Disclaimer: once again folks the canon is the sole property of Doyle Estates.
Éstat d'EspritChapter two
~*~
I found myself wishing for sunglasses as I stepped on stage. The one thing I truly could not stand about performing was the lighting. The harsh lights washed out all skin color, forcing me to make myself up like a hooker before every stage concert. Typically, I don't care much about dress, but tonight my outfit was as posh as the capital of my native country. I wore a silver silk jacket and skirt suit. The skirt was sleek and narrow flaring out gracefully from my knees to below my feet allowing me freedom of movement. The jacket was cut to exemplify the curves I didn't have, the sleeves stopped just above my elbows to show off the crimson wine colored ruffle edged shirt I wore underneath. With a stiff standing collar it set off the pair very well. I felt elegant, and that would show up in my music.
I flowed through the piece, La Mer cascading through the hall. My fingers moved by memory alone. That's how it's always been for me. When I started, I'd been so terrified of standing up in front of everyone my mind would blank out during the piece. The only way to get through it was to memorize the music and play through it so many times that my fingers would keep going in spite of my mind descending into anarchy. The panic was, of course, overcome, but I still savored the ecstasy of sinking into the music.
Once the piece was over, I impatiently waited, checking my urge to simply run off stage. The applause was gratifying, but I didn't bask in it. I'd much rather be putting La Mer in the Ritz safe so I could go to Lucia's party. Evidently, despite her lower rank in the London Phil hierarchy, she was something of an arte nouveau patroness for London's Elegant Gothic Lolita scene. I was looking forward to an after party I could actually enjoy. Instead of the emblematic millionaire's oppressive cocktail party, where I was forced to listen prune mouthed old ladies babble on and nod all the while, pretending I understood Italian. Money and intelligence had no correspondence; it was another of those lessons that life, for some reason, felt I needed.
I put La Mer in the case, grabbed my black trench coat, bag, and was out.
Damn the Paparazzi! I thought. Blinded, I groped in my bag and pulled my sunglasses out.
"Mademoiselle!"
"Miss Kinglars over here!
"Miss Emma Kinglars, Ritz security, come with us." A hand grasped my elbow; instinctively I pulled away. A man jumped in between the car and me. He raised a preposterously large camera and before I could react the dazzling flash of a supernova went off. I tripped backwards for the second time in a week, this time falling into the security guard.
"Lâchez-moi! Tu pervertir![i]" I yelled, not caring that the Paparazzi would be on this like maggots on a road kill carcass. I lurched onto my feet, unhappily; I couldn't see.
"Pardon, Madmoiselle, j'ai voulu dire seul aider.[ii]"
I shoved the person away as I regained my balance.
"You!"
I blinked dazedly into a pair of remotely familiar eyes.
"Pray elaborate, Watson," the pervert said, suavely.
"Freak," I muttered to myself.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," his tone dripped acid.
"Rien iii," I amended hastily. "Where's my car?"
"Car? I'm not familiar with that word." He frowned imposingly.
I massaged my brow to alleviate a massive headache, while trying to take in just exactly what I was seeing. A girl in a Mansfield Park dress was strolling down the cute (read: revoltingly filthy) Victorian lane, complete with trap and horse, and complimentary gas lamps! I opened my mouth to give a vulgar exclamation of astonishment, but nothing came out at all. In the process of making a truly valiant attempt to close my mouth, my knees gave out.
I sat on the ground head in my hands, trench coat pooled about me. An aching wave of nausea swept through me. Chills rippled just below the surface of my skin drawing together to shudder violently down my spine racking my body. Sweating, I began shaking uncontrollably, and I couldn't get enough air. My stomach rolled like spiral on a roller coaster and I leaned forward just in time to spare my skirt. While the Dead Sea spread across the sidewalk, I dry heaved. Cool hands grasped my throbbing head in blessed stillness while my body viciously convulsed. My head felt like it had been caught between an anvil and a blacksmith.
What had I done to the blacksmith?
I closed my eyes but the ground spun beneath me. I wanted to cry, I wanted to, but I couldn't breathe, crying wasn't possible. Silent sobs racked me between gasping for breath as I was swept up into the blissful arms of unconsciousness.
Dark shapes contorted across the blank grey horizon, twisting like demented cyclones. Menacing, I thrashed, trying to run; I couldn't move. Twin tornados sucked me up, I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. In the center were two frigid grey eyes; I was dragged upward to drown in the blackness of the omniscient pupils. The roaring had stopped. All was blackness, I could not see myself.
