Russell's eyebrows shot up—what had prompted the sudden change?
"Call it a way to kill time," Charlotte said, laying down the invitation and returning to her food.
"More honestly, I'll admit—I'm a bit curious about what kind of person Mary Morstan is."
"You two will probably have plenty to talk about," Russell remarked lightly.
"Have fun."
"You're not going?" Charlotte asked.
"I don't think it's a good idea to rub salt in other people's wounds."
"Dance partners are required for replies to invitations. If you invite Mary Morstan, you'll have a legitimate reason to slap that fool," Charlotte noted.
"And if she refuses, I'll be your tool, if you prefer."
"Forget it. I'm not interested. I have other things to do that Saturday," Russell shook his head.
"It's not good to lie to avoid pain."
"I'm not lying, Charlotte," Russell replied, his tone flat.
"I have to visit the orphanage."
"Wait, what orphanage?" Charlotte frowned.
"It's the one where I grew up, obviously. What else could I have done?"
"I'm just going again to update the headmistress—tell her I got into Imperial College London. Mrs. Hudson knows."
"Is that so?" Charlotte glanced at Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes, Russell's had a tough time," Mrs. Hudson nodded. She gave him another spoonful of meat sauce on his mashed potatoes with a touch of sympathy.
"I'm his second mother."
"And you plan to spend the whole night talking with the headmistress?" Charlotte pressed.
"Now, Charlotte..." Mrs. Hudson frowned, but Russell waved it off.
"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson. Charlotte doesn't mean any harm—she's just not good with words sometimes."
He paused.
"It's nothing. I'll go as soon as I'm done. The party ends at eight—if there's time, maybe I can still dance."
With who?
"Mary Morstan."
"You seem to get along well with her."
"She's the only one I know in class. What else can I do?" Russell shrugged.
"But you are looking forward to dancing with her," Charlotte pressed.
"Your pupils dilate and your gaze shifts when her name is mentioned."
"That's only ordinary social custom," he shrugged, shifting the credit to vague tradition.
"Accepting an invitation from a lady and showing expectation is just gentlemanly courtesy, whoever she is."
"You're smooth," Charlotte remarked cunningly, letting the topic drop as she resumed battling her food.
…
The next two days passed in an eerie calm, like a current running beneath the surface.
Russell remained the lazy dog sleeping at the back of the class, while Mary always reappeared in the next seat like a fixed NPC.
She didn't speak much, usually reading or taking notes in silence. Occasionally, as the professor droned on, Mary would glance at Russell snoozing and, perhaps without realizing it, allow a slight smile to play at the corners of her lips.
And after every class, it was as if prearranged—she'd leave a tidy stack of notes on Russell's desk.
Russell, meanwhile, showed not the slightest hesitation in enjoying this rare privilege that others could only dream of. He sat under the envious stares of the onlookers who wished they could devour him alive—and all the while, he could feel his system wallet slowly replenishing.
…
Saturday arrived as uneventfully as promised—the day of the Icebreaker Party.
Russell woke very early. Under Mrs. Hudson's approving gaze, he took a basket pre-packed with fruit and snacks, set out from Baker Street, and headed for the outskirts of London.
The orphanage existed, and so did the headmistress. Russell really had grown up there; when he reincarnated, he'd been an infant. But he hadn't returned in almost a decade.
It wasn't that he was ungrateful or faithless, he simply never had the money—and told himself it wasn't needed.
But today, he needed a believable excuse to handle a detective who might suddenly decide to investigate his past. So, he went back.
Not much had changed except the vines growing thicker on the walls and a little more rust on the garden swings. When the elderly headmistress saw Russell, her aged eyes filled with tears as she peppered him with questions about his life and studies, chatting the morning away.
Russell listened patiently, occasionally replying with a gentle smile. He spent the rest of the afternoon playing games with the noisy children in the garden until sunset turned the sky red.
Before leaving, Russell left behind all the cash he had—a few dozen pounds—and the basket of snacks. The headmistress tried to refuse, but he only smiled.
"Just think of it as an early birthday present, Headmistress Martha."
With a final wave, he headed off as the orphans in the courtyard waved back, his silhouette jaunty—like that of a true wanderer.
On the tram back to central London, Russell gazed at the city slipping past the window, uncommonly at peace.
He closed his eyes; in his mind's eye, the detailed 3D map of the Roy mansion rose up.
Darkness was falling.
It was finally time for the thief to act.
….
That night, thick velvet curtains seemed to fall, shrouding London in darkness. Under the glow of gas lamps, the city transformed into a dazzling sea of stars.
Morstan Mansion, 2nd Floor - Mary's Bedroom
Mary Morstan stood silently before an enormous floor-length mirror, as two maids smoothed the last creases from her skirt.
She wore a dress of moon-white silk, the fabric shimmering softly like pearls in the light. The design was simple: minimal lace or frills, only a delicate iridescent pattern embroidered with silver thread about her waist, accentuating her slim figure.
Elegant, simple—from the cut alone, it radiated a refined nobility.
"Do you think this dress suits you, miss?" the older maid cautiously asked.
"It's fine," Mary's voice was emotionless.
Her gaze remained cast down at the girl in the mirror—silver hair like a waterfall, snow-white skin, eyes as blue and still as a frozen sea.
Her features were perfect, like a doll crafted by a master's hand.
"What about your hair, miss—up in a bun, or styled like the last court dinner?"
"Whatever," said Mary distractedly.
She unconsciously traced her lost-and-found lipstick on the vanity, but her mind had already wandered back to the classroom yesterday.
'If I can make it, I'll go.'
Russell's words seemed to play on a loop in her mind.
Will he really come?
She didn't know. His movements were unpredictable as London's fog, impossible to foresee.
But this uncertainty seemed to flutter within her, constantly stirring the murky lake of her heart with feather-light touches.
Just then, a calm, dignified man's voice sounded from the doorway, pulling her from her reverie.
"Mary."
Startled, Mary turned toward the door.
The Duke Morstan stood there.