The Case of the Missing Marquess (Enola Holmes, #1)

by Nancy Springer

Looking about me in the hush of my mother’s sitting room, I felt rather more worshipful than if I were in a chapel. I had read Father’s logic books, you see, and Malthus, and Darwin; like my parents I held rational and scientific views—but being in Mum’s room made me feel as if I wanted to believe. In something. The soul, perhaps, or the spirit.

Cycling, I have found, allows one to think without fear of one’s facial expressions being observed.

I am sure they thought I was weeping for my mum—as I was. But truthfully, I wept also for myself. Enola. Alone.

Although—perhaps it was just as well. Sherlock and Mycroft would have wanted Mum back in Ferndell Hall, but obviously she did not wish to be there. When—not if, but when I found her, I would ask of her nothing that might make her unhappy. I was not seeking her in order to take away her freedom. I just wanted to have a mum. That was all. To be in communication with her. Maybe meet now and then to chat over a cup of tea. To know where she was.