Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a simple message she thought any person with half a brain would be able to decipher. But she wasn’t after someone with half a brain. Enola Holmes was hoping a lanky young man with a full brain and a love for flowers still got the pads of his fingers dirty from reading the newspaper. She’d be awfully disappointed in Tewkesbury if he chose not to continue his mission to be a cultured man with the ability to read almost any text.

It’d been a few days since she’d left her message in the Agony Column. Despite not being an avid reader of it, Tewkesbury was. He liked the romance of secret messages. Apparently, he liked to spend some time trying to decode the messages, although whenever she asked him why that was so, he’d flush furiously and stutter something nonsensical before goading her into an impassioned spiel about Sherlock’s latest case and how she could’ve solved the murder-slash-robbery-slash-familial manipulation within days rather than a week.

It was an ego boost to be seen in such a way by someone so, well… smart, she supposed. A little important to her, but not so important she flushed at the thought.

She missed him. She missed his letters. She missed spying on him at the House of Lords when he took his duties seriously and she missed how he would pretend he didn’t know she was hiding behind a pillar or kneeling behind a round wooden barrel so that he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of her watching him. She missed him in a way that made her feel as though she was about to tip over and spill like some bottle of ink.

That uneasiness was what led her to stalk him from outside of his city apartment. Of course, to be able to stalk him, the stalker was required to find the stalkee to begin the activity of stalking.

Dressed in baggy male clothes (a little itchy, although she supposed that helped complete the character) and a hat with a short brim that easily hid her long hair, Enola altered the gait of her walk as she hurried down the street leading her to Tewkesbury’s quiet little home.

It wasn’t anything grand like the home he’d grown up in. She much preferred to meet him there. Being able to climb the trees and throw sticks at him and question him about every flower in the garden was becoming one of her favourite hobbies. Meeting him in his rooms meant she was required to be somewhat proper… and Enola didn’t like that one bit. It made her feel unlike herself. Worst of all, it made it harder for her to recognise him when propriety bound him.

But duty called—and so did a precarious case. A wealthy man by the name of Jack Bennett had been murdered with no defensive wounds but with dried blood pooling at his mouth. There hadn’t been a sign of a break-in. Enola suspected that he had been killed by someone he knew, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it all by herself without Sherlock’s assistance. If she didn’t solve it by the end of the week, she knew her brother would. And no one could have that.

Climbing the steps of Tewkesbury’s apartment, she raised her fist and knocked hard enough to bruise her knuckles. She waited impatiently for him to unlock the door. Looking around the street in impatience, she sighed in exasperation. He was never this tardy.

He didn’t answer.

That simply won’t do. She knocked again and again and again until one of his neighbours opened their door in a tizzy and informed her rather brusquely that he wasn’t home. When they slammed the door rather unnecessarily rudely, Enola huffed a breath and scratched at the back of her head. The cap was itchy, too. She didn’t like that at all—not one bit.

Tardy as he might have been yesterday, he wasn’t with his message in the newspaper.

Seated at the kitchen table of her modest city apartment, Enola stuffed half a muffin into her mouth and eagerly held the newspaper close to her face as if the ink smelled like him. She chewed thoughtfully, which meant she didn’t look ladylike at all. She ignored the crumbs that snuck past her lips. While Tewkesbury much preferred to write letters in his obnoxiously elegant hand, he’d taken a liking to leave her notes in the newspaper. After all, it was how she preferred to write to him.

Enola was eager to reply. The next day, she sent him a simple message in the form of an ad on the back page that would no doubt have him solve it just in time to meet her:

Gibberish to many, but clear and poignant to one specific person. He would know the key. He was the one to give it to her.

Enola swung her legs off the side of his treehouse as she ate a bright red apple. Although she was early, it had nothing to do with her excitement. She simply valued being on time… or early enough to be on time before it was time.

She was a little disappointed he hadn’t left her anything to read. The last time they had chosen to meet here, he’d given her a puzzle to solve. Leaving clues on pieces of burnt and crumpled paper, he’d led her on a little goose chase to find the book that he recommended she devour. It’d taken him hours to pen the notes and burn their edges enough to give it an old kind of look and another hour or two to set the scene in the treehouse, leaving a note beneath the table, between a crack of the wooden planks, and even tucked between the tree trunk and the wooden makeshift ladder. She’d found the book within five minutes.

When Tewkesbury appeared beneath her, she ignored the fluttering in her chest. It was just Tewkesbury. She was merely excited to receive his help. After all, he knew many things she was only beginning to grasp—and while Enola liked to be the smartest person in the room on most days, Tewkesbury had his uses.

For one, he was tall. And with that height, he could pick the highest book off the shelf for her without needing to trouble with a ladder. He was useful in that regard.

And he was an expert in some poisons.

She watched him climb the rickety wooden planks that made the staircase to the treehouse. Pulling himself through the hole with a grunt, he rose to his full, lanky height before taking a seat beside her. She handed him an apple and smiled as he took it with one hand. He politely bowed his head; Enola didn’t reciprocate.

He was wearing one of his best suits, although everything Tewkesbury wore looked like it was his best suit. It was a nice deep grey that always made his dark eyes stand out in a rather strange way. He looked nice. Enola held her apple tightly with both of her hands to stop herself from reaching out and brushing her fingers through his floppy, fluffy hair. It was a stupid impulse, one born from mere curiosity to see if he would bat her hand away.

"I got your message," he said. He kept one hand behind his back as he sat beside her rather clumsily with his long legs hanging off the side of the treehouse. Despite looking much like a proper lord, he was still her Tewkesbury. All oddly shaped limbs and awkward movements.

"Obviously," she said with her mouth full of apple, "otherwise you wouldn’t be here."

He smiled and shook his head—perhaps in exasperation—and looked away from her. She watched him briefly before glancing away just in time to avoid his returned gaze.

"I’m happy to help," he said, looking at her earnestly. Enola busied herself with looking at the tops of the trees and the expanse of the yard he now owned. His home was a beautiful endless mystery. She wished to explore all the corners and uncover its secrets. There was more to Tewkesbury than this treehouse; there were memories waiting to be discovered by her with him in tow. "Tell me," he said, shifting beside her and bumping his knee against the side of her leg. "What do you need?"

Enola inhaled and opened her mouth to start on her impassioned speech, but her eyes dropped to what was in his hand. He hadn’t taken a bite of his apple—which she thought was awfully rude—but what was in his other hand was a flower. He twirled its stalk between his fingers as if it was a quill. As if it was nothing.

She furrowed her brows and tilted her head to the side as she regarded it as a curious mystery. "What is that?"

"This?" He dared to blush as he looked down at the flower, pretending as though he hadn’t noticed it between his fingertips. Stupid boy. "This is a flower, Enola Holmes."

She rolled her eyes. "I know it’s a flower," she said exasperatedly. "What are you doing with it?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you! Who else is sitting here holding a flower?"

He had the gall to laugh at her as he looked at the flower again. There was a redness to his cheeks. She liked that look on him—and much preferred that she was the one who put it there. Her mother had once told her some men liked to blush in front of women who were much smarter than them. Intimidated, she’d described them as. Although Enola felt a surge of arrogance, she didn’t like the idea of Tewkesbury being intimidated by her.

"It’s for you," he said, holding it out for her. "I thought someone with your wits would know that."

"Don’t insult me," she said with feigned haughtiness.

"I wouldn’t dare," he said playfully, smiling in such a way that exasperated her. She snatched the flower from his hand with her right hand, much to his amusement. He laughed again. "I like to bring you flowers," he said, looking away from her. He rested his hands on his thighs and sat a little taller as if he was trying to get comfortable in a particularly rigid seat.

"Thank you," she said belatedly, looking at the flower. She brought it up to her nose without thinking and then quickly snatched it away in fear he’d catch her. The idea of Tewkesbury knowing she smelled his flowers was a frightening thought. "For the flowers. And for meeting me. I know that you are busy being a lord and all—"

"Never too busy," he said, shaking his head. He looked at her and swung his legs much as a boy did. "What’s wrong, Enola? What has you stumped?"

She huffed. She didn’t like believing herself to be stumped. Sherlock Holmes was never stumped… even though she knew better. Her brother might have woven some fantastical tale of his wit and his absurdly unrealistic ability to always be right, but she hadn’t had time to make any myths similar to that of herself. She was merely Enola Holmes, the irritating little sister of Sherlock Holmes who was too short and a little too improper.

The short comment still smarted. Her last case was an absolute nightmare.

Pressing her lips together, she looked over the side of the treehouse and at the tops of some of the smaller trees. "Someone was murdered," she said, stating the obvious. Luckily for her, Tewkesbury was very patient. He always was with her. Perhaps it was unfair to enjoy that. "And while I suspect it’ll be rather easy to solve, I can’t quite figure out the motive."

"All right," he nodded, prompting her to continue.

Enola sighed and looked at Tewkesbury, angling her body towards him. She bumped her knee hard against his. "They were poisoned," she said, clasping her hands together in her lap. "Lestrade stupidly doesn’t think so, but it all makes sense! But I can’t quite figure out the poison. And I have a feeling that once I identify it, I will uncover the motive."

He nodded, furrowing his brows thoughtfully. Tewkesbury was a quick man, but sometimes even he needed a few moments to begin untangling the mess of her mind. She never disliked that about him.

"The body was found in the study. A few books were open. There was no wound. No defensive wounds, either. That tells me that he knew who murdered him. He bled from his mouth over a ledger that I’m trying to decipher. I’m not quite sure if the writing is of any import." She sighed for a moment, clasping her hands tightly. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over one hand. "But there was something peculiar about this one, Tewkesbury. And I believe I need your assistance."

