Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The afternoon lessons slipped by unnoticed, time passing quietly.
As always, the two of them waited until the classroom had emptied before leaving at their own unhurried pace.
At the school gate, Mary rose onto her toes and pressed a light kiss to Russell's cheek, marking the coming of today's farewell.
Russell stood where he was, watching Mary climb into the carriage and vanish from sight, before turning and walking toward Baker Street.
Inside the carriage, Mary gazed out at the streets flying past the window, her hand resting unconsciously on her bag.
She reached inside, and after a moment of searching, drew out a strip of white pills — six in total.
In truth, she had arrived at school early that morning, but hadn't gone straight to the classroom.
Instead, she'd gone to the school infirmary — not to help Miss Sophie, the woman in charge, move things, but to see her about an ailment.
Of course, the ailment itself was a lie. Her real purpose was for these small pills in her hand.
Nothing serious — just barbiturate tablets, prescribed for insomnia.
Using insomnia as her pretext, she'd given a flawless performance, claiming she'd been sleeping badly and that her spirits had suffered for it.
Mrs. Sophie hadn't doubted her for a moment — after all, she knew well enough how much pressure Mary Morstan, Imperial College's most dazzling new student, was under daily.
So, after a brief round of questions and an examination, Mrs. Sophie had given her this strip of barbiturate.
Naturally, she'd warned Mary that it was only for emergencies, not for long-term use.
Mary had readily agreed — after all, this really was for an emergency.
She still remembered Mrs. Sophie's instructions clearly.
For insomnia, one tablet would suffice — a single dose was enough to give an adult a good night's sleep.
Taking more than two would likely bring on a deep sleep requiring strong stimulation to wake from, and could be even more severe for someone who'd never taken the medication before.
And if one took more than four at once, it would likely induce a deep coma — any more than that could even suppress breathing entirely, leading directly to death.
So, to prevent Mary from doing anything foolish, Mrs. Sophie had only given her six tablets — a dose that wouldn't kill her even if she swallowed them all at once, only send her into a deep coma.
Of course, for Mary's purposes, that was more than enough.
The girl's fingers traced gently over the raised little pills before she tucked them carefully away again.
Not yet.
She needed to wait — wait for the right moment, so that everything would appear to fall naturally into place.
The carriage slowly came to a stop.
Mary drew her thoughts back, sat for a moment inside, straightened her appearance, and then stepped out at an unhurried pace.
"Miss." Mel came forward, taking the bag from Mary's hands and falling into step behind her.
Mistress and servant walked on like this, Mel's demeanor no different than usual — yet there seemed to be something weighing on her brow.
Mary's gaze lingered on Mel's face for a moment. Since childhood, Mel had been her personal maid — one of the very few people in this house she could truly trust.
And yet, here and now, that trust seemed about to exist in name only.
Mary said nothing the entire way, not until she returned to her room and shut the door. Then she sat before her vanity, as she always did, and let Mel help brush out her hair.
"Mel." In the midst of the brushing, Mary spoke suddenly, watching her through the mirror.
The maid's body stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into a smile.
"What is it, Miss?"
Her hands stayed steady, moving with gentle, practiced motions, her eyes focused, as though she were simply carrying out this daily routine.
"What's for dinner?" Mary asked, her tone flat and idle.
"Tonight..." Mel thought for a moment, then said, "Tonight the kitchen has prepared roast rack of lamb, with mashed potatoes and asparagus on the side, and caramel pudding for dessert."
"I see," Mary said with a slight nod. "It's gotten colder lately. Remember to keep the hearth well-stoked — Father's study too. Have plenty of charcoal set aside."
"Of course, Miss. The master would be so pleased to know you care for him this much."
"Tomorrow I'll wear the white cashmere coat, the one with the fur trim at the collar — that one's warmer."
"Yes, Miss."
Mel's replies were always brief and respectful, each one perfectly measured, the rhythm of the brush never faltering, steady as a pendulum.
Mary looked at her own reflection in the mirror, then at the downcast maid behind her.
The room fell silent for a few seconds.
"Mel."
"Yes?"
"Did Father say something to you?"
The moment the words fell, Mel's hand paused, if only for an instant.
Mary watched the mirror in silence, studying the maid's reflected reaction.
Mel's breath caught for a beat, then quickly resumed, only slightly quicker than before.
Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. A flash of panic crossed her eyes before it was pressed down, replaced by her usual gentle concern.
Mary took it all in.
"Miss..." Mel's voice came out a little dry. "Why would you ask that?"
"Just curious," Mary said. "After all, yesterday I slipped out without telling anyone, and Father was furious. So I imagine he might have said something to you all about it — did he?"