Nuit.
A desolate violin wavered harmonically; those horrible eyes pierced me. It went on, it was beautiful and I wanted to listen, but it hurt; I writhed to get away. Then it stopped.
All of it.
A gun report rang in my ears and my eyes flew open. Darkness, the room was dim and still.
"Holmes! You yourself diagnosed the poison!" It was Watson, muffled from another room. "It is as obvious to me as to you that something surreal is going on here, but I will not have you questioning her! She is at a critical stage in her recovery and if you upset her she could easily relapse!"
The voices faded out as sleep enfolded me.
The rattle of china awoke me. Eyes slowly swimming into focus, I looked up at a matronly woman. Her warm brown eyes smiled gently at me.
"Good morning dear. I thought some tea would be advisable."
I tried to lift my head, but it was much too heavy so I took stock of my vocal chords.
"Mrs. Hudson?" I croaked. The poor woman almost started out of her skin. I mentally winced; I hadn't really expected her to be able to make out what I was saying. She opened her mouth and then closed it. I hoped she dismissed it is have some how identified her from a previous conversation with Watson or Holmes. I'd never been much of a tea drinker, but at this point I was almost thirsty enough to drink…well, never mind. The only thing that kept me from chugging it down was that Mrs. Hudson was propping my head up and holding the cup for me. She put the cup back on the tray with a soft clink.
"Thank you," I was gratified to hear my almost normal voice come out.
She nodded her head in acknowledge, "Dr. Watson shall be in to see you soon."
I sighed and thrust myself up; luxury did not include the time for real thought.
Which chivalrous gentleman has been sleeping on the sofa? I mused to myself.
The room was an organized mess, but the music stand decided it. I was rather surprised and somewhat dismayed that I had managed to kick the great detective out of his own bedroom. I dimly recalled Watson's Hippocratic zeal with even more dismay; he had fired his revolver? What on earth had gotten into the man! I wasn't that delicate, in fact I wasn't delicate at all, I'd just been poisoned.
Poisoned!
With that flood of memory my frivolity was brushed aside. I was in Victorian England, unless this was some elaborate Truman Show ruse. Looking outside at the dismal London fog, I doubted it. It had hurt far too much to be a dream. Also I'd been in London for a week and the color of that fog could not be duplicated. I sat distracted, I could remember the performance and Watson yelling at Holmes, but my memory skittered around what had happened between those two events like a frightened colt.
Where in the canon had I landed? I shook my head, remembering my very first slip up with Mrs. Hudson. With one bad sentence I could screw up the whole canon.
I'd better keep my mouth shut and get out of here ASAP. Sooner or later something will slip and the less I'm around the less chances I have to destroy his career.
"Miss Kinglars?" The door cracked open and Watson leaned around it.
"Hullo," I said, nervously.
"How are you feeling?"
"Much better," I lied, well, sort of. Physically I was much better, mentally, hah, ha…no.
He went through the routine check up while filling me in, "you've been asleep, or delirious for the past three days. Gave us quite a fright for awhile," bemused by his language I smiled weakly, "You've had a particularly severe case of salicylate poisoning. Can you recollect your diet that day?"
I blinked down at the mysterious cotton nightgown I was wearing; did it matter? Even if I had grabbed a cup of poisoned coffee before I left the hall, they wouldn't be coming after me again. And it wasn't like I could warn anyone else; don't drink the coffee. I couldn't recall.
"It's of no consequence," I replied, softly.
"It is!" he disagreed, "if only for the fact that I'm holding a man starved for information back with my bare hands."
And what your not adding is he entertained a brief but successful career as a pugilist, I joked silently.
"Forgive me," he said, flustered, "I did not mean to imply—"
"Not all at." I smiled at him. "I think I am well enough to come out and meet your friend properly. Its about time I thank my benefactors for their overextended hospitality."
"It is my turn to say; not at all, for myself and Holmes." I got the impression of a gentleman taking of his hat to a lady, though naturally he wasn't wearing one indoors. "Mrs. Hudson will help you with a bath."
I bit my lip; help me with a bath?
I didn't want to distress Watson however and said nothing. Holmes had proved that Mrs. Hudson was a very reasonable woman.
[i] Release me! You pervert!
[ii] Forgive me, Miss, I meant only to help.
iii Nothing