"I’m happy to be of assistance," he said eagerly. "Tell me what it is—"

"There was a petal," Enola interrupted, peering at him imploringly. "On the ledger. There was also one beneath his boot and another in his pocket. Strange, I think. Isn’t it?" Before Tewkesbury, she would never have taken a petal to mean much other than it detailing that the victim was fond of gardens and perhaps gardening. Now, though… she understood flowers could mean so much more than a love for playing with dirt.

She looked down at his hands and found his nail beds clean. Tewkesbury frowned thoughtfully as he nodded slowly. "Yes. Where was the rest of the flower?"

"That’s what I would like to know," she said, smiling at him. "Will you help me, Marquess Tewkesbury of Basilwether, flower shop boy and expert of bouquets?"

He smiled, ducking his head. She liked how his hair flopped. "Yes, Enola Holmes, incredible detective and clothes thief," he said teasingly.

Ah, yes—while Tewkesbury hardly minded the fact she might have stolen one of the waistcoats he never liked wearing for her case before the last, she still felt a tinge of regret. To take from a friend was a crime in itself… even if the friend left a note in the left pocket inside of the waistcoat that said All yours.

He looked up at her and smiled. "It would be an honour to assist you. But, just to be clear…" he furrowed his brows in a teasing way. "You don’t think he was stabbed."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Of course not. No wound, remember?"

"Or clubbed."

"Certainly not."

"Nor was his neck in a peculiar shape?"

"He had a nice neck," she said. "It was most certainly intact."

"So," he said, smiling slightly. It was almost devious. She determined she quite liked that look on him. "You most certainly think it was an act of poison? Was there a drink beside him?"

She smiled. "There was no drink, Tewkesbury. No glass on his table and most certainly not one in his kitchen, either," she said, leaning toward him conspiratorially. "Why else would there be petals, my Tewkesbury?"

He flushed. "Perhaps he had a love for flowers?"

"Yes…" she said, a little put out by the logical deduction. "But why on his book?"

"He liked to press them? Use it as a marker?"

"Or…" She pointed her finger at him as she regarded him sternly. What Enola enjoyed most was when Tewkesbury finished her thoughts. Even when he hardly knew up from down and his left from his right, he seemed to catch on quite quickly to what she was thinking.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at her and waited a long moment. "He was poisoned by the flower," Tewkesbury said, confirming her theory. While Enola had a hunch, she much preferred hearing from Tewkesbury that the most logical deduction was poison. "There are plants that are poisonous if ingested."

"Yes," she said, smiling widely. "Which is clearly where you come in. I thought it would be a lot easier to bring in an expert such as yourself than spend my time learning what you already know. I hope you don’t mind."

"Not at all," he said with a toothy smile.

"Good!" she said a little too loudly for her liking. Slapping his leg, she began to rise. He peered up at her in confusion. "Let’s get on with it."

"But—" Tewkesbury gestured hopelessly around. "We just got here. Don’t you want to stay here?"

She shook her head as she began to descend the treehouse’s steps. "We can’t determine what flower it was from up here, Tewkesbury," she scoffed playfully as she shook her head. "We must go to your flowers. Now!"

She continued to climb down the ladder. Tewkesbury remained where he was, gaping at her like a lost fish. It was a funny look.

When she landed on the ground, she planted her hands on her hips and stared up at him. "Are you coming? Or do you trust me enough to not go traipsing through your flowerbeds and leave the door open in your greenhouse?"

Tewkesbury was a flurry of movement as he scurried down the ladder. "Enola Holmes!" he called out as she began to walk away and laugh. "Don’t you dare!"

"I dare!"

She laughed harder when he landed on the ground with a grunt and almost toppled over. Tewkesbury wasn’t made for adventure, but he sure did wear it well when she threw it at him. She continued to walk with her hands behind her back and a skip to her step, and when he was close, she broke off into a run.

"Enola!" he laughed as he hurried after her.

"Hm. Not this one."

"This one?"

She shook her head.

"What about this one?"

"I’m not sure," she said with a purse of her lips. "It looked like that, but…" She sighed in exasperation. "I’m not a flower expert, Tewky! I want to say yes, yes, this is the one, but I’m not sure."

"It’s all right, Enola," Tewkesbury said kindly. "We’ll find the flower."

We. Although Enola Holmes liked to work by herself—it was a point of difference between herself and Sherlock, after all; even though she had been trying to sweet talk Watson into joining her escapades as she was much more fun and a better conversationalist, not to mention simply more likeable than her brother—she liked the fact that Tewkesbury wanted to help her. It shouldn’t surprise her, even though she had been waiting for Tewkesbury to grow tired of her eventually. Most did.

"You don’t have the petal on you, do you?"

"Not even at my apartment."

"Hm." Tewksbury appeared thoughtful. "Perhaps… Was there a garden at the house?"

"Of course, there was a garden, Tewkesbury! Every home has a garden—"

"No, no," he shook his head. "A greenhouse. Or—or… perhaps one that was special. A garden just for him."

Enola thought for a moment, tapping her fingers against her chin. "I do believe there was a small garden in the sunroom, yes. But I didn’t—"

"It’s all right," he said, smiling. Enola cocked her brow as she regarded him curiously. He laughed and ducked his head, his floppy hair flopping as a result of the movement. "The sister, Emma—the house has been left to her and she’s holding a party in two days’ time."

Enola frowned deeply. "Rather cruel timing, wouldn’t you think?"

"Well, many people with money hardly think like that," he teased. "But if we’re to identify the flower properly, then I think it would be best to go. See if it originated from there. We already believe that he knew the person who killed him… wouldn’t this tell us just how well he knew them?"

She tapped her fingers against her chin as she considered his very wise proposal. "Yes," she said. "I believe so, but…" Enola pursed her lips as she considered her next words carefully. "I doubt they would let me in, Tewkesbury. I’m hardly of their kind."

"No, you’re not." He smiled wider. "But I am. And I might have gotten an invitation that I was planning to kindly reject."

"But you won’t any longer," Enola said, widening her smile slightly in excitement. "Will you, Tewkes?"

He shook his head. "Although… I must tell you that 'Enola Holmes' is becoming a name I hear uttered a lot at these parties." He’d been to other parties? Of course, he had. He was a man of, well… wealth and status. A man, not a flower shop boy. That was who these people who attended these parties saw. "Not to mention that 'Holmes' itself—"

"Tends to raise some hackles, yes. My brother is quite an unlikeable man." She tapped her fingers against her chin as he chuckled at her joke.

"Perhaps…" Tewkesbury looked down and brushed the tip of his fancy shiny shoe against the ground. The tip was covered in dirt. She liked that about him, how well he wore being dirty and uncouth. "Perhaps you could come with me."

"Yes, I thought we had established that—"

"As my partner."

She cocked her brow and tried to catch his eye, but for someone who was so tall and lanky, he was deceptively good at ducking his gaze and remaining uncaught. "Elaborate."

"These high society functions are something I have to attend to keep up appearances and goodwill, especially after my grandmother. My family’s name is pitied these days and I wish to change that," he said. "My uncle’s insistent that the best way to reestablish our name is for me to, well…"

Enola waited impatiently for him to pick up what was becoming a very cold lead. She smacked his arm. "Spit it out!"

"I need a romantic partner!" He peered up at her and twisted his body away from her to try and avoid her next slap. Enola had her hand raised, but she didn’t make contact with his bicep. "Why are you laughing?" he asked, offended.

"I’m sorry," she said as she cupped her mouth with her hands. She did do her best to stop laughing, but the idea of Tewkesbury struggling to find a woman was rather the funniest joke she had ever been told. "That’s just the funniest thing I have ever heard! You? Marquess Tewkesbury of Basilwether? You’re hardly unlikeable."

He straightened and eyed her curiously. Enola kept her hands over her mouth and forced a chuckle when she peered up and noticed his intense stare. He furrowed his brows as he regarded her as if she was one of his most peculiar flowers. "You like me?" he asked. She thought he was stupid for such a question.

"Of course. You’re hardly an imbecile."

"A compliment coming from you," he said, quirking the corner of his lips in amusement. "But…" The intense stare returned and Enola squirmed, shifting her hands so her fingertips could brush against the soft skin beneath her eyes. "You like me?"

"Yes!" Enola cocked her brow. "Did you hit your head?"

"It’ll have to be believable," he said, still looking at her. She noted a blush on his cheeks, but the way he didn’t look away had her slightly puzzled. He always looked away when his face reddened. It was a familiar and exciting pattern he often followed. "That you like me… like that. If you’re to be my… partner."

She dropped her hands from her face. "I never said anything—"

"I can’t bring a friend to this party, Enola," he stressed. "I have my family to look after, too."

She clasped her hands in front of her and picked at her thumb, glad he hadn’t dropped his gaze to note her nervous tell. "I care about your family, too," she said quietly, peering up at him earnestly. "It’s simply—"

"What?" he asked a little too eagerly.

Enola opened her mouth to say… something. That she thought it was preposterous that he would need to falsify such a thing. That it was strange to think that no lady had thrown herself at his feet. Tewkesbury wasn’t horrible. He was handsome in a way that was gawky and strange. He was tall—a quality Enola very much admired herself—and he had a big heart. She also didn’t mind the fact his fingers were long and his palms were soft, either.

