A faint pressure pulled at Russell's wrist.
He glanced down. Her pale hand was gripping his arm tightly, refusing to let him pull away.
Seeing this, Russell smiled and let his hand be led by hers. It should have been him escorting her by the arm — instead, she was the one pulling him along.
The two of them walked into the opera house's grand hall. Light poured down from the crystal chandeliers, gilding the entire space, while the polished marble floor beneath the red carpet echoed faintly with the footsteps of tail-coated attendants weaving through the crowd, guiding each guest to their seats.
Russell's gaze swept across the hall. The curious, appraising looks were still there, though far more restrained than before.
After all, this was a formal occasion — those who came here to watch a show were hardly ordinary people, and no one would lose their composure enough to approach and pepper them with questions.
Charlotte paid the stares no mind at all. Her eyes drifted calmly across the hall, taking in everyone's clothing, expressions, and the distances between them.
"Notice anything new, Detective?" Russell asked quietly beside her.
"The performance began the moment we stepped through the door," Charlotte said, in a voice pitched for Russell alone.
"Just from what I've seen so far, out of fourteen couples, six are having affairs. Two of them even snuck out on their actual partners tonight.
Except it turns out their actual partners came too — and now both sides are pretending not to recognize each other."
At that, Russell raised an eyebrow and couldn't help but laugh.
They reached the attendant, presented their tickets, and were led to their seats.
Mrs. Hudson's two tickets were for an excellent spot — a private box dead center on the second floor, with a wide, unobstructed view of the entire stage, and just enough distance from the ground-floor crowd to feel pleasantly removed.
"This way, please," the attendant said, bowing slightly as he pulled open the box's door.
Russell and Charlotte stepped inside. The box wasn't large, but it was exquisitely furnished — soft carpet underfoot, two comfortable armchairs positioned at the center, and between them a small round table holding a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses.
Once they were seated, the attendant brought them a programme and a plate of delicate little sweets, then withdrew without a sound, leaving the private space entirely to them.
"Mrs. Hudson's connections really are something," Russell said, settling into the left-hand armchair with a note of admiration.
"Tickets at this level don't just get handed out."
"A single old woman with no children, owning a house of her own in Baker Street of all places — you think she's just anybody?" Charlotte countered, absently touching the sapphire pendant at her neck.
"When she was young, her suitors supposedly lined up from Baker Street all the way to Piccadilly Circus."
"Really?" Russell looked genuinely surprised. "She's never mentioned that to me."
"Why would I lie about that," Charlotte said, picking up the programme.
"I heard it from her over afternoon tea, back when you weren't home.
She had a relationship once, but after the man died unexpectedly, she never went looking for anyone new."
"Oh..." Russell nodded, and let the subject drop.
After a while, the lights in the theater began to dim, and the once-murmuring audience gradually fell quiet.
The curtain on the stage slowly parted, announcing the start of the performance.
The two exchanged a glance, then turned their attention to the stage in unspoken agreement.
The curtain drew back to reveal the first act, set in the countryside, where a chorus in modest dress sang a cheerful opening number.
Dorothy itself was a play with over a decade of history behind it, a classic comedic romance.
The story unfolds in a small village in Kent, where the squire Bantam's daughter Dorothy and her cousin Lydia, weary of upper-class formality, disguise themselves as ordinary country girls — "Dorcas" and "Abigail" — to slip into the local festival.
Meanwhile, a London dandy named Jeffrey Wilder, fleeing his creditors and meant to marry a cousin he's never met — this same Dorothy — happens to arrive in the same village.
Fate brings the two together, sparking a chain of misunderstandings, coincidences, and comic mishaps in no short supply.
Russell watched the exaggerated antics onstage, occasionally laughing aloud, but more often than not, his attention drifted to the woman beside him.
Charlotte watched intently, her expression unchanging from start to finish — as though she were simply observing, without feeling a thing.
Not until the end of the third act, when the curtain fell on the leading couple embracing beneath the stage lights, pledging themselves to each other, did applause finally ring through the theater.
"What did you think?" Russell asked.
Charlotte was silent for a few seconds before answering.
"Illogical," she said.
"Jeffrey comes to the countryside to escape his creditors, meets a disguised Dorothy, and is instantly smitten — abandoning his original purpose entirely to pursue her.
And Dorothy just falls for him the same way, exchanging rings with him as a token of their engagement... It's far too hasty. They've known each other less than a day."
At that, Russell smiled. "So how long do you think it should take?"
Charlotte paused, then met his eyes.
"...I don't know," she said, looking away. "But a day certainly isn't enough."
"What about love at first sight?" Russell said.
"What people call love at first sight is usually just infatuation with a face," Charlotte said flatly.
