From the Life of Marionettes

„Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chained/ And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn/ the facile gates of hell too slightly barred."

Paradise Lost

She had verbalized a wish to bathe, so while she was in his salle de bains, he sent the page to organize something for her to wear. The request might seem a little outré in another establishment - not here, however. The Meurice would be happy to procure anything for a guest, no matter how extravagant his desire. If he had ordered the Gizeh Pyramids on a silver plate, the page would no doubt have asked whether he wanted champagne with it.

So there. The lady's measurements were established by means of the robe she had heretofore discarded, and dirty minutes later, a flat white box was delivered to his room, accompanied by a smaller shoe box. He idly removed the lid to lift the dress by its shoulder pieces: Electric blue was the color he had asked for, since this was a hue he found particularly becoming for red-heads. The dress had long sleeves, a long bodice front, and was embroidered with a pomegranate motif a somewhat darker tint.

He had no interest in the intricacies, but she would appreciate them.

Next thing, he went to the room next doors, sat down on the escritoire and scribbled three notes: One for Fanny's employer, who would no doubt wonder at her absence, one for Mrs. Hudson (she would be more surprised by the fact that he announced his return than by an unannounced appearance!), and one to a certain address in London. Having posted them via the page, it only remained for him to pack.

He was still rummaging among his things when a timid knock in the door separating the bedsitter from the main suite reminded him to the presence of a second person in his rooms. He quickly put on his dinner jacket, and opened.

Fanny was wearing the dress, the electric blue one. Her bright red locks were twisted up in an elaborate hair-do, and she gave him a look half shy gratitude, half reproachful you-shouldn't-have. He paused to allow his eyes taking in every detail: The intriguing contrast of the two vivid colours, red and blue, relieved by the pallor of her Baron- Gruneresque- Porcelain skin. Her hand slightly cramped around a fan that had come with the dress, her eyes were cast down, as if surveying herself for flaws, really to avoid his gaze.

He heaved a sigh, and put on his best smile. „Shall we?"

oooOOOooo

We were talking plenty at dinner, though that we managed not to say a single thing was a feat I regard as remarkable. Nothing about Madame Zhao, nothing about what had happened in my flat earlier, nothing about our impending departure or the two Orbs that were upstairs in the suite. Nothing.

He complimented me on the effect of the dress, not without a sarcastic strain, of course, he couldn't help it. I smiled a little.

„Thank ya, Mr. `olmes, tha's very kind. But I still don't fink it right ya should of got me a fancy gown like this."

„You needed something to wear", he replied simply. „Besides, thanks is due to the French Government - remember."

He well-nigh winked at me, and I could not help laughing. „Anyway, it was very thoughtful. And the colour is dazzling, really! I had not known hotel pages ter be so well educated in matters o` taste."

The corners of his mouth twitched, which always gave a bit of a painful impression along with the insinuation of smiling. I failed to assess it correctly, and strove for a neutral expression.

„Speaking of taste and dresses. I wonder `ow Madame Martinez will take it when I don't maike an appearance tomorrow."

Holmes, picking on his plate with the enthusiasm of an overfed cheetah at the zoo, waved this concern away. „Do no worry. I send her a note; explained everything. You became very ill under the strain of the past weeks, and developed anaemia. I am having you take the waters at Vichy. She shall not expect you back before a fortnight has gone by, I wager."

I pushed back a strand of hair, and involuntarily looked into one of the mirrors the lofty room abounded with. The face looking back at me was pale enough to make a claim at anaemia credible. Maybe it was my sickly looks that had given him the idea. Maybe the strain had made me ill.

But now we were bound for Sussex, and open landscapes, and clean sea breezes. And all would be well.

oooOOOooo

We were back at the suite before eleven. I sensed we had both declined dessert under a pretext. He entered with me albeit there was a separate door to his bedsitter. He said he wanted to take the real Orb from the safe to carry it on his person from now on, and I knew this was a pretext, too.

While he was entering combinations by means of the small wheel, I poured drinks to give my hands something to do. Turning my back on him made me incredibly nervous, bordering on hysteria - but facing him, given the circumstances, was worse.