She inhaled and thought to say something—that she thought it was strange he would think it believable that they would be convincing lovers… or that someone like him would pick someone like her for such a task. Enola was hardly a wife in the making. Her embroidery was non-existent. Her cooking was subpar, although she believed the ghostly taste of burnt food was going to be in fashion soon.

"I don’t know how to be a… romantic partner," she said instead.

Tewkesbury smiled and laughed softly. "It’s easy, Enola," he said.

"Do you have experience?" she asked, cocking her brow and feeling anger bubble in her gut.

"No," he said, shaking his head and daring to smile in amusement at her. Before she could think of an insult, Tewkesbury continued, "You just need to be yourself, Enola. That’s what all one needs to be a partner… real or fake."

She huffed and tilted her chin up haughtily. "Being myself is hardly wanted."

"It’s wanted," he said, staring at her earnestly. He was meant to laugh. When did Tewkesbury stop being so easy to read? "Very much so."

She stared at him for a moment before she nodded. "Fine. I’ll be your lover," she said with a very intentionally heavy sigh. She pointed her finger at him and almost poked him in the chest. "But I am not going to pretend I am good at embroidery."

He laughed. "I’d never dare." But he did dare to think of her as his lover. His darling dearest. His beloved. To Enola, that was the strangest thing. And the most coveted answer she wished to find.

Why?

She was enjoying having Tewkesbury as an investigative partner. Not only was he quiet and allowed her to think, he offered his own opinions, too. And she knew from experience that he wouldn’t offer her a stupid note, but one that got her thinking and considering an entirely new tact. Like going to a party and pretending to be… lovers.

With Tewkesbury.

What a strange thought.

Luckily for her, Tewkesbury knew the dead. It made unwrapping the mystery of the victim all the easier. Enola often wished she got to skip the part of her detective work where she longed to know who the victim was inside out. She felt that intimate knowledge would help her paint a fuller picture faster—and find a reason why someone would want a person who appeared so simple dead.

As they began to unwrap the mystery of one Jack Bennett, Enola was starting to wonder if she even needed to attend this party. Tewkesbury’s attention to detail was enviable.

"Tell me about it again," he said as he sat on the floor of the sunroom. He crossed his impossibly long legs and seemed to grow smaller, making space for her in the large room.

Enola sat on her knees while she planted her hands on her thighs. She looked at him as a teacher would a student—sternly, much like how the tutors had taken to her. "Jack Bennett was a quiet man. Well-liked, quite charming, but quiet. He had a wife—Victoria Bennett—and no children. They were newly married despite knowing one another for many years, and were a few months shy of celebrating their second anniversary when she died."

"It was quite sudden the way she died," Tewkesbury said with a furrowed brow. "I remember her. She was quite lovely. Much louder than her husband, but quite fun."

"'Quite fun'," she deadpanned, staring at him.

Tewkesbury flushed. "I mean—she was nice, you know? She knew how to joke. She always teased me for my love of flowers." At the cock of her brow, he grew impossibly redder. "She was married—"

"I hardly know what you’re implying, Tewkesbury," she said innocently before laughing. "So, Victoria died," she said, returning to business, "under suspicious circumstances. The last the maid had seen of her, she was drinking tea in her reading room—which is where she was found."

Tewkesbury hummed. "Many think it was a suicide," he said. "It never made sense to me. I know looks can be quite deceiving, but…"

Enola gently placed her hand on his thigh. "Even if she wasn’t happy, Tewkes… you couldn’t have done a thing." When she found he was looking at her hand a moment too long, she withdrew it so as not to make him uncomfortable—because, clearly, that was why he was looking at it strangely—and cleared her throat and continued, "She had no enemies?"

He shook his head. "None."

"And Jack?"

"None that I knew of. My mother is a good friend of a woman who knows everything about everyone. Violet is, well…"

"A gossip," Enola supplied. At Tewkesbury’s stuttering, she snorted. "Call her for what she is, Tewkesbury. I mean no ill will. Sometimes gossips are good for cases."

He smiled and licked his lips. "So, you think Victoria was murdered?"

"Absolutely," Enola declared as she rested a hand against the tiled floor and let her legs fan out to the side. "Sometimes the simplest explanation is the truth, so let’s work with that." She sighed, blowing some of her loose hair away from her face. "But why? By whom?"

"I suppose that’s a mystery we will solve, isn’t it?" he said, slowly widening his smile. He looked proud of himself. "It has to be connected to Jack."

She nodded, although she was busy staring at him intently. She smiled as she pinched the soft fabric of her dress.

Tewkesbury cocked his brow, flushing. "What?"

"What do you know of Violet’s tittering?" she asked, cocking her brow.

He opened his mouth before he closed it, tilting his head to think. Enola knew what she was asking him—to think back on all those times Violet had visited his mother and grandmother and had bored him with idle gossip. As easily as Tewkesbury slotted into the world he was born in, she knew he much preferred the gossip of flowers.

"Well…" He swallowed thickly as he furrowed his brows and peered off into the distance. "Violet’s said many things…"

"Such as?"

Enola stared at his mouth as he bit his bottom lip. "Jack was a quiet man who she was utterly charmed by every time he opened his mouth," he said absently. As much as Enola wanted to click her fingers and tell him to hurry to the point where the clues began to take root, she shifted her foot slightly and waited as patiently as she could. "But Emma… Victoria’s sister mentioned something about how he used to have a girl before he courted her sister. She apparently found these love letters when she was snooping—"

"As one would, of course," Enola teased in an attempt to lighten that deep furrow to his brows.

"—and," he smiled, clearly delighting in her playfulness, "it caused some strife between them. Mother didn’t doubt someone like Jack wouldn’t have had a past love or two, but even she was a little surprised to hear that he kept letters from an old love. She said they usually make the best kindle for fire."

Enola smiled. "I like your mother."

He ducked his head, blushing softly. "I don’t think he was having an affair," Tewkesbury said, that thoughtful crinkle between his brows returning, "but I think that he had a lover scorned."

"It does give us a motive," Enola said as she chewed her bottom lip. "A lover who didn’t know how to let go."

He tilted his head to the side as he regarded her curiously, "Isn’t it a little too obvious, though? A jilted old lover seems quite overdone."

She smiled widely. "Oh, Tewky," she chuckled, "work with me a little more and you’ll discover that almost everyone has the same motive. What makes their motive unique is how they felt about it… and even what they intended to achieve, even though it’s all the same on paper." She sat up taller, proud of her schooling, but she immediately slouched at his staring. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said affectionately, glancing down. "It’s just… I think the simplest reason is the truth, even if I happen to think it’s overdone. It’s what makes it somewhat tragic. There’s no point in looking for an alternative when the one we’ve found makes perfect sense, is there?" As he looked up at her, he slowly grinned lopsidedly. That insecurity of his was breaking away into something confident and beautiful, and Enola liked witnessing him bloom before her.

She laughed, almost bowing her entire body forward. Her shoulders shook as she smiled up at him proudly. "You could be a detective just yet, Marquess Tewkesbury."

He blushed and looked down. "That’s you, Enola. I’m merely happy to help."

"Tell me about it again," she said, settling comfortably against the floor and fanning out her dress. "The party you last saw the Bennetts. I want to hear everything." She poked him in the shoulder. "Spare no detail!"

"Emily."

"Yes."

"But Emily."

"Yes!" Enola rolled her eyes with a huff and stared at Tewkesbury as if he had grown a second head. And perhaps he had. Given the number of times he had repeated that word in the last minute, she could get away with describing him as a two-head tall man. People would believe her, especially if he began speaking such nonsense. "What’s wrong with it?"

"Nothing."

Enola cocked her brow and crossed her arms against her chest as she scrutinised him. Tewkesbury had the intelligence to look away and brush his fingers against the back of his neck. She had been thinking about her genius plot all night long. To have him stare at her like it was the most illogical plan he’d ever heard was an insult to her creative genius.

"It’s just…" At his hesitation, she widened her eyes and tapped her foot impatiently against the greenhouse’s floor. "What’s wrong with 'Enola'?"

"Many things," she said, swearing she could hear Mycroft snorting somewhere in the very far distance. Her eldest brother would have an incredibly long list to read in the most heartiest tone he could muster. "For one, it’s entirely too unique of a name."

"Yes, but—"

"And many people now know that 'Enola' is a Holmes," she said, staring at Tewkesbury rather pointedly. He furrowed his brows as he parted his lips to utter something else—something stupid, most likely. She couldn’t attend this party as Enola Holmes. For one, her marketing was incredible and flawless and thus everyone would know of her name. Secondly, well… it was a little strange to consider Enola Holmes would be his beloved.

Not that Tewkesbury needed to know that.

Tilting her chin up rather arrogantly, Enola smiled and declared, "Many people know of me, you know."

"I’ve seen the window," he said with a proud smile. Something fluttered strangely in her chest. The sensation was slightly addictive, but entirely anxiety-inducing. "No one could walk down that street and not see it, Enola."

She forced a smile and nodded. That was that, then.

"But," he started, and she rolled her eyes with a sigh. Tewkesbury only widened his smile as if he found her amusing—and perhaps he did. He was the only man aside from Sherlock (at times) who found her contrary nature admirable. "I still think it would be easier if you were Enola. What if I mess it up?"

"You would," she said easily. He chuckled. "But I trust in your ability to play pretend," she said, looking at him earnestly. "When the job requires it, you do come through properly, Tewkesbury. I know I can rely on you for anything," she said. She liked the way he blushed. "And I don’t wish for anyone to mislead either of us if I was to go as myself. The name 'Holmes' has… expectations."

