"In that case," Mary set her cup down, blue eyes bright in the afternoon light, "I'm looking forward to reading about your performance."
"If it goes well, buy a copy to show support," Russell joked. "And don't forget to share the profits with us."
"Deal," Mary laughed. "If the article is good enough, I'll buy extra copies for every maid at home."
…
Time flew when the conversation was pleasant. After the interview discussion, they chatted about everything and nothing—the stuffy professors at Imperial College London, the orange cat at Baker Street that constantly stole Mrs. Hudson's cookies. Mostly Russell talked; Mary listened with that quiet, constant smile.
No cases. No conspiracies. No lies. Just two people talking about small, ordinary things.
The pastry stand was nearly empty. The teapot had been refilled three times.
When Mary glanced out the window and saw streetlamps glowing, she realized how late it had become.
"Time really does fly…"
She sounded almost regretful.
"It feels like we just sat down, yet it's already dark."
"Yeah."
Russell kept his reply simple.
"It seems… it's time to go."
Her voice was soft, carrying the faintest trace of disappointment.
"It's all right. There will be other chances."
Russell stood, fetched his coat, then lifted Mary's off-white cashmere coat from the rack.
"I'll see you out."
He held the coat open for her.
Mary turned to face him. Her clear blue eyes reflected his gentle smile.
She gave a soft laugh, rose, and turned, presenting her slender back and long silver hair.
Russell stepped forward and gently draped the warm coat over her shoulders. His movements were careful, as if afraid of disturbing a single strand of her moon-smooth hair.
A familiar faint white-tea scent reached him.
The last uneven rays of the setting sun slanted through the window and touched her hair. For one heartbeat, Russell thought he was hallucinating.
The silver-white strands seemed to glow with a warm, pale golden light—like daisies in early summer, like a drop of honey melted into butter. It looked warm, fragrant, like sunlit wheat fields.
He blinked hard. It must be the light.
The setting sun was a magician, repainting the entire world in impossible colors. Gray streets turned gold; pale clouds turned crimson. So why not a little golden warmth in silver hair?
He told himself it was only the light, yet his fingertips almost brushed those strands before he caught himself.
When he looked again, the golden glow had vanished, swallowed back into shimmering silver.
"What's wrong?"
Mary turned, confusion in her eyes.
"Nothing," Russell said quickly, straightening her collar. "I just noticed how beautiful today's sunset is."
"Really?" She followed his gaze to the window. "It's almost gone."
"But it'll be back tomorrow, stronger than ever."
Russell smiled, refusing to overthink the beautiful illusion.
He adjusted the coat until it sat perfectly on her slender shoulders, then stepped back.
"It's fine."
"Thank you."
Mary's voice was barely audible. She didn't turn around. Her reflection in the glass showed her watching him.
"Let's go."
They left the tearoom together.
Evening air was damp and cold. Gas lamps already glowed along the streets of Kensington. A carriage waited nearby, the driver leaning against the door.
"Well then," Mary paused at the carriage, looking back at him with her head tilted. "That's enough for today."
"Mm. Drive safely."
"You too."
She lifted her skirts, climbed in, and the door closed with a soft thud. The carriage rolled away into the night, lights and shadows blurring until it disappeared.
Russell watched until it was gone, then turned and walked back toward Baker Street, carrying sandwiches, fresh bread, and a paper bag of warm roasted chestnuts.
When he opened the door of 221B, Mrs. Hudson was washing dishes. He greeted her and headed upstairs.
Before he could knock on Charlotte's door, her voice came through it.
"Does Faidon Tearoom serve baked potatoes and warm chestnuts for dinner too? You won't go broke paying the bill and still have nothing left for food, will you?"
Russell pushed the door open. Charlotte sat in the armchair, one eyebrow raised.
"I didn't feel like going to a restaurant and planned to come straight back."
He sat beside her and offered the bag of chestnuts.
"Want one?"
Charlotte glanced at the steaming bag, then at him, and finally took one. She held the warm chestnut for a moment, feeling its heat through the shell, then began peeling it with careful fingers.
"Any progress?"
Russell asked while peeling his own.
"I believe so."
Charlotte popped the peeled chestnut into her mouth.
"My initial theory is that Bilson is still somewhere in the Southwark area."