In the last instant before the door opened, the maid bolted for the window in a scramble of panic, then shrank back behind the curtain.
The next moment, she felt as though she'd collided with a wall.
Or more precisely, a wall that breathed, radiated warmth, and happened to be wearing clothes.
The maid's pupils contracted sharply, and she stiffened, tilting her head up.
A figure dressed in black, wearing a white mask, was looking down at her from above.
Instinctively, she opened her mouth to scream.
But before she could, a hand rose and clamped over her mouth.
Russell raised his other free hand, holding up a long index finger in front of the mask's lips.
Shh.
The maid froze for a moment, then nodded.
Only then did Russell withdraw his hand, taking the chance to size her up.
Young—early twenties, with a hint of baby fat still on her cheeks. Her apron pocket bulged, a few cigar ends peeking out from it.
The silver flask in her hand was finely made, clearly belonging to the household's master.
A repeat offender.
He filed the conclusion away in his mind.
"First time?" he asked, his voice a breath too quiet for anyone but the two of them to hear.
The maid blinked, then realized what he meant.
She hesitated half a second before shaking her head.
Then nodded.
Seeing this, Russell smiled faintly.
Interesting.
Footsteps outside had already crossed into the study.
The maid's body began to tremble, and she instinctively grabbed the hem of Russell's coat.
Russell raised an eyebrow at that.
What did that mean—sink or swim together?
He reached out and pressed a hand lightly on her shoulder, not with much force, but just enough to still her shaking.
The maid turned her head instinctively to look at him. Russell didn't look back at her—he simply kept his hand on her shoulder. The meaning was plain enough.
Don't move.
Perhaps out of sheer survival instinct, she actually understood, and she tensed her body, pressing flat against the wall without moving.
Just then, the footsteps started up again—pacing back and forth inside the study, from the sound of it.
Each step fell with an even rhythm, the sound neither too loud nor too soft, kept at a level that wouldn't disturb anyone.
Russell listened, tracking the direction of the steps, and roughly worked out who it was.
Probably a butler making his rounds.
Suddenly the footsteps stopped, then started again—this time heading toward the window.
Closer and closer, clearer and clearer.
The maid's heartbeat, which had only just begun to settle, spiked again. Her grip on Russell's coat tightened instinctively, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Russell didn't move a muscle.
As his will stirred faintly, a sound rang in his mind—the deduction of Malice Points.
Perfect timing to try out the shop's new stock.
[Private Whisper Horn — Purchased, Malice Points -200]
[Effect: Plays an audio clip no longer than five seconds directly into a target's ear. Tone, volume, and direction can all be freely adjusted.
Note: The chosen voice must be one the user has personally heard before.]
The instant the purchase completed, Russell didn't hesitate for a second—he chose to use it immediately.
Through the gap in the curtain, he fixed his aim on the butler's figure, then played the audio right beside his ear.
"Someone, come here!"
Douglas's voice rang in the butler's ear, slurred and unmistakably drunk, his tongue thick with liquor.
The sound seemed to come from far away, as if Douglas were calling out from outside the study.
"Where is everyone? Where the hell did they all go?!"
The butler's footsteps froze.
"Coming, young master!"
He called back, then turned and left the study, pulling the door shut behind him without thinking.
The footsteps faded into the distance.
Quiet gradually settled back over the study.
The maid's eyes flew open, and she gasped for air in great heaving breaths, her chest rising and falling violently, as though she'd just been hauled up from underwater.
Russell withdrew his hand from her shoulder.
"Huff—huff—" She breathed hard, then looked up at Russell.
"You..."
Russell lifted a corner of the curtain and swept his eyes across the study.
No one there.
He drew his gaze back and looked down at the maid, who was still catching her breath.
"Are you... Mr. Moriarty?" the maid asked.
Russell neither confirmed nor denied it, instead asking:
"For yourself?"
At that, the maid blinked in confusion, then caught his meaning.
"No—no, I steal it to sell," she said.
