Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess by Suzette Hollingsworth

herself.
    Involuntarily Mirabella pushed her bangs out of her eyes.   She had taken great pains to pin her hair atop her head in a simple but becoming style, accented with a pink velvet ribbon, a treasured gift from her aunt.   Truly the only part of her outfit to find fault with were her worn brown boots which she had once thought so stylish and which still served her well.  
    “So you are a fashion expert, Mr. Holmes?”   She placed her hands on her waist, standing in front of the Great Detective.
    “I am not.   Consult with your aunt; her language leaves much to be desired, unlike your own which is passable—there is just too much of it—but Mrs. Hudson is a fashionable woman.   If that fails, there is no greater expert on women than our good doctor.”
    “I am, in fact, well versed on ladies’ fashions,” Dr. Watson stated, only just entering the parlor from his rooms.   “And I would be happy to assist, Miss Mirabella.”   She spun around to look at him, which always raised her spirits to behold the handsome doctor.
    “Yes, yes, Watson is the man for the job,” Sherlock reiterated.   “Take a look at his fine raiment molded perfectly to his form.   Any other professional man not in the upper classes would consider a tailor-made suit made to his measurements well beyond his income.”
    “And what would you have me do, Holmes?   Shop at E. Moses & Son ?   And wear a mass-produced suit?”   John Watson formed the words “mass-produced” with disdain, as if they were poison on his lips.
    “That, or shop at Petticoat Lane,” Sherlock replied, nonplussed, placing tobacco into his pipe.
    “Second-hand clothing?   Are you quite mad, Holmes?” Watson exclaimed, placing his hand to his forehead as if he were preparing to faint.
    “There is an excellent quality of clothing available at Petticoat Lane,” rebuffed Sherlock.   “Much of the clothing was cast off by the upper crust.”
    “Several seasons ago,” Watson rebuffed disdainfully.
    “Almost every item in my wardrobe is from that source.”
    “That is most evident,” muttered Dr. Watson, “including your women’s corsets and bonnets, Holmes.”
    “I have to procure my women’s clothing somewhere, and I certainly won’t pay top dollar.”   Sherlock shrugged.   “The assortment at Petticoat Lane is exceptional, and the quality not far behind.” He turned to Mirabella.   “But I will admit that Watson has the right of it where you are concerned, Miss Belle.   Clothing made specifically to your proportions will immediately set you apart as a high-born miss.   Pre-fabricated clothing will reveal you to be of the middle-class.   That will never do.   It must be believed that you are of the upper class.”
    Sherlock took a puff on his pipe before adding, “You must pretend you are wealthy—just as Watson does.”
    “Really, Holmes!   Just because I wish to dress with distinction,” Dr. Watson protested.
    “And what do you think of my outfit, Dr. Watson?” Mirabella interjected, turning towards him as he moved to be seated in his armchair next to the fire.   She curtsied before him.
    John Watson took a moment to answer as he was visibly shaken from Sherlock’s suggestion that he could save money by dismissing his tailor.
    “Although the leather corset is most becoming and I know it to be the style in some circles,” John Watson smiled appreciatively at her, “an upper class young lady would not wear it.   It does define your station in life, Miss Mirabella.”
    “I guarantee if I take off the corset, no one will be fooled as to my station in life!” she exclaimed, almost in tears as she covered her mouth with her hands.
    “Very likely,” agreed Sherlock, looking about for a piece of sheet music, adding distractedly, “A lady does not flaunt her goods.   She knows her worth.”
    “A bit more coarsely than I would have put it, old man,” Watson reprimanded, leaning back in his seat.   He cleared his throat.