The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets by Nancy Springer Page A

themselves in my rather disordered mind, I stayed perfectly still, listening in case someone came running to see what the noise had been about. But I heard nothing except my own pounding heart and panting breath, both gradually calming as nothing alarming happened. After a bit, it seemed safe to think that my pursuers remained on the street, and had not heard breaking glass amidst the hubbub there.
    Well. Being in a hothouse, I must have landed in a large plant, blessedly pliant—I could feel its stems bending under me—not a giant bustle-pad at all, although its spidery fronds all around me itched and tickled like so much horsehair.
    Still listening for any danger approaching, I explored with my hands, finding nothing within arm’s length anywhere around me except more poufy vegetation. Quite large, this plant, whatever it was, brushing my face whilst my knees rested upon the potting soil in which it grew.
    Just as I realised I was now safe—comparatively speaking—my entire personage was seized by a fit of trembling that would not listen to reason, and I felt as if I could no longer remain upright. Allowing myself to slump to the ground, I burrowed between stems that gently yielded to me while the feathery fronds closed overhead. Stretched out at full length, still I found no end to—what? Most perplexing, as if I had somehow fallen into a jungle.
    Wherever I was, I quite needed to rest for a few minutes. Just a little while, until my fit of “the shakes” ceased, and then I would get away. Quaking, I lay with both hands on my chest—that is to say, on the hilt of my dagger—and closed my eyes.

    “Bloody blue blazes!” someone screamed. Or something of the sort. I think that’s what she said. One hesitates to admit that one could have fallen asleep; indeed, one almost wishes to say that one fainted, except that it could not possibly be true, as I never faint…in any event, I opened my eyes to find myself looking up at the wan light of dawn filtering greenly between a great many delicate fronds of—simple enough to tell what it was now that I could see it. I lay engulfed in bushes and bushes of asparagus.
    “My babies! ” some woman, presumably Flora, was shrieking. “My ’awthorn, my trumpet flowers, my ’arebells, glass everywhere and the cold wind gusting in!”
    While ashamed to confess that I’d let myself be taken so off guard, I can at least say that I retained the sense to lie utterly still—except that my fingers tightened around my dagger hilt—and make no sound.
    Meanwhile, footfalls pounded up a nearby staircase.
    “The villain!” continued the shrieker. “She broke in ’ere ! My ’ot’ouse!”
    “Flora, calm yourself.” Pertelote’s weary voice. “She’s long gone.”
    Would that it were so.
    “Who the ’ell is she?” Indeed such was the profanity with which Flora spoke. “What’s she want with us?”
    “I don’t know.” Pertelote sounded unsurprised at her sister’s language, but quite grim as she added, “I wish I did know.”
    “I’ll kill ’er! I’ll find ’er and I’ll kill ’er like I killed—”
    “Flora! ” The force of Pertelote’s rebuke commanded a halt to such talk, and received it. “You are to kill no one. No one ever again. Do you ’ear me? ”
    Flora muttered some sulky reply, inaudible to me.
    In heightened tones Pertelote demanded, “What was that? What ’ave you done with Dr. Watson? ”
    “Nuthin. ’Oo said I done anything?” Flora whined like a child who, denied a tantrum, resorts to tears. “Why you got to bark at me after what ’appened to my ’ ot’ouse ?”
    “Oh, for the love of mercy, that’s easily remedied. Send for the glazier.” Pertelote sounded exhausted and disgusted. “You’d better not ’ave anything to do with whatever ’appened to Dr. Watson. My breakfast is getting cold.” The sound of heavy steps signalled her departure.
    “Thinks she can turn ’er back on me,” Flora said, sniffling, to her