Maybe now that I'm sixteen she thinks I'm old enough to handle myself...
I sigh and shake my head. No. I didn't care how odd my mother could be at times... she would never deliberately do anything to cause me distress. She would have known I would worry, that I wouldn't know what to do.
Swallowing back my worries, I went downstairs and found Lane and his wife in the kitchens. Ordinarily I would eat with Mother in the dining hall, but tonight I sat in the kitchens with them. I just couldn't bear to be alone again.
Alone. Enola. My name spelled backwards. I don't know what possessed my mother to give me that name. Perhaps it was because I was born so many years after my two elder brothers. I came as a surprise, and as such I was raised alone. My father, who passed away so long ago I can hardly remember him, was always distant, so perhaps my mother felt alone. Whatever the case, my strange name has always unsettled me deep within.
When I asked my mother why she named me so, she only laughed and shook her head. "Because you shall do very well on your own, Enola," she said elusively.
I didn't know what she meant by that then, and I certainly do not know now. But I know that now, when she is gone, I must somehow do well anyway.
After eating enough to satisfy Mr. and Mrs. Lane, I excused myself back up to my room. They gave me sympathetic smiles and said goodnight, and then retired to their own quarters. I could see the worry in their eyes, but it was less now that I had shown them I was still afloat, emotionally.
I knew why they worried. They had been with our family for years, and were well aware that we had a hereditary predisposition for... how shall I say it, melancholic disorders. I shudder to say insanity, for that is a word we never dared speak in this house.
Many years ago, when he was in his late teens, my brother Sherlock was institutionalized for a brief time. Mother never spoke of Sherlock or Mycroft much, I think because they gave her much grief. As a child I was always very curious about them, for as long as I could remember, they had been out of the house. Since Mother wouldn't speak of them and Lane was not forthcoming either, I resorted to snooping around for information myself. I found their medical records- which is how I knew about Sherlock's brief confinement. Apparently he exhibits sociopathic tendancies, which is possibly why he never came to visit during my childhood.
But since that dark time, I understood that he had become a private consulting detective, and was doing very well for himself. He had a friend, John Watson, who had been running a blog detailing their adventures for quite some time. I was a faithful follower- in truth, I found myself admiring my brother more every time I read about him.
As for Mycroft, the oldest of the Holmes children, I knew that he worked somewhere in the government. He must have been doing well too, for he paid for the upkeep of our estate.
My eyes widened suddenly. I had been lying on my bed, wallowing in my misery, when a thought came to me.
Both of my brothers were rumored to be the smartest, most brilliant men in England.... perhaps, since mother was missing, they would know what to do. My poor brain was not sufficient to the task, but they could surely keep their wits about them.
I hesitated for a moment, considering. But really, what was I to do? I didn't know where else to turn, and family seemed as good an option as any.
Reaching for my mobile, I typed out my message:
Mum's gone missing. She's been gone since yesterday morning. I'm not sure what to do... please help. Please come.
My heart tightening with anticipation, I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. I tried to calm myself and still my thoughts. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out.
It must have worked. for it was an hour before two text messages arrived and woke me from my slumber.
Notify the police: that is proper procedure. I shall arrive promptly.