An unexpectedly uneventful and relatively quiet, peaceful Friday passed.
Saturday arrived quietly.
London, unusually, cast a friendly gaze upon them. There was no continuous rain, nor the thick fog that seemed to linger forever.
When Russell opened the window, crisp, refreshing air rushed in, instantly clearing his head.
He stretched by the window, his bones making light cracking sounds.
He picked up the interview invitation letter from The Times and checked the contents once more.
10 a.m. sharp, on the third floor of the editorial office on Fleet Street.
It hasn't even started yet.
Russell pushed open the door. The hallway was silent. The door to Charlotte's room across the way was tightly shut without a sound.
Probably still asleep.
Russell glanced at his pocket watch. It had just passed 8 o'clock.
Well, let her sleep a little longer. No need to rush.
He went down to the kitchen and cracked two eggs into a frying pan.
Sizzle.
The egg mixture solidified rapidly in the high heat, announcing the start of a new day with a pleasant sound.
Even after breakfast was prepared and set on the table, Russell still could not see the familiar figure.
After finishing his meal, he looked up at the clock.
The hands were slowly approaching 9 o'clock.
Seeing this, Russell sighed, stood up, went upstairs, and knocked on Charlotte's door.
"Charlotte?"
No answer.
He knocked twice more.
"Charlotte, it's 9 o'clock."
From inside came the sound of something falling, followed by an indistinct murmur.
Russell sighed.
"May I come in?"
Charlotte neither objected nor agreed.
But now was not the time to worry about such things.
Russell pushed the door open. As expected, the room was a complete mess.
Stepping over the clutter, Russell walked straight into Charlotte's bedroom.
Charlotte was curled up in bed, wrapped in blankets and a robe, looking like a fluffy raccoon in hibernation.
"This sleeping posture is truly terrible."
Russell couldn't help but pinch the bridge of his nose.
Hearing the sound, Charlotte barely opened her eyes. Her hair was disheveled, with a few strands still stuck to her face. A stubborn little tuft of hair stood upright on the top of her head.
"What time is it now…?"
The girl's voice was hoarse and heavy with sleep.
"Nine."
Russell stood with arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her.
"You didn't stay up all night again, did you?"
Charlotte gave no answer. She scratched her head, unconsciously looked around, and slowly turned her gaze to Russell.
"...What time was the interview?"
"Ten."
Russell said, "If we get ready, buy something to eat, and then head out, we probably have about thirty minutes."
Hearing this, Charlotte blinked and looked at Russell.
His expression clearly said, "Can I skip it?"
"You can't."
Russell said, "You yourself promised The Times. If you don't go, I can't guarantee what tomorrow's newspaper will say."
Charlotte was silent for a while, then slowly and reluctantly got out of bed.
"Coffee."
She said in a still-hoarse voice, "A strong one."
"It'll be there once the dishes are done."
Russell turned and went downstairs. Behind him came the sound of Charlotte, still in slippers, entering the bathroom.
Soon after, Charlotte appeared at the bottom of the stairs, changed and ready.
Hearing the sound, Russell picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup.
Then he looked up at Charlotte.
She was still wearing that dark gray turtleneck sweater—his sweater. And his coat as well.
Her hair was a little neater than when she first woke up, but a few stubborn strands still hung beside her face—probably because she had been in a hurry, or simply couldn't be bothered.
Charlotte looked much more lively than when she had first woken up, probably because she had washed her face with cold water.
"Coffee's ready."
Russell said, "Come down. We don't have much time."
Charlotte came down the stairs, picked up the coffee cup, and took a sip.
"This time, my taste buds did not resist."
Charlotte confirmed the temperature was right, then downed the drink in two or three gulps, grabbed a slice of toast, put it in her mouth, and walked toward the door.
Seeing this, Russell could only shrug helplessly, turned to greet Mrs. Hudson, and followed her out.
Baker Street was bathed in the thin morning sunlight. From afar came the sound of carriages and the clear voices of newspaper boys.
Russell signaled for a carriage, and the two climbed aboard.
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Baker Street. Charlotte swayed slightly, her shoulder lightly brushing against Russell's arm.
She did not move away.
Russell glanced down. She was still chewing the remaining toast, her eyes half-closed, her eyelashes casting two small shadows in the morning light.
"What time did you go to bed last night?"
Charlotte gave no answer. She silently stuffed the last of the toast into her mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed.
She curled up into the cushion, covered the lower half of her face with the collar of her coat, leaving only her eyes visible.
They were gray-blue, appearing especially bright in the dim interior lighting—provided one ignored the eyelids that were visibly drooping at a speed visible to the naked eye.
"How much longer?"
Charlotte asked.
Hearing this, Russell looked out the window.
As the carriage passed Oxford Street, pedestrians gradually increased on both sides. Gentlemen in small round hats hurried past with briefcases, while ladies in wide skirts stood arm-in-arm chatting in front of shop windows.
"About fifteen minutes."
Russell looked away and turned toward her.
Charlotte had already closed her eyes.
She tilted her head slightly back, leaning against the carriage wall. A tuft of hair still stubbornly stood upright on the crown of her head, swaying faintly in the light streaming through the window.
Sunlight poured onto her profile, giving her fair skin a soft, warm glow.
Her breathing was very calm; her chest rose and fell slightly with each breath.
Charlotte looked several years younger while sleeping than when awake—more like a child who had been woken by an adult and had to go to school than the Sherlock Holmes who troubled Scotland Yard.
The carriage rattled again.
Charlotte turned her face toward Russell.
Russell instinctively raised his hand, paused in mid-air for a moment, then gently supported her head so she wouldn't bump it against the carriage wall.
Her hair brushed the back of his hand. Her face was right beneath his palm, and he could feel her faint, warm breath.
She did not wake up.
Russell stayed in that position, unmoving.
The carriage continued forward, the wheels making a regular rumbling sound over the cobblestones.
Occasionally, the muffled sounds of pedestrians talking, distant church bells, and newspaper boys' voices drifted in from outside the window.
The sounds seemed distant, as if separated by some layer.
He simply held her head in his arms and stared quietly at her sleeping face, not moving an inch.
…