e l'viso di pietosi color farsi,
     non so se vero o falso, mi parea:
     i' che l'esca amorosa al petto avea,
     qual meraviglia se di subito arsi?

     [and in her face there seemed to come an air
     of pity, true or false, that I discerned:
     I had love's tinder in my breast unburned,
     was it a wonder if it kindled there?]
          -- Petrarch, Canzonere, XC

In my youth, boys were taught to look upon their mothers and sisters, and indeed women in general, as though they were angels. Perhaps that was why I regarded my sister with such reverence, and yet, when I remember her, I cannot help but think the feeling justified.

Though Vita was my twin, we could not have been more different. I resembled my father, a compact, sandy-haired man with a powerful frame, while Vita took after my late mother, a renowned beauty whose dark tresses and large, expressive eyes betrayed her Gallic heritage. Conscious of my less than average height, I strode and stomped my way through life; Vita, who stood taller than most of her sex, carried herself with remarkable delicacy and grace. I had no gift and could see no use for anything that was not straightforward, simple, and practical; Vita delighted in music, literature, and that bane of my younger existence, philosophy.

Yet these disparities, which might have been intolerable, served only to increase our mutual devotion. She was always ready to learn whatever rough skills I was prepared to teach her, though her efforts at shooting, fishing and cricket never met with much success; in turn, I lay like a hound at her feet while she read poetry, and did my best to conceal the inevitable yawns. When my too-quick temper was aroused, she was my soothing balm, while in melancholy moments she turned to me, and poured out her soul as though I were another girl. Motherless children, raised on a remote country estate, we were all the other had; and whenever we were parted I missed her sorely.

"Vita!" I exclaimed, seizing her hands in mine. "However did you get here?"

"By carriage to Birmingham, and thence by train," said Holmes's voice from behind me. "Good evening, Miss Trevor. I trust that the cabman I sent to the station was duly solicitous of your welfare?"

"Indeed he was, sir," she replied with a smile.

"I am glad to hear it. I trust your feet have quite dried from this morning's wetting? I should hope you did not tip your very rude and careless driver."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed hotly. "How on earth--"

"I believe Mr Holmes has observed the water-stain on my boots," said Vita, with a swift questioning glance at my friend.

Holmes inclined his head to her. "Precisely. I note that you were seated on the left side of the carriage which drove you to the railway station this morning, for you naturally put your left foot out first as you descended, and it received a more thorough wetting than the right. As for the driver, only a clumsy, thoughtless fool would stop his carriage in a puddle, and allow a lady to alight without his assistance."

"Enough!" I said. "My poor head is whirling. If you must scintillate, Holmes, let me sit down and take my boots off first." I leaned to kiss my sister's cheek. "Introductions seem almost absurd at this point, but -- Vita, my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes; Holmes, my sister Miss Violetta Trevor."

"Miss Violetta Trevor?" asked Holmes, frowning.

She made a little curtsey and stepped aside to let him enter. "When Victor was a very small child he could not say my name. So 'Vita' it was, and has been ever since."

"Mother called you Violetta," I reminded her over my shoulder as I removed my boots and set them by the fire.

"So she did," said Vita. "But no one has used the name for years." Gathering her dark, heavy skirts about her, she crossed to the sofa and sat down by my side. Holmes, after a pause, settled himself in the armchair, watching us with unblinking grey eyes. He did not speak.

"My dear girl," I said to Vita after an awkward moment, "this is a wonderful surprise. However did you contrive it? And where do you plan to stay?"

"Mr Holmes has been most helpful," she said, glancing at my friend with a slight smile. "He has known for some days that I should be coming, and I relied upon him to help me keep my visit a surprise. I arrived here in the company of Miss Sewell, a friend from Birmingham, and we will be lodging with her sister, who is married and lives in town. So you see, it has all worked out quite beautifully."

"It has, indeed. Have you visited Caleb yet?"

"Yes, and he was thoroughly delighted to see me. Though--" she raised her voice slightly-- "I am sorry he thinks so little of you, Mr Holmes."

Holmes arched an eloquent brow. "As am I, Miss Trevor. Tell me, can you think why Caleb should regard me with such hostility? Is it something in my appearance, do you think?"

