---

---

~ Five ~

Dinner was not silent. While we sat in the kitchen, sipping soup and munching on bread and mutton, Miss Couper maintained an animated lecture on the tumuli and barrows of the British Isles and the Continent.

“Wayland’s Smithy being a prime Neolithic example. And then there’s Maeshowe up on Orkney. Chambered cairn. Unique to the Orkneys. Don’t see that anywhere else. Well, that we know of. Could change at any moment. Always making new discoveries. Even the Americans are doing good work, digging up Indian mounds —”

“Miss Couper, could you pass the salt, please?” I held out my hand, smile stiff.

“Eh? Oh, aye.”

Miss Baxter hid a smirk behind a bite of mutton.

Ailis and the other two students, whom I now knew to be Judith Fleming and Beatrice Gordon, sat across the table from me. They remained alarmingly quiet, their gazes fixed on their plates. Like Ailis, Judith and Beatrice also wore older dresses: all charity students, then, without the funds to travel home for the holiday.

Mrs. Fearghasdan sat at the head of the table, frowning with concern.

Holmes hovered around the edges of the room, watchful.

I cleared my throat, shaking some salt into my soup. “How will all of you be celebrating the holiday, then? Cider and carols after church? Will you be bringing a tree in?”

Miss Couper raised her spoon. “Interesting history to that —”

“No tree, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Fearghasdan interrupted. “But we plan for a Yule log in the main hearth in the great dining hall. Dawn services at St. Giles, of course.”

“And you, Miss Morstan?” Miss Baxter smiled at me, her eyes gleaming. “Will you be burning a Yule log?”

I set aside the salt, folding my hands in my lap. From across the table, Ailis watched me through her hair.

“I do recall that you and . . . oh, what was her name? Weaver? Walker?”

“Mrs. Webster.”

Miss Baxter clapped her hands. “Yes, that’s right! Webster! The two of you would slip away at the oddest times of the year.” She turned to Miss Couper and continued in a loud whisper, “Did you know that Miss Morstan here was the only student at the Academy who had her own nanny? The rest of us, of course, had long outgrown our nannies, leaving them behind in the nursery. But, well, I suppose when one is born in a distant heathen land, one needs some sort of comfort when one rejoins civilization.”

Miss Couper shifted uncomfortably, her expression uncertain.

“You are quite right, Evelyn.” I smiled thinly, holding my back and shoulders so stiff that they began to ache. Breathe. In, out. “It was a shock to leave the beauty and warmth of India for Scotland. It took me some time to come to appreciate the lochs and moors and heaths — beautiful, but a spare and striking beauty in comparison to India. And, of course, I had just lost my mother. My father, loyal down to his marrow, would not abandon his duty to the Queen. And so Mrs. Webster kindly agreed to accompany me back to my homeland, to love and care for me as if I were her own daughter. And I came to care for her as a second mother — but more, as a role model, an example of compassion and honor and courage. The sort of woman I could only hope to become myself, caring for the children in my charge as she cared for me. As Mrs. Fearghasdan does. As I am sure all of the teachers here do.”

Mrs. Fearghasdan cleared her throat. “You are very kind, Mary.”

Her face flushed, Miss Baxter glared at me. “And is that how you acquired that pearl necklace? I do not believe that I have ever seen its like. A gift from a grateful student? Or perhaps a grateful parent. I am sure —”

“Evelyn! That is quite enough!” The headmistress slapped her hand down on the table, hard.

Beatrice jumped, Judith appeared to be near tears, and Ailis’s frantic gaze darted back and forth between the adults around her.

Mrs. Fearghasdan stood. “Girls, prepare for bed. You may read for a short time, but I expect you to be under the covers with your eyes closed by nine sharp.”

The three girls stood, bobbing their heads and murmuring “Yes, Headmistress.”

Miss Baxter patted at the corner of her mouth and tossed aside her napkin. “Well, if you will excuse me, I have some work to attend to in the botany room. Miss Couper, I believe that it is your turn to clean up.” With that, she stood and quickly left the kitchen.

Miss Couper huffed a sigh.

