"Why do you assume I'm looking for him?"
Mary neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, she answered with a question of her own.
"Because of your eyes." Charlotte swirled the drink in her glass; the golden liquid caught the chandelier light and fractured into a hazy shimmer. "Since you entered, you've swept the entrance thirty-seven times—roughly once per minute. Your gaze lingers on other people for an average of 0.8 seconds. Only at the doorway does it stay longer than three."
Charlotte's pace was unhurried. She even had time to take a couple of bites of a biscuit before continuing in the same calm, measured tone.
"Therefore—you're waiting for someone who's late."
Mary's expression tightened by a fraction.
"And among every invited first-year at Imperial College today, there's only one person who didn't receive an invitation and yet has a legitimate reason to be absent."
Charlotte's eyes remained fixed on Mary, steady and precise.
"Him. Russell Watson."
After a pause, as if remembering to be fair, Charlotte added, "Of course, that conclusion is strictly from a deductive standpoint."
"Then what about from a non-deductive standpoint?" Mary asked.
"From a non-deductive standpoint—he told me." Charlotte shrugged. "I'm just working backward with the answer in hand."
Mary clicked her tongue softly, a faint crease forming between her brows.
"And one more thing." Charlotte glanced at Mary, taking in every subtle shift in her expression, then spoke again.
"What?" Mary turned her head slightly.
"When it comes to the idea of dancing with you—he shows anticipation."
Mary didn't respond.
Hyde Street.
A notification chimed in Russell's mind.
[Mary Morstan is displeased by your loose mouth. Malice +10]
Russell listened to it in silence, his mood complicated.
What had he done this time?
Sure, he was happy to see the numbers go up—but this was getting out of hand.
At this rate he'd end up seated at the same table as the Emperor of Japan, purely off accumulated sins and misunderstandings.
Whatever. Finish the job quickly, then get to the party.
Hopefully there would still be time.
Russell drew in a slow breath. Cold night air filled his lungs, sweeping away the tangles in his head.
He lifted a white mask painted with an eerie smiling face and set it onto his own, then smoothed his collar as if preparing for the stage.
Night was a thief's best disguise.
Moriarty was due to make his entrance.
The wind on Hyde Street cut sharp, lifting fallen leaves and sending them spiraling in lazy arcs.
Russell lowered his cap and slipped into the dark. Without a sound, he vaulted the iron fence surrounding the Roy residence—tall, ornate, and ultimately more decorative than functional.
He landed on the lawn with a whisper-light touch.
The grass had been trimmed like a carpet; its softness swallowed every trace of impact.
From inside his coat he produced a grappling hook gun, aimed at the second-floor terrace, and fired.
A faint hiss.
The hook threaded perfectly through the terrace railing, caught stone beyond, and locked.
Russell sprang up and let the line pull him with a smooth, controlled ascent.
Moonlight washed over the empty terrace. He reeled in the device, then stepped into a darkened room and approached the door leading into the corridor.
He didn't open it immediately.
He pressed an ear to the wood and listened—patient, still.
Downstairs, Ethan Roy and his wife were in the parlor. Russell could make out fragments of conversation and the occasional rich-man chuckle, as if they were on the telephone with someone of their own kind.
Elsewhere on the second floor, footsteps moved—more than one set.
Guards.
Russell placed a hand on the handle and, when the footsteps drew away, cracked the door just enough to leave it half-latched.
Through the thin gap and the shadows under the frame, he tracked motion by sight and by sound, mapping the patrol rhythm.
The interior layout rose in his mind in crisp, three-dimensional lines. One by one, he marked where the guards were and where they would be.
More troublesome than his earlier recon had suggested.
Loose outside, tight within—Ethan Roy was more cautious than Russell had given him credit for.
Two guards patrolled the corridor on a fixed route. Their steps were steady, disciplined.
Their overlapping lines of sight formed a net that covered every critical area—nearly without blind spots.
Nearly.
Russell's eyes dropped to their shadows, stretched long under the corridor lamps.
A bold idea took shape.
One chance.
He lowered his center of gravity and watched—listening, measuring, counting—until the instant one guard turned and the two crossed back-to-back.
Russell slid through the door like smoke.
[Stealth C++] took over, granting him perfect control over every muscle.
He didn't hide in the shadows.
That was conventional. That was expected.
Instead, he chose the most dangerous place—and the safest.
The shadow of the guard.
Russell stepped into the exact sliver of blind angle left behind in the turn, pressed his body close behind the guard's back, and matched his cadence so precisely that Russell's footfalls were swallowed by the guard's own.
Even his breathing adjusted, aligning with the other man's rhythm.
The guard's broad frame completely concealed him. Russell became a moving ghost—an absence traveling in full light.
The guard felt something, a thin chill crawling along the back of his neck. He turned his head, frowning.
Nothing.
Only the hallway. Only his partner's solid figure at the far end.
He shook his head, silently mocking his own nerves, and continued.
Russell stayed less than an inch behind him, step for step, openly present and utterly unseen.
Where the guard went, he went. Even when they passed Russell's intended corridor, he didn't break away.
Because he was waiting.
Waiting for the shift change—three minutes of breathing room.
When the distant clock tower rang out with a heavy, blunt toll, the two guards halted at an intersection.
They exchanged a look and nodded, practiced and wordless, then split in opposite directions.
In the instant their backs turned and their sightlines severed—
Russell peeled out of the guard's shadow as if detaching from it.
No sound. No hesitation.
He moved like a cat on velvet, slipping into the left corridor leading toward the study.
The operation began.
The study door used an old cruciform lock. For Russell's [Sleight of Hand C+], it was a ten-second inconvenience.
A tiny click.
The door opened.
Cigar smoke and old paper rolled out to meet him.
Russell slipped inside and eased the door shut behind him.
In his mind, the system map surfaced; the high-value marker burned red behind a section of bookcase.
Russell approached the shelves—rows of books, most of them chosen for appearance rather than use.
He pulled down a volume that looked unremarkable and walked to another cubby already packed with titles.
His fingers slid along the spines, then stopped on one.
He tapped it twice.
Hollow.
He removed it, swapped in the book he'd taken, and pushed it into place.
The moment it seated, a mechanism engaged—metal shifting, a latch releasing with a low, decisive sound.
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