I stiffened, but Vita did not seem to notice. "Why, no," she said. "I see nothing about you that Caleb should hate."

"How curious," Holmes murmured.

"Vita," I said, hastily changing the subject, "I am terribly sorry, but I have no gift for you. I could find nothing in the shops here to suit, and--"

She held up a white-gloved hand. "Dearest twin, there is no need to apologize. Do you think it matters to me in the slightest whether I receive my birthday present now, or later -- or for that matter, ever? I am glad to see you again; that is enough."

I sat silent, humbled by her graciousness.

"Besides," she added, patting my hand, "I haven't any present for you, either. Well, no, that is not quite true; I do have a splendid fruit-cake from Sarah. You remember Sarah, I am sure?" And she gave me such a roguish look that I burst out laughing.

"Sarah Pendennis," Vita told Holmes while I was still spluttering and wiping my eyes on my sleeve, "is the cook's assistant, and when Victor came to visit a few months ago she was utterly smitten with him. She refused to let him leave the house without a half-dozen Cornish pasties and four jars of preserves."

"You have forgotten to mention," I said reproachfully, "that the charming Sarah is fifteen."

"But a bright young lady, by no means ill-favoured, and an excellent cook. What a pity you are out of her star, Victor -- or perhaps the cake will move you to reconsider? I do believe I hear someone on the stair."

I leaped to my feet and opened the door to Mabel, our brittle twig of a housemaid, who appeared ready to collapse beneath the weight of her tray. She moved gingerly to the table and relieved herself of her burden with a sigh. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, sirs."

"Thank you," said Vita. Then, as Mabel reached for the teapot, "No, there's no need for you to stay; I will be perfectly happy to pour for the gentlemen. I'm sure you have quite enough work to do."

"Thank you, miss," Mabel said gratefully, a flush suffusing her sallow cheeks. She made a swift, ungraceful curtsey and disappeared.

"Well," Vita remarked, surveying the tray. "Mrs Morrison appears to have achieved a remarkable feat of engineering."

I had to agree. Never had I seen a platter so overloaded: cups and saucers, cutlery, teapot, and coffeepot jostled for position with an imposing array of hors d'oeuvres, cakes, and tarts. Chief among the culinary delights was a bright yellow, almost medicinal-looking cake punctuated with dark fruit, no doubt Sarah's contribution.

Vita drew off her gloves and with slim, steady hands began to set out this small feast upon the table. I glanced over at Holmes and saw him watching her with an expression so bleak that had I not known him better, I might have taken offense on my sister's behalf. She, however, seemed to take no notice, but smiled at him and said, "Will you have some fruit-cake, Mr Holmes? Saffron Cake, Sarah calls it: a special Cornish recipe."

For one last moment Holmes held on to grim silence. Then the tautness in his features eased and the thin lips moved: "Are there any apples in it?"

"I'm afraid not."

"A pity," said Holmes.

"Won't currants do?" asked Vita, regarding the innocent cake with an air of faint surprise.

"I fear they would be scant comfort."

The words fell one by one into the air between them, heavy with an emphasis they scarcely seemed to deserve. Vita looked up sharply, caught Holmes's eye, and stiffened. For one anxious moment I thought he had frightened her; but her wide eyes and half-parted lips spoke more of incredulity than of fear.

"Vita?" I said, concerned without knowing why; but she shook her head, and without taking her eyes from Holmes, reached back and patted my hand to reassure me. Somewhat dubiously, I subsided, while she addressed my friend in a quiet, tentative voice: "Some say that apples are good for one's health."

"So I have read," said Holmes gravely.

My sister coloured, and dropped her gaze.

On the surface, the conversation had been trivial to the point of absurdity; yet it was clear that something significant had passed between them. Could Holmes be alluding to some incident in my sister's letters? I searched my memory for mention of apples or illness, but could find none. The whole conversation seemed the merest nonsense to me -- but I knew that Holmes never talked nonsense. Was he using some sort of code?

At last Vita raised her dark head. Her expression was one of resolute calm, but the hectic brilliance had not faded from her cheeks. "Are you often in poor health, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled: not his customary twitch of the mouth, but a genuine smile that enlivened his whole face, and reminded me that for all his queer adult ways, he was scarcely more than a boy. "Quite the contrary, I assure you. In fact, your brother has often remarked upon my uncommonly strong constitution."

