Russell looked at Charlotte, sprawled on his bed with no intention of moving, and could only shrug before turning to head downstairs to fix dinner.
Dinner was a simple stew with bread, Russell's cooking as reliably good as ever.
By the time the steaming food was set on the table, he heard the sound of dragging footsteps coming down the stairs.
Charlotte came down in that oversized hoodie, swaying slightly, her hair still a bit messy, looking as though she'd just woken up.
"You didn't fall asleep, did you?" Russell asked.
"Just a ten-minute nap." Charlotte sat down at the table, picked up a piece of bread, and tore off a small bite.
"Your pillow has hypnotic properties."
"Five pounds. The pillow's yours."
"That sounds like quite the deal. I could turn around and sell it to Mary for fifty," Charlotte said with mock seriousness.
"Isn't all my money already in your care? Just transfer five pounds to yourself. That pillow's mine as of today."
"Eat your food," Russell said, annoyed.
The two sat across from each other, eating dinner quietly.
"Speaking of which, when I came downstairs I saw a ticket to the Royal Opera House on your desk," Charlotte suddenly said.
Hearing this, Russell's hand paused mid-bite, but he quickly recovered his composure.
"Oh, that. Mary gave it to me," he said casually.
Charlotte cut the stew on her plate, her movements unhurried.
"The Lady of the Camellias," she read out the title flatly. "Next Friday. Second-floor box at the Royal Opera House."
"So?" Russell swallowed a bite of bread. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem," Charlotte said. "I just assumed that after she went home, her father would've told her to behave herself."
"Well, Mr. Morstan can't watch her twenty-four hours a day, can he?" Russell said.
"She said that next Friday Mr. Morstan will be attending a London Chamber of Commerce dinner, so... she's essentially sneaking out."
"Sneaking out, huh..." Charlotte kept chewing, but a flicker of mockery crossed her eyes.
Sneaking out, indeed.
"What?" Russell caught the strange note in Charlotte's tone.
"Nothing," Charlotte said, still with that indifferent air. "Just a poor imitation of me."
"Of you?"
"There are so many theaters in London. Why the Royal Opera House specifically? And why the second floor, and a box, of all things?"
Charlotte looked at Russell.
"Because that's where we've been."
She set down her knife and fork, her grey-blue eyes fixed on Russell, her tone certain, brooking no argument.
"London has so many theaters — Her Majesty's Theatre, the Apollo Theatre, even places that put on nothing but vulgar comedies."
"And yet, of all places, she picked the Royal Opera House, and of all seats, a box on the second floor."
She leaned forward slightly, the motion letting her loose collar slip further down, and beneath that oversized men's hoodie there was an indescribable, homey languor to her.
"I told her what we did at the Royal Opera House," Charlotte said with a cold laugh.
"So she's just trying to recreate that scene — trying to drag your mind back into it, then erase my traces and overwrite them with her own."
"Aren't you overthinking this a bit?" Russell looked at her helplessly. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."
"In the games women play over territory, there's no such thing as coincidence," Charlotte said, unyielding.
"And what's more, she chose The Lady of the Camellias. What we saw was a comedy, one that ends with the leads embracing at the altar."
"But she deliberately picked a tragedy — one where the heroine dies far from home so the hero can go on to his happy ending."
"She's using that contrast to create an emotional gap, to stir up your sympathy and your urge to protect her."
"I have to admit, that trick works very well on a bleeding heart like you."
Russell was at a loss for words for a moment.
After a while, he finally found his voice again.
"So, how's it going with Madam Vanessa?" Russell asked, trying to change the subject.
Hearing this, Charlotte glanced at him, then said:
"Not yet. Charles Brown's condition is slowly improving, but Madam Vanessa thinks it still needs a bit more time. I already called to check."
"All right." Russell nodded. "What about Mycroft's side — any news on the assassin?"
"That assassin isn't the fool Pilsen was. He's never even shown his face. As long as he doesn't do anything unnecessary, finding him won't be easy," Charlotte said.
"Though... it doesn't really matter that much anymore."
"Why not?" Russell was puzzled. "If we don't find the killer, how do we find the Professor?"
"That... you'll know when the time comes," Charlotte said, keeping the mystery. "I'll tell you once the time's right. Trust me, it's for your own good."
Russell pursed his lips and stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth.
