The Beekeeper's Apprentice: or, On the Segregation of the Queen (Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Book 1)

by Laurie R. King

hope you do not make a habit of guessing. Guessing is a weakness brought on by indolence and should never be confused with intuition.”

THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY I came up to in 1917 was a shadow of her normal, self-assured self, its population a tenth of that in 1914 before the war, a number lower even than in the years following the Black Death.

It is, I can even say, a new and occasionally remarkable experience to work with a person who inspires, not by vacuum, but by actual contribution.

His cold-blooded, ruthless use of logic and language struck me as somehow reptilian, although that may be unkind to snakes.

“My lovely Stilton; it’s almost ripe, too. I do hope Mr. Thomas enjoys it.” “Any riper and it will eat through the woodwork and drop into the room below.” “You envy me my educated tastes.”

“I dislike the idea of a murderer employing children,” said Holmes darkly. “It is, I agree, bad for their morals, and interferes with their sleep.”

The words given voice inside the mind are not always clear, however; they can be gentle and elliptical, what the prophets called the bat qol, the daughter of the voice of God, she who speaks in whispers

He winced as I squealed the tyres, but after all, it wasn’t his motorcar. Holmes did more than wince before we were out of Oxford, but I didn’t hit anybody, and only brushed the farm cart slightly. It wasn’t his automobile either, and what do men know about driving?

the mingled smells of pipe tobacco, toxic chemicals, and meat pies, the fragrance of home and happiness.