Dreaming Spies by Laurie R. King

Darley was representing.
    “Porcelain china.” The lady gave a small laugh. “I know—coals to Newcastle. But I believe the thought was that, considering how much destruction the earthquake caused, this could be a good time to move into the Asian marketplace. Our friend plans a trip out himself later in the year, but since we were coming through Japan on our world tour, my husband offered to, as it were, pave the way. Now, this one is made of silk, is it not? And that one of cotton?”
    Talk turned to details, and thence to the undergarments. The men made haste to move away, although we did not get so far as to begin unwrapping the two kimono-clad ladies. Miss Sato kept up a stream of two-way translation, and after a few minutes, one of the older ladies had a question of her own. Miss Sato answered, and the three ladies erupted into a stream of Japanese and polite giggles, until Lady Darley broke in.
    “May one ask, what so amuses the ladies?”
    Miss Sato immediately turned and gave her an apologetic bow. “So sorry, the question was what Western women wear, and I was telling Onoko-san that I would be happy to demonstrate later.”
    “A ladies’ salon!”
    “Japanese people have as many questions about Western customs as you have about ours.”
    The Kentish woman spoke up. “Maybe we could make the afternoon lectures work in both directions? There aren’t very many Japanese passengers, but it only seems fair.”
    Miss Sato’s eyebrows came up. “There are more, but mostly in Second Class.”
    “You think anyone would mind if they were invited up? I for one would enjoy meeting a few more of your people.”
    “The purser …” Miss Sato said.
    “I shall speak with the purser,” Lady Darley told her, leaving no doubt as to the result of that conversation.
    Miss Sato turned to the other two for a brief explanation. One of them nodded in approval, but the other made a face and said something that caused the others to raise their hands and laugh.
    Miss Sato turned back to us, eyes twinkling. “It is proposed that the first topic of mutual explanation needs to be this substance you English call ‘tea.’ ”
    A storm of other possibilities flew, but since the stewards were moving into the edges of the room to prepare it for precisely that, the gathering broke up with a flurry of bows.
    I found myself moving towards the door beside Lady Darley. She noticed me, and stopped, holding out her hand. “Good afternoon,” she said, with that slight lilt of enquiry that I replied to with my name.
    “That was very interesting, wasn’t it?” I asked.
    “Quite. I think I shall need to explore the possibilities of the kimono,” she said with an almost girlish gleam in her eye.
    “They are lovely. Although I don’t know that I’d be able to stand up that smoothly—certainly not after I’d been on my knees for an hour.”
    As I spoke, I watched Lady Darley perform that automatic mentalsorting that was ingrained in any member of English society: accent; attitude; expensive shirt slightly out of date; careless haircut; cropped nails; and no makeup. Conclusion: wealthy bohemian. Which in fact was a fair category for me.
    “You’re married to that older man, aren’t you?” she asked.
    Holmes was not an “older man”; he was … well, Holmes. However, I admitted to the relationship. “And you’re travelling with your husband’s son as well, aren’t you?” I asked.
    A tiny reaction, instantly brought under control. The countess gave me a cool smile. “Yes, Thomas. Some people found it odd that we should take him on what is, after all, a honeymoon, but this is also by way of a business trip, seeing friends. My husband is very fond of Tommy. And perhaps he wished to keep an eye on him, just a little.”
    “Indeed,” I said, and was rewarded by a slightly warmer version of the smile.
    I found my “older man” standing at the rail with a cigarette, scowling at the waves. I planted my backside against the