The rain was still falling.
It had noticeably weakened when they'd first left, but somehow, halfway through the carriage ride, it had abruptly turned fierce again.
Like a child who'd nearly been soothed into calm, only to throw another tantrum and start wailing anew.
Arthur Morstan stood beneath the porch, the brightly lit manor at his back and the rain-shrouded night before him.
He simply stood there, hands clasped behind him, his gaze cutting through the curtain of rain to settle on the girl beneath the umbrella.
Mary walked at an unhurried pace, the lace hem of her shirtdress swaying gently in the wind, the ill-fitting overcoat wrapped around her slender frame looking distinctly out of place.
She stopped beneath the porch, three steps from her father, then lifted her head.
Arthur Morstan's gaze first settled on her face—a faint flush still lingered on those fine features, a trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth, her sapphire eyes remarkably clear, showing not a hint of guilt, nor any inclination to look away.
Then his gaze drifted downward, to the black overcoat that plainly wasn't hers. It was a man's coat, and given what she'd been through today, it wasn't hard to guess whose it was.
"You're back," the man said, his voice calm, as if his daughter's willful flight from home hadn't angered him at all.
"Yes, I'm back," Mary said, nodding and giving a slight, graceful bow.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Very much."
Arthur gave a slight nod, his gaze still fixed on her. The moment he'd seen her step down from the carriage, he'd felt something strong, something unmistakable.
She had changed.
This, he supposed, was what people called a rebellious phase.
"That coat of yours," he said.
At his words, Mary glanced down at the coat and smiled faintly.
"It's Russell's," she said. "He was worried I'd catch cold, so he had me wear it."
"I see."
The man made a sound of acknowledgment, then turned and walked toward the house.
"Don't stand out here. Come inside."
His voice was neither loud nor soft, but it carried an authority that brooked no argument.
"All right," Mary answered, then lifted her skirt and followed after him.
The butler closed the umbrella and followed behind the two of them, then gently shut the heavy front door, sealing off the wind and rain outside.
The entrance hall was warm as spring, the fire in the hearth flickering and casting out a mellow warmth.
Arthur Morstan removed his coat and handed it to a servant nearby, then turned and headed for the study.
"Miss."
The butler stepped forward, meaning to take the oversized coat from Mary's hands, but the girl merely shook her head. Not only did she not take it off, she pulled it even tighter around herself, as if treasuring it.
"That won't be necessary," she said.
The butler paused for a moment, then nodded, gave a slight bow, and stepped aside.
The study door closed quietly behind her.
Arthur walked to his desk, picked up a glass, and poured himself a whisky, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. He didn't look at her, nor did he offer her a seat.
So the girl could only stand across the desk, straight-backed, like any summoned servant.
The study was silent, save for the crackle of burning wood in the hearth and the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Mary waited a while. When the man showed no sign of speaking, her gaze wandered over the layout of the study.
The doors and windows, the hearth, the position of the desk, the arrangement of the liquor cabinet...
She wasn't sure how long had passed before she finally heard the man's voice ring out ahead of her.
"Today's guest," Arthur said slowly, his eyes on the coat she wore, "how did you entertain him?"
"Very well," Mary answered. "I showed him around the estate and we had afternoon tea in the glasshouse."
"And then?"
"Then... we went out for a walk."
"A walk?" Arthur repeated the word, his tone flat. "All the way to Baker Street?"
"Yes."
"No servants, no carriage, running madly through the streets, getting soaked to the bone, and coming home wearing a man's clothes?"
"Yes."
Mary didn't deny it, and her voice carried not a trace of a tremor or guilt.
Arthur nodded. The room fell silent for a few seconds, then he rose, came around the desk, and stood before Mary.
He didn't raise his voice, didn't press her with further questions—he simply looked at her.
That calm gaze felt like an invisible net, tightening bit by bit, trying to wrap around her, to steal the breath from her lungs.
This was his favored trick.
Not to crush someone with thunderous rage, but to build pressure through silence, letting the other person unravel themselves amid unease and speculation.
In the past, the girl might have spoken up first—apologized, admitted her fault.
But now, she only lifted her head and met his gaze, calm and steady.
"And what about this dress you're wearing?" Arthur's gaze fell on Mary's clothing—not the overcoat this time, but the shirtdress beneath it, unbefitting her station.
"I don't recall giving you permission to wear something so unseemly. It's disgraceful, Mary.
Not only to yourself, but to the entire family. You're bringing shame upon the Morstan name."
"I don't think a dress warrants such a serious accusation, Father," Mary countered coolly.
"Such a serious accusation?" Arthur suddenly laughed.
"A dress alone, perhaps not. But what about running heedlessly down Kensington Street, holding a man's hand?
You made yourself look like some smuggler fleeing Whitechapel—is that not serious enough?"
Mary said nothing, but her silence was itself an answer.
"It seems that assistant of his is more charming than I gave him credit for, doesn't it?"
Arthur Morstan went on.
"He's made you forget who you are, forget the rules you're meant to follow, forget who you used to be."
As he spoke, his voice rose gradually, the anger he'd been holding back slipping from his control.
"I gave you the chance to work him because I wanted you to control him—to turn him into a piece on your board, a sharp blade in your hand.
But what did you do? Not only did you fail to control him, you let yourself get pulled into this absurd game—you even talked back to your own father, for his sake!"
As he spoke, he looked at Mary with eyes full of disappointment.
"I thought you were clever enough, Mary. I thought you knew what to do and what not to do.
I thought you understood that a man like him only needs a crooked finger, a little sweetness thrown his way, and he'd walk through fire for you, hand over everything willingly.
But you—what did you do?"
His voice suddenly dropped low again, as if a block of ice had sunk into a lake.
