Holmes relaxed into the soft wingback chair. The lounge was a bastion of masculine taste. Mahogany and brass glowed with rich warm half-light that sparkled in the crystal glassware. The liquid that flowed was honeyed amber, the carpets underfoot deep and dark.
He crossed one leg over the other languidly, bobbing one long foot in time to some unheard music. He lifted his snifter delicately to his nose and inhaled, flicking the ash off his thick cigar with the long nimble fingers of his other hand.
The man sitting across from him smiled indulgently. Everything about this second man was neat and tidy, from his short blond hair to his polished shoes and every piece of immaculate uniform in between. Even his features were firm and even.
"Mycroft? Working for the government?" The man looked appalled. "Surely not."
"I'm afraid so." Holmes responded with a sad nod of his head. "But then, he never was the family's most prized possession. You remember what a hash he made of things at Cambridge?"
"No worse than Sherrinford, as I recall."
"Then you recall wrong, old man. He was abysmal at anything that required any energy at all."
"True, I suppose." The man across from Holmes shifted. His eyes drifted across the lounge and came to rest on the entrance. What he saw there made him sit up straight. "Holmes?"
"Yes?"
"Have you been doing something you oughtn't?"
"Why?"
"Because there's a woman approaching that looks like she might try to have your head stuffed and mounted if it weren't expressly against her Majesty's laws of governance."
Holmes twisted in his chair to look behind him just in time to see Kit Rushford enter. A steward stepped forward to question her, but she shot him such an unholy loathsome look that he stepped back quickly, veering off for the other side of the room.
Holmes took in the length of her stride, the high color in her smooth cheeks, and the lighting blue eyes. "Ah…" He reached over and patted his companion's hand. "Capital. I believe she's really quite angry this time."
Kit's eyes narrowed as she approached the horrid man, lounging like a sultan in an area of the ship so obviously restricted to him. Both men popped to their feet as she reached them, and Holmes gave her a respectful, if somewhat enervated bow.
His companion's eyes remained large and interested, fascinated more than frightened. She was aware that her plain dress marked her out as someone who shouldn't be here, but she was livid, and such a frivolous thing as fashion would not stand in the way of her wrath.
"Lord Austin," Holmes interjected before she could snap at him, "please allow me to introduce you to Miss Katherine Rushford, my…the talented young lady I was telling you about earlier."
Austin's eyes flicked between them briefly, and then he broke out into a genuine smile, taking Kit's hand and dropping a kiss on her upturned knuckles. "Miss Rushford. I'm so pleased to meet you. Holmes has mentioned his admiration for you several times already," he sent a devilish look at his companion before continuing. "And we've only been sitting here a few minutes."
"Thirty-seven minutes," Holmes corrected. "And I only mentioned her twice."
"Is he drunk?" Kit asked Austin, her voice sarcastic.
Lord Austin blinked. "I don't believe so, Miss Rushford." He turned to Holmes. "Are you tight, old man?"
"Only on the heady brew of my own ingenuity," Holmes grumbled, gesturing for Kit to take a third seat with them before he and Austin re-seated themselves. "Our parents have been acquainted since our childhood," Holmes told her by way of explanation. "Austin and I have spent more than a few Christmases fighting over a game of forfeits."
"Well, we couldn't play Alphabet Minute anymore. How you always won, I'll never know."
"I was nothing compared to Mycroft."
"It's true. A very intimidating family when it came to game playing." He dropped a wink at Kit, and she found herself liking him, conscious of what an evening surrounded by Holmeses might do to a man's sanity.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Miss Rushford, Lord Austin is the First Mate of this vessel."
"Oh, I'm so sorry that Sherlock has kept you here, then." Her sympathy was heart-felt. "You must be nearly run off your feet today."
"I admit it was a welcome distraction to come in and find him skulking around in here. I nearly called our security on him until I recognized who it was. Besides, I'm not the only one run off their feet if looking after him is on your job list."
"Thankfully finding him took very little effort on my part."
"Indeed?" Holmes looked skeptical.
