I told her to run, or tried to—I ended up spitting out a thick stream of blood, and just as the driver pulled back for another blow, I saw Holmes struggle up to her feet.

“Don’t kill him,” a voice said, but it wasn’t hers. Where was I? “My brother won’t be happy.”

I think the driver nodded. I couldn’t see, not out of both eyes, and my head was beginning to loll on my neck. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered, two words so surprising that I almost choked, and when he hit me again, it kicked me off the ladder of consciousness and sent me falling down, down, down.

ten

FIRST AND FOREMOST, I SHOULD SAY THAT I AM PROVIDING this account under great duress, and only with the reassurance that Watson will not read it for a period of eighteen to twenty-four months after the events in question. Contrary to what he believes, I don’t take any joy in upsetting him. He asked me to fill in some particulars about the period of time in which he was incapacitated, and to tell it in a way that appeals to the reader. No info-dumping, Holmes, he’d said.

If I’m to do this, I’ll do it on my own terms. Here are the facts: we were locked in Hadrian and Phillipa Moriarty’s basement. It had a very plush red carpet on which Watson was currently sprawled. They had tied me up, but I’d made short work of my bindings. All of this was August’s fault.

I’m not sure if you remember this particular detail from his last account of our adventures, but it takes Watson an absurd amount of time to wake up after he’s been knocked unconscious. You might make the argument that I shouldn’t know this. That a good partner would in fact actively and successfully prevent such occurrences.

Your assumptions would be correct. But I do try to prevent such things. Why else would I have left him in Milo’s sad little hotel? (Before we’d arrived, I’d asked my brother to stock our room with paperback classics and murder mysteries—Jamie Watson’s poison, if you’ll excuse the expression—and I hoped that he’d be engrossed enough in Slaughterhouse 5 to not notice that, from time to time, I would slip out to do some work on my own. The fact that Milo ordered those books in German is an unfunny joke and hardly my fault.)

Yes, I was upset with Watson. I was quite upset, in point of fact, but it was nothing in comparison to the anger I felt when I saw his worried-sick face over the shoulder of my mark. Of the two of us, I am the only one who has successfully solved a crime. I am, in fact, the far more competent partner, not to mention equipped with far better foresight. These aren’t boasts. These are quantifiable facts.

Here is something I can’t say to Jamie Watson: I can’t be your girlfriend because I’m terrified you’ll try to wrap me in cotton and hide me away. “Try” being the operative word. He needs saving far more often than I do.

But there, at least, I’d failed. Watson laid out on that plush carpet was disturbing for a number of reasons. Every few minutes I made sure that he was breathing, and in the time between, I sat on my heels beside him, considering our situation.

The basement had no visible doors or windows. Our phones had been confiscated and the back of my head was bleeding. I would give myself, and Watson, ten minutes of rest before I began ripping apart the wooden furniture to fashion myself a weapon.

My father trained me to prioritize in situations like this. Make a concrete list, he’d said. Be unsparing.

A list, then. What were my priorities?

1.Keeping Myself Alive. Note that it may appear mercenary to put this first, but anyone who doesn’t have this at the top of their list is a parent or a liar, and I am neither. Not to mention that failure to keep myself alive renders the rest of this enterprise moot.

2.Keeping Jamie Watson Alive, as his reckless disregard for his own safety works against him. Neither of us believes that we personally need caretaking; the other disagrees. He and I find ourselves at an impasse. As very recent events have proved, Watson will throw himself into a physical altercation he knows he will lose in an attempt to buy me time to run away. Clearly he needs caretaking, if not a thorough head examination.

3.Recovering My Uncle. Because Leander never goes without leaving me some small present—a book on vivisection, a pheasant quill—and nothing can rouse him in the middle of the night. There is quite literally no situation I can imagine that would lead my uncle to willingly leave his bed between the hours of ten and four. Most importantly: he has never, ever called me Lottie, not since I told him I hated the name when I was seven. That said, he can and does take care of himself; for that reason, one would argue I should move him further down the list.

4.My Parents . . . how to put this? Ideally they would remain living. That said, I cannot imagine them as anything other than alive, anyway, as they are capable, ruthless, and wealthy enough to make the best of those two other attributes. (Jamie would call them “vampires.” This term also has appealing qualities.) I am aware of their disappointment in me, which I once found motivating, and now find tedious; I have a somewhat vague desire to rescue them just to prove them wrong. That said, I don’t wish them to be poisoned, though I can understand Lucien’s desire to give it a shot.

That is one of those things Watson wouldn’t want me to say out loud. You’re awful, he’d say. They’re your parents. At times, Watson is far too sentimental. I’ve yet to see him with a puppy, but I imagine it would be too much for me to handle.

Nota bene: my brother does not appear on this list because he has approximately seventy-two thousand armed guards and an ego the size of a small blimp.