Charlotte immediately thought of the word "smart."
She had never considered the matter of a partner before. But if she began thinking about it now, sufficient intelligence would undoubtedly be a necessary condition. Only someone intelligent enough could keep up with her thoughts, understand her world, and never bore her.
However… when Russell looked at her with those smiling black eyes and asked that question…
Charlotte's mind went completely blank.
No comment.
Why no comment?
The moment their eyes met, every criterion she had taken for granted—burned into the depths of her brain—suddenly lost all meaning.
Smart.
How is intelligence defined?
What makes a person smart?
Is it simply a specific IQ number, or is there something more?
The word felt like dandelion fluff caught in the wind—light, fluffy, never settling.
So, was it wise for someone to self-study for three months and enter Imperial College London?
From the perspective of ordinary people—or most people—it was more than enough.
Yet Charlotte simply could not regard that man as intelligent.
So what should she do? Exclude him outright, or adjust her standards to match?
This problem felt more complicated than any case she had ever faced.
If she changed not a single word, the possibility of anyone meeting this criterion was extremely low.
But if she modified it, then what was the point of setting the criterion in the first place?
It gave the strong impression of a low-status, insignificant task.
The coffee beans cracked in the grinder with a faint click-click sound, like her somewhat irregular heartbeat.
It really was… strange.
Charlotte poured the ground coffee into a cup and watched the hot water slowly fill it, steam rising with a bitter aroma.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the chaotic thoughts.
Perhaps she simply felt uncomfortable being asked such personal questions.
That was all.
With that thought she gently blew on the coffee. Once it cooled slightly she took a careful, almost happy sip.
Then her delicate eyebrows furrowed slightly.
The taste was off.
Charlotte stared down at the fragrant cup in her hands.
She was confident her brewing method was correct. She might have been distracted while grinding the beans, but it shouldn't have caused a major problem.
She had been drinking coffee for years. Even if she completely forgot the steps, muscle memory should prevent it from tasting truly terrible.
Could it be… her tongue had become too picky?
The girl furrowed her brows further and unconsciously recalled how many times she had gone to brew coffee at the bar in recent days.
Very few.
Ever since that troublesome man appeared, she had hardly brewed coffee herself.
Even on days when he was at school and not at Baker Street, she had chosen tea more often.
The reason was simple: grinding beans took too much time.
Over time, her standards for coffee taste seemed to have gradually shifted toward that man's version.
"What on earth is this?"
Charlotte sighed and took another sip.
I'm still not used to it…
With a somewhat resigned expression she set the cup down and turned her gaze to the milk carton on the table.
I can add one more criterion for choosing a partner.
Whether he's smart or not is a separate issue.
At the very least… he needs to know how to brew coffee.
…
Tuesday in London was rainy all day long.
When Russell returned from Imperial College, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him on the stairs, clutching a letter.
It had been delivered that afternoon.
The elderly lady handed it to him. "This is for you, dear."
Russell opened the envelope. It was an official interview request from The Times—polite, formal, and bearing a vivid red editorial seal at the bottom.
He folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and glanced toward Charlotte as he climbed the stairs.
Charlotte sat leisurely in the armchair, wrapped in a warm bathrobe, as though she hadn't moved all day.
"Any news from Lestrade?"
"No." Charlotte didn't look up. "Billson and Emily Collins have vanished without a trace."
"I contacted every informant in Bermondsey and Woolwich. No one has seen them."
"They might have fled."
Russell said.
"Perhaps."
Charlotte agreed lightly, though her tone made it clear she didn't believe it.
Russell asked nothing more and returned to his room.
…
Wednesday—the rain stopped, yet the air remained heavy with moisture. The sky was pitch black, as if ready to collapse.
Russell attended classes all day, filling page after page of notes until his hand ached so badly he could barely hold the pen.
After school he and Mary walked to the entrance as usual and parted ways.
She seemed especially energetic today.
…
Thursday.
The sun finally appeared in London.
Mary had been waiting since Monday.
It wasn't the first time she had confirmed the truth of those words.
Wednesday night the girl lay in bed listening to the occasional wind outside the window while mentally rehearsing tomorrow's plan over and over.
What time to wake up, what to wear, which scarf to choose, how to style her hair, what to say to him first…
Like an elementary-school student on her first spring field trip, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Such trivial, meaningless questions kept rising in her mind.
She would think she had found the perfect solution, only to immediately wonder if a better one existed.
It was strange.
It was only breakfast.
Yet she still woke before dawn.
She washed her face, changed clothes, sat before the mirror, and combed her long silver hair herself—no maid allowed.
The comb's teeth moved slowly through her hair as though handling the most precious treasure.
She gazed at her reflection: beautiful, perfect features and clear blue eyes.
A faint light shone within them—bright, like the first rays of morning sunlight touching the surface of a lake.
When she finished, she stood and gave her reflection one final glance in the glasses.
Yes. Perfect.
When Mary descended the stairs with graceful steps, skirt fluttering, Arthur Morstan was leisurely enjoying breakfast in the dining room.
"Good morning, Father."
Mary walked to the table and greeted him with a smile.
"Morning."
Arthur set the newspaper down and studied his daughter for a moment.
"You look lovely today."
He spoke gently, voice carrying neither joy nor anger.
"Yes, Father," Mary replied. As the maid handed her a napkin she sat across from him.
"I slept soundly last night."
Arthur nodded, picked up the newspaper again, and said nothing more.
Father and daughter breakfast proceeded in its usual quiet fashion, accompanied only by the soft clink of cutlery.
Mary ate slowly, her eyes repeatedly drifting to the wall clock.
Time crawled.
Finally, after finishing the modest breakfast, Mary stood.
"Father, I have to go to school now."
"Mm."
Arthur answered without looking up from the paper.
The girl lifted her skirt, turned, and left.