The night after the rain brought a cold that seeped right through to the bone. Dark, heavy clouds pressed down on the Morstan estate, smothering it in a cold, deathly silence.
Mary sat in her room, a teacup in hand and the morning paper on the table before her. She sipped her tea slowly and expressionlessly, but not even the soothing warmth could dispel the chill in her heart. The bold, black-inked headline of The Times mocked her with its irony and quietly announced something that filled her with despair and helplessness.
The plan had failed.
She hadn't gotten what she wanted. All her efforts in the past week had been wasted. Her desperate attempts had come to nothing in the end.
If things had gone as planned, the group would have first raided the underground vault of Lloyds Bank, then located the Morstan family's private safe. The next step would have been to take internal business documents, bonds, stocks, and other securities—many of which were contracts the Morstan family had signed with Ethan Roy before the Roys lost power. When the Roy family's downfall happened, the contracts lost economic value in society's eyes but they remained legally binding. That's why Mary had devised the raid—to have someone seize those documents, then publicize the incident via The Times.
This, in turn, would allow the Duke of Morstan to use the opportunity to demand compensation from Lloyds Bank for economic losses. Lloyds, under their compensation agreement, would be forced not only to pay the value of the stolen bonds but also an additional sum in damages. By Mary's estimation, the payout would be at least six figures, maybe more.
To maintain the Morstan family's support and trust—a major client—Lloyds had even prepared a special, high-interest plan just for them. It was her idea: turn waste into treasure.
They had exchanged a pile of near-worthless paper for enough cash to get the family through its current crisis.
The plan was perfect.
At least, it was… until that damned variable called Moriarty appeared.
Mary picked up the newspaper and read the article. The reporter's exaggerated prose painted Moriarty as a midnight phantom, calmly striding through a hail of bullets. He'd single-handedly foiled a daring heist at Lloyds Bank—in Scotland Yard's own words, good fortune out of misfortune.
What a cruel irony.
Lucky for others; disastrous for her.
Instinctively, Mary clenched the paper in her hand, tempted to tear it to shreds. But in the end, she restrained her impatience, tossed the newspaper into the fireplace, and let it burn to ashes, warming the room instead.
She downed her tea in one gulp, then raked a hand through her hair, frustrated.
As soon as the paper was published, her father called to confirm everything. The bank manager insisted nothing had been stolen and even praised Moriarty on the phone. Likewise, there was no mention of theft in the news.
That damned thief—after single-handedly taking down all the robbers—had his feat go unrecognized, his fame hidden, and vanished without a trace.
Why? Why had nothing been stolen this time?
Mary's lips twisted in a bitter, self-mocking smile.
The critical documents and bonds were now locked away in a strengthened evidence room. Lloyds had already learned its lesson once; they wouldn't make a stupid mistake again.
Everything was back to square one. No, worse than square one.
The failed bank robbery had lit the fuse in her father, igniting the anxieties and controlling tendencies he'd kept suppressed for so long. The admiral's son, the dinner party next week... every new word was a fresh iron bar, reinforcing her grand prison.
She didn't understand why Moriarty—on Mycroft's orders—had attacked Lloyds Bank. Was this Mycroft's idea? Or his own plan? She had no answer.
She even wondered if he already knew her true identity, if he'd anticipated her entire scheme. But she had no proof.
The only thing she understood was—she had lost.
A complete defeat.
Mary slumped back into her chair, closed her tired blue eyes.
Patter-patter-patter…
Rain began again, lashing the window, and her heart slowly sank into the deep. It had been clear just this morning, and now it was raining again.
"Can you not rain so indiscriminately, just because of the circumstances?" Mary muttered, voice low and full of complaint, like a little girl with too many grievances, burying her head in her knees.
The sound of rain outside only made the deathly silence inside more suffocating.
At that claustrophobic moment, Mary thought once more of Russell—remembering the raw, instinctive cry for rescue in her heart.
Will you come to save me?
Looking back, even the question itself felt absurd.
She couldn't even save herself—how could she pin her hopes on some vague, unrealistic promise?
He didn't even know the cage existed. Or if he did—what could he possibly do?
Frustration, powerlessness, disappointment… a tangle of thorns wrapped tight around her heart, growing sharper with every moment.
Tap.
Mary's eyes fluttered open, her blue gaze icy cold. She stood up, walked to the window, and pushed open the heavy French doors. The chill, damp night air rushed in, whipping her silver hair around, calming the storm in her chest.
She looked out at the garden. The rain washed over carefully pruned roses—petals scattered on the muddy ground, a mess of dirt and red chaos.
Just like her mood now.
She touched the cold window frame, feeling the chill spread from her fingertips through her whole body.
There was something neither Russell nor anyone else knew: Mary was afraid of the cold. Or rather, she was unusually sensitive to it.
The rain stung her skin with sharp, cold pain. Yet she kept the window flung wide, letting the wind and rain pour in.
If I catch a cold, maybe I won't have to go to next week's party…
She slowly closed her eyes, surrendering to the dark and the cold.
"Idiot…"
Mary's lips trembled, but she didn't know if her curse was for the man who had given her that easy promise, or for herself, who foolishly believed him.
She opened her eyes again. The last glimmer of hope was gone, leaving only a stagnant, muddy calm.
That's it. That settles it.
Go to the wretched dinner party. I still have one last card left to play. If none of this can be changed, then just burn it all down.
It was just as this self-destructive thought crossed her mind that Mary suddenly glimpsed a dark figure at the edge of her vision.
He moved with purpose, but climbed her house roof as silently as a cat.
Why on earth was he here?
Mary had barely registered her surprise before the thief was already at her window. He wore a mask, expressionless, and lifted a gloved right hand in a gentle wave.
He spoke.
"Good evening, beautiful lady."
…