Arthur Morstan's words fell like a pebble into the calm pools of Mary's eyes, sending out ring after ring of ripples.
The girl lowered her lashes, drawing back that flicker of disturbance the instant it appeared.
"I... don't quite understand what you mean, Father."
Her voice sounded as gentle as ever, betraying nothing out of the ordinary.
"You don't understand?" Arthur regarded his daughter quietly.
He looked at that face of hers, exquisite as a work of art, at those eyes that seemed as though nothing in the world could ever stir them, as if trying to catch some small hint from within that placid lake.
"What I mean is," he said at last, slowly, after a long pause.
"I've heard that you've grown quite close to that Miss Holmes of Baker Street—and to her assistant as well."
In that instant, Mary's heart skipped half a beat.
"We're only classmates, Father."
"Yes. Classmates." Arthur Morstan nodded.
"But do you still remember what I told you that day, on the way back from Lloyds Bank?"
He asked softly.
"I said that he was merely an interlude—a stone that had happened to appear in your path as you grew, one that got in the way.
You might pause out of a moment's curiosity, but in the end, you must still keep walking forward.
And how did you answer me then, Mary?"
"..." The girl pressed her lips together and said nothing.
"You said you understood." Her father answered in her place.
"And since you understood, then why do you still keep yourself so close to him?"
"He..." Mary opened her mouth, searching for a suitable, fitting explanation.
"He is Charlotte Holmes's assistant."
"And so?"
"Charlotte Holmes... the relationship between her and her brother, Mycroft... is not a good one."
Mary said.
"One might even call it terrible.
And so, I believe she would make an excellent target to be made use of."
Mary's voice was very light.
"Is that truly so?" Arthur Morstan asked.
"Is that truly what you think?"
"It is," Mary nodded.
"Lift your head, Mary. Look at me."
At his words, the girl slowly raised her head, her azure-blue eyes meeting those dark grey ones.
"Look me in the eye and say it again," Arthur Morstan said.
"You truly regard him as nothing more than a tool to be used—is that right?"
"...Yes, Father."
"I never taught you to lie, Mary," the man said in a low voice.
"So I trust that you are not a child who tells lies.
But I also hope that you will not betray the trust I place in you. Can you promise me that?"
"I promise... Father."
"Very good."
Arthur Morstan nodded, satisfied.
"Then let this matter rest here for now.
Mycroft's efforts to suppress us are already a thing of the past; there's no need to worry about that anymore.
So there's no need to pay that Russell Watson any further mind.
He's nothing but a penniless boy with neither father nor mother. Even if he truly were to win the heart of that Charlotte Holmes, Mycroft is not the sort of man to be moved by such a trifling thing.
To hope to work through him, and thereby influence Mycroft, is rather too fanciful a notion.
He enjoys playing detective games with Mycroft's little sister—so let them. It has nothing to do with you.
You need only do what you are meant to do, and play the role you are meant to play. That is enough.
In the future, you will stand at a different height from them entirely.
And these present memories, to your future self, will be no more than a fragment of the past not worth mentioning.
Do you understand my meaning?"
"I... understand, Father."
"Very good." Arthur nodded, satisfied. He rose to his feet and walked over to the writing desk.
"Go now. Get some rest early."
"Yes, Father."
Mary stood, performed a flawless curtsy, then turned and withdrew from the study at an unhurried pace.
The heavy door swung slowly shut behind her, sealing off that suffocating oppression.
She made her way down the dim corridor, step by step, back toward her own room.
Every step was steady, and slow, as if beneath her feet lay not soft carpet, but the keen edge of a blade.
Back in her room, she did not turn on the lights; she simply walked to the window and drew open the heavy curtains.
The cold, clear moonlight spilled down like quicksilver, casting a pallor over that exquisite face of hers.
She stood there in perfect stillness, gazing out at the slumbering city shrouded in darkness, motionless as a beautiful statue that had lost its soul.
How much time passed, she did not know, before she at last slowly drew her gaze back inside.
Mary sat on the sofa, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace.
It was the only source of light and warmth in the room.
The firewood gave crisp cracks amid the flames, and the tongues of fire licked tirelessly at everything combustible, devouring it, then transforming it into light and heat, bringing a trace of warmth to this cold room.
The tongues of flame darted greedily upward, throwing snarling, ever-shifting shadows against the fireplace's pitch-black inner walls.
Mary simply watched, quietly, watching that bright and dangerous blaze, without moving.
That face, which always wore a proper smile, held now nothing but a stillness like stagnant water, reflecting that leaping, blazing orange-red.
The girl's azure-blue eyes mirrored the firelight, the flames dancing within them, as though swallowing up everything her gaze fell upon.
In recent days, the temperature in London had grown ever lower, and the fire in the hearth ever more fierce.
She loved fire.
She thought back to her childhood, when her father had taken her to the country manor to spend the winter.
There, too, was an enormous fireplace, larger even than this one before her.
Each evening, as night fell, the servants would light it.
She loved to curl up on the soft carpet, watching the logs cast into the flames slowly twist and warp within the blaze.
Until at last they crumbled into a heap of unrecognizable, fragile ash.
Fire could bring light and warmth.
It could illuminate all things—and it could conceal all things as well.
The girl's fingertips traced unconsciously across the smooth velvet of the sofa's armrest, its cold touch forming a sharp contrast with the searing heat radiating from the fireplace.
She closed her eyes, as if she could still catch the scent of the burning wood—that singular fragrance, mingling pine resin with the smell of scorching.
It was a scent full of destruction and rebirth, one that held her enthralled.
The flames leapt through her mind, taking shape as all manner of forms.
At times like a phoenix spreading its wings, at times like a great dragon coiling and dancing, at times...
like a human face, contorted in agony, melting away.
Mary's eyes snapped open.
"Fire..."
She murmured softly, her voice so faint it seemed that the moment it left her lips it would be swallowed by the crackling, popping flames in the hearth.
It was time to rest.
Mary walked toward the bed, removed her outer dress, and changed into a pure white nightgown. The silky fabric clung to her skin, bringing a faint coolness.
She lay down amid the soft bedding and drew the covers up to her chin, her eyes gazing at the top of the carved bed canopy, where all was dim shadow.
She closed her eyes.
In the darkness, one question after another sprang up in her mind like bamboo shoots after rain.
When a flame flares up, does it first illuminate its surroundings, or first devour its fuel?
In the fireplace, how ought the logs be arranged so that the fire burns most fiercely, most enduringly—so that the heat might even, in some fashion, be carried to some farther, more unexpected place?
These questions pointed at nothing in particular; they were merely scattered notions about physics, about common sense.
They drifted through her mind like feathers, leaving no weight behind.
Drowsiness came at last, slowly.
The girl turned over lightly, burying half her face in the soft pillow.
"How warm."
She murmured softly.
____
Gift for Everyone: Once we hit 20 Powerstones, I'll release +1 bonus chapter
________________________________________
If you want more chapters, please consider supporting my page on (P). with 50 advanced chapters available on (P)
👻 Join the crew by searching Leanzin on (P). You know the spot! 😉