Sorry, but I felt that I HAD to change my pen name. There is something
about writing under the name of your main character that bothers me, a
great deal. So, whatever problems I have caused to my readers I'm ready to
apologize. (Not that I think I have many readers from the number of reviews
I received. *hint, hint*) well, I'm writing for my own pleasures, so ENJOY.
Holmes was off to Spain, to God-knows-what. Mycroft and I were in London, stuck with a God-knows-who. Silence with Mycroft, unlike the case with Holmes, was awful. I asked him for Finn's belongings, but these were inconclusive. A tattered outfit dirty as a mole rat, a few spare small coins, and a pair of huge army boots probably stolen from a dead soldier during the war. How did the child know French? Of course, there were urchins on the streets who could curse in several languages in one sentence. But when I pondered some more, something was not right. Her hands were not a poor working girl's hands. Although hidden under the sheets most of the time, I could remember the long thin fingers with the delicate skin. There were some mild calluses on the inside, but they were recent and fresh.
Her striking resemblance to a woman who died years ago made no sense, unless she was a relative or even a daughter. Mycroft told me that there were no records of Alinere having a third child. In fact, records showed that she died four years before the girl was even born.
The nurse left me alone with her. I rested my chin in my hands. Holmes had always said that Nathan took after his mother. She did look a little like Nathan, especially the aristocratic nose and the high forehead. I took a deep breath. My second book was in the finishing process, perhaps it was time for me to take a vacation off from Oxford.
The next day I came back and found Finn sitting up in her bed. She said that she felt much better and would like to leave soon. "Maybe I can repay your kindness in some small ways, Miss Russell," she said sincerely. There were tints of pink in her cheeks.
"Well, maybe you can tell us who you are," Mycroft said blandly. He stood sternly in the doorway, with stacks of papers under his arm. I had never heard him talking in that tone to anyone before. He was always the gentle and big Mycroft.
She looked surprised, "why? I'm just Finn, with no last name, no family, no home, just Finn."
"Well, 'Just Finn.' Perhaps you can explain this," he said coldly and threw a stack of paper in front of her. She glanced at it indifferently and didn't even bothered to pick it up, "my compliments to the British secret agency, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes was off to Spain, to God-knows-what. Mycroft and I were in London, stuck with a God-knows-who. Silence with Mycroft, unlike the case with Holmes, was awful. I asked him for Finn's belongings, but these were inconclusive. A tattered outfit dirty as a mole rat, a few spare small coins, and a pair of huge army boots probably stolen from a dead soldier during the war. How did the child know French? Of course, there were urchins on the streets who could curse in several languages in one sentence. But when I pondered some more, something was not right. Her hands were not a poor working girl's hands. Although hidden under the sheets most of the time, I could remember the long thin fingers with the delicate skin. There were some mild calluses on the inside, but they were recent and fresh.
Her striking resemblance to a woman who died years ago made no sense, unless she was a relative or even a daughter. Mycroft told me that there were no records of Alinere having a third child. In fact, records showed that she died four years before the girl was even born.
The nurse left me alone with her. I rested my chin in my hands. Holmes had always said that Nathan took after his mother. She did look a little like Nathan, especially the aristocratic nose and the high forehead. I took a deep breath. My second book was in the finishing process, perhaps it was time for me to take a vacation off from Oxford.
The next day I came back and found Finn sitting up in her bed. She said that she felt much better and would like to leave soon. "Maybe I can repay your kindness in some small ways, Miss Russell," she said sincerely. There were tints of pink in her cheeks.
"Well, maybe you can tell us who you are," Mycroft said blandly. He stood sternly in the doorway, with stacks of papers under his arm. I had never heard him talking in that tone to anyone before. He was always the gentle and big Mycroft.
She looked surprised, "why? I'm just Finn, with no last name, no family, no home, just Finn."
"Well, 'Just Finn.' Perhaps you can explain this," he said coldly and threw a stack of paper in front of her. She glanced at it indifferently and didn't even bothered to pick it up, "my compliments to the British secret agency, Mr. Holmes."