"Which you meet," he said, twirling a flower stem absently between his fingers. It was a daisy. That flower she at least knew.

Enola glanced away, cheeks feeling hot. It was rather warm in here. Next time she needed to plot with Tewkesbury, she would do so in the coldness of his study.

"I don’t want to ruin the case," she said, still looking away from him. Enola wandered toward a bench of flowers lined in their pots and brushed her fingertips against the underside of a petal. Tewkesbury did wonders in here. Where she felt the world around them was at times dismal and grey, everything was bright and blooming here. Tewkesbury was made to change things for the better. Enola knew that from the moment he cooked her plants. "I want to find his murderer."

"Why?" he asked gently. "Other than for the obvious reason. To find a killer."

"Because…" Enola swallowed heavily and kept looking at the flowers. Even though Tewkesbury’s feet were slightly loud and slow, she didn’t wish to risk a glance at him. He was becoming much like a mirror these days. What she saw in his eyes and expression was often… something she couldn’t quite face. "It’s my first murder case."

"Oh."

"And I don’t wish to screw it up," she said. After a moment, she felt brave enough to turn and face him with her chin tilted upward.

"Technically, Enola…" He was standing to her side now, his hip almost touching the wooden bench his flowers grew upon. He continued to twirl the stem between his fingertips. "This would be your second case."

She cocked her brow in confusion. "Pray tell."

"Well…" It was his turn to look away. He brushed the underside of a leaf and looked down at the flower that burst with bright colour. Its petals were full. Every plant Enola had ever tried to grow had always had bite marks taking chunks out of the not-quite-so-healthy leaves and brown curling the edges of the petals. "You saved me from murder."

She parted her lips, expecting something to come out from them. For the first time in her life, she had no answer.

"So, this will be your second," he said, looking up at her. His hair flopped rather attractively against his temple. Enola tented her fingers together in front of her to stop herself from the foolish impulse of brushing his hair out of his face. "And I believe it will be a success."

"Not my first failure?" she teased.

Although Tewkesbury smiled, his expression remained serious as he looked at her and shook his head. "No. I truly believe that."

Enola stared at him for a moment before she inhaled deeply and looked down. "Our plan is settled then. I am Emily, your lover who bested you in horse riding and you have been smitten with me ever since."

He chuckled, ducking his head again. Enola looked up at him and felt pride warm her as he seemed to turn pink. "I don’t see that changing any time soon."

"Good," she said, feeling strangely possessive. She kept smiling in the hopes of keeping their teasing air light. "Now, let’s go over the guest list one more time. There’s one name that has me rather curious."

While Enola was pleased to know that she had sorted out the way that he’d get into the party without raising too many eyebrows (although, she did do her best to try and not be offended that no one would know her—Sherlock could walk into a room and he’d instantly be swarmed, but she supposed that was what one got when they weren’t utterly careful in their detective duties), she wasn’t entirely content attending the party without having an inkling of what she was looking for.

She chewed on her bottom lip as she sat at his dining table. Tewkesbury was in his study doing lord things (whatever that entailed—she much preferred it when he did flower boy things instead) and giving her the wide berth she had quietly requested. That was what she liked about him. He knew when to leave her alone. She supposed that would be a good characteristic to bring up regarding stories about why she was so smitten with him. Women loved boasting about those attributes, didn’t they?

As she leaned over her scribble of notes, Enola couldn’t help but think of him. Tewkesbury in love was such a strange concept… And not one she found she particularly liked. It unsettled her, leaving uncomfortable knots in her stomach like a vine unable to smoothly wrap around a tree. She felt like she was a flower covered in suffocating weeds.

And that was it, wasn’t it?

Enola gasped, smacking her hands against the table loudly.

"I figured it out!"

"What?" he shouted.

"What the petals mean!" Snatching her notes and neatly cut newspaper clippings from the table, she quickly turned on her heel and marched into his study. He was standing already, perhaps seconds away from meeting her in the dining room. "The petals," she said as she stood over his desk. "They’re a calling card."

"How do you figure?"

"Look at these," she said, shuffling newspaper clippings out into a neat timeline. "While I couldn’t take any of the papers from beneath the body, I did glimpse a rather strange phrase. It was someone bearing their heart, which got me thinking of your love for these."

From the corner of her eye, Enola noted Tewkesbury regarding her as if she had grown a second head. Good. Every time he looked at her in such a way, she knew she was onto something. The lead she’d stumbled upon was almost as hot as his greenhouse.

"This is the Agony Column, Enola."

"Exactly," she said, smiling widely and excitedly at him.

He shook his head. "I don’t understand."

"No one has taken her seriously," Enola said, pressing her hand against a clipping. Tewkesbury glanced at it before looking at her, shaking his head in a quiet plea for her to elaborate. She smiled and inhaled loudly. "If you read all the reports, no one has noted her calling card."

"Which is…?"

"The petal!"

"The petal." It took a moment for Tewkesbury to widen his eyes in realisation. "The petal!" he exclaimed, resting his hands against the desk. He looked at her with a wide smile. "It’s a secret message."

"The petal," she said with a wide grin. Licking her lips, she looked down at the newspapers and brushed her fingertip against the letters. "I think it rather strange that there is a very clear lover of flowers submitting notes here. And while I acknowledge that you are both a lover of flowers and the Agony Column"—she glanced up at him with a small smile—"I know that this is suspicious. She hasn’t been happy. You see, she calls for a lover who has jaded her, but not in the same sense many use this column, Tewkesbury. It’s almost as if she is warning him."

He bowed his head and brushed his fingertip against the words as he read, "Men simply breathe and all take notice, but when a woman so much as sighs, she’s thought of as a nuisance. Is that what you think of me, Jack? You could’ve written that one."

"Well, I didn’t," she said, a little displeased that she hadn’t. "But look, this one is printed in a later edition—"

"The red rose wilts as the marigold thrives. I wonder, dearest Jack, if you will ever think to water me, too."

"She’s hardly hiding it." Enola tapped her fingers against the paper. "There’s also this one, look. Your orange lily—My dearest Jack, I am alone. I am unseen, unheard, unloved. I wish there be a day when you feel as I have felt for the decades I’ve spent without you. They’re becoming more poignant, aren’t they?"

"They are," he murmured as he brushed his fingers against the dried ink. "She wants to be noticed," he said after a moment. "Why else put them in the paper?" Tewkesbury furrowed his brows as he peered up at her and extended his arm to rest his hand against her bicep. "Do you think—"

"Yes."

"That’s why—"

"Yes," she said with a proud chuckle.

"You are brilliant, Enola."

She smiled and tilted her head up proudly. "Please try to tell me something I don’t know for once, Tewkes."

He chuckled. After a moment, Enola realised how close he was. Standing in front of her with his hand on her bicep, his fingers were long and warm and he was, well… rather handsome in this light. And tall. So very tall.

"Emily," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Emily," he repeated and squeezed her bicep gently. It was a nice pressure she hoped he’d do again. "She won’t know it’s you."

"I sure hope not," she said. "My disguises are utterly brilliant. Did you know I could get a job as a theatre costume designer if I wanted to?"

"I wouldn’t doubt it," Tewkesbury said with a wide smile. Then he furrowed his brows, "You’re not going to dress as a man, are you? I don’t wish for you to show me up," he teased.

Enola snorted and shook her head. "Not for tomorrow night," she said. "I need to come off as disarming. Many fall prey to my gentle charms."

It was his turn to snort. "It isn’t your gentleness people fall prey to, Enola. It’s the fact you always offer a good challenge."

"Is that a bad thing?" she asked in an innocent teasing voice.

Tewkesbury’s gaze ducked to somewhere lower on her face. Enola felt heat warm her cheeks. "Not at all," he murmured. "It keeps things interesting. Not many people think to challenge others, let alone be challenged themselves."

"Hm." She wasn’t quite sure what to say—another horrid feat of being so close to Tewkesbury these days. She liked to think it was because he knew her so well he stole many of her opportunities to quip him. "Well," she said, staring up at him and feeling all out of sorts, "I think it’s best that we go to your greenhouse."

"Why?"

"To read the message."

"The mess…" He lifted his brows. "Oh, yes. Yes! Because—"

"You already understand the language of flowers," she said, smiling up at him proudly. "But I must learn. If we are to work together tomorrow night, we need to be vigilant as to what our bouquets are telling us."

"Yes," he said, smiling. "You’re right." Tewkesbury surprised her by removing his hand from her bicep and taking one of her hands in both of his. He gently pulled her out of his study and ran, forcing her to do so behind him to keep up. Enola hardly minded. She’d run after Tewkesbury any day.

If there was to be any awkwardness between them after confirming what their cover story would be, Enola hardly sensed it. She sat on the ground of his greenhouse with an assortment of petals laid out before her. Tapping her chin with her index finger, she tried to focus on the delicate curl of each petal but found herself distracted by Tewkesbury walking around as he looked at each flower as if he had never seen it before.

Enola had caught herself openly staring at him at times. It truly was something to see him in his element. Tewkesbury had a gentle heart and an even gentler hand, and to see him amongst his friends that depended on him to fully bloom was something truly special.

She wondered if he ever felt like this when she was in her element. Enola touched her fingers to her lips as she studied his back as he stood at a table and bowed his head to sniff the white carnation delicately. It was awe. That’s what she felt.

"All right," Tewkesbury said a moment later. "I think I understand what she’s trying to say now."

"Do tell, Marquess Tewkesbury!" she said excitedly as she crossed her legs and smiled up at him.

