The richly-dressed woman with the perfectly coiffed dark hair takes Maddy into a huge hotel toilet with floor length mirrors and cloth handtowels.
"Put these on," she says handing Maddy stockings, a purple dress, and matching purple pumps.
"Why do I need to change?"
"Because where we are going, they have a dress code, and trainers and t-shirts don't meet it."
Maddy goes into a stall and changes her clothes. When she comes out, the woman sits her on a bench in front of one of the large mirrors and begins to brush her hair. It frizzes a bit, but with some hair spray she gets it to look tolerably well although she can't get rid of the kink formed by her having wrapped it up tightly at her neck for so long.
The woman takes a towel, wets the edge, and washes Maddy's face. Maddy thinks of objecting, but something about the woman reminds her of her stern second grade teacher who could silence a class with a glare. She draws back when the woman runs a black pencil across her eye brows, but stills when she gives her the same look that she'd got when she'd tried to read a book under her desk during Math class.
The woman puts a little blush and some lip gloss on her and then stands back to look at her work. "For you, I think that less is more," she says before pulling Maddy to her feet. When she tries to take Maddy's bag from her, she resists. Her clothes, her life, it's all in this bag.
"You'll get it back," the woman says tugging at the sack so that Maddy's citrine bracelet falls to the floor. Maddy bends down to grab it. She slides the precious thing onto her wrist and then grabs back her bag.
"I'm not going without my bag," Maddy says stubbornly.
The woman narrows her eyes at her, and sighs before upending the contents of her own large designer purse onto the counter. She takes Maddy's bag and shoves it inside of her purse handing it to Maddy with an exasperated expression that only heightens her resemblance to her former teacher.
The woman leads Maddy out of the room and into an elegant restaurant. They are high in a skyscraper, and all around them are views of the city. People in fine clothes sit chattering with each other at tables dressed with white tablecloths. The room sparkles with glass, silverware, and gold salt and pepper shakers. There are chandeliers made of panes of glittering glass, while crystal wine glasses reflect the blue-white shapes of passing clouds.
Maddy weaves her way through the tables her heavy bag pounding against her thigh as she tries to remember how to walk in high-heels. She feels like a bull in a china shop. She is sure that everyone must be staring. The woman leads her around a glowing wooden bar, stocked with all kinds of decorative bottles. After passing several empty tables, they turn a corner and she sees the rich man with the chain in his waistcoat sitting behind a table set with gold and white china. She frowns.
The man stands as she approaches the table. She stands in front of her chair, sitting only when the woman pushes the chair forward so that her knees buckle. She turns to look at the woman, but she is already walking away effortless on her own even higher heels. A waiter pours water into her glass and steps away. There is nothing for it then but to look at the man who sits across from her, an oddly fake smile on his lips.
"I suppose that we have never been formally introduced," he says. "I know that your name is Madeline St. Martin and that you come from the United States of America. I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' brother."
Maddy looks at the man in the dark suit. He's meticulously groomed in a white shirt with a wide yellow tie. His brown hair has a widow's peak and is swept to the right in one sculpted bang. His eyebrows arch over blue eyes and a long pointed nose. His thin lips turn down at the edges, as if his natural expression is a frown. Their slight curve matches the roundness of all his features. His curved ears, his curved stomach, his curved neck sticking tall out of his collar like a proud ostrich. His lips invert into a smile as he leans forward. It looks calculated, as if he read somewhere that doing so will make him appear more friendly. It doesn't.
So the man with the chain on his waistcoat is Mycroft Holmes? He says that he is the brother of Sherlock Holmes. She had suspected as much when she saw his name on the card. She stares at him trying to see some resemblance to the man with the coat.
"You're Mr. Holmes' brother."
"Sherlock Holmes' brother, yes."
"Do you have any proof?" Maddy asks.
"Excuse me? What did you want?"
"Show me some I.D."
