Mary lowered her eyes to the two tickets in her hand.
"The Lady of the Camellias, is it..." she murmured, reading the title of the show aloud, her slender fingers tracing over the gilded lettering.
"Yes, miss." Mel nodded, her voice still trembling slightly.
"That's the show playing that day... I hope you'll... remember what was said."
"Of course." Mary slid the tickets back into the envelope, tucking them carefully into a drawer, then turned and gave Mel a faint smile.
"Thank you, Mel."
The girl's eyes were so gentle they seemed almost liquid, her deep blue gaze brimming with sincere gratitude.
"This really means a lot to me. Thank you for helping."
"I... I only did what I was supposed to do." Mel lowered her head, unable to meet those eyes, whether from guilt or fear she couldn't say.
"All right, go on and rest." Mary said softly. "Don't worry, just keep things as they are. I'll handle the rest."
"Yes, miss."
Mel fled the room as if pardoned from a death sentence.
As the door closed once more, Mary was again alone in the room.
She turned back to face herself in the mirror, and the gentle smile vanished from her face in an instant, as though it had been nothing but a fleeting illusion.
"The Lady of the Camellias, hm..." she said quietly, one hand propping up her chin, the other tapping lightly against the vanity table.
She nearly laughed aloud.
Was it a coincidence, or a deliberate mockery?
A courtesan struggling to survive in high society, giving up everything for so-called true love, only to end up dying alone in a foreign land — a bleak, wretched ending.
Was this that man's warning to her?
Using a ticket to The Lady of the Camellias to hint that if she kept clinging to her folly, she'd end up like Marguerite — losing everything, walking straight into ruin.
"How... thoughtful of him."
Mary muttered to herself, a flicker of disdain crossing her eyes.
Too bad she wasn't Marguerite, and Russell was certainly no weak, helpless Armand.
And Arthur Morstan could never keep playing the role of the towering, all-controlling baron father forever.
But since the script had already been written and the stage already set, why should she spoil the fun?
Consider it Mary Morstan's farewell performance.
The days that followed passed as usual.
Or perhaps it was more like the calm before a storm.
Winter's presence grew heavier across the Imperial College campus. The leaves had all fallen from the trees, leaving only bare branches swaying in the wind.
In weather like this, it wouldn't be strange for snow to fall at any moment, and yet it stubbornly refused to — as if even the heavens were holding something back.
Russell and Mary went on as before, attending classes together every day and lingering in an empty classroom afterward.
Nothing about how the two of them interacted had changed — no deeper intimacy had developed, and yet there remained a closeness that left no room for anyone else.
Every morning, Mary would look at him with a warm, doting smile, asking whether he'd stayed up too late or eaten a proper breakfast.
Russell would respond to her concern as always, occasionally teasing her back, which made her blush faintly.
Everything seemed perfectly normal.
So normal that Russell nearly forgot the arrangement between him and Mary — he even felt the faint illusion that they really were just an ordinary college couple (at least in everyone else's eyes), enjoying a carefree campus life.
Even that betting pool of theirs had closed out and settled at some point, apparently with the students who'd wagered on Mary Morstan coming out ahead.
The students who'd bet on Charlotte Holmes weren't happy about it, arguing that since neither party had confirmed anything, how could the pool possibly be closed?
Someone worked up the nerve to sneak off and ask Russell privately, and the answer he got was:
"We're not together. Really, we're not."
So the two factions ended up arguing with each other, and eventually the matter reached the headmaster's ears — after which both sides happily received disciplinary write-ups.
As for the two people at the eye of the storm, they carried on with a completely detached, none-of-my-business attitude.
After all, none of the winnings were going to them, so not running the pool themselves was already generous enough.
On Thursday afternoon, pale sunlight fell across the desks of the empty classroom.
Mary sat on Russell's lap, eating a sandwich he'd made with his own hands, basking in the sunlight.
Russell couldn't quite recall when this position of hers had become routine.
