Charlotte didn't speak.
She stared at the fragrant creamy meat-ragù bake, gray-blue eyes full of confusion and disbelief.
"Why?" she couldn't help asking, turning to Mrs. Hudson. "Didn't I see you cutting ham at noon?"
"Oh, that." Mrs. Hudson set the bread down, still oblivious to the battlefield she'd just walked onto.
"I was going to make sandwiches. But before you two went out, Russell said he wanted a creamy meat bake."
She glanced at Russell with a fond, indulgent smile.
"And I thought—well, we've eaten plenty of sandwiches this week. So why not change the taste?"
Charlotte snapped her head toward Russell.
Russell met her stare and only shrugged.
"You didn't say I wasn't allowed to do that, did you? Of course, if you want to pretend the wager doesn't count, I won't stop you."
Charlotte went silent for a moment, then drew a steady breath and sat down.
"I never said I wouldn't honor it."
She twirled pasta coated in sauce and cream, took a bite, and mumbled through it:
"It's just one day. What's the big deal."
Russell smiled faintly and sat as well.
Dinner ended in a comfortably bright atmosphere.
Afterward, Charlotte went to her room. Russell helped Mrs. Hudson wash the dishes, then returned to his own room.
Tonight he still had to go "do good deeds" in Belgravia.
As night fell and the clock hands crept toward rest, Russell changed, climbed out the window, and disappeared into Baker Street's darkness.
The next day, after another night of "good deeds," Russell forced himself awake, slapped the alarm off, and wandered downstairs.
At the table sat a familiar yet oddly unfamiliar figure.
Charlotte.
She ate buttered toast with coffee at a measured pace, as if she belonged there.
When Russell appeared, she lifted her gaze slowly.
"I was going to declare the wager void if you didn't show up in two minutes."
"Then I woke up just in time," Russell said with a grin, pulling out a chair.
He glanced around her.
"Where are the textbooks?"
"You actually think I'm going to class?" Charlotte gave him a look of pure disgust. "If I sit in a classroom for more than five minutes without leaving, that's already generous."
"Fine, fine." Russell shrugged. "I'll go after I finish this coffee."
"Mm." Charlotte lowered her eyes to the day's paper.
Today's headline was still Moriarty's one-man show.
Aside from the glaring countdown number, the rest was harmless fluff—like an aristocratic young lady offering a high price to buy Moriarty's handwritten calling cards from his "victims," purely for star-chasing.
Russell peeked curiously.
One of his cards could sell for ten pounds or more, depending on what he'd written.
Some people even displayed the cards as "art."
Naturally, these were the ones Russell had only "visited" lightly—taking something, then returning it.
The people he'd truly ruined weren't collecting anything. They were busy trying to buy back their own bodies and reputations.
After breakfast, Russell brought Charlotte out, took the tram, and headed for Imperial College.
When Charlotte entered the lecture hall, the entire room fell into dead silence.
Everyone stared at the back row as if doubting their own eyes.
If Mary was scenery—
Charlotte was a dividing line.
Charlotte ignored the looks and sat in the last row by the wall.
Russell sat beside her, yawned, and put his head down on the desk.
"This is what you do here every day?" Charlotte stared at him. "You should apply for an exemption."
"I'd love to," Russell mumbled. "But I'm not good enough to qualify."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Charlotte asked. "Put my head down like you?"
"Do whatever. The bet is just that you show up for one day. You only have to wait—wait for dismissal, wait for Godot."
Charlotte had no words.
She had a sudden urge to stand up and walk out.
And then, from behind them, came footsteps—along with a faint scent of white tea and ink.
Charlotte turned her head and met a pair of clear blue eyes.
Mary's step paused for the briefest instant. Surprise flickered—then vanished, tucked away behind a composed, interested scrutiny.
She walked into the already-staring focal point and, as always, sat in the seat beside Russell as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
"Good morning, Russell," she greeted softly, acting as though the powerful presence at his other side didn't exist.
"Morning," Russell lifted his head, still half-asleep.
Only then did Mary turn toward Charlotte, wearing the flawless, elegant smile of a Mosstan.
"Good morning, Charlotte."
She paused, letting just the right amount of curiosity show.
"I thought Russell said you'd already obtained an exemption?"
"I'm simply curious what this idiot actually does at school every day," Charlotte replied, expression unchanged.
Mary lifted an eyebrow. She clearly sensed there was more to the story, but wisely didn't press.
Then, lowering her voice, she asked as if casually:
"I heard Russell say there's more to the Lloyds Bank case?"
"A criminal professor," Charlotte said without concealment. "A legendary figure in London's underworld—though we have no leads for now."
"And the culprit who was frightened out of his mind—still no improvement?"
"Unfortunately, no." Charlotte shook her head. "Honestly, I've stopped expecting anything from that lunatic. Even if he recovers, he'll probably just drool."
Mary looked slightly relieved, then—still in that seemingly casual tone—shifted to another subject:
"And what do you think about the teaser letter the papers are printing? About Moriarty's 'performance'?"
At those words, the Russell wedged between them moved almost imperceptibly.
What—thinking about me?
....
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