"In Belgravia, who'd buy this from you?"
"I hide it in my bag... and when I go home, I sell it back in my old neighborhood. A flask like this fetches a good price."
The maid said, a little embarrassed.
Hearing that, Russell couldn't help a small laugh.
"You... you won't tell anyone, will you?" The maid looked up at him, worry in her eyes.
"About me stealing..."
Russell studied her.
That young face, those eyes carrying both fear and hope, the cigar ends peeking from her apron pocket.
"I won't," he said. "You'll be changing jobs in a couple of days anyway."
The maid's eyes lit up for a second, then she froze.
"Changing jobs?" She repeated his words, then suddenly realized something.
Oh hell, that's probably true.
Was that good news or bad news?
"So," Russell said,
not bothering with the look on her face, he turned and pulled open a drawer with practiced ease, took out the cigar box, and handed the whole thing over to her.
"Since this is your last dance here anyway, might as well go out with a big score."
"Ah... ah?"
The maid stared blankly at the nanmu-carved cigar box now in her hands.
This... is this really happening?
"All right, don't just stand there gawking. Let's go," Russell said, walking toward the window.
"I... do I have to climb out the window too?" the maid asked, instinctively clutching the box tighter.
Russell paused at that, turning back to look at her.
"How do you usually leave after you've stolen something?"
"When no one's around... I just walk out the front door."
"...You've never been caught. All I can say is Douglas's household security must be sleeping on the job."
"Not really... Sometimes I have to hide until nearly dawn before I can leave."
The maid said, a little embarrassed.
"That much trouble? So why do you steal, then?" Russell asked. "Working here, the pay can't be that bad."
The maid froze for a moment. The panic on her face faded a little, replaced by an expression hard to name.
She lowered her head, looking at the heavy cigar box in her hands, her fingers absently tracing the fine carving on the lid.
"My brother," she said, her voice much softer than before.
"He works at a textile mill in the East End. Last month a machine accident crushed two of his fingers.
The mill paid him five shillings and threw him out."
Russell said nothing.
"He can't do heavy work anymore, and he can't find anything else to do." The maid raised her head, looking at him.
"I need to raise money for him—for medicine, and to see if I can find him lighter work.
Otherwise he'll end up hauling sacks down at the docks—and with that hand, he can't manage it."
In the hearth, the dying embers gave a faint crackle, sparks flaring and dying in an instant.
"How long?" Russell asked.
"What?"
"How long have you been doing this?"
The maid pressed her lips together, as if calculating, or perhaps hesitating over whether to tell the truth.
"About half a year," she finally said.
"At first it was just food, to give my brother a bit extra to eat, because the meals at the mill never filled him up. But... but I never meant to steal money.
Not until last month, after what happened. I had no choice—I really needed the money, and those noble lords didn't seem to care much when things went missing, so I worked up the nerve..."
She glanced down at the flask in her hand, then at the cigar box.
"I know this is stealing. I know what happens if I'm caught—sent to the police, thrown in prison, and my life would be over the moment I got out.
She lifted her head and looked at the white mask on Russell's face, and at the eyes behind it, unreadable.
"But... I can't just do nothing. He's the only family I have left."
Russell looked at her.
"What's your name?"
"Agnes," the maid said. "Agnes Calvert."
"Agnes," Russell nodded. "What's your brother's name?"
"Tom. Tom Calvert."
"Tom Calvert, East End, textile mill accident, five shillings compensation."
Russell repeated it. "Noted."
Agnes blinked.
"Noted... and then what?"
"Then," Russell walked to the window and pushed it open, the night wind rushing in, stirring his black overcoat,
"in a couple of days, a gentleman in a grey coat will come find your brother in the East End.
It doesn't matter what his name is. All you need to do is have your brother tell him the name of the mill, its address, and the name of the foreman that month."
Agnes went still.
"You... what are you going to do?"
"Didn't I just say?"
Russell turned back, moonlight streaming in through the window.
"Go out with a big score."
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