The night deepened.
Buckingham Palace blazed with light as ever, the brightest star in a black sky.
For Louise Edwards, sleep was not coming tonight — not even now, when her usual hour of rest had long since arrived.
The girl moved through the darkened room in a silk nightgown, her bare feet silent on the soft Persian carpet.
The fire in the grate had burned out. Only the crimson embers remained, stubbornly flickering in the dark.
No lamp had been lit. The sole source of light was the moonlight spilling in through the window.
Louise crossed to the great floor-length window and pressed her forehead gently against the cold glass.
Outside, the world was a sea of flowing light — every lamp a fallen star, distant and earthbound.
And she could only watch from the highest point of this palace, far away, in silence.
"The last day…"
She breathed the words so softly they might have been swallowed at once by the rustle of wind through the leaves outside.
Her fingertip drifted across the cold glass without thinking, tracing a lopsided, smiling doodle in the thin mist her breath had left there.
It was the symbol she had seen in the corner of a newspaper — the mark of that Phantom Thief.
One week.
For a whole week she had been like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, counting the hours as they slipped away, day after day.
Each morning, when the ladies' maid carried The Times into her room alongside breakfast — still warm with the smell of fresh ink — her first instinct was always to flip straight to the enormous countdown printed in the most prominent spot on the front page.
[Countdown: 6]
The maids had noticed that Her Royal Highness had eaten her breakfast rather more quickly than usual that morning — she had not even touched her favourite strawberry jam.
[Countdown: 5]
Her tutor observed that Her Royal Highness had been quite badly distracted during her French lesson today.
She kept glancing toward the window without meaning to, and in those lovely amber eyes lay a girl's private thoughts — thoughts her teacher could not begin to read.
[Countdown: 4]
When Mr. Mycroft came to report, he was surprised to find that Her Royal Highness had, of her own accord, begun asking him about the defensive arrangements of the city and the deployment of Scotland Yard's forces.
He had fielded the questions with his most official and diplomatic manner, yet the sharp instinct of a seasoned statesman told him something unusual was in the air.
[Countdown: 3]
She grew restless. She spent long stretches of time drifting through her dressing room, lingering undecided before rows of magnificent gowns.
She took out her precious jewels one by one, and put them back one by one, as though carefully selecting a suitable gift for a guest no one else could see.
[Countdown: 2]
Her pen pal — Miss Morstan, who lived in Kensington District — had mentioned the name 'Phantom Thief Moriarty' in her most recent letter.
She wrote that she had once encountered Moriarty in person, and that he was rather different from how the papers described him.
This only made the girl's imagination run wilder still.
[Countdown: 1]
Her Majesty the Queen had noticed her daughter's unusual behaviour these past few days.
She asked with concern whether Louise was unwell, or whether something was troubling her.
Louise had simply smiled and shaken her head, deploying the most perfect of courtly manners to conceal the storm surging inside her.
She told her mother she was simply looking forward to next month's Royal Equestrian Competition.
And today —
[Countdown: 0]
When Louise saw that enormous, glaring [0] on the newspaper, her heart very nearly missed a beat.
He was coming.
At last, he was coming.
All day long she had existed in a state of heightened sensation, nerves and excitement tangled together inextricably.
She had even done the unprecedented: refused her afternoon harp lesson. She had shut herself alone in her room and read that letter — its edges already soft and frayed from her constant handling — over and over again.
[Seven days hence, at the stroke of midnight, I shall come to relieve you of your most precious treasure.]
Louise raised her wrist and glanced at the small, diamond-studded watch there.
The hour hand had already slipped quietly past eleven.
Less than an hour remained until midnight.
Would he come?
Did he truly dare?
Louise's heart was full of uncertainty.
She had hidden the advance notice letter well — no one had found it, even now. Because of that, Buckingham Palace's security had remained at its usual level.
It was the only thing she could do.
She simply had no way of knowing from which direction the Phantom Thief would enter.
