The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. Russell raised one eyebrow at Mary, whose wariness and hostility had returned.
"Don't worry. I'm just saying. I have no interest in poor boys from the orphanage."
"In fact, I've helped him out a couple of times. For example, sometimes I'd have him deliver parcels to the Fleet Street newspapers and let him pick up a little pocket money that way."
"I hope what you're saying is true."
Mary picked up her teacup again, but with the cup hiding her face, Russell couldn't read her real emotions.
"Of course I'm telling you the truth." Russell nodded, then decided to change the subject. "But you seem to be rather interested in him, don't you?"
Cough.
Mary choked on her tea, a slight glimmer of tears coming to her eyes as she coughed. She quickly set down her teacup, took out her handkerchief, and with a composed grace wiped her lips, as though that moment of fluster hadn't happened at all. The flickering light from the fireplace perfectly concealed the fleeting unnatural redness in her cheeks.
[Mary Morstan is flustered and irritated by your words. Malice Level +10.]
Eh?
Russell squinted at her.
"He's the only person at Imperial College I find even remotely interesting," Mary answered a bit awkwardly. "At least compared to the rest."
"Is that so?" Russell, who never shied from a good show, pressed on for an answer, but was only met with the girl's glare and an additional ten points of malice.
"Are you interested in gossip about others?" Mary asked, clearly annoyed.
"You still haven't answered my question."
"What's your problem?"
"Why did you become a phantom thief?" Mary pressed on, as if she wouldn't give up till she got an answer. "Was this Mycroft's idea, or your own?"
"Hmm… Let's just say, I do it purely out of curiosity."
"Out of curiosity…"
Russell's gaze drifted away from his teacup and out the window. At some point, the rain had stopped, the dark clouds had vanished, and the waning moon now hung in the sky, its cool light shining down on the earth.
"Well, it's getting late, miss. Please get some rest."
Saying this, he turned and walked toward the open French window.
"Wait!"
Mary instinctively stood up. "One last question."
Too much curiosity can kill a cat.
Russell stopped and glanced back at her.
"Why did you return the items?"
Mary met the masked eyes directly, as if trying to see through them. "This can't be Mycroft's intention. Why did you do it?"
Confronted by this question, Russell fell silent for a while. The moonlight and the firelight mingled together, half-bright, half in shadow. He stood still, like a statue deep in thought, saying nothing.
Mary didn't rush him; she waited patiently; she knew this answer mattered to her.
It was hard to say how much time passed, but he finally spoke, his voice as light and casually flippant as always, full of phantom thief nonchalance.
"Of course, out of curiosity. What else could it be?"
And with that, he made to leave, with no lasting attachment—as if their short exchange, this ambiguous verbal match, was nothing more than an impromptu game.
"Stop."
Mary's voice rang out again.
Russell stopped moving. Half his body was leaning out the window, already soaked in the chill of the night, but his masked face remained outlined by the warm firelight indoors.
"Pestering someone isn't how a proper lady behaves."
"That's not an answer," Mary said. "I want the real answer, not some catchphrase you say on stage."
"That is my real answer, Miss Morstan," Russell replied.
"Do you find this world interesting?"
He asked a question similar to Charlotte's, but in fact quite different.
"Utterly boring," she replied. "Terrible scripts, hypocritical actors, everyone wearing masks and speaking insincere lines—it's like a third-rate play."
"That's right." Russell avoided a direct answer, echoing her: "Utterly boring."
He paused, set both feet on the window frame, then turned his back on the night sky to face Mary.
"That's why we need a little improvisational entertainment—to add surprise or delight to life. Why so serious?"
Under the girl's gaze he dipped his head lightly, as a stage actor would bow gracefully before exiting the scene.
"Good night, fair lady."
With that, he raised both hands and leaned back, dropping into the night's darkness.
Mary stood frozen for a while, then, reacting, hurried forward to look down—but the phantom thief had already vanished into the night, as if he'd never been there at all. Like a drop of water dissolving into the endless sea.
Mary stood by the window for a long time without moving.
The night breeze brought the last raindrops, rustling her long silver hair and clearing her mind a little more with its chill. Slowly she averted her gaze and looked at the coffee table, at the two barely-touched cups of tea atop it.
One cup still held the faint warmth of the person who had sat across the sofa from her.
At some point the fire in the hearth had died down, and only the glowing red embers stubbornly flickered with the last of their light in the darkness.
Mary slowly closed the window, cutting off the cold from outside.
She walked to the coffee table, picked up the now-cold cup of tea left behind by her guest, and drained it in one gulp.
The bitterness of the theophylline spread across her tongue.
Then, her gaze fell to the plate of cookies.
She frowned slightly, bent down, and began to count.
There were four in total.
Given the need to watch her calorie and sugar intake, Mary always had the maid make exactly six cookies per serving—six cookies and a cup of tea was just right for her.
During the earlier fireside conversation, she'd eaten only one.
Normally, there should have been five left. Now, only four.
Mary's fingertips hovered over the white porcelain plate, just above the remaining cookies.
In her mind's eye, she began replaying everything that had just happened.
He took a cookie.
Her own fingertips, steady and not the least bit trembling, held the edge of a butter biscuit.
Because of his mask, he couldn't actually eat it; the mask was a clear physical obstacle.
Without even looking, he'd casually put it back on the plate.
The whole process was seamless.
When had that happened?
Was he just indulging his theory, purely for his own amusement?
Or was it when he stood up and walked toward the window, his tall frame blocking her view?
Or maybe, had she been thrown off at that moment by his glib retort?
No. None of these.
Mary slowly closed her eyes.
The gates of her memory palace swung open, fragments of images flashing by, rearranging and reassembling themselves.
Finally, the scene stopped at the very moment he revealed his connection with Mycroft.
Everything had happened in that brief instant.
He'd been satisfied with a little counterattack, and had drawn attention to the mask and its odd, tiny movements.
Without her noticing, one of the cookies on the table had disappeared.
The perfect example of a reversal.
The girl couldn't help but laugh.
She took a cookie and popped it into her mouth, savoring its sweetness.
Mary spoke softly. Her voice drifted into the night, carried by the wind, and merged with another voice.
"Delicious."
…