He flushed and glanced away before he cleared his throat. "She sounds like a lover scorned," he said. "While we have no idea if she’s the red chrysanthemum from the newspaper a year ago, I think it’s safe to say that she is. She used the Agony Column as a way to write love notes to her lover, Jack. And it has to be Jack Bennett, otherwise it’s too much of a coincidence!"

Enola furrowed her brows. "Red chrysanthemum? Why that?" It was the flower her mother had messaged her with, but Enola hardly suspected her mother was involved in all of this.

"Uh," he drew his hand to the back of his neck, "it means 'I love you'. She was using it to declare her love for him."

"Perhaps an illicit affair?"

"Perhaps," he said. "It’s what makes the most sense, even to me."

Enola nodded decisively. "Please, go on."

"According to your timeline of the murders, there was no other mention of the chrysanthemum in the Column. She disappeared entirely after Emily. But what did appear is the nasturtium petal that the investigator found."

"On Victoria," Enola murmured. "Do you think—"

"I think so," Tewkesbury nodded as he rushed over to the other side of his table of flowers. "That flower means 'victory in battle', which… well, makes the most sense as to who Victoria Bennett was to Jack."

"Wife," she murmured. "Do we really think—of course, we do." She shook her head and scoffed under her breath. "That message about being victorious in the Column came a week after Victoria’s funeral."

"Then there was the robbery at Victoria Bennett’s sister’s house," he said. "A dark crimson rose was left behind. It means 'mourning'."

"Mourning her lover?"

Tewkesbury nodded. "I believe so. I doubt that Jack was particularly happy with the Chrysanthemum’s actions. Which, well…" He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Why wouldn’t he inform the police of what he knew?"

"Shame," Enola said.

"The peony," Tewkesbury smiled as he rushed over to his peonies. "That was one of the petals. And if I had to make an assumption—"

"Please do," she said smiling. "I love your assumptions."

He blushed. "I think it came from a bouquet he sent her. He felt shame for their affair—or if it wasn’t an affair and we believe she was a lover scorned, then he felt shame for harbouring feelings for her still. Perhaps that’s what it meant," Tewkesbury said, tightly knitting his brows together. "Jack was very devoted to Elizabeth…"

"That must be why the rhododendron was at her sister’s house," Enola said, furrowing her brows. "What does that one mean?"

Tewkesbury’s face fell. "'Beware'. Her sister wasn’t harmed, was she?"

Enola shook her head. "Emma had the good sense to leave her house after the first break-in. But that doesn’t explain what I found at the most recent crime scene." She unfolded her legs and rose, slowly approaching Tewkesbury at his table. She stood opposite him as she peered thoughtfully at his blooming flowers. "There was an assortment of petals."

"The red salvia, the snapdragon, the tansy, and the yellow and red tulips," he recalled quietly.

Resting her hands against the edge of the table, Enola peered up at Tewkesbury quizzically. "The tulip petals I recognised. They were wilted like they had been pressed."

"He kept them," Tewkesbury murmured. He brushed his fingers against his mouth. "The red salvia and the snapdragon were new, weren’t they?" When Enola nodded, he hummed. "The tansy was old. That was the petal you couldn’t identify."

"But you could," she said with a small, proud smile.

"Red salvia means 'forever mine’—and I think it’s easy to assume that he once sent that to her. Her language is flowers. And our Chrysanthemum seemed to be in love with him."

"And he kept it?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

Tewkesbury shrugged. "He loved her," he said, looking at her strangely. "You can’t help who you love. Sometimes it’s even harder to let that person go."

"And the snapdragon?"

"In this instance, I would say it was meant to declare his deception," he said. "Perhaps she didn’t know about Victoria, which sounds a bit strange, but…"

"The tansy?"

"Her declaration of war."

"And the red tulips were declarations of her love," she murmured. Tapping her fingers against her chin, Enola stepped away from the table and began to slowly pace. "We’re dealing with a mastermind here."

Tewkesbury turned to watch her. "What makes you think of that?"

She turned to face him and dropped her hand. "She’s speaking in flowers," she said. "I think it’s masterful to speak so openly of how you feel with flowers. It’s the one language we all know, but it’s the one language only some of us know intimately. If someone was to give me"—she looked around and brushed her fingers against the leaves of a sunflower—"well, this, I’d have no idea what they’re saying."

"Depending on what one it is, it could be adoration or that you’re haughty."

She pointed her finger at him playfully. "Or they admire my haughtiness."

He chuckled. "That too."

"But I wonder… Considering no one even knew of her—I interviewed all of Jack’s friends and family under many different disguises…"

"How will we identify her at the party?" he supplied. Enola was glad he didn’t ask why she thought she’d have the gall to appear. People were strange, and even Tewkesbury with his head in the rose bushes understood that.

Enola clicked her fingers. "Exactly. It’s quite a conundrum."

"Not exactly," he said. She furrowed her brows as he quickly shuffled away from his bench. He walked around the edge and passed the aisle she was standing in to appear behind her. "We need to look for this," he said as he quickly eyed his flowers. Enola watched him with interest as he searched. He was amongst his roses of various colours, reds and yellows and whites. When he plucked out a deep red rose, he twirled its stem between his fingers proudly.

"A red rose?" she asked, uncertain.

He shook his head. "It’s not red. It’s dark red."

"What’s the difference?"

He chuckled. "So much, Enola Holmes." He peered down at the rose as if it was the most magnificent thing in the world. She wished she had a mirror to show him what was truly the most spectacular thing in the world—Tewkesbury’s face, his relaxed expression, the way that he seemed to grow confident and calm amongst his flowerbed. "If we see a woman with this rose in hand, we’ve found Chrysanthemum."

"What does it mean?"

"That she’s in mourning. She’ll be wearing her grief openly for everyone to see."

She slowly smiled. "And no one would think any wiser. You are brilliant, Tewkesbury!"

Sometimes, Enola thought Tewkesbury was made for the stage rather than the House of Lords. He stood before her with his hand behind his back and refused to allow her a peek at what he was hiding. Although she was smaller and often faster, Tewkesbury, with all of his height, managed to move quicker than she could counter. Enola would blame her wide-skirted evening gown for her unsuccessful attempts to snatch whatever he held behind his back.

When she huffed and brushed loose hair away from her face, he removed his hand from his back. She stared at his face as he looked at her, and found she was the first to look away.

"What’s this?" she asked as she looked down at the red rose in his hand. It was beautiful. The petals were perfectly shaped and intact and the shade was as bright and vibrant as the apples she liked to pick in his orchard. He’d tied a thin blood-red ribbon around its stem with a slightly imperfect bow facing its right.

"Well," he began, twisting his lips into a know-it-all smile, "it’s a flower. More specifically, a rose."

Enola rolled her eyes. "I know what a rose is, Tewkes. Why are you giving it to me?" Was it to remind her what type of flower their Chrysanthemum would be wearing?

He shrugged and smiled. There was a light flush to his cheeks. "I wanted to. Besides, if we’re to be together, I want to be the type of man who gives his love flowers."

Enola shook her head incredulously at him. It was better than the alternative—she didn’t want to stare at him like he had a second head again. That was becoming utterly too common in their interactions lately.

She delicately took the rose from his hand and spun the stalk between her fingers. The rose was beautiful. He’d have a better eye for what was imperfect with it, but to her, it was utter perfection. Grown in his greenhouse, tended to by him… everything Tewkesbury touched was always so well loved. It would’ve been a pity if his grandmother had been successful in her attempts to stop him from blooming.

"Thank you," she said before clearing her throat. "It’s lovely. Am I expected to carry it with me? Or is it to go in a vase?"

Tewkesbury chuckled. "Whatever you choose, Enola. I only wanted to give it to you."

"It hardly matches my gown," she said. Turning on her heel, Enola snatched her small purse filled with her lock picks and other detective knickknacks and kept the rose between her fingers.

When she turned around, she found that Tewkesbury stood with his hands behind his back. He looked very handsome. She liked that he kept his hair loose and fluffy and that his dark grey suit brought out the light freckles on his cheeks. He watched her patiently—a patience she never deserved but greedily took from him nonetheless.

"Before we go," he said before he licked his lips. He appeared nervous. Despite his tall frame, he took up less space. He seemed smaller in a way she didn’t like at all. "There’s the matter of ensuring that this seems quite real."

She cocked her brow. "You’ll have to elaborate, dearest lover."

He smiled and ducked his head as his cheeks turned red. Tewkesbury withdrew a hand from behind his back. "My mother’s ring," he said, holding out a pretty band with a small diamond in its centre. "I always intended to give it to the woman that I was courting as a promise," he said with a nervous shake to his voice. "And considering you’re pretending to be mine…"

She looked at him for a moment, unsure of how to look at him. It was strange. Enola never felt strange around Tewkesbury until he did these things that made her feel like she was put together all wrong for liking the odd things he did. It hardly made sense—and Enola liked it very much when things made sense.

"I can’t take this, Tewkesbury—"

"But you can," he said. He withdrew his other hand from behind his back and held it out, palm facing upward in a quiet invitation. "Please. At least let’s ensure that this looks legitimate for your case."

She stared at him for a moment before she nodded. "All right," he said entirely too quietly. Gently placing her hand in his, she did her best to suppress an odd shiver that overcame her when he touched her hand and slid that ring painstakingly slowly along her finger.

She didn’t hold her hand up to admire it. She was too busy looking at his long fingers and liking the fact she could see a small smidgeon of dirt beneath one of his nails. That was Tewkesbury, not quite as prim and proper as one would expect.

"It is beautiful," she murmured.

