Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 18

I'm pushed down on the wooden floors, and George is thrown in after me. They shut the door, thankfully not bothering to secure my shackle this time.

I try once again to stir George, shaking him by the shoulders, but he remains still. His breathing is raspy and laboured. I should get him onto the bed. I put my arms under his chest and legs, as if cradling a child, and try to lift him up. I only manage to get him a little way off the ground, before my arms ache and I fall back down. I try again, but to much the same result. A month ago I could have done this without even breaking a sweat...

I breathe, and stand up. An unbearable wave of agony shoots through my body as the broken bones in my right ankle splinter even further; but I ignore it, bending down and using all the strength I can to lift George. I hold him to my chest, and stagger forward, my teeth gritted as the screams of pain try to punch their way out of my throat. Finally, I drop him onto the bed and collapse next to it in agony.

My wounds demand attention so I allow myself a few moments to re-wrap my ankle, biting into my hand so hard I almost draw blood.

I haule myself up onto the side of the bed, and examine George in the moonlight. His pale skin... he already looks like a ghost.

Luckily, Dr Watson taught me some basic medical training for emergencies. I take the flannel from the basin of water I used earlier, and begin to gently wash the wound. This water isn't entirely clean, but it's better than nothing. I rip off some fabric from my nightgown, bundle it up and hold it to George's temple to stop the bleeding. While I do this, I check him for any more cuts and grazes. A surprising benefit to the amount of layers one is expected to wear, even in the hottest of summers, is that it can act as an extra layer of protection. George had very little bare skin exposed when he fell so, apart from his elbow where the clothing ripped, he's fine. I on the other hand, in nothing but a nightgown, have a myriad of scrapes and grazes.

When the bleeding has stopped, I rip a long strip of fabric from my nightgown and begin to tightly wind it around his head, tying it off with a rather clumsy knot. I take the blanket, sliding it out from beneath him, ball it up and put it under his head to elevate it.

Once I clean and bandage his elbow, I take care of my own wounds, wiping off the blood that's beginning to drip down my leg. I then re-wrap my ankle, as the increased swelling made it too tight to bear.

An hour passes, and all I can do is wait. Finally, George stirs. His eyelids twitch open and a low moan escapes his lips. I breathe a sigh of relief, as I was beginning to worry he might never wake. I try to steady him, gently pushing him to lie back down when he tries to get up.

'Enola?' He utters, calming down when he sees me.

I quiet him, knowing all too well the confusion and fear that comes from waking up in this attic. 'You took a bad hit to the head when you fell from the horse.'

It takes him a while to remember the gravity of the situation, and when he does he turns his face away from me, a tear rolling down his cheek. 'I made everything worse for you, didn't I?'

'Not necessarily.' I reply. 'The chances of me being killed tomorrow remain the same. You, on the other hand, are much worse off now.'

I see George holding his breath, trying to suppress a loud sob. I am aware that I'm not a great comfort in times of trouble, I've always been better at talking than listening, and even when I do talk I tend to make things worse... I wish Tewksbury were here, he's much more gracious when dealing with emotions. I try to think about what he would say, what he has said to me when I'm upset; but for once my mind is blank. Silently, I slide off the bed and sit on the floor, leaning against the back wall where I can still see him.

'I'm sorry I d-didn't try to- to help you sooner.'George slowly sits up, putting the pillows behind his back.

'It probably would've ended the same way regardless of when we tried.' I try to reassure him, but he's clearly not satisfied with this. Honestly, I wonder why he didn't help earlier. Perhaps he simply didn't realise what was happening before it was too late? Perhaps he didn't want to realise...

'I'm just... I'm not like you, Enola.'

'What do you mean?'

He looks away from me in shame, scratching the back on his hand again. 'Well. What I mean is- um. You're not scared of- well, anything.'

Silence lingers for a second, when I start sniggering, unable to stop myself. He looks at me confused, but that just makes me laugh more. 'Oh George, you have no idea how untrue that is!'

He frowns, either because he doesn't believe me or because I hurt his feelings by laughing. Or both.

I sigh. 'Frogs.'

'... What?'

'Frogs! My biggest fear.' He just looks at me confused. 'I don't know why, but whenever I see them- well I'm just petrified!' A smile starts to spread across his face, and seeing as it makes him happy, I keep talking of my disdain for frogs. 'It's the stillness, and then suddenness of their movements! And they have those long tongues, and they're all slimy. I just freeze every time I see them.' George starts laughing softly, and I join him.

We talk and laugh about our fears, George being terrified of spiders. I never was. While of course the sudden appearance of one would cause me to jump, I was never actually scared. Perhaps it was the very knowledge that I was supposed to be afraid, that made me calm?

Our laughs fade out and we once more sit in silence. 'Albert never seemed to be scared of anything either.' At his brother's name I freeze; even though it should seem pointless now, I still can't help my curiosity surge.

'How did Albert die, George?'

George moves his legs over the side of the bed, I go to urge him to rest but he ushers me to stay still; telling me he feels stable. He looks out of the window, silver light showing his macabre expression.

'A- A suffragist. She attacked him, with a rock. She didn't mean to kill him, but...' His voice trails off, because he doesn't need to finish. The final piece falls into place. Nigh's first born, and I've no doubt, favourite son was killed. So that's what this is about... Vengeance.

'Before he died- Albert's death... hurt my father badly. He wasn't the same afterwards.' He turns to me, his eyes full of sadness. 'I know what he's done... What he's doing, is unforgivable. But- He-' He lets out a sigh and sinks back down onto the bed.

I'm at a loss for words, a common occurrence these past 24 hours. It's so easy to see people as simply a villain. A pitfall I often run into in my line of work. But I know the pain of losing someone. When mother disappeared. And those few moments when I thought Tewksbury died. Even now with the threat of Mycroft... It in no way justifies what he's doing, but I understand the urge to lash out.

'If I can't stop your father, my brother will die.'

George turns away from me. I wonder how he felt when Albert died. The man was a bully; sons of Lords often are.  In the oil painting Albert looks solemn yet brave, but the photograph in the hallway captured his true self. There was cruelty in his eyes.

With Albert dead, George stands to inherit Michael's land and title. Perhaps that's why Nigh feels such desperation to ruin any chance of Women gaining equal rights; knowing George could undo it all when he becomes Lord...

'Always remember this George - The future is up to us.'