It was an unusually clear day for winter.
Sunlight streaming through the dilapidated windows of the orphanage created thin bands of light on the floor.
To be precise, the girl had not yet been given the name Mary at that time.
In short, she was curled up in a corner, holding an old, well-worn fairy tale book that countless children had read, its edges curled, quietly reading.
She didn't like playing with the other children.
Those games were too noisy, fighting over sweets was exhausting, and the schemes to attract adults' attention were too ugly. She preferred to be alone, quietly, without being disturbed.
The nuns at the convent said that the child was very introverted, but at the same time, very sensible.
So they gave her a temporary name, so they could easily call her by it.
They called her Little James. It was the nun's surname.
"Little James, come here, it's time to eat."
"Little James, don't always stay in the corner. Go outside and get some sunlight."
"Little James, new adults are coming. Learn from the other children. Staying here won't get you anything."
The nun's voice, filled with helplessness and worry, often echoed in my ears.
Little James might have listened to her, or might not have. She continued to maintain her own way of life.
Until that day.
The sun was shining brightly that day, and Little James felt a little uncomfortable, but she didn't dislike the weather itself.
At least she wouldn't freeze to death.
As usual, she took out the fairy tale book she had memorized and found a quiet place to begin reading a story she had read many times.
Then, a huge shadow blocked her sunlight.
James looked up, and for the first time, the man's figure was reflected in her emerald green eyes, which were not yet covered by blue contact lenses.
Arthur Morstan.
He stood there wearing a well-tailored dark overcoat and a top hat, holding a pitch-black cane inlaid with a silver wolf's head.
His leather boots were spotless, and he carried a faint scent of cigars and expensive perfume. He looked like a king who had stepped out of a fairy tale.
There was something about him that she had never seen before—not money, not the quality of his clothes, but a sense of distance.
It was as though he and everything here were separated by an invisible river.
The nun bent down, smiling more widely than James had ever seen before.
Seeing that smile, James felt something unfamiliar and uneasy.
"This child is the best-behaved one around here."
The nun said, her voice half a tone higher than usual.
Quiet, sensible, and never causes trouble.
As she spoke, she winked at James, expecting him to do something special to choose her.
But Little James didn't move. She just sat there, looking up and staring straight at the man.
She wasn't scared.
She didn't know why, but she instinctively felt that this man wouldn't hurt her.
'At least, that's how I felt at the time.'
The man walked over and knelt down in front of her.
"What is your name?"
He asked.
James opened her mouth as if to say "James," but quickly swallowed the words.
That wasn't her name.
It was just a code name the nun had made up for convenience.
Deep down, she knew it wasn't her real name.
She didn't even know her own real name.
The man looked at her expressionless face and was silent for a few seconds.
Then he said, "Come with me."
There was no explanation, no promise, and no words like "I'll be good to you."
It was just one simple sentence.
So James stood up, placed the book on the chair, and went to him.
She didn't look back.
The days that followed felt like a long, endless dream.
She moved into a room much larger than her previous one.
The bed was soft, the blankets were light, and every day someone brought her new clothes and food whose names she didn't know.
Tutors came to teach her how to recognize letters, how to converse, how to walk, how to smile, and how to drink tea.
"Straighten your back."
"Raise the corners of your mouth a little more."
"When drinking tea, you should hold the cup like this."
She learned very quickly.
Because the man would occasionally visit her, sit in that large armchair, and watch her demonstrate what she had learned.
He never smiled, but James could sense that he was satisfied.
At that time, she thought that this must be what a father felt.
She had never met her father and didn't know what a father should look like.
But she felt that perhaps this was enough—sitting in a high place, quietly watching you, and occasionally nodding.
And of course, there was also my mother.
My mother was a gentle woman, like the nuns at the orphanage.
I still remember the surprise on my mother's face the first time she saw me, and how she hugged me tightly afterward.
James's mother was very kind to her and always brought various gifts whenever they met. However, James couldn't see her mother very often.
When she was seven, her father gave her a name.
"From today onward, your name is Mary. Mary Morstan," he said.
"Mary Morstan."
She repeated it to herself many times.
"Mary."
She read it aloud.
The sound was beautiful, as pleasant as wind chimes swaying in a gentle breeze.
He nodded.
It was the first time she had seen a hint of satisfaction on his face.
She first saw that room when she was eight.
It was on a drizzly afternoon that Arthur Morstan first took her hand and stepped into the room deep within the mansion that was always kept closed.
The room was filled with the strong, bitter smell of medicine and the stench of a dying person's decay.
Sunlight was completely blocked by heavy, double-layered velvet curtains.
On a massive four-poster bed covered in pure white silk lay a girl.
The moment James saw that girl, she gasped.
