I promised myself to slow down a bit. Churning out the first three chapters in just a few days--during the most hectic part of my weekly schedule--is an overkill. The keyword in this A/N is "prioritize."
For more (side-)info about the two sisters, don't hesitate to drop by OR post a review. And, if anyone needs a bit of help in some chem problems, holler in the same URL I posted in here.
Truthseekers
by mierin-lanfear
Chapter Four
"Good morning, Miss Gale."
Vera shrank away, clutching the edges of the robe tightly around her, from the tall, austere figure standing on the threshold. From an oblique angle, she saw a lace-ruffled table corner and a silver gleam of cutlery behind him. A wave of nausea assaulted her senses--as she took a misstep and faltered.
"Miss Gale!" The tall man was quick in his reflexes, gripping her by the sides of her shoulders to steady her. An expression of concern crossed his face momentarily. "Forgive me, it was imprudent of me to give you such a shock."
She looked up at him with frightened eyes and saw that he was sincere in his apology. Vera noted the slight furrow between his black eyebrows and the piercing clarity of his grey eyes. With his sharp nose and clear-cut features, he reminded her of a hawk.
A hawk who unerringly hunts for prey.
A human hawk who can only be satisfied with clearly-hewn facts, which can only be strung together by logic.
She instinctivelyknew that he was an honest person, albeit intense and sudden with his dealings with people. But she kept a guarded air before him.
Trust no one.
"I was...a bit dizzy, then you opened the door..." she said, shrugging off his hands. She felt light-headed again. "Oh..."
Behind him, a stockyman with an earnest face and equally earnest moustache emerged from the door. As he saw her waver in front of his companion, he immediately rushed to Vera's side and supported her by the elbow. "Mrs. Hudson had informed us that you're running a temperature," the man told her. "You should be in bed."
She shook her head, her long black braid whipping her back in short, vehement snaps. "No need, I can walk...I just want my bag back," she replied, feeling stupid and illogical. "Please." The slight fever was affecting her composure.
The towering figure before her gave a noiseless laugh. "My dear Watson, a dining chair is closer than your old bed. Miss Gale might as well gather her wits back with us for company."
"My name. You saw my license..." Vera said, as she was led by the two men to the sitting room. She slowly sat on a wicker dining chair, facing them across the breakfast table. Her opaque green eyes were still wary.
The tall man gave a short bow before seating himself. "I beg your pardon. My name's Sherlock Holmes." He patted the stocky man's shoulder. "And this is my friend Dr. John Watson."
Watson sat beside Vera, smoothening a discarded table napkin on his tweed lap. "It was friend's idea to inspect your knapsack. I hope you don't mind, Miss Gale." He poured some tea in a plain white china cup and offered it to her.
"No." Then she began to sip the tea in silence, her eyes watchful.
Breakfast was a silent affair. The grey weather outside the windows darkened with sleet and rain.
Vera picked at the crumbs of her buttered toast, her green gaze shifting from Holmes and Watson. Her teacup was empty.
"More tea, Miss Gale?" Watson offered, holding the china pot aloft.
Seeing him with the teapot, she suddenly felt embarrassed. Awkward at the fact that a Victorian gentleman offered her more tea. "Thanks, I'll pour some for myself..." She reached out for the pot, absent-mindedly tucking the sleeves of the robe and shirt away from her wrist.
The weeks-old slashes was in full view. Puckered red welts against her pale skin.
Swiftly, Holmes took the pot away from Vera's reach and poured her a fresh cup. His grey eyes probed deep into her. Questioning. "The scars are quite new, Miss Gale."
She quickly withdrew her arm, averting her eyes from his. "Quite. Please, call me Vera." Her tone was flat with finality. She focused on the crumbs on her plate again. "Thank you for the tea, Mr. Holmes."
They were silence once more.A sharp rap on the front door disturbed them.
Watson stood up and left the table. As he opened the door, a busboy presented an envelope to him. "Telegram for Mr. Holmes," the young boy piped out. Watson dug out some coins from his pocket and gave them to the boy.
He read the flap. "Holmes, it's from Lestrade."
Holmes immediately got up, took the envelope from his friend and tore it open. It read:
BODY FOUND IN DOVER STOP IDENTIFIED AS OPERA SINGER GINNY FORD STOP SCOTLAND YARD SUSPECTS MURDER STOP NEED ADVICE STOP WILL YOU COME QUERY
LESTRADE
He frowned over the sheet of paper. "After thirteen days. Intriguing." He looked up from the message, to the lone female form across the room. His frown creased deeper.
Trust no one, she silently told herself as she faced the two men in the study. No one, including yourself.
She tried to convince herself that everything was fake. Unreal. But a tiny voice within her echoed, Believe.
How could she believe if she had lost faith in her senses? In herself?
If this is Hell, God must be surreal... she thought, her green eyes dark and unblinking. Vera sat across them, unflinching under the intense, probing light from Holmes' eyes.
"You are far from home," Holmes intoned, as he steepled his long, thin hands and looked away from her. Into the crackling fire. His voice became distant, as if she had turned into ether.
She nodded, looking at the fire. Embers crackled, sparks flew from the wood to the iron grate. "But not as far as I wanted to be."