“There’s no need. I’m sure that Sigerson would be more than happy to take over any cleaning duties this evening.” I turned on the bench and smiled at Holmes. “Wouldn’t you, Sigerson?”

He answered with a barely audible “Yes’m.”

“Excellent. And the three of us can retire to the dining hall, as well. Perhaps with a pot of calming tea?”

Mrs. Fearghasdan frowned. “Well . . . I suppose  . . .”

Miss Couper offered me a grateful smile. Minutes later, we were settled into deep leather chairs in front of the flickering hearth. While Judith and Beatrice read in their cots, small lanterns set beside them on makeshift nightstands, and Ailis snored under her blankets, we spent a delightful hour discussing the works of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson.

When Miss Baxter appeared some time later, already dressed in her sleeping gown, she ignored us. She climbed into her cot and showed us her back.

Only as the clock struck ten did our conversation draw to a close. Miss Couper bid us good evening and left to change into her own sleeping gown.

Slipping forward in my chair, I whispered to Mrs. Fearghasdan, “At what time may we expect to be awakened?”

She flinched, pulling in her shoulders. “Sometime between two and three in the morning. It does not last long, however. Ten minutes. Perhaps fifteen.”

“In that case, we had both better get some rest.” I gathered up the teapot and cups. “I will return these to the kitchen.”

She stayed me with a hand on my wrist. “And . . . what precisely will you do?”

I offered her a reassuring smile, not unlike the one I had offered Ailis earlier in the evening. “Whatever I must.”

With that, I bid her goodnight and made my way down the dark corridors to the kitchen, only a few electric sconces lighting my way.

As I suspected, Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I could smell him, however. A faint whiff of tobacco leaked under the back door which led to the central courtyard. There, I found him leaning against a column, feet crossed, an old briar pipe between his lips.

Pulling the door shut, I crossed my arms against the cold and waited.

“As you said, there was no faerie coffin. The room behind the Headmistress’s office does not appear to have been used for many years.”

“Proof that we live in more enlightened times?”

“Mm.”

“And Miss Baxter?”

His teeth gleamed in a quick smile. “After she was finished pollinating, transplanting, and pruning, I thoroughly examined the botany laboratory. The few pieces of iron there proved to be of no consequence and I could see nowhere that she might hide the coffin.”

“Miss Couper, then.”

He did not answer.

“Or, as you argued, someone from outside the school.” I shivered. My lungs were beginning to hurt from the cold. “We can expect to be awakened between the second and third hours of the morning. I have preparations to make. What will you be doing?”

He turned, a halo of bluish smoke circling his head. “Continuing my education in occult detection.”

---

Using the keys that Mrs. Fearghasdan had entrusted to me, I locked the dining hall doors, both those that opened onto the main corridor and those that led through the secret passage to the kitchen. Across both thresholds I laid a mixture of sea salt, thistles, and powered briar and blackthorn. I laid a semicircle out from one edge of the door to the other, giving Holmes and myself room to sit or stand as needed. At the top of the semicircle, I drew a stylized thistle with the mixture: three spokes poking up, two poking down.

“Mr. Holmes, if you would, please? A nail. There should be plenty of iron ones in the door.” My voice shook just a little as I made my request. A combination of exhaustion, uncertainty, and giddiness. I could feel my face flush as he hesitated, then dipped his head without comment and turned to the dining hall door.

He pulled a knife from his boot and, within a few moments, had pried loose a single, straight nail, clean of rust.

“Thank you.” My voice shook slightly less.

I carefully laid the nail in the center of the thistle, in line with the arch of the semicircle. An effective bar against any faerie. Energy could still flow into the safe space as I needed it, but nothing malign could enter.

Sitting down, I found as comfortable a position as possible on the stone floor, and drew additional supplies from my travel bag: the same threaded cloth I had used in the chemistry laboratory, the bronze canister with a fresh disk of juniper charcoal, my flint, my copper needle, and Mrs. Forrester’s package: a loose net, dark green in color, painstakingly woven from crushed and threaded nettles.

It had taken Mrs. Forrester years to create the net. I’m not sure that I would ever be able to repay her for giving it to me.

