Russell could only shrug as he looked at Charlotte, who showed no intention of moving from the bed. He then turned around and headed downstairs to prepare dinner.
Dinner was a simple stew and bread, but Russell's cooking skills were as excellent as ever.
Just as the steaming hot dishes were being brought to the table, dragging footsteps could be heard coming from the direction of the stairs.
Charlotte appeared, wearing the oversized hoodie and walking unsteadily. Her hair was still slightly messy, as though she had just woken up.
"You didn't actually fall asleep, did you?"
Russell asked.
"I took a ten-minute nap."
Charlotte sat down at the table, picked up a piece of bread, tore off a small fragment, and put it in her mouth.
"Your pillow has a sleep-inducing effect."
"For five pounds, the pillow is yours."
"That's a good deal. I can resell it to Mary for fifty pounds."
Charlotte said this with a serious expression.
"Just transfer five pounds into my account. From today onward, that pillow belongs to me."
"Just eat your own portion."
Russell said irritably.
The two sat facing each other, quietly eating dinner.
"By the way, when I went downstairs, I saw Royal Opera House tickets on your desk."
Charlotte suddenly spoke.
Hearing this, Russell paused his meal but quickly returned to eating as usual.
"Those? Mary gave them to me."
He said it very naturally.
Charlotte slowly and carefully cut the stew on her plate.
"La Dame aux Camélias," she quietly read the title of the opera. "Next Friday, at the Royal Opera House, second-floor private box seats."
"So?"
Russell swallowed a bite of bread. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem," Charlotte said. "I thought her father would warn her to behave properly when he returned."
"Um… Mr. Morstan doesn't watch her twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, right?"
Russell said.
"She said Mr. Morstan is attending a London Chamber of Commerce dinner next Friday night, so… she might be considered to have sneaked out."
"Sneaking out…" Charlotte continued chewing, a mocking smile appearing in her eyes.
That was precisely the information that had been leaked.
"What's wrong?"
Russell sensed something off in Charlotte's words.
"Nothing," Charlotte said casually. "It's just my poor imitation."
"You?"
"Why choose the Royal Opera House out of all the theaters in London, and why the second floor, and moreover, a private box seat?"
Charlotte looked at Russell.
"Because that's a place we've visited before."
She set down her knife and fork and stared straight at Russell with her gray-blue eyes, speaking in a firm tone that allowed no argument.
There were many theaters in London. The Queen's Theatre, the Apollo Theatre, and even theaters that specialized in vulgar comedies.
But she had happened to choose the Royal Opera House, and moreover, a second-floor private box.
Because Charlotte's body had leaned slightly forward, the wide collar of the shirt had slipped even further down. Beneath the oversized men's sweatshirt, there was an indescribable relaxed and comfortable atmosphere.
"I told her what we did at the Royal Opera House."
Charlotte gave a cold laugh.
"In other words, she's trying to recreate that scene. She's trying to pull your heart back to that moment again. And she's trying to erase my traces and spin her own story."
"Aren't you overcomplicating things?"
Russell looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Isn't it just a coincidence?"
"There are no coincidences in a woman's territorial struggle."
Charlotte retorted without flinching.
"Furthermore, what I chose rom-com, whose ending shows the male and female protagonists walking arm in arm into the wedding venue.
But she insisted on choosing a tragedy—one in which the female protagonist dies in a faraway land in order to fulfill the male protagonist's wish.
Through this contrast, she is creating a sense of imbalance, thereby trying to evoke sympathy and a protective instinct toward her in you.
Honestly, this tactic is truly effective against someone like you, whose heart overflows with compassion."
Russell was momentarily at a loss for words.
After a while, he finally found his voice again.
"By the way, how is Vanessa doing?"
Russell asked, trying to change the subject.
Hearing this, Charlotte glanced at him and said,
"Not yet. Charles Brown's condition is gradually improving, but Vanessa thinks she needs a little more time. I've already made an inquiry call."
"It's fine."
Russell nodded. "What about Mycroft? Any new information about the assassin?"
"That assassin is not a fool like Billson. He hasn't even shown his face. Unless he does something unnecessary, finding him won't be easy."
Charlotte said.
"But… it's no longer that important anymore."
"Why?"
Russell looked puzzled. "If we can't find the killer, where will we find the Professor?"
"You'll understand when the time comes."
