Charlotte paused, thrown.
There was no white mask inside the case, none of the strange grappling-hook guns she had pictured, and certainly no sign of that flamboyant Phantom Thief outfit.
There were only summer shirts, folded one atop another in neat stacks, and a few pairs of trousers.
It looked exactly like what it was: clothes he had no use for at the moment, packed away to free up space in the wardrobe.
Perfectly reasonable.
The conclusion sent a quiet wave of relief through her.
She closed the case, set it back where she had found it, and started to stand.
That was when her gaze drifted, almost by accident, to the balcony.
A coat was hanging there.
The coat that had been stained with red wine and Pilsen's blood during the fight.
It had been washed since then, and now it hung out in the air, waiting to dry.
Charlotte walked over without quite deciding to and took the coat in her hands.
The bloodstain had dried long ago, darkened to a dull brown that stood out harshly against the pale fabric.
She studied the stain for a moment, then let her eyes travel up to the collar.
The cloth there hadn't dried through yet. It was still damp to the touch, and it carried the faint scent of soap.
She caught up the sleeve next, her attention fixing on the damage at the arm.
There was a clear tear in the fabric, its edges marked by the pass of something sharp.
Obviously the work of the short knife, during Russell's fight with Pilsen.
Charlotte ran her fingers over the tear, and only after confirming that it hadn't gone all the way through, and that there was no blood on the inside, did she let out a breath.
Good. The coat was ruined, but at least it proved Russell really hadn't been hurt. A scare and nothing more.
She let the sleeve fall, then turned and left the room, satisfied.
Back downstairs, she sat down at the dining table again and looked at the breakfast she hadn't even half finished.
For some reason, her appetite seemed to have come back.
The girl picked up her knife and fork and worked through the rest of it at an unhurried pace.
It had gone a little cold, but the taste held up all the same.
When she was done, Charlotte rose, meaning to go back and rest a while longer.
She had lied.
She had told Russell that she went to bed early and rose early, when in truth she had barely slept at all the night before.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say she had simply forced herself through to morning.
But now that the weight had lifted, the exhaustion of that sleepless night was finally creeping up into her head.
She was dragging her tired body toward the stairs and her own faintly chaotic bedroom when her feet stopped at the landing.
She looked back at the door she had shut only minutes ago, and her last memory of that room surfaced—
Sunlight slanting in through the window, spilling a patch of warm brightness across the floorboards.
The bed looking tidy, the quilt smoothed flat, the pillow set at just the right angle.
And a trace of scent still lingering in the air. His scent.
Clean. Warm. Reassuring.
An absurd thought surfaced in Charlotte's mind.
She wanted to lie down on that bed for a little while.
Just a little while.
The moment the idea appeared, it grew like some wild vine, wrapping fast around her heart until she could neither breathe nor refuse.
"It's only... borrowing it."
She said it to herself.
"This is also... part of an assistant's responsibilities."
That was right. That was exactly it.
She had found a more or less reasonable excuse for behavior that was, she knew perfectly well, unspeakable and somewhat over the line.
Then the girl turned around and, light on her feet as a cat with something to hide, slipped into the room that wasn't hers.
She stepped out of her shoes, lifted the quilt, and lay down.
The bed was softer than she had imagined, and the quilt carried the warm smell of sun-baked cloth, mixed with something familiar.
It felt good.
Far better than her own bed, which she couldn't remember the last time she had straightened.
Charlotte rolled onto her side and buried her cheek in the soft pillow.
The scent clinging to it was sharper here, richer, close to swallowing her whole.
Like a warm embrace. Every nerve she had held taut through the night went slack at once.
How strange.
Charlotte thought.
Why should someone else's bed make her feel this safe?
She closed her eyes and let the tide of drowsiness pull her under.
Just a little while.
Just a little while.
That was her last thought, and her breathing slowly settled into something deep and even.
Imperial College.
Russell yawned and turned another page of the textbook in front of him.
Professor Fields' voice echoed through the wide lecture hall at a frequency engineered, apparently, for hypnosis.
He was doing his best to stay awake, but his eyelids kept sinking anyway, always on the verge of closing for good.
Then a soft call reached his ear, along with the light touch of a fingertip on the back of his hand.
"Russell."
He turned his head and met Mary's eyes, bright with amusement.
"You're about to fall asleep, you know," the girl breathed, her voice as light as a feather.
"Can't help it..." Russell pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging himself back toward alertness. "The Professor's lectures put people in a coma."
The corner of Mary's mouth curved up at that.
She lifted her head, checked the direction of the lectern, and once she was sure his attention was nowhere near them, she shifted unhurriedly along the bench, edging closer to Russell.
"Then..."
The girl leaned in toward his ear and spoke at a volume only the two of them could hear.
"Want to chat?"
Warm breath and the scent of white tea swirled into his ear, as though someone were teasing it with the tip of a feather.
Russell jolted, and a good deal of the fog burned off him at once.
He pulled his neck in, tilted his head away to put some distance between them, and only then turned back to look at her.
"We're still in class," he reminded her, keeping his voice down. "Professor Fields is right there."
"It's fine," Mary said, her mouth curving with mischief. "He can't see us."
Her eyes flicked to the platform, confirming that The Professor had his back to them, scribbling furiously across the blackboard.
"Worst case, if he asks, we say we're discussing how to write the end-of-term report."
Russell looked at Mary, at all that expectation in her face, then up at Professor Fields on the platform, and finally let out a resigned sigh.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Anything at all."
The girl narrowed her eyes and leaned in a little further.
"For example: Moriarty has been awfully quiet lately, hasn't he? What do you think?"
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