"Really, Sherlock. I simply considered the most inappropriate place for a member of Mr. Sasanoff's acting company to be, and then factored in your interest in social disobedience, as well as your natural interest in asserting what you term your "bohemian ideals", and, well, here you are."
Lord Austin laughed, a hearty, good-natured one, even as Holmes narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, very good, Miss Rushford. A student of yours, Holmes?"
"Heaven forbid." Kit returned. "Now, I'm afraid I've come to drag Mr. Holmes back to the depths with the rest of the actors and production crew."
Holmes' look remained amused, but he made no move to rise.
"Of course." Austin said, "but in case he forgets to inform you, one of my other important jobs is to find suitable company for the Captain's table at dinner. He leaves the choice to me each night, preferring it to be a surprise. I've invited Holmes there tonight. I happen to know that the Captain is a follower of his exploits. Will you join us, please, Miss Rushford, as Sherlock's guest?"
"Now, steady on a moment, Austin…"
But the First Mate pressed on, hardly sparing Holmes a sideways glance. "It's a bit unorthodox, but then, so is the Captain, and he really is a great follower of mystery and adventure. I fear it's my fault. I talked Holmes up so much when I first found out about his detective business that he's bound to fire me if he finds out he was on board and I didn't introduce them."
Kit opened her mouth to politely refuse.
"Miss Rushford would be delighted to accept such a gracious offer." Holmes interjected, gleefully noting Kit's discomfort. Kit slid her heel over the toe of Holmes' shoe and ground it hard into his toes. She saw him stiffen, but said nothing. Instead he leaned forward in his chair, resting his hand on her forearm nearest to him. Deftly, his fingers found the pressure point there halfway between her wrist and elbow, and pressed. Kit felt her arm begin to numb. Her eyes widened.
Lord Austin's eyes slid back and forth between them. Obviously deciding this was an appropriate time to leave, he stood.
"Glad to hear it. Sherlock, Miss Rushford. I'll see you at the Captains table for dinner."
He left them with a nod. As soon as he was out of sight Kit knocked Holmes' hand away. He took his foot back somewhat violently, and flopped back into his chair, crossing his legs and rubbing the smudge off the toe of his polished shoe.
"Really, of all the childish behavior," he growled.
"You started it," she snapped back. Then regretted it. It sounded like whining, even to her. "How are we going to get out of it?" She tried again.
"Out of what?"
"Dinner at the Captain's table."
"Why would we want to get out of it?"
"Oh, Sherlock, you can't be serious. Because we have nothing to wear."
"Speak for yourself. A gentleman always makes sure to include one evening suit in his packing."
"Well, bully for you, but where exactly does that leave me?"
Holmes glanced thoughtfully at his cigar, abandoned in the crystal ashtray, and resumed his smoking.
"I'll see if I can work something out. Lord Austin tells me his sister is with us on this voyage. Perhaps one of her ladies will be willing to help you."
"Sherlock, that's not how it works. Ladies do not just give away their gowns to total strangers."
"Nonsense. Why not? It's for a good cause. Besides that, we are traveling with a full compliment of theatrical costumes. I refuse to believe you can't find something to cloth yourself in. Leave it to me."
He breathed out a deep mouthful of smoke, glancing around the room and then back at her, his eyes crackling mischievously. "This might be amusing after all."
"Only because you're a complete delinquent."
His smile remained. He propped one foot up on the seat beside her, leaning back to survey the ceiling. Kit watched him for a moment, and then couldn't help but ask him about her still-tingling fingers. "What was that you did to my arm? I've never felt anything like it."
"A pressure point. In Chinese medicine that particular point is called the Ximen. Designated as P4 in the pericardium meridian. This group of points is used to treat chest pain usually, arm pain, drowsiness. But if pushed to hard, well, you felt for yourself."
"Are there more of them?"
"Hundreds. Some for harm, some for healing. It depends on how they're used."
"Will you teach me?"
He took his foot down from her chair and leaned forward, scrutinizing her face, as if weighing his options. Finally, he smiled. "Yes, I will. Now, why the rush to find me? Has our fearless Director called a meeting?"
