Louise turned.
Mycroft Holmes stood a short distance away, bowing slightly, wearing a warm smile polished to perfection.
"Mr. Holmes." Louise dipped into a flawless curtsy.
In this palace, Mycroft was one of the few outsiders who made her feel… slightly at ease.
He wasn't like the stiff attendants. He wasn't like the noble ladies who counted etiquette like coins.
He was intelligent. He would speak of the world outside—things books didn't teach.
Granted, those topics were usually bills in Parliament and international trade disputes.
"Her Majesty is still receiving guests," Mycroft explained. "You may need to wait a little longer."
"That's alright." Louise turned back toward the window. "I was only watching the view."
"The fog is heavy today," Mycroft said, following her gaze. "You won't see much."
"Precisely because I can't see clearly, it's worth looking," Louise murmured. "It makes London feel… more mysterious than usual."
Mycroft didn't reply. He simply stood aside—an impeccable background that never intruded upon the painting.
After a pause, Louise spoke again.
"Mr. Holmes… did you read yesterday's paper?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"What do you think Moriarty is like?"
Her curiosity was innocent, unmistakably youthful.
Mycroft seemed caught off guard for a fraction of a second.
He considered, then answered in an official, smooth tone.
"A contradiction. Someone who scorns the law, yet happens to do things that align with the public interest."
"A contradiction?" Louise tilted her head. "It sounds as though you don't admire him."
"My duty is to maintain order, Your Highness." Mycroft's smile was gentle. "And he is a destroyer of order. In terms of duty, I cannot admire him."
"Oh…" Louise nodded, half-understanding. "Then what about… outside duty?"
Mycroft made an almost pained expression—staring at the princess as if she reminded him of a certain troublesome younger sister who never played by rules.
"Outside duty," he said at last, lowering his voice slightly, "I must admit… he has made London feel a little more alive."
That single sentence made Louise's eyes brighten instantly.
Before she could ask more, an equerry appeared silently at the gallery entrance and bowed to Mycroft.
"Mr. Holmes. Her Majesty requests your presence."
"I understand." Mycroft nodded, then turned to Louise. "Your Highness, please forgive me."
"Mm." Louise's reply carried a trace of disappointment.
Mycroft left, his straight back vanishing down the corridor.
The gallery returned to its frozen hush.
Louise looked out again at the golden London beyond the glass, turning Mycroft's words over and over in her mind.
"If only Mr. Moriarty could appear here…"
At the very moment that thought formed, a faint whisper—so light it was almost nothing—sounded from the far end of the room.
Louise startled and looked.
A white card, folded into a perfect rectangle, slid soundlessly onto the windowsill at the gallery's end—as if carried in by a breeze.
It lay quietly on the marble floor.
Louise blinked.
This was the deepest part of Buckingham Palace. Security was ironclad. Even a fly shouldn't get in.
So how…?
Fear mixed with unstoppable curiosity.
She glanced around. The gallery was empty except for her—quiet enough that she could hear her own heartbeat suddenly accelerate.
She drew a breath, lifted her skirt slightly, and stepped toward the card—careful, cautious, one step at a time.
She crouched and reached out in her white lace gloves, touching the card with the tip of her finger first.
Cold.
She gathered her courage, pinched it between her fingers, and unfolded it.
The cardstock was fine, patterned with subtle watermarking.
In the center, a line of Gothic calligraphy—beautiful and sharp—read:
"Seven days hence, at midnight, I shall come to claim your most precious treasure."
And beneath it, a signature—one she had just been discussing with Mycroft.
MORIARTY
Louise's pupils shrank.
"This is…!"
A small gasp escaped her—then she clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes darting around, afraid someone might have heard.
She almost didn't believe her eyes.
A notice—from Moriarty—to her?
But… hadn't he never written notices before?
Was he doing it specifically for her? Making a grand effort—just to warm things up?
Her heartbeat quickened.
"Calm down, Louise… calm down. Be elegant."
She patted her chest lightly, then folded the letter with trembling care and hid it inside her clothing.
She could tell no one.
Not her mother. Not Mycroft. Not even her own maid.
If they knew, she wouldn't just lose her chance to meet Moriarty—she'd be lucky if she was still allowed to read the morning paper.
Louise hid the letter and hurried back to her bedroom.
After storing it safely, she sat on the bed, fidgeting, looking around as though the thief might appear at any second.
What would he steal? The necklace her mother gave her for her last birthday? The hairpin she treasured?
Should she hide her valuables better… or place them openly?
According to the newspaper, the thief returned stolen goods later.
Did that mean she might meet him twice?
But the notice only said "within seven days," not which day.
What if he came when she wasn't present?
She'd miss him entirely.
Her thoughts looped wildly.
Finally, she flopped onto the bed, burying her face in the soft pillow, and whined like a girl who'd forgotten she was royalty.
"This is so annoying…"
....
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