//------------------------------// // The Current State of Things // Story: The Secret Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes // by Paper_mate_Pony //------------------------------// The Current State of Things; Part the First The sundial was of brass construction and rested on a column of granite. However, the column of this particular sundial was singular in its grace. Betwixt the surface and the base, the column was at-least four feet tall. At it’s widest, a girth of approximately five. The wasp-waisted column was fashioned in a style quite bizarre. The base was classical in its nature, and from which four, solid columns, wound like a helix, rose toward the centre. There, like that other time worn timepiece, the hourglass, it tapered to a width of only a few inches; bound with a bronze collar. The four columns exploded from this central nexus, spreading out like a may-day flower toward the open face. One central column, far sturdier than the other four, shot vertically upward, and upon which all manner of detritus had been carved. The whole ensemble was quite exquisite, considering these branches were independent of one another, and not carvings from one central mass of rock. The dial itself was not of notable beauty; for such is the curse of many instruments devised purely for their function. I suppose, dependant on one’s taste, that can be a beauty in-unto-itself. It was of the equatorial variety, and, like the central collar, was entirely of a green and white bronze. It could have been held in the outstretched arms of any average man—or pony, as the case may be. Regardless, the most important feature—which I choose to emphasize now, solely for its bearing upon these most recent events—in respect to dial was thus: it was the sundial of the Durham University’s Royal Astrological Wing, quite as Sherlock Holmes had rightly observed. Three weeks preceding our exodus, scandal had racked the university town of Durham: without any perceivable evidence, the three tonne sundial had been lifted seamlessly from its roots, deep in the mortar of the ancient Durham walkways. The lowly groundskeeper was ignored by the University Management when first he raised an alarm. Perhaps it had been his status, or his arrival at some long forgotten hour of the morn, or indeed the brandy that stained his breath, but the most commonly cited excuse was the man’s story: as insipid as it was preposterous, what worth could a ten foot high demon, working in tandem with what the groundskeeper described as ‘some elderly gentleman or other’, find for the granite monolith and its brass headpiece? Indeed, it was not until the orchestra of blackbirds played their morning song that the alarm was finally sounded by a wandering constable, who himself only sought to humor the groundsman in answering his pleas. We were, as one might expect, slipped a missive in the morning post, but the case was deemed too ‘shallow’ by my colleague; a mere prank by some clever student of engineering looking to make a point, facilitating a myriad of levers, pulleys and such other paraphernalia, as he explained to me. Before I could query him about such matters of the mortar holding its iron roots in place, he answered that question with a deft nod toward our kitchen table, which on that day, as like many others, was festooned with articles from his chemistry set. “Simple acidic principles, Watson. I shall, however, send a note to that new fellow at the scene—Inspector Barnaby, I believe? Yes, him! I shall send a note to Inspector Barnaby, recommending he refine his search to the pool of Civil Engineering candidates with a certain penchanté in the fields chemistry.” Those were his exact words on the matter, and little more was to be said. Needless to say, as I attempted to explained our realm of knowledge regarding the sundial to our assembled cast of four-legged curiosities, little headway was made until I was quite rudely interrupted by a loud snort. “Bwah! Hah! What a load of rubbish! Hey, Twi, get a load of this guy,” Miss Dash whispered, as Iago would whisper of his devilish machinations for Othello toward his enraptured audience. “Ughhh! Rainbow, he can hear you!” said she, before turning toward me. “I’m sorry about her, again. It’s just, well, this sundial has been here since my parents were foals, and, well... are you sure your friend there doesn’t need any bandages, at all?” “I am quite alright, Miss Sparkle,” said Holmes, who was crouched at the knees upon the other side of the column, fondling the coils of granite branches with his long, thin fingers. “Older than your parents, you say?” “It’s plenty older than that! Ha, the ‘Drummong University Sundial’, my manky left wing!” cried Miss Dash, who had, upon realising that the previous excitement of new guests had faded quickly, sought to entertain herself with another pastime: caustic cynicism “The Durham Sundial, and I can emphatically assure you that this piece is only