Charlotte teased him. "I'll tell you when the right time comes. Trust me. This is for your sake."
"..."
Russell pursed his lips, then stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth.
Dinner ended in a restrained and slightly awkward atmosphere.
Charlotte didn't continue the topic. After finishing the last piece of bread, she pushed her plate toward Russell in satisfaction, then, wrapped in the oversized hoodie, slowly climbed the stairs like a lazy cat and returned to Russell's bed.
Russell watched her self-righteous retreating figure and could only shake his head helplessly. He then stood up and began cleaning up the mess.
The night wind rattled the glass outside the window, and Baker Street once again fell into silence.
…
Meanwhile, at the Morstan Manor in Kensington…
The luxurious mansion was brightly lit at night, yet it exuded a suffocating, death-like silence.
In the spacious bedroom at the very back of the second floor, the main lights were off.
Only the wall lamps on either side of the vanity were lit, casting a dim yellowish light that stretched the girl's shadow long and diagonally across the thickly carpeted floor.
Mary sat quietly in front of the vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Reflected in the mirror was a girl who could only be described as perfect.
Her long silver hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall, emitting a cold yet noble glow under the lamplight.
Her blue eyes were as deep as the Aegean Sea, exuding a cold, pure aura untouched by the mundane world.
From any angle, she was the flawless English queen of London's high society—the face of the social world that the Morstan family was most proud of.
Perfect, exquisite, noble, and… fake.
The girl stared at her reflection—more precisely, at her own highly praised eyes—and for an instant, a flash of disgust crossed them.
She let out a soft sigh, then raised her hand and touched her eyes.
With her white fingertips, she skillfully pried open her right eyelid and gently pinched the surface of her eyeball with her other hand.
With a slight movement, she removed a thin, semi-transparent membrane—like a cicada's wing and faintly bluish—from her eye.
She did the same with her left eye.
The two contact lenses were removed and placed into a small bottle of contact lens solution on the table.
These had been specially custom-made at great expense by Arthur Morstan from someone in Germany. Even Mary had been surprised the first time she saw them.
The reason for doing this was to prevent rumors about genetics from spreading.
After removing the contact lenses, Mary closed her eyes and remained still for a moment before slowly opening them.
The person reflected in the mirror still had delicate features, but the color of her pupils had changed dramatically.
They were no longer that deep sea-like blue, but had turned into a vivid emerald green.
Bathed in the warm yellow light of the fireplace, the emerald green eyes shone with breathtaking beauty, hiding a hint of wildness, rebelliousness, and a vitality that had been suppressed for a long time.
"Haa…"
Mary quietly exhaled, as though she had finally been freed from heavy shackles.
She blinked her slightly dry eyes, and the emerald green brilliance sparkled in the mirror.
These were her eyes—her real eyes.
And that wasn't all.
The girl's gaze moved upward from her eyebrows and eyes, finally stopping at the silver hair flowing down.
She reached out, combed her fingers through her hair, gently brushed the hair near her ears, parted the outermost layer of her silver-white hair, leaned closer to the mirror, and carefully examined the roots.
At the boundary between hair and scalp, in the newly grown roots that had not yet been covered by hair dye, there was a faint… warm, pale yellow tint.
It was like the fluffy down of a newly hatched duckling, or like a sunflower blooming under the sunlight.
Mary gently stroked the stubbornly growing pale yellow hair roots with her fingertips. A light of anticipation shone in her emerald eyes.
If only I could grow my hair faster. I want him to see me as I truly am—the real me.
However, if her hair grew too long and that man noticed, she would inevitably be told to dye it again.
Alright, let's stop here for now.
Mary lowered her hand and once again hid the flaws of her disguise with her long silver hair, but she did not put the blue contact lenses back in.
She wasn't worried about Mel suddenly coming in, because Mel herself already knew everything.
Even if that man were to stand right in front of her, she wouldn't be worried at all.
Knock knock.
There was a knock at the door.
"Miss," Mel's voice came through, sounding somewhat muffled.
"I've brought you warm milk."
Mary stopped moving and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her emerald green eyes sparkled brightly under the light.
She had no intention of putting the contact lenses back in right now.
"Come in."
She spoke quietly. Her voice had regained its usual gentleness, but there was still a faint languid quality to it.
