Russell's Adam's apple bobbed.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his usually quick tongue seemed to have tied itself in a knot, and for a long moment he couldn't force out a single word.
"Hello, lovely miss," he finally managed, his voice full of respect, as though the woman before him were a total stranger.
Mary blinked in mild surprise at that, her sapphire eyes watching him as if curious what nonsense he was up to now.
"I'm looking for a young lady named Mary Morstan. Have you seen her, by any chance?" Russell asked with a smile, playing along with her earlier teasing.
A flicker of surprise crossed the girl's face before it dissolved into a smile.
Her gaze slid past Russell to the butler who had shown him in, and she gave him a look.
Ever the picture of tact, the butler slipped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the stage to the two of them.
"Mary Morstan isn't here," Mary said, blinking, playing along with Russell's line. "She's stepped out on business."
"That's a shame," Russell sighed, turning as if to leave. "I suppose I'll come back another time."
"Wait, don't rush off—" The girl caught his arm and pulled it against her, lowering her voice. "Miss Morstan may not be here, but I could keep you company, sir."
"That doesn't seem proper," Russell said.
"What's improper about it?" Mary leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"What's so great about that Morstan girl anyway? Whatever she has, I have too."
Her chin came to rest lightly on his shoulder, her lips nearly brushing his ear.
"And whatever she doesn't have — I have that too."
Russell's throat bobbed again.
I won't let you talk about her — she's my—!
"All right, Mary, enough of the act." He sighed, meaning to end the little roleplay before it spiraled somewhere he couldn't predict.
An incompetent classmate? Or a deskmate friend?
Mary laughed at that, then let go of his arm, putting a little distance between them.
"You're the one who started this act. How is it you can't keep up with your own lines?"
"Fine, I was wrong, all right?" Russell sighed again, then looked at her, and suddenly found he had no idea where to rest his eyes.
On her face? She was looking right at him, and meeting her eyes stirred an odd, guilty feeling, as if she could see straight through him.
On her figure, then? Mary was dressed differently than usual today — the black shirt-dress traced the slender lines of her figure, and beneath it, black stockings were just barely visible...
"Ahem..." Russell gave a light cough, looked away, and fixed his attention on the sitting room's decor.
Well, since things have come to this, let's just take a look at the distant Morstan Estate, folks.
Mary didn't miss the detail, of course, and the corner of her mouth curled up, quite pleased with herself.
She'd spent a long time deciding on this outfit. From the moment she'd confirmed Russell was coming, she'd been turning over exactly what image she wanted to present to him.
She'd tried on nearly everything in her wardrobe, driving Mel half mad in the process, and once she'd finally settled on this look, she'd stood before the mirror for a full ten minutes, making sure every detail was flawless.
Now, seeing the look on Russell's face, she felt those ten minutes had been well worth it.
Part of her wanted to grab his head and tell him he didn't need to hide it — if he wanted to look, he should just look — but to keep up her air of poise, Mary only offered a faint smile.
"Where's your father?" Russell asked suddenly, as if to change the subject.
"He had a friend to meet today, it seems. He left early."
At the mention of her father, the smile vanished from Mary's face for an instant, but it quickly bloomed back, as though she'd thought of something.
"He probably won't be back before dinner, so... today, I'm in charge of the house."
She stepped closer as she spoke, looping her arm through his and leaning in to sniff at his collar.
"Mm, no stray scents. Good."
Mary nodded, satisfied, then took his hand, lacing her fingers through his in one smooth, practiced motion.
"Come on, let me show you around my home." She led Russell deeper into the sitting room as she spoke.
Russell followed her lead, his gaze dropping to their joined hands.
"Won't the servants say something, us walking around like this?"
"Don't worry, they know what to say and what not to," Mary said.
She led him by the hand through a side door off the sitting room and into a softly lit corridor.
This hallway was narrower than the last, but more private, its walls papered in pale gold.
"This is the study," Mary said, stopping before a dark oak door. She pushed it open and gestured inside.
Russell looked where she pointed. It was a modest study, with a fireplace, a sofa for guests, and a desk, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.
"Do you read here often?" Russell asked, curious.
"No, this is my father's study — his workroom, too," Mary said, shaking her head. "He spends most of the day in here, and sometimes he even sleeps here."
"Here? Sleeping in the chair?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "That's rather down-to-earth of him."
"Because it's small enough, I suppose," Mary said.
"The bedroom's too big, and it's just him alone in there. He finds this little study more comforting by comparison, and no one usually disturbs him in here."
"Sounds like your father's a bit insecure too," Russell muttered. "Well, since it's his workspace, let's not go in. Let's see somewhere else."
"Mm." Mary nodded and pulled him onward.
They passed through the banquet hall and the gallery, then took a look at Arthur Morstan's collection room, though neither of them seemed particularly enthused.
"There's not much left to see, it seems," Mary said. "This house is big, but honestly... there's not much worth paying attention to."
"Hmm... your bedroom?" Russell asked idly, then quickly realized he might have said the wrong thing.
A man asking a woman to see her bedroom was, after all, a bit improper.
"My bedroom?" Mary repeated the word, her sapphire eyes blinking, a look of keen interest spreading across her face. "Do you want to see it?"
"Ahem..." Russell cleared his throat, trying to salvage the moment. "I just said it off the top of my head. Nothing more to it. If it's not convenient, I understand completely."
"But I never said it wasn't convenient." Mary's voice came from beside him, laced with a faint trace of amusement.
At that, Russell turned to meet the girl's teasing gaze.
