The light inside the carriage shifted with its motion, now bright, now dim.
Russell held his position. His arm had gone a little numb, but it was bearable.
The light from outside slid from Charlotte's brow to the tip of her nose, then from her nose down to her chin, like a pair of invisible hands gently tracing the contours of her face.
Russell's gaze followed the moving light.
She looked so peaceful, asleep.
None of that rapid-fire deduction, none of that gaze that seemed ready to see through everything, none of those barbs she let slip now and then.
Just an ordinary, drowsy girl, curled up in an oversized coat, letting the carriage carry her through the early morning of London.
That one stubborn tuft of hair still stood up defiantly, swaying gently with the jolting of the carriage.
Russell stared at that tuft for a few seconds, and suddenly felt the urge to laugh.
All at once, Charlotte's head slipped down a little further.
Russell's hand moved down to cradle it, the motion light, as if he were afraid of disturbing something.
Still she did not wake.
She only nuzzled unconsciously toward the warmth of his palm, like a small animal seeking out a source of heat.
Then the carriage rounded a bend.
The wheels rolled over an uneven paving stone, and the cabin lurched hard.
Charlotte's brow furrowed, her lashes trembled, and then — slowly, she opened her eyes.
Those grey-blue eyes were unfocused at first, drifting, as though she had not yet come back from some distant dream.
The girl blinked, her gaze slowly sharpening, and then it settled on the face right in front of her — Russell's.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
The air seemed to freeze.
Russell was dazed for a moment before it dawned on him that his hand was still cradling her head.
Charlotte did not move. The two of them stayed just as they were.
She simply gazed at him, a lingering haze of sleep still in her eyes.
That tuft of hair still stood defiant atop her head, gilded in the sunlight with a faint golden halo.
"Ahem…"
Russell was the first to look away, breaking the silence.
"We're almost there," he said, then slowly drew his hand back.
Charlotte blinked and slowly sat up straight.
She lowered her head, glanced at the oversized coat draped over her, then reached up to try to smooth down her hair.
She pressed that stubborn tuft flat, let go, and it sprang right back up.
She frowned and pressed it down again.
Still it stood.
Russell watched her efforts and let a laugh slip out.
Charlotte lifted her eyes, a dangerous edge in her gaze.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing… nothing at all." Russell reined in his smile at once and turned to the window. "We're almost there."
At that, Charlotte withdrew her gaze and tried once more to pin down the tuft, but in the end she gave up.
She leaned back against the cushion, her eyes drifting to the window, watching the streetscape rush backward.
"How long was I asleep?"
"Not long," Russell explained. "Less than a quarter of an hour."
Charlotte gave a small "Mm" and said nothing more.
The carriage rolled on. The scenery outside grew familiar — Fleet Street had come into view.
The carriage stopped before the offices of The Times.
Someone was already waiting at the door — a man in a dark suit and spectacles, clutching a pocket watch and craning his neck about.
The moment he saw the carriage stop, he hurried over.
"Miss Holmes, Mr. Watson!" the man said, his voice light with relief. "I was beginning to worry whether you'd… ah…"
His voice trailed off abruptly, his gaze falling on Charlotte.
More precisely, on that tuft of hair still standing defiantly atop her head.
Charlotte looked back at him, expressionless.
"The journey… was pleasant enough, I trust?" The man produced a professional smile and, to his credit, said nothing more. "Please, come with me. Mr. Henry is already waiting."
Russell paid the fare and followed Charlotte down from the carriage.
The two of them stepped into the building, passed through the narrow entrance hall, and climbed the creaking wooden staircase.
The walls were hung with yellowed bound volumes of newspapers, and the air was thick with the particular scent of ink and paper.
The middle-aged man walked ahead, his pace brisk, as if he were pressed for time.
Now and then he glanced back to make sure they were following, then pressed on, muttering to himself about the arrangements to come.
Charlotte said nothing, only trailing quietly behind, her eyes coolly sweeping over the pages on the walls that chronicled the glorious history of The Times.
Russell hung half a step back, keeping a subtle distance from Charlotte, his gaze drifting now and then to the tuft of hair swaying gently atop her head as she walked.
The three of them soon reached the editor-in-chief's office on the third floor.
The man warmly pushed the door open for them, called out a greeting to Henry Scott inside, and then closed the door behind them.
"Good morning, both of you." Henry Scott was seated on the sofa in the office.
Upon seeing Russell and Charlotte enter, he smiled and extended his hand. "Please, sit."
Russell and Charlotte settled onto the sofa, and Henry's gaze lingered on Charlotte for a moment.
Especially when it landed on the cowlick standing up on her head, he was startled at first, but the professional smile quickly smoothed it over.
The great detective surely had her reasons for doing this.
The cover of the paper was as good as settled.
"Tea or coffee?" Henry asked.
"Black tea, thank you," Russell answered for them both.
Before long a young assistant came in bearing tea and refreshments, moving with crisp efficiency.
"This is Miles," Henry introduced. "One of the finest young reporters at our paper. He'll be leading today's interview."
"It's an honor to meet you both, Miss Holmes, Mr. Watson."
Miles looked rather keyed up. Clearly, this opportunity meant a great deal to him.
"Hello," Russell said with a gentle smile.
Charlotte only gave a faint nod and reached out to take up the black tea before her.
"So then, may we begin?" Henry asked.
At that, Russell glanced at Charlotte, then gave a slight nod.
"Of course, no problem. Naturally."
"Well then," Henry rubbed his hands together and signaled to Miles that he could start.
Miles cleared his throat and opened the notebook in his hands, his eyes brimming with excitement and nerves he could not hide.
He began with a few questions about recent cases — Hannigan, for instance, and Pilsen.
These were mostly answered by Russell on their behalf; only in particular instances did Charlotte speak up of her own accord.
Because they had prepared for this in advance, neither Miles nor Henry was surprised by the arrangement.
The interview proceeded in an orderly fashion, and soon the questions about the cases were all done.
"Thank you both for your answers. That concludes our discussion of the cases," Miles said.
He paused, then went on: "Now, how about we move on to some lighter topics?"
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