As his words settled, the interview room fell silent for a moment.
The fountain pen in Miles's hand hovered above his notebook, and Henry, teacup in hand, froze mid-motion as well.
The steam curled up from the tea, spiraling before his stunned face.
"Bu— Buckingham Palace?" Miles's voice trembled slightly, as though he were terrified of having misheard.
"That's right," Russell said, nodding, his expression calm. "At the time, we were invited by Mr. Mycroft to help handle a few… well, rather special matters."
"A few matters," Charlotte repeated beside him, a teasing note in her voice that only Russell could catch.
"Someone very nearly earned the right to drink Afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace on a permanent basis."
"Ahem, ahem…" Russell coughed twice and shot Charlotte a look.
Hold your tongue, will you.
Miles and Henry glanced at each other, and each saw the same gleam in the other's eyes.
"Could— could you tell us more?" Miles tried to make his voice sound professional, but the trembling tip of his pen betrayed his excitement.
"Hmm… as for that." Russell fell silent for a moment.
"There are some things I'm not at liberty to reveal in too much detail. I hope you'll both understand.
That said, what I can tell you is that Buckingham Palace held our work in very high regard.
Miss Holmes's professional abilities were, at that level of occasion, fully recognized as well."
"That level of occasion…" Miles murmured, his pen racing across the page.
"In other words, the two of you have received official endorsement of your work?"
"You could say that," Russell said with a nod.
He glanced at Charlotte beside him.
The girl was holding her teacup, expression faint as she sipped her black tea, eyes lowered slightly, as if the conversation had nothing to do with her.
A trace of moisture from the black tea glistened at the corner of Charlotte's lips, catching a wet sheen in the light.
She said nothing, wore no expression, simply sat there in silence — yet somehow all the light in the room seemed to gather around her.
Beside her, Russell went on speaking with ease, his tone gentle and measured, every word landing just right.
And she merely listened, lifting her cup for the occasional sip, like a lazy cat that couldn't be bothered with any of it.
Only the tip of that cat's tail would twitch, ever so faintly, whenever certain key words reached her ears.
"Co— could you tell us exactly what sort of matters they were?" Miles ventured.
"Of course, if it's not convenient…"
"It really isn't convenient," Russell interrupted him gently. "Matters of the royal family — you understand."
"Was… was it something to do with Moriarty?" Miles pressed on, unwilling to let it go.
"Miles." Henry coughed twice, cutting off his subordinate, though his own gaze stayed fixed on Russell.
"On that point, forgive me — I can't say too much," Russell said with a smile.
Henry and Miles took the hint.
Refusing to reveal something was, in itself, a kind of revelation.
"I understand, I understand!" Miles scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"So long as you understand it in your head, Mr. Miles," Russell reminded him tactfully, his eyes falling on the notebook. "You mustn't write it down too plainly, you know?"
"Of— of course!" Miles nodded hard, then crossed out what he had just written.
"Now then," Miles drew a deep breath, forcing his attention back to the notebook.
"About your time at Buckingham Palace — is there any… I mean, is there anything you could share, some, hmm, more interesting detail?"
Russell thought about it.
"The corridor was very long," he said. "Longer than I'd imagined.
Portraits of past kings and queens hung on both sides, and the eyes in the paintings seemed to follow you as you walked — it was quite a remarkable feeling."
He paused, then added, "And the Afternoon tea there was rather good."
"Pfft—"
Charlotte finally lost her composure and let out the softest laugh.
The sound was faint, so faint it was almost negligible, yet in the quiet of the interview room it rang out with unusual clarity.
Miles and Henry both looked at her at once.
The amusement had already vanished from Charlotte's face, returning to that expressionless mask — only the faint flush at the tips of her ears betrayed her slip a moment before.
"Ahem." She cleared her throat and set down her cup. "The tea's gone cold."
Russell glanced at her, then at the teacup in her hand.
"Shall I have someone bring you a fresh cup?"
"No need."
"Understood."
The brief exchange ended, and the interview room fell quiet again.
"Ahem," Henry cleared his throat. "The next question, the next question."
Miles drew a deep breath, steadied his excitement, and turned his mind to what he should ask next.
He first glanced down at what he'd written, then frowned for no apparent reason.
For some reason, Miles had a gut feeling —
that compared with all those earth-shaking cases, the faint, elusive, indescribable rapport between the two people before him might be the very thing readers would find most captivating.
So, after mulling it over for a moment, he turned to Charlotte, his tone far more respectful than before.
"Miss Holmes," Miles began.
"As the most renowned detective in London, you must have encountered all manner of people, haven't you?"
"Mm." Charlotte gave a noncommittal reply. "But the vast majority of them are terribly dull."
Miles chose to ignore the latter half of that remark and asked the question he cared about most.
"Then, in your eyes, what sort of person is your assistant, Mr. Watson?"
The question came a little abruptly, yet it made perfect sense.
Charlotte's hand, just about to lift her teacup, paused in midair.
She raised her eyes and looked at Russell seated beside her.
Russell was looking at her too, a trace of curious amusement on his face, as if awaiting her answer.
Charlotte's gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds, then slid away as if nothing had happened, and she picked up her cup and took a light sip.
She did not answer.
As though she needed some time to think.
The interview room was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the old clock on the wall, the distant rumble of carriages from Fleet Street, the faint rustle of paper from the editorial office downstairs.
Miles's pen-holding hand hung in the air, waiting.
Henry's gaze rested on Charlotte, waiting too.
Even the thin thread of winter sunlight beyond the window seemed to be waiting.
She took another sip of tea, her thoughts turning over in the mellow fragrance of the black tea.
Then, at last, Charlotte slowly set down her cup and lifted her eyes.
White porcelain met saucer with a crisp, light chime.
"Russell Watson."
The moment she spoke the name, Miles's pen dropped to the paper.
"He is a…" Charlotte paused.
The girl's gaze settled on Russell, as if searching for the right word.
At last, after that maddening, itching stretch of waiting, Charlotte spoke the second half of her sentence.
"He is a very strange fellow."
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