"Stop. Let's skip this topic for now."
Mycroft raised a hand to cut Russell off as he was about to speak, then pulled a newspaper from inside his coat and set it on the table.
"In short, Ethan Roy is finished."
He slid the paper toward Charlotte.
"His house was visited by the gentleman thief Moriarty, and everything was stripped clean. Bribes, corrupt dealings, debauched private life, trading on sex—overnight, and by the next morning, The Times had put it all on blast."
"So what?" Charlotte picked up the paper and scanned it from top to bottom with practiced speed. "Isn't that nothing but good news for you?"
Splashed across the front page in enormous headline type was:
[THE CABINET COLLAPSES: From Ethan Roy's Bedroom to the Floor of Parliament—Moriarty's Fatal Strike!]
Below it were several key photographs: one showed Ethan Roy's transaction records with some business guild; another was an intimate snapshot of Roy with a certain actress inside a hotel suite.
Beyond that, The Times had even set aside a dedicated section to print Timmy Roy's public humiliation at last night's icebreaker.
They'd helpfully named several aristocratic young ladies as well—clearly enjoying the spectacle and eager to pour fuel on the fire.
"Crude," Charlotte said, tossing the paper back where it had been, "but effective."
"I don't know why that thief did it," she added, eyeing Mycroft. "Don't tell me you bought him off?"
"I have nothing whatsoever to do with him, Charlotte," Mycroft said severely.
"And I don't care about his motives either. If anything, this mess has only added to the pile of problems I have to clean up."
"But you're the biggest beneficiary. You can't deny that." Charlotte took another sip of coffee, her tone lazy and certain. "And you may sound like you're complaining, but you're practically floating inside. Honestly, you'd probably be delighted if Ethan Roy killed himself—then you could slap 'suicide out of guilt' on top as the final label."
"I'm simply stating facts," Mycroft replied.
"And it's quite clear Moriarty has crossed a line."
"Crossed a line? Where?" Charlotte shot back. "I don't see it."
"Because he broke into the home of a Cabinet minister who was dirty to begin with and exposed all the filth? I fail to see the harm. At least the citizens of London finally know what sort of people their taxes have been feeding."
"He has escalated from mere theft and violation of privacy to interfering with national politics," Mycroft said.
"I could tolerate his earlier, petty games. But this—this must not happen a second time."
"Oh, give it a rest, Mycroft." Charlotte rolled her eyes, scoffed with open disdain, then turned toward Russell.
"See, Watson? This is exactly why I can't stand him."
Mycroft's gaze followed hers to Russell.
"What do you think, Mr. Watson?"
"Think what?" Russell blinked, wearing an expression that clearly said: Why the hell are you asking me?
"About Moriarty's behavior," Charlotte said.
"Mycroft claims he's risen from illegal entry and invading privacy to meddling in national politics, which is the funniest joke I've heard in ages. Why that is—you explain it to him."
"Uh… as much as I hate to say this, Mr. Mycroft…" Russell looked at him, conflicted. "You're playing a rhetorical trick. None of what he stole has anything to do with national politics."
"Well said, Watson." Charlotte snapped her fingers and looked back at Mycroft. "Glad to see those books weren't wasted."
"You heard him. Even he can tell you're swapping concepts, Mycroft."
"If Moriarty had simply stolen Ethan Roy's dirty secrets and mailed them anonymously to Scotland Yard, then at most he'd be a public-spirited citizen seeking justice."
"But unfortunately, he didn't do that."
Charlotte set the newspaper aside and picked up where Russell left off.
"He chose maximum theatricality. He chose The Times. He chose to make everything public."
"What he enjoys isn't the outcome—it's the process. Watching you people scramble because he barged into your little world."
"From beginning to end, it's all provocation—pure self-indulgence, to satisfy his pathetic, restless craving to perform."
She stood and walked right up to Mycroft, gray-blue eyes full of undisguised mockery.
"So what does that have to do with political interference?"
"If an actor stands on a stage and curses a corrupt king, does that earn him the charge of plotting to overthrow the crown?"
"Don't bring your office-theory nonsense to me, Mycroft."
"At the end of the day, what you're afraid of is the thief himself. If he can pay a visit to Ethan Roy, then he can just as easily pay a visit to you—and dig up whatever embarrassing things you've done."
"Charlotte, that's enough." Mycroft's face darkened. "I have never betrayed Britain."
"Then what are you afraid of?" Charlotte rolled her eyes again.
"If you're truly clean, what could he possibly steal from your house—your savings?"
"You want to catch him because you want an uncontrollable piece to become controllable, that's all. Don't dress it up as some grand patriotic mission."
She paused, then continued, her tone decisive:
"And I know why you came to see me. So before you even say it, I'll give you my answer."
"I refuse."
"I'm not interested in a performance-obsessed 'art' criminal. If you want to catch a thief, go to Scotland Yard. Lestrade will be more than happy to help you."
Mycroft's expression didn't change in the slightest, as though her refusal was exactly what he'd expected.
"I see," he said slowly, voice steady and firm. "You haven't changed, Charlotte."
"Likewise," Charlotte returned without yielding an inch.
Mycroft nodded and didn't argue further.
Instead, he turned his attention to Russell, who had been serving as background scenery from start to finish.
"Mr. Watson."
"Yes—here," Russell answered, jolting and instinctively sitting up straighter.
"You're more interesting than I expected." There was a trace of approval in Mycroft's voice.
"Y-you flatter me?" Russell gave a dry laugh, completely unable to tell what this powerful man was getting at.
"I assumed that anyone who could tolerate Charlotte's temperament would be one of two things," Mycroft said evenly. "Either a logic-obsessed eccentric like herself, or an ordinary man so dull he can't even register her insults."
"But clearly, you're neither."
"You have a particular talent, Mr. Watson. My sister is fortunate to have a neighbor like you."
He paused, then offered Russell a faint smile.
"You're studying at Imperial College London, correct?"
"Mm… yes? Huh?" Russell answered, caught off guard.
"What's your major?"
"Materials science… and if you're about to ask about my grades, spare me."
"It's fine. The major isn't important." Mycroft shook his head.
"Have you decided what you want to do in the future?"
"I've been enrolled for less than a week, Mr. Mycroft."
"One should always think ahead about one's future," Mycroft said meaningfully.
Then, under Russell's utterly baffled stare, he extended a hand.
"Any interest in becoming a civil servant?"
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