The girl had long silver hair as white as moonlight. Her face was pale and translucent, and her deep, clear blue eyes weakly looked at the person who had just arrived.
Beside that bed sat the mother whom she had longed for day and night but rarely saw because she was taking care of the child.
At that moment, Little James felt as though she was looking at the future.
Except for the hair and eye color, the girl's facial features and figure were remarkably similar to her own.
"Her name is Mary," he said. "The real Mary."
The real Mary.
Mary pondered those words and suddenly understood something.
"You are her substitute."
The man's voice was calm.
"She is in poor health and cannot go out. From today onward, you will attend the events she cannot attend in her place."
Mary stood frozen, unsure of what to say.
She simply nodded.
Everything she had was given to her by this man, so she had no reason to refuse.
That night, she lay in bed and thought for a long time.
A substitute.
It turned out she wasn't a daughter, but merely a stand-in.
But strangely, she didn't feel sad.
Because the real Mary, the girl lying in bed, looked so frail and so pitiful.
If I can help with the things she cannot do, then it isn't a bad thing.
The day after they met, she went to that room again.
Mary asked to call her James. Mary said she was bored being alone and asked her father to call Little James so they could play together.
Her father agreed.
That was the starting point where the fates of the two girls intertwined.
To James's surprise, this real noble lady did not treat her, a low-status substitute, like the wicked princesses in fairy tales.
However, when the heavy oak door closed, the silver-haired girl lying in bed smiled faintly, looking somewhat pained.
"He must have gone to considerable lengths to find you."
The real Mary waved her over and lightly patted the edge of the bed.
"Come closer. Let me take a good look."
She said.
"Don't be afraid of me. I don't even have the strength to get out of bed, and I have no friends."
Little James cautiously approached and sat on the edge of the bed.
It was the first time in her life that she experienced something truly special that transcended charity or commands—something called be seen at eye level.
"What is your name?"
The girl asked.
"Mary."
Little James said.
Then the girl smiled.
"My name is Mary too," she said. "That's interesting."
The two Marys looked at each other. One lay in bed, the other sat on the edge of the bed.
One had silver hair and blue eyes, but the other was no different from before.
But at that moment, James suddenly felt that nothing existed between them.
"How old are you?"
Mary asked from the bed.
"Eight."
"I'm nine."
Mary, lying in bed, blinked. "Then you have to call me 'Big Sister.'"
Little James was momentarily at a loss for words.
"Big Sister."
She had never called anyone "Big Sister."
In that orphanage, there were only older children and younger children. The older ones bullied the younger ones, and the younger ones avoided the older ones.
No one called each other "sister." It was far too intimate—terrifyingly intimate.
But looking into those bright blue eyes lying in bed, she suddenly felt that perhaps calling her that wasn't such a big deal.
"Big Sister…"
Mary on the bed laughed.
Her smile was weak, but it shone like a ray of sunlight breaking through winter clouds.
"Very good."
She said, "Finally, I have a little sister."
For the next few days, Little James began visiting that room frequently.
Every afternoon, after finishing her strict etiquette training and lessons, she would rush into that room filled with the smell of medicine and talk with the silver-haired girl.
The man tacitly approved of this.
She became the eyes and legs of the real Mary.
Little James told her about the outside world. Although she hadn't seen much of it herself, she could spin stories from her imagination.
She told her everything she could think of—stories from fairy tales, the cityscapes the old women talked about in their spare time, and everything her limited imagination could grasp.
She vividly described to the girl in bed the colors of the roses that had just begun to bloom in the garden, the strictness of the new tutor, and the chirping of birds flying outside the window.
In return, she should have been jealous of the wealthy, spoiled young lady lying in bed.
The real Mary, the true heiress, should have despised this impostor who was trying to steal her identity.
In reality, although physically frail, the real Mary was extremely intelligent and kind-hearted.
She read poetry to Little James, taught her how to distinguish the aromas of different teas, and occasionally, when her mother visited, she would hold Little James's hand and say, "This is my little sister."
One day, the real Mary suddenly asked her, "What is your name?"
Little James was momentarily at a loss for words.
"My name is Mary."
"That's not it."
The real Mary shook her head.
"That is my name. Father gave you that name because he wanted you to become like me."
"But you can never become the real me. You must have your own name."
Little James fell silent.
She had no name. The nun called her Little James, but that was the nun's surname, not hers.
She had no parents, no origins, and no past.
"I don't know…" she said quietly. "Everyone calls me Little James."
"It sounds like a boy's name."
The silver-haired girl smiled with a heartbreakingly fragile smile. "But it sounds like something very brave."
She paused for a moment, then said, "You have a first name, but no surname. I'll give you a surname."
James looked up.
"Do you know my mother's original surname?"
