Enola Holmes and the Talking Sentence: A New Adventure

The last rays of autumn sunlight brushed across the rolling English countryside as I balanced along the narrow parapet of our farmhouse garret. Below, mist clung to the green valleys like breath on glass, breaking apart as the breeze shifted. I should have been inside, wrapped in a quilt, safe. But safety was a luxury I could not afford, not anymore.

My name is Enola Holmes. I lived on this quiet farm with my elder brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock. Our father died thirteen years ago, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps in the halls. Two days ago, my mother disappeared, leaving behind something far worse—silence.

I refused to leave my room that day, staring at the empty chair where she once sat, at the books she left half-open on the table, at the sewing needle still threaded with dark blue silk. It felt as though my world had tilted, like I had been waiting for this moment without realizing it, yet when it came, it knocked the air from my lungs.

Throughout my childhood, she always told me, “You will do very well on your own.” I never understood why she insisted on those words, repeating them with the same soft firmness she used when teaching me to read ciphers or to fight with a wooden staff. Now, staring at the cold, empty hearth, I realized she had been preparing me for this disappearance, preparing me for the truth that Enola spelled backwards was “alone.”

That night, I lay in bed, clutching the pillow so tightly that the feathers felt like pebbles against my skin. My mother’s laughter echoed in the corners of my mind, and I could almost smell her lavender soap. I could not let her disappear without a trace, without me trying to bring her home. She had given me every skill I needed for this moment, and I would not waste them.

The moon was sharp and clear when I slipped from my bed, replacing my nightgown with warm joggings and a thick jumper. I packed my small compass, magnifying glass, coded notebooks, and a leather pouch filled with coins she had hidden in the false bottom of a drawer. I filled a canvas satchel with dry bread and apples and slipped out the farmhouse door, breathing in the cold night air as the latch clicked shut behind me. There was no turning back.

I did not stop until I reached London, walking through dawns and dusks, resting in haystacks or beneath hedges when exhaustion overtook me. When I reached the city, the air was thick with soot and voices, clanging carts and rolling wheels on cobblestones. I found a hidden den beneath the thick bushes of a small park, near a waterfall that splashed like laughter against stone.

I washed my face in the stream each morning, the cold water clearing the exhaustion from my eyes. I had no clear clues about Mother’s whereabouts, but she had always spoken of the city as a place where change could be sparked and revolution born. She had dreamed of starting her own women’s spy network, and if she was anywhere, it would be here, in the heart of London.

I spent days weaving through markets, observing carriages, eavesdropping near Parliament gates, and watching shadowy figures slip into back alleys. My food dwindled, and my coins grew light, but I pressed on.

One cold evening, as the streetlamps flickered to life, I saw a white envelope fluttering like a moth in the branches of an oak tree. My breath caught. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable—hers.

With trembling fingers, I climbed the tree, snapping twigs under my boots, and carefully freed the envelope. My mind screamed with hope and fear, each heartbeat loud in my ears as I carefully broke the wax seal. Inside was a single slip of paper, blank. Confused and afraid it was a cruel trick, I held it to the lamp’s glow.

Suddenly, a small, exasperated voice snapped, “Oh, it’s about time! Do you have any idea how stuffy it is in an envelope?”

I nearly dropped it, my mouth falling open in shock.

The voice came from the paper.

“What are you staring at?” it huffed.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, glancing around as passersby began to stare at me like I was a mad girl talking to the air.

“Shh!” I hissed. “Who are you?”

The paper puffed up in my palm, the letters swirling across its blankness until they formed two words: Patty Poon.

“Well, Enola,” Patty sniffed, “you’re lucky I’m clever. I have all the information you need to find your mother.”

I could hardly believe it, but deep inside, I knew my mother’s hand was behind this enchanted message. I pressed the paper close to my chest, hope rising like a flame.

Just as I turned toward the park’s exit, a shadow fell across mine. I spun around to see a tall man in a green coat, a sour face under a lime-green bowler hat, his eyes fixed on me like a hawk’s. My instincts screamed.

Without a second thought, I bolted.

He gave chase, boots pounding the cobblestones behind me. I wove through crowded streets, slipping between carriages and leaping over puddles. I ducked into an alley, lungs burning, and found myself among stacks of black rubbish bags.

Strangely, there was no stench, no flies. Driven by curiosity and desperation, I opened the nearest bag and found it filled with fine dresses and polished shoes, all brand new. An idea sparked.

I ducked behind a bin, shedding my tattered jumper and slipping on a midnight-blue dress with a high collar, pulling a large hat low over my face. I stepped back onto the street, praying my disguise would work.

The man paused as his eyes swept over me, but he turned away, fooled by the dress.

Relief washed over me, but it didn’t last. Patty Poon suddenly shouted from my pocket, “Run! Run to the right! Now!”

Panic clamped down on me as I obeyed, sprinting down the alley. The ground vanished beneath my feet, and I was falling—sliding down a steep, dark tunnel.

The world blurred past in a rush of damp air and the scent of earth. Just as my lungs began to ache, I hit a wooden door with a thud. I gasped, reaching for my penknife, and unlatched the wedge holding it shut.

Light spilled over me as I crawled through the doorway.

I stepped into a hidden chamber, a glass-roofed hall lined with marble floors and banners bearing a phoenix sigil. A circle of women in dark, elegant coats surrounded a table scattered with maps and coded notes, their voices steady with quiet authority.

At the center stood my mother.

Her eyes met mine, widening with shock and then softening into a warm, brilliant smile. She opened her arms, and I ran into them, tears streaming down my face.

“You found me,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“You left me alone,” I choked out.

She pulled back, her eyes shining with tears. “I knew you would find your way, Enola. I was never truly gone.”

We stayed that way until the other women cleared their throats, smiling kindly at me, and my mother squeezed my hand. Together, we boarded a train back to Chilham, the countryside unfurling like a green promise outside the window as I leaned against her shoulder, my eyes closing at last in safety.

I was Enola Holmes, and I was never alone.