . . rat.