She held Mel's gaze through the mirror.
Mel pressed her lips together, and finally nodded.
"What did he say?" Mary asked.
"The master said... to watch over you closely," Mel said. "And that Mr. Watson is no longer permitted to visit."
At that, a look of understanding crossed Mary's face, and she nodded — not seeming at all surprised by the demand.
"I see," she said, as if she believed it, and looked away.
After a pause, as though something had just occurred to her, Mary asked, "Mel, do you know Father's schedule for the next few days — no, the next month?"
Mel blinked, caught off guard, then shook her head.
"I don't know, Miss," she said — and this time her tone didn't sound false.
"I'm not responsible for the master's daily affairs. His schedule is William the butler's concern."
That much was true. Mel was Mary's personal maid; she had nothing to do with Arthur Morstan's affairs.
"I suppose that's right," Mary said noncommittally. "Then would you do me a favor and ask Mr. William for me? Could you?
I don't need anything too precise — just find out for me which nights Father won't be home."
She smiled, turning to look back at her friend.
"Can I ask that of you, Mel?"
As the words fell, Mel's grip on the brush tightened without her meaning it to.
She looked at Mary's smiling face in the mirror, and a chill rose in her chest for no reason she could name.
This was the young mistress she'd grown up alongside — gentle, considerate, always wearing a proper smile, never once harsh even to the servants beneath her.
And yet it was precisely this young mistress who now, in this moment, felt utterly unfamiliar to her.
Those blue eyes were as clear as ever, but now they seemed like a bottomless pool — calm on the surface, while underneath ran currents strong enough to swallow everything whole.
Mel knew what order the master had given, and how furious he'd been.
The master had said that if the young mistress showed any further unusual behavior, it was to be reported to him at once — even what she said and did each day was to be recounted to him in full.
And now, the young mistress was asking her to find out the master's schedule, asking her to act as an informant against him...
Mel swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
"Miss..." she said with difficulty, trying to dissuade her. "The master said he doesn't want you having any... overly close dealings with Mr. Watson anymore."
"I know," Mary said, nodding, her smile still gentle. "He already told me so last night."
"Then why..."
"He didn't say I couldn't see him at all, did he?" Mary said with a smile. "I'm just asking you to find out Father's schedule for me, that's all.
Or is this request putting you in a difficult spot, Mel?"
Mary looked at Mel, asking softly, her tone carrying a faint hint of concern. "If it is, then never mind — just forget I asked."
"Miss... I..." Mel didn't know what to do for a moment.
"At the very least... at the very least, tell me what you intend to do first. Can you do that?" she pleaded, as though she couldn't bear to refuse Mary, but also dared not go against Arthur Morstan's wishes.
"Of course," Mary said, smiling.
"I just want to ask you to find out which day, in the next month, Father will be going out at night.
"A-and then?" Mel asked.
"Then, I'd like you to book two tickets at the Royal Opera House ahead of time for that day — a second-floor box, anywhere will do.
I want to go out and watch a play with him, then come back before Father finds out. That's all there is to it."
Mary spoke softly, laying out her plan in full.
"Can I ask this of you, Mel?"
The room fell silent, with only the ticking of the wall clock breaking the quiet.
Mel's hand froze mid-air, still holding the brush, as she stared at that familiar yet unfamiliar face in the mirror.
In those blue eyes there was pleading, there was loneliness, and there was also the faint, lingering longing of a girl trapped in this gilded cage — a longing for the world outside.
Mel opened her mouth, wanting to ask something, but the words caught in her throat and she swallowed them back.
She had grown up alongside Mary since childhood, had seen her wear countless kinds of smiles — the proper smile she practiced in front of the mirror, the polite smile she used to handle noble ladies in social settings, the obedient smile she wore before her father.
And then there was the smile — the one that only ever appeared when she mentioned that young man named Russell Watson.
But now, the smile on Mary's face was none of those. It was a smile Mel had never seen before.
"Mel?"
Mary's voice sounded again, carrying a faint note of confusion, as though wondering why she hadn't answered yet.
Mel snapped back to herself, meeting those eyes.
"Just to go watch a play?" Her voice trembled slightly. "If the master finds out—"
"As long as you don't say anything and I don't say anything, he won't find out."
Mary reached out and gently laid her hand over Mel's, which still rested on her shoulder. The girl's hand was a little cool, but it carried a strangely soothing strength.
"I promise, I'll be back before the play even ends. I won't cause you any trouble at all."
Mary pleaded softly, just as she used to coax Mel as a child for an extra piece of candy.
"Mel, in this house, you're the only one I can trust."
"I... I understand, Miss." Mel lowered her head, avoiding those eyes in the mirror that could pull anyone under.
