Deep night.
When Mary pushed the door open, the fireplace was already lit.
A set of bone-china tea ware on the coffee table breathed out thin white steam. Beside it sat a brass cocktail shaker, polished so brightly it could hold a face like a mirror.
"You're back, Miss."
An elderly man stood by a high-backed chair. His hair was ash-gray, his charcoal three-piece suit impeccably cut. Even the way he offered tea was pleasing to watch—long fingers, elegant as a pianist's… or a gunman's.
In truth, he was both.
Sebastian Moran.
The old butler who had been at Mary's side since she could remember—currently moonlighting as a bartender for cover.
"Moran." Mary shrugged off her coat. "What did you mix tonight?"
"Martini." Moran's lips curved into a refined smile. "A customer insisted on stirring instead of shaking. I lectured him from the Second Law of Thermodynamics all the way to the melt curve of ice crystals and their release profile for flavor molecules."
Mary lifted a brow. "He was convinced?"
"He was concussed. The result was the same." Moran said serenely. "He left double the tip."
Mary moved to the vanity and began taking herself apart.
The hairpins came out. Blond hair spilled down. Expression drained away—until the mirror held only a pair of emerald eyes, calm to the point of being unsettling.
"You read yesterday's papers?" she asked.
"I did." Moran set The Times onto the coffee table. "Last night I was behind the bar. If you had notified me earlier, I could have put a round through—"
"No need," Mary cut in, flat. "There's no reason for you to put down the shaker."
"But he used your name, Miss."
"That's why it's interesting."
Mary sank into the sofa and stirred her tea with a spoon.
"I've watched him four times these past months. That's enough."
She tilted her head, as if searching for the exact word.
"It's like watching a child wearing an adult's clothes—sleeves too long, trouser hems dragging the floor, but he walks with enough imitation that he can fool a few people who don't look closely."
Moran sat opposite her, crossed one leg over the other, fingers interlaced on his knee.
"He does have talent," he allowed. "His lockwork speed might even be faster than yours in your youth—"
"In my youth, I used hairpins." Moran said without a trace of ego. "Not a comparable metric. But that kind of fingertip sensitivity is inborn."
"Yes." Mary's spoon continued its quiet circles. "And his control over the scene isn't an act. He turned Scotland Yard's five-hundred-man cordon into stage dressing. Every step was design. That mentality—making the opponent into a prop—does resemble Moriarty."
She paused.
"But only resembles him."
A log cracked in the hearth.
"Too flamboyant." Mary set the spoon down. "A real spider never needs to be seen. And he's too soft—never hurts anyone, steals and returns, and those three seconds last night… he could have vanished. Instead, for a stranger, he jumped from five stories."
Mary placed her tea cup down with a soft click.
"It's like a child stealing his father's revolver. Every shot lands true—then he goes and uses it to shoot apples off a tree, delighted, with no understanding that the thing was built to kill."
"Immature," Moran said quietly.
"Very." Mary's voice stayed light, but the temperature in it was glacial. "The showmanship comes from immaturity. The kindness comes from immaturity. But there is something of his own inside it. That instinct for timing can't be taught by training."
She leaned back.
"A piece of rough jade. Good quality. Then some ignorant hand hacked at it twice and carved it into a hero."
Moran's smile returned. "A shape even stupider than an apple."
"Even stupider than an apple."
A brief silence.
The fireplace crackled. The old man and the young woman each held a teacup. The tableau could have been a warm family painting—if one ignored what they were discussing.
"But it doesn't matter," Mary said at last. "I don't need to understand him. I only need to use him. A scapegoat. Feed him. Keep him. Pull the line when I need to."
"Professor—"
"Moran."
The room's warmth dropped in an instant.
The old man didn't stiffen. He simply lowered his crossed leg, leaned forward a fraction, and changed—effortlessly—from critic back into butler.
"My apologies, Miss. A slip."
"Mary Morstan. Outside this house, there is no Professor."
"Yes, Miss."