"..." Russell was quiet for a moment. "Maybe it's the atmosphere, then?"
"The atmosphere?"
"Mm-hm," Russell nodded. "Atmosphere matters a great deal."
Charlotte said nothing, but in her mind, she suddenly recalled last night.
The bridge over the River Thames, the cold wind of a winter night, and the pale, distant moon overhead.
Could that count as an atmosphere?
She'd wondered about it too, once she'd gone home — why she'd kissed him at all, when nothing would have changed if she hadn't. But she'd simply wanted to.
No logic to it, no reason. Just a pure impulse — the same as Dorothy and Jeffrey exchanging rings.
The atmosphere was right, the feeling was right, and so it simply happened.
Charlotte pulled her thoughts back, her gaze settling on the unopened bottle of champagne on the table.
"Care for some?" Russell noticed her looking. "I'll call the attendant to open it."
"No need for all that," Charlotte said, picking up the champagne and the opener, uncorking it with practiced ease.
The cork came loose with a soft pop, and a faint scent of fruit and wine filled the box.
Charlotte lifted a flute glass and poured in the golden liquid, bubbles rising through the light like strings of tiny pearls.
She handed one glass to Russell.
"I'm not sure whether you're right," Charlotte said, watching him, the gray-blue of her eyes catching the swirling wine in her glass, "but we could try to find out."
"Try?" Russell took the glass, looking at her with curiosity.
"You said atmosphere matters," Charlotte said, swirling the glass in her hand. "So let's test it — see if having this makes the atmosphere any better."
Russell looked at her, and suddenly laughed.
"All right," he said, raising his glass. "Let's test it."
A crisp clink rang out in the quiet box, the golden liquid shimmering in the glasses, refracting a hazy light.
They each took a sip.
The cool liquid slid down his throat, a hint of sweetness and tiny bubbles bursting on his tongue, leaving a lingering fragrance.
"Well?" Charlotte asked.
"Not bad," Russell said, nodding. "Better than I expected."
Charlotte nodded slightly and took another sip.
"Aside from that, there's the plot logic to consider," she added.
"In the second act, that whole business with the man pretending to be a duke staging a fake robbery — it was designed too stupidly. Even Lestrade would've spotted something off.
How could a real duke show up alone at a country estate, with only a single secretary in tow?
And then he claims he's lost money — an amount that just happens to match Jeffrey's debt exactly — and Sir Bantam, a squire, doesn't even think to call the police but instead just hands over cash to smooth things over? It doesn't hold up.
If he'd already seen through the disguise, that would be one thing. But then in the third act, if the creditor hadn't spoken up himself, he'd probably have gone to his grave none the wiser."
At that, Russell couldn't help but laugh.
"It's a romantic comedy, Charlotte," he said. "The audience isn't here for some earth-shattering mystery. They're here to relax."
"I know," Charlotte nodded, taking another sip of champagne. "I'm just stating the facts."
She paused, then added:
"Of course, setting the plot aside, at least the final score, the acting, and the lines were all quite good.
Not for nothing has this play kept getting revived for over a decade."
In the end, she gave it a positive review after all.
"Good, that's a relief," Russell said, exhaling. "Any use for your data processing?"
"None," Charlotte said without hesitation. "No reference value at all."
"Why not?" Russell asked.
"Because you're not Jeffrey, and I'm not Dorothy," Charlotte said.
"They fell in love at first sight and plunged headlong into it, the whole thing taking less than three days.
Most of that time was spent on misunderstandings and comic mishaps — the time actually spent confirming their feelings for each other was probably less than half a day.
Like you said, the only reason they could do that is because they're characters in a play. We're not."
Charlotte swirled her glass.
"We've known each other far longer, we interact in far more complicated ways, and there's far more tangled up between us.
Cases. Studies. Each of our own pasts and secrets."
She stopped suddenly, not finishing the thought, and changed the subject instead.
"But there is one thing you got right."
"What's that?"
"Atmosphere. It really does matter," Charlotte said.
"Moonlight, music, two silhouettes... that feeling like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you."
She paused. "In that moment, I suddenly understood why an audience would be moved by a scene like that, why they'd cheer.
Not because the plot made any sense, and not because the two actors performed all that brilliantly. Just... because the feeling was right."
She took another sip of champagne.
"That urge to want to be close to someone — it can override logic entirely.
Thanks to this play, I think... I understand that a little now."
"And yet you just said it had no reference value whatsoever."
"Fine, I take that back. There's some value in it," Charlotte said, then drained her champagne in one go.
"Let's go, Russell. It's over."
"Mm." Russell nodded and stood, preparing to leave the box.
But just then, he felt his hand suddenly caught.
"Oh, right, one more thing," Charlotte said, reaching out and grabbing hold of Russell's bow tie.
