Free Dust and Shadow by Lyndsay Faye

direction both unambiguous and inexplicable. Holmes displayed all the energy of his uniquely unflagging will, but I felt shattered and weak, and scarcely able to stomach much more uncertainty than I had endured already.
    “Holmes, if I may, where are we going?”
    “I have seen enough penniless women hacked apart in a month’s time. We require assistance.”
    “From whom?”
    “A renovator of music halls by the name of George Lusk.”
    “Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
    “He is a businessman who resides in Mile End. I was once of some use to him. He is about to return the favour.”
    Mile End, so named for its position precisely one mile east of the ancient City’s boundary, had grown up considerably in the latter half of the nineteenth century. New roads, buildings, and courts gave birth to one another continually in London, but Sherlock Holmes was master of every street and byway. There was one occasion in particular, the incident involving Fenchurch the weaver and his now-infamous needle, when Holmes’s knowledge of a secret alleyway undoubtedly saved both our lives. I was not surprised, therefore,when Holmes led me down a series of labyrinthine corridors eastward out of Whitechapel only to emerge on a tree-lined thoroughfare in front of a respectable white-columned house.
    My companion strode up the stone steps and knocked at the polished door, cocking an eye back at me and beckoning me to join him. “You must help me keep the conversation on topic,” he whispered. “Mr. Lusk is an articulate gentleman, whose opinions are wont to flow as freely as the Thames.” With that, a young servant girl admitted us, ushering us into a well-appointed, palm-dotted sitting room, occupied only by a regal orange cat. We sat down to await our host.
    He was not long in coming. Mr. George Lusk threw wide the doors and exclaimed, “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Sherlock Holmes. By Jove, but it’s good to see you! I don’t mind telling you, sir, had you not been on hand to discover what those lumbermen were really about, I should be a poor man today. And you must be Dr. Watson. It gratifies me tremendously that someone has undertaken to record Mr. Holmes’s exploits for the world at large. A pleasure to meet you.”
    Mr. Lusk was a man of open, expressive features, and perceptive brown eyes, though the bags beneath them taken in conjunction with his coat’s somber cut and sable colour led me to believe he had recently lost someone dear to him. He wore a plentiful moustache, which descended nearly to the jawline, and held himself with the confidence of an established entrepreneur. His hair was slicked back upon his head, revealing a sensitive brow, and I was impressed immediately by his alert manner and his general air of ready assurance.
    “It was a very simple problem,” said Holmes, shaking the hand of our host. “I was delighted to be of assistance.”
    “Simple! It was nothing of the kind. In any event, it did me a world of good, Mr. Holmes. But do sit down, gentlemen, and tell me to what business I owe this pleasure.”
    “Mr. Lusk,” my friend ventured kindly, once we had seated ourselves, “I fear our condolences are in order. You must feel the loss of your wife keenly after so short a time.”
    Our host exhibited no surprise that Holmes had deduced the sad event, though he indicated with the sudden contraction of his brow that he wished not to speak of it. “Susannah was a wonderful woman, Mr. Holmes, and a finer mother I’ve never yet seen. But we shall overcome, the children and I. Now, Mr. Holmes, do tell me what brings you here.”
    “You are aware of the recent string of murders in the neighbouring streets of Whitechapel?”
    “Why, of course, Mr. Holmes. And may I profess myself heartily ashamed of the values this nation continues to countenance. The poor must be seen to, or they will fall upon each other in the streets, as they have always done. If the greatest empire on earth cannot be trusted to meet