"Really!"

"Perhaps I should introduce your Niccolo to your grandmamma?" Holmes said with malicious intent. "Arrange for a pleasant luncheon?"

"Don't you dare!" Her eyes widened in mock horror. "No man deserves that! The last time she grew upset over lunch she threatened you with a pickle fork."

"Make it tea, then, with no cutlery." He allowed himself a chuckle, but stopped as her expression grew serious. "What is it?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, a restless gesture he knew well. "Uncle, whenever you and I have these discussions, there are always unanswered questions. Are there any threads left dangling this time?"

If she was asking that, then things hadn't changed as much as he'd thought. Suddenly, everything seemed better. "Of course there are, my girl. Loose threads are the very essence of life."

She made an encouraging gesture. "Anything specific?"

Holmes considered. Despite his yearning to keep her close, there was nothing he wanted to share. For now, their roads led away from one another. "You, my dear, are about to leave on the adventure of your life. Go, and be joyful. Leave the dangling threads for me."

Evelina's mouth quirked. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"If I tried to list it all I would be here until dawn."

"Then please do not attempt it," he said briskly, dodging an uncharacteristic urge to wax sentimental. "I have to finish this pipe and ponder a small matter that has caught my attention."

Quick as always to read his mood, Evelina rose. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"Go, my girl," he said irritably.

With her customary grace, Evelina quietly turned and left before the ache in his throat could betray him.

A cab had been waiting for her. He guessed this was her last stop before boarding the airship, and she would be gone by morning. For an instant he thought about his sister, Marianne, and wondered what she would have made of her extraordinary girl.

And then Holmes lit his pipe once more. The smoke curled around him as he let his mind drift, sliding over new problems with a connoisseur's sure touch. The dragon had died and the underworld was restless. In the last few days, rumors of a new king had sprouted up like the first breath of spring-one that was young and filled with new ideas. It was startling news, and the fact that Holmes had learned it at all was significant. The Black Kingdom had always kept its distance from the world aboveground. Few knew exactly what dwelt below.

He had a disturbing notion that wouldn't be the case anymore.

The Baskerville Affair would never have unfolded without the encouragement (and brilliance) of my agent, Sally Harding, and the patience, conviction, and edit letters of the indefatigable Anne Groell. Anne has read these ma.n.u.scripts through more often than any human being should ever be asked to and still answers my emails, which says everything about her pending sainthood. Thank you, ladies; this airship would never have flown without you.

I do, however, extend apologies to the nineteenth century and that dog of Arthur Conan Doyle's.

BY EMMA JANE HOLLOWAY.

A Study in Silks.

A Study in Darkness.

A Study in Ashes.

end.