"Father." Mary gave a light nod and bowed respectfully.
"How are the preparations?" the Duke gazed intently at her. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold, scrutinizing gaze of an observer.
"Everything's on track," Mary replied calmly.
"That's good to hear." The Duke nodded slightly. "Tonight may be a student party, but many guests are children of cabinet ministers or senators—nobles' heirs. For example, the children of Ethan Roy, the admiral's daughter, and so on..." He recited a few names as if they were his own, each representing deeply embedded power.
"I know you have no real interest in these things." The Duke's tone left no room for argument. "But you must build good relationships with them. If our family's businesses are to gain more support in Parliament, we need future allies like these. This is good for you, and for the entire Morstan family."
It was always this way. Tools, bargaining chips, and an endless exchange of interests. These were the words Mary had heard most often for as long as she could remember. Her life was like a meticulously drafted blueprint—every detail crafted for the advantage of her family, the family's benefit always the highest priority.
Mary lowered her eyes, her long lashes concealing the irony and contempt in her blue gaze. "Understood, Father." She was saying what she did not truly feel.
"Very good." The Duke seemed quite satisfied with her obedience. He stepped forward and, affecting the air of a caring parent, stroked her silvery hair—but the gesture was stiff and awkward, utterly unlike that of a true father.
"Don't forget, my child." His voice was casual, as if discussing something trivial. "Never forget who you are."
Those offhand words stirred memories long buried. For a moment, Mary's voice became soft and docile, as if her earlier rebelliousness had never existed. "I understand, Father."
"The carriage is waiting outside. Don't be late."
The door closed, and silence returned to the room. The maids held their breath as they carefully placed small sapphire earrings onto Mary. The cool touch on her earlobe brought clarity to Mary's mind.
Looking at the perfect Miss Morstan in the mirror, she felt a sudden irritation. She reached for a hairpin from the vanity and loosely tied her long silver hair at the back, letting a few strands fall naturally around her neck. With that simple touch, the rigid elegance was softened; a hint of laziness and ease appeared.
This was one of the few rebellious acts allowed to a young lady like her.
"That's better," she said quietly. No amount of dressing up could change anything.
…
6:00 p.m.—the Imperial College London auditorium was at the peak of its icebreaking party. Beautiful waltz music, dazzling crystal chandeliers, students in extravagant dress holding champagne—everything sparkled with youthful beauty.
The host, Timmy Roy, strolled through the crowd basking in glory, savoring the waves of praise as if he had truly earned them. Amid the flattery, he kept casting glances at the entrance, as if waiting for someone important.
Charlotte Holmes.
If she actually attended, it would mean that he—Timmy Roy—could claim credit for attracting even that arrogant genius.
And what about that country bumpkin, Russell Watson? He hoped Russell wouldn't come. Uninvited guests only cause trouble.
Just then, a small commotion arose at the entrance. Timmy immediately looked over and his grin grew even brighter.
Charlotte Holmes—she was really here. Charlotte still wore her signature oversized trench coat, hands in pockets, looking exactly the same as usual. Compared to the other students who had dressed up for this occasion, she looked like a passerby who had wandered in by accident.
But it didn't matter. What she wore was irrelevant. What mattered was that she was here—and the identity she represented.
Charlotte Holmes, younger sister of Mycroft Holmes, the man calling himself the British government. Even without makeup, Charlotte's natural beauty was more than enough to attract every gaze.
Just as all eyes were fixed on Charlotte, a silver-haired girl in a moon-white dress appeared behind her.
Mary Morstan.
If Charlotte's arrival was an expected surprise, then Mary's presence was more like a miracle that stunned everyone. Shock, admiration, envy—all these emotions instantly focused on that pale ghostly figure at the entrance.
She stood there, with the deep night behind her and dazzling light ahead, like a cold lunar goddess from a myth. The interplay of light and shadow on her figure made her seem beyond human.
Timmy Roy darted over. His ingratiating smile shone even brighter than when he greeted his own father. "Miss Holmes, Miss Morstan—welcome! You truly grace this party with your presence."
But Charlotte merely glanced at him indifferently and walked right past, unwilling to pay him the slightest heed.
Stiff, Timmy could only turn to Mary. "Miss Morstan—"
"Mr. Roy," Mary interrupted him at just the right moment, smiling. "Enjoy yourself." Then she turned away, heading toward Charlotte, ignoring Timmy altogether.
His smile was left frozen on his lips.
Mary approached Charlotte, and for a moment, their gazes met—two prodigious girls locked eyes across the room. There were no sparks, no tension, not even the basic formality of a greeting—simply a tacit truce between equals.
After just a few seconds, they both looked away. Mary stood near the drink counter, glass of lemonade in hand, quietly watching the dancers spin across the floor. Occasionally, her sharp gaze swept across the hall, as if analyzing the layout, then subtly retreated. She was searching for someone.
"The man who said, 'If I can, I'll come.'"
Seconds ticked by, the music changed, dancers came and went. Mary's lemonade glass was empty, but the one familiar figure never appeared.
Was he really...not coming?
The thought flickered through her mind, and she instantly suppressed it, gripping her glass more tightly. That chill brought a bit of clarity to her troubled thoughts.
What am I hoping for? Do I expect him to come? And then what—invite him to dance? Or do I just want to see something genuine in a place dripping with hypocrisy?
She couldn't explain it, but the longer she stared at the empty entrance, the stronger her irritation grew.
The frustration edged toward anger—nearly malice—when suddenly, a chill voice sounded in her ear.
"He's probably at St. Jude's Orphanage by now."
Mary turned involuntarily and met smoky blue-gray eyes that seemed to see through her.
Charlotte Holmes. She was leaning listlessly against a Roman column, champagne glass in hand, the very picture of indifference.
"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning, Miss Holmes," Mary regained her perfect, elegant composure.
"Yes, you do," Charlotte replied with calm certainty. "You're waiting for someone who's missing. I just happen to know where he went tonight."
Mary fell silent. This detective was even more troublesome than she'd imagined.
…