The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [180]
I saw his dim shape walk over to the window, and manoeuvre his way down until he located a viewing hole between the boards. By the way he came back, I knew what he had seen.
“They're already here, aren't they?” I asked. “They'd catch you up long before you got Damian on board.”
“We could give the child another dose of—”
“Absolutely not. I won't be party to drugging a child.”
“Then you propose we leave her here?”
We looked at each other for a moment, and I gave in. “She was very limp. I'd expect she'll sleep until dawn. Plenty of time for me to help you get Damian to the boat, and get back before she wakes.”
“Are you sure?” He was not asking about the timing.
“No,” I said. “But I saw a stretcher in the shed.”
So we carried him.
He nearly refused to go without his child. Only when I promised to guard her with my life did he agree, and even then he demanded to see her himself first. It took both of us to convince him that waking the child by moving her downstairs to say good-bye would put her in danger.
“Almost as much danger as the delay you're causing puts her in,” Holmes finally pointed out. We carried him. Two and a half miles to the end of the bay near Stromness; only once did we have to flatten ourselves to the verge to avoid head-lamps. The dinghy was there, hidden among reeds, and was big enough for two. Holmes and I got Damian upright, and Holmes started to lead him to the small boat.
Damian shook him off and grabbed my hand. “You promise you'll protect my Estelle? Tell her that her mother and I have to be away, but we'll be together very soon? You promise?”
“I promise to do everything I can to make her safe and comfortable.”
“And loved?”
“Yes. And loved.”
Holmes helped him into the boat, wrapping the blankets around him. Then he came to stand beside me. The water surged and ebbed gently at our boots; the few lights of Stromness sparkled across the ever-shifting surface.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You're going to find my services as nanny come expensive,” I told him, the threat both playful and real. But baby-sitting was not what he had in mind.
“I knew you would persist,” he said abruptly. “I knew that, were there evidence against Damian, you would find it.”
“Holmes,” I said, startled.
“Thank you for not forcing me to investigate my son.”
“I… yes. Get him to a doctor.”
“Soon.”
“And stay in touch—through Mycroft.”
“If he isn't also under arrest,” he said wryly, climbing into the dinghy.
“I'd almost forgot. You don't suppose he is?”
“If he is, you can always reach me through The Times agony column.” He sounded unworried about his brother's fate, and I agreed: Mycroft Holmes could look after himself.
“Holmes, don't—” I caught myself, and changed it to, “Just, take care.” Too melodramatic, to say, Don't make me tell the bees that their keeper has gone.
And so it ended as it had begun: Holmes vanished into the night with his son, leaving me with his other responsibilities.
I waited on the shore until he had reached the off-lying fishing boat and raised its captain. I heard the sounds as they pulled Damian on board, and the noise of the engine reached me half a mile down the road; after that I moved at a fast jog, all the way to the burnt-out hotel. I could see lights at the Stones, as the police puzzled out what had taken place there, but they did not seem to have discovered the violated hotel.
I let myself in and went upstairs. The candle was burning low in its saucer. Estelle was still asleep, although I thought the sound of her breathing was less profoundly drugged. I crept forward and eased my arms into the warm bed-clothes, moving so cautiously one might have thought I was handling nitroglycerine. She smelt of milk and almonds, and as I pulled the tangle of cotton and wool towards me, her breath caught. I froze. After a moment, she sighed, then nestled into my chest like a kitten in the sun.
An extraordinary sensation.
I stood slowly, and with exquisite care picked my way down the stairs to the inner room.