Silhouettes Chapter 8

I am more than eager to read your response to this chapter.

Thank you so much for all of the follows on tumblr! I apologize for my lack of activity, but I've had a lot on my plate lately. That being said, I also appreciate the follows on this site and twitter, as well as your wonderful reviews. You are glorious.

-XXX-

I stay indoors, in my darkened room, for several days. While my mother had no real part in my life, her death has affected me. The possibility of "maybes" and "somedays" has slipped beyond my grasp – I will now never know my mother.

Two days following the news, I rise around noon. I've not showered since that morning, but I have no motivation to do so today. Instead, I cross to my vanity on heavy limbs, and sit before the mirror. From the bottom drawer, tucked between the pages of an old journal, I retrieve a photo; the only photo I have of my mother. I'd found it when I was about seven, in our attic. She's very young in it, perhaps twenty. Her hair is dark, like mine, and long, hanging past her shoulders and fluttering in a breeze that is unseen, yet perfectly captured. Her eyes stare straight into the camera, clear and bright, teasing. They're the clearest blue I've ever seen – except maybe Ben's. Her expression is sharp. She's aware, curious, lips cutting in a sculpted smile.

When I was old enough to realize I look like her, I knew she was beautiful and that I had inherited features of that beauty but they hadn't quite come together. I possessed the straight nose and ivory skin, but I am more curvaceous by far, with wider hips and more meat on my bones. The generously plump mouth is entirely my father's. My eyes are a hazel-y green rather than an ethereal violet. My hair falls back in the same dark waves, waves that are more often than not fizzed from the briny sea air than sleek and shining. Oh yes, I had the features – but they are not so similar as to mark me as her daughter. I am glad of this, because to look too much like her would hurt my father. To resemble her too greatly would remind everyone of who my mother was, would remind them of the caged and brilliant Ms. Carters, who ran off on her husband and child.

I turn to the mirror. My face is gaunt, eyes sparkles. I cannot recognize myself. Holding up the picture next to my face, all I can see is her.

Fist clench. The picture falls to the vanity counter. I'm left staring into the mirror, my heart racing, wondering "Why, why, why?"

-XXX-

Almost a week passes before I can bring myself to leave the house. The first place I go is Ben's. I find the door, unlocked, as usual, and for some reason this little detail catches in my throat.

He's seated at his desk, dressed in his usual suit jacket and trousers, wearing a black shirt that stretches nicely over his thin form. I approach on tender feet. He doesn't look up.

"Ben?"

The glance I receive is fast, a quick calculation of my figure. I hang back, waiting for the inevitable conclusion. It doesn't take long.

"A week isn't a very long time to be in mourning."

I roll my eyes. "And I am impressed."

His lips quirk.

"You're not going to ask how I am?"

"I already know," he answers shortly. "Would you hand me the poker?"

"How could you know? The sloppy dress, messy hair, red eyes, I can get all of that. But how could you know how I'm feeling?" I'm not angry in the least, just curious.

He blinks, but never removes his eyes from the screen. "How does anyone feel after loosing a grandparent?"

For a moment, I'm forced to freeze. Then, slowly, I shake my head. "It wasn't my grandparents, Ben. "

It's Ben turn to halt. He frowns into the screen. "Uncle."

"No." It's strange how breezy I can pretend to be in this guessing game.

"Aunt, of course."

"Wrong again. Mother. Six months ago," I say quietly. "The lawyers couldn't find contact information until a few weeks ago. I'm going to London on Thursday to visit with them."

"Mother," he repeats. He turns to me. "Has there been an obituary?"

It is a slightly morbid question. But I answer anyway. "No. Not yet. She's already had a funeral, anyways."

"How did she die?"

Now it's irritating. "I don't know," I snap. "They were very vague. I'll probably find out on Thursday, when they read me the will. Cancer, or something, I don't know."

"If it were cancer she'd have time to prepare," he murmurs, and I know it's not directed towards me. "At the very least, write a letter or call or something. Connect with that last bit of legacy. Strange. I'd guess freak accident or murder. Not suicide, she'd still prepare for that. You're her daughter, her last connection to living on. And being as flighty as she was, I'd doubt she had any other children. No, she'd want to see you…so not suicide, not cancer or any other disease of that nature, so…freak accident or murder."

My fists are balled tightly. "Thank you," I ground out. "For that wonderful speculation of the cause of my mother's death, but I don't think you're qualified to give any assumptions on the life and death of Irene Adler –"

At this, Ben freezes completely. The entire room seems to just stop. Stiffly, as though he is mechanical, he looks up.

"What did you say?" he asks lowly.

I blink. "You've got no right to make any guesses about the life and death of my mother?"

