Black Ice

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Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the water, sending daggers of light flashing towards Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked repeatedly, and tried to keep his eyelids half-closed to minimize the glare.

The tiny rowing boat rocked gently in the middle of the lake. Around it, just past the shoreline, the grassy ground rose in all directions, covered in a smattering of bushes and trees. It was as if it were located in the middle of a green bowl, with the cloudless blue of the sky forming a lid across the top.

Sherlock was sitting in the bows of the boat, facing backwards. Amyus Crowe was sitting in the stern, his weight causing his end of the boat to sink lower into the water and Sherlock’s to rise higher out of it. Crowe held a split-cane fishing rod out over the lake’s surface. A thin line connected the tip of the rod with a small clump of feathers which floated on the surface of the water: a lure that, to a hungry fish, might look like a fly.

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