"I'll find out the master's schedule for you. If it's at night, I'll go to the Royal Opera House ahead of time and book the box tickets for you."
"Thank you, Mel. You really are my best friend." Having gotten the answer she wanted, Mary smiled.
That smile looked like a white camellia blooming anew in a greenhouse — pure and harmless.
So Mel smiled too, as though she'd made the right decision. She finished brushing Mary's hair, then withdrew respectfully from the room.
As the soft click of the door closing sounded, the smile on Mary's face slowly faded away, like a reef exposed as the tide receded, revealing the cold beneath.
This was a trial of trust — and, equally, a gamble.
The room fell deathly silent, with only the wall clock ticking unhurriedly and the fire in the hearth steadily consuming its logs.
Mary sat quietly before the vanity, running her fingers through her long hair, looking at her own reflection.
The face in the mirror remained as delicate as ever, the eyes as clear as those of an innocent girl untouched by the world — yet not a trace of gentleness or warmth remained in her smile.
Mel would go. Of that, Mary had no doubt whatsoever.
Not because Mel wasn't loyal enough — quite the opposite. It was precisely because she was too loyal.
Loyal to this household. Loyal to the head of the Morstan family. Loyal to herself.
And so she was caught in between — unwilling to refuse Mary, yet not daring to defy Arthur.
For a person like that, when faced with an impossible dilemma with no way to choose, the most likely — and safest — option was always to hand the problem up to someone higher.
Mary understood Mel far too well.
Mel would go and inform on her — this was the conclusion Mary had reached, built on her trust in, and her understanding of, Mel.
Perhaps tonight. Perhaps tomorrow morning, after Mary left for Imperial College.
In any case, she would do it. She would say it to that man in a tone full of guilt yet utterly helpless:
[Master, the young mistress asked me to help her hide her plans. She intends to sneak off to see Mr. Watson on the night you're away.]
At the thought, the corner of Mary's mouth curled up despite herself, as though everything were unfolding exactly as she'd expected.
So then — once that man learned of this, what would he do?
Fly into a rage, confront her directly, and lock her up?
No. That would be beneath the dignity and standing of a household master. He was never the kind of man who wore his emotions plainly on his face.
Arthur Morstan had spent a lifetime being proud, and the thing he loved most was control over everything.
If it were him, he certainly wouldn't expose this laughable escape plan ahead of time — that would only backfire.
It would only deepen her defiance, spurring her toward the next act of rebellion, and the next after that.
What he wanted was to snuff out, once and for all, that budding spark of rebellion inside her.
So he would play along, deliberately acting as though everything were normal on that day, letting her go — like a canary that had escaped its cage — joyfully off to that date destined to lead nowhere.
He would graciously grant her a few hours of false freedom, something for her to hold onto as consolation for the rest of her life.
Like a condemned prisoner, allowed one lavish last meal before execution.
By the time she and Russell had finished watching that romantic opera, and crept back into the estate, hearts full of joy and hope for the future—
he would be waiting for her in that dim study.
Sitting in that broad leather armchair, a glass of whisky with ice in hand, he would watch, with the air of a conqueror, the moment his daughter's face turned to horror and despair as she opened the door.
He wanted to crush that last spark of rebellion with his own hands, in the cruelest way possible — to make her understand, once and for all, who truly ruled this house, and her entire life besides.
"What a perfect script," Mary murmured softly to her reflection in the mirror.
"Pity... my schedule's already full."
So, regretfully, the show of the caged bird would have to wrap.
The next day, London's sky cleared for once, pale gold sunlight piercing the early-winter mist and spilling across the old brick walls of Imperial College.
In the lecture hall, sunlight slanted in through the tall arched windows, tiny motes of dust drifting through the air like scattered gold dust.
The old professor stood at the podium, delivering his long, dry lecture in that monotone voice capable of putting anyone to sleep.
To Mary, time at Imperial College felt as fleeting as a dream.
By the time she came back to herself, the bright daylight had already given way to the dusky glow of evening.
The girl stood at the school gate, still holding tightly onto Russell's hand.
"See you tomorrow, Mary." His voice sounded in her ear.
Mary turned back, gave him a small smile, then let go of his hand and, as before, pressed a light kiss to Russell's cheek.
"See you tomorrow," she said softly, then turned and climbed into her family's carriage.
The door shut, sealing away Russell's figure, and sealing away the world of youth and freedom that was Imperial College. The carriage rolled steadily through the evening streets of London, its wheels grinding over the cobblestones with a monotonous, rhythmic sound.
Mary leaned back against the soft seat, quietly watching the streets fly past outside the window.