Holmes settled down beside me. “Salt for purification and protection, I gather.”

I hesitated and cleared my throat. I had been taught the importance of secrecy from the cradle. Speaking openly now of my Work was . . . disconcerting. Even with my beloved John I had been able to say only so much.

I cleared my throat again. “I will have your word that you will not speak of what I am about to tell you with anyone else. Not without my permission.”

He pulled his briar pipe from his pocket, but did not light it. “Not even Watson?”

“If you are implying that I did n —”

A fierce wail echoed down the corridor, high pitched and jarring. I lurched onto my knees while Holmes scrambled to his feet. The air above the salt line shivered, and I could only wonder at how much worse it would have been without that protective barrier.

Another wail followed, then weeping, sobs of grief that made my own eyes tear up in sympathy.

At the far end of the corridor, a figure came into view. Female, and taller than most men, long limbed and thin. White-green hair trailed down her back and along the floor, like grass touched by frost. Her dress was not cloth, but the withered stalks of flowers, bare twigs, bundles of birds’ nests, clumps of feathers, bits of fox and rabbit fur. The dress rasped and rubbed against the stone floor. Blue markings (paint? ink?) swirled and arced across her forehead, down the sides of her face, and across her cheekbones. And her eyes, they were the icy blue-gray of a Highland lake in winter, so cold with anger and grief that I felt it down to my bones.

The wailing continued as she moved towards us, her inarticulate cries giving way to words, then sliding back again into moans of pain. Not Scots Gaelic. Not even Old Irish. But Pictish, understood by only a few who maintained the old ways.

My breath caught as the meaning of her words became clear.

The faerie stopped, brought up short by the line of salt and herbs. The air rippled again. This close, I could see the shape of her bones through her too-tight skin, and how strands of her hair moved in a wind that only she would feel.

She stared at us, the dead and dried flowers in her dress twitching with every breath.

The faerie opened her mouth and screamed. The ripples above the salt line became chaotic, frantic miniature explosions, like a hail of pebbles falling into a lake, and the iron nail bounced.

“Miss Morstan?” Holmes shouted, and I realized that he had a pistol in one hand and his knife in the other.

I dropped back to the ground, hastily lit the charcoal, and scooped up the net. Whipping it through the smoke created by the charcoal, I speared the trailing line of the net with my needle, then wrapped it around my hand to get a good grip. Stepping closer to the faerie, I whispered my Working, weaving Pictish words round and round.

The faerie went abruptly silent. She tilted her head, blue-gray eyes wide.

I took another step forward, toes just inches from the iron nail.

The faerie sneered, her lips pulling back in a predatory grin.

I kicked the nail aside. The air snapped. I threw the net, casting it over and around the faerie. She howled, lunged to the side. The net caught her shoulder and arm, tangling, tearing at the dry stalks and bulbs of her dress. Bits of it ripped free, floating through the air.

The faerie heaved backwards, yanking me with her. The salt line smeared and broke. Another hard yank, my shoulders straining as I stumbled forward.

An arm wrapped around my waist, catching me close. Holmes’s other arm descended past my head, his knife quick and bright as he flung it through the air. The blade sank deep into the faerie’s shoulder, slicing through several strands of the net.

The faerie shrieked, shimmering blood staining her flesh and gown. With a snarl, she yanked the knife from her body. It clattered to the floor. She spun, twisted, pulled, and we toppled forward as the net strained.

With a final heave, she pulled loose, the net ripping free. She fled back down the corridor, dripping blood and wailing.

And then, just as suddenly, the sound was gone, the corridor silent.

I dropped my head onto my arms, panting hard. The trailing line of the net was wrapped so tightly around my hand that I could no longer feel my fingers, and my shoulders were on fire.

“Are you injured, Miss Morstan?” Holmes tugged his arm loose from around my waist and pushed himself to his knees.

“Her child-self.” I rolled my head so that I could look up at him. “The coffin. We have to find that coffin.”

