After a brief moment of stunned confusion, Charlotte's memory began to rewind.
She recalled a great many instants, yet she could not pin this particular quickening of her heartbeat on any single one of them.
When exactly had it begun?
Was it when he asked about her criteria for a partner during the mock interview?
Was it when she saw herself in the mirror, wearing his coat?
Or was it when their eyes met inside the carriage?
Or… even earlier?
Charlotte's mind was now running at a speed no ordinary person could reach.
She eliminated every distraction, deduced every possibility, and even tested every hypothesis.
In the end, she arrived at a conclusion.
A conclusion her instincts refused to accept, one she negated on reflex the moment it surfaced.
Impossible. That was a faulty deduction, a deviation produced by insufficient present conditions.
To take such a vague, unscientific notion as a conclusion was, in itself, a desecration of her own reasoning ability.
So what should it be, then?
It should be a kind of… dependence?
Yes, dependence.
Because he made breakfast, brewed coffee, and handled all those trivial matters she could not be bothered with.
It was a functional dependence, unrelated to emotion.
But functional dependence would not produce a sense of rejection at the thought of "if it were any other assistant."
The starting point of functional dependence was the function, not the person.
Then… was it possessiveness?
Because he was her assistant, she had grown used to his presence, and she was unwilling to accept change.
That was perfectly normal, an organism's instinctive preference for a stable environment, and likewise unrelated to emotion.
But an instinctive preference would not feel irritated at the sight of the doodles on Mary Morstan's notebook.
So what else could it be…
Charlotte's thoughts fell into a dead loop.
Every time she deduced a possible conclusion, her mind would automatically find the flaw in it, then overturn it.
Just as she did when working a case, sealing off every wrong path until only the single correct answer remained.
But this time was somewhat different.
This time every path had been sealed off—every one.
Only a single door remained.
And yet that door was precisely the one she absolutely would not, could not, dared not push open.
The interview room had been silent for far too long.
Miles and Henry exchanged a glance, neither knowing how to break this excruciating, drawn-out silence.
And so they could only turn toward Russell, toward the one man who might break the deadlock, and cast him pleading looks.
In answer, Russell merely gave a slight shake of his head, signaling them not to rush.
His gaze rested on Charlotte. Her lashes were still trembling faintly, once, twice.
Like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar, beating its wings again and again, unable to find the way out.
Russell did not rush, and he did not speak. He only gestured to the two of them.
Wait a little longer.
After quite some time, Miles glanced at his pocket watch.
Ten minutes had passed.
At last, Charlotte stirred.
She lifted her eyes toward Miles, her lips parting slightly, then closing again.
She lowered her gaze, picked up the cup of black tea before her that had long gone cold, and brought it to her lips.
The bitterness of the tea spread across the tip of her tongue, drawing a small crease to her brow, and she set the cup back down.
"Have it changed," Russell said. "That one's cold."
At his words, Charlotte gave him a glance.
That glance was brief, so brief it was almost negligible.
But in that instant, Russell saw something seem to flicker deep in her eyes.
Like a shaft of light skimming across the surface of a lake—gone before he could make it out.
"No need," Charlotte said, then turned her attention back to Miles.
"What was it you asked just now?"
Miles was taken aback, then hurried to speak. "I… I asked, what is your view of Mr. Watson?"
"Oh." Charlotte nodded.
Then she lapsed into silence once more.
This silence was far shorter than the last, only two or three seconds.
But in those brief two or three seconds, her gaze was very busy.
First it moved from Miles's face to Russell's, then away from Russell's, settling on the bustling stream of people on Fleet Street beyond the window.
"If this question is difficult to answer—" Miles began, meaning to change the subject.
"No, there's no need," Charlotte cut in.
This time there was no silence. The girl gave her answer cleanly and without hesitation.
"He is a nuisance."
Charlotte said it in a very soft voice.
"A necessary nuisance."
"A necessary… nuisance?" Miles wrote the phrase down in his notebook.
The phrase brought a great many things to his mind.
"Yes." Charlotte inclined her head.
"It's like preparing some complex chemical reagent—you always need a certain catalyst."
She explained.
"It may not itself take part in the final reaction, and it may even introduce a few uncontrollable variables.
But without it, the entire experiment cannot proceed."
"I see…" Miles nodded thoughtfully.
"Then… the next question."
The interview continued.
The sunlight went on drifting slowly through the room, from the sofa to the tea table, from the tea table to the wall, and at last coming to rest on the potted plant in the corner, gilding each of its leaves with a warm golden edge.
Russell went on answering the questions, his tone gentle, his wording measured.
Charlotte still spoke up now and then to add a line or two, concise and cutting straight to the point.
Everything looked just as it had a moment before.
But if someone looked closely, they would notice—there still lingered on the tips of Charlotte's ears the faintest, palest trace of pink.
That pink was very light, so light it was almost invisible, only flickering now and then in the light, like some secret carefully hidden away.
And—
After that, she never once looked at Russell again.
Not a single time.
By the time the interview ended, it was already noon.
Once the interview photographs had been taken, it marked the close of the day's proceedings.
Miles shut his notebook and let out a long breath, unable to mask the excitement on his face.
"Thank you both so very much. This interview is certain to be brilliant!"
Henry rose as well, a smooth smile hanging on his face.
"Thank you both for taking the time today to grant us this interview," he said, extending his hand of his own accord.
"If you two aren't pressed for time, there's a fine restaurant downstairs—we could talk over a meal…"
"That won't be necessary." Charlotte stood, her refusal crisp and clean.
Russell gave her a glance, then rose to his feet as well.
"Another time, Mr. Henry. We have other matters to attend to this afternoon."
"What a pity, then." The words were on Henry's lips, but his face carried little real disappointment.
He personally saw the two of them downstairs, exchanging pleasantries the whole way, until he watched them walk out through the doors of the press office.
Russell stood in the doorway, watching Charlotte.
She stood two paces ahead of him, her back to him, the hem of that black coat lifted at one corner by the wind before settling back down.
"Where to next?" Russell asked.
Charlotte did not answer.
She stood there, her back to him, without moving.
After a few seconds, she suddenly raised a hand and touched the tip of her ear.
Then she lowered her hand and turned around.
"Weren't you going to buy clothes?" she said, her voice level. "Let's go."
She passed by him, heading toward the street corner.
Russell paused a moment, then hurried after her.
"What were you thinking about just now?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Really?"
Charlotte halted, looked back at him, then turned her gaze away and kept walking.
"I was thinking about a case," she said.
"What case?"
"A case… that can't be concluded for the time being."
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