I could bear it no longer. "Holmes, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Your friend is being clever," said Vita. She set a cup delicately on its saucer, held it out to him. "Will you take coffee, Mr Holmes?"

"By all means," said my friend. He took the brimming cup from my sister's hand, leaned back in his chair, and sipped the dark liquid contemplatively.

What had been said between them? I wondered, with a touch of bitterness at being excluded. Did Vita's astonishment at Holmes's remarks, her blushing avoidance of his gaze, mean that he had hit upon her secret? But if Holmes had truly deduced what was wrong with my sister, why had he not shared his knowledge with me? And what did apples have to do with any of it?

It would be useless to ask him, of course. But I might coax the truth out of Vita, if only I could get her alone. All at once it came to me, and I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin to conceal an involuntary smile.

"My dear," I said to Vita, "please excuse us for a moment. Holmes, may I speak with you apart? I have an idea."

I rose, and Holmes, with a somewhat quizzical look, did likewise. He followed me to the far side of the room, and in a low voice I described to him what I had in mind. He was taken aback, and not easily persuaded; but at last, to my relief, he gave in.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Trevor," said Holmes, turning back toward my expectant and mystified sister, "but for the moment I must take my leave." He bowed fractionally to her, then flung the door open and exited.

"Victor!" exclaimed Vita when he had gone. "Whatever do you mean by--"

"Be patient, my dear," I told her with a smile. "He will return shortly, and then you will have your answer."

She shook her dark head. "I very much fear that your Mr Holmes is a poor influence on you, Victor. He has made you cryptic and mysterious, which is not at all like you."

"Well, since we are talking about mysteries," I said, resuming my seat beside her. "What was all that twaddle about apples?"

At once the colour returned to Vita's face; she gave a little, nervous laugh. "Sweet twin," she said. "I never thought that I should be glad that you are so ignorant of Scripture."

I pressed her to explain, but to my consternation she would say no more. Eventually I gave up and turned my attention to Sarah's odd but delicious cake, resolving to try Vita again tomorrow -- or, that failing, to approach Holmes himself.

My sister and I munched and drank in silence until Holmes's quick, firm step was heard upon the stair and the door swung wide. He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, and he bore a carefully wrapped bundle beneath his arm.

"Mr Holmes!" said Vita. "Whatever have you brought us?"

"Vita," I said, turning to her, "Holmes is an accomplished player on the violin. I know how you love music, and I thought you might like to hear him perform."

Her head came up, her lovely face radiant with pleasure. "Indeed I would!"

"I fear your brother may overestimate my skills as a musician," said Holmes with unusual modesty as he unwrapped his violin case and set it down on the table. "Nevertheless, I cannot refuse a lady."

I snorted violently, which had a most unfortunate effect on the cup of coffee I had been raising to my lips -- not to mention my waistcoat, my trousers, and the tea-table. Vita exclaimed, leaped to her feet, and began dabbing at the various stains, while Holmes regarded us both with the pained expression of a virtuoso who has just learned that his performance will be preceded by dancing clowns.

"If you are quite ready," he remarked, lifting the violin, "I shall begin with the third movement of Bach's Sonata No. 3 in C major."

Vita drew in a breath, released it in a barely audible sigh. "Bach," she murmured. Then she sat back, folded her hands in her lap, and regarded Holmes with rapt attention as he cradled the instrument against his chin and began, very softly, to play.

When and where my friend learned to play the violin I never learned: but as I listened to him that night I could not help but be aware of the long hours of practice and concentration, the careful study of technique, that had gone before. I will not exaggerate his abilities by calling him a genius; but he was a highly competent player, and most pleasant to hear.

The pieces Holmes played for us were slow and melancholy for the most part, demanding no very rapid fingering, for he appeared to know his limitations. But as I listened to that sweet, soulful music, I unaccountably felt tears pricking at my eyes. I could not have said at that time what it was about Holmes's playing that moved me so; but I could sense that something rare and magical was taking place between my friend and his instrument, and that was enough.