The door opened, and Mel entered carrying a silver tray with a glass of steaming milk and a small plate of delicate biscuits.
She kept her head lowered and walked slowly and carefully, as though she was still trapped in yesterday's feelings of betrayal, and did not try to look at Mary.
"Just leave it there for now, Mel."
Mary stood up from the vanity. The black nightgown swayed gently with her movement.
She walked over to the small round table beside the fireplace and sat down. Her movements were elegant and natural.
Just as Mel was about to leave after placing the tray on the table, she suddenly caught sight of Mary's eyes.
"Miss..."
"My eyes felt a little uncomfortable, so I took them out."
Mary said this, then gently rubbed her eyes.
"Would you like a warm compress?"
Mel asked, clearly accustomed to this situation.
Contact lenses shouldn't be worn for long periods and should be removed except when meeting guests or attending public events. On this point, even Arthur Morstan had no objections.
"Mm."
Mary nodded. She did indeed feel some discomfort in her eyes. That wasn't a lie.
So Mel immediately turned on her heel and left. A short while later, she returned with a basin of hot water and a towel.
Mary downed the hot milk in one go, lay down on the bed, and had Mel place the warm, damp towel over her eyes.
The warm towel was placed over her eyelids, blocking out the glaring light and bringing her the peace she had longed for.
Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
This towel carried a faint scent of rose essential oil, which had a relaxing effect on tense nerves.
Mel stood beside the bed, looking at the face that was almost entirely covered by the hot towel. Her expression was complicated.
She seemed to want to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.
Mel knew that this was an abyss from which there was no return for the master, yet she couldn't bring herself to tell Mary everything.
Because it was Arthur Morstan who had given her this job and paid her salary.
But the price was the loss of a friendship that had lasted over ten years. Was it really worth it?
Even Mel didn't understand.
"Miss…" she finally mustered the courage to speak.
"Hm?"
"Next Friday," Mel paused before saying, "you have to come back early."
Hearing this, Mary was surprised, but a faint smile quickly appeared on her lips.
"I understand, Mel."
She said quietly.
"Thank you."
"No… no."
Mel lowered her head.
"The water's getting cold. I'll go get a new one."
"It's fine. You can go rest."
Mary removed the towel from her eyes and opened them.
The emerald green eyes, having shed the blue mask, shone with vivid light in the dimly lit bedroom.
"Good night, Mel."
"Good night, Miss."
The door closed quietly.
Mary turned on her side, wrapped the blanket around herself, and buried her face deep into the soft pillow.
Then she rolled over, looked up at the dim ceiling, and then shifted her gaze to the drawer.
I have a sleep disorder.
So the girl began rehearsing next Friday's script in her head, just like an artist who always rehearses in secret before stepping onto the stage to ensure everything goes smoothly during the performance.
First of all, it would be a day no different from any other Friday, but at the same time, it would also be a day filled with anticipation.
Even after dawn broke, the fog over London had not yet completely cleared.
She would get dressed as usual, put on her blue camouflage, and take the carriage to Imperial College London.
She would greet Russell with a smile, take his hand, and walk down the hallway, enjoying their private time together in the empty classroom in the afternoon.
Everything was so natural and so obvious that no one noticed anything unusual.
It was perfectly natural for a girl to be filled with anticipation. After all, she was about to sneak out of the house to meet her lover.
After the afternoon classes ended, she would say goodbye to him at the school gate, then board the carriage and head home.
The carriage passed through the black wrought-iron gate around 5:30 in the evening, or perhaps a little later.
The opera would begin at exactly 8 o'clock, so every minute and every second after that had to be used precisely.
First, she would take a shower and change into formal attire suitable for going out—though not too flashy.
Then, after dinner, when the man entered his study, she would call for William and offer to make tea.
As a daughter, brewing warm tea for her father to express her apologies was the most appropriate action.
The butler, William, would gladly accept and brew the tea before handing it over to Mary. Mary would then take the pot of hot tea to the man.
Along the way, she would have already poured powdered barbiturate medication into one of the teacups.
The boiling hot tea would mask the bitterness, and its temperature would dissolve it quickly.
Adding one or two sugar cubes and a small amount of milk… he wouldn't notice.
She would pour the tea in front of him and have each of them drink a cup. No words were needed—her gesture alone would make the man understand her weakness and obedience.
