The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [172]
All this was with his back to me, so he was nothing but an indistinct shape in a dim room. I considered moving around to the boarded-up door and seeing if I could find a crack, but before I could move, he turned, and the unruly hair and beard identified him: Damian Adler.
If prisoner he was, then a very blasé prisoner indeed, making tea and sandwiches as if living in a burnt-out building with a religious fanatic was the humdrum stuff of everyday Bohemian life.
He turned away to the tea-pot, and I pressed my face closer against the glass, trying to get some sense of the man. Did he, too, burn with the fanaticism of Testimony? Had this rumpled figure participated in the ritual murder of his wife? Was he about to join in the similar slaughter of an innocent step-daughter?
My nose hovered near the glass, my spectacles dangerously close to tapping its hard surface; without warning, a hand came down on my shoulder.
The Sacrifice of Setting Loose (1): As we have seen,
the greater the sacrifice, the greater the energies loosed.
This is an age of War, when the earth has drunk the
sacrificial blood of millions. The world lies primed,
for a transformative spark.
Testimony, IV:8
THE SCREAM THAT CAME FROM MY THROAT WAS instantly stifled, emerging as a strangled death-rattle. Before Damian could turn I was already gone, attacking my attacker.
My muscles responded automatically to the hand on my shoulder, but as instantly lost all strength at the hasty whisper, “Russell!”
“Holmes? Holmes! What the hell are you— Quick, away from the window.”
I pushed him away, to the corner and beyond, then eased my head back: A shadow pressed against the window, looking for the sound; after a minute, it retreated. I turned and punched Holmes on the chest.
“Damn it, Holmes, what are you doing here? You were on your way to Norway, for God's sake.”
“You did not receive my message?”
“No—how would I receive a message? I haven't heard a word from you since you left London.”
“Interesting. I'd have thought Mycroft…”
“Holmes.”
“I rethought my plans.”
“Obviously.”
“‘Many things having full reference to one consent, may work contrariously; as many arrows, loosed several ways, fly to one mark.’”
“Holmes!”
“Shakespeare, on bees. Henry the Fifth,” he added.
“Damn it, Holmes!”
“I decided you were right.”
“You decided—? Good heavens. Well, sweet bloody hell, I wish you'd let me know earlier, I nearly jumped through the window when you grabbed me.”
“That would have been unfortunate.”
I hit him again, for good measure, and felt somewhat better. Felt considerably better, in fact, with him at my side. I threw my arms around him and hugged him, hard, then stood back and explored his face with my hands.
“You haven't shaved in days,” I exclaimed, “and why are you so damp? You're freezing.”
“I have spent most of the past three days at sea,” he answered, which explained both the difficulty of shaving and the permeating moisture.
“We need to get you out of the cold.”
“That is of secondary importance.”
“They're brewing tea, they won't be going anywhere for a time. Let me just check—” I tip-toed back to the window, and glimpsed Damian unconcernedly pouring water into the tea-pot. I retrieved Holmes and led him towards the hotel's out-buildings.
These were securely locked, but the padlock on the biggest one would not have challenged a child. The interior stank of fish and contained a lot of nets, poles, gum boots, and paddles, but in a window-less corner room I found a store of elderly bed-clothes and paraphernalia for the guests, from water carafes to expensive fly-fishing rods. A wicker picnic basket contained a filled paraffin burner, a packet of tea leaves, and even a tin of slightly crumbled biscuits. When I lit the burner, a remarkably