A thousand times we brushed past each other
Rose's guess was correct. After receiving Anthea's message, Mycroft gave instructions to the Dartmoor garrison commander and then rushed back to London that very night.
He pushed open the door to the "heart," and before he could even put down his dusty coat, Anthea suddenly knelt down: "It's all my fault, I was negligent for a moment—"
“This isn’t the time to talk about this,” Mycroft interrupted her, sounding somewhat annoyed. “How is it now?”
"According to the telegram you sent yesterday, the Ministry of Transport has been instructed to close all railways in London, the Admiralty has blocked the docks and shipping lanes, and the Home Office has issued an arrest warrant."
"I'm asking about the result."
Anthea lowered her head: "...No news."
Mycroft rubbed his temples: "Where did she leave from?"
"The sewage pipes behind the abandoned mill. It's a remote place, and I've checked. The pipes end open, leading to a reed bed. I don't know how Miss Rose knows this kind of facility so well."
“She’s completely unfamiliar with this place.” Mycroft’s frustration deepened. “She’s gambling, even if the end of the pipe is barbed wire. She’d rather die than stay here.”
He stood up, took the black umbrella, and said, "Take me there."
———
The air behind the mill still carried the dampness of sewage and a faint smell of decay. The exposed drainpipe was dark and its edges were covered with moss and unidentified stains. It was narrow in diameter, allowing only one person to crawl through it.
Mycroft, who is always a clean freak, stood in front of the pipe, the tip of his black umbrella buried in the mud.
He didn't speak, but silently stared at the deep cave entrance, as if he could see through the darkness how that slender figure climbed in without hesitation.
There was anger. But it didn't stem from her escape; rather, it stemmed from how she had so blatantly disregarded her life.
Beneath the anger lay deep worry. Where was she now? Was she cold? Was she injured? Was she in danger?
He pulled the tip of the umbrella out of the mud, splashing a few specks of mud onto his spotless trouser leg. But he didn't look down.
Anthea stood a few steps behind him, holding her breath. She could feel the oppressive atmosphere emanating from her superior.
“Sir,” she said, bowing her head guiltily, but unable to speak.
"It's my fault, not yours."
Mycroft's speech was no longer as steady and slow as before: "Send people to keep a close eye on black market doctors and pharmacies, and watch out for young women going there alone to treat scrapes or buy medicine to prevent colds. Search all places that hire odd jobs and do not require identification, especially restaurants, laundries and suburban factories. Question dock and station staff for any suspicious women asking about buying tickets."
Anthea lowered her eyes, hesitated for a moment, and then began to quickly write down her superior's instructions in her notebook.
———
About two and a half hours later, she brought back a trembling train station employee. The man looked terrified and repeatedly insisted that he only occasionally pocketed coins from his pockets while checking luggage, and that he was willing to return them all.
The fireplace roared, and Mycroft sat beside it. Exhausted from the long journey, he looked weary, yet he didn't rest.
“What was that woman like?” he asked.
The flight attendant, recovering from her initial shock, exclaimed, "Her? Thinking about it now, she really was strange. That woman..."
He tried to recall, speaking slowly, "The woman's clothes were still wet, and her face was red from the cold, as if she had just been pulled out of the water. Her hair was wet and stuck to her face and neck, still dripping water. Her clothes were also completely soaked and wrapped around her body. She looked very cold, and her lips were completely bloodless, shivering uncontrollably."
He gestured as he spoke: “She was walking unsteadily, as if she had used up the last bit of strength to get to the window. I asked her where she was going, but her voice was trembling so badly that I could barely hear her. She kept asking about the earliest bus leaving London… no, not a bus, but a freight train.”
At this point, he seemed to remember something and added, "Oh, and she also had an indescribable smell, not just from river water, but also like she was covered in dirt and had been soaked in water. In short, it smelled terrible, and the people in line behind her didn't want to go near her."
Seeing Mycroft's increasingly cold expression, the flight attendant became more and more flustered: "I had just woken up and my mind wasn't clear yet. I really didn't mean to let this woman go! Now that I think about it, she's the wanted criminal on the notice! I'm definitely not an accomplice!"
Mycroft didn't speak, but simply raised his hand slightly. Anthea immediately understood and signaled the guards to take the still-talking flight attendant away.