...
Dinner ended in an atmosphere that was subtle, laced with a bit of probing.
Charlotte didn't return to the topic. After finishing the last piece of bread, she pushed her plate over to Russell without a hint of guilt, wrapped herself in the oversized hoodie, and, like a lazy cat, climbed back up the stairs to Russell's bed.
Russell watched her retreating figure, so utterly self-assured, and could only shake his head helplessly before getting up to clean up.
Outside, the night wind beat against the glass. Baker Street settled once more into quiet.
Meanwhile, in Kensington District, at the Morstan Estate.
The luxurious mansion blazed with light in the night, yet it seemed to carry a suffocating stillness.
In the large bedroom at the end of the second floor, the main light was off.
Only the wall lamps flanking the vanity were lit, casting a dim yellow glow that stretched the girl's shadow long and slanting across the thick carpeted floor.
Mary sat quietly before the vanity, looking at herself in the mirror.
In the mirror was reflected a girl of near-perfect beauty.
Silver hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall, glowing with a cold, noble sheen under the light.
Her deep blue eyes were as fathomless as the Aegean Sea, carrying an untouched coolness and purity.
From any angle, she was London high society's flawless English lily, the most prized social face of the Morstan family.
Perfect, exquisite, noble, and... fake.
The girl gazed at her reflection — more precisely, at those much-praised eyes — and a flicker of self-loathing crossed her gaze.
She sighed softly, then raised a hand and touched her eye.
Her pale fingertip skillfully pried open her right eyelid, while her other hand gently pinched the surface of her eyeball.
With a small, practiced motion, a thin, pale-blue transparent film, thin as a cicada's wing, was pulled out of her eye.
Then the left eye, the same way.
The two contact lenses were removed and dropped into a small bottle of solution on the table.
These had been custom-made in Germany at great expense, commissioned by Arthur Morstan; even Mary had been startled the first time she saw them.
The reason for it all was to avoid any gossip about genetics getting out.
After removing the lenses, Mary closed her eyes, stayed still for a while, and then slowly opened them again.
The face in the mirror was still exquisite, but the color of her eyes had transformed utterly.
No longer the deep, oceanic blue, but a vibrant, living green.
In the warm firelight from the hearth, those green eyes shimmered with a startling beauty — carrying a hint of wildness, a hint of rebellion, and a vitality long suppressed.
"Hah—" Mary let out a soft breath, as though finally shedding some heavy shackle.
She blinked her slightly dry eyes, green light shifting in the mirror.
These were her real eyes. Her true eyes.
And not only that.
The girl's gaze traveled up past her brows, settling on that waterfall of silver hair.
She reached up, slid her fingers through the strands, gently lifted the hair by her ear, parted the outermost layer of silvery white, and leaned close to the mirror to examine the roots carefully.
At the border where hair met scalp, in the newly grown roots not yet reached by the dye, a faint, warm buttery-yellow color showed through.
Like the down of a newly hatched duckling, or like a sunflower blooming under the sun.
Mary's fingers gently stroked that stubborn little patch of buttery-yellow root, a flash of longing crossing her green eyes.
If only it would grow faster. She really wanted him to see it — to see her truest self.
But if it grew too fast and that man noticed, she'd inevitably be made to dye it again.
Never mind. Let it be, for now.
Mary lowered her hand, letting the silver hair fall back over that small giveaway of her disguise, but she didn't put the blue lenses back in.
She wasn't worried about Mel walking in, since Mel already knew.
Even if that man himself stood before her, she wouldn't be worried in the least.
Knock, knock — a sound came from outside the door.
"Miss," came Mel's voice, muffled through the door. "I've brought you some hot milk."
Mary's hand paused. She glanced at herself in the mirror, those green eyes glinting in the light.
She had no intention of putting the lenses back in right away.
"Come in," she said softly, her voice returning to its usual gentleness, though carrying a faint, barely noticeable languor.
The door opened, and Mel came in carrying a silver tray, on which sat a steaming cup of milk and a small, delicate plate of biscuits.
She kept her head lowered, her steps quiet and slow, as though still weighed down by yesterday's sense of betrayal, not daring to meet Mary's eyes.
"Just set it there, Mel." Mary rose from the vanity, her black nightgown swaying gently with the motion.
