"Father." Mary dipped into a flawless curtsy—textbook perfect.
"And how are we coming along?" The duke's gaze swept over her without warmth, weighing her the way one might assess a finished product.
"Everything is in order," Mary replied, calm and flat.
"Good." The duke inclined his head. "Tonight's gathering may be little more than student mischief, but among those attending are the children of cabinet ministers and peers of the realm. Ethan Roy's boy, for instance. And Admiral Hawthorne's daughter…"
He recited names with the ease of habit—each one a knot in the same web of power.
"I understand you find such things tedious," he continued, tone shifting, leaving no room for debate. "But you will cultivate these relationships. Our trade routes will only gain greater convenience in Parliament with the right future supporters. It benefits you. It benefits the Morstans."
Again.
Tools. Bargaining chips. Exchanges of interest.
Since she could remember, those were the words that had filled her world.
Mary's life was a meticulously drafted blueprint: every step optimized for the family, the family above all else.
She lowered her eyes. Long lashes hid the flash of mockery and disdain that passed through the blue depths.
"I understand, Father."
A lie delivered in a perfect voice.
"Excellent." The duke seemed pleased by her obedience.
He stepped closer and—like a thoughtful father—adjusted a strand of silver hair at her shoulder. The gesture was awkward, too stiff to be genuine.
"Remember, my child," he said mildly, as though discussing something trivial. "Do not forget who you are."
The sentence—light as air—hit like a key turning in an old lock. Something sealed inside her clicked into place.
Mary's voice turned soft and compliant, as though the moment of rebellion had never existed.
"I understand, Father."
"The carriage is waiting. Don't be late."
The door closed. Silence returned.
The maids barely breathed as they fastened delicate sapphire earrings to her ears. The cold touch against her earlobes sharpened her thoughts.
Mary stared into the mirror at the impeccable Miss Morstan—and felt suddenly, profoundly tired of her.
So she picked up a hairpin from the vanity and, with deliberate carelessness, gathered her silver hair into a loose knot at the back of her head.
A few strands slipped free and fell naturally along her neck, breaking the rigid, rehearsed elegance and replacing it with something lazier—something more alive.
This was the extent of her rebellion.
"Like this," she said, indifferent.
More decoration would change nothing.
At six o'clock sharp, the icebreaker party was in full swing in Imperial College's grand hall.
A waltz floated through the air. Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light. Young men and women in formal attire held champagne flutes and smiled bright, practiced smiles.
Everything looked luminous and effortless—youth at its most convincing.
Timmy Roy, serving as host, drifted through the crowd like he owned the place, soaking up praise and attention as if it were his birthright.
Yet even while accepting compliments, his gaze kept cutting toward the entrance, searching—waiting for someone who would crown the evening with legitimacy.
Charlotte Holmes.
If she showed, it meant the mighty Charlotte Holmes had been forced to acknowledge Timmy Roy. It meant his name carried weight, even with geniuses.
As for Russell Watson—the country bumpkin?
Timmy hoped the man wouldn't come at all.
Someone without an invitation who showed up anyway would only be humiliating himself—and sparing Timmy any inconvenience.
Then the entrance stirred.
A small ripple moved through the hall.
Timmy looked up instantly, his smile widening.
Charlotte Holmes had arrived.
She wore the same oversized coat as always, hands in her pockets, no visible effort made for the occasion. Compared to students who had dressed for war, she looked like someone who had wandered in by mistake.
But it didn't matter.
What she wore was irrelevant—what she represented was everything.
Charlotte Holmes: the younger sister of Mycroft Holmes, the man whispered about as though he were the government itself.
And even without trying, Charlotte's face alone was enough to silence a room.
While eyes converged on Charlotte, another figure stepped in behind her—a silver-haired girl in a moon-white gown.
Mary Morstan.
Charlotte's arrival was an expected surprise.
Mary's was something else entirely—an unanticipated, almost miraculous descent.
Admiration, envy, awe—countless gazes snapped to the entrance, locked onto the pale silhouette framed by night outside and brilliance within.
She stood still, with darkness at her back and light at her feet.
Where shadow and gold met on her skin, she looked less like a person and more like a goddess carved from moonlight—beautiful, distant, cold.
Timmy Roy hurried forward at once, his expression so eager it looked absurdly sincere.
"Miss Holmes, Miss Morstan—welcome. Your presence truly elevates this evening."
Charlotte gave him a glance—one brief, indifferent look—and walked past without a word, as though he were furniture.
Timmy's face twitched.
He forced himself to pivot toward Mary instead, clinging to his manners.
"Miss Morstan—"
"Mr. Roy," Mary said with a smile that cut him off at the perfect moment, polite and seamless. "Enjoy your evening."
Then she, too, passed him by—heading toward where Charlotte had gone.
Timmy's smile froze fully in place, like plaster left to harden.
Mary reached Charlotte. Charlotte, sensing her attention, turned slightly.
For a brief moment, the two prodigies met each other's eyes.
There were no sparks. No overt tension. Not even the faintest greeting.
Only a calm that belonged to people who recognized an equal across the board.
The stare lasted seconds. Then they both looked away, as if nothing had occurred.
Mary took her place by the drinks table, a glass of lemon water in hand. She watched the dancers spin and glide at the center of the floor.
Now and then her gaze swept the hall—not like a guest, but like someone memorizing a room: exits, angles, habits. Then she would draw her attention back as if she'd never moved at all.
She was looking for someone.
The man who had said, If I can make it, I'll come.
Minutes passed. A waltz ended. Another began. Partners changed. Laughter rose and fell in waves.
Mary's lemon water drained to the last drop.
The familiar figure still didn't appear.
He isn't coming.
The thought surfaced—and Mary crushed it down immediately.
Her fingers tightened around the glass. The cold bite grounded her, trying to force order back into her thoughts.
What exactly was she expecting?
That he would come—and then what?
Invite her to dance?
Or was it simpler than that—was she merely hoping that in a room thick with calculation and etiquette, there would be one presence that felt… unplanned? Real?
Even Mary couldn't articulate it clearly.
She only knew that each time her eyes returned to the empty entrance, the vague restlessness in her chest grew sharper—teetering toward irritation.
Toward displeasure.
Toward something she could almost name as malice.
And just as that feeling began to take shape, a cool voice spoke near her ear:
"He should be at Saint Jude's Orphanage right now."
Mary turned at once and met a pair of gray-blue eyes that seemed to see through walls.
Charlotte Holmes.
She held a flute of champagne—no one knew from where—and leaned lazily against a nearby Roman column, looking utterly out of place. Not a guest. Not an observer.
A boundary line.
"I'm sorry, Miss Holmes," Mary said, her expression smoothing back into flawless composure. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"No," Charlotte replied evenly, with quiet certainty. "You are."
"You're searching for someone. Someone absent. And I happen to know where he went today."
Mary fell silent.
This detective was more troublesome than she'd anticipated.
-------
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