I have been working on this update for weeks, little tiny bits at a time! So sorry for the long wait, real life can be a real obstacle sometimes. Hopefully everyone is still with me on this story!
On all but the warmest of days, most every chamber of the castle was cool and slightly damp. On days when it rained, the sky opening for hours or days at a time, the entire household felt wet and Molly was sure she could not take ten steps without encountering a drip. When she had woken in the morning to dark skies and the sound of a steady downpour, she made for the ground floor and the room with the most plates of window glass – the library. The features of the room helped to keep it slightly drier than any other and the small fire warmed her as she read.
It made her long for the warmth of her father's home with its windows open to the sunshine, the hearth in the kitchen always glowing and inviting. She shook her head when she realized she had been staring into nothingness for several minutes, forcing her eyes to return to the heavy tome she had pulled from the library shelves. Mycroft Holmes had an enviable collection of books, far greater than any she had ever seen, and it was fortunate that James had chosen to leave it untouched. It was one of the few chambers in the castle in which she was left alone to do as she pleased. At the moment, she was pouring over a text on the healing properties of certain plants, grateful to escape the deadly tension of the rest of the castle.
Five days had passed since the night of the feast and punishment had landed quickly on the members of the guard who had let Sherlock slip through their fingers. James had been beyond enraged, or so she heard. She'd stayed enclosed in her chambers so as not to tempt his anger. To her horror, rumors had traveled that a figure was seen climbing down from her window. The library was as far as she dared venture in the days since.
A knock at the door made her jump and she was relieved to turn and see Sally poke her head in before entering with a tray of food.
"Sally, how are you today?" she asked.
"Well, my Lady," Sally replied as she set the tray on a small table next to Molly. "And you?"
"Keeping out of trouble," she said, sharing a knowing smile with her.
Deliberately delaying as she rearranged the food on the tray, Sally glanced at the door.
"Peter the saddler has been suffering from a bad cough again. Bedridden. Moriarty's physician has been unable to attend to him and will continue to be so as the household is preparing for a journey to London. Summons from the palace. Unfortunate, is it not?" Sally said as she poured a cold glass of water into a chalice.
It was one of the things Molly truly admired about her; Sally had the uncanny ability to know the business of half of Huntingdon and the workings of the castle, never failing to alert Molly when her services were needed. She was skilled at the way she worked, if a bit frightful in her manners at times. Then again, Molly always did seem drawn to those who could stand a lesson in tact from time to time.
"Very unfortunate," Molly agreed, sitting down at the table and reaching for a small berry tart. "His services will be required to attend to James, I gather?"
Sally nodded and straightened up, her hands coming to rest on her hips.
"His Lordship's caravan leaves in the morning. Sheriff Moran will be following the next day."
"What a pity," Molly said, pursing her lips into a false pout.
"Indeed," Sally said, her eyebrows raising. "Whatever shall we do without them?"
The rain lessened as the day went on and Molly finally left the library when the servants began the evening task of stoking fires in the hearths and lighting the lanterns and torches. Her skirts brushed along the floor as she moved through the castle passageways, seeking out a page to deliver a message to the stable. She wanted her mount saddled in the late morning. With James leaving, she would be more at liberty to come and go as she pleased; no trying to hide her movements.
The page ran off immediately to deliver her message and she turned to walk back to the main stairwell. Her heart nearly jumped into her throat when she turned the corner and came face to face with James. The light from the torches flickered unnaturally over his face, leaving him half in shadow as he leaned against the wall, the silk and gems of his attire glinting slightly. It took her a moment to realize he was not looking directly at her; rather, his eyes focused just over her shoulder, unmoving and dark. Still as stone. Her skin crawled.
"Sir," she murmured, offering the smallest of curtsies.
His eyes drifted to look at her.
"Going riding, Margaretta?" he said slowly, his lips moving lazily.
Molly felt her mouth go dry.
"I felt…after all this rain, I felt that it would be nice. To go riding," she said quietly.
In an instant, James had turned and placed his mouth close to her ear, his shoulder pressing into hers. She backed away until she felt the wall behind her, wishing she could run without igniting further ire from him. His breath was hot on the side of her face and it suddenly struck her that no man had been this close to her before; not in this way.
"You're a clever girl," he said, his voice a threatening hum. "It would be wise for you to mind yourself while I am gone. I would take you with me, but, well…you would only be in the way for what I have planned. I know how much you value your purity."
She flinched and bit her tongue to control her hatred as his lips brushed against her ear while he spoke. James stepped away from her and grinned, turning on his well-polished heel and striding away.
"I will be informed if you have any visitors, my Lady," he threw over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.