I gazed at the Cava I had poured into the goblet, so tangy and silvery-gold, like molten diamonds. But I felt no curiosity to taste it, and thought I probably never would. The safe door fell to with a clicking sound, and I sensed a distinct frisson on my bare neck, as if the tips of his fingers were only a few inches away. I could not see whether they were, though, I remained still, closing my eyes.

„Let down your hair", he quietly said, and I obeyed, my eyes still closed. His steps, however, could be heard on the marble floor, and I felt him circling me with slow, sparse movements. Thick, wavy hair gushed down my shoulders, my hair, my mother's, my sister's, my Aunt Cathy's hair. I breathed faster, waiting for him to touch it, to twist and turn it between his fingers, and I wanted to lean in, to let him do it.

But he did not, he didn't touch it. Instead, he continued circling me, incessantly.

„Gather it…lay it across your shoulder…like so", he murmured, and I obeyed, just obeyed. What else could I do? My hair streamed down over one shoulder, like a river of blood. We were one blood, one flesh, bone, nail, nerve, muscle and hair. One brood.

I felt him withdraw, and opened my eyes. In the polished surface of a piece of wall decor, I could see him sit down in a chair by the coffee table, several meters away from me.

„Take off your dress", he demanded, and I swallowed heavily. He didn't want me to turn round, then. Very well. By this time, I had ceased to care.

Slowly, awkwardly, as if I were being operated by a remote agency, I raised my arms to undo the buttons on my back, one by one. Otherwise, I remained stationary, watching his reflection in the burnished brass surface. He did not move either, he sat quite still, slightly tilted back, as would the spectator of a portrait.

My dress cleft brazenly on the backside, and I had reached the last button. The sleeves slipped down my arms with ease, and the bodice went with them, hanging limply from my waist. I used both hands to gently force the dress down over my haunches, and, letting go off it, felt it slip and drop to the floor with the rich whispering sound of silks and brocades I loved so much.

Carefully, I stepped out of the pooling dress. The cool air met large portions of my bare flesh, and I shivered a little. What would he do next? I was waiting - waiting -

But he did nothing. He sat still, looking at me, looking from an angle where absolutely no part of my face was visible to him. I breathed quickly. My lips, from constant biting on from nervousness, tingled as though I had tasted hot spices, and there was a heat deep down in my body, which, instead of abating in the cool air, increased by the second. How long before something would finally happen? But he was taking his time.

„Remove your underskirt", he ordered in the same, dispassionate voice, that called to mind a connoisseur who wanted to see everything before he gave his expert opinion. Growing impatient, I fumbled hastily with the fastening of my undergarment. I would have known the sound of the material, rushing down to the floor, in the dark. Gauze.

There was not much clothing left. Soon, my hair would be the sole ornament to my nudity. My heart beat strong, painfully almost, when a sense of my degradation flooded into my consciousness - here I was, half-naked while he remained unapologetically dressed, looking at my faceless backside as though it were some interesting piece he had found at an art dealer's. A copy, to be sure! But one could still assess the quality of the workmanship, the truth to the original.

It was no use, no use. I was helplessly compliant when he bade me step out of my heeled shoes, thus reducing my hight. Maybe it was the timbre of the voice that quietly issued the commands. Maybe it was his shiftless reflection in the brass that exuded assurance and authority. Maybe it was my own body, faithless and prepared to collaborate with the foe. I was inclined to believe the latter. Now I had tasted the cup, I desperately wanted to imbibe it again.

But why the wretched distance? Following a riotous impulse, I set to turn around - but his hand, raised with fierce decision, stopped me. My breast heaved, and I stared ahead of myself wide-eyed. How much more did he want before he would consider giving something in return?

A minute passed in silence. My throbbing heart, my ragged breath gave me enough to do. In vain, I tried to calm myself, to retain a shred of dignity I might cling to. But in the face of a corporeal surrender, what could I do to preserve myself? A quiver ran through my nervous system, painful but delicious. If only the wait were over soon; he might do with me whatever he wanted…

Precisely uttered words told me what he wanted. „Take off your brassière."

