At his words, Agnes opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
She only stared at the black-clad figure standing by the window, and suddenly it felt like everything that had happened tonight was some kind of dream.
From the moment she'd been possessed by some reckless impulse to sneak into the study and steal wine, to nearly being caught by the butler, to the butler's inexplicable departure, and now to this.
He stood there in the moonlight, telling her he'd deal with the textile mill owner for her.
"Why?" she couldn't help asking. "Aren't you going to expose me?"
"I'm just a thief, not your life coach. I've no interest in teaching you how to live, and no interest in judging whether your choices are right or wrong."
"Besides, what standing would I have to lecture anyone? You steal things—so do I." Russell said.
"Just think of this as one thief looking out for another."
"Only next time, pick a smarter method. Though honestly, it'd be best if there wasn't a next time."
"You..." Her voice came out dry.
"Give it here."
Russell cut her off, holding out a hand.
Agnes hesitated for a moment, then handed over the wine flask.
Russell took the flask, glanced at it, and set it back on the desk without ceremony.
Seeing this, Agnes looked down at the cigar box in her arms.
"Should this go back too?"
"Why would it need to go back?" Russell said. "Keep it. It's yours."
Agnes hugged the cigar box tighter.
"Then just now—"
"I was telling you to put the flask back. Even thieving requires a bit of an eye for it," Russell said, pointing at the silver flask on the desk.
"Try to sell something like that and any pawnshop will spot it in a second as Belgravia work. Trace it back and it leads straight to the Fairchild household—are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Agnes's face went scarlet.
She scrambled over, set the silver flask back exactly where it had been in the liquor cabinet, then hurried back to the window and stood before Russell.
"N-now what?"
"That's enough," he said. "Come here."
Agnes hurried back to the window, stood still, and looked at him, breathing hard.
"Ever climbed out a window?"
"N-no."
"Then learn now."
Russell swung himself up onto the windowsill, crouched at the edge, and held out a hand.
Agnes hesitated for less than a second before reaching for it.
The hand was cool, its knuckles sharply defined, yet surprisingly strong.
She felt herself lifted lightly and set upright on the windowsill.
The night wind blew against her face, carrying the early-winter chill and the faint reek of the distant River Thames.
Agnes glanced down and her legs went weak.
"Don't look down." Russell's voice sounded close to her ear. "Look at me."
Agnes forced her gaze away and up, toward the white mask.
"I'm going to carry you down in a moment. You don't have to do anything—close your eyes or keep them open, whichever you like. Just don't scream."
Agnes swallowed and nodded.
Russell wrapped an arm around her waist.
"Hold the cigar box tight."
The next instant, Agnes felt her whole body lift into the air.
Wind roared past her ears; she squeezed her eyes shut on instinct, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it would leap out of her throat.
She felt herself falling, and yet also as if she were floating—the arm around her waist stayed steady the entire time, anchoring her like a mooring line.
She had no idea how long her eyes had been closed.
When she opened them again, she was standing in the shadows of the manor's back garden, her back against a cold stone wall, legs trembling, gasping for breath.
Russell stood before her, the hem of his coat still swaying faintly.
"That way," he said, pointing at a small door deep in the garden.
"That door leads to an alley. No one uses it normally. The lock's broken—push from the inside and it opens."
Agnes, still catching her breath, stared at him, unable to speak.
Why did it feel like he knew this place better than she did?
"Once you're out of the alley, head east. Two streets over is the main road—there'll be night carriages there," Russell went on.
"Get in, give the driver sixpence, and have him take you back to the East End."
"Don't try to save the coin. Walk it and you won't be home before dawn."
Agnes finally managed to steady her breathing.
"Mr. Moriarty..."
"Agnes Calvert." Russell cut her off.
"You saw no one tonight."
he said.
"Find a new job after this, and keep it honest. Don't do this again."
"You'll get caught sooner or later. And when you do, you'll regret it."
Agnes froze for a moment.
Then she nodded.
Russell said nothing more, only dipped his head slightly.
Agnes turned, cradling the cigar box, and picked her way unsteadily toward the small door.