Mary asked.
Little James shook her head.
"Moriarty."
Mary smiled and said. "My mother's surname was Moriarty. She was a gentle and kind person."
Her voice gradually softened, carrying a hint of trust that Little James couldn't understand at the time.
"James… James Moriarty. It sounds like a gentleman who can carve out his own destiny."
As Mary said this, she turned her face, engraving that name—and the sense of freedom and expectation that she had never experienced in her life—deep into the girl's soul.
"This is your name."
James sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the frail girl lying in bed and into those shining blue eyes. Suddenly, her eyes stung.
"Why…" Her voice trembled slightly. "Why did you give this to me?"
"Because you are my little sister."
The real Mary said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, "Of course, a little sister should have her own name."
Thus, Little James finally obtained her own name.
She looked up happily, a faint smile appearing in her emerald green eyes.
"Thank you, Big Sister."
She said quietly.
Those days were one of the few warm memories she had while living in this cold, luxurious mansion.
Every afternoon, she would look forward to pushing open that heavy oak door and seeing the person who treated her like a sister.
Mary told her that she loved Tagore's poetry, the sweet aftertaste of Darjeeling tea, and the sound of raindrops tapping on the window glass on rainy days.
On the other hand, Little James, now known as James Moriarty, told Mary interesting anecdotes about the etiquette and dances she had learned outside, as well as the tedious noble family trees.
Occasionally, when no one was around, she would lower her voice and confide secrets she had never told anyone before—her fear of that man, her anxiety about the future, and her aversion to formalities.
Mary always listened quietly and would occasionally raise her thin, bony hand to gently stroke James's hair.
Even in the most painful moments, those blue eyes never lost their gentleness.
…
'When I was ten.'
Early winter.
Heavy snow fell in London.
That afternoon, James pushed open the wooden door as usual, but noticed that the atmosphere in the room was heavier than usual.
Mary lay in bed, her breathing so weak it seemed about to stop at any moment. Even the gentle smile on her face could no longer be maintained.
Doctors came and went incessantly. Arthur Morstan stood by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression terribly grim.
Mrs. Moriarty sat beside the bed, tightly holding her daughter's hand and sobbing uncontrollably.
James stood frozen at the doorway, terrified to approach. She was overcome by a fear she had never felt before and wanted to turn and run away.
But at that moment, she suddenly heard the man's voice.
"Come in."
He said in a tone that allowed no argument, "She wants to see you."
Hearing this, Mary paused for an instant, then quietly walked to the bedside.
The real Mary opened her eyes. Her once deep, clear blue eyes were now lifeless and dull.
She desperately tried to raise her hand to touch James's face.
Mrs. Moriarty quickly took her hand. It was as cold as a block of ice.
"Sister," Mary's voice was as soft as a sigh.
"I'm here, Big Sister. I'm here."
James bit her lip, desperately trying to hold back her tears.
"I'm leaving…" Mary smiled weakly, as though she wasn't talking about death, but merely about going on a long journey.
Her voice was intermittent, each word sounding as though it had used up all her strength.
"It's such a shame… I won't be able to attend your wedding… You would have looked so beautiful in a wedding dress."
"I also want to know… who stole my little sister's heart… and whether that groom is even a worthy person…"
The girl tightly gripped Mary's hand, desperately shaking her head as tears streamed down her face.
"Big Sister, you'll definitely get better… See for yourself…"
"Don't cry," Mary said painfully, raising her other hand to gently wipe her sister's tears.
"Promise me, James…"
She stared at her, but at that moment, her unfocused gaze captured a single point with a chilling light.
"Don't become like me…" she whispered. Her voice could only be heard by the two of them.
Mary spoke slowly and carefully, as though trying to engrave these words deep into Jenkins's soul.
"You must… be yourself…"
These were the last words Mary Morstan left for the world—and for her unrelated little sister.
Then, the hand that had been gripping James's hand went limp and fell.
The girl, pure and radiant like moonlight, closed her eyes forever.
"Mary!!!"
The woman's shrill scream shattered the deathly silence of the room.
At that moment, James felt as though a part of her own heart had been lost.
The real Mary died on the night she passed away.
Arthur Morstan locked himself in his study. No matter who knocked, they would not open the door.
As a result, he was late in noticing his wife's abnormal behavior.
The grief-stricken woman stayed by her daughter's cold body all night, then, at dawn, took her own life beside her daughter's bed using delicate silver paper-cutting tools.
In a single day, Arthur Morstan lost the two women he loved most in his life.
When the study door opened again.
Moriarty saw a completely different Arthur Morstan.
His once straight posture was now hunched. His eyes were covered in terrifyingly bloodshot vessels, yet within those pupils burned a chilling light.
