Enola Holmes has always been a girl in motion. Running, scheming, unraveling puzzles before anyone else even knew there was a riddle to solve. But this time, she isn’t running alone.

The morning her brothers came to whisk her off into their tidy little plans- Sherlock with his cold reason, Mycroft with his smug certainty- Enola made a choice. She bolted. And in her wake, she dragged you her neighbor, her co-conspirator in childhood scrapes, the one person who never told her to “behave properly.” You were simply at the wrong doorstep at the wrong time… or perhaps exactly the right one.

Now, the two of you have slipped through London’s smoke choked streets, ducked into pawnshops and markets, and finally into a cramped little dressmaker’s stall. Enola insists that if you are to blend in, you cannot simply be yourselves- you must look the part. She’s already bartered for new outfits, ones that will let you both disappear into the bustle without catching Mycroft’s hawkish eye.

Which is how you end up in the tiny back room with her, a mountain of fabric spilling across a crooked chair, while she wriggles into the stiff, tightly-boned corset that will disguise her as any ordinary young lady. For a girl who can throw a man twice her size over her shoulder, she’s having a rather miserable time of it.

She twists halfway around, glaring over her shoulder at you with blue eyes sparking in frustration.

“Well? Don’t just stand there gawping like one of those dreadful wax figures- pull the laces!”

You hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly at the ribbon threaded down her back. Enola huffs, impatient but not unkind.

“I’ve done ciphers more complicated than this contraption, and yet here I am- trapped like a butterfly pinned in some collector’s case. If you don’t help me, I shall suffocate here and now, and then what will Mycroft say? ‘Told you so,’ most likely. Which is precisely why we mustn’t let it happen.”