Almost immediately, the word "clever" came to Charlotte's mind.
Though she had never once given thought to the matter of a partner, if she were to start thinking about it now, then being sufficiently clever was, without a doubt, a necessary condition.
Because only someone clever enough could keep pace with her thoughts, understand her world, and never make her feel bored.
And yet… when Russell looked at her with those black eyes brimming with laughter and asked that question—
Charlotte's mind went utterly blank.
No comment.
Why no comment?
Because in the very instant their eyes met, everything that had seemed so self-evident—every standard welded deep into her mind—seemed to lose all meaning.
Clever.
How does one define "clever"?
What, exactly, counts as clever?
Was it a matter of some concrete IQ figure, or was there another benchmark entirely?
The word was like a dandelion seed carried off by the wind—light, weightless, never settling anywhere solid.
So then, did teaching himself and passing into Imperial College in three months count as clever?
From the perspective of an ordinary person—of most people, even—that was more than enough.
But here, in Charlotte's mind, she simply couldn't bring herself to associate that fellow with the word "clever."
So what was she to do? Cross him out just like that, or revise her own standard for his sake?
This question seemed more complicated than any of the cases she had ever encountered.
If she didn't change a single word, then by that standard, she could forget about ever finding a single person who qualified.
But if she revised it, then where lay the point of setting the standard in the first place?
It gave off rather the impression of a job posting written to fit one predetermined candidate.
The coffee beans were ground down in the grinder, giving off faint "click, click" sounds—much like her somewhat unsettled heartbeat at this moment.
How… strange.
Charlotte poured the ground coffee into the filter cup, watching as the hot water was slowly poured in, sending up a plume of steam carrying a bitter, fragrant aroma.
The girl shook her head, trying to drive those tangled, chaotic thoughts out of her mind.
Perhaps she was simply unaccustomed to being asked such an overly personal question.
That was all.
Thinking this, she gently blew on the coffee, and once its temperature had dropped a little, she carefully took a sip.
Then her delicate brows drew together.
The taste wasn't quite right.
Charlotte lowered her head and glanced at the coffee-scented liquid in her hand.
She was quite certain there had been nothing wrong with her brewing technique. Perhaps her mind had wandered a bit while grinding the beans, but on the whole it shouldn't have made much difference.
She had been drinking coffee for so many years that even if she forgot her technique entirely, her muscle memory alone wouldn't let it turn out too badly.
Could it be… her palate had grown spoiled?
The girl's brows knit even tighter, and she unconsciously tried to recall how many times, in recent days, she had brewed coffee with her own hands.
Mm—she could count them on one hand.
Ever since a certain busybody had come into the picture, she had hardly brewed her own coffee at all.
Even when he was away at school and not at Baker Street, Charlotte would more often reach for black tea instead.
Though the reason the man himself gave was: brewing coffee means grinding the beans, and that's too much of a waste of time.
And so, little by little, her standard for the taste of coffee seemed to have gradually taken on the shape of that fellow.
"What on earth is all this about." Charlotte sighed, then picked up the coffee in her hand again and took another sip.
Still not quite what she was used to…
With a touch of resignation, the girl set down the coffee cup and turned her gaze toward the carton of milk on the table.
She could add one more item to her criteria for a partner, then.
Clever or not, that could wait.
At the very least… he had to know how to brew coffee.
On Tuesday, it rained all day in London.
When Russell got back from Imperial College, Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the foot of the stairs, a letter clutched in her hand.
"It came this afternoon," the old woman said, handing the letter to Russell. "Addressed to you by name."
Russell took the letter and opened it. It was a formal interview invitation sent by The Times, its wording courteous yet official, with the bright red seal of the editorial department stamped at the bottom.
He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, and on his way upstairs he stopped by to check in on Charlotte.
Charlotte was still curled up in the armchair, wrapped in that warm dressing gown, as though she hadn't stirred all day.
"Any word from Lestrade?" he asked.
"No," Charlotte said without looking up. "Pilsen and Emily Collins have vanished as if into thin air.
I've had every informant in Bermondsey and Walworth asked. No one's seen them."
"Maybe they've done a runner," Russell said.
"Perhaps." Charlotte agreed offhandedly, though her tone made clear she didn't believe that possibility.
Russell didn't press further, and turned to head back to his own room.
On Wednesday, the rain stopped, but the air was still thick with damp.
The sky was so overcast it looked ready to collapse.
Russell spent the whole day in class, filling several pages with notes, until his hand ached so badly he could scarcely hold his pen.
When school let out, he and Mary walked to the gate as usual, then parted ways.
Today she seemed to be in especially high spirits.
Thursday.
London had finally cleared up at last.
Mary had been waiting since Monday.
This was not the first time she had proven the truth of that statement.
On Wednesday night, the girl lay in bed, listening to the wind that occasionally swept past outside her window, while her mind, beyond her control, cycled again and again through tomorrow's plans.
What time to wake, which dress to wear, which scarf to put on, how to tie her hair, what the first thing she should say upon seeing him would be…
Like a grade-schooler on the eve of her very first spring outing, she tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.
These trivial, meaningless questions kept surfacing in the girl's mind.
And each time she thought she had settled on an answer to one of them, before long she couldn't help but wonder—might there be an even better solution?
How strange.
It was, after all, only a single breakfast.
And yet she still woke before the sky had even brightened.
She washed up, dressed, and sat before the mirror combing out her long silver hair.
She did not let a maid do it for her, but saw to it with her own hands.
The motion of the comb's teeth passing through her strands was slow, as though she were tending to some exceedingly precious treasure.
She looked at herself in the mirror—at that exquisite face without a single flaw, at those azure-blue eyes.
Within them there was a spark of light, very bright, like the first ray of morning sun falling upon the surface of a lake.
Having done all this, the girl stood up and took one last look at her reflection in the mirror.
Mm. Perfect.
When Mary, holding up the hem of her skirt, came lightly down the stairs, Arthur Morstan was seated in the dining room, unhurriedly taking his breakfast.
"Good morning, Father." Mary walked over to the dining table, greeting him with a smile.
"Morning." Arthur set down the newspaper in his hand, his gaze studying his daughter for a moment.
"You look to be in good spirits today," he said, his tone calm, betraying neither pleasure nor displeasure.
"Yes, Father," Mary said, sitting down across from him as a maid laid out her napkin.
"I slept very well last night."
Arthur nodded, picked up the newspaper again, and said no more.
The breakfast between father and daughter was, as ever, quiet, leaving only the faint clink of knives and forks against porcelain plates.
Mary ate the food on her plate in small bites, yet her gaze kept drifting, unbidden, toward the clock on the wall.
Time was passing so slowly.
At last, having finished that rather modest breakfast, Mary rose to her feet.
"Father, I should be off to school."
"Mm," Arthur replied, his eyes still resting on the newspaper, not even lifting his head.
And so the girl gathered up the hem of her skirt, turned, and departed.
____
Gift for Everyone: Once we hit 40 Powerstones, I'll release +1 bonus chapter
________________________________________
If you want more chapters, please consider supporting my page on (P). with 50 advanced chapters available on (P)
👻 Join the crew by searching Leanzin on (P). You know the spot! 😉