Throughout the performance Holmes's face remained calm, a slight lowering of his brows the only visible sign of emotion. But his fingers moved with exquisite sensitivity upon the strings, and the violin spoke, eloquent and passionate, in reply. I glanced once at Vita, and saw her motionless, scarcely breathing, her eyes wide and brilliant with the nearness of tears. Then the gentle tide of sound receded, leaving us in silence.

Instinctively I began to applaud, but Vita prevented me with a shake of her head. She turned to Holmes, who was fitting the violin carefully back into its case, and said simply, "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I cannot imagine how Victor could say that he had nothing to give me; I am most grateful to you both for one of the loveliest birthday presents I ever received."

Holmes turned to her sharply, as though about to speak; but then he closed his mouth and bowed instead. "I am gratified to hear it, Miss Trevor," he said. "Now you must excuse me, as I have work to do. Good night." And before either of us could rise, or even protest, he whisked the violin case from the table and slipped out the door.

"Well, I never!" I exclaimed. "Just when I think I begin to understand him--"

"He is unhappy," said Vita quietly. She reached down to the bag at her feet and drew out a shining red apple, turning it over in her hands.

I frowned. "What? Because you would not let me applaud?"

"Because he has given himself away."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, Victor," said my sister with a deep, weary sigh, "I wish I could say the same." She closed her eyes and leaned her head upon my shoulder, and though I longed to question her, I had not the heart to do so. We sat there together in silence, gazing at the fire, while a lone, gaunt figure made its way through the darkness and the falling snow, heading for home.

"Good morning, Holmes."

"And to you, Trevor." Hoping to show him I had no wish to be disturbed, I had set a brisk pace; but he matched my stride with ease, his long legs carrying him swiftly over the pavement by my side. "I trust you slept well?"

I stopped short. Small talk was hateful to Holmes, and that he should feel the necessity to use it with me indicated that he was unusually ill at ease. Well, perhaps I had given him cause.

"No," I said, "I did not. I was thinking about my sister."

Holmes flung his cigarette to the ground and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders hunching like a vulture's. "I see. She has told you something?"

I set my jaw stubbornly and resumed walking.

"Trevor!"

"She has told me nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all."

"Nonsense."

"No doubt, but it's true nonetheless."

"Did you make no attempt to draw her out -- to question her about her situation?"

"Oh, I certainly did." I gave a bitter laugh. "I tried every question I could think of. 'Vita, how are Aunt Catherine and the children?' 'Caleb's a splendid dog; what on earth could have induced you to give him up?' 'You look a little pale, my dear -- have you been feeling well?' She did not exactly refuse to answer: but she might as well have."

"Do you mean that she lied to you?"

"My sister never lies, Holmes. But she has a most unsatisfactory way with the truth. When I asked her about Caleb, for instance, she said that he was sent away because he was making Aunt Catherine ill--"

Holmes seized me by the sleeve. "Were those her exact words? Exact, Trevor. I have no use for approximations."

"She said, 'I was told that his presence was detrimental to Aunt Catherine's health, and therefore he must be sent away at once.'"

"Ah." There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "She was told. But by whom, and why?"

"How should I know? Anyway," I added with some savagery, "you surely don't need to ask me anything about my sister. Why you should feel the need to pretend to me that you know no more about her situation than I do, I cannot imagine; but I am not such a fool as to sit still for your absurd performance."

I jerked my arm from Holmes's grasp and turned to leave, but his hand came down on my shoulder with such gentleness that I was arrested by it as effectively as if he had seized me.

"Trevor," he said in a voice I had never heard him use before, a low, earnest tone of utter sincerity, "I know that my conduct last night was inexcusable. If I could explain myself to you, I would. I give you my word that it will not happen again."

"If I ask you a question, Holmes, will you answer it?"

The pause that followed was a long one. Neither of us moved, and I could not see his face. But at last he said, "If I can."

"Then explain to me just what you said to Vita last night. I think you know what I mean."

He sighed. "Trevor, it had nothing to do with your sister's welfare. I assure you, if I had discovered anything -- anything at all -- I would share it with you."

I twisted around to look at him. "Then for heaven's sake, Holmes, what was it?"