After a few steps, she suddenly stopped and looked back.
The black-clad figure still stood where she'd left him, moonlight tracing his lean silhouette, the coat stirring gently in the night wind.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but didn't know what.
In the end she just gave a firm nod, turned, pushed open the little door, and vanished into the dark of the alley.
Russell stood where he was for a few seconds, watching the direction she'd disappeared.
Then he lifted his gaze to the third-floor window of the Fairchild manor, where a light was still burning.
Douglas Fairchild was probably still up there, perhaps still entangled with his companion for the evening.
The night was still young.
Time to head back... or was it?
Russell suddenly recalled the look on Lestrade's face when he'd shown him those case files.
Well. He was already here.
Wouldn't it be a waste of the trip if he didn't rough the man up first?
Russell drew his gaze back, turned, and slipped once more toward the main house, Stealth carrying him soundlessly back into the study.
There, he picked up a bottle of prized brandy and turned to leave.
At the end of the hallway lay Douglas Fairchild's room.
A click.
The lock gave way.
Russell pushed the door open, entered, and pulled it shut behind him.
The bedroom was large and lavishly furnished, the air thick with a nauseating mix of liquor and perfume.
Douglas Fairchild stood with his back to the door at the liquor cabinet, pouring himself another drink.
"Who let you in? Get out."
He didn't even turn around, clearly mistaking Russell for some servant.
Russell said nothing.
He simply stood there, taking in the man's ornate silk robe and the slightly bloated set of his shoulders—the mark of a body worn down by excess.
The woman pressed close beside him turned instinctively, froze the moment she saw the intruder, then at a gesture from Russell scrambled up and fled the room as if for her life.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing—get back here!" Douglas took a swallow of his drink and turned around irritably.
Then he froze too.
He found himself looking at a man in a white mask, standing calmly in his bedroom, holding a bottle of his own treasured brandy.
"You..."
Douglas's drunkenness evaporated by half in an instant.
He stared at the unwelcome visitor, his mind racing, but not a single word came out of his mouth.
Watching the terror spread across his face, Russell unhurriedly set the brandy down on a nearby table, pulled out a chair, sat, and crossed his legs.
"Good evening, Mr. Fairchild."
His tone was as light as if he were greeting an old friend.
"You're... Moriarty... what do you want?"
Douglas had finally found his voice, though it shook badly.
"The money's in the drawer, the jewelry's in the safe—take whatever you want, just don't hurt me!"
[Douglas Fairchild feels panic at your appearance. Malice Points +100]
"Tsk, tsk," Russell shook his head, raising a finger and wagging it lightly in the air.
"It seems, Mr. Fairchild, that you've badly misjudged me," he said, shaking his head again.
"Why would you assume I've come for your money?"
"Then... then what are you here for?" Douglas's voice trembled even harder.
"It's the middle of the night, and I've turned up in your house—what else could I possibly be here for?" Russell asked back. "Perhaps I just came for a drink and a chat. How's that sound?"
Douglas blinked, then quickly caught himself and spoke in a rush.
"What do you want? We can work something out. I can give you dirt on other people—let's make a deal, shall we?"
"You see, this doesn't have to end badly. My family's never wronged you, have we—"
"That's not so certain," Russell cut him off.
"I'm quite aware of just how much you lot of nobles despise my name."
"At least eight out of every ten aristocrats in London have cursed my name at some point. What makes you so sure your family isn't one of them?"
Douglas Fairchild found himself briefly at a loss for words.
"Relax, Mr. Fairchild," Russell laughed. "I'm only joking."
He paused. "Actually, the real reason I'm here tonight is for someone's sake."
"Who...?"
"Angela Coniman. Do you know her? Three years ago she worked as a maid in your household, and then she was abused."
"Angela..." At the name, Douglas frowned first, then his expression cleared into sudden recognition.
"I remember now," he said hurriedly. "This whole thing is my fault—it was those servants, they didn't know their place, I... I'll go apologize to her right now, make it up to her, all right?"
He sounded utterly sincere, even slapping himself a few times across the face, as if he had truly repented.