"No," he says slowly, enunciating with great care. "The name. What. Was. Her. Name?"

His impassioned manner is frightening. I've never seen Ben's eyes flash so. Their depth has been magnified, the ice hardened. His fingers flex dangerously against the wood grain of the desk. I swallow.

"Adler," I say softly. "Irene Adler. She took back her maiden name when she left Dad. It's my middle name, actually."

I did not think that his expression could be scarier. His face transforms into that of a man who is watching his entire world fall apart. Eyes wide. Face, completely frozen, figure stiff. It's terrifying. Ben simply isn't expressive like that. I'm tempted to draw back. Instead I near, crouching before him.

"You recognize it. Her name. You knew my mother?"

Ben just stares. I put a tentative hand on his knee.

"Ben…Ben, please. If you knew her, you have to tell me," I plead.

While he's looking at me, Ben isn't truly looking at me, he's seeing through me. And for the first time since we've started this weird dynamic, I'm the ghost between us. I am the half-person. The silhouette, broken only by air and sound and light. And I cannot bear it.

A hand goes to my hair, as though he is trying to reassure himself that I am real. Still kneeling before him, I sit still a state of semi-shock. Because Ben doesn't just touch people, unless it is absolutely necessary. And he sure as hell doesn't caress their skull, curl his fingers into their hair as he's doing at the moment. That is simply not Ben. My hands reach up to curl around his own limbs. I might be crying – I feel lightheaded and perhaps my cheeks are wet, but I can't speak and I cannot really tell and –

My face is tilted upwards, held aloft by Ben's long-fingered hands. He's positively incredulous.

"The woman," he says softly, almost so quietly I cannot make out his words. "But how…?"

Those scarily bright eyes are flashing over my face, searching. "Never easy to read," he murmurs, and I know he's not referring to me. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."

I know that poem. We'd had to read it in school. Was that what he thought me to be? Or my mother? A beauty lady with no mercy? My stomach lurches. He's spot on, if that's the case.

"Ben," My hands move to mimic his own. I cup those sharp cheekbones, pads of my thumbs stroking his cold skin. "Please, did you know her? How did you know my mother?"

With my words, he seems to break from the reverie. The glaze over his eyes fades, and he blinks slowly, as though waking from a dream. Ben straightens, releasing me. I do the same, and rise from my crouched position. Uncertain, I back away. But a hand flashes out to catch my wrist. Ben's standing before me, impassive, holding my arm.

"Tea," is all he says before he releases me and ducks into the kitchen.

Dumbfounded, I stand in the middle of the parlor. I wasn't even aware Ben knew how to make tea. However, from where I stand I can hear the sink, hear him filling the kettle and setting it to boil, followed by the rustling of hands searching for the strainer, then the clink of mugs being removed from the cupboard. After several seconds, I trail into the sitting part of the parlor and sink into the loveseat.

Ben reappears a few minutes later. He soundlessly hands me a mug, then takes up the armchair perpendicular to me. I let the moment hang in the air for several minutes before launching my question.

"Did you know her?"

"No. Not personally." It is said simply, without inflection. "But I knew of her."

That isn't enough to sway me from further inquiry. "How?"

His lips quirk. "Her business was caught up in some…scandal a while back. I was asked to clean up."

"What business?" I ask sharply.

"I daresay you'll find out shortly," he responds coolly. A pause. "It isn't my place to tell."

This is enough to satisfy me for the moment on that count. But I am not finished. "Why…did you react like that?"

He is silent. I prod again with his name, gently. When I receive no reply I decide to take action Leaning forward, my hand brushes his knee. In response, he casts me a reproachful look.

"She has a reputation. I was merely surprised to discover the relation."

I don't quite believe him, for some reason. The memory of the file still flashes in my mind. Ben Holly has something hidden, some secret or something he is keeping from me. I all too desperately wish to know what and why. But, as everything involving Mr. Holly, no amount of questioning will lead me to these answers. He's mysterious. An enigma in his own right.

"You're nothing like her," he adds after several seconds, an afterthought. "Not in the least.

If it's a compliment, a reassurance, or a slight, I do not know. I finish my tea without further questions. Ben returns to his desk. I take up a book. And, for the moment, things return to a state of semi-normalcy.

-XXX-

I am more than eager to read your response to my twist…

Hopefully no one is too mad. I mean, there wasn't too much foreshadowing, so I know some people will be upset, and then I just introduced the mother in there anyways...

*sigh*

Questions, comments, critiques and concerns, I attempt to answer them when I'm free of homework. Big shout out to DouloAnastasis for reading and reviewing every chapter last night. Huge pick-me-up. Thank you oodles.