three years my senior,” said I. “A fact I would gladly elaborate upon if I could only finish my narrative. The groundskeeper claimed this sundial appeared to have been quite effortlessly lifted from its iron roots, as if it had disappeared completely. Nothing was achieved for a few hours, as most thought the man was both a drunk and a wretch.” Presently, a small groan erupted from Holmes. It was not one of agony, although I lept to his side all the same. Rather, it was the groan of a man who has proven himself largely incorrect. “Well, Watson, it would appear we have a ‘stinker’—as that delightful inspector from sussex dubbed them, of course. Miss Sparkle and Miss Dash are quite correct: this column has been here for quite an immense period of time,” said he as he examined a speck upon the tip of his finger. “I beg your pardon?” I asked. “Pardon denied, and so it should be, lofty,” quipped Miss Dash, fluttering effortlessly above my head as if she were lounging upon a sofa. “Tell him how denied it is, Twi’.” Miss Sparkle shook her head, as her chest undulated with well hidden mirth. “I’m sorry, doctor, but Rainbow’s right. This sundial has been in this very spot since the post malalignment period, way back before—” She was cut off by Miss Dash, who thrust her face between myself and her fellow. “See! I even have the egghead’s approval, and nopony questions our egghead!” “Perhaps not, but what we have here is a conundrum. This is, quite infallibly, the Durham University Sundial”—Holmes held his finger up, silencing Miss Dash’s retort on her poised lips—“but it has, as you say, rested here for far longer than three weeks.” Miss Dash pursed her lips, opened them, then closed them again with a huff. “Come again?” said she, finally. “This mortar along the base has already begun to crumble.” Holmes massaged his thumb against his forefinger, as a thin stream of whitish powder settled upon the cobbles. “Indeed, not an indicator of the extreme age you claim, but hardly likely to occur after only a few weeks.” “I’m following,” said Miss Sparkle, “but I’m not certain where you’re going with this.” “Unless,” mumbled Holmes, as one does when presented with a brand new set of consequences, “Miss Sparkle, perhaps you may be of some help to me. This mortar, what can you tell me about it?” Miss Sparkle started; her ears fell as her lips drooped. “Uhmm, nothing? I don’t really know why you would ask, though. I’m a librarian, not a—” “No matter,” said he with a shrug, “This appears to be lime based, perhaps with measure of granite—no, chalk. Which would mean...” Holmes’ words drifted away, as his eyes peered to the sky. He mouthed what I assumed to be dates and calculations as his forefinger conducted his thoughts before him. “...which would mean that this column has been here for roughly—” “A thousand years. First year of the restoration period, I think. No, actually, the third year. Hearths-Warming eve, three, Post-Discordia.” Miss Sparkle quoted, as her eyes searched the air before her. It was Holmes’ turn to start. “Yes, yes exactly. Well done, Miss Sparkle.” Miss Dash snorted. “Post-Discodria? Ha! Who even says that anymore?!” She was ignored “You are a scholar then, Miss Sparkle?” I inquired. She cocked her head left and right, wearing a hidden grin. “Well, I used to dabble in scholarly fields back in my youth,” said she with a wave of her hoof, as if shooing the comment down the street, “but I still remember a thing or two.” Harrington laughed. “Scholarly unicorns, and quick tempered pegasi. Where have you taken us, Mr Holmes? Where are we now? Ha!” “Good question, Harrington. Fine question,” said he, nodding, as he turned to Miss Sparkle, “but one for another time. A thousand years you say?” “Well, yeah. I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you. Gah, if only I had my books here with me!” she sighed, shaking her head with a curled lip. “Twi, for the last time, we can’t take all your books with you,” reprimanded Miss Dash from her figurative chéz lounge, “It’s stupid. Besides, it’s not like they’ll be going anywhere!” “Oh, but still,” pouted Miss Sparkle. “But nothing. Besides, the grotto’ll have plenty of books.” This didn’t seem to sate Miss Sparkle’s frustration. It was clear to me that she was one well accustomed with the knowledge of things. I imagine this fact had not been lost on Holmes, who presently regarded her with an inquisitive air. He smirked and turned his head, as a sparkle lit up his eyes. What he was thinking I should never know, but I assumed that he, as I, had concluded Miss Sparkle’s possible contribution to our manhunt long ago. As we stood in silence, for the first time since our congregation, another thought also slipped into my head, as a small note may slip, unseen, through a rapidly opened door. And, like many notes that slip through doors unseen, it boded ill. I had a wife, whom I love dearly. I had, also, a home, a reputation and a practise. We had Billy, Mrs