A frown crosses the man's face for a moment before resuming its mildly pleasant expression. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet fat with credit cards. He slides a card across the table to her, and she reads it. It says that Mycroft Holmes is a British citizen born in London, and it has a picture of his face. She looks at his birthdate. He looks older than he is. Perhaps it's the clothes. He dresses like a Victorian banker. Maddy passes the card back.
"Miss St. Martin," he begins. "Please allow me to apologize for my previous actions. I have always been a bit... over-protective of my brother, and I assumed that you were someone that you are not. Please forgive me."
Maddy looks down at the white china plates, one stacked over another. The napkins are folded like fans. She looks up again to find him staring at her. He's waiting, for what? A 'don't mention it' perhaps? That's not going to happen.
She stares into his cold blue-grey eyes, watching his thin lips tighten back into their false smile. He's still waiting. Suddenly he does remind her of the man in the coat. His stillness and determination are the same. She can believe that they are brothers.
But she's lived on the street too long to think that being family automatically means that you are trustworthy. She would certainly not want anyone to give information about her to her step-father simply because he's her family. Maddy reaches out for the napkin and places it on her lap. Mycroft Holmes finally turns away. He raises his hand, and the waiter comes forward filling their second glass with wine.
Bread is placed on the table and in front of her are set some small mushrooms in an orange sauce. Maddy looks at them. The man explains that they are truffles in a velouté sauce then he lifts his fork and begins eating. Maddy eats some bread.
"Won't you try some?" he asks.
"I don't like mushrooms," Maddy replies.
Next they are served fish with the eyes still on. Maddy can't eat anything that stares back at her. Luckily, they keep refilling the bread. Next come oysters which Maddy won't eat because,Yuck! She can't stand the thought of food sliding down her throat. She tries to eat some of the salad, but the greens are too bitter, so she sucks on a lemon instead.
Next they bring out an assortment of soft French cheeses which Maddy eyes with distrust. Once Maman Mildred had brought home some Bree. She had raved about the stuff so much that Maddy had shoved a large slice into her mouth as if it were pie. It wasn't sweet. She'd opened her mouth then letting it drop onto the floor, and Mildred had given her a good scolding for it. This time, Maddy left the cheese alone.
Next comes a dessert with bananas. It looks very promising until they set it on fire. Maddy had been in a house fire as a child. The smell of smoke makes her panic and totally throws off her appetite.
Mycroft eats his banana flambé with a knife and a fork. He wipes the corner of his mouth, and takes a sip of what he calls a dessert wine before saying. "My dear Miss St. Martin, I appear not to have been a good host. I have offered you a six course French meal, but you have eaten only bread and water at my table. A prisoner eats better, and you haven't even had a sip of your wine."
"I don't drink," Maddy says.
"Then shall I call for tea?" Mycroft whispers a few words to the waiter who clears the table.
The room is empty now as lunchtime has passed. Maddy looks out at the busy city and then over to the man who acts as if he has nowhere better to be. "Mr. ...uh ...Mr. Holmes," Maddy says. "Don't you have some kind of work that you do?"
He smiles his pleasant meaningless smile again. "I have a minor position in the British Government," he says.
"Then won't your boss mind that you're spending so much time at lunch?" she asks. "Or do you even have a boss?" He frowns.
Just then the tea arrives. The waiter serves her tea with sugar and lemon. Mycroft Holmes has his tea with milk but no sugar.
Maddy takes a sip. It's very good. When she looks up, his eyes are locked onto her face. She puts down her tea cup and asks, "What exactly is it that you want?"
"I want to find my brother," Mycroft says in a surprisingly direct tone.
"Why?"
Mycroft smiles. "No, protestations that he is dead, no denials simply 'why?' Very good Miss St. Martin. I like your directness. Such directness warrants honesty in return. You see, my brother is impulsive," Mycroft says sitting back and placing his fingertips together as he talks. "He tries to do things by himself that can only truly be done on a larger scale. He seeks to fight Moriarty's entire organization single-handedly like Don Quixote charging at windmills. I lost my brother once. I won't lose him again, not due to his own stupidity."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to tell me where he is, and if that is not possible, I want you to find him for me. I would be willing to offer you a modest sum of money for this. In your case, the sum would not be modest. I suppose that you could call it 'a living'. In fact one can live quite well on what I will pay."