"He has indeed. In five minutes. We need to get down to the third class dining room. She stood, and he followed her up, stepping back to avoid their shoulders brushing. He gestured for her to lead the way. As she stepped past him her reached out and gently took hold of her upper arm, drawing her to a stop. His index and middle finger of his right hand pressed into her spine, about elbow level, and then slid out by a few inches into the muscles of her lower back. Finding the spot, he pressed harder, circling his fingers once lightly.
Kit felt a rush of warmth shoot down her spine, pooling in her heels. Her back straightened, and suddenly her arms felt lighter, her chest broader, like she'd just had the best stretch of her life. Her stomach and hips reacted as well, warming, sending a shiver through her. After a few moments Holmes removed his fingers.
"It's called the Sea of Vitality." His voice was a rumble close to her ear. "Releases tension, exhaustion, and anxiety." He colored slightly. "Amongst other things."
Kit couldn't help the smile that crept over her face. She leaned back slightly, letting her shoulders rest momentarily against his chest. Holmes smiled down at her, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Thank you Sherlock."
"Ah, well -"
"-But I'm still not sharing a room with you." Sher turned and headed for the door, crooking a finger over her shoulder for him to follow her. "Hurry along."
Holmes considered for a moment, and then followed after her, still smiling faintly.
"I have decided to open our tour with Twelfth Night, Or What You Will." Michael Sasanoff stood on a teetering chair before his assembly of actors. They were all gathered in the back corner of the third class dining area, a large cafeteria-style common room that they had been allowed to use for their meetings, as long as they kept them subdued, a steward had warned Kit with an imperious sniff.
Kit had agreed, trying to smooth everything over with an innocent look. Having Holmes directly behind her watching the exchange over her shoulder had not helped. She always feared that he might interject at any moment, and those interjections never seemed to calm a situation, only make it worse. Thankfully this time he was silent.
He sat at the extreme edge of the group now, on one of the room's hard wooden chairs pulled over to a position under an open porthole. He might try to blame the choice on his lit cigarette, which he was ashing out the window, but in truth Kit knew that being in such close proximity to so many new people was causing him discomfort.
Sasanoff fluttered like a bird for the benefit of the eleven other actors that surrounded him, carrying on with his introduction. "It is the only play written by Shakespeare for which he supplied an alternate title."
"Which was?" Langdale Pike stood close to Sasanoff's chair, hands in his pockets. Even on a chair, Sasanoff barley topped his lethargic height.
Sasanoff stared at him in disbelief. Betsey Cobham cleared her throat. "It's Or What You Will, Langdale." He tossed a look at her over his thin shoulder and rewarded her with a glowing smile. Betsey was as close a thing as they had to a lass. Pretty, young, with an upturned nose and lips, and an open gentle face surrounded by blonde tresses.
"Oh, well done, Bets. Cheers."
She blushed, more for him than herself, but the comment obviously pleased her.
"Just one thing though," Pike continued, "I don't actually remember rehearsing that old one…"
"Oh, that's because we haven't." She answered.
This time Sasanoff's glare was for Betsey. She retreated into herself. Sasanoff raised his hands to gather everyone's attention back to himself. "Nonsense! Ten days is more than enough time for a professional company to put together a production…"
"A very slap-dash production." Bedford Greeley put in. He was old, crusty, mired in his ways, a hardened thespian with holes warn through the elbows of his jacket, and in an almost constant state of intoxication. He swung between humor and hangover as a weather vein does, governed by forces invisible to the naked eye. His white curly head reminded Kit of a sheepdog just emerged from a twig-choked stream.
"Yes, Greeley," Sasanoff thundered, "well, some of us have more faith in the Bard than others…."
"It's not the Bard I have concerns with, rather this lot." He motioned with his head over his shoulder at the rest of the actors behind him. Kit smiled. She liked Greeley. He was ill-tempered, but honest, unlike some of their other cast members, who were distinctly prickly and underhanded. The worst of the bunch sat dead center in the group, Helena Selney, primly buffing her nails, her eyes cutting occasionally back to Holmes, still curled in his chair under the porthole. Kit could feel those glances in the pit of her stomach. She made a mental note to keep her eye on the woman, too old to be the ingénue, too young to be the mother. Dangerous.