"I brought you back, gave you the best education, the best life, made you the most dazzling socialite in all of London, and I even took a step back and let you play that foolish game of house with that penniless boy.
But you've actually gone and taken it seriously. You've actually placed yourself on equal footing with him—even below him!
You're currying favor with him, indulging him, and for his sake, you're willing to cast aside the Morstan family's honor and reputation entirely!"
"I haven't," Mary retorted.
"You haven't?" Arthur said, as though he'd just heard the greatest joke of his life.
"Then tell me—what's the explanation for that coat you're wearing, for the way you're standing before me right now, for that look on your face, like your soul's been stolen away? Who's responsible for that?!"
"..."
"Mary." Arthur took a deep breath, as if trying to calm his own anger.
He drained the whisky in his glass, then turned, bent down, and looked her in the eye.
"Listen. This is my final warning to you—you may go on seeing him, go on playing the gentle, kind confidante. I won't interfere.
But remember this—"
His voice dropped low, like a serpent flicking its tongue.
"You are a Morstan. You are my daughter. I gave you your life, and I will decide your future.
The man you marry must be someone who can bring the Morstan family enormous benefit—an ally who can raise our family to greater heights, not some penniless boy with nothing but talent and a bit of fame, and no foundation to speak of."
"He—"
"Don't talk to me about his future," Arthur cut her off. "No one knows when that bright future you speak of will actually arrive, or how high it will ever reach.
I said I'd invest in him. I never said I'd stake the entire Morstan fortune on him."
He stared into her eyes, each word deliberate.
"As long as I'm alive, you and he can never be together.
You can treat him as an amusing toy, a capable subordinate—even, once you're married, groom him into a lover kept in the shadows, and I won't have any objection.
But on one point, there is no exception—he can never, ever be your husband, your open and acknowledged partner!"
Arthur Morstan looked at the girl before him, at that face as unreadable as a mask.
"This is my final concession, Mary. Don't provoke me any further.
This rebellious phase—it's time it ended."
The smell of whisky mingled with the tobacco scent of cigar smoke, sweeping toward Mary like an invisible net.
The air in the study felt drained dry. The flames still danced in the hearth, but they couldn't bring even a trace of warmth.
The man's voice still echoed in her ears, but the girl's face showed no reaction at all.
She stood before the desk, quietly listening to her father's reproach, those sapphire eyes—always so gentle and full of warmth—now still as a deep pool, without a single ripple.
She didn't argue, didn't protest, didn't let even a flicker of emotion show.
It was as if everything he'd said was nothing more than irrelevant noise, gone the moment the wind passed through.
"Do you understand?" Arthur's voice carried a faint trace of lingering anger.
"I understand, Father." Mary nodded slightly, her voice steady and giving nothing away.
Arthur looked at her, fell silent for a moment, then waved his hand.
"Get out."
"Yes," Mary answered, then turned and walked out of the study at an unhurried pace.
But just as her hand was about to reach the doorknob, Arthur's voice rang out behind her once more.
"Wait."
Mary's footsteps stopped, but she didn't turn around.
"Send that coat back," Arthur's voice came from behind her, cold as ice.
"I don't want to see anything in this house that doesn't belong here."
The girl's fingers, reaching for the doorknob, curled slightly, then relaxed again.
"I will," she said, then pushed the door open and walked out.
The door closed quietly behind her.
Mary made her way to her room, her footsteps swallowed by the carpet.
She pushed open the door, and a cool, crisp air washed over her.
The room was dark, no lamps lit, only the faint light from the window offering the barest illumination.
The hearth was cold. Inside, the ashes of last night's coal had turned to pale gray, piled beneath the iron grate.
The girl stood in the doorway, staring at that cold hearth for a long while before finally stepping inside.
"Miss?" Mel's voice came from beyond the door, tinged with worry.
"Would you like me to light the fire for you?" she asked.
Mary was silent for a moment, then shook her head. "No need."
"I'll do it myself," she said, walking over to the hearth.
Mel paused, seeming to want to say something, but in the end she only nodded and gently closed the door.
The room fell silent once more.
Mary crouched down and reached for the matchbox beside the hearth—a small brass box, its surface carved with delicate patterns, a gift from some guest last Christmas that she'd never used, since lighting fires was never something she was expected to do.
The matchbox felt heavy in her palm, carrying the cold touch peculiar to metal.
She drew out a single match but didn't light it right away, only stared at it, as if waiting for something, or confirming something.
Then she struck it.
A soft hiss.
A small sound, and light bloomed in the darkness.
The flame was tiny, faint, flickering at the tip of the matchstick, like some timid fairy just awakened from sleep.
Mary watched that little flame, watched it sway gently in the draft, yet never go out.
Her eyes were lit by it.
In those sapphire eyes, a small, flickering flame was now reflected.
That flame was small, barely enough against the darkness of the room, but in her eyes, there was nothing else—only that fire.
She bent down, bringing the match close to the kindling already laid in the hearth.
The flame licked at the dry wood, like a toddler taking its first steps, cautiously probing and spreading through the gaps between the logs.
Mary crouched before the hearth, quietly watching that small flame grow, little by little, from a single spark into a warm, orange glow.
It leapt and danced in the hearth, lighting up the whole room.
The girl's shadow stretched long across the wall behind her, swaying gently with the flickering flame.
Her face, too, was tinted warm by the fire, those sapphire eyes now reflecting the dancing flames, like two seas set alight by a sunset.
Mary closed her eyes.
The warmth of the fire wrapped around her, like an unseen embrace.
The girl walked to the vanity and looked at her reflection in the mirror.
"The rebellious phase is over now, Mary," she said softly.
"Time to grow up."
It was time to share her father's burdens.
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