"What—"
Russell's sentence was cut off halfway, his neck yanked down by a sudden, surprising force, the rest of his words swallowed whole.
A faint scent of champagne mixed with her familiar smell of coffee and old books filled Russell's senses.
Russell's lips were sealed shut.
This kiss didn't land at the corner of his mouth, and it certainly didn't land on his cheek.
It was lips against lips, meeting with no margin for error.
Russell froze completely.
That soft touch, carrying a hint of coolness and the sweetness of champagne, felt far too real to be a dream.
The kiss was clumsy — just the meeting of two mouths, nothing deeper, and it didn't last long.
After about one or two seconds, Charlotte pulled away.
Her breathing was unsteady, her chest rising and falling slightly, the flush on her cheeks deeper than before — whether from the alcohol or something else, it was hard to say.
"What was that—" Russell started, his voice caught on something in his throat.
"Verification," Charlotte cut him off. "That one earlier, too."
Her voice was pitched lower than usual, carrying a deliberate calm — but the faint tremor at the end of her words gave her away.
"Verification... of the atmosphere thing?"
"Mm."
"All right, then..."
Russell nodded, then, before he could stop himself, asked: "So what's the conclusion?"
At that, something flickered in Charlotte's eyes.
"The conclusion is... that atmosphere really does matter."
With that, she stepped quickly past Russell and strode out of the box without looking back, leaving only a hurried retreating figure behind.
Russell stood there, straightening his bow tie where she'd tugged it askew, and stood a while longer, waiting for his racing heart to settle before he finally followed.
Outside the opera house, the night had deepened.
A cold wind swept past, scattering a few fallen leaves across the ground and stirring the hems of the ladies' skirts.
Charlotte stood by the carriage, arms crossed, gazing off into the distance, lost in thought.
When she sensed Russell approaching, her body stiffened almost imperceptibly, but she didn't look up.
"Let's go," Russell's voice sounded by her ear, his tone as ordinary as ever.
"Mm," Charlotte answered softly, as if nothing had happened, and pulled open the carriage door, climbing inside.
Russell followed close behind.
The carriage set off slowly, carrying the two of them into the quiet London night.
Inside the cabin, it was silent — neither of them spoke.
Charlotte leaned by the window, watching the streets flash past, streetlamp light sweeping across her face in flickers of light and shadow.
Russell sat across from her, his gaze resting on her — the faint blush at the edge of her ears, the tightness of her pressed lips.
Neither spoke a word the whole ride, until the carriage stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson was already asleep, and the sitting room held only the dim glow of a small night lamp.
The two of them fell into step together, softening their footsteps as they climbed the stairs one after the other.
At the end of the hallway, Charlotte stopped and turned to face Russell.
"I... I'm going to my room," she said, her voice much quieter than usual, hardly daring to meet his eyes.
"Mm." Russell nodded. "Good night."
Charlotte turned and went into her room, the door closing softly behind her.
She walked to the mirror and looked at the flushed, distracted reflection staring back at her.
Mycroft's words echoed in her mind once more.
Only the crying child gets the candy.
But as it turned out, she hadn't cried, and she'd gotten the candy anyway.
That candy tasted like champagne.
The next day.
Russell slept until around ten.
Unlike the previous night's insomnia, to guarantee he'd be well rested today, he'd specifically bought a small dose of sleeping medicine from the System Shop and taken it before bed.
The effect kicked in fast, sending him into an infant-deep sleep almost instantly.
As a result, he'd missed the usual time he made breakfast.
When Russell hurried downstairs after dressing, he found the door across the hall still shut, and Charlotte nowhere to be seen.
Someone was busy in the kitchen, but it was Mrs. Hudson.
Seeing this, Russell relaxed a little and headed down.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."
"Good morning, Russell," Mrs. Hudson said, turning to give him a smile.
"How was the opera last night?"
"Well... thanks to you, it was quite good," Russell said. "Please thank your friend for Charlotte and me."
"Of course, she'd be thrilled to hear it," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile, setting breakfast down on the table.
"Is Charlotte still asleep?" She glanced upstairs.
"Still asleep," Russell shook his head. "Let her rest a while longer."
"Fair enough. She's usually an early riser these days," Mrs. Hudson said noncommittally. "I'm almost not used to seeing her sleep in."
At that, Russell smiled and began his breakfast.
By the time breakfast was finished, nearing noon, Charlotte still hadn't come down.
Actually, Russell had heard faint sounds from upstairs partway through breakfast.
Charlotte had woken up — she simply didn't seem to want to come down, probably not wanting him to see her dressed up and about to head off to see Mary.
At the thought, Russell smiled helplessly, stood, and went back to his room.
