The interview room slipped into another brief silence.
Miles's pen-holding hand paused in midair, his eager gaze settling on Charlotte.
Beside him, Henry Scott leaned forward without making it obvious, a seasoned curiosity glinting in those eyes that had read countless people.
—A fine question, that.
"Strange?"
Miles raised an eyebrow, shot Russell a quick glance, then turned back to Charlotte and pressed, testing the waters:
"Strange how, exactly?"
Charlotte didn't answer right away.
Her gaze fell on Russell beside her, as if sizing him up anew, or double-checking some conclusion even she wasn't quite willing to be sure of.
Russell met her eyes, his jet-black gaze full of curiosity.
"I don't know exactly how to describe it."
Charlotte withdrew her gaze, leaned back in her chair, brow faintly furrowed, as though the question genuinely troubled her.
"Most of the time, this guy is lazy. If he can sit, he won't stand; if he can lie down, he won't sit. He loves to sleep, especially during class.
If it weren't for those pitiful few credits, he could fall asleep in any lecture at Imperial College.
And even when he isn't asleep, he isn't listening—he's staring off into space.
On top of that, he loves to lock horns with me over the most meaningless things—"
As she spoke, she cut a glance at Russell.
Russell: "…"
Miles and Henry exchanged a look, the fire of gossip in their eyes burning brighter by the second.
"But sometimes, he becomes… very different."
"For instance?" Miles's voice was soft, afraid of disturbing her train of thought.
"For instance…" Charlotte's gaze drifted for a moment, as if reaching for a memory, then settled once more on Russell.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Those gray-blue eyes looked especially clear in the afternoon light, like a winter lake—calm and unruffled on the surface, yet hiding something indistinct in the depths.
She simply looked at him like that.
Under her stare Russell grew a little unnerved, his teasing smile fading by degrees, replaced by a distinctly uneasy feeling.
Charlotte watched him for three seconds, perhaps longer, or perhaps only an instant.
The perceived flow of time turned somewhat unreliable in that moment.
In any case, she pulled her gaze back just before Russell could no longer hold it together, and looked again at Miles.
"He's a nuisance," she said.
Miles blinked, his pen tip leaving an ink dot on the notebook.
"A—a nuisance?"
"Mm," Charlotte said, her voice flat and certain.
"Talks too much, causes too much trouble, likes to act on his own, always interrupts me when I'm thinking, and is forever pouring milk into my coffee."
She said it in earnest, counting them off one by one, as if laying out a list of crimes.
"Hey—" Russell broke in.
"And another thing," Charlotte interrupted, not even sparing him a glance.
"Every now and then he'll come knock on my door around seven in the morning, or in the dead of night he'll hide my coffee beans and set the milk somewhere obvious.
Because he knows I won't waste time hunting for the beans, so I'll just make do and drink it."
She paused, as if checking whether any evidence had been left out:
"On top of that, he loves to over-explain when I need no explanation, and then deliberately says nothing when I do…"
Miles's eyes grew brighter and brighter.
Henry coughed beside him, signaling Miles with a look—ease up, don't be so obvious.
Miles drew a deep breath and worked to make his expression look more professional, though his pen didn't miss a single word.
"So… Miss Holmes, everything you've said… it all sounds like complaining?"
"It is complaining." Charlotte nodded as though it were the most natural thing in the world, offering no denial.
"Then you…" Miles weighed his words with great care, "what exactly is your view of Mr. Watson?"
Charlotte fell silent once more, the girl lowering her eyelids, lips pressed lightly together.
She picked up her teacup, meaning out of habit to take a sip, only to find it empty.
Seeing this, Russell picked up the teapot with an easy motion and refilled her cup with warm black tea.
Charlotte watched the clear, amber stream pour into the cup, the curling steam blurring her vision.
"He's…" Charlotte set down the cup, her voice soft.
She was thinking.
Or rather, she was calculating.
In Charlotte's mind, the person known as [Russell Watson] had, in this moment, been broken apart and decompressed into countless keywords and data points.
"Miss Holmes?" Miles called cautiously.
Charlotte didn't respond.
Her eyelashes trembled faintly, like a butterfly perched on a petal quivering at a breath of wind—so light as to be imperceptible.
Why think about any of this?
She asked herself the question inwardly. This was not solving a case; there was no need to gather so much irrelevant data.
These questions had nothing to do with any case, nothing to do with Moriarty, nothing to do with Hannigan, nothing to do with those damned three hundred thousand possible cipher combinations.
So why think about it?
Why, on hearing this question, did her mind automatically retrieve this meaningless, worthless information?
Because the question needed an answer.
That was what she told herself.
Like a puzzle—input a question, and a conclusion must be output.
But…
But why was the output conclusion [nuisance]?
She'd just called him a nuisance because he talked too much, caused too much trouble, liked to act on his own, poured milk into her coffee, hid her coffee beans…
These were all facts—objectively real, beyond dispute.
But what came after nuisance?
What was there beyond nuisance?
Charlotte's brow knit slightly, a very subtle shift of expression—so subtle that Miles, seated across from her, didn't notice at all.
But Russell, seated at her side, saw it.
Her fingers curled unconsciously, as if gripping something invisible with force.
Her lips pressed tighter too, until almost nothing was left but a pale pink line.
What was she thinking?
Russell wanted to know as well.
At that moment Charlotte was building a vast logical framework in her mind.
Just as she used to do when facing the thornier or more complicated cases.
First step: list every observable fact.
He would knock on her door after she'd stayed up all night, reminding her to eat breakfast.
He would catch her head in the carriage when it tipped sideways after she fell asleep.
He would take note of her tangled, messy hair and then laugh out loud.
He would answer, on her behalf, the interview questions she couldn't be bothered to answer.
Then the second step: eliminate all variables irrelevant to the question.
Things like height, weight, academic background, case-solving ability, and so on.
This one might relate to his personality traits, so it would be kept for now.
After that: analyze the relationships between these variables.
He did these things because he was her assistant; it fell within his duties.
But his duties didn't include catching her head—he could simply have woken her.
His duties didn't include remembering exactly what strength of coffee she liked, or even swapping out his own coffee for milk.
If it were any other assistant, would she let them pour milk into her coffee?
Would she let them knock on her door at seven and stroll brazenly into her room?
Would her heartbeat turn abnormal when facing this very question?
Clearly not—if it were anyone else, such a situation would be utterly impossible…
Wait.
An abnormal heartbeat?
Charlotte stiffened, her head dropping without thought to look at her own chest, feeling that irregular rhythm of it.
When… had this begun?
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