She walked over to the small round table by the fireplace and sat down, her movements graceful and natural.
Mel set the tray on the table, and was about to withdraw when she suddenly caught sight of Mary's eyes.
"Miss... you..."
"My eyes were bothering me a bit, so I took them out," Mary said, gently rubbing her eyes.
"Then... would you like a warm compress?" Mel asked, clearly used to this sort of thing by now.
The contact lenses couldn't be worn for long stretches anyway, and Arthur Morstan had no objection to her taking them out when she wasn't receiving guests or appearing in public.
"Mm." Mary nodded. Her eyes really were bothering her a little; that much wasn't a lie.
So Mel turned and left at once, returning a while later with a basin of hot water and a towel.
Mary drank the hot milk in one go, then lay back on the bed, letting Mel lay the damp, warm towel over her eyes.
The warm cloth over her eyelids blocked out the harsh light and brought with it a comfort she could have basked in forever.
Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The towel carried a faint scent of rose oil, meant to help relax tense nerves.
Mel stood by the bed, looking at the face half-hidden beneath the warm towel, her expression complicated.
She seemed to want to say something, but the words died in her throat before she could speak them.
Even knowing full well this was an abyss with no return for her mistress, Mel still couldn't bring herself to tell Mary everything.
Because the one who'd given her this job, who paid her wages, was Arthur Morstan.
And the price would be losing a friendship over a decade long — was it really worth it?
Mel couldn't figure it out either.
"Miss..." she finally worked up the courage to speak.
"Mm?"
"Next Friday..." Mel paused. "Please, do come back early."
Hearing this, Mary froze for a moment, then the corner of her mouth curved up slightly.
"I know, Mel," she said softly.
"Thank you."
"No... it's nothing." Mel lowered her head.
"The water's getting cold. Let me fetch you a fresh towel."
"No need. Go on and get some rest." Mary took the towel off her eyes and opened them.
Those green eyes, free of their blue disguise, glinted with vibrant life in the dim bedroom.
"Goodnight, Mel."
"Goodnight, Miss."
The door closed softly. Mary turned onto her side, curling the blanket into her arms, burying her face deep into the soft pillow.
Then she rolled over again, staring up at the faintly lit ceiling, before turning her gaze toward her own drawer.
She couldn't quite sleep.
So the girl began rehearsing next Friday's script in her mind, the way an artist runs through a performance privately before stepping on stage, to make sure everything goes smoothly when the real moment comes.
First, it would be a Friday like any other — yet one filled with anticipation.
Morning light would break faintly, London's fog not yet fully cleared.
As usual, she'd dress properly, put on that blue disguise, and take the carriage to Imperial College.
She'd smile and greet Russell, hold his hand as they walked down the corridor, and enjoy an afternoon alone together in an empty classroom.
Everything would seem so natural, so utterly ordinary, that no one would notice anything amiss.
She could allow herself to look a little eager — for a girl about to sneak out to meet her sweetheart, that was only natural.
Once afternoon classes ended, she'd say goodbye to him at the school gate, then take the carriage home.
When the carriage rolled through the black wrought-iron gate, it would be around half past five in the evening, perhaps a bit later.
The opera would start promptly at eight, so every minute from then on had to be timed precisely.
First, bathe and change, putting on a gown suitable for going out, but not so much that it drew attention.
Then, after dinner, once that man retired to his study, she'd call William over and take over the task of making tea herself.
As a daughter, brewing a warm pot of black tea for her father — it was the perfect gesture to express her apology.
Steward William would happily agree, brewing the tea and handing it to Mary, who would carry the piping-hot pot in to see that man.
Along the way, she'd pour a measure of ground barbiturate powder into one of the teacups beforehand; the scalding black tea would mask the bitterness, and the heat would dissolve it quickly.
Add a lump or two of sugar, and a splash of fresh milk... he wouldn't notice a thing.
She'd pour the tea in front of him, one cup each, without needing to say anything — just one gesture, and the man would understand it as her softening, her surrender.
Then his own arrogance would make him forget everything, and in his lofty satisfaction, he'd drink the warm tea down.
Just ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
The drug would spread slowly through his blood, and he'd feel drowsy, assuming it was only the fatigue from days of overwork on top of his recent temper.
He'd lean back in that broad leather armchair, close his eyes, thinking he was only dozing off for a moment.