Russell only fell silent.
After a long moment, he sighed.
"Ahh."
"Wh-what's wrong, Mr. Moriarty," Douglas said uneasily. "Is... is there some other problem?"
"No problem at all, Mr. Fairchild. Your apology sounds sincere, and your offer of compensation is generous. Very good."
Russell nodded.
"Then—"
"But," Russell cut off Douglas before he could say more.
"That name I just gave you—I made it up on the spot. There's no such person."
The words landed, and Douglas went rigid.
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. There is no Angela Coniman," Russell said with a shrug.
"I just made it up. Even if you genuinely wanted to apologize, you'd never find her."
At this, Douglas stared blankly at Russell, the burning humiliation on his face seeming to mock his own stupidity.
Then rage came surging up from somewhere deep inside him.
[Douglas Fairchild feels fury at your deception. Malice Points +150]
"Moriarty!"
He slammed the table and glared at the Phantom Thief before him.
"What exactly do you want!"
"I don't want anything, Mr. Douglas. I want an apology," Russell said, his expression flat.
"Do you remember Mia? Mia Weber. Three years ago, she worked as a maid in your house too—"
"To hell with Mia, to hell with maids!" Douglas waved his hand.
"Do you really think I'll fall for the same trick twice?!"
"Even if someone really was mistreated in my house, she had it coming. She lived off my family's money—she should've taken whatever came with it!"
"..." Russell didn't answer.
"How much do you want? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? My father's a duke—he has money, plenty of it!"
Douglas shouted furiously, snatching up a fistful of banknotes and flinging them at Russell.
"Is that enough? Is this enough?!"
"Ahh." Watching the notes flutter down like falling leaves, Russell sighed again.
"Mr. Fairchild." He rose, took a step closer, and gripped the neck of the brandy bottle in reverse.
"This time, you've truly offended me."
Douglas went completely rigid, his pupils reflecting Russell's approaching figure—and the brandy bottle in his hand.
"I gave you a chance. But even now, even with me standing right in front of you, even after I laid it all out plainly, you still haven't admitted you did anything wrong."
"You're still trying to strike a deal with me, still leaning on your father's rank and wealth, still trying to toss me scraps to make me go away."
"Just like how you treat everyone else—though I suppose some of them never even got the scraps."
He said this, then raised the brandy bottle in his hand.
The amber liquid swayed gently in the lamplight, like molten gold—or like the last sunset a certain maid ever saw.
"Even now, I still haven't heard a single word of apology from your mouth."
The glass bottle came down at tremendous speed against the hard bone of his skull, shards flying, glinting under the lamplight like crystalline tears.
Crash!
The bedroom door was kicked open.
By the time Douglas Howard stormed in with his guards, Russell had vanished without a trace, as if he had never been there at all.
The only thing left in the room was Douglas Fairchild, bound to a chair, his head split and bloodied.
His hands and feet were tied to the chair, brandy soaked into every inch of him, the liquor mixing with blood and dripping from his hair and chin.
A great many banknotes, stained with blood and alcohol, had been stuffed into his mouth, leaving him looking half-dead.
Only the faint rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive—proof that the Phantom Thief hadn't meant to kill him.
And on the floor lay a row of blood-soaked banknotes, arranged crookedly to spell out a message:
—[I WAS WRONG]
Seeing his most beloved son suffer such humiliation, Douglas Howard's first reaction was fury.
"Damn it, that thief—how dare he, how dare he—I'll make him pay for this!"
He roared with rage, but the very next moment his eyes fell on the desk.
Something seemed to be sitting atop the expensive wooden table.
He stepped closer for a better look.
It was a forgiveness letter—it looked somewhat familiar, though he couldn't quite recall whose it was.
After all, he'd forced so many people to sign these over the years that they could probably fill a deck of playing cards by now.
The letter had been pierced through by a card standing upright, pinning it to the wooden table.
Douglas Howard's heart abruptly stopped.
The fury that had filled him a moment before turned instantly to ice at the sight of that card.
Trembling, he pinched the card and pulled it free.
There were only two words on it.
[Never Forgive]
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