"I'd noticed as much." Russell nodded along agreeably, calmly slipping the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.
"So what do you intend to do, then? Report Mycroft — your own brother?"
"Why would I?" Charlotte shot back.
"Just because he teamed up with Moriarty to drag everyone else's dirty laundry into the daylight?
I'm merely curious as to what Mycroft hoped to achieve by doing it. From a purely consequentialist standpoint, what Moriarty has done doesn't seem to have harmed Britain's interests in any way.
On the contrary — he's been rather helpful."
"Fair enough." Russell continued to nod along, then, remembering something, asked offhandedly:
"So — are you still investigating him?"
"Who, Moriarty?"
"Mm."
"Why wouldn't I? The Professor's case is stalled for the moment, and I always need something fresh to keep my mind ticking over."
Charlotte said.
"For example, dragging this thief's real identity out into the open... or something along those lines?"
"If Lestrade could hear you say that with his own ears, I can only imagine how delighted he'd be."
"Don't flatter him. I'm only interested in tearing off his mask. Who he actually is doesn't interest me in the slightest. Even if I did find out, and Lestrade came knocking, I wouldn't tell him."
Charlotte picked up her coffee cup again and took a sip.
Hearing that, Russell let out a small, quiet breath of relief, his gaze drifting down to the newspaper.
"Still — he really did put on quite a show, didn't he."
"He did. And all to steal a snuffbox." Charlotte's gaze followed his. "Honestly, how dull."
"Indeed." Russell nodded, like an unfeeling machine programmed solely for agreement.
"Speaking of which — where did you go yesterday?" Charlotte asked, in an almost careless tone.
"Mrs. Hudson mentioned you'd been out of the house from the afternoon onwards."
"I went to Phedon Tea Room."
"By yourself?" Charlotte shot him a sidelong glance.
"With Mary." Russell answered at his own leisurely pace.
"To revise for next week's quiz."
At that, Charlotte arched an eyebrow. "You — revising?"
"What about it?" Russell nodded as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Don't you sleep through every single lecture?" she asked.
"Which is precisely why I need to revise — or, more accurately, catch up. And I'll say it plainly: Mary is an excellent tutor."
Charlotte didn't answer at once. She seemed to be turning something over in her head, and only after a long pause did she set her coffee cup down.
Her body tilted forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, fingers laced together, fixing Russell with a coolly appraising stare.
"You. And her. An entire afternoon. At Phedon Tea Room. Revising."
"What else?" Russell nodded.
"Just the two of you?"
"Well — I didn't notice a third party. Though for all I know, Moriarty and The Professor were there too, just very well hidden."
Charlotte rolled her eyes and withdrew her gaze. Something appeared to be turning in her mind, but in the end she chose not to voice it.
After draining the last mouthful of her coffee, she set the cup down, stood up, and went upstairs, retreating into her own room.
Not long after, a long, lilting strain of violin music began drifting down from above.
Today, Buckingham Palace was steeped in a silence as still as death.
Every attendant, every guard wore the same gravely tense expression — the look of men bracing themselves against an enemy at the gates.
Their footsteps fell lighter than usual; their voices, when they spoke at all, were deliberately hushed — as though afraid of disturbing something.
Inside Louise's bedchamber.
The young girl was slowly stirring back to wakefulness, now seated before her dressing table while the Chief Lady-in-Waiting combed out that head of soft golden hair.
For some reason, she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Today's morning paper had not been sent up with her breakfast.
Not only that, but the entirety of Buckingham Palace seemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere far heavier and more oppressive than usual.
Just then, there came a knock at the bedroom door.
"Your Highness." The voice of a servant rose from beyond the door.
"Her Majesty the Queen requests your presence."
"I understand." Louise rose from her chair and gave herself one last appraising glance in the mirror.
Makeup immaculate, hair elegantly coiffed, smile appropriately demure.
Perfect.
Lifting her skirt with one hand, she stepped out of the bedchamber.
On her way to her mother's chambers, Louise crossed paths with Mycroft.
He inclined his head toward Louise in a small, courteous bow, the impeccable smile still on his face.
But hidden deep in his eyes was a thin, suppressed seam of weariness and irritation.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."
"Good morning, Your Highness." Mycroft straightened up and fell into step beside her.
"It seems Your Highness rested well last night."
"Tolerably." Louise gave a soft smile. "And you? You look rather tired."
"There have been a few... unexpected complications to attend to." Mycroft's voice came out somewhat through clenched teeth.
"Would these complications be about Moriarty?" Louise asked, putting on an air of innocent curiosity.
Mycroft's stride faltered for the briefest of moments. He turned his head, looked into the princess's clear amber eyes, and in the end could only let out a quietly helpless sigh.
"They are, Your Highness."
The two of them walked the rest of the way in silence, and soon arrived at the Queen's study.
Queen Alexandra was seated behind that broad, imposing desk, her face dark enough that one might almost have expected water to drip from it.
"Mother." Louise lifted her skirt and dipped into a perfectly regulation curtsy.
"Sit down, my child." The Queen's voice was tight with suppressed fury.
Louise obediently took a seat on the sofa to one side, folded both hands neatly in her lap, and arranged herself into the picture of a well-behaved daughter.
"Mycroft." The Queen turned her gaze to the man standing at her side.
"Tell us everything you know — from the beginning."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Mycroft inclined his head in a small bow, then launched into his official and meticulously rigorous account.
From last night's near-farcical proclamation on Fleet Street, to the storm of public opinion whipped up by every major newspaper this morning, and finally to the theft inside Buckingham Palace itself.
"According to our preliminary sweep, every door and window of the palace remains intact. We have found no marks of forced entry or tampering whatsoever.
Neither the patrolling guards nor the household staff observed anything out of the ordinary."
"So what you're saying," the Queen's voice turned cold, "is that this thief — like some kind of ghost — slipped right under all of our noses, into my daughter's bedchamber, and then simply slipped away again without a sound?"
"Based on the evidence we currently have in hand — yes, Your Majesty." Mycroft gave a difficult nod.
At those words, the Queen's expression grew even darker.
She turned her head toward Louise and made a deliberate effort to soften her voice.
"Louise — tell me. What exactly happened last night?"
"I don't know... Mother." Louise shook her head with a small, guilty motion. "I was already asleep by then."
"Then — I take it you haven't seen this either?"
As she spoke, the Queen produced a small card and held it out for Louise to see.
It was precisely the card Russell had left behind before leaving.
"No... no." Louise shook her head again. "May I take a closer look at the card?"
Without a moment's suspicion, the Queen handed it across to her.
Louise reached out and took it, made a show of examining it carefully for a moment, then shook her head once more.
"I... I haven't seen it before, Mother."
She let a flicker of fear pass over her face at exactly the right instant — even as her hand quietly tightened around the card.
"Don't be afraid, child. It's all over now."
The Queen drew her into a tender embrace, gently patting her on the back.
Only after she had spent a long while comforting her did the Queen finally raise her head once more, turning back to Mycroft.
"And the snuffbox?" the Queen asked.
"It has already been recovered from the editor-in-chief of The Times." Mycroft answered.
"But... if I may speak frankly, Your Majesty — I suspect the snuffbox was simply something he picked up on a whim, on his way out."
"You're suggesting that he went to all the trouble of infiltrating Buckingham Palace itself — purely to steal a broken music box?" The Queen narrowed her eyes.
"Is he really that bored?"
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