Louise came back to herself and turned to see who had entered.
Mycroft Holmes stood a short distance away, offering a slight bow, that impeccably gentle smile of his settled comfortably on his face.
"Mr. Mycroft."
Louise inclined her head and gave a proper curtsy.
Within these palace walls, Mycroft was one of the very few outsiders in whose presence she could feel anything approaching ease.
He was nothing like the stiff-backed attendants, nor like those noblewomen who existed solely to scrutinise matters of etiquette.
He was clever. He would speak with her about things one couldn't find in any book — things about the world beyond these walls.
Though, admittedly, most of those topics still circled around Parliamentary bills and trade disputes between nations.
"Her Majesty the Queen is still receiving guests. She may need you to wait just a little longer," Mycroft explained.
"That's quite all right," said Louise, turning back toward the window. "I was only admiring the view."
"The fog is rather heavy today," Mycroft remarked, following her gaze. "I don't imagine you can see very much."
"It is precisely because one cannot see clearly that it is worth looking," the young woman said softly. "It makes London appear a little more mysterious than usual."
Mycroft said nothing in response. He simply stood quietly to one side — a perfect, unobtrusive presence, the kind that would never disturb the subject of a painting.
"Mr. Mycroft," Louise said suddenly, breaking the silence after a moment, "did you read yesterday's paper?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"What do you make of this person called Moriarty? What sort of man do you think he is?"
She asked with the candid curiosity that belonged entirely to her age.
Mycroft seemed caught off guard by the question and did not answer immediately.
He considered for a moment, then spoke in his characteristically diplomatic, official tone:
"A contradiction — someone who holds the law in contempt, yet happens to act, on occasion, in the public interest."
"A contradiction?" Louise tilted her head slightly. "It sounds rather as though you don't admire him."
"My work is to uphold order, Your Highness," Mycroft replied with a mild smile. "And he is order's disruptor. From a purely professional standpoint, I'm afraid I cannot admire him."
"Oh..." The young woman nodded with the expression of someone half-following along. "And from a non-professional standpoint?"
"Hmm... now that is..." Mycroft's expression shifted into one of mild exasperation. He looked at the princess before him and saw, for a fleeting moment, the reflection of a certain other troublesome younger sibling who never played by the rules either.
"From a non-professional standpoint," he began, pausing, lowering his voice just a fraction.
"I must concede that what he does has... injected the city with a rather appreciable measure of vitality."
That assessment made Louise's eyes light up in an instant.
Just as she was about to press further, an attendant appeared without a sound at the gallery entrance and gave Mycroft a small bow.
"Mr. Mycroft, Her Majesty the Queen will see you now."
"Understood." Mycroft gave a nod, then turned to Louise. "Your Highness, please excuse me."
"Yes." Louise replied with a note of quiet disappointment.
Mycroft turned and left, his upright silhouette swiftly disappearing at the far end of the corridor.
The gallery settled back into that frozen, sepulchral silence.
Louise turned her gaze once more to the gilded London beyond the glass, quietly turning Mycroft's words over and over in her heart.
"If only Mr. Moriarty could appear here..."
The very instant that thought took shape, a faint, barely perceptible rustle — a soft shhhk — sounded from the far end of the room.
Louise turned instinctively toward the sound.
There, at the windowsill at the gallery's far end — as though carried in on the wind — a small white card had slipped silently inside, folded into a neat, precise square.
It lay there quietly on the gleaming marble floor.
Louise blinked.
This was the innermost reaches of Buckingham Palace, its security so airtight that not even a fly could slip through.
How on earth had that card appeared?
A feeling rose within the young woman — a mingling of fear and an irrepressible curiosity she could not hold back.
She glanced around. The vast gallery held only her, so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat suddenly quickening.
And so, Louise drew a slow breath, lifted her skirts, and stepped forward — careful, deliberate step by careful step — toward that card.
She reached it, crouched slowly down, and extended her hand — white lace glove and all — to brush the very tip of her finger against the card in a tentative, exploratory touch.
Cold. The surface was cold.
She summoned her courage and pinched the card between her fingers, lifted it, and unfolded it.
It was a finely crafted card of heavy stock, its surface bearing a subtle embossed pattern.
At the centre of the card, rendered in an ornate Gothic script full of artistic flourish, was a single line:
[Seven days hence, at the stroke of midnight, I shall come to relieve you of your most precious treasure.]
And beneath that line was a signature — a name she had only just been discussing with Mycroft.
—[Moriarty]
Louise's pupils contracted sharply.
"This is—!"
The young woman couldn't stop the startled cry that escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth at once and darted her eyes left and right, terrified of being discovered.
She almost doubted her own eyes.
What had she just seen?
Was this an advance notice letter — from Moriarty — written for her?
But he had never written anything of the sort before...
Could it be that he had gone to all this trouble — this elaborate, painstaking effort — especially for her? Building up anticipation just for her sake?
The thought sent Louise's heart racing.
"Calm down, Louise... you must be calm. You must be composed."
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, then carefully folded the letter and tucked it safely inside her clothing.
This must not reach the ears of a single soul.
Not her mother the Queen. Not Mycroft. Not even the lady's maid who attended to her every need.
If they found out, she could forget about ever seeing Moriarty — she'd count herself lucky just to still receive the morning paper.
Louise tucked the letter carefully away and then half-ran all the way back to her own bedroom.
After placing the letter somewhere safe, the young woman sat on the edge of her bed, fidgeting, glancing left and right — as though the Phantom Thief himself might materialise at any moment.
What would he steal, she wondered... The necklace her mother had given her for her last birthday? Or that hairpin she had always been particularly fond of?
Should she hide her things more carefully, or simply lay them out in the open?
According to the newspaper reports, every time the Phantom Thief made off with something, he would return it again before long.
Did that not mean she might see him at least twice?
But the advance notice letter had only said he would appear within seven days — it gave no specific date.
What if he came to steal something while she wasn't there? She would miss him entirely.
The young woman's thoughts tumbled and lurched like a rollercoaster, going nowhere in particular.
At last, she simply flopped face-down onto the bed, buried her face in the soft pillow, and let out a long, petulant groan.
"This is so maddening..."
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