Prologue
Can it really have been 15 years since I became the accomplice to the most notorious, brilliant, and uncelebrated detective to ever peer through a magnifying glass? She would probably resent me for describing her in such a manner, and rebuke me for attempting to tell her story. I’m sure I could never do it justice in her eyes. I can practically see her now, that obnoxious smirk on her beautiful face, the amusement in her deep, dark eyes, chastising me for indulging in nostalgia. She would admonish me for focusing on the parts of the story she would deem least important -- matters of the heart, the intertwining of fates, the peculiarities of justice. Scarlett Holmes would be far more satisfied if I penned a scientific treatise of her methods and an objective chronicle of the bald facts of the cases. Fear not, dear reader. She is, much to my dismay, no longer available to cajole me into such a boring exercise, and so I am free to tell her story as I see fit.
I confess, I did not appreciate her for the rare treasure that she was when I had the opportunity, a mistake that I have regretted these past several years. As I watch my youngest child’s eyes widen as she takes in the web of a particularly acrobatic spider, or the unfurling of a blossom in my garden, I see the same spark of curiosity that would animate my friend, and I feel a pang of longing. When Scarlett got that glint in her eye, a delicious adventure awaited us.
She is there in my oldest, too. At 14, he is as capable and cynical as only the highly intelligent and good-hearted can be. I hope he will be proven wrong, my sweet son, in his harsh judgement of this world and our society, much as I wish that Scarlett had been wrong. I hope he will find more kindness and justice than he expects in this world. Or, if not, I hope I can protect him with greater success than I could his godmother.
Perhaps it is that maternal drive to protect that drives me to write her story, to share the wisdom that we found in the resolution of that first case. Maybe I think that, by knowing her story, our world will be made better. Or maybe I just miss my friend, and my youth, and the time before I fully surrendered to my domestic fate. Whatever the reason, the hours before my children wake grow few, and I must get to the story.