"You wear it well."

She knew he was looking down at her. Enola flexed her fingers to gather herself before clearing her throat gently. "Let’s go, shall we?" Enola charged past him with her head held high. "I hardly doubt we want to be known as late party guests." She kept the rose between her fingers as she took his arm and dragged him out the front door.

Enola wasn’t quite sure if she liked being Emily. For one, Emily was Tewkesbury’s lover, and while Enola hardly decided to change her personality to fit a more demure picture of herself, she felt as though she had to be on her best behaviour. After all, the news would spread of Tewkesbury’s beloved and Enola didn’t want to set a poor impression for him.

But she really did wish that the ladies would stop pestering him so much. As soon as they had entered the large mansion, the women had flocked to him like birds to nectar. And while Enola understood some of the appeal Tewkesbury posed—he was tall and he had floppy, soft hair—she didn’t quite like it.

Possessively clutching at Tewkesbury’s arm, she smiled a little too sweet and close-lipped at Patricia. Her hair was so bright Enola felt blinded, but not blinded enough to not notice Inspector Lestrade enjoying a nice cup of liquor and a jolly conversation she was dying to overhear.

"What a positively delightful conversation!" Enola said with a forced cheer. She smiled widely, an ugly shape taking over her mouth that she was sure dear, poor Patricia would loathe being on the receiving end of. Tewkesbury hid his smile behind his hand as he faked needing to clear his throat. "My lover and I would love to come to hear you play your piano sometime," Enola continued, lying through her teeth. "Isn’t that right, sweetest?"

"Yes, Emily," he said, almost coughing. He rested his other hand against her hand and turned his body toward hers. "We’d love to hear you play."

Patricia, for all of her sweetness, smiled a little too tightly for it to be remotely polite (although, High Society would consider it a successful attempt to appear all right in the face of such an embarrassing blunder), and as soon as she opened her mouth, Enola tugged Tewkesbury away.

"You know," he chuckled, bowing his head toward her, "you’re laying it on quite thick, dearest."

She scoffed. "Of course, I am. Do you think she recognised me?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Tewkesbury shook his head. "No. It’s a little disappointing, isn’t it?"

"What is?" she asked, tilting her head toward him as they walked toward a table. Enola hoped to flag down one of the waitstaff so she could stuff a sweet treat into her mouth.

"People not knowing who you are," he said. As soon as a man dressed in sleek black holding a tray walked by, she gathered herself a glass of wine to down in an incredibly unladylike manner. Mother would be proud. "I mean, it’s impossible for me to not see you as 'Enola'."

Enola rolled her eyes. "Of course, you think that. You know who I am."

"That’s not what I mean," he said, staring at her intently.

The desire for another drink overcame her. She helped herself to another glass and hid behind the brim.

"It bothers me that everyone here doesn’t know that they’re in the presence of Enola Holmes. You’re the woman who saved my life. I wanted that to be known."

"That’s awfully sweet, Tewkesbury—" she began dismissively, but she inhaled and felt like she was about to hiccup on it at the way he openly stared at her.

"I just hope one day that you can come with me to a party as yourself," he said, then glanced away. The intensity remained between them even as he started to fold into himself. He was pulling away and Enola had no idea how to keep him here with her.

So, she did her best to wear him on her arm and parade him around the party, smiling awfully sweetly and grimacing when a woman approached wearing a bright smile. Tewkesbury was too nice to ever walk away from them or hide behind a plant. Enola thought that was a good plan. How he could do this day in and day out was beyond her.

When Tewkesbury went to get them drinks, Enola wandered around the party aimlessly. Without the comfortable weight of his arm looped with hers, she felt listless. She was a flower head without a stem… or however Tewkesbury’s beloved metaphors worked.

But when she found someone rather distinguished looking and suspicious, Enola had charged toward them to discover Peter Carter, a man who had been rather stubborn and dismissive of her when she had been trying to solve her previous case. (He was also the man who called her short.)

After the fourth lady had come to bat her eyelashes at him and spew some random nonsense about wishing to see the private garden the Bennetts were known for, Enola had elbowed Tewkesbury hard on the arm. She was tired of these women wishing to spend time alone with him when he was taken! And he was too stupidly nice and nicely stupid to realise their ploys.

"Ow!"

"Come with me," she hissed, looping her arm with his. She violently tugged him away and into a quieter hall. The noise still followed after them, but it didn’t feel so suffocating… even if the wallpaper wasn’t quite to her taste. What was it with rich people and their horrible choice in decor?

"Enola—"

"Emily!" she said, stepping into him. "We have a case to solve, Tewkesbury," she said. "There is no time to flirt!"

"I wasn’t—"

At the challenging cock of her brow, his blubbering only grew more intense. "Are you certain you wish to keep this farce up?" she asked, propping her hands on her hips. Enola regarded him with a stern look. "It doesn’t seem to be doing you any favours."

"I do, Enola," he said quietly but firmly. He bowed his head toward her and some of his hair flopped against his forehead. Enola pinched the fabric of her evening gown to stop herself from brushing it angrily away. "When I went to get our drinks, I actually found out something. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but, well…"

His various admirers had always interrupted.

"What?" she asked, stepping into him and standing on the tips of her toes.

He cleared his throat gently. "I saw our lady in mourning."

She widened her eyes in excitement. Her heart pounded in her chest. Their breadcrumbs had led them to the right house! And Enola hadn’t been able to see the hide or hair of Sherlock at the party, which meant that she was still ahead of her dear old brother.

"Where?" she asked quietly before smacking his chest and glancing around the quiet hallway as if their suspect in question would miraculously appear. Those magic tricks didn’t even exist for Sherlock.

Tewkesbury pressed a finger to his lips. "She’s wearing the dark crimson rose in her hair," he said. "Quite a nice hair ornament." Enola rolled her eyes and gestured for him to hurry along, much to his amusement. "Her name is Rose," he whispered.

"Rose," she repeated in disbelief.

"I know," he chuckled. "I thought it quite funny, too."

"Where did she go?" Enola asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"I think she was heading toward the study, actually," he said. As soon as Enola went to make haste, he gripped her hip and blocked her with his arm. "Enola," he said gently, "let’s think about this for a moment. What do you intend to do if you march in there with no plan?"

"Who says I have no plan?" she replied haughtily.

Tewkesbury cocked his brow as he twisted his lips into a knowing smile.

She huffed. "All right, I have no plan. What do you suggest?"

"I think it’s only fair we play by her rules," he said.

"We don’t have time to put anything in the paper—"

Tewkesbury shook his head. "I think it’s quite bold that she’s here tonight of all nights, don’t you think? Even though no one knows of her true relationship with Jack—"

Enola licked her lips as she furrowed her brows. "Why else would she be here?" she asked quietly. "There is no one here for her, unless…"

"Jack’s diaries? Didn’t you say he was found over a book?"

Enola smacked her hand against her forehead soundly. "I am a complete fool!"

"Hardly," Tewkesbury chuckled. "I hardly doubt the family would’ve appreciated you rifling through Jack’s personal items, Enola. It’s hard enough to accept the death of a loved one. It’s even worse to see someone rifling through their secrets. The implications that something is much fouler at play… it doesn’t let you rest."

She peered up at him curiously, gently appraising him. "It hasn’t been easy, has it? Knowing what your grandmother wished to do."

Tewkesbury pressed his lips together and shook his head. "If I can, I’d like to avoid hurting another family any more than they’ve been hurt. The Bennetts had always been kind to me, Enola. I didn’t know them very well, but that hardly mattered."

She inhaled deeply and nodded. "All right. But if you have an idea, I must hear it now."

He smiled. "The garden."

"What about it?"

"When you were busy harassing Peter—"

She chuckled. "I was not harassing—"

"—I went for a walk and found the private garden," he continued, sounding amused. Enola closed her mouth and tapped her foot against the floor as she waited impatiently for him to continue. "They’re growing valerian."

"Valerian," she repeated cocking her brow. "Elaborate."

He smiled toothily and Enola decided she much liked the shape on his mouth. "It’s a herb that helps you sleep. While the flowers are quite beautiful… if I could dig some up with the root, I could make something."

Enola slowly smiled big and wide. "And put her to sleep!"

"I think it’d be a much better way to deal with our situation, wouldn’t it?" As much as Enola appreciated the adrenaline rush some of her cases brought her, she hadn’t quite liked having her head pushed into a bucket of cold water or being shot at. It made things a little tiresome if all the suspects of her cases tried to kill her in such a loud and obnoxious way—and Tewkesbury knew that from all of her letters.

"Oh, Tewkesbury!" She threw her arms around him, making him stumble. He chuckled and tentatively pressed his hands against her back. After a moment, he pressed harder, more confident in holding her. She rested her chin on his shoulder and smiled brightly. "You truly are a genius!"

"Aw," said a woman from the entrance to the main dining room. "Young love."

Enola blushed, grateful only Tewkesbury’s shoulder would witness it.

There was one problem with Tewkesbury’s plan—the private garden wasn’t so private.

It was lush and beautiful and everything she knew Tewkesbury’s gardens was and more. They weren’t as bright and overbearingly large as Tewkesbury’s plants, but they were impressive all the same. Brightly coloured and sweet smelling in some corners, she could tell every time she glanced at Tewkesbury that he was at home amongst them.

Enola and Tewkesbury walked arm in arm around the garden while he genuinely admired the flowers and Enola pretended she knew how to look as serene and at home as he did. She did try and guess them and only got a small handful correct, much to his amusement. She was determined to one day impress him with her flower fluency, but tonight, she would continue to still be a beginner in learning the language.