Through the main gate? Over those towering walls that no ordinary person could ever hope to scale?
Or was he truly as the papers said — a midnight phantom who wielded something like magic?
Countless questions swirled and drifted through her mind like a flurry of snow, and not one of them found an answer.
"Your Highness?"
From beyond the door came the head lady's maid's voice, tinged with quiet concern.
"It is very late. You ought to rest."
"I know, Anna." Louise came back to herself and walked to the door, answering softly.
"I'll be asleep shortly."
"Shall I prepare a warm glass of milk for you?"
"No — no, thank you."
The footsteps beyond the door receded gradually, and the room returned to its suffocating stillness.
Louise moved to the edge of the great bed with its soft velvet coverlets, but she did not lie down.
She simply sat at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together in her lap, like a girl at her very first ball — waiting for a partner to ask her to dance.
Time passed, second by second.
The clock on the wall kept its unhurried rhythm: tick, tick, tick.
Each swing of the pendulum felt like a knock against her heart.
Half past eleven.
A quarter to midnight.
Ten minutes to midnight…
What would he steal?
The crown on the dressing table, encrusted with diamonds and pearls?
Or the sapphire necklace locked in the safe — the one said to have once been worn by Cleopatra herself?
Louise's gaze drifted slowly around the room and came to rest, at last, on the bedside table.
There sat a somewhat worn music box, its little lock firmly fastened.
It had been a birthday gift from her father, the King, when she was small.
The mechanism inside had long since aged; the tune it produced was no longer bright or sweet. But it was the thing Louise treasured most in the world.
Could it be that one?
Just then —
"Dong —"
Big Ben's deep, resonant toll cut through the night and the heavy fog, ringing out precisely on time.
One.
Two.
Three.
The twelve strokes of midnight rang out.
The witching hour had arrived.
Russell's figure materialised on the lawn outside Buckingham Palace.
This was the exact spot where he had placed his Teleport Anchor last time.
The sensation of teleporting — how to describe it. A slight weightlessness. As though the whole body had briefly taken flight.
He steadied himself, then looked left and right. Drawing on the formidable effect of [Stealth B+], he melted his silhouette and his presence seamlessly into the surrounding environment.
He was like a fallen leaf, a passing breeze — entirely natural on this lawn, yet utterly invisible to any eye that might look his way.
Not far off, patrol guards carrying lanterns walked their rounds with leashed hounds, executing their duties with meticulous precision.
Their footsteps, their murmured exchanges, even the muffled panting of the dogs — all of it reached Russell's ears with perfect clarity, enhanced by his upgraded [Listening C++].
Buckingham Palace's security was considerably stronger than he had imagined; the patrol routes between guards formed an almost seamless overlapping net with no blind spots.
But if he were being honest, it wasn't quite as formidable as he had expected.
Evidently, Mycroft had done his part.
He had not told Buckingham Palace that Russell was coming.
That saved quite a bit of trouble.
Russell continued his observation, and then, in the brief moment when two guard patrols crossed and their lines of sight produced a temporary blind spot, he moved without a sound — slipping through the shadows cast by the hedgerows.
A few quick, fluid movements later, he had reached the outer wall of the main building.
He looked up, his gaze locking precisely onto a window on the third floor — unlit, and cracked open just a sliver.
"Fshk —"
The steel cable hissed softly through the air and shot cleanly through the gap, anchoring itself firmly to the inner window frame.
Russell sprang lightly upward. His body seemed to shed its weight entirely as the cable drew taut, and he ascended without a whisper of sound to the third-floor windowsill.
He swung himself inside and landed without a sound.
It was an unoccupied guest room. A faint smell of dust hung in the still air.
Russell did not linger. He went to the door, pressed his ear against the heavy oak, and listened carefully for any movement outside.
Footsteps — more than one set. Guards patrolling the corridor.
He did not choose to open the door. Instead, he activated his newly acquired toy.
[Phantom Hand]
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