Holmes's face hardened. "It was madness, Trevor. Folly. Nothing more." He released me, and began stalking toward the college.

"I saw Vita to the station this morning," I said, hurriedly catching up with him.

"Did you."

"She told me to bid you farewell on her behalf."

"Did she."

"Holmes, she is suffering."

He stopped.

"I could see it in her face," I continued, speaking rapidly lest he change his mind and set off again. "You were right: something has happened since I last saw her. Something terrible."

"You are sure." His voice was flat.

"Never more so. I tried at first to dismiss it, to tell myself that it was just an idea you had put into my head; but by the time I returned her to her lodgings last night I could no longer maintain any doubt. She is afraid, Holmes, of something -- or someone."

Holmes lit another cigarette and drew on it deeply, his eyes narrowing in thought. "And yet she will not speak to you."

"What could be so private, or so terrible, that she could not share it with her own brother -- her lifelong friend?"

"I can think of several things," said Holmes grimly. "However, it is useless to speculate in the absence of data. I will say one thing: I do not believe your sister keeps silent out of selfishness, or timidity, or folly. If anything, she is protecting you."

"Protecting me!"

"Or someone else. There is about Miss Violetta Trevor the fragrance of martyrdom."

"But that's absurd! What could possibly--"

"That, Trevor, is what you must find out."

"I?" I was taken aback. "Holmes, you know I can't possibly investigate this matter alone."

"Is there an alternative? Your sister now knows you are aware of her plight, and my involvement could hardly have escaped her notice. We will glean no more clues from her letters. That effectively ends any help I might have given you."

"Then what am I to do?"

"You will see her at Christmas?"

"Yes."

"Then watch her closely. Observe her behaviour, pay close attention to all she says, and note down anything that strikes you as significant or unusual. When you return, report to me."

"Holmes," I said, "I can't. I don't know how."

"For heaven's sake!" barked Holmes, rounding on me. "How do you think you're going to become a barrister? Learn, Trevor! Your sister's welfare is at stake!"

"That's why I can't do it!" I shouted back. "I look at Vita, and I see pain. I see fear. I can't back up and view her from a distance, as though she were a painting, or a machine -- she's my sister! I swear to you, Holmes, I have tried. I tried last night, and I tried this morning when I saw her to the train. It's no use. She's hurting, and she's alone, and she needs my help. But that's all I can see, and until she is safe and happy again, that's all I'll ever see."

The corners of Holmes's mouth turned down in displeasure, but he did not speak. We passed the college gates, the air around us vibrating with the din of the chapel bells. Our fellow students flapped past us like a flock of crows, and one or two hailed Holmes by name, but he ignored them. Against the grey morning light the tip of his cigarette glowed fiercely.

"Well," he said at last, "perhaps your sister's plight is not so serious as we think. Perhaps it will resolve itself in time. Perhaps she is merely timid or ashamed, after all, and will soon confide in you."

"I think not." I stopped and laid a hand on his arm, a sudden hope rising in my breast. "Holmes, I cannot see Vita clearly, but you can. I know this is asking much of you, I know you had plans of your own, but--"

"Trevor."

It was a warning, but I chose not to heed it. "--please, come back with me to Norfolk for Christmas."

"Your sister will not wish to see me."

"My sister is very forgiving. Besides, she is not angry with you." I paused. "Though I can't think why not."

"Your father can hardly be pleased at the prospect of taking in a stranger at such a time, and on such short notice."

"My father leaves in two days for the south of France. The governor has a poor heart, you see, and my mother's relatives have been pleading with him to come and visit. So," I said triumphantly, "you've no excuse."

"My monograph--"

"--can wait until another time. Holmes, do you want to help me, or do you not? Or perhaps more to the point, do you want to help Vita? You did say you had behaved abominably to her: now you have a chance to make amends."

"I doubt," said Holmes dryly, "that she will thank either one of us for meddling in her affairs."

"So you will come!"

He sighed, threw his cigarette to the ground, and stepped upon it. "Yes, Trevor, I will come."

"Splendid!"

Holmes gave a brief, disparaging snort. "I only hope you can still say that when this is over."

"Of course I will," I said blithely. "How could I not?"