"Only..." she drew out the word, "are you sure you want to go?"
"Uh..." Russell was momentarily at a loss for words.
"Just teasing you." Mary laughed, the sound like wind chimes tinkling in a breeze, clear and pleasant.
"Come on, my room might be far more interesting than those boring places."
She pulled Russell along toward her room, finally stopping before a white door.
The door looked no different from any other in the house — the same white paint, the same golden handle. The only difference was a small, worn wooden plaque hanging beneath the handle, a few words carved into it in delicate handwriting:
[Please Knock]
Russell stared at the plaque for a moment, taken aback.
"What's this?"
"I made it as a child," Mary said, looking a little embarrassed. "Back then I thought my bedroom was a very important place, and I didn't want anyone barging in, so I made this sign and hung it up."
She paused, turning her head to look at him, a smile in her eyes.
"I never took it down as I grew up. My father and the servants all knock, so it's just stayed there ever since."
Russell looked at the plaque, then back at her.
"Do I need to knock, then?"
Mary tilted her head, as if seriously considering the question.
"Hmm..." she drew out the sound. "If it were anyone else, definitely. But—"
She paused, then rose suddenly on her toes and leaned in close to his ear.
"For you, I'll make an exception."
Her warm breath brushed his ear, and a shiver ran through him.
By the time he came back to himself, Mary had already pushed the door open and pulled him inside.
The room held no surprises — everything was just as it had been the last two times he'd been here: the large bed, the bookshelf, the fireplace. The only difference this time was that he'd come through the front door.
"What do you think?" Mary asked.
"It suits you." Russell thought about it, then said, "This is actually my first time in a girl's room."
"First time? What about Charlotte's?"
"Charlotte's room... doesn't have much to do with her being a girl." Russell shrugged.
Mary laughed despite herself, though beneath the laughter lingered a belated trace of bitterness.
She took a deep breath, pushing the tangled, unnecessary emotions from her mind, then began showing Russell around her room — even though she knew perfectly well he'd been here before.
"This is my desk," she said, pointing to the table by the window, where a few books and a delicate inkwell sat neatly arranged. "I write letters and read here, usually."
Russell looked where she pointed. Among the books on the desk was one he recognized well — Tagore's Stray Birds.
"Still reading this one?" he asked idly.
"Mm," Mary nodded, walking over to the desk. "I flip through it when there's nothing else to do. Some lines never get old, no matter how many times I read them."
As she spoke, she idly opened the book, her gaze falling on a certain page — and then she froze.
On that page, a line had been lightly underlined in pencil, as if the reader had marked it out of particular fondness.
[Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.]
It was the line she'd unconsciously underlined the last time she'd read it.
She hadn't expected Russell to see it.
The girl's hand trembled slightly as she moved to close the book, but Russell's eyes had already landed on the line.
Her fingers still rested on the page, the tips going faintly pale, as though she couldn't decide whether to close it or leave it open.
"This line," Russell said, his voice calm, "is beautifully written."
"I... think so too." Mary nodded, then closed the book and set it back in place.
"Come on, let's go look somewhere else. Afternoon tea should be ready by now."
She took Russell's hand and pulled him away from the desk.
"Where to?" Russell asked, curious.
"The glasshouse," Mary said. "It's my favorite place."
The glasshouse stood in the estate's back garden, a freestanding structure of glass and white steel framework.
The spot caught excellent light, sunlight pouring in almost without restraint, warming and brightening the whole glasshouse.
Flowers of every kind bloomed inside, vying with one another in beauty, filling the air with a fresh floral scent.
At the center of the glasshouse, a small round table draped in white linen had already been set. A three-tiered dessert stand held freshly baked scones, dainty little sandwiches, and an assortment of cookies, with a steaming pot of Darjeeling black tea beside it, along with cream and jam for the tea.
Mel stood off to the side, and at the sight of the two of them, she gave a slight bow.
"Miss. Mr. Watson."
"Everything's ready?" Mary asked.
"Yes, Miss."
"Good," Mary said, nodding, satisfied. "You may go now. I'll take it from here."
"Yes, Miss." Mel nodded and quietly withdrew, leaving the sunlit, fragrant world to the two of them.
Mary led Russell by the hand into the warm world enclosed in glass.
Sunlight poured down through the transparent roof, filling the glasshouse with a bright, gentle glow.
All manner of flowers bloomed in the winter greenhouse — roses, lilies, phalaenopsis orchids, and others whose names he couldn't place.
Red, white, pink, purple, layered one atop another like an oil painting from an overturned palette.
The air was thick with mingled floral scents, but the clearest of them all remained the faint white-tea fragrance that clung to Mary herself.
Dazzled by the riot of blooms filling the room, Russell glanced around.
"Do you take care of all these?"
"Only a small part of them." Mary released his hand and walked over to a cluster of blooming pink roses, gently touching one of the petals.
"I'm no expert, after all, so the more delicate varieties are left to the gardener."
She turned back and smiled at Russell.
"Not many flowers bloom in winter, so most of these are greenhouse-grown. But come spring, this place will be even lovelier."
Russell smiled at that and stepped closer.
"Well, I've already found one very beautiful flower. Next to it, all the others look a bit plain, honestly."
At that, Mary turned back from where she stood before the pink roses, sunlight pouring down through the glass roof to gild her long silver waves with a shifting halo of light.
"Where?" Her gaze followed the direction Russell was looking, as if trying to find the flower he meant.
But she quickly realized his eyes had never left her — not once turning to any of the flowers around them.
"Right here," he said.
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