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Chapter ThreeA Little Thing Called Life
September 17, 2104
Beth Lestrade stormed up the seventeen steps to the sitting room of 221b Baker Street fuming, her lips pressed into a thin line. Sherlock Holmes followed close behind talking at her in a manner that was more curt than tactful. She narrowed her eyes malevolently, silently wishing he would stumble down the stairs instead of treading on her back like he was. Lestrade allowed herself a small, sadistic grin at the idea of the World's Greatest Detective losing his balance on his own step.
He really would get his way if that happened, venom filling her mind, I'd pay attention to him long enough to laugh at him.
Her smile arched into a cold curl as Holmes invaded her line of sight by blocking the door with his lean frame. His eyes glowed, genial sarcasm barely masking the unmistakable look of worn patience. Lestrade folded her arms and looked past him, her desire to hit him fuelled by the arrogance in his stance.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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