Bouquet D'Illusions ▷ Enola Holmes

iii. your will shall decide your destiny

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘. Enola sometimes found this to be true, especially in certain situations that are odd enough that it would be impossible not to ask what could have possible happened to lead up to present events, but she often found it to be slightly different — the greatest distance two people can travel in the shortest amount of time is by asking someone their name. Who people decided to name themselves was a reflection of who they are, and seeing as how her own name was anagrammed to spell alone, it made her think it was time for a change, not to mention she was still hiding from her brothers.

As much as she didn't want to let go of her identity as Enola Holmes, she knew there was no way she could go about her business in secret with her real name; she'd have to come up with one her brothers — or rather, Sherlock — wouldn't think of tracing back to her. The many scribbles and crossed out ideas on the paper in front of her was proof that it was difficult to choose a new name for oneself, even more difficult than choosing a name for a child. After all, an infant has no place in the world, being newly born, whereas for one there is the frustrating spectacle of intimate confusion.

Although the large gash near her ear had faded, the bruise upon her feelings had not. It had only been a few days since her mother had turned up in her room, leaving just as quickly as she'd arrived, and despite the reassurance that she had left for her own reasons, it was still a difficult thing to grasp. Their moment of reunion had not been the one she'd imagined, and here she was, sitting alone and wondering what her next move would be.

Perhaps there was some truth in her name after all.

Despite the visit leaving her with more questions than it did answers, she did understand one thing: she was a dedicated person, a finder of lost souls. Perhaps there were people that needed such a person for such jobs, and she would have been more than happy to help, if only such a case turned up. So far, there had been little for her to do other than wallow in self-pity and try to come up with new names for herself, all the while doing her best to try not to think about her mother.

Paper and pencil in hand, Enola sat on the bed of her new lodgings, often becoming distracted by the comings and goings of the street from her reclined view. The sun shone brightly above like a polished shield, as if it could shelter her from the past she wanted to outrun, the various coal wagons and donkey carts and wheelbarrows competing for space on the filthy narrow street, the drivers having no problem with shouting obscenities at each at the slightest instant of wait, men and women of all classes and ages hurrying along with whatever errands they needed to attend to.

They, unlike her, had somewhere to go.

It was only until she shifted her leg onto the paper she was writing did Enola bring her attention back to the task at hand. She had folded the paper sideways until there was nothing else written, all her crossed out ideas hidden, waiting for a fresh start. The only words left on the page were ones she knew all too well, and, unfortunately, had no choice but to cast aside.

Enola Holmes.

Using her own name, of course, was simply impossible, for it would be far too easy for Mycroft and Sherlock to become aware of her whereabouts, and the last thing she wanted was to be sent back to Mrs. Harrison's Finishing School for Young Ladies, and she'd be damned if she allowed them to do just that. Legally, Mycroft, as the elder, could have even sent her to an insane asylum for left, should he choose to, seeing as the only thing to make it happen was the signatures of two medical doctors — one of whom would be the "mad doctor" that was only interested in the money that allowed him to run such a place. Coupled with Mycroft's signature, those would be all he needed to deprive her of the freedom she had worked so hard to achieve.