Unsteady fingers unhooked a clasp, and my bosom spilled against the barrier of my crossed arms which I had instinctively raised in protection. It was full, soft and heavy, and longed for appreciation. He had seen me before. Why had I to remain like this, facing away from him? It was not fair, and I wanted to see him…to feel him…

„And the - the rest."

I responded to the request by shoving my briefs down my thighs, my knees, my ankles. My imagination was filled with ideas of his arousal as I wriggled and twisted to get free. I stepped out of my remaining garment and stood still, holding my breath, closing my eyes again in anticipation. It couldn't be long now. It couldn't. It was possible to procrastinate only so far.

With my breath suppressed, I could hear him rise from his seat slowly. Another minute passed, during which I suffered agonies. Then, Sherlock Holmes sighed, a deep, unearthly sigh, that told of regret, tiredness and disappointment more than any sound I every heard.

He took a few strides toward his room and disappeared within. I remained where I was, for another ten minutes or so.

He did not come back.

oooOOOooo

Patent-leather man regarded the executioner impassively. „Well?"

„Sir! When we had accessed the rooms, they were no longer there. The baggage and everything was gone, with no sign of intended return. But we found - this."

There was a small triumphant quiver in the voice of the speaker as he extended his hand and presented a bonny, sparkling little object: The King's Orb!

He accepted the treasure trove and looked at it long and hard, before passing it on to a lackey, who in turn handed it to the crouching woman on the floor in one corner of the room. She took it from him with tumbling hands that seemed to weak even to hold such a small thing. Her eyes, sunk deep into their sockets, gazed at it earnestly, almost in wonder, as though she had never seen it before. Before she spoke, she let her hands sink into her lap to look up at the two paintings hung over the mantlepiece, and the woman that was portrayed in them.

Then, but reluctantly, she directed her eyes at leather-patent man, or rather at his trouser knees, for higher up she still dared not look, dared not meet these eyes of stone so much in disagreement with everything that was beautiful and harmonious, everything she loved.

Knowing that this might put her into severe danger, she nodded her confirmation. „This is it!" Her voice, untrained of late, came out as hoarse croak.

„Speak up!" Hissed the man who had given her the Orb.

„This is it!" Madame Zhao repeated, as forcefully and with as much emphasis as she could. „This is the King's Orb!"

A self-complacent smile slowly extended across the face of the executioner. He had done well, then! It ad not been so very difficult after all, the thing had been fully accessible on a coffee table in the middle of the room, no safe-breaking, no nuisance. But it was not necessary now to go into details.

His smile was wiped from his face with the vicious blow that was dealt by the cold, corpse-like hand of the patent-leather man.

„Fool!" He snarled. „She's lying."

At these words, Madame Zhao dropped the orb. It rolled across the floor, until the lackey had stopped it and picked it up. At the beckoning of his master, he hurled it against the wall - and the glittering surface of colorful stones went to pieces, revealing a simple wooden ball as and understructure, mottled with adhesive that had been applied to keep the Rhine stones on place.

The executioner paled. The lackey sent a questioning glance at his master, who shrugged and extended his fist, thumb pointing down.

„No! No, no, master!" The executioner spluttered, as the lackey rung a bell and two more men came into the room. „Please, I - surely I deserve another chance! I can find them, master! Wherever they are hiding, the Orb must be with them! I can hunt them up, I have all the means to do it, you know that master! Mas-terrr!"

The two men did not heed his clamour. They hooked their arms under his armpits and dragged him from the room, still protesting his valour, his loyalty. Patent-leather man turned his back on him.

„Throw the other one back into the dark cell", he commanded, slowly walking toward the other end of the room with a thoughtful crease between his brows, while Madam Zhao was removed from his presence in much the same way as the executioner.

Hullo!

Crime, threatening, violence, degradation, fraud, escape…A lot has been going on these past chapters, and as always, I would be charmed to hear your thoughts! So don't be shy to speak out!

Love, Mrs. F