Hudson, and our Baker street flat; within which our collective pasts lined the shelves. Not to mention the small detail of our dainty turkish slipper, Holmes’ alternative to a traditional tobacco humidor. A stone rocked in my chest, as this sudden realisation dawned across my brow. Holmes, Mr Harrington and myself had become oddities in our own rights; as alien to this world as the apparition of Harrington was to ours. All of a sudden I felt terrifically faint, and punctuated the silence with a nervous wobble. “Oh, heavens, sir! You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” cried Harrington, unfurling his arms reaching them out toward me. “No, no, I’m quite alright!” said I with a quivering tone, “I have, however, recalled one important note.” “And as that old proverb goes, we two fools seldom differ,” panned Holmes, who stared, dissapointed, into the bowl of his old clay pipe. “Thankfully, every empire of an earthen-soiled countenance posses, or indeed possessed, tobacco for the folk to deliberate upon. I should think your fears may be put to rest, Watson, for I assure you we will find it eventually.” He said it all with that fatherly tone reserved for times of despair, cheerfully glowing from the cheeks. I craved to explain otherwise, to conclusively establish my fears and worries. But his tone warmed me, as it was oft employed to do, and his childish worry about our tobacco problems seated a fugitive smile upon my face. Miss Dash cleared her throat. “Ah hem. Sundial?” “Ha!” Holmes chuckled, “So our little examination is important to you after all! Well, I should hate to detter your sudden appreciation. But as far as I can tell, there is little more I can ascertain from this sundial, other than its age and it’s origin. I can assure you, once more, that this is indeed our Durham University’s cherished sundial, as much as it is your cherished sundial.” “No! That’s not fair!” cried Miss Dash. “What about all that other stuff Lofty said, hmm? How everypony thought the groundsman was a piece of work, or whatever! That might be important!” “Oh ho? Well, I was under the obviously wrong impression that you thought ‘Lofty’s’ story was little more than, as you say, ‘a load of rubbish’. Well, I should think that if you are telling the truth, then we might as well be on our way. Obviously just not an interesting enough tale for young Miss Dash. Come along, Watson, and you, Harrington.” “Fine! Its not like I care!” she cried. “Evidently not. Good day!” said Holmes cheerfully. Miss Sparkle appeared to wish to speak but Holmes shot her a surreptitious wink. “Shall we, gentlemen? I should feel inclined to study our entry point further—the dull among you needn't apply, for the discoveries we shall make could just solve all our present incongruities!” said Holmes in a voice intended for an audience rather than a private conflagration. We nodded our silent approval and moved off upon his heels. The face of Miss Dash had taken upon itself a change from anger to frustration. She darted, with impressive speed, just before Holmes’ benign face, settling inches from his nose and halting him in his tracks. “Yes, my dear?” Holmes asked sweetly. “Right. I don’t give a hay what you, or Lofty, or nopony else says. I never have.” She delivered the words with a touch of finality in her voice as Holmes listened diligently. “However, Twi’ here agrees with you. Now, Twilight’s our resident egghead. She knows just about everything there is to know. She was the personal protege of the princesses themselves, I’ll have you know, and was taught by the crackiest of the crackpots we have. “So if, for whatever reason, she agrees with you, I agree with you. Now for her sake, get your tush back there, and tell us what you know!” she yelled, hovering two inches above Holmes and I, with her hooves resolutely curled upon her hips. “So you swear utter loyalty to the opinion of Miss Sparkle?” asked Holmes, his eyes sparkling. “Utterly! More utterly than ever could be uttered!” Miss Sparkle observed the scene with another of her hidden smiles. She then turned to me, and cocked her head to the side. “Well, doctor. You have our ears.” I needn't repeat the conversation that was had, as you have already been informed of the circumstances above. I shall, however, endeavour to record the curious reactions of Miss Sparkle, Miss Dash and, rather peculiarly, Mr Harrington. Miss Dash, as the story progressed, leant eagerly forward. However, as I explained Holmes’ disregard for the police’s missive—who, I must add, reddened at the cheeks—her eyes opened wide. Miss Sparkle, who listened to every other particular with acute attention, treated my intonation upon the groundsman’s tale with a creased brow. Mr Harrington, who was still standing far back with his arms crossed, coughed upon my mention of Holmes’ lever theory. “No! You guys! What even are you guys! Twi’, did you hear that! The police, the-po-lice, asked them for help!” Miss Dash