Russell raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
"Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Call it killing time." Charlotte set the invitation down and went back to slicing her food with clinical precision. "Though, if we're being honest, it's mainly because of Mary Morstan. I'm curious what sort of person she actually is."
"I think you two will have plenty to talk about," Russell said evenly. "In any case—have fun."
"You're not going?" Charlotte asked.
"I don't think rubbing salt in someone's wound is a good habit."
"If you need a dance partner for the invitation, you can simply ask Mary Morstan. That gives you a perfectly legitimate excuse to attend—and you get to slap that idiot in the face while you're at it. If she refuses, I don't mind being your tool for one night."
Charlotte said it like she was offering to hold an umbrella.
"Forget it. Not interested. I've got something else to do on Saturday," Russell shook his head.
"Using a lie to avoid the wound also isn't a good habit."
"I'm not lying, Charlotte," Russell replied without a flicker of guilt. "I'm going back to the orphanage."
"Wait. What orphanage?" Charlotte frowned.
"The one that raised me. What else?" Russell said. "I'm going back to visit, and to tell the headmistress I got into Imperial College. Mrs. Hudson knows."
"Do you?" Charlotte turned to Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes," Mrs. Hudson nodded at once, sympathy softening her face. "Russell's had it hard, that boy."
As she spoke, she spooned another generous mound of mashed potatoes onto his plate and topped it with a ladle of gravy.
"Mrs. Hudson is basically my second mother," Russell declared solemnly.
"Eat up. Have a bit more. You're too thin." Mrs. Hudson smiled.
"So you're planning to reminisce with the headmistress all night?" Charlotte pressed.
"Charlotte—" Mrs. Hudson's brows knitted, but Russell waved her off as if it were nothing.
"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Charlotte doesn't mean it. She just… doesn't know how to speak like a normal human being."
He paused, then added, "No, I won't be there all night. Once I'm done, I'll head over. The party ends at eight. If I make it in time… I should be able to manage one dance."
"With whom?"
"Mary Morstan."
"You and her seem close."
"I only know one person in the entire class. What do you want me to do?" Russell shrugged.
"But you're looking forward to dancing with her," Charlotte continued.
"Your pupils dilated when you said her name. And your eyes drifted."
"Basic social etiquette." Russell tossed the blame at an invisible tradition with a straight face. "When a lady invites you, showing anticipation is simply good manners. It has nothing to do with who the lady is."
"Smooth-tongued," Charlotte concluded, neither approving nor particularly disapproving. She let the topic die and returned to her war against the food on her plate.
The next two days passed in a strangely quiet undertow.
Russell remained the same lazy dog sprawled in the back row, sleeping through lectures like it was a paid position.
And Mary—Mary was like a fixed NPC with a flawless spawn timer, always appearing beside him.
She didn't speak much. Most of the time she simply read, took notes, and existed with that calm, untouchable grace.
Sometimes, when the professor reached a particularly mind-numbing passage, she would tilt her head and glance at Russell sleeping soundly, a faint smile tugging at her lips—one she didn't seem to realize she was wearing.
Then, as class ended, she would place her neatly organized notes on Russell's desk, as if it had all been arranged in advance.
Russell accepted it all with shameless ease—almost with the air of someone who believed it was his natural due.
And under the stares of classmates who looked ready to chew through his throat, he listened to the pleasant internal chime of his "wallet" slowly filling back up.
The days drifted forward like that until Saturday arrived.
The day of the icebreaker party.
Russell woke early.
Under Mrs. Hudson's pleased gaze, he picked up a basket already prepared—fruit and pastries—then left Baker Street and headed toward the outskirts of London.
The orphanage was real. The headmistress was real.
Russell had grown up there. When he first arrived in this world, he'd been a baby wrapped in rags. If not for Headmistress Martha, he would have frozen to death that night.
After leaving the orphanage to make his own way, he returned every so often.
This time was no exception.
Years had passed, yet the place had barely changed—only the ivy on the walls had grown thicker, and the swing set in the yard bore a little more rust.
When the elderly headmistress saw him, tears flooded her cloudy eyes.
She gripped Russell's hand and asked question after question—school, health, money, work—talking endlessly through the entire morning.
Russell listened patiently, answering now and then, wearing a mild, gentle smile.
He even spent the afternoon playing games with the noisy little brats in the home, until the sunset smeared the horizon red.
When it was time to leave, Russell placed the last few dozen pounds of cash he had on him—along with the basket of treats—and left them behind.
The headmistress refused, stubbornly insisting she couldn't accept it.
Russell only smiled.
"Consider it… an early happy birthday, Headmistress Martha."
Then, under a chorus of children waving and calling farewell, he turned and walked away—his back straight, his stride easy, like a real traveler finally returning to the road.
On the tram back into London, Russell watched the city blur past the window and felt an unfamiliar stillness settle inside him.
He closed his eyes.
And in the darkness behind his eyelids, the precise three-dimensional blueprint of the Roy residence rose, piece by piece, into perfect clarity.
Night had fallen.
It was time for the phantom thief to move.
Night came down over London like a thick velvet curtain.
Under the glow of gas lamps, the city became a sea of scattered light—glittering, distant, alive.
Inside the Morstan estate, in a second-floor bedroom, Mary Morstan stood quietly before a large standing mirror while two maids adjusted the folds of her skirt.
She wore a moon-white silk gown, the fabric holding a soft, pearlescent sheen in the lamplight.
The design was not overly ornate—no excessive lace, no needless frills—only a subtle iris pattern embroidered in silver thread at the waist, outlining her slim, upright figure with exacting restraint.
Simple—yet unmistakably elegant.
"Miss, does the dress fit well?" the older maid asked carefully.
"It's fine," Mary answered, her voice uncolored.
Her gaze remained on the mirror.
The girl in the reflection—silver hair falling like a cascade, skin pale as snow, eyes blue and still like a frozen sea—looked immaculate.
Perfect.
Like a doll carved by an artisan who had never allowed himself a single mistake.
"The hair, then—up, or like the last court gala?"
"Either," Mary said, distracted.
Her fingers drifted unconsciously to the lipstick on the vanity—the one that had been stolen, then returned.
Her thoughts, however, were back in yesterday's lecture hall.
If I can make it, I'll come.
Russell's words replayed in her mind without warning.
Would that man… actually show up?
She didn't know.
His behavior was like London fog—you never knew where it would drift next.
And yet that very uncertainty, like a feather, kept brushing against the surface of a heart that should have been still water.
Just then, a steady, authoritative male voice cut through her thoughts from the doorway.
"Mary."
Mary came back to herself and turned.
Duke Morstan stood there.
-------
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