The air moved again. Heat returned to the room in slow, obedient increments.
"Speaking of tools," Mary went on, voice once more mild, "today confirmed something. The corgi's obedience is even better than expected. Fourteen people crowded around me and he shoved his way from the back row just to clear them out. Purely from surplus kindness."
Moran raised his teacup, then paused halfway.
"Corgi? Isn't that just… a dog?"
"It's a corgi," Mary corrected. "Not the same."
"Then forgive an old man's ignorance." Moran's curiosity was genuine. "What's the difference?"
"A dog needs training to obey. A corgi is born trying to please you." Mary's tone was almost clinical. "Give it a little trust and it wags its tail. Give it a smile and it decides you're someone it has to protect."
She added, pleasantly:
"And its legs are short. Spiritually."
Moran's eyes crinkled. "Concise. So the key is control."
"Talking to him isn't tiring. Mention money and he lights up. Mention Holmes and he tenses. Mention me and he becomes attentive." Mary counted on her fingers as if listing lab results. "Three switches. Three reactions. That's all."
Moran didn't press further.
"One more thing," Mary said. "I need you to add a role."
She looked into the fire as if it were a chessboard.
"Captain Morstan—my father."
Moran's voice softened. "Miss, your current—"
"One lie needs more lies to hold it up." Mary's smile didn't reach her eyes. "That night, the thief believed he witnessed domestic violence. At least one person firmly believes Captain Morstan exists."
Her gaze stayed steady.
"Sooner or later more people will ask. We can't just produce an old suit."
"You want a living man." Moran nodded. "Type?"
"A spider," Mary said. "Polite on the surface. Every sentence hides a strand. It looks like guidance—when it's really steering."
Moran's lids lowered slightly, pleased. "Weave the web with concern. The victim can't name what's wrong. The bystanders see only a loving father. The cruel accent—only slips out when I'm 'disappointed' in my daughter."
"Background?" Mary asked.
"A day and a half. Full package." Moran's smile turned faintly delighted. "It's been a long time since I've played a role this interesting. Bartending is fine, but the stage is small."
"Don't get addicted to performing. Appear only when required."
"Of course."
Moran set his cup back onto its saucer.
"Overseas, the young mistress is still waiting for the Professor's instructions. Add Captain Morstan, that makes three identities maintained at once. I need confirmation on priority."
"The Professor is highest," Mary said without hesitation. "The Colonel's brain isn't enough. If you play using my lines, she won't be able to tell real from fake. Captain Morstan is on-demand. The bar remains unchanged."
"Understood."
Mary reached the staircase.
"Oh, and tomorrow—bring back ingredients for almond biscuits."
Moran's mouth twitched. "For… which party?"
"The corgi." Mary replied as if discussing a piece of equipment. "First step in conditioning. Let it get used to eating from your hand."
Her footsteps drifted upstairs, light as a butterfly.
Moran remained alone by the fire. From his vest pocket he drew a leather notebook and a Montblanc pen whose nib had been worn down for twenty years.
He wrote:
Keep an eye on the corgi. Not a dog. A corgi. Miss's exact words: 'Not the same.'
He stared at the line.
Over the years, the Professor had used only four words to describe pieces on the board:
Useful. Useless. Disposable. Observe.
Never did she bother classifying species.
A piece was a piece, just as a dog was a dog.
Yet when she said not the same tonight, her tone had been earnest—almost like a little girl trying to explain to an adult why her corgi couldn't be lumped together with the neighbor's dog. And when she called the thief "immature," the tone had been… strangely nuanced.
Condescending, yes.
But also the way an adult watches a child at play.
For someone who treated the world as a chessboard, the weight of those two moments was heavier than she herself seemed to realize.
Moran closed the notebook and extinguished the extra lamps.
Only the fireplace remained—its last ember a dark, dying red.
The old butler looked at that nearly extinguished glow, shut his eyes, and murmured—so softly it was almost soundless—an odd note of satisfaction buried where even he didn't notice it.
"…How rare."
.....
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