The last light of the setting sun dyed the River Thames a shimmer of broken gold, the Gothic spires turning into black silhouettes against the glare, while gas lamps flickered on one by one, as though draping the city in a veil of mist.
Mary looked away, closing her eyes to rest.
By the time the carriage passed through the familiar black wrought-iron gates, the sky had gone fully dark. The Morstan Estate blazed with light, like a magnificent cage awaiting the return of its captive bird.
William the butler had been waiting under the porch for some time. As soon as the carriage stopped, he stepped forward at once and opened the door, offering his white-gloved hand with practiced deference.
"Welcome home, Miss."
Mary rested her hand on his wrist, using it for support as she stepped down from the carriage, her movements flawlessly graceful.
"Is Father back?" she asked casually, as if merely making conversation.
"Yes, the master returned an hour ago. He's in the study at present," William answered, his gaze lowered slightly, his manner deferential.
"I see," Mary said with a nod, handing her removed coat to a nearby servant before walking straight toward the stairs.
Crossing the wide entrance hall, passing that closed, dark oak door, Mary's footsteps didn't falter for even a moment.
It wasn't that she hadn't wondered what expression the man behind that door might be wearing right now — perhaps mocking amusement, perhaps the eager anticipation of one waiting for the show to begin, or perhaps a storm cloud of fury.
It didn't matter. She didn't care.
In the end, all she would see was a face utterly peaceful in sleep.
Mary returned to her room and dismissed the servants who came to attend her, keeping only Mel.
The fire in the hearth burned strong, chasing away the chill of early winter — though it couldn't chase away the cold in the girl's eyes.
"Miss..."
Only after the door was shut, and she'd confirmed there was no movement out in the corridor, did Mel finally lower her voice and speak, carefully.
She kept her head bowed, her hands twisting anxiously at the hem of her apron, like a child who'd done something wrong.
Mary walked to the vanity and sat down, and Mel came forward as always, picking up the silver brush to comb her hair.
In the mirror, Mel looked increasingly uneasy, a fine sheen of sweat beading on her forehead.
Not until Mel's composure seemed on the verge of collapse did Mary finally stop, turning her head to look at her.
"Did you find out?" she asked softly, her voice carrying just the right note of anticipation and unease.
"I... I found out," Mel said, swallowing, her voice trembling slightly.
She glanced anxiously left and right, as though worried someone might be watching from somewhere in the room.
"Don't worry, it's just the two of us now," Mary said soothingly.
At that, Mel seemed to relax, as if reassured, and let out a small breath. Then, lowering her voice further, she leaned in to speak into Mary's ear.
"At noon today, while I was chatting with Mr. William, I overheard him mention that the master will be attending an important dinner held by the London Chamber of Commerce on Friday of the week after next — he probably won't be back until late at night."
"The week after next?" Mary raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain?"
"Mr. William said so — it should be certain," Mel said, nodding. "He said he'll be accompanying the master, so he's already arranged our duties for that day ahead of time."
"I see..." Mary nodded, as though accepting this account.
Of course, she knew perfectly well it was a bald-faced lie.
There couldn't possibly be any Chamber of Commerce event the week after next — as a social tool the Morstan family had personally cultivated, how could she possibly lack her own channels of information?
"I understand, Mel," Mary said, turning back to her with a smile. "Thank you."
"N-not at all, Miss." Mel lowered her head, not daring to meet those piercingly honest eyes.
"Oh, and the tickets..." she said, as if remembering something, and hurriedly drew a thin envelope from her waist, pressing it into Mary's hands.
"Here are the tickets, Miss — a second-floor box, just as you asked," she said quickly.
Mary took the envelope and drew out the two tickets inside, their elegant gilt lettering catching the light with a faint shimmer.
The Lady of the Camellias — a tragic story of love.
Generally speaking, private box reservations were leased out long-term, by the season or the month, and needed to be booked weeks or even months in advance.
The Morstan household had no habit of leasing a box long-term, since Arthur Morstan had no taste for such entertainments.
So obtaining a ticket for a box on Friday the week after next, on such short notice, should have been nearly impossible — the boxes would have already been fully booked.
Unless someone who already held a box reservation was willing to give up their tickets.
And a mere maidservant, of course, could never obtain something like that — not even invoking her own name.
So the source of these two tickets... was self-evident.
This had been the trap Mary had set from the very beginning.
For Mel, this had been an absolutely impossible task to complete.
Had she come back with two tickets for the front rows of the main floor, apologizing that she hadn't been able to secure a private box, Mary might have had to wonder whether her plan had somehow gone awry.
But now, two private box tickets sat plainly before her eyes — and their presence could mean only one thing.
The fish had taken the bait.
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