Night deepened.
The post-rain darkness carried a cold that seemed to seep straight into the bone. Heavy clouds pressed down over the Morstan estate, smothering it beneath an icy, lifeless hush.
Mary sat in her room with a cup of black tea in her hands. Today's morning paper lay on the table.
Expressionless, she sipped the warm liquid little by little—yet the reassuring heat did nothing to drive away the chill lodged in her chest.
On the front page of The Times, that bold, black headline looked like pure mockery.
It announced, without words, a single fact—one that filled her with helpless despair:
The plan had failed.
The thing she wanted had not been brought out.
All the effort she'd poured in over the past week had been for nothing.
Her final, all-in gamble had yielded no result at all.
According to the original plan, that crew should have successfully hit Lloyds Bank's underground vault, found the Morstan family's safe deposit box, and taken the commercial documents inside—along with various bonds, shares, and securities.
Among them were contracts the Morstan family had signed with Ethan Roy—back before the Roys collapsed.
From a social standpoint, those contracts had lost nearly all economic value the moment the Roy family went under.
But legally, they still had force.
So Mary had planned the raid: have those people take the papers, then let The Times broadcast the theft to the entire city. To keep the commotion—and casualties—to an absolute minimum, she'd even provided a plan designed to cause almost no harm.
Then the Duke of Morstan would seize the opportunity, claiming financial loss and demanding compensation from Lloyds Bank.
Under Lloyds' compensation agreement, the bank would have to reimburse the equivalent value of those bonds and contracts—and pay an additional compensation fee.
By Mary's estimate, it would be at least six figures, possibly more.
And to keep a major client like the Morstans supportive and loyal, Lloyds would likely offer them a tailored plan with an attractive interest rate.
That was her "turning waste into value."
Use a pile of paper that could no longer generate meaningful profit, and exchange it for cash enough to carry the family through the current crisis.
The plan had been perfect.
At least—until the damned variable called Moriarty appeared.
Mary picked up the newspaper again, staring at how the reporter used every exaggerated flourish possible to paint the gentleman thief as a midnight phantom strolling through a storm of bullets.
With his own two hands, he had crushed a spectacular robbery aimed at Lloyds Bank and become, in Scotland Yard's words, a "fortunate stroke in an unfortunate night."
How ironic.
Someone else's fortune was her misfortune.
Mary tightened her grip on the paper, the urge to tear it to shreds rising hot and violent.
But in the end, she swallowed the impulse. She simply tossed it into the fireplace and watched it curl and blacken into ash—adding a little warmth to the room.
She drained her tea in one go, then ran a hand through her hair in frustration.
The moment the paper hit the street, her father had already called to confirm.
The bank's representative had sworn that nothing was missing—then had even praised Moriarty over the telephone.
Likewise, the paper carried no report of any theft.
That damned thief had knocked down every robber and then walked away, taking no credit, leaving no chaos behind.
Why…
Why, this time, did he steal nothing at all?!
Mary's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
The contracts and bonds she needed more than anything were now sitting quietly in an evidence room—one that had been reinforced overnight.
Lloyds Bank had been burned once; they weren't stupid enough to be burned twice.
Everything had returned to the start.
No—worse than the start.
That failed bank raid was like a lit fuse. It ignited her father's long-stored anxiety and control, exploding it into the open.
The admiral's son. Next week's dinner party.
Every word became another bar welded onto her gilded cage.
And still she couldn't understand—couldn't understand why Moriarty, who supposedly acted under Mycroft's orders, would target Lloyds Bank.
Was it Mycroft's intent? Or his own?
Mary couldn't guess. She couldn't untangle it.
She had even suspected he'd discovered her real identity, even learned her plan in advance.
But she had no evidence. Not a scrap.
The only thing she could understand was this:
She had lost.
Completely.
The girl sank back into the plush chair, closing her weary, sea-blue eyes.
Tap. Tap…
Rain started again, drumming on the glass—and on the heart that was slowly sinking into deep water.
It had been sunny this morning.
And now it rained again, as if on purpose.
"Could you not pick such perfectly awful timing to rain…" Mary muttered into her knees, sounding like a small girl who'd been wronged beyond endurance.
The rain made the silence inside the mansion even more suffocating.
And in that suffocation, Mary thought again of Russell—thought again of the plea that had escaped her on instinct:
Will you come save me?
Now, the question itself felt absurd.
If she couldn't save herself, how could she pin hope on a vague promise?
He didn't even know this cage existed.
Or maybe he did—but what could he do?
Irritation. Powerlessness. Disappointment.
The feelings stacked and tangled, thorny vines tightening around her heart until she could barely breathe.
"Tch."
Mary opened her eyes. The blue in them had gone cold and hard.
She stood, crossed to the window, and pushed open the heavy French doors.
Night wind, wet and freezing, poured in at once. It whipped her silver hair into chaos—and cooled her overheated, agitated mind just a little.
She looked down over the garden.
Rain sluiced over carefully pruned roses. Petals broke away and fell, turning the ground into a muddy ruin of red.
Exactly like her mood.
Mary rested her hands on the icy window ledge and let the cold climb from her fingertips into her body.
There was something she'd never told Russell.
Never told anyone.
She was sensitive to cold.
No—she was fragile in it.
Rain angled across her face, biting and sharp.
Even so, she left the doors wide open and allowed the wind and rain to invade.
Maybe if she caught a fever, she could avoid next week's dinner party.
She closed her eyes and let darkness and cold swallow her whole.
"Idiot…" Her lips trembled—whether she meant the man who'd made a promise too easily, or herself for believing it, she didn't know.
She opened her eyes again. The last trace of hope in that sea-blue gaze went out, leaving only dead-water calm.
Fine.
So be it.
To hell with the dinner party.
She still had one final trump card.
If none of this could be changed… then she would burn it all down.
And the instant that near-self-destructive thought formed, Mary's peripheral vision caught a black shape moving across the rooftop.
It was bold—yet silent—leaping and running along the tiles like it belonged there.
Why was that man here?
In the few seconds it took Mary to think and recoil in shock, the thief had already arrived at her window.
His masked face revealed no emotion, but his right hand—fingers spread—waved lightly.
He said:
"Good evening, beautiful lady."
....
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