As if sensing her glance, Holmes looked up from his cigarette at Kit, his grey eyes stormy. He smiled slightly at her, and then his head tilted to look back out the window, cheek resting on a long white hand. She wondered what he could tell her about all the actors, once they were safely out of here and back in their room. No. Her room. She felt a pang of guilt for being so anxious to effect his removal, but knew it was necessary. She suddenly wondered how Langdale would react to the news that she was not connected to Holmes in any legally binding way. She sighed, sensing a myriad of awkward situations in the near future.
"We must focus on our memorization!" Sasanoff cut in on her thoughts. "We can all do that. All but Pike, and that's one of the reasons we have Mrs. Holmes with us."
It took Kit a moment to realize he was referring to her.
Langdale didn't skip a beat. "Hello, what does that mean?"
"That one of her jobs is to feed you a line when you invariably dry, Pike!" Sasanoff snapped. Langdale looked taken aback for the first time. Kit couldn't help notice the compassionate look Betsey sent him.
"Now!" Sasanoff roared to silence them all again, "Twelfth Night, Or What You Wish – a play that takes place in a carnival world, where nothing is to be taken for granted. Nothing taken too seriously, where the players are governed by outside influences. The influence of the time of year. Governed by the other characters around them, governed even by the stars in the sky! The King of this holiday world is Sir Toby, who is frivolity, hedonism, festival. Malvolio, his arch nemesis, is reason without necessity, rigidity without benefit. Together they show us man as microcosm, floating in this fantasy universe, this imagined macrocosm called Illyria. The world here is topsy-turvy, with all those in it doing the best they can. We see man as zodiac, the heavens, the star signs influencing different parts of his body, as was the belief of the time. And Shakespeare artfully uses it here…"
"…To tell dirty jokes." Bedford interjected.
"Oh, good." Langdale sighed. "At least that's something. I was nodding off there, old man."
Sasanoff turned a deep shade of red.
"Alright, alright, darlings, truth time." Morton Ostler, Kit picked out the name of the slender man speaking, another of the hard-line boys, who claimed to have started his career just before Moses led his people out of Egypt, and was never seen out of his make-up and pomade, held up a thick-knuckled hand, and pointed it at Sasanoff. "Who's playing who?"
Sasanoff readjusted his silk scarf. "Morton, I have you down for Antonio."
"Oh. How overwhelming." Morton's voice was bored, with just s touch of venom. "And let me guess whom the fearless Director chooses to portray."
"Well someone needs to be Toby Belch."
"I could easily play Sir Toby. It's part of my repertoire." Bedford said helpfully. Kit saw Holmes' smile out of the corner of her eye and warmed to him again. She was glad she was not the only one who had picked up on Bedford's mocking sincerity.
"I will play Sir Toby." Sasanoff said with finality. "Bedford, I have you down for Feste. Try not to make a complete hash of it, will you?"
Bedford bowed slightly. "Such condescension. It makes me realized how badly I need a drink right now."
"That and every other little thing, dear." Helena spoke up from behind him, not taking her eyes off her nails. Sasanoff took the opportunity.
"Helena, I have you as Olivia. Simon, Orsino." He plowed on before anyone else could interject. "Lucy, you'll take Viola, Archie, Sebastian. We should have a few wigs with us to give you both the same hair color, playing the twins. Betsey, take Maria, Walter, Curio and Fabian, Humphrey, Sea Captain and Valentine.
"I think that puts me in one scene as two characters." Humphrey pointed out.
"Then we'll kill one of you off when we get to that." Sasanoff waved the concern away. "Holmes, I have you down for Malvolio."