The only sound in the study was the crackling of burning wood.
He leaned back in the armchair by the fireplace, the image of Rose—soaked, cold, shivering, and smelling foul—described by the flight attendant lingering in his mind.
Heartache, worry, and anger burned within him like three wildfires.
He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed, enduring the spasms coming from his stomach.
———
Life at Aunt Mary's restaurant was peaceful. Although the wedding hadn't taken place yet, Mary had already completely accepted Rose as family.
Mary did hesitate for a moment when the arrest warrant was posted. But watching Anne quietly preparing vegetables and washing dishes in the kitchen every day, she quickly felt at ease.
She had seen real thugs on this street, men with a wolf-like ferocity in their eyes. How could this girl, who cowered even when spoken to loudly, be such a desperate criminal?
After closing time one day, she took Rose's hand, her face beaming with a warm and genuine smile: "Come with me. I found Mrs. Thomas, the tailor on the corner, she has a few ready-made wedding dresses that can be altered. Let's go try them on tonight."
Rose was slightly taken aback and instinctively wanted to refuse, but seeing Aunt Mary's eager expression, she could only nod.
In front of the blurry mirror in the tailor shop, Rose put on one of the slightly worn but still relatively white wedding dresses.
Under the dim light, the luster of the imitation silk fabric had faded, and several buttons on the waist had fallen off.
Aunt Mary took two steps back, examining the skirt closely, her brows gradually furrowing. She reached out and touched the fabric of the hem, then gently stroked the worn lace at the cuffs.
“No, we won’t rent it,” Aunt Mary said to the tailor, then squeezed Rose’s hand tightly. “We’ll buy it. Buy a new one, made of slightly better fabric. Mrs. Thomas, you can make a new one in her measurements.”
Rose felt a pang of panic. "Aunt Mary, this is too much of a waste, really, it's not necessary..." she whispered, trying to dissuade the elderly woman from incurring unnecessary expenses.
Mary looked at her stubbornly, her rough hands stroking Rose's cheek: "When I was young, I married Tom's father without thinking. The wedding was rushed, and I didn't even have a decent dress. I can't let you go through that."
She looked at Rose with utmost seriousness: "You need to have your own wedding dress and a proper wedding. I can't let you have any regrets when you think about it later."
Rose looked at Aunt Mary, her throat tightening as if something was blocking it. She opened her mouth, but the words of refusal remained unspoken, turning into a soft whisper: "...Thank you, Aunt Mary."
Mary hugged her happily, and then went with the tailor to pay the bill.
Rose stood still, her gaze fixed on the reflection in the mirror—a figure dressed in a simple white dress, with brown hair reaching down to the shoulders.
It's true that Mary's family loved her, but it's also true that they schemed against her. It's true that Mary herself felt sorry for her, but it's also true that she used her.
And what about her? Her gratitude is genuine, and so is her plan to leave London.
A pang of sadness welled up in her heart.
———
While she was lost in thought in the inner room, Aunt Mary in the outer room was enthusiastically discussing the style of the skirt and the length of the veil with the tailor.
“A fishtail skirt would be nice, she has such a great figure!” Aunt Mary said, flipping through a pattern book. “As for the veil, I think a longer one would suit her better. What do you think?”
“Pick anything, she looks good in anything! She’s a real beauty, and not just in appearance. Look how delicate her skin is, it turns red just from being touched, and she doesn’t even have a single mole on her body. Tom, you must cherish her.”
"Tom definitely will. He fell in love with her the first time he saw her, but he just doesn't dare to say it."
The tailor exclaimed repeatedly, "No wonder, which young man wouldn't be captivated? A girl of such beauty and talent is truly unlike anyone who grew up in our area."
Aunt Mary nodded proudly: "Her parents divorced, and her stepfather treated her badly. She ran away from home and fled all the way here. I felt sorry for her, so I took her in. Who would have thought that this would lead to a wonderful relationship?"
“You’ve sown a good seed and reaped a good harvest.” The tailor drew a design for the veil: “How about this? Add some patterns to the veil, and when she wears it, it will look like flowers blooming from her brown hair.”
"It's really beautiful, but it's a bit of a shame. Although she has brown hair now, her hair used to be as shiny as gold!"
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