MYCROFT was not surprised to see us in the first seconds after we arrived. Then he smelled the smoke in our hair and took in the flecks of ash we brushed from our shoulders. He checked his pocket watch and realised the time. One of his monumental eyebrows twitched, and he stepped aside to allow us entry.
Given his own way, I had no doubt Mycroft would have lived in a single room, probably one without a bed. It would have held a desk, a cabinet for his papers, endless shelves for his books, and a table on which he could take his meals, the one indulgence he allowed himself.
But it wasn’t his flat, really. He had the use of it from Father, and nothing Father owned was less than respectable. In this case, respectability included spare rooms.
My brother called for hot baths to be drawn, for