It might have started last week, or maybe just a couple days ago.
At first, she'd only sat at the edge of the desk beside him, swinging her slender legs, listening to him talk about some amusing story he'd read in the paper.
But then the early winter wind had crept in through a window left ajar, landing squarely on Mary, who was closest to it.
The girl was naturally sensitive to cold, and that gust of wind was more than she could bear. So, like a cat seeking warmth, she'd slid gracefully off the desk and slipped straight into Russell's arms, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
She sat sideways on his lap, arms looped around his neck, letting most of her weight rest against him.
Russell instinctively reached out, one hand hovering lightly at her slender waist, the other braced on the edge of the chair, making sure that even if their balance shifted, the two of them wouldn't tumble embarrassingly to the floor.
The heavy dark hem of her school uniform skirt spread across his lap like unfurled black camellia petals.
Through the fabric, he could clearly feel the softness and warmth radiating from her thighs, along with the scent of white camellia so close it threatened to drown him entirely.
"I heard from people outside," Mary said, resting her chin lightly on Russell's shoulder, her silver hair spilling down against his collarbone, bringing with it a faint itching sensation.
Her voice was languid, tinged with teasing, and something else — a hint of probing.
"Someone asked you about the two of us, what our relationship's like, and you said we're not together."
"Well, I could hardly say we are, could I."
Russell sighed helplessly, his gaze landing on the pale curve of her ear so close to him.
"They made money off it and didn't even give me a cut."
"Hmph—" Mary drew out the sound, seemingly lost in thought.
After a moment, she pulled a brand-new ticket from her pocket, still warm and faintly scented from being kept close to her skin.
"Here, this is for you."
Russell blinked, glancing down at the ticket Mary held out to him.
The elegant gilded lettering shimmered faintly in the pale sunlight streaming through the window, three words printed in ornate script: The Lady of the Camellias.
"What's this?" He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between the ticket and Mary's face.
"The opera, next Friday. A second-floor box at the Royal Opera House," Mary said softly, her deep blue eyes shining with amusement.
"It took me quite a bit of effort to get, you know."
As she spoke, she pressed herself closer against him, like a cat expecting to be praised.
"Next Friday night?" Russell thought it over for a moment.
"What made you suddenly want to see an opera?"
"I just felt like it." Mary tilted her head back, her tone carrying just the right note of playful pouting.
"Is that not allowed?"
"It's allowed," Russell nodded, "but what about your father? Won't that be a problem?"
"Don't worry, he'll be at a dinner that night — some merchant guild event. Otherwise I wouldn't have picked this time at all."
Mary blinked, a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes.
At that, Russell's gaze returned to the ticket once more.
"The Lady of the Camellias..." he paused. "Isn't this a tragedy? Do you actually like this kind of tragic love story?"
"I don't." Mary answered flatly.
"Then why pick this one?"
"Because there was nothing else," the girl said, as though it were obvious.
"..." Russell had nothing to say to that. Damn if she didn't have a point.
"Besides, I'm curious," Mary added. "If it were you, watching Marguerite give up everything for love only to end up meeting such a miserable fate — what would you think?"
She lifted her head, her clear eyes staring straight into his, as though trying to see through to his very soul.
"Would you think she was foolish? Or would you feel sorry for her?"
Russell looked at the expression on the girl's face and, for a moment, didn't know how to answer.
"I haven't seen it. I've only heard of it," Russell said.
"Besides, it's just a play. Real life doesn't have that many tragic partings and doomed love affairs, right?"
"I suppose so." Mary gave a noncommittal smile, then buried her face back against his chest.
"But sometimes reality is more absurd than any play," she said quietly.
Russell glanced down at the girl, who seemed lost in some melancholy, and simply assumed she was reflecting on the plot of the opera.
"All right, next Friday night, then. I'll go with you."
He reached out and ruffled Mary's hair, then tucked the ticket into his inner pocket.
At that, a look of complete satisfaction spread across Mary's face.