---

~ Six ~

The following morning, after a hasty breakfast of eggs and toast, Mrs. Fearghasdan and I took a cab to the northern quarter of Edinburgh. Holmes — as Sigerson again — rode up top with the driver, hunched and muttering about the cold, a stack of books in his lap. Miss Baxter and Miss Couper and the three girls, agitated and terrified by what they had heard during the night, remained in the dining hall. When I laid a new salt line across the door, handed them each an iron fireplace poker, and told them not to leave the room, even Miss Baxter could only nod.

“I still can’t believe . . . I don’t understand . . .” Mrs. Fearghasdan shook her head, hands clenched in her lap.

I studied the Christmas decorations that lined the streets, catching occasional glimpses of Arthur’s Seat around the buildings and hills. “The faerie is clearly targeting those who have had contact with the coffin: Ailis, Beatrice, Judith. The fact that she attacked Miss MacPherson can only mean one thing.”

“But . . .” The headmistress pressed her lips together. “What about me? The stone gargoyle that nearly crushed me in the courtyard — oh.” She sank back in the seat. “I was speaking with Ailis.”

We were silent for the rest of the journey.

The cab eventually rolled to a stop in front of an elegant brick house, the narrow yard bright with heather, pansies, and even an acer tree.

Holmes clambered down to help us out of the cab, then followed us up the steps, books in his arms.

Mrs. Fearghasdan knocked and, a few moments later, the door was opened to reveal an older woman, a heavy shawl over her shoulders.

The headmistress smiled. “Mrs. MacPherson, I do hope that we are not intruding?”

“Certainly not.” The woman stepped aside and waved us into the house. “My daughter has not received many visitors. I am sure that she will be only too happy to see you.”

As we entered, I could see directly down the hallway to the solarium at the rear of the house. At this distance, I could not be sure, but I thought that I recognized several of the plants.

Introductions were quickly made and the books (“Gifts from a grateful faculty.”) were handed over to a maid. Sigerson was invited to warm himself in the kitchen, while Mrs. MacPherson escorted the headmistress and myself upstairs.

Trailing behind the others, I motioned Holmes towards the solarium, pointing and mouthing instructions. He just blinked at me, but I was not sure if he did not understand or if he was staying in character.

We found Miss MacPherson propped up in her bed, her face lined with pain. A medicinal bottle sat on the nightstand beside her, but I suspected that it contained something other than laudanum. Blankets covered her from chin to knees. Below that, heavy casts wrapped her legs.

Fortunately, the elder Mrs. MacPherson stayed only a few moments. As soon as she was gone, I turned to the young teacher and asked, “Where is the faerie coffin?”

Miss MacPherson gaped at me. “I don’t — I have no idea.”

“Yes, you do. You took it from the stove where Ailis, Beatrice, and Judith had hidden it. The faerie is hunting it. You have placed everyone in danger. We must return the coffin to her immediately. Where is it?”

Miss MacPherson’s expression turned mulish, the lines in her face deepening. For long moments, she was silent, staring at me, at Mrs. Fearghasdan, at the walls, the ceiling. Her fingers twitched nervously.

“Whatever you were planning, it will not work. As soon as you remove the coffin from its hiding place, the faerie will descend upon you. You are not strong enough to defeat her —”

Miss MacPherson snorted.

“ — not in your current condition. Even assuming you regain enough of your strength to face her, that time is months away. If not longer. She will have torn the school apart by then, injuring and possibly killing the students and other teachers in the process. Is that what you want?”

Miss MacPherson licked her lips, studying me from the corner of her eye. Her gaze dipped towards the pearl necklace, then lifted slowly.

“Please, Maighread.” Mrs. Fearghasdan leaned forward in her chair. “The girls are terrified. The Academy will have to close down. End this.”

The young teacher exhaled, heavy and low. She closed her eyes, then turned to us. “It’s under the hearthstone in the great dining hall, inside an iron box.”

I pushed to my feet, Mrs. Fearghasdan quickly following.

“And just so we are clear . . .” Miss MacPherson paused, tilting her chin up at me, her expression proud. “I was most definitely strong enough. And I will be again.”

My own fingers twitched, longing for my copper needle.