"What would I need to do?"
He smiles then, resting his chin on his fists. "You would go among your friends and contacts and ask around. Find his trail, and report back to me."
"What if I don't have any friends?"
He lowers his hands, and sits up. "I don't mean 'friends' the way Sherlock and John Watson mean 'friends' as people who would take a bullet for each other. I mean 'friends' the way that you and I mean 'friends', as people who are generally well disposed to talk, people that one can use."
"I don't think that I can help you," Maddy says.
"Madeline," Mycroft Holmes says tilting his head and pinning her with his stare. "You were the last person to see my brother alive. You MUST help me find him."
"I don't think that I can find him," Maddy says.
"If you can not find him, perhaps he will seek to find you."
Maddy sits back in her chair and looks down at her feet in the borrowed purple shoes that somehow are exactly her size. She points her toes in, tapping them together while she touches the citrine bracelet with her fingertips. "Mr. Holmes, wait that feels wrong ... can I call you Mycroft? Sherlock Holmes is Mr. Holmes to me."
Mycroft Holmes nods although his mouth is pursed tightly as if he wants very much to say no.
"Mycroft," she begins again, "Mr. Holmes found me on the street and paid me to do work for him. He does this all of the time to people that he meets. The fact that he paid me money doesn't mean that he cares about me, or that he would seek me out. I was just there when he needed someone. I am nobody special."
Mycroft laughs a low laugh, "I'm sorry, Miss St. Martin, but you do not understand my brother. The number of people that Sherlock trusts can be counted on one hand. Somehow you have found your way into this number, and you say that you are 'nobody special'?"
"I don't understand why you think that I can find him when you can't."
Mycroft glares across the table pointing at her chest. "You! Sherlock trusted you!" he says. "He left his friends and family to think that he was dead, but he gave you a phone to contact him by. Don't you think that makes you special? My brother does not make friends easily."
"I think you are wrong," Maddy says. "Among the homeless, your brother is well thought of."
"Enough of this," he says waving her objection away. "I want you to work for me. I want you to help me find my brother."
"I can't," Maddy says. "I can't help you. I can't promise you anything."
"I thought that I had lost my only brother. You have convinced me that he is alive, and I am gratified to know that I am not alone in the world, but you are the only link that I have to him. I must insist that you help me find him."
Maddy looks at the man. He had been cold before, but now he seems warm and passionate. Even so, Maddy doesn't know him, and many an abusive husband looks just as passionate in search of a wife that has left him. She remembers the chill in his eyes when they'd talked in that cold white house. She leans away from him. "No," she says. "No, I won't help you. I think that I need to go now." She stands.
Mycroft rests his chin on his hands. The cold eyes are back as he says, "You know that you are in this country illegally."
Maddy freezes.
"You entered this country on a tourist visa which has since expired. Also, there is a Jacob Bartholemew of North Carolina who claims that you stole a large sum of money from him."
"That was my mother's money!" Maddy says.
"That decision is for the American courts. I fear that if you were to leave this place and go back onto the streets, then the immigration officials might find you. That would indeed be...unfortunate."
Maddy feels cornered. Mycroft gives her a Cheshire cat smile, "I'm sorry Miss St. Martin. I'm going to have to ask you to accept my hospitality for a little while longer."
He motions, and a very tall man in a tailored suit comes to lead her away. As she follows the man, she turns back to look at Mycroft, thinking that he must be gloating and triumphant that he has captured her, but he sits slumped down in his chair, looking small and sad with wrinkles of worry covering his brow.
"This way please, miss." The tall man says to get her attention. She leaves with him then, not knowing where she is going, or where she will end up. But then again that's no different than any other day.