"Then it's settled," she said, closing her eyes and leaning against him, savoring his warmth and scent, as though trying to freeze this moment forever.
Sunlight streamed through the window glass, spilling its glow over the two of them, and for a moment, time itself seemed to still.
Everything was quiet and peaceful.
Like the calm before a storm.
How long had passed, neither of them could say, before Mary finally stirred.
She sat up from his lap, smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt, then looked down at him.
"That's about enough time for today," she said.
Russell nodded and started to rise, but she pressed a hand to his shoulder, holding him down.
"Don't move."
She said, bending down to press a light kiss to his forehead.
The kiss was so light it felt like a snowflake landing on skin, gone in an instant.
"That's for today," she said, straightening up with a smile.
"All right, let's go."
221B Baker Street.
Russell pushed open the door to his room, took out the ticket, and set it carefully on the table, weighing it down with an inkwell.
Just as he was about to head over to Charlotte's room to see what she was up to, he suddenly heard some rustling sound coming from his own bedroom.
Russell's footsteps stopped, and his hand froze on the doorknob.
Someone was in his room — though that was hardly news at this point.
In all of 221B Baker Street, there was only one person who could randomly turn up in his bedroom.
Russell sighed helplessly and walked straight to his bedroom, pushing open the half-closed door.
There, sprawled on his bed — well, "sprawled" wasn't quite accurate; more precisely, she was leaning against the headboard, sitting up with a book in her hands.
Charlotte was wrapped in his blanket, holding a psychology book, wearing a hoodie that was clearly several sizes too big for her.
Russell recognized it at a glance — it was his.
The oversized sleeves had been carelessly pushed up to her elbows, the collar hanging loosely off to one side, revealing a pale, rounded shoulder and the delicate line of her collarbone.
Russell pinched the bridge of his nose helplessly.
Just like Mary sitting on his lap, Charlotte, too, had apparently started treating his bedroom as her own private territory at some point without him noticing.
At first, it had only been the occasional nap on his bed, dressed up under the pretense of "catching up on sleep."
But eventually she'd started coming and going from his room quite openly, adopting the attitude that his bed was simply her bed too.
As for Mrs. Hudson, she turned a blind eye to the whole thing — or perhaps was quietly delighted by it.
Whenever Russell tried to protest, Charlotte would say without a hint of concern, "You could always stay in my room instead. I wouldn't mind."
In the end, Russell had no choice but to let her have her way — at least Charlotte only seemed interested in his bed and didn't touch anything else.
"You're reading in my bed again," Russell said, walking over and stopping beside the bed.
Charlotte didn't look up, her eyes still fixed on the page.
"Your bed's more comfortable. Better light, too," Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
"That's because I actually keep it tidy every day, unlike some people," Russell said.
"I can find anything I need in there."
"Like my clothes?"
"Can't find those," Charlotte answered flatly, "because I'm wearing them right now."
Russell blinked, his gaze instinctively dropping.
He hadn't noticed before, because the hoodie had been covering it, but now — after Charlotte's little reminder — he spotted it: beneath the oversized hoodie, a hint of a white collar peeked out, unmistakably the shirt he'd just washed the day before.
"Where are your own clothes?"
"Dirty."
"Then wash them."
"Mrs. Hudson's out."
"You could always— oh. Right. You actually can't."
Russell suddenly felt strangely at peace with it all.
He leaned against the wall, watching Charlotte curled up like a cat on his bed.
"All right, get up," Russell said. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Mm," Charlotte acknowledged, but showed no sign of moving.
"You're not expecting me to bring dinner in here, are you? I absolutely will not allow anyone to eat in my bed. Not even me," Russell said, uncharacteristically serious.
"I wasn't planning to," Charlotte said, tugging the blanket and wrapping herself even tighter.
"Is dinner ready?"
"Not yet."
"Then I'll stay here a bit longer. Call me when it's ready."
"Why?"
"This is also a necessary part of collecting data."
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