The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep

by H.G. Parry

It was her Jacqueline Blaine voice, the voice that had been out of date at the time her books were published, and that felt hollow as she used it. It was the voice of Millie Radcliffe-Dix, girl detective; she was Millicent Dix, perfectly ordinary accountant. She no longer had her animal companion, which of course in a children’s book was something like her soul.

Darcy Three was waiting for her outside, flicking idly through a magazine. He straightened, of course, at her approach. All five Darcys were unfailingly proper, if not exactly polite.

“He was not thinking, Mr. Sutherland,” Dickens said. “He was dreaming. Dreams, after all, are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality—”

“We were much closer than friends,” she said. “We still are. We are nemeses.” Charley shook his head. “Real people don’t have nemeses.”

“He’s in there,” Millie said, without needing to check. The connection between them was very strong at that moment. “He is,” Susan agreed. “I can feel him there too. I can do that, sometimes, with him. I’ve always wondered if that was real magic, or just my imagination.” “It’s both,” Millie said.

You have been in every line I have read. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else… And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me. These pages must show.

Lydia wanted to wake him, but I thought it was probably best just to find him a blanket and leave him. I ate the pasta instead. It was the compassionate thing to do.

And frankly, as guests go, so far you couldn’t be lower maintenance.” “She’s right,” I said. “It’s been like having a dead body on our couch, without the awkward police interrogations.”

“We don’t need to talk,” I said. “Brothers don’t really do that sort of thing.” Lydia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, oh pillar of masculinity,” she said, “but your particular brother rather likes words.” I flicked the soapy liquid at her, but couldn’t exactly argue.

The only one I really miss was a conversation between Sherlock Holmes and seven-year-old Charley about the parallels between detection and literary analysis. It was from Charley’s point of view, and started “Today I was playing Monopoly with Sherlock Holmes and we were talking about semiotics,” which is still one of my favorite scene openings I’ve ever written.