Watson replied, "Hence the scars on your arms." He had noticed the red marks on her arms. "Two, maybe three weeks old." Outside, the weather deepened into gloom. A heavy downpour replaced the sleety rain. He stood up from his leather easy chair to close the damask curtains, capturing and encapsulatingthe fire's warmth for the room.
Vera rubbed her arms. "Two weeks. But why care? It's not anyone's business." Her opaque green eyes reflected the firelight with defiance.
"It is, now," Holmes replied, turning his grey gaze towards her. "We would like to know how you ended up on a bridge across Thames."
Implacable.
She stared into the fire for a while, gathering her thoughts into one coherent line. Trust no one...no one...not your story.
So surreal...
Trust no one. She raked her hands through her black hair in frustration. No.
They will believe. He will. You know that.
Vera gave a strangled cry, which jolted Watson from his chair. His friend remained calm, as he gazed distantly into the fire. Seemingly insensitive to the inner turmoil of his subject.
Her opaque green eyes reflected the dim yellow glow of the fire like glass marbles, as if marbles have hidden pain within their cores.
Angry, hurtful words tumbled out of her, without any restraint. "This is crazy...my whole friggin' life is crazy... I decided to end it all, after knowing that everything's broken: family, relationships...all that crap. I jumped from the bridge. I wanted to kill myself! It's not everyday that your ex dumps you after taking everything, including your dignity, and says that he's very much married...or that your parents split up after learning that your dumbass of a father has a mistress who happens to be your classmate in grad school...or that your professor makes a pass at you in public!" A sharp intake of breath, as she clutched at her braid. "Life is so damn unfair, especially for me, Miss Vera Gale!, who kept her silence for so long...so long... I'm supposed to die, but no-o, Fate is such a b-tch that I end up here, that I still exist."
Her emotional outburst over, Vera slumped back to the settee, exhausted. "It's just...unfair. Simply unfair..." she whimpered, then burst into tears.
The stocky man was aghest. "Young lady...such language!" Watson admonished her. A glass carafe half-filled with brandy stood on a side-table. He poured out a snifter and pressed it into her trembling hands.
"Hm." Holmes looked for his clay pipe from one of his coat pockets, unresponsive to the strong language from Vera. Tamping some tobacco into the clay bowl, he muttered, "Some things never change in time."
He saw that she was far from calming down, he reached out and touched her knee with his long fingers. "I asked a simple question: how did you end up on the bridge across Thames?"
"Don't touch me." She moved her knee away from his hand. Swallowed the rest of her sobs with the brandy. "Even if I told you, you won't believe me." She closed her eyes, unable to take the piercing grey light.
"Are you certain about it?" He steepled his hands once more.
In her mind's eye, she could see herself back in New Hampshire, running away from the University's gates. In her memory, a storm was raging.
"Back home in New Hampshire, it was the twelfth of June. Two thousand and four," Vera began.
She remembered how heavy her rain-soaked clothes felt. She could smell the electricity of the lightning-charged atmosphere. The winds howled and whispered and cried around her. Within her.
The stone parapet looked slippery. Wet moss and brick shone wetly. Below, the deep river was swollen with brown water.
"It was raining, when I stood on the bridge back home."
She felt Rowan tugging at the hem of her dress. A grey feather drifted down from the overcast sky.
"Rowan tried to stop me from jumping. She failed..."
She jumped, reaching out, touching the feather. It brushed softly against her fingers. Her arms flailed. Gravity pulled her down into the darkness.
The air felt empty. No river water. Something hard hit her solar plexus, suffocating her.
"When I jumped, I felt nothing, no water...I must have lost consciousness. Then, when I woke up, it was evening. Here in London. Different place, different era. End of story." She dried her eyes with the brown flannel sleeve of her robe. When she opened her eyes, she saw the fireplace. And the two men, listening to her.
"An interesting story," Holmes murmured. His clay pipe remained unlit.
The grandfather clock tolled at eleven. Mrs. Hudson made her appearance in the study, after Watson called her. He, on the other hand, had left the flat for his daily medical appointments.
She radiated a warm, motherly light in the otherwise wooden, silent room.
As the deep echo faded, Holmes took her aside. "Watch over Miss Gale. I'll be leaving for Dover after luncheon," he said in a low voice, glancing at the quiet girl seated on the setee, her eyes fixed on the fire.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." She pitied the lonely figure of Vera. She had seen the scars when she peeled away the wet clothes at half-past midnight. "How long will you be gone?"
"Two to three days. Keep her away from sharp objects."
She nodded sagely. "Meanwhile, I've found some suitable clothes for her in the garret..."
"Excellent." He turned to Vera. "Will you accompany Mrs. Hudson downstairs, Miss Gale?"
She silently complied. As Vera slowly descended the stairs, she looked back at the door. He stood there, silhouetted against the dim firelight, watching her. Distantly.
Vera thought she could discern a thoughtful, worried glint from his eyes. Behind the calm, businesslike facade.
She took another look. The tall, austere figure was gone, as he shut the door behind him.
Honestly, I prefer Ch. 3 rather than this chapter, even though it is an important chappie...