Arthur Morstan's words were like pebbles dropped into Mary's calm eyes, sending ripples across the surface. The girl lowered her gaze, hiding the fleeting emotion that rose in her heart.
"Father, I don't quite understand what you an." Her voice remained calm as ever, showing no sign of disturbance.
"You don't understand?" Arthur stared quietly at his daughter. He studied her face—beautiful as a work of art—and her eyes that seed unmoved by anything, as though trying to read so clue from the surface of a still lake.
"In other words, what I want to say is…" After a long silence he finally spoke slowly. "I've heard you've beco quite close with Miss Hols from Baker Street and her assistant."
Mary's heart skipped a beat. "We're just classmates, Father."
"Yes. Classmates." Arthur Morstan nodded. "But do you rember what I told you on the way back from Lloyd's Bank that day?" he asked gently. "I said he was rely a temporary event—an obstacle that happened to appear on your path of growth. You might pause out of curiosity, but in the end you must keep moving forward. So, Mary, what did you answer ?"
"..." The girl pursed her lips and remained silent.
"You said you already knew the truth, didn't you?" her father answered for her. "Now that you know the truth, why are you still getting so close to him?"
Mary opened her mouth, searching for an appropriate explanation. "He's Charlotte Hols's assistant."
"So what?"
"Charlotte Hols's relationship with her brother Mycroft is… not good. In fact, it could be described as terrible. So she sees him as a perfect target—an easy person to use." Mary's voice was very soft.
"Is that really what you think?" Arthur Morstan asked.
"Really," Mary nodded.
"Look up, Mary. Look at ." Hearing this, the girl slowly raised her face. Her blue eyes t his dark-gray ones.
"Look into my eyes and say it again," Arthur Morstan said. "You see him only as a tool?"
"…Yes, Father."
"Mary, I have never taught you to lie." The man spoke in a low voice. "Therefore I believe you are not a child who lies. But I also hope you will not disappoint ."
"I promise… Father."
"Very good." Arthur Morstan nodded with satisfaction. "Then let's leave it at that for now. The crackdown on Mycroft has ended—no need to worry anymore. Therefore there's no need to pay any further attention to Russell Watson. He is a poor boy without parents. Even if he captured Charlotte Hols's heart, Mycroft is not the sort of man whose heart would waver over such a thing. Thinking you could influence him through Mycroft is a bit of a pipe dream. Since he enjoys playing detective with Mycroft's sister, just leave him alone. It has nothing to do with you. What you need to do is simply perform your own duties properly. In the future you will reach a completely different level from them. These mories will beco nothing more than insignificant past events for your future self. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Understood… Father."
"Very good." Arthur nodded with satisfaction, stood, and walked to his desk. "Now, get so rest."
"Yes, Father."
Mary stood, perford a perfect curtsy, then turned and slowly left the study. The heavy door closed slowly behind her, shutting out the suffocating pressure. She walked step by step down the dimly lit corridor to her room. Each step landed steadily and slowly, as though she were walking not on soft carpet but on sharp blades.
Back in her room she did not turn on the lights. Instead she went to the window and drew the heavy curtains. Cold moonlight poured down like rcury, making her delicate face appear sowhat pale.
She stood there quietly, gazing at the sleeping dark city outside the window—motionless, like a beautiful sculpture that had lost its soul. She did not know how much ti passed before she slowly averted her gaze.
Mary sat on the sofa and stared at the flickering flas in the fireplace—the room's only light and heat source. Firewood crackled, the flas rcilessly consuming everything burnable, transforming it into light and heat that brought a little warmth to the cold room. The fire burned greedily, casting eerie, constantly shifting shadows on the dark interior of the fireplace.
Mary simply stared quietly at the bright yet dangerous flas. She did not move an inch. On the face that always wore a polite smile there was now only stagnant stillness, reflecting the vivid, burning orange-red hues. The girl's blue eyes reflected the firelight, as though flas were raging fiercely within her pupils, ready to devour everything in sight.
In recent days London's temperature had continued to drop, yet the fireplace fire burned brighter and brighter. She liked fire.
She recalled childhood winters when her father took her to the countryside mansion. There had been an even larger fireplace there. Every night the servants would light it. She had loved curling up on the soft carpet, watching the firewood thrown into the flas gradually twist and deform in the fierce blaze until it beca fragile lumps of ash that no longer retained their original shape.
Fire brings light and warmth. It can illuminate everything—or hide everything.
The girl unconsciously traced the smooth velvet of the sofa armrest with her fingertips. Its cold touch contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from the fireplace. She closed her eyes, as though she could still sll the unique scent of burning firewood mixed with resin and charcoal—a captivating aroma blending destruction and rebirth.
In her heart the flas danced, taking on various shapes—sotis a phoenix with spread wings, sotis a dancing dragon, and sotis… a painfully distorted, lting human face.
Mary suddenly opened her eyes. "Fire..." She murmured softly—so softly the words seed in danger of being swallowed by the crackling flas the instant they left her lips.
It was ti to rest.
Mary went to bed, removed her jacket, and put on white pajamas. The silk-like fabric clung to her skin, giving a faint cool sensation. She lay down on the soft bedding, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and stared at the carved canopy above in the dimly lit room. She closed her eyes.
In the darkness, doubts sprouted one after another in her heart like bamboo shoots after spring rain.
When flas rise, do they first illuminate their surroundings, or do they first consu the fuel? How should firewood be arranged in the fireplace so the flas burn brightest and longest, transmitting heat even farther—to unexpected places?
These questions had no single focus; they were a hodgepodge of physics and common sense. They drifted through her mind like feathers, leaving no weight.
Sleepiness slowly crept in. The girl gently turned over, burying half her face in the soft pillow. "How warm." She murmured quietly.
…
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