squealed as I finished with poorly restrained excitement. “Oh, come-on, seriously? That’s all you heard, isn’t it,” said Miss Sparkle with a sigh. “Oh, don’t be such a spoil-sport! That’s totally awesome!” “Among other things, yes, I suppose so. But do you know what is really ‘awesome’? Whom do we know that’s ten feet tall, and works in tandem with an ‘elderly creature of antiquity’, as some-pony we know might have put it!” Miss Sparkle’s face was livid as she stood upon the tips of her hooves, and gazed down into the eyes of Miss Dash. Miss Dash glanced back, non-plussed. “Yeah, I got that too. I kinda expected it, to be honest. But c’mon, these guys must be like, what? Super-cops or something!” Mr Harrington, despite his interjection, said nothing, and instead walked over to the sundial itself. This was not lost upon me and I followed him, curious as to what he had seen or heard. He rounded upon its base, and handled each grand strand in turn, patting each one and frowning. His behaviour captured the attention of the other members of our congregation, who stared on inquisitively. This continued for a further minute, and ceased as Mr Harrington shot a disappointed glance toward Holmes. “Mr Harrington?” he asked. “I’m not sure what you were thinking, sir, but for levers to have even made the slightest effect, they would have had to have been at least, say, over three hundred and seventy yards long! ‘Specially if this fellow was about twelve and a half stone, or so. I’ll say it now, this ten foot demon of mine makes a fair measure of sense more than yours, sir.” Sherlock Holmes went very red at the cheeks, but pleasantly for he, my attention had very much diverted toward this stunning insight from Mr Harrington himself. “Harrington, are you sure?” I asked, feeling like poking holes in this adolescent theory. “More sure than anything. This dias is about, say, three or so tonnes, and that fellow will have been about twelve stone. I’ll make that a roughly one to fifty ratio, which means...” He dissolved into thought, before shrugging his shoulders with a blink. “As I said, three hundred and seventy or so yards long, and that, I might add, is just the distance to the fulcrum. Mr Holmes, sir, surely that will have crossed your mind at some point?” Holmes remained demure, but as the twinkle evaporated from his eyes completely I knew he balked at the challenge. My first instinct was to defend, but Holmes had been wrong before. To his credit, that very morning we had been in contact with a certain retailer of violins, who promised to parade before Holmes a great many new German designs. Given such an opportunity, I do not doubt that Holmes’ mind was on other things. Never-the-less, it appeared we might have become embroiled in this business far earlier than today, and perhaps have spared some measure of property and life in the process. Either way, I knew Holmes will have considered this possible eventuality in its turn, and so it seemed past mistakes should have to remain past mistakes. “Harrington,” said I, “may we leave reparations for another time? One cannot make a judgement on events when these events do not, for all intensive purposes, exist in one’s realm. I will admit, we should have borne notice to the facts upon hearing your narrative, but even you must acknowledge that a ten foot tall terror is neither a fresh nor appropriate excuse for one’s gluttony or sloth.” He laughed warmly, and slapped me upon the back. “Doctor, you do yourself a credit, sir! I have said, have I not, that my visions ‘must have been machinations of a drink addled mind’. None of our company could have known in the slightest what possible evils awaited us. Relax, please. It is just an observation. Now, Miss Sparkle on the other hand—or perhaps ‘hoof’, ha!—Miss Sparkle seems to have a fair measure to say of the matter! ‘Pon my word, I should think she has the answers we need!” Indeed, she did. However, she would not allow us the satisfaction of the truth at present. We were to follow her to the ‘grotto’, a brief walk from our current position. Upon our arrival, our own stories were to be observed by a character Miss Sparkle simply referred to as Luna. While, in our own domain, this will have been a nome-de-plume, as such, it occurred to me that it may well have been her own name. Indeed, if ‘Rainbow Dash’ or ‘Twilight Sparkle’ and even ‘Dawn Hammer’ were any measure of custom, a name such as Luna would have been positively dull! From our position in the edwardian square, the ponies led us through a little alley residing between a shuttered up coffee-house and an abandoned curio-store. This alley forced us to pass through by sidestepping, but allowed Miss Sparkle plenty of room to trot. Miss Dash, making fine use of her faculties, soared above us at any chance she could find, darting between the clotheslines and hanging lamps that punctuated the dark walls surrounding us. Upon our exit, we were met with a drastic shift in