He fixed himself up thoroughly in front of the mirror, changed into an outfit somewhere between formal and casual, said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and headed out the door.
He climbed into a carriage, gave the address, and settled in to wait.
The carriage rolled through the streets of Baker Street, heading toward the Kensington District.
The scenery outside shifted — the dense shops and crowded houses gave way to wider roads and the occasional garden wall passing by, more trees appearing, the air feeling somehow fresher.
The carriage came to a stop in front of a black wrought-iron gate.
The driver hopped down, pulled open the heavy door, and respectfully offered Russell a hand.
"We're here, sir. The Morstan Estate."
Russell stepped out and stood before the gate, looking up.
Two elegant gas lamps flanked the gate, their posts carved with intricate patterns.
This was the first time he'd ever entered through the front door.
Feeling a small swell of reflection at that, he stepped forward and pulled the doorbell.
Soon, an old butler appeared behind the door, dressed in a black tailcoat, his hair combed with perfect precision.
"Good day, sir, may I ask who—"
"Russell Watson," Russell gave his name. "Miss Morstan is expecting me."
The old butler's eyes brightened slightly, a professional smile surfacing on his otherwise stern face.
"Ah, Mr. Watson. The young miss has been waiting for you a while now." He stepped aside. "Please, come in. I'll take you to her."
Russell nodded and followed the old butler into the estate.
Past the entrance hall stretched a long corridor.
Paintings hung along the walls — landscapes and portraits alike, all framed in ornate gilt.
Every few steps along the corridor stood a closed door, and the thick, soft carpet underfoot swallowed the sound of their footsteps almost entirely.
The old butler stopped before a set of large white double doors.
"The young miss is right inside," he said, stepping slightly aside and pushing the door open for Russell. "Please."
The moment the door opened, a warm air laced with the scent of flowers washed over him.
It was a spacious sitting room, sunlight pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows and pooling in warm patches across the floor.
The cream-colored walls were adorned with pale gold reliefs, and a crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, scattering fine sparkles of light.
Her long silver hair, usually worn straight, had been carefully styled today into large, cascading waves that spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall.
The fire in the hearth burned bright, its flickering flames warming the entire room.
Russell's footsteps came to a halt.
Mary stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her back to him.
Hearing the door open, she slowly turned around, like a princess awaiting the arrival of a knight come to rescue her.
The afternoon sun poured in behind her, wrapping her whole figure in a warm halo of gold.
The light was so dazzling that, for one moment, Russell could barely make out her face — only a silhouette against the light —
her long silver hair cascading over her shoulders and back like a waterfall, catching a soft glow in the sunlight, no longer the smooth, straight hair she usually wore but carefully styled waves.
She wore a black shirt dress, tailored beautifully, tracing the slender line of her waist to perfect effect.
Two gold buttons sat on either side of her waist, standing out sharply against the black fabric, like two elegant medals.
A red bow was tied at her collar, its vivid red made all the more striking against the black of the shirt, the bow's center fastened with a golden cat's-eye brooch, the pattern catching the light with a faint shimmer, as though a pair of eyes were truly watching him.
Her skirt fell to just below the knee, trimmed there with a delicate ring of lace that stirred gently in the breeze.
Below the hem, her slender calves were sheathed in black stockings, their lines smooth and graceful, tucked finally into a pair of pale gray boots.
The boots' laces were black, their white uppers standing out vividly in the sunlight, lending the elegant outfit a touch of playful liveliness.
She stood there like that, backlit by a room full of sunlight, looking like a portrait stepped straight out of a painting.
The sunlight traced her in gold, her deep blue eyes shining with particular brightness in the glow, as if they held the whole warmth of the afternoon within them.
Russell stood frozen where he was, forgetting, for a moment, how to move.
He had seen her many times before.
In the morning light of the lecture hall, by the window in the afternoon, at the school gate under a setting sun, in a private booth at the Phedon Tea Room.
He had seen her dignified in her school uniform, elegant in her everyday clothes, resplendent in formal wear.
But never once had she looked quite like this — impossible to look away from.
In a daze, Russell even felt a sudden intuition — that this, right here, was the real Mary.
Everything before — student Mary, everyday Mary, socialite Mary — had only been one of her many faces. Only now, standing before him, was the real Mary, without any disguise at all.
Seeing him standing frozen, the girl couldn't help but laugh.
She skipped lightly toward him, her black stockings flashing in and out of sight beneath the lace hem of her skirt as she moved.
She stopped right in front of Russell, then leaned in slightly, the scent of white camellia, carrying that particular fragrance unique to her, drifting toward him.
"What are you staring at?"
Mary tilted her head, looking into Russell's eyes, full of amusement.
"Don't recognize me anymore?"
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