Then, his arrogance would make him forget everything. While basking in the blissful sense of superiority, he would drink a cup of warm tea.
It would only take ten minutes, perhaps fifteen at most.
The drug's effects would slowly spread throughout his body via the bloodstream. He would feel drowsy, but he might attribute it to fatigue from several days of intense work and his recent outburst of anger.
He would sink deep into that large leather armchair, close his eyes, and think he was just taking a short nap.
At that moment, as a considerate daughter, she would naturally drape a blanket over her father.
Furthermore, to ensure her father's quality of sleep, she would also burn some sleeping incense.
Of course, she wouldn't forget to open the window to ensure air circulation.
However, since the early winter London night was bitterly cold, it would be perfectly natural for her to add firewood to the fireplace so that her father wouldn't catch a cold.
Of course, in the end, she was still a somewhat spoiled young lady who wasn't very skilled at adding firewood.
So, out of concern for her father, she might accidentally add a little too much.
The space inside the fireplace was limited. If she stacked the newly added firewood too high or packed it too tightly, the still-red-hot charcoal could lose its balance and accidentally roll out.
The floor of the study was covered with a thick, soft, expensive Persian rug made from the highest-quality wool and silk blend.
If coal were to accidentally fall onto it, the weight of the coal itself would cause it to sink into the fluff, forming a sandwich-like structure.
The fluff around the coal would act as insulation, preventing heat from dissipating. As the temperature rose, it would eventually begin to smolder and finally burst into flames.
Unfortunately, the thoughtful daughter had already opened the window for ventilation.
The gentle evening breeze of early winter blew in through the window. The influx of oxygen instantly brightened the originally faint fire in the fireplace and began spreading across the carpet.
This was a spontaneous yet truly unfortunate accident.
An overworked father had accidentally fallen asleep in his study after drinking hot tea.
Sparks from the fireplace had accidentally rolled out and ignited the carpet. The wind from the open window had fanned the flames.
An old mansion, dry wooden furniture, hundreds of flammable books, and expensive wine stored in the room…
Where would the daughter be at that time?
She would probably be in a private box on the second floor of the Royal Opera House, dressed in a gorgeous gown, with her beloved sitting beside her.
The two of them would be watching the tragic opera La Dame aux Camélias together on stage, and she might even shed tears over Marguerite's fate.
When she returned home after watching the play, she might run into a Scotland Yard detective.
Mr. William would have a sorrowful expression as he personally delivered the unfortunate news to her.
She would stand frozen on the spot as though struck by lightning, then collapse in tears.
She would blame herself for her willfulness. If she hadn't sneaked out to watch the play, if she had come home earlier, if she had been by her father's side, she might have noticed the abnormality in the fireplace and woken her father in time to prevent this tragedy.
Others would comfort her, saying that it wasn't her fault and that no one could have predicted such an accident.
The Scotland Yard detectives would ask her several questions, as was customary: where she had been, who she had been with, when she had left, and when she had returned.
She would answer honestly—that she had been watching La Dame aux Camélias with Russell Watson in a second-floor private box at the Royal Opera House.
We entered at 7:30 and left at 10:15. The waiters, hundreds of audience members, and Russell himself could all testify to that.
A perfect alibi.
The detectives would nod, jot down the information in their notebooks, and politely take their leave.
They would describe this tragedy as an unfortunate accident—the embers from the fireplace had accidentally rolled out and ignited the carpet, the old mansion, the dry wooden furniture, hundreds of flammable books, and expensive treasures…
The fire had spread too quickly, and by the time it was discovered, it was already too late.
Arthur Morstan, one of London's wealthiest industrialists, had lost his life in an accidental fire.
What a tragic and unfortunate incident.
Mary lay on the soft bed, imagining the scene.
When that time came, she would throw herself into Russell's arms, bury her face in his chest, and cry her heart out.
In the end, all she would have obtained would be the vast and well-managed Morstan family business and the title of a lonely, mentally scarred heir.
In that case, how could Russell possibly abandon her?
"Come quickly… on Friday."
The girl murmured, as though offering some kind of sacred prayer.
She rolled over, buried her face deep into the blanket that smelled of sunlight, and closed her emerald green eyes.
Soon after, she fell into a deep sleep, with a sweet, satisfied smile on her lips.
Just like in a fairy tale, the princess who was finally about to meet her prince.
…
PS: Dang girl!