"There’s the valerian," he muttered quietly. When she peered at him, he cocked his head toward a small bush of light pink flowers.

"They’re pretty," she murmured.

They slowly guided their walk toward the valerian. Enola had to think quickly. Although no one was hardly paying them any attention, she knew that if she was to tug out a good chunk of the valerian that someone was bound to notice the crude behaviour. She’d discovered long ago that no one could be paying attention to her at all when she was being obnoxiously loud, but the moment she stepped out of society’s line of what was respectful for a lady, everyone’s eyes were sharply on her.

She took note of the party guests who were in the small indoor garden. A gentleman sat at a bench near one of the floor-to-ceiling wide windows with his head turned away from them as he gazed out at the garden beyond the glass panel. A woman and a man walked arm in arm, much like she and Tewkesbury, but their heads were tilted toward one another as they quietly laughed at some odd personal joke. And there was a woman with her back to them admiring a slew of flowers lining the opposite wall.

Once they reached the valerian plant, Enola tugged Tewkesbury until she could clearly see the woman with her back turned. If she remained in her line of sight, then Tewkesbury could do what needed to be done.

Silently, she nodded toward the woman. When Tewkesbury noted her, she then lifted her skirts—much to his contagious flushing—and pulled out a spoon and a steak knife from her garter.

"Here," she muttered.

"When did you have time to even get this?" he asked in disbelief as he took the utensils from her.

"When you were too busy flirting with Dorothy," she hissed. "Now, get on with it. We won’t have much time before we have an audience."

Tewkesbury quickly looked around before he ducked, lowering onto his knees on the stone floor, and began to assess the bush. He ran his fingers along the stem until he hit the ground, and then he began to dig quickly and quietly.

Enola didn’t quite know how he kept his work as clean as he did. She glanced to the side, noting the man on the bench had shuffled as he sighed loudly. He continued to look out the window, none-the-wiser to the plotting that was occurring only a few metres away from him.

But the woman in black in front of her was awfully suspicious. She kept to the line of flowers along the opposite wall, slowly walking as she admired each petal. Even from where she stood, Enola could tell how she touched each petal with reverence. It reminded her much of Tewkesbury.

"Tewkes," she whispered and risked glancing down at him to see that he had made a small mess as he continued to dig to the root, "I think we must hurry. I have this sickening feeling in my gut that we are amongst a thorny rose bush."

He chuckled and whispered, "This one doesn’t have any thorns that I can see—"

"No," she whispered, keeping her gaze locked on the back of the woman. Enola spied dark red in her hair, and when the woman turned her head just so, she noticed the flower that Tewkesbury had warned her about. "We have a thorn in our midst, Tewkesbury—and I wish for neither of us to get cut. Hurry along, if you can. Rose is here."

Tewkesbury didn’t lift his head to confirm it for himself, nor did he reply. He continued to dig and dig until he found the root and then used the knife to help dig it out as intact as possible.

Enola thought it good luck that Rose didn’t once turn around to notice either of them. She kept her back to them before she sighed quietly and exited the private garden at a leisurely walk.

"Hurry," Enola whispered quietly, "we mustn’t lose her!"

Enola stationed herself at the kitchen door as Tewkesbury hurriedly prepared the sleeping tonic. She kept her back to the door and would push firmly against it when a servant so much as tried to turn the knob and step inside. While she wished to learn how to brew such a potion, there was hardly any time for a lesson. She supposed she’d only need to request Tewkesbury teach her at a later time when an opportunity to solve a case wasn’t present.

Enola grunted in frustration the third time someone tried to get into the kitchen. She was becoming to grow suspicious of the mysteriously stuck door herself.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed and twisted the knob this way and that. "It appears the door is stuck!"

"Stuck?" the voice on the other side said.

"Yes! Oh, dear. It appears the hinges aren’t quite working. Give me a moment! Let me get some oil to loosen it!"

"I’m working as quickly as I can!" Tewkesbury said quietly as he crushed the root and did his best to create a tea that would be effective and unsuspicious at the same time. His hands worked methodically and quickly, and Enola couldn’t help but stare at his long fingers. They were quite spectacular.

When the door knock twisted again, thankfully, Tewkesbury had completed his task and was pouring his tonic into a small teapot. When he’d let the last few drops plop in the pot, he nodded and she quickly stepped away from the door. The servant almost fell through.

"Oh!" she smiled brightly as Tewkesbury quickly deposited his used utensils amongst the used dishes. To distract the man from looking at Tewkesbury too closely, Enola fanned her face with her hand and made a point of adjusting the bust of her gown. Thankfully, the idea of being in some sexual tryst with Tewkesbury made her skin turn as brightly red as a rose. "It appears the door works now! Well, all right. Let’s go, lover!" She quickly fetched Tewkesbury and dragged him by the arm out of the kitchen, much to the surprise of the servants who were starting to filter back into the kitchen.

At her insistence, Tewkesbury returned to the main party to make sure he was seen and not at all suspicious. Although it made her slightly uncomfortable to shove him out the door from the guest bedroom on the second floor she stowed away in, it was for the best. Tewkesbury was needed to maintain their unsuspicious cover while she did all the suspicious things.

After paying a male servant that was slightly taller than her a good sum of money to trade clothes with her, Enola mussed up her hair and placed it into a plain bun as she went to the kitchen to collect her parcel. On her way there, she ensured to check and see Tewkesbury’s progress in capturing the attention of Rose… and ignored the uncomfortable twinge in her gut when she saw him smiling and laughing.

Good. He needed to keep up the farce of having a jolly time.

When she had acquired the tea Tewkesbury had hidden on the topmost shelf in a very high cupboard (it wasn’t easy to get without causing suspicion, something she’d need to make a note of for future endeavours with him), she peeked out through the crack in the door and waited until she saw Tewkesbury glance around.

Widening it, she clicked her fingers noiselessly and pointed for him to go upstairs. It took a moment, but once he realised the task at hand, she had the uncomfortable displeasure of watching him offer Rose his arm and suggest that they head upstairs to somewhere quieter.

Enola was certain he was utterly charming, given that he was smiling that smile that made her want to roll her eyes. But she was blocking the doorway and needed to make haste, so Enola quickly slipped out from the kitchen and kept her gaze downcast so as not to attract any attention from the party guests. Doing so meant she didn’t have to see Tewkesbury smiling a wide, bright smile.

After a few minutes, she quickly bounded up the stairs and slowly crept along the quiet and brightly lit hall. She walked slowly, wanting to listen for Tewkesbury’s voice. She couldn’t hear it echo until she was a quarter of the way deep in the hallway—and then she heard that sound. His laugh. Loud and full and utterly charming. How could a laugh be charming?

As she made her way to the open door of the study, she cleared her throat and rapped her knuckles against the doorframe. "Excuse me," she said with a slightly dainty voice. "I have the tea you requested, sir."

Tewkesbury was seated on the edge of the desk while Rose stood in front of him. Now that Enola was in a position to get a good look at her, she found her utterly mesmerising. She had the kind of face men would go to war for, although there was something knowing in the way she smiled and crinkled her eyes told Enola that she already understood that.

"Please," Tewkesbury said, quickly rising from the edge of the table. He was flustered in a way that suggested she interrupted something—and that only made Enola scowl. "Come in."

She stepped into the room and did her best to not appear too displeased. She felt a pleasant grimace curse her face. She placed the tray and teapot with the two cups that Tewkesbury had selected on the table. With her hands behind her back, she bowed her head and turned, rolling her eyes as she curled up her lip and stepped out of the study.

Pressing her back flat against the wall, Enola listened intently as Tewkesbury laughed lightly.

"You needn’t get us any tea, my lord," Rose said, laughing softly. Enola imagined her reaching out to touch Tewkesbury’s arm. She pulled a disgruntled face as she imagined Tewkesbury ducking his head and smiling as if he was charmed.

"I thought it’d be nice," he replied with a slight quaver in his voice. Discomfort. Hopefully Rose wasn’t smart enough to clue in on that and instead think him to be nervous being in her presence. "Especially enjoy it over a nice book."

"Yes," she mused and Enola heard the sound of pouring water. Ah, good; at least the tea wouldn’t go to waste for a moment longer.

Tuning them out for a few moments, Enola waited, expecting Rose to hit the floor within minutes. But she heard them laugh and Tewkesbury sigh—and Rose make some fuss about a poetry book she so desperately wanted to page through that Emma allegedly gave her permission to borrow from the very study.

Ever the gentleman, Tewkesbury offered to try and find it for her, and Enola had to listen patiently to their chatter until Rose declared she was tired… and then the conversation seemed to end.

"Enola," Tewkesbury whispered. "Enola!"

"There’s no need to shout!" she said as she stepped into the room and grabbed a lit candlestick.

"I wasn’t—"

Enola regarded the slumbering Rose sitting in the chair. She rested her head against her folded arms and was sound asleep without even a snore. While Enola would’ve much preferred to have hit her over the head with a book, she could see the magic behind Tewkesbury’s choice of dealing with the matter at hand.

"We don’t have long, do we?" he said. "Let’s find the journals."

Tewkesbury turned to face the bookshelf. Enola sighed in frustration as she charged toward him and grabbed his arm, leading him away. "Not in here, Tewkes! In Jack’s study. This is merely a small library."

She quickly ran down the hall and turned the handle to Jack’s study. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked. Letting go of Tewkesbury’s hand, she scooped her hair out from its bun and held it up. "Hold this, please."

