Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Read Free Page A

so hard, but the man was dangerous.  
    “Sir, you only just chastised me for not speaking”—she mustered her courage—“but now you are chastising me for speaking?”
    “ Impressive.   She thinks,” he murmured, his recently bloodied lip twitching as if he were fighting a smile.   “I suppose I cannot fault you for wishing to know the magnificent workings of my mind.”   Suddenly he turned to move towards his study.   As if on impulse, he beckoned her to follow him, and when she did so—anyone else would dare say she was crazy to think so—but she knew very well the great man reached out his foot and tripped her!  
    Flailing her arms about wildly, she perceived instantly that she was going to knock something over.   To avoid such a mishap, she forced herself to fall to the ground, her palms spread out in front of her to block her fall.  
    Either way, standing or lying down, she had no hope of being given this job.   Possibly it was for the best.   Even so, she would be mortified to break even the smallest, most inconsequential knick-knack belonging to Sherlock Holmes, or more importantly, bones belonging to her (not inconsequential).  
    He glanced down at her with the furrow in his brow much reduced and a curious expression on his face—not a smile, precisely, but something which might become one in a century or so.
    “Take my hand, if you please,” he offered.   She stared at the strong hand of the incomparable detective for a moment, wondering what he had in store for her next.   Possibly to pull her half-way to her feet and then throw her out the window.  
    Mirabella glanced at the window.   It was closed.  
    She gave him her hand.
    “You’re not a feather of a girl, are you?” he grunted, assisting her to her feet.   “ Just as I thought .”
    “ Well, I never!”   There was no hope of obtaining this position anyway, so why should she allow him to talk to her that way?   Outside of the fact that the sun rose and set on him as far as she was concerned.   “Mr. Holmes, no girl growing up on a farm and accustomed to hard work is particularly light.   But I do not have an ounce of fat on me!   In fact, some consider me too thin!”
    “Did I call you fat , miss?” the great detective asked her pointedly, rubbing his back momentarily.   Suddenly he frowned, disapproval evident.   “Most certainly I did not.   I wished to learn if your deceptively feminine frame is as muscular as was indicated.   And, as usual, I was right .”
    “But . . .” She was truly confused now.
    “Furthermore . . . I will satisfy your curiosity, miss, regarding my prior knowledge of your familial and employment status since you are clearly incapable of deriving the pattern of my thought processes for yourself.”   He smoothed his ivory ascot tie into a silk vest, seating himself on the stool in front of his laboratory, one leg extended.  
    “Your clothing is neatly pressed,” he continued, “but well worn and certainly not of the first fashion.   You have had a job in a laboratory—there is a hole on the sleeve of your dress which has been patched—a chemical burn, not a kitchen burn by the looks of it.   Further supporting this theory, you have recently lost a patch of hair:   it has grown back lighter and of a different length than the rest of your hair—an explosion of some type is responsible, I believe.   Was it your error?   I must presume so or you would still be in that employ.   No doubt you were mixing something you shouldn’t have been?”  
    “I was mixing something, but whether I shouldn’t have been is a different matter—it was in an attempt to serve my employer.”   She ran her hands over her simple white and green cotton dress, fitted to the waist, with embarrassment.   She might not be rich, but her clothes were clean and ironed.   She checked to see if her brown hair was still pulled back into a neat bun, and if the green ribbon remained symmetrical after the