Read Online The Language of Bees by Laurie R. King - Free Book Online Page B

don’t think I’ve told you in awhile, that you are the best thing that could have happened to me and to E.
    “Who is—” Holmes started, then cut off as Damian stood up and held out the second envelope. His clenched jaws declared that here, at last, was what he had been working towards: There was resentment in his face, and embarrassment—perhaps even shame—but also determination.
    Holmes took the envelope; Damian retreated, not to his chair, but to the low wall at the back of the terrace, where we could only see his outline and the glow of his cigarette. Holmes’ fingers pushed back the flap, and eased out a photograph.
    It was a snapshot, showing three people. Damian Adler stood in the back, wearing a dark, formal frock coat and high collar: From his overly dignified expression, the costume was a joke. In front of him, the top of her head well below his shoulders, stood a tiny Oriental woman. She wore Western dress, looking more comfortable in it than many photographs of Orientals I had seen. Her ankles were shapely under a slightly out-of-date dress, her glossy black hair was bobbed; her dark eyes sparkled at the camera with the same sense of humour as his.
    It was the third person in the photograph that made Holmes go very still and caused my breath to catch: a child around three years old, held in the woman’s arms. Damian’s right hand was on the woman’s shoulder, but his left arm circled them both; his hand looked massive beside the infant torso. The child’s features had blurred slightly as she swivelled to crane up at Damian, but the glossy hair was every bit as black as the mother’s.
    “My wife, Yolanda,” Damian said into the pregnant silence—and there seemed no trace of embarrassment in his voice, only affection and worry. “And our daughter, Estelle.”
    He came off of the wall, to look over Holmes’ shoulder at the photograph.
    “Estelle is missing, too,” he said. “I need …” He cleared his throat, and frowned at the picture in his father’s hand. “I need you to help me find them.”
    His embarrassment, I saw at last, was not over having married a woman of Shanghai, nor even that his wife had a dubious past. His shame was because he had been forced to come to Holmes for help.

The Father (2): Some men remember their childhood
among women. These few may reach back and find the
shadows to their light, the receiving to their giving ,
and bring the worlds together .
These men are called saints, or gods .
Testimony, I:3

    I LEFT HOLMES AND DAMIAN TO THEIR DISCUSSION A short time later, both through tiredness—we were, after all, just off an Atlantic crossing, and I never sleep well on the open seas—and cowardice: I did not wish to be there when Holmes suggested to his already estranged son that hunting through London for an eccentric, free-spirited daughter-in-law might not be the most productive use of his time.
    Also, I needed some time alone to grapple with the idea of Holmes—of myself!—as a grandparent.
    Lulu had unpacked my valise, although she knew me well enough to leave the trunks untouched, so I had hair-brush and night things to hand. I ran a hot bath, and felt my muscles relax for the first time in many days.
    As I walked down the hallway to the bedroom, I heard that the men had moved inside, and one of them had considerately shut the sitting room door so as not to disturb me. The lack of raised voices indicated an amicable discussion, which suggested that Holmes had very sensibly agreed to assist his son. I climbed into bed, leaving the curtains open to the light of the moon, three nights from full.
    From where I lay, I could see the grey glow of the treetops in the walled garden, and beyond them the ghostly outlines of the Downs. Thanks to the extraordinary appearance of Damian Adler on our terrace, I had missed the sunset completely.
    I was grateful beyond words that he had re-entered our lives, and not only because of the hole that their uncomfortable