Mrs. Fearghasdan gently touched my wrist, and I left the room without saying another word.

---

“Mandrake, wormwood, garlic, rosemary, rue, asafoetida, mugwort, St. John’s wort. Taxidermy, as well.” Holmes walked quickly at my side, our steps echoing down the hallway of the Academy. Mrs. Fearghasdan panted behind us, struggling to keep pace.

“Which animals?”

“Weasel, rat, fox, dog.”

“Mmm. That means they have the bones. Not just the daughter, but likely the mother, too.”

We rounded the corner and came within sight of the dining hall, the doors still shut.

Holmes looked down at me. “Should we be concerned about them interfering?”

“They won’t have time.” I hastened my steps, kicking my skirts out of the way. Stepping over the salt line, I shoved the door open. I ignored the squeal of surprise from Judith and the way Miss Couper lurched to her feet, iron poker held high.

Instead, I made straight for the hearth. Pushing a chair out of the way, I knelt in front of the fireplace. Holmes dropped down next to me, feeling along the edges of every stone.

“Here. Scratches as from a lever of some sort.” Pulling his knife from his boot, he wedged the blade into the seam. With only a little effort, the stone tilted up, far enough that we were able to squeeze our fingers beneath it and tip it out of the way.

There, in a narrow space beneath, sat an iron box. It was not even two feet in length and a foot wide.

Holmes bent down and lifted it out. “Miss Morstan?”

I looked up to see that the others had surrounded us, their eyes wide and wary.

“Over there.” I gestured to a space between the large table and the dozen cots. “I need room to work. Mrs. Fearghasdan, I suggest you take everyone into the kitchen. Hopefully, this will all be over soon.”

Ailis’s voice shook. “W-what are you going to do?”

I offered her a small smile. “Set things to rights.”

With a firm nod, the headmistress took Ailis’s hand and led her towards the secret passageway to the kitchen. Judith and Beatrice trailed after. Miss Baxter pursed her lips, appearing on the verge of another cutting remark. Before she could open her mouth, however, Miss Couper grabbed her arm and gave her a not so gentle push towards the kitchen. She saluted me with her fireplace poker, and then Holmes and I were alone with the coffin and its tiny occupant.

“Her child-self, you said?”

I strode across the room and cut the salt line in front of the door with my foot. “There are many kinds of faerie. Some change as the land changes, their younger and elder selves sleeping and waking with the seasons.” I returned and laid down a salt circle around us, the box on the floor at our feet. “If she does not retrieve her child-self, she will die with the Spring.” I slipped the pearl necklace over my head. I broke the clasp, pulled off one pearl, and tucked the rest in my travel bag. Whispering words, I looped and cut my needle through the air, and, with a final flourish, impaled the pearl on the needle.

“Keep your knife at the ready, Mr. Holmes.”

He did not answer, instead pulling his pistol from a hidden pocket and cocking the hammer. In his other hand, he held his knife low at his side.

I opened the box, pulled out the coffin, and set it on the ground.

It was beautiful, just as Ailis had said. Oak, the wood vibrant and alive. Flowers sprouted from the surface, growing, fluttering open, shrinking down, and growing again. Delicate vines wrapped around it, thrumming softly with sap.

A wailing shriek, rising and falling. It quickly drew closer. Closer.

And then she was there, teetering at the threshold of the dining hall. Her dress rasped and rustled, her hair curled madly, and the blue markings on her face almost glowed. With a sweep of her hand, the broken salt line at the door was blown away, but the circle around us held.

As she advanced across the room, her blue-gray eyes cold with anger, I pushed to my feet. I clutched the needle between my fingers. “Stay close to me.”

“And you to me, Miss Morstan.”

I backed up a step, then two, Holmes following, putting space between us and the coffin.

The faerie stopped, seething, when she reached the barrier of salt, thistle, briar, and blackthorn. The wound in her shoulder looked ragged, but no longer bled.

“Beautiful lady!” I called out in Pictish.

She hissed at me.

I continued in that ancient tongue. “Those who took your child-self are children themselves. They did not understand the offense they caused. Take your child-self and return to your great hall under the earth. Go in peace.”