Several heads turned to take in the man by the window. Holmes nodded, but said nothing. Kit knew that none of them had to speak out loud to voice their concerns. Malvolio was one of the central comedic characters. A drab performance would be the downfall of the play. As far as Kit knew, none of the other actors had ever even seen Sherlock smile, let alone trapes around cross-gartered in yellow stockings, as the script called for. Still, Kit suspected that his natural abilities towards arrogance would be a tremendous asset here. Her heart went out to him, sitting there calmly, staring down the other actors without concern.
Sasanoff cleared his throat. "Pike, you will do Aguecheek. He's a buffoon. We don't want to stretch you too far, too soon. As usual, everyone will pitch in for assorted gentlemen and women, various attendants and servants, whatever is necessary.
"And What about Mrs. Trune?" Kit spoke up, looking with quiet concern at the decrepit woman slouching in the corner. Hassinia Trune was a woman who never told her age. Most of the company believed that was because no one was able to count that hight. She sat bundled in a woolen shawl, grey hair put haphazardly up into a bun, smiling sweetly at anyone who chanced close enough for her to see them. As far as playing crones went, she was unequaled in the field. Kit had been told very seriously, and in an undertone by Bedford that Hassinia had once played all three witches in Macbeth at the same time, and no one had been able to tell.
Sasanoff smiled and nodded, raising his voice so Mrs. Trune could be part of the discussion. "Oh, I'm sure something will come up. We'll muddle through, won't we, Hassinia, Darling?"
The elderly actress waved a hand at him, but whether it was in acceptance or dismissal, no one was sure.
Everyone nodded sullenly, and rose to leave.
Sasanoff continued through the noise. "All right, lovely actors, we have ten days to get this delight on it's feet and fit to be seen. Mrs. Holmes will get the rehearsal schedule out to you this evening. We will start in this room tomorrow morning. Anyone have anything to say?"
"Drinks in the men's berth," Bedford grumbled, "as long as everyone brings their own. I can't be responsible for keeping us all tight on this cruise."
Sasanoff nodded. "Right. Does anyone have anything important to say?"
"I do." Kit's voice was quiet, but enough of the actors heard it that a hush fell over the group. Holmes admired her small successes so far. She was new and inexperienced, but she already had a way with the company that justified her hiring.
"Well?" Sasanoff raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"It's nothing serious. Just that Mr. Holmes and I are not actually married. We know each other as acquaintances only. I'm afraid we'll have to update the room assignments."
The stunned silence that followed took up all the air.
Holmes rose from his seat and lit another cigarette, closing the porthole. Kit found she could not read his expression, but his body language was relaxed.
Sasanoff spluttered. "You mean…BLAST!"
"No, no," Langdale interjected, "this is capital news!"
"No it isn't, you insufferable dandy!" Sasanoff seemed to be choking. "It means that the only one who has a spare bed in his room to give him is me! Has the boat left the port yet?""
A small smile appeared on Holmes' face. His eyes flicked to the porthole and back. "I'm afraid so. Almost ten minutes ago."
Sasanoff stamped his diminutive foot.
"Oh, well done." Helena Selney looked beside herself with pleasure, a cat just finishing a bowl of cream. "We'll have to keep an eye on her, ladies. She's trickier than she looks."
"Miss Rushford is no such thing." Holmes spoke up, and his voice brooked no argument. "The deception was mine. Obviously I could never allow her reputation to come under any question. Miss Rushford and I are associates, as well as friends, is that not so, Miss Rushford?"
Kit did not take her eyes from his. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."
"Miss Rushford?! Capital." Langdale clapped Morton on the back. "Not Mrs. Holmes at all!"
The older actor looked positively scornful. A look his younger company member missed entirely.
"Fine." Sasanoff huffed. "We'll deal with it. But we will have words, Holmes, count on it."
"Undoubtedly. And now that we're roommates, we will have plenty of time for as many chats as you wish."
Sasanoff groaned. "Anything else I should know?"
"Just one small thing." Holmes pressed on with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Miss Rushford will need access to the costumes to select an evening dress for tonight. She has been invited to join me at the Captain's table for dinner."
At that Sasanoff finally lost his scant grip on propriety. His tantrum was lengthy. Holmes smiled all the way through it, the smoke from his cigarette hanging lazily around his less than angelic face.