The care with which Molly slipped from the castle and down to the stables the next day was great. Waiting until James' caravan had departed only reduced her chances of being watched a small amount. The whole household turned out to send the party off and most people were still bustling about after they had gone. Unable to wait any longer, Molly donned her grey cloak and pulled the hood up, choosing the servants' stair as her route to exit the castle. She crossed the grounds quickly, lifting her skirts to avoid the rain-muddied dirt. The stable boys were playing a dice game when she walked into the wooden building, but her horse was saddled and tethered, waiting for her. The boys barely paid her any mind as she gathered the reins and swung up into the saddle without so much as a mounting block, taking off at a fast trot.
She took the back roads to Anderson's inn, looking over her shoulder every so often and fearful that she would be followed. The air was crisp and clean and the woods exuded the heavy scent of damp foliage. It contrasted sharply with the slight smell of mildew from the old walls of the inn as she stood on the back stoop, waiting for the door to be answered.
"You'll have to be quick, Molly," Anderson said in a hushed voice as the door swung open. "Three of Moran's flunkies are filling up on ale in the great room."
"Shouldn't they be preparing for their master's journey tomorrow," she said critically. Anderson shrugged as he tugged the plank of wood from the wall.
"They'll be in fine shape if they continue on," he said, stepping away to allow Molly to gather what she needed. "They've already gone through half a barrel."
Molly gave him a tight smile and turned to look through the bags and bowls of dried plants, finding the one she needed.
"Horehound?" Anderson asked.
"Peter's cough is back," she explained, her brow lowering. "It's worse every time. I'm afraid all I can do now is try to make him comfortable."
In her time helping her father attend to the illnesses in Huntingdon, Molly learned that people often did not need to be told when they were facing death. They had a way of knowing. Usually they spoke of messages from God, making peace with their lives and waiting to meet the Lord and the angels for an eternity of peace. She understood why they easily accepted their fate, craving the ease of the end of a hard life made worse by sickness. If her father had believed in the church, he may have looked for the same comfort as his cancer took him. Then again, if the church had known he did not believe, it wouldn't have been the cancer he would have had to worry about.
Peter the saddler had the look Molly recognized as resigned when she administered the syrup she made from the horehound. That did not surprise her. His words to her as she gathered her things to leave, however, did.
"My family…will you make sure they are taken care of?"
Molly blinked, her mouth falling open slightly.
"How – I'm not sure how I can - "
"Tell Sherlock," Peter said, grasping her hand with his. "He'll make it right."
She felt flustered when she left, grabbing her horse's reins and walking to the road, feeling the need to work off energy. This was exactly why she did not approve of what Sherlock had been doing. He was having a good time ruffling James' feathers; meanwhile, people were becoming desperate to rely on him now that he was trying to right the wrongs of the last two years. If Sherlock decided to stop for any reason, or if he was caught and punished, the consequences for the people of Huntingdon would be severe.
The sudden snap of a twig behind her made her jump and she chastised herself for letting her thoughts become such a distraction. She whipped around and saw no one, but carefully stepped towards her saddle bags and slipped her hand inside, searching for the small dagger she carried with her.
"Who's there?" she called, looking hard into the brush when she heard another rustle. "Show yourself."
A figure stepped out from the shadows, clad in brown robes with the hood drawn, hands raised.
"It's alright, Margaretta. It's just me."
"Oh, Gregory," she said in relief, immediately dropping the blade back into the saddle bag. "You gave me a fright. I'm so glad to see you well, I'd been so worried since I saw you last."
"We've found out little place in the world," Lestrade told her, stepping closer and mindfully glancing up and down the road. "Forced into hiding, of course, but we make do. I'm sure Sherlock has told you all about it, though, hasn't he?"
Molly's nose wrinkled as she considered his words, suddenly realizing that Sherlock had told her none of this. In fact, she hadn't the faintest idea of where he was living or who he had been spending his time with; only the rumors of the castle and Sally's story of the most recent burglary had given her any hint. She glanced at the position of the sun in the sky before looking back to Lestrade.
"I'd like to see where you've been staying," she told him, collecting the reins of her horse again.
"Ah. Well, I'm not sure that's the best…It's very rough living. Not at all what you're used to," he said, his brow furrowing worriedly. Molly rolled her eyes.
"Why does everyone in Christendom suddenly think I've become a frail flower?" she asked impatiently. "I did not grow up as a Lady. Now take me to his Lordship, I have a word or two I'd like to say to him."
Lestrade complied quickly, leading her off the path and through the woods. The smell of campfire smoke and roasting meat reached her nose well before they crossed a shallow part of the stream, Lestrade insisting she ride to avoid the water, and walked into a camp well hidden by the forest and land. People stood and stared as she rode in, faces she recognized from the county and had not seen in some time. She took in their disheveled appearances, their clothes worn and patched or replaced with random cloth or skins. Her hand slid against the rich cloth of her gown, the color of honeysuckle, and she bit her lip, frowning.
