The instant those words slipped from beneath the mask, Mary stood rooted to the spot, as if struck by lightning.
The faint smile in her blue eyes narrowed abruptly, as though a great wave had been unleashed within them.
For a moment, it felt as though time itself had been stretched out to infinity.
She had heard this story before.
But not from that troublesome thief.
It had been about three weeks ago, in a lecture hall at Imperial College in London. A sleepy eyed man had been slumped over his desk.
She could still hear his unique, languid voice as he absentmindedly explained this old proverb.
And now the same story was being told again, in a different place, by a different person—someone who should never have been able to repeat it.
Could this really be a coincidence?
No.
When two seemingly unrelated points are connected by a precise and unique line, it is never coincidence.
It is evidence.
Evidence strong enough to overturn all of her careful, rational analyses; to smother all of her lingering doubts; even enough to justify drawing the target after the arrow has already been loosed.
The belated arrival of the Icebreaker party.
Those love letters that had humiliated Timmy.
The chance meeting at Lloyds Bank.
All the countless, seemingly pointless fragments she had chosen to ignore suddenly rushed together like iron filings drawn to a magnet—gathering, rearranging, linking, and finally forming a single, absurd yet unmistakable outline.
Russell Watson.
The one who was always asleep during class.
The man who had treated her every attempt to test him as a joke and lightly brushed her aside.
The man who, at the moment of her deepest despair, had nevertheless kept his promise in a way that defied belief.
He was Moriarty.
"Sister Mary? What's wrong?"
Louise's voice pulled her back from the storm of chaotic thoughts. Seeing how pale Mary's face had grown, and how unfocused her eyes suddenly looked, Louise could not help asking in concern, "You look unwell."
"I'm all right, Your Highness," Mary said. She slowly set down the teacup that now felt almost too heavy for her to hold.
The crisp clink of white porcelain against the saucer echoed clearly in the quiet room, helping to steady the violent pounding in her chest.
"I just… suddenly remembered a few things from my university lectures, that's all."
She raised her head casually, and as though that brief moment of embarrassment had never occurred, that same flawless, gentle smile returned to her lips.
"University…"
Louise blinked, her eyes full of confusion at this unknown world Mary was alluding to.
"You really do sound tired," she said.
"In truth… it's not so bad," Mary replied with a smile. Her expression and manner had already returned to that of the kind, caring elder sister.
"It all depends on how interested you are in the lectures and on how… entertaining your study partner is."
"A study partner?"
"More or less," Mary said. She lifted her teacup again and took a small sip. Louise nodded, as if she understood.
"Oh, by the way, Sister Mary," Louise suddenly leaned in again, curiosity written across her face. "What does Mr. Moriarty look like? I mean the one you saw."
"I didn't get a clear look at him either," Mary said, shaking her head. This time, she was not lying.
"He always wore a mask, and his build was quite ordinary. There was nothing remarkable about him at all."
She paused, and her gaze drifted unconsciously toward the window.
"But I'm sure his eyes must be very beautiful."
"His eyes?"
"Mmm." Mary nodded lightly, a meaningful smile playing at the corners of her lips.
"Like obsidian—eyes that usually seem lazy and languid. But when he's serious, they shine brighter than anyone's, full of sharp focus."
"That…" Louise thought for a moment. "That sounds very handsome."
"Is he good looking?" she asked.
Mary merely gave a quiet little laugh, neither confirming nor denying it.
Perhaps.
The pleasant afternoon tea came to an end before they knew it.
Mary politely declined Louise's invitation to stay for dinner, saying that it was already late and that her father would worry.
She left the splendid palace and climbed into her own carriage.
The wheels began to turn slowly, rolling down the tree lined avenue blanketed in golden fallen leaves.
Mary leaned back against the soft cushions and closed her blue eyes, now filled with exhaustion and confusion.
The carriage was silent; the only sound was the monotonous, rhythmic rumble of the wheels over the road.
She did not know how much time had passed when, all of a sudden, she let out a tiny laugh—so soft it was almost inaudible.
When Mary returned to the house, a servant stopped her.
"Miss, the chef asked what you would like for dinner tonight."
"Let Father decide," Mary said.
"The master won't be back for dinner tonight, miss. He's expecting a guest."
At that, Mary's brow lifted slightly.
It had to be the reporter from The Guardian.
It was almost time for that bullet to find its mark.
Well, it was just as well he would not be home tonight. Out of sight, out of mind.
After thinking for a moment, she said, "Tell the chef to prepare whatever he likes, just have him keep the flavors light—nothing too heavy."
"Until dinner, I'd like to be alone in my room for a while. Please don't let anyone disturb me."
"Understood, miss."
The maid nodded and stepped aside.
Mary returned to her room.
She opened a drawer and took out the provocative card that had been written in lipstick.
With her fingertip, she traced the elegantly written name. Then, as if sensing something, she held it closer.
At the end of the name, there was a single dot, no bigger than the width of a pen nib—left by the man when he pressed down with the lipstick, just as if he were in the habit of finishing every line with a tiny tap of his pen.
In Mary's experience, many people had this quirk.
It was a common and unremarkable little habit, no more noteworthy than spinning a pen while thinking or adjusting a monocle while reading.
Judging by this detail alone, it would have seemed nearly impossible to identify a single individual in this vast city, overflowing with hypocrisy and crime.
And yet, once the arrow has already been loosed, drawing the target afterward changes everything.
Mary took out her notebook again and opened it.
On the pages were her lecture notes and records of her interactions with Russell.
Her gaze was drawn to Russell's handwriting.
Of course, handwriting by itself meant nothing. If it did, she would have noticed long ago.
Russell's writing was sloppy and casual, carrying a sort of lazy indifference. It was nothing at all like Moriarty's elegant, sharp, almost artistic cursive.
And yet…
In Mary's blue eyes, that stretch of scrawled letters seemed to expand without limit.
So small as to be almost invisible, there was an incredibly clear dot of ink.
Exactly the same mark that appeared on the lipstick card.
One coincidence is still a coincidence. Two coincidences can still be called coincidences.
But what if there are three? Four? Or even more?
Mary's gaze finally came to rest at the end of one of the lines Russell had written.
Her fingertips gently stroked the edge of the card. The playful glint that had once danced in her eyes slowly hardened, condensing into a more concrete image of that person.
The bullet that had been fired had struck not only at Lloyds Bank, but also in her own heart.
"Mary, did you take notes? Lend them to me to copy…"
That lazy, irritating voice still seemed to echo in her ears.
Mary closed her eyes softly, then opened them again, slowly.
The coldness that had once filled the depths of her dark blue gaze was gone, replaced by an unfathomable smile.
She carefully put the card back where it belonged and, for no particular reason, found herself recalling the very first assessment she had made of him when they met in the cafeteria.
Perhaps she had not intended anything by it at the time, yet today, unexpectedly, those words resonated in her heart once more.
"Chameleon…"