"Got it."
Russell answered, somewhat helplessly withdrawing the hand he had just been about to reach toward the milk bottle.
He skillfully ground the coffee beans, and soon a rich aroma began to spread through the room.
When he carried the steaming cup of black coffee back to Charlotte's side, he found that she had already completely immersed herself in the case files.
Those beautiful grey-blue eyes swept rapidly across the yellowed pages, as if she meant to absorb every single word on them into her mind.
"Your coffee." Russell set the cup down beside her hand.
"Mm." Charlotte responded without even turning her head, her concentration still razor-sharp.
Seeing this, Russell didn't disturb her any further and turned to leave.
The sound of the closing door rang briefly through the room, then faded away.
After an unknown amount of time, Charlotte snapped out of her thoughts, picked up the now-lukewarm coffee beside her, and took a sip.
She set down the documents in her hands and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte suddenly caught sight of something on the sofa.
It was Russell's backpack.
It seemed he had forgotten to take it.
"Careless fellow." she said, then set down her coffee cup and grabbed the backpack, ready to return it to Russell.
But at that very moment, Charlotte's movements paused slightly.
As if something had occurred to her, the girl's gaze fell uncontrollably upon the backpack.
It was a very ordinary canvas shoulder bag, its worn corners showing that its owner hadn't cherished it much.
Charlotte stared at the backpack as though it contained some Pandora's Box, struggle and hesitation flickering in her grey-blue eyes.
Curiosity is a detective's greatest virtue—and also their most fatal weakness.
In the end, this innate curiosity won out over that trifling moral restraint concerning privacy.
"I'm just... helping him check whether he's left out anything important."
She found herself a clumsy excuse for her behavior, and then reached out that sinful hand.
The backpack's zipper hadn't been done up, so Charlotte easily saw the things inside.
A few thick specialized textbooks, a fountain pen, and... a notebook.
Found it.
She drew the notebook out of the backpack, and the faint scent of white tea instantly lingered at the tip of her nose.
A little pungent.
Then Charlotte opened the notebook.
On the title page, the name [Mary Morstan] was written in elegant handwriting.
Charlotte skipped right past the dull notes at the front—filled with formulas and theories—and flipped, familiar with the way, to those last few pages.
She saw those familiar matchstick figures; she saw the cat-eared boy sleeping face-down on the desk; she saw the leisurely figure sitting on the sofa eating snacks.
And then she also saw the work she herself had left behind—that matchstick figure wearing a tailcoat and holding up a teacup.
That doodle hadn't been crossed out, and the corners of Charlotte's mouth had just curved into a smug smile.
But immediately after, her gaze was drawn to a new doodle right beside her own drawing.
It was another matchstick figure, also wearing a tailcoat.
But unlike the one she had drawn, this matchstick figure wasn't drinking tea—instead, it elegantly extended one hand, striking the pose of inviting a partner to dance.
Opposite him, another matchstick figure in a gorgeous long gown was gently resting her hand upon his palm.
The two of them danced gracefully in that small blank space on the page; though the lines were simple, they sketched out a kind of silent romance and harmony.
Charlotte's smile froze the instant she saw this drawing.
She snapped the notebook shut with a "smack," with such force that it even gave off a dull thud.
"Boring."
She stuffed the irritating notebook back into the backpack, then tossed it back onto the sofa like a piece of garbage.
Yet not long after, Charlotte picked it up again, and once more dug the notebook out.
She flipped, familiar with the way, to the last page, then helped herself to a pen from Russell's bag as well.
The pen tip came to rest on the paper, but made no further movement.
The girl was stumped.
What should she draw?
Or rather, what was there left to draw?
Charlotte's pen tip pressed against the paper, and her eyes, which should have brimmed with wisdom, were at this moment filled instead with a rare bewilderment.
She looked at that pair of gracefully dancing matchstick figures on the page; their forms seemed especially glaring under the halo of the overhead light.
It was as if they were two leads performing a scene together, while she was merely an insignificant backdrop who had stumbled onto the stage by accident.
This stirred in her an inexplicable irritation.
She wanted to draw something, to claw back a point in this silent contest in her own way.
But... draw what?
Draw a more intricate dance move? Or draw a more lavish scene?
That seemed a bit deliberate, and also a bit shallow.
It would only make her look like a laughable loser putting on a clumsy imitation out of jealousy.
Charlotte Holmes was no loser.
And most importantly, it wouldn't be real enough.
Every matchstick Russell that Mary drew was, without exception, modeled on the real Russell she had seen with her own eyes.
She herself had never seen Russell perform any complex dance.
Or to put it another way, the Russell in her eyes seemed to be exactly the same no matter when she called him to mind.
That tailcoat at Buckingham Palace was, by contrast, a rare encounter that could be met by chance but never sought.
One such encounter was just about enough—how could there ever be a second, or a third?
Charlotte's thoughts couldn't help but begin to wander, and her gaze drifted along with them.
She felt as though she were now playing a game of blind chess against Mary.
Each side's unique memories of Russell were the chess pieces in their hands.
Whoever played out all their pieces first would be the loser.
And so Charlotte's mind began to whirl at high speed, racking her brains, wringing out her memories.
At last, her gaze settled on the coffee cup in her hand.
The image of Russell grinding coffee beans just moments ago surfaced before her eyes at precisely the right time.
She had it.
Charlotte drew a deep breath, and light rekindled in those grey-blue eyes.
She hesitated no longer; the pen tip raced across the paper, its rustling sound echoing through the silent room.
This time, what she drew was no longer a single matchstick figure.
On one side of the picture stood a matchstick figure beside the coffee table, dressed in a robe, holding a coffee cup, its posture lazy and unhurried.
And opposite her, another matchstick figure stood with its back to her by the sink, bent slightly forward, as if washing something.
That back wasn't tall and upright—indeed, the slight stoop made it look rather ordinary—but for some reason, it gave off an inexplicable sense of reassurance.
Finished, she admired her work with satisfaction, the curve of her lips lifting once again without her even noticing.
She didn't set this drawing side by side with Mary's earlier ballroom doodle for comparison; instead, she gave it a page of its own.
A Dance always comes to its end, when the music fades and the crowd disperses.
But the morning would come, day after day after day.
"Hmph."
The girl let out a soft hmph, closed the notebook, and tucked it back into Russell's backpack.
Then she grabbed the backpack, walked out of her own room, and knocked on Russell's door.
"Who is it?" Russell opened the door, and what he saw was Charlotte standing in the doorway, head held imperiously high.
"Here, take it."
Charlotte shoved the backpack in her hands into Russell's arms.
"Your backpack."
Having handed the thing back, she turned around as if nothing had happened at all and returned to her own room.
Russell watched her brisk retreating figure and couldn't help scratching his head.
Her mood, it seemed, had improved a great deal from just a moment ago.
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