opulence. Where once there had been cobbles, paving stones, of a virtuous purple, lined the streets. Decadent arches of whitewashed sandstone, accentuated by thick, red curtains marked a higher class of boutique. As Miss Sparkle explained, we had entered the ‘new’ quarter, which she added was far older than the ‘old’ quarter of our arrival. When asked why, she simply shrugged off our question with a warm smile and said simply: “The names are only a couple of years old.” When asked to elucidate upon that point, she could not say; only assure us that we should have a reasonable understanding of events within the hour. Further on we trod, until we reached a grand pair of gates set between two large pillars. To each side, a high wall stretched around and out of sight. Through this gate, we could see a certain blue pegasus come hovering into view before a veritable forest of ivory parapets, domes and arches. She placed her back against the heavy gilded steel, and worked her wings in some queer, backward push, swinging the gates back with a glacial pace. Yet, they opened silently, without the crescendo of steel running across rock. We entered what Miss Sparkle explained were the grounds of one ‘Canterlot Castle’. After throwing both Harrington and Holmes a look of subdued incredulity, I walked on in silence, listening to her monologue. “These are the outer walls, so we’re about halfway there. The gardens and maze have been here for years, far longer than I care to recall. Ha, you’d think they’d have gone with everything else, but no, they stay, of all things.” “You know, I used to live around here, up in those towers over there. I must have been in my late teens.” Her eyes glassed over as she paused, looking up at the forest of ivory towers, “Oh, hey, see the big wide one just above the stream? Well, that big double window about half way up was the library. Ha, I practically lived in that library.” We remained silent, finding wisdom in allowing Miss Sparkle to reminisce peacfully. She said nothing further than that, and I noticed her withers hunched much lower than before. As were her ears, which trailed along at half mast. Some tragedy had befallen this place, and I found it’s lack of life disturbing. The night we trod through did not sound at all like the night should. Crickets, normally insolent and brash in their nature, were stilled. The wind, fond of whipping through streets as a whetted knife, felt insipid and dry, as if flowing from across a stagnant ocean. Even the hum of activity, pervasive throughout London’s twilight hours, was silent. Miss Sparkle halted above an alabaster, half crescent bridge. We waited awkwardly for her to break from this idle, but potent, stillness. She was facing away from us, across the stream and up toward a grand cathedral. Unlike the assortment of architecture that had accompanied our arrival, this cathedral was in an insolent state of disarray. The stain glass windows, perhaps fifteen feet or more in height, were fractured in the regions that had not been completely shattered. The exterior was of a dull grey and heaped with fungal growth; while platforms for grotesques went unoccupied and crumbling. I assumed that this building had been of the same design and splendour of those around us, and my heart sank to think that such beauty had become a boon of dissoray. I need only have asked Miss Sparkle for the details, but her manner stayed my hand. For the first time since our acquaintance, her steadfast and professional demeanor had dissolved into a dark brood. “Hey, Twi! C’mon, we need to get this lot to Luna.” Miss Dash, intent on remaining as air bound as possible, fluttered a few feet above our heads. Miss Sparkle made no sign of acknowledgement, her gaze resolutely dwelled upon the ruined cathedral, the swirling waters, and her own reflection. Miss Dash released a heavy sigh, made to retrieve Miss Sparkle’s concentration, but halted herself mid flight. Her muscles relaxed with a slump, and she hung in the air from the stems of her wings before offering us a deft nod down the road, as if to say “C’mon, we’ll leave her be.” With one last glance at Miss Sparkle, she darted off in the direction indicated and Holmes and I followed obediently. Harrington, however, hesitated. His lips curled back, his eyelids tightened, and with a resolute nod he turned around. Without punctuating her silence, he paced up beside her with a measured step. She did not intrude upon him, nor he upon her. I raised my hand to gesticulate my frustrations—Miss Dash was not one to wait upon the lumbering, it seemed, and had flown out of sight—but Holmes grasped onto my forearm. “Miss Sparkle will desire some company once her reminiscence is complete, I should think. Leave Harrington be, Watson. The fellow is not as heavy handed as we first thought,” Holmes whispered into my ear before slowly turning upon his heels and following Miss Dash. I passed a final look at the queer pair—the unicorn and the senile drunkard sharing a silent reverie—before dashing after Holmes. I followed in his footsteps until we came upon a quaint garden, girded by a gilded stairway on both sides that twisted upward and to the left. Miss Dash was nowhere to be seen, and Holmes and I wordlessly assumed this stairway would lead us toward our reluctant guide. “Psst! Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!” Miss Dash hissed with gusto, popping out from beneath the stairs, “Grotto’s this way. Hey, where’s the other one?” “Accompanying Miss Sparkle,” Holmes whispered back, for the night was conducive to hushed tones. She did not honor us with a reply, instead she simply disappeared behind the staircase as quickly as she had materialised. We followed, and found a rotten, soggy, wooden hatch hanging from its hinges. The opening was dark and unwelcoming, but the percussion of hooves upon cold stone echoed around its desolate confines. We hunched and ran after her, keen not to lose Miss Dash in what I feared to be a maze of catacombs. Thankfully, I was wrong, and the tunnel stretched only a few meters until arriving at a small alcove, carved into the rock. Lit by a candelabra upon a knee high, gnarled oak table, the confines of the room were ample enough for Holmes and I to stand tall, but nothing more. Three cushions surrounded the table, of the same style and cut. A porcelain wash basin, dug into the earth and gilded with the standard paraphernalia, lay to the left of the threshold. It was at this basin where we found Miss Dash, who drank greedily from the surprisingly pristine water within. It impressed upon me the nature of a russian izba, with its low ceiling and earthen confines. Holmes, as one would expect, sensed otherwise. After gazing intently at the wash basin, and at the table, he coughed politely. “Hmm. Wha’gh?” mumbled Miss Dash, her mouth still brimming with liquid. “If you are here, and Miss Sparkle is upon the bridge, where lies our royal host?” At this, the water within Miss Dash’s mouth sluiced through her clenched teeth. She pursed her lips, mouthed what I assumed to be a certain expletive before settling upon, “How can you possibly know that?” “Simple reasoning. There are three cushions, yet one faces the other two. You and Miss Sparkle have treated yourselves as equals and I thus find no cause for you to face one another, when to sit close to one’s equal is a private joy. Further, this lone cushion faces the door; a significant trait for those who are privy to ownership and leadership. “Aside from this regrettably circumstantial observation, I have, upon your own admittance, the simple fact that ‘the grotto is full of books’. Yet I see no books. Which indicates two things; firstly, that you have hidden them; secondly, that you have been presented with a circumstance that drove you to see the need in protecting said books. Which pushes us heartily toward our next point of contention. Under what manner has this circumstance fallen? “This is a royal city. A fact explained both by Miss Sparkle’s admission of ‘Canterlot Castle’ and the city’s layout: all main arteries led us toward that central gate, through which we find ourselves upon this castle’s grounds. Yet, I would gather that very few souls have been wandering those streets as of late. We have all felt its presence, or lack thereof: this city is dead and as such, of the myriad of possible tragedies that could have befallen this fine city two stand for contention: famine, or rebellion. While both are likely candidates, famine should not compel the reservation of knowledge. Thus, we have stumbled upon the cause of this city’s grief: a rebellion. “Yet, you remain, unperturbed. One should ask why, of course, but I highly doubt you will have orated the truth, along with the obvious. So I fall, once again, to my deductions. Miss Sparkle is an academic. It was her idea to protect the books, I gather. But why, then, if you are here as guardians of knowledge, should you be out upon an eve such as this, ambushing disorientated and, might I add, rather preoccupied doctors? “You are the agents, then. Not only are you protecting knowledge of a bygone era, but you are defending it, championing it! Had this monarch you are so stalwartly aiding been slain, you would only be serving yourselves; weathering and surviving. But you are not, and so she, Luna, must be alive! “And where else should she be but here! The lines of duress beneath that basin have not escaped my gaze, nor the chipping of paint to its left edge, upon which it must swing. A perfect priest's hole, for your knowledge and your—” His monologue was interrupted by a sharp squeaking and sloshing, as the basin swung outward to reveal a small, waist high threshold. From within this, two burning eyes, of iridescent blue, belonging to a slender, equine countenance gazed out at him with a challenging bearing. Sherlock Holmes smiled sweetly, before bowing at the hip. “Your Highness.”