She dismounted quickly, hands wringing the reins as she followed Lestrade towards one corner of the camp.
"Have you lost your senses entirely, Lestrade?"
Sherlock's angry voice boomed across the clearing, jolting her attention to a small cluster of tents. He was striding towards them quickly, tall boots striking the ground forcefully and his green cape billowing behind him. There was a storm in his eyes.
"What failure of your mind is at fault for your decision to bring her here?" he demanded, closing in on them.
"She wanted to come," Lestrade replied, standing tall.
"Oh," Sherlock exclaimed, his face softening dramatically, a hand to his breast. "Oh, she wanted to come. My apologies, I did not realize there was such a suitable reason for bringing James Moriarty's prize ward to our secret hideout and risking exposure by being followed!"
"We weren't followed," Molly said firmly. Sherlock's eyes darted to hers and she felt her heart jump.
"He's not that careless," he said.
"He's not in Huntingdon," she replied. Her words stilled him and she saw his eyes narrow, darting slightly the way they always did when he was thinking far too hard.
"Where has he gone?" a familiar voice asked.
For the first time in over a year, Molly saw John. Her mouth dropped open slightly at the sight of him, his hair grown long and a short layer of whiskers covering his face. Nothing like the assistant her father had taken in. He stood next to a young man, both dressed equally haphazard in found linens and animal hide.
"Traveled to London," she said, recovering from the surprise. "Moran follows tomorrow."
Sherlock's head lifted and he smiled.
"Bill!" he called and a scrawny boy scampered out from a nearby tent, practically standing at attention when he reached them. "Deliver a message to Sally in the castle kitchen. She and Martha are the only ones to hear it, do you understand? Make sure they known that Lady Margaretta is safe with me, but they are to tell everyone that she has taken ill and must stay in her chambers, undisturbed by anyone. Take her horse, return it to the stables. Do all this and there's a gold coin in it for you."
"Yes sir," Bill cried with a smile. He stepped up to Molly and held out his hand. Barely registering what she was doing, she turned her mare over and watched him jog from the clearing, her horse trotting along after him.
Molly stared at Sherlock, not entirely sure she understood what had just happened.
"You want me locked up in my chambers when I return?" she questioned him.
"Oh no, Molly," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up. "You're staying right here. After all this time under Moriarty's rule, a little freedom will do you good."
"Freedom?" she repeated. "Hardly feels like it with you ordering me about. And where exactly am I supposed to sleep?"
"You can stay with Mary," Sherlock said, the mirth gone from his voice as he nodded towards John's companion. Molly's brow furrowed.
"Will," the young man – Mary, apparently – corrected him with exasperation.
"Right, sorry" Sherlock said with a shake of his head. He waved a hand towards the man. "Will. Previously Mary, well, still Mary. The point is, you can share with her and you'll be quite safe. Come, John, we have things to plan."
Turning quickly, Sherlock walked away from the group and towards the steep hillside on the far side of the camp. John looked at her, shrugging an apology, and followed. She was left facing Lestrade and Mary and for some reason feeling terrified at spending even one night outside of the castle. What if she had been followed after all? What if they noticed that she never returned, or searched her rooms?
"Molly, is it?" Mary's voice interrupted her thoughts. She was smiling kindly, her blue eyes bright and warm. Molly nodded. "You must be hungry. Come sit by the fire, I'll fix you a plate of something."
Molly followed her, conscious of the faces of others in the camp watching her, and settled on a tree stump next to a cheering fire. The soup Mary handed her was a bit thin, but delicious. Her eyes wandered over the small, blonde woman, curiosity about her clothing renewed.
"Why are you…I mean, if it's not impolite to ask…there are other women in this camp. Why do you - "
"Dress as a boy?" Mary finished for her. She poked at the fire to stir new life into it before sitting on the ground, tucking her knees up and leaning back against a fallen log. "My father had many debts. He drank too much and barely hid his visits to the brothels. The only smart thing my mother ever did was leave him. As soon as I was old enough, he sold me – and I do mean he sold me – to pay off one of his debts. I was to marry the son of a man to whom he owed a great deal of money. The night before I was to marry him…I stole my brother's clothing, cut off my hair, and ran with everything I had in my possession. I sold a few of my dresses in order to eat. If it weren't for meeting John, I would likely be living in some dank alley by now. I had very little left to my name."
Molly felt the overpowering desire to embrace her, but decided against the impulse. Ever since her father's death, she had been awash in self pity at her fate, pining for her old life and its comforts. Living with James could be frightening, but she was starting to see that things could have been much worse. She swallowed a spoonful of soup guiltily and stared earnestly at Mary.
"John is a very good man," she said sincerely. "He worked for my father."
"So he's told me," Mary said with a smile. "He speaks of him with great fondness."
Molly felt her chest tighten, but she smiled back appreciatively. What a band of misfits the forest had collected.