The Mystery of the Scarlet Rose by Irene Adler

Author:Irene Adler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, mystery, fantasy, historical fiction, stone arch books, capstone, capstone young readers, Arsène Lupin, detective, solve, crime, 978-1-4342-6524-1, 978-1-62370-203-8, 978-1-4342-6527-2
Publisher: Capstone Young Readers
Published: 2015-01-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

A LONG, TROUBLED DREAM

Where had I wound up? What street in London was this, so long and narrow, with these two rows of short, dark little houses, without even one lit window?

The sky was an angry, shadowy gray, and the occasional streetlight gave off halos of ghostly greenish light. I quickened my steps, starting to run, but to my anguish, I found that no matter what road I took, that long, dark street continued to stretch out before me, no end in sight.

As if that discovery wasn’t disturbing enough, when my glance fell upon the large stone slabs making up the sidewalk, I distinctly saw, in one corner, a small circle drawn in yellow chalk. It was identical to the one I had glimpsed in the places the mysterious Black Friar had picked for his murders.

My throat closed, making it hard to breathe. I looked around, feeling lost. I could only hear the wind whistling in this deserted place.

“Endless streets do not exist!” I told myself, trying to feel brave. And I started walking again as quickly as I could, my head bowed.

Suddenly, I saw another of those yellow circles come into view on the sidewalk, then another and yet another. It was as if an evil, invisible hand was drawing these cursed colored marks, anticipating my path.

I looked at them more closely and realized that the small circles were actually thin strings, which some awful enchantment was animating and making slither along the stones of the sidewalk. The anxiety I felt turned into real terror.

I tried to run, but the evil yellow threads covering the sidewalk were now clinging to my ankles, making me immobile.

I felt trapped and screamed . . .

* * *

I found myself surrounded by a soft, dim light. A few moments were all it took for me to realize I was stretched out in my bed. My forehead was sweaty, and my hands clung to the hem of a linen sheet. The long, dark street; the dusky streetlights; the evil threads that had trapped my feet . . . they had all vanished in an instant.

“Irene . . . Irene! You’re awake!” said a trembling voice next to me.

I turned and saw my father, his face strained and his eyes shining. Behind him stood my mother, who sighed.

“My God, what a fright you’ve given us, my little one!” Papa said.

I wanted to get out of bed and hug Papa, but as soon as I moved, I felt a sharp pain in my neck and lay my head back on my pillow.

It was far from pleasant. But the jolt of pain at least cleared the fog that was clouding my mind, helping me wake up the rest of the way.

My father took my hand in his and kissed it. “Irene . . . my little one . . . what happened?!” he asked.

I was awake and completely alert, but I couldn’t answer that simple question. At that moment, the only thing I was certain of was that I mustn’t tell him what I’d been doing in Notting Hill the previous evening.

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