Tewkesbury didn’t hesitate to hold her hair up. She slid pins from near the nape of her neck and quickly got to work in loosening the lock. When the door clicked open, Tewkesbury smiled. "You’re a genius, Enola."

"I know," she said, preening. "You can let go now."

"Oh, right."

Quickly, they stepped into the dark study. Enola gestured for Tewkesbury to search the top of the bookshelf while she pressed her nose to the spines as she searched for a journal on the middle shelves. Most of the spines and corners were immaculate as if the books themselves hadn’t even been touched. She wasn’t too surprised, given that some of the books she saw Sherlock and Mother store away on their bookshelves back home were merely for display.

She wasn’t too sure how long it had taken for him to find a worn-out spine on one of the bottom shelves. On his knees beside her, Tewkesbury pulled one from the shelf and paged through it, pressing his face so close to the pages.

"Enola," he whispered excitedly. "I think I have it."

"What?" She peered down at him, furrowing her brows. "How can you tell? I can’t even read that writing in this light."

"Because of this." With a lopsided smile, he held out a dried-out rose, its once bright red petals now a muted shade. Placing it carefully back into its place, he turned a few pages and presented her with another assortment of flowers. He was quiet for a moment as he read the pages carefully, brushing his fingertip ever so gently against the old ink. He treated the book as if it was a delicate flower. "This is it," he said, peering up at her. "We’ve got it."

"All right!" Enola smiled and tugged him up by the shoulders. "Let’s go."

Tewkesbury cradled the journal to his chest as he reached for her hand and led her out of the room.

The best part about being a Holmes meant that she automatically attracted the likes of Inspector Lestrade. Although she had kept a wide berth of him since arriving at the party, as soon as she and Tewkesbury had their evidence, she almost bowled him over handing it over and explaining all that they had found, despite the poor man’s obvious state of being overwhelmed.

Thankfully for her, the late Jack Bennett kept detailed journals about his days and encounters and had almost dedicated an entire journal to his past love, Rose Wood. Tewkesbury had been right in believing she was a lover scorned. They’d spent their childhood hopelessly in love, with Jack falling out of it as he took to his duties as a man of society and left her to make a name for himself. Elizabeth had been a diamond in the rough—or his red chrysanthemum, as Rose became nothing but a distant memory. As hopeless as Jack seemed to be, he was hopelessly in love—and forever in mourning since the murder of his wife at the petals of Rose.

Tewkesbury laughed. She liked that it echoed even while they were outside walking along the driveway. It would be a bit of a walk back to his childhood home, but Enola liked the idea of being under the stars with him again for a few hours. It felt like they had travelled back in time when it had simply been the two of them against the world… and not him being pulled back into his while Enola fought hers.

"You know," Tewkesbury said as he looped his arm with hers, "it wasn’t so bad."

Enola felt the knee-jerk desire to remind him that their farce was over. He needn’t keep up the pretence of being romantically involved with her. But she didn’t tug her arm away from his.

"What wasn’t so bad?" she asked, tilting her head up to peer up at him.

"Being your beloved," he said, smiling lopsidedly. "Or, well, almost, I suppose." He looked straight ahead for a moment too long before glancing down at her. "Being 'Mr Enola Holmes' wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be."

Enola elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed loudly, the sound echoing around them. It sounded lovely in the moonlight.

"Well," she said, tilting her chin upward, "anyone who fell in love with me should feel honoured."

He smiled lopsidedly and nodded. "Yes," he said, ducking his head and letting his soft hair flop against his forehead, "they would be—very much so."

"Thank you for your help, Tewkesbury," she said, peering up at him earnestly. He smiled something small—and it was the most handsome smile he’d smiled yet. It was something shy and quiet and very reminiscent of the boy who had rolled down a hill and let her cut his hair. "I couldn’t have solved it without you."

"You didn’t need me, Enola," he said gently. "You would’ve figured it out eventually."

"Perhaps," she said, tilting her chin up defiantly for a moment. But she smiled and shook her head, "But I highly doubt that. As much as I know, flowers… confuse me."

"They still do?" he asked, cocking his brow.

"A little," she said, looking straight ahead as they exited the driveway and stepped onto the road. He didn’t let go of her arm; Enola didn’t want him to. "It’s just… They have such sentimental value, and that gives them a variety of meanings. It’s not quite as clear-cut as I’d like. A sunflower is a sunflower to me, but to you, it means something utterly different."

"You can learn their meanings, too, Enola," he said quietly.

"I know," she said, peering up at him with a small smile. "You mustn’t judge me for what I’m about to tell you."

He shook his head. "I wouldn’t dare."

She smiled and looked away from him. The countryside was dark and the trees were even darker silhouettes, but she liked that she could make out their shapes. She wondered if Tewkesbury could identify them from their foliage.

"I don’t see the need to learn the meaning of flowers," she said, "not when I have you to know all the meanings for me." Chancing a glance at him, Enola cleared her throat and looked off to the side with a purposeful upward tilt of her chin. "I hope you don’t mind."

He chuckled lightly. "Not at all," he said. She knew he was looking at her, so she kept her gaze away from his. She was very grateful it was nighttime so he couldn’t see her furious blush. "I’m glad that I can help you, Enola. I truly mean that."

"So, what will you do now?" she asked, looking at him. At the confused cock of his brow, she elaborated, "There will no doubt be whispers of how you’ll soon have a wife. That’s not exactly true, is it?"

It was his turn to look away. He shrugged and quirked his mouth upward. "It’s all right," he said. At her dumbfounded look, he laughed. "It’ll at least make attending these things a little more entertaining and less taxing. I don’t mind pretending that my love is too busy with her engagements of solving murders and jewellery robberies."

"You wouldn’t make her more palatable?" she asked and instantly regretted how eager her voice sounded. "Not… more like someone that society accepted?"

He scoffed. "No," he said with a shake of his head. "Not Emily. I would want her to be true to who she is, whoever that may be."

When he looked down at her with a small, reassuring smile, Enola couldn’t help but stare at him for a long moment before looking away. She didn’t think to ask him what he meant by that. She needn’t be a Holmes to know what Tewkesbury was telling her.

It was a simple message she thought any person with half a brain would be able to decipher. But she wasn’t after someone with half a brain. She wanted him to answer it.

And he did, two days later. She wondered when their submissions to the Column would end up rejected. None of their messages ever made sense to anyone but the two of them, and after solving the case of Jack Bennett’s murder two weeks prior with great success (and much publicity for her detective agency), Enola was certain that she’d be banned from almost every newspaper in the city. She suspected he had something to do with that. Marquess Tewkesbury was a very well-liked man, even if he was making waves in the House of Lords.

There it was, his reply. This time, he’d snuck it into the advertisements rather than his beloved Agony Column.

Without a moment to waste, Enola raced over to his city apartment in quite a hurry and in baggy men’s clothes. She ensured to hide her hand where she wore his mother’s ring behind the gift that she was bringing him. It was important that she give that back to him before she accidentally lost it.

When he opened the door, he chuckled as he took in her attire. He was dressed handsomely, but Tewkesbury was always handsome. "What poor gentleman did you con this time, Enola?"

"He wasn’t a gentleman, Tewkesbury," she scoffed as she feigned annoyance. She kept her hands behind her back as she scolded him. "Perhaps that should tell you all you need to know!"

He laughed. Butterflies soared in her gut. She liked that feeling. It was quite addictive; it spiked her already roaring adrenaline and simply made it worse.

"I have something for you," she said with a strange sense of discomfort. She didn’t like this feeling at all, but when it intermingled with the butterflies in her gut… Well, it felt a little addictive.

Tewkesbury furrowed his brows as he regarded her curiously. "What is it?"

Ignoring the furious beating of her heart and the flush burning her neck and cheeks, Enola tilted her chin up and willed all of her courage to return to her. He kept staring at her face as she thrust her hand out and kept it out.

He glanced down in surprise. "Enola—"

"Take it," she said. She held in her right hand a blood-red rose with perfect petals and even perfect leaves to match. There was one thorn, but Enola knew that he would prefer to receive a flower with one flaw than a truly perfect thing from her. She wasn’t perfect, and yet he liked her too much. "Please. I didn’t grow it, just in case you were wondering. Your dearest darling’s thumb remains black." She ignored her furious blush and how her skin had grown clammy all over.

Tewkesbury smiled, his cheeks burning red. He accepted it, taking it with his right hand. She stared at his hand, knowing from her hurried research to learn something about the language Tewkesbury was so fluent what that meant. Perhaps she was reading a little too much into it? But then she looked up and watched him lift the rose to his nose and smell it, all the while peering down at her with a rather strange look.

That strange look was a familiar one, in all honesty.

"Don’t eat it now," she said, desperate to fill the silence. "I didn’t spend all my money on the perfect rose for you to turn into an eater of it."

Tewkesbury laughed as he twirled the stem in his hand. "Thank you, Enola."

Before she could think to stop him, Tewkesbury stepped over the threshold of his front door and touched her elbow gently. He leaned toward her and pressed his warm lips to her cheek.

She was holding her breath. She didn’t flinch or pull away. Curling her hands into fists, Enola Holmes reminded herself to breathe.

"I still have your ring," she said breathlessly, her voice shaking. His warm lips lingered. She didn’t dare move. "I came to give it back."

"Keep it," he murmured against her skin. Enola shivered.

As he began to pull away, Enola turned toward him. No one could possibly blame her for standing on the tips of her toes and for gripping his bicep to keep him in place so that she could kiss him. No one could blame her, not even him.

But she could blame him for kissing her back.