Hearing this, Russell raised an eyebrow in slight surprise.
"Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Consider it killing time." Charlotte put down the invitation, then continued cutting the food on her plate. "Of course, it is mainly for Mary Morstan. To be honest, I am somewhat curious about what kind of person she is."
"I think you two would have a lot to talk about," Russell said faintly. "Anyway, I wish you a good time."
"You aren't going?" Charlotte asked.
"I don't think rubbing salt in someone's wound is very good behavior."
"The invitation requires a dance partner. You could completely invite Mary Morstan. That way, you would have a legitimate reason, and you could slap that idiot in the face while you're at it. If she doesn't agree, I don't mind being your tool for once," Charlotte said.
"Forget it, no interest. I have other things to do on Saturday." Russell shook his head.
"Using lies to avoid wounds isn't good behavior either."
"I'm not lying, Charlotte," Russell said without changing his expression. "I'm going back to the orphanage."
"Wait, what orphanage?" Charlotte frowned.
"The orphanage that raised me, of course. What else?" Russell said. "I plan to go back and visit, and casually tell the Director about my acceptance into Imperial College—Mrs. Hudson knows about this."
"Is that so?" Charlotte turned her head to look at Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes, it hasn't been easy for this child, Russell." Mrs. Hudson nodded, then, with some heartache, filled his plate with another serving of mashed potatoes and added a spoonful of meat sauce. "Mrs. Hudson is just like a second mother to me."
"Eat up, eat more, look how thin you are." Mrs. Hudson smiled.
"So, you plan to catch up with that Director all night?" Charlotte asked.
"Hey, Charlotte—" Mrs. Hudson frowned, but Russell waved his hand indifferently.
"It doesn't matter, Mrs. Hudson. Charlotte bears no malice; she just... isn't very good at talking." He paused, then continued, "Not exactly. I'll rush over after I finish my business. The party ends at eight. If I make it in time, I should be able to dance a dance."
"With whom?"
"Mary Morstan."
"You seem to be on quite good terms with her."
"She's the only one I know in the whole class. What can I do?" Russell shrugged.
"But you are full of anticipation regarding the matter of dancing with her," Charlotte continued. "Your pupils show signs of dilation when her name is mentioned, and your gaze is drifting."
"Basic social etiquette, that's all." He shrugged, shifting the blame onto ethereal tradition. "When receiving an invitation from a lady, showing anticipation is the embodiment of gentlemanly demeanor. It has nothing to do with who the person is."
"Smooth talker." Charlotte made a noncommittal comment and did not continue the topic, lowering her head to resume her battle with the food on her plate.
·
·
The following two days of campus life passed in a strange mix of calm and undercurrents.
Russell remained the lazy dog sleeping on the back row, while Mary was like a fixed NPC, always spawning by his side. She didn't take the initiative to speak to him much; most of the time, she just quietly read books and took notes.
Occasionally, when the professor spoke of some dry knowledge point, she would turn her head sideways, glance at Russell who was sleeping soundly, and the corners of her mouth would hook up into a faint smile she herself didn't even notice. Then, when class ended, she would place the notes she had organized onto Russell's desk, as if it had been agreed upon.
As for this, Russell enjoyed this exclusive favor—which others couldn't beg for—with a clear conscience, taking it for granted. Then, amidst the gazes of bystanders who wished they could devour his flesh raw, he felt the System wallet slowly regaining its fullness.
The days passed blandly until Saturday arrived.
That was the day of the Icebreaker Party.
In the early morning, Russell got up very early. Under Mrs. Hudson's gratified gaze, he picked up a basket of fruits and pastries prepared long in advance, then left Baker Street, walking toward the outskirts of London.
The orphanage was real, and the Director was also real.
Russell had indeed grown up there. When he transmigrated, he was just an infant in swaddling clothes. Thanks to Director Martha, he didn't freeze to death on that cold night. After leaving the orphanage to stand on his own, he would go back to visit every once in a while, and this time was no exception.
The itinerary had been set long ago; if anything, the operation this time was the unexpected part.
After many years, the changes in the orphanage were not significant, only the ivy on the walls was more lush, and the swing in the yard had a few more traces of rust.
When the aged Director saw Russell, her turbid old eyes filled with tears. She held Russell's hand, asking about everything from his studies to his life, chattering on for the entire morning. Russell listened patiently, occasionally answering a few sentences, a gentle smile hanging on his face.
He even accompanied that group of noisy little brats in the orphanage, playing games all afternoon until the evening glow dyed the horizon red.
Before leaving, Russell left behind the remaining few dozen pounds of cash on his person, along with that basket full of pastries. The Director insisted on not accepting it, but Russell just smiled.
"Just consider it me wishing you a happy birthday in advance, Director Martha."
After saying this, he turned and left amidst the waving farewells of all the children in the institute, his retreating figure as carefree as a true wanderer.
On the tram returning to the London urban area, Russell watched the scenery rapidly retreating outside the window, his heart unprecedentedly calm. He closed his eyes. In his mind, that precise 3D map of the Roy Estate began to slowly emerge.
It was dark.
It was time for the Phantom Thief to come out and play.
·
·
The night colors were like a heavy velvet curtain, slowly shrouding the sky above London. Under the embellishment of gas lamps, the city transformed into a shimmering sea of stars.
Morstan Estate, inside the second-floor bedroom.
In front of the huge floor-to-ceiling mirror, Mary Morstan stood quietly, allowing two maids to arrange the pleats of her skirt.
The young girl was wearing a moon-white silk long dress, the fabric radiating a pearl-like soft luster under the light. The design of the dress was not complicated, without excessive cumbersome lace and frills, only having dark patterns of Irises embroidered with silver thread at the waist, just perfectly outlining the young girl's slender and upright figure.
Simple, yet revealing an elegance that kept people a thousand miles away.
"Miss, does this dress still fit well?" the older maid asked carefully.
"It's alright." No emotion could be heard in Mary's voice.
Her gaze fell into the mirror. The young girl in the mirror had silver hair like a waterfall and skin like snow; those azure eyes were as calm as a deep sea that had frozen over. Impeccable, perfect like a carefully sculpted doll.
"And the hairstyle? Should it be pinned up, or like the last time you attended the palace evening banquet?"
"As you please."
Mary remained absent-minded. Her fingertips unconsciously swiped across the lipstick on the dressing table that had been lost and recovered, but her thoughts drifted back to yesterday's lecture hall.
"If I can make it in time, I will go."
Russell's words replayed in her mind for no reason.
That guy... would he really come?
She wasn't sure. His behavioral pattern was like the fog of London; you never knew where it would drift in the next second. But precisely this kind of uncertainty was like a feather, always teasing her heart lake, which was usually like stagnant water, when she least expected it.
Just then, a steady and majestic male voice came from the doorway, interrupting the young girl's thoughts.
"Mary."
Mary snapped back to reality and turned to look at the door.
Duke Morstan was standing there.
________________________________________
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