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Authors: Nancy Springer
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Sherlock had caught on to the code of flowers, saying “mistletoe” instead of “a meeting”—
But surely Sherlock would not be wasting any time on me right now, with Dr. Watson missing!
Perhaps it really was Mum.
If so, my mother must be in some sort of terrible trouble.
But wouldn’t she name her own time and place if her need to see me were urgent?
If someone were setting a trap for me—letting me choose where and when, wasn’t that a way to lure me in?
Strictly speaking, Mum should not have said “mistletoe”; that meant a tryst between a gentleman and his paramour. Mum should have said “scarlet pimpernel.”
Unless Mum simply thought “scarlet pimpernel” was too much to encrypt?
She could have put “pimpernel,” a word no longer than “mistletoe.”
Was that not what she would have done? Was the message fake, not from her at all, a trick?
But why? And by whom?
It was in the Pall Mall Gazette and no other newspapers. In Mum’s favourite publication and no others.
It had to be from Mum. I wanted it to be from Mum.
I wanted to see Mum?
Yes.
No. No, I was angry at her, for good reason.
IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM
The message said “love.”
Mum had never in her life said such a thing to me.
It was a trick.
It was what I had always wanted from her.
Either the message was a false one—but from whom?—or else my mother had found some affection for me in her heart after all.
If I did not respond, I would always wonder.
And if I did respond, I would be risking myself and my freedom for the sake of a single fickle word.
When one does not know what to do, prudence might decree that one should do nothing, but I cannot bear such inactivity. Hence my penchant to wander the night—and lacking that release, at dawn after a mostly sleepless night I got up and prepared to go out, even though I had no idea where or for what purpose. I donned my corset-armament-supplies-munitions, petticoats, then a frock sufficiently flounced, frilled, ruffled and beribboned to “promenade” city streets, and went on to beautify (in other words, totally disguise) my face. All the while my mind continued its interminable romping circles: Was the encrypted message truly from my mother? Should I reply to it? What would I say if, and when, I did?
For the time being, much as I disliked indecision, I would wait. That much I knew, for the only time I had called upon Mum for assistance she had made me wait—and wait—and wait some more; indeed she had not responded at all, and my resentment was such that I felt I ought not to see her until I had disciplined my feelings, lest I say something I might later regret. But at the same time, if she had now really and truly reached out to me, and I did not respond…What if she had been ill, and had only a brief time left to live? What if this was my last chance to make my peace with her?
Nonsense. If Mum were on her deathbed, she would hardly be asking me to name the time and place for a rendezvous!
But…
And but, and but, and so my thoughts ground round and round until, like a mill ox, they had worn their own tired path. I had all but forgotten about the missing Dr. Watson, the forlorn Mrs. Watson and the sender of bizarre bouquets, he of the most peculiar removable proboscis.
Yet, as I glued my little birthmark onto my temple, up from some hidden kitchen in the cellar of my mind came elucidation on a silver platter, answering my barely asked question of the day before: What did men with faces disfigured by combat do to ameliorate or conceal the defect? Like a dumbwaiter opening to display a tray of éclairs, common sense served the answer: If one needed it, why not a false nose, or ear, whatever, realistically made of flesh-coloured rubber, and where would one obtain such a thing? Surely at one of the establishments dealing in face putty, skullcaps and other theatrical paraphernalia, or perhaps even at the store where I had bought my
But surely Sherlock would not be wasting any time on me right now, with Dr. Watson missing!
Perhaps it really was Mum.
If so, my mother must be in some sort of terrible trouble.
But wouldn’t she name her own time and place if her need to see me were urgent?
If someone were setting a trap for me—letting me choose where and when, wasn’t that a way to lure me in?
Strictly speaking, Mum should not have said “mistletoe”; that meant a tryst between a gentleman and his paramour. Mum should have said “scarlet pimpernel.”
Unless Mum simply thought “scarlet pimpernel” was too much to encrypt?
She could have put “pimpernel,” a word no longer than “mistletoe.”
Was that not what she would have done? Was the message fake, not from her at all, a trick?
But why? And by whom?
It was in the Pall Mall Gazette and no other newspapers. In Mum’s favourite publication and no others.
It had to be from Mum. I wanted it to be from Mum.
I wanted to see Mum?
Yes.
No. No, I was angry at her, for good reason.
IVY DESIRE MISTLETOE WHERE WHEN LOVE YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUM
The message said “love.”
Mum had never in her life said such a thing to me.
It was a trick.
It was what I had always wanted from her.
Either the message was a false one—but from whom?—or else my mother had found some affection for me in her heart after all.
If I did not respond, I would always wonder.
And if I did respond, I would be risking myself and my freedom for the sake of a single fickle word.
When one does not know what to do, prudence might decree that one should do nothing, but I cannot bear such inactivity. Hence my penchant to wander the night—and lacking that release, at dawn after a mostly sleepless night I got up and prepared to go out, even though I had no idea where or for what purpose. I donned my corset-armament-supplies-munitions, petticoats, then a frock sufficiently flounced, frilled, ruffled and beribboned to “promenade” city streets, and went on to beautify (in other words, totally disguise) my face. All the while my mind continued its interminable romping circles: Was the encrypted message truly from my mother? Should I reply to it? What would I say if, and when, I did?
For the time being, much as I disliked indecision, I would wait. That much I knew, for the only time I had called upon Mum for assistance she had made me wait—and wait—and wait some more; indeed she had not responded at all, and my resentment was such that I felt I ought not to see her until I had disciplined my feelings, lest I say something I might later regret. But at the same time, if she had now really and truly reached out to me, and I did not respond…What if she had been ill, and had only a brief time left to live? What if this was my last chance to make my peace with her?
Nonsense. If Mum were on her deathbed, she would hardly be asking me to name the time and place for a rendezvous!
But…
And but, and but, and so my thoughts ground round and round until, like a mill ox, they had worn their own tired path. I had all but forgotten about the missing Dr. Watson, the forlorn Mrs. Watson and the sender of bizarre bouquets, he of the most peculiar removable proboscis.
Yet, as I glued my little birthmark onto my temple, up from some hidden kitchen in the cellar of my mind came elucidation on a silver platter, answering my barely asked question of the day before: What did men with faces disfigured by combat do to ameliorate or conceal the defect? Like a dumbwaiter opening to display a tray of éclairs, common sense served the answer: If one needed it, why not a false nose, or ear, whatever, realistically made of flesh-coloured rubber, and where would one obtain such a thing? Surely at one of the establishments dealing in face putty, skullcaps and other theatrical paraphernalia, or perhaps even at the store where I had bought my
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