At that point, as a dutiful daughter, she'd naturally drape a blanket over her father.
And to ensure his sleep quality, she'd also light some sleep-inducing incense.
Of course, she couldn't forget to open the window — to keep the air circulating.
But the early-winter London night wind cut like a knife, so to keep her father from catching cold, adding extra wood to the fireplace would be only natural.
Naturally, to make sure the room wouldn't get too cold from the open window, she'd walk over to the fireplace herself and carefully add a few more pieces of fine smokeless coal and pine logs.
The fire would burn strong, driving off all the chill, so that the man already fallen into deep sleep would feel like he was enjoying the most comfortable rest.
Of course, being something of a pampered young lady, she wasn't very skilled at tending a fire.
So, out of concern for her father, she might accidentally add a bit too much.
The space inside the fireplace was limited, and when the freshly added logs were piled too high, too full, the burning coals, still sparking, could easily lose their balance and roll out by accident.
The study floor was covered with an expensive Persian rug, thick and soft, woven from wool and velvet, the finest material.
If a coal happened to fall onto it, its own weight would sink it deep into the pile, forming something like a sandwich structure.
The surrounding fibers would wrap around the coal, insulating it, trapping the heat, letting the temperature climb higher and higher, until it smoldered and eventually burst into open flame.
And how unfortunate that the dutiful daughter, in keeping the air circulating, had thoughtfully left the window open.
The early-winter night breeze would blow in through the window, and the rush of oxygen would suddenly brighten the weak flame, letting it begin to spread across the carpet.
What a natural, what a pitiable accident that would be.
An overworked father, having drunk a cup of hot tea, accidentally falls asleep in his study.
And the coals in the fireplace happen to roll out, igniting the carpet, and the window happens to be open, the wind fanning the flames.
An old mansion, dry wooden furniture, hundreds of flammable books, and all those expensive bottles of wine stored in the room...
And where would the daughter be, at that time?
She would likely be sitting in the second-floor box of the Royal Opera House, dressed in a lavish gown, seated beside the boy she loved.
They'd watch the tragic performance of The Lady of the Camellias together on stage, and perhaps she'd even shed a few tears over Marguerite's fate.
By the time the play ended and she returned home, she might run into a Scotland Yard inspector.
Mr. William would tell her, his face full of grief, the unfortunate news.
She would freeze in place, as if struck by a bolt from the blue, and then break down in tears.
She'd blame herself for her willfulness — if only she hadn't snuck out to see the play, if only she'd come home earlier, if only she'd stayed by her father's side, maybe she would've noticed something wrong with the fireplace, maybe she could have woken him in time, maybe she could have prevented this tragedy.
Others would comfort her, telling her it wasn't her fault, that no one could have foreseen such an accident.
The Scotland Yard inspector would ask her a few routine questions — where she'd gone, who she'd been with, when she left, when she came back.
She'd answer truthfully — the Royal Opera House, second-floor box, watching The Lady of the Camellias with Russell Watson.
Seated at half past seven, the show ending at a quarter past ten — the ushers could vouch for it, hundreds of audience members could vouch for it, Russell could vouch for it.
A perfect alibi.
The inspectors would nod, jot the information down in their notebooks, and politely take their leave.
They would rule the tragedy an unfortunate accident — coals from the fireplace rolling out and igniting the carpet, an old mansion, dry wooden furniture, hundreds of flammable books, and those expensive bottles of stored wine...
The fire spreading too fast, too late by the time anyone noticed.
Arthur Morstan, one of London's wealthiest merchants, dead just like that in an accidental fire.
What a pitiable tragedy.
Mary lay on her soft bed, picturing that scene.
When that moment truly came, she would throw herself into Russell's arms, bury her face in his chest, and weep aloud.
She would be left with nothing — except the vast Morstan family fortune that would need managing, and the title of a noble young lady, alone in the world and deeply traumatized.
And then, how could Russell possibly leave her to fend for herself?
"Come quickly... Friday."
The girl murmured, as though performing some sacred prayer.
She rolled over, burying her face deep into the sun-scented blanket, and closed those green eyes.
Before long, she'd fallen fast asleep, a sweet, satisfied smile still lingering on her lips.
Just like in a fairy tale — the princess finally about to have her prince arrive.
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