EPILOGUE
Morning slices through the room like a bright blade, cutting into my sleep and prying my dreams open. I lie awhile trying to remember them while my eyes follow the skewed, irregular harlequin pattern of light on the ceiling.
In my dreams, I never limp. My cane has vanished and my shoulder is good as new, free of the scarring and the creak of once-fractured bones. In my dreams the war never happened, but Holmes is always there, because even after three years, Holmes is still more real to me than anything. I close my eyes against the image of him, turn my head on the pillow and consider my options for the day, but the only option I want is not available to me.
It does not do to give up. All I can do is go on living, one day at a time, so I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It hurts. Pain is real, so is the chill of the floor, and reality is all I have.
Downstairs the maid has lit a fire and set the breakfast table with tea and toast, strawberry jam and the newspaper. Outside, the sun is trying to disperse the morning mists. I sit down, open the paper and read about the murder of Ronald Adair.
I do not yet know that I will decide to take a walk that day. Destiny takes many shapes. Mine will appear before me in the form of an old book collector with the strangest eyes, very clear and very grey, and later in the day, I will recognise it.