I scraped my foot backwards, breaking the barrier.

The faerie surged forward. She scooped up the coffin, hugging it tight to her chest. For a moment, the dead flowers of her dress brightened with life and color. The faerie moaned, rocking back and forth, her eyes closed. Then the flowers withered again.

She hissed low. The beds, table, and benches lifted off the floor, tottering, wobbling. The glass of the electric sconces shattered. Then, between one blink and the next, she lunged for us, one hand extended, fingernails like curved rose thorns.

A gun barked, a knife flashed.

The faerie spun, twisted around, and lunged again.

I lifted the needle, chanting, the pearl shining. Not Gaelic or Pictish, this time, but classical Sanskrit, the language by which the pearl was created. It recognized its mother tongue, opalescence spinning across its surface.

The faerie skipped around us, so fast. The beds, table, and benches spun in the air, crashing into one another, into the walls, splinters flying.

My voice rose. A blackness crept across the pearl. It sizzled, a thin tendril of smoke rising.

The faerie hissed again, louder, but fell back a step. And another.

Louder. More black covered the pearl, the opalescence nearly gone.

My knees shook. Sweat ran down the sides of my face. I forced myself a step forward, Holmes at my side, and the faerie fell back. Another step.

The pearl turned ashen, beginning to collapse in on itself. Flakes of it floated up through the air.

There was a whoomp, a puff, as the pearl imploded. The concussive wave rushed through the air, growing stronger as it traveled. When it reached the faerie, the wave threw her backwards, tearing loose pieces of her dress.

Shrieking, she tumbled, righted herself —

— and was gone.

The furniture crashed to the floor, the beds, the chairs, the trunks, the racket pounding in my ears.

I tasted rock and realized that I had collapsed. My whole body was shaking, my fingers spasming around my needle.

Holmes gently rolled me onto my back and tossed his coat across me. “Miss Morstan? Mary?”

I tried to smile, slurred a reassurance, and then knew only darkness.

---

~ Seven ~

I slept through the afternoon and all through the night, tucked into a mattress that had been placed near the fireplace. I woke infrequently, and each time found that I was not alone. Mrs. Fearghasdan sat with me, and Miss Couper; even Miss Baxter. Of Holmes, however, there was no sign. At one point, I opened my eyes to find Ailis at my side, staring blindly towards the hearth.

She started when she saw that I was awake, then licked her lips. “It’s gone, then?”

“For the most part.” My voice was scratchy. I cleared my throat. “The faerie was banished, but she is still . . . quite angry. She may return. I will leave protective measures in place. You must promise that you will contact me immediately if anything happens.”

She looked towards the hearth again. “Will you teach me?”

“Ailis, I do n —”

“Please! I have to know! I have to — you have power! You can do anything!”

“Ailis!” I reached out, managing to snag her wrist. “It’s not that simple. And I certainly cannot do anything. There are limits —”

She yanked her hand away and jumped to her feet. Her expression became hard and stubborn. “If you will not teach me, I will find someone who will.”

I called after her, but she ignored me. With a last look of anger and disappointment, she stormed away.

---

Early on the afternoon of 20 December, Holmes and I took a cab across Edinburgh to the train station. Mrs. Fearghasdan had bid me a heartfelt farewell in the Academy’s central courtyard, my written instructions for maintaining the wards I had placed in each corner of the building clutched and crumpled in her hands. Her thanks were so sincere that I felt tears threaten.

Miss Couper was more brusque. She shook my hand firmly and declared that I had “opened her eyes to new possibilities.”

Miss Baxter was silent for a long moment, her gaze narrowed. “I always knew there was something odd about you.”

Judith hugged me, Beatrice offered me a shy thank you, and Ailis ignored me.

As we waited on the crowded platform, many people hugging brightly wrapped packages, Holmes moved closer to me. “I apologize for not remaining at your side as you recovered, Miss Morstan.”

I shifted my travel bag, the ticket to Dùn Dè crinkling in my hand. “No apology necessary, sir. I only needed rest. And I assume you had an important task to attend.”

