The Spiritglass Charade by Colleen Gleason Page B

deny its truth. Every time I was forced to pay to rise above the ground level, I couldn’t help think of his words. I wondered what it would be like to have no choice but to have my skirts constantly dragging through the muck and water—among other disadvantages.
    â€œHere you are, Mina.” Dylan offered me one of the small, warm bundles.
    The plum-sized orange looked delicious, its peelings folded back halfway like a lotus flower, revealing plump segments glistening with a glaze of honey-creme.
    â€œHow do you eat it?” he asked in a low voice as we left the vendor. I couldn’t help but notice he had three more of the treats in his hand, and I hid a smile.
    â€œThe best way is to peel off one petal at a time and eat a segment. But some people just bite in. Once it starts to cool, the honey-creme flakes off more easily, so it’s best to eat it right away.”
    We strolled back across the fly-bridge, enjoying the sweets, doing what Dylan charmingly called “people-watching.” He offered me a second mandarin, and I declined, then pointed out that he had a tiny flake of glaze on his chin. He suggested I use a napkin to dab at the corner of my mouth, and I didn’t even flush.
    We noticed a young beagle hound with ears much too long for his puppy body bounding around on the streetwalk below and stopped to watch him for a moment. Although I don’t particularly care for canine creatures, I found him to be quite adorable. He was brown-and-black-spotted over a white coat and he kept tripping over his ears.
    Spending such a pleasant time with a handsome, attentive young man, I was almost able to forget that I was a Holmes—a young woman destined to remain unmarried and unattached. We Holmeses, as Uncle Sherlock hadpontificated many times, were above the base emotions that affected (and, he claimed, weakened) other people, for our lives and minds were dedicated to cold, factual observation and clean, logical deduction. Emotions such as love or anger or fear simply clouded the brain and were a waste of energy.
    And according to my uncle and father, as a female I was even more at risk of such weakness.
    At last, the idyll ended as we reached 79-K. As Dylan went to throw the glaze-filled papers away, I pushed the call button on the door. A bell chimed, then there was a soft humming sound. A peephole door rolled open on invisible gears, revealing a brown eye set beneath a thick brow.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMrs. Ellner?” I asked. “I’m here to visit Mrs. Yingling.”
    â€œOh, well, then, one moment, please.”
    â€œDo you mind if I wait outside?” Dylan asked. “I want to watch that airship come through here. And that vendor with the meat-pies is calling my name.”
    I hadn’t heard anyone shouting Dylan, but I shook my head. “Not at all.” Watching one of the oblong airships make its way between the buildings to a mooring station was always a sight to behold.
    I turned back to 79-K. The peephole had eased closed and I heard it latch into place, then the door swung open. Now I was able to see that the brown eye belonged to a homely woman who stood no taller than my shoulder.
    Calluses on her fingers—
a hand-knitter
.
    Well-mended, relatively new clothing, clean shoes, ivory comb in hair—
pride in her appearance, has an income that keeps food on the table and clothing in the trunks
.
    No wedding ring, no other jewelry, no sign of male presence—
the Mrs. was widowed
.
    And, from all appearances, comfortably prosperous on her own.
    â€œYou’re here to visit Yrmintrude, then. I haven’t seen her yet today, but come in, come in. She come back in after tea yesterday from visitin’ ’er newest, most luc’ative client. Would be a good thing, I ’ave t’say, because Yrmy—well, now I should stop rambling. Her room’s down this way.” She beckoned for me to follow her slow progress down a narrow