“I did. After the . . . incident in the dining hall, I left you in the care of Mrs. Fearghasdan. I thought it prudent to check the grounds of the school. I encountered the elder Mrs. MacPherson in the courtyard.”

My fingers tightened.

“She was quite vexed when I explained that the faerie and the coffin were both gone. She had some harsh words to say about you. I followed her home and remained on watch until this morning. She spent quite some time in the solarium, and in her daughter’s room, though I cannot attest as to the exact nature of her activities.”

“Likely nothing good.” There was a blast of steam and a surge of noise as one of the trains moved out of the station. “I must offer my own apology, as well, sir.” He quirked an eyebrow. I swallowed and forged ahead. “I did not initially welcome your company. I thought this a matter that I should deal with on my own, in my own way. And . . . I was uncertain how you would react when you learned certain things about me.”

“You thought I would denounce you to Watson.”

“Among others.”

He smiled, a rare expression that brought unexpected warmth to his face. “I trust Watson’s judgement. He did not break off your engagement after you revealed your deepest secret to him. Quite the opposite.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm. The evening of 1 October. Watson returned from his dinner with you, proclaiming that you were even more extraordinary than he had realized. When I pressed him for details, he would only say that you were wonderful, and that he had given his word.” He shrugged. “When the opportunity arose to learn what was so extraordinary about you — the woman who is to wed my closest friend — I seized it. For that, I make no apology.”

I smiled up at Holmes. “I am glad that you are his friend.”

A station agent moved through the crowd, down the line of track, announcing the last boarding call for the Dùn Dè train. I handed my luggage to him, keeping my travel bag. “John should return to London tomorrow evening, and I will follow in a few days. I shall see you both Christmas morning?”

He tipped forward in a slight bow. “Give my regards to Mrs. Webster, and please let her know that I would like to pay her a visit myself, if and when she is amenable.”

“I will.” I turned towards the train.

“Miss Morstan?”

I paused and turned back to him.

“How much of this incident should I relate to Watson?”

“All of it. I trust him. And now I trust you. Oh — and the correct term is not witch, but buidseach.”

Another slight bow and he held out a hand to help me up the steps. The whistle blew loud and shrill as I made my way down the narrow corridor and found my cabin. As I settled into the seat, I looked out across the platform.

He was still there. He waved, tipped his hat, and turned for home.

---

Host Commentary

…aaaaand welcome back. That was “The Adventure of the Faerie Coffin: Being the First Morstan and Holmes Occult Detection” by Rebecca Buchanan, and if you’ve enjoyed it like I did, you can pop on over to

and find plenty of details on the many books, collections, anthologies and short stories Rebecca has written.

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Rebecca sent us these notes: “‘The Adventure of the Faerie Coffin’ was originally written in response to a call for submissions from Belanger Press. Authors were invited to pair Sherlock Holmes with a public domain occult character, or with a character of their own creation. I opted for a mix of both options. I chose to pair Holmes with Mary Morstan, Watson’s fiancee, but make her a secret witch — one who doesn’t particularly like Holmes.”

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Well I don’t know about you, but I found that thoroughly entertaining. The voice, the character, the inventiveness and imagination—it was one of those stories that was deeply satisfying in every way, and utterly compelling as a result. And a reminder, too, that sometimes we should leave things be and let them be in balance, accept that not everything on this green earth is meant for our consumption and inspection.

On the one hand I am someone who is absolutely compelled to try and understand everything about everything, and work out how it works, and know a thing completely; but on the other, I absolutely and utterly value that sense of wonder, and think it is too rare a phenomenon in this day and age, when so much is known and seen. Honestly, I think that’s a large part of why I love fantasy in particular, more so than its speculative siblings—there is a sense of wonder that fantasy evokes, and doesn’t feel the need to explain. On the one hand, I am a deeply logical and rational humanist who does not believe in the afterlife, or the soul, or luck. On the other hand, I’d kind of love to be wrong about all that, because wouldn’t that be exciting? And for a long time I tried to rationalise that contradiction, but latterly I think that—like Morstan and Holmes—the unknown and the understood can co-exist quite happily, and perhaps ought to.