There was no funeral, no death notice.
He blocked all reporting and only publicly announced that his wife had died of illness and that his daughter needed rest due to deep sorrow.
Then he turned his gaze firmly toward James.
"We start today."
He approached her, his voice as cold as a dead man's.
"You are Mary Morstan."
Not a substitute, but a complete replacement.
He hired the best beauticians in London to dye her long, pale yellow hair silver-white.
He later spent a fortune having custom blue contact lenses made in Germany and made her wear them to hide her original emerald green eyes.
He not only made her imitate Mary's words and actions but also made her memorize all of Mary's preferences and habits, demanding that even her sleeping posture be exactly the same.
Even the slightest deviation would result in severe punishment.
It wasn't physical torture, but mental anguish.
He locked her in the dimly lit room that smelled of drugs, which the real Mary had once occupied, and repeatedly played fragments of conversations the real Mary had recorded before her death on a gramophone.
"You must become her! You absolutely must become her!"
He roared from outside the door. His voice was filled with mad obsession.
"You will always be Mary Morstan!"
In that dark, gloomy room, Moriarty curled up in the corner of the bed, tightly covering her ears with both hands.
The real Mary's dying words and Arthur Morstan's frenzied screams intertwined and collided in her mind, nearly tearing her sanity apart.
After countless days filled with pain, the seed of revenge quietly took root and sprouted in her heart.
That man had taken her human dignity, erased her personality, and now he was trying to taint even her last beautiful memories.
She would not become what he wanted.
And from that moment on, James changed.
She displayed astonishing obedience and talent, appearing to be completely immersed in the role of Mary Morstan.
In Arthur's eyes, she was the most obedient, most sensible, and most perfect daughter.
In social settings, she was elegant, refined, and flawless, like an English lily.
She absorbed every piece of knowledge like a greedy sponge.
Business management, financial operations, psychology, and even the unwritten rules of the underworld that were taboo in high society.
Arthur Morstan hired the best teachers to raise her as a capable successor, never knowing that he was raising a monster that would eventually destroy him.
James learned too quickly.
It happened so quickly that he didn't even have time to notice.
But what she learned wasn't just the surface level.
By the time she was fourteen, she had become able to perfectly imitate the real Mary Morstan. Even the closest servants couldn't spot her flaws.
The hired tutors were not merely etiquette instructors or language professors.
When she was fifteen, the man hired a new tutor for her.
A Frenchman teaching French.
His name was Jean-Pierre. He was in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a gentle smile.
He was very patient during lessons, his pronunciation was standard, and he also taught her about French customs and culture.
Unlike the other teachers, he would occasionally look at her with a strange gaze.
That gaze wasn't one of greed or prying, but rather… an expression of evaluation and observation.
One day, after the French lesson ended, Jean-Pierre did not leave as usual.
He stood by the window, looking at the snow falling outside, and suddenly said in French, "You hate your father, don't you?"
James was momentarily at a loss for words.
She looked up at his retreating figure.
"No."
She said, "I respect him."
Hearing this, Pierre turned around and looked at her.
His eyes had lost their gentleness. Instead, they had become sharp enough to see through everything.
"Are you serious?"
"What are you trying to say?"
Hearing this, Pierre laughed.
"What I wanted to say was," he returned to her and sat facing her. "You are very talented."
"What kind of talent?"
"You have a talent for disguise."
Pierre said, "A talent for observation."
"On top of that—"
He paused.
"—A talent for hatred."
James's pupils contracted slightly.
Seeing her reaction, Pierre nodded in satisfaction.
"Don't be nervous, young lady."
"I have no intention of harming you."
He took a coin out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers.
"You may look like a lily in a greenhouse, but what you're seeing doesn't belong here."
He stood up and walked toward the door.
When he reached the door, he stopped and turned to look at her.
"Next time, I'll teach you something else."
He said, "If you want to learn."
The door closed.
James sat there, her heart pounding violently.
She had no idea who that man was or what he was trying to do.
But she knew one thing—
That man had seen through her true nature.
She wasn't scared. On the contrary, she felt anticipation.
When she was fourteen, the man arranged a blind date for her.
The person he had in mind was the heir to a viscount's family, a twenty-three-year-old young man. He was said to be wealthy and promising.
James met him in a tearoom, wearing her most luxurious dress and the most expensive jewelry.
The person's name was Albin. He had rather handsome features, but his gaze made people extremely uneasy.
Those eyes had been fixed on her from the moment they met, scanning her from head to toe, inside and out, as though trying to see into the depths of her heart.
"Miss Morstan is exactly as her reputation suggests."
He smiled and said. "I've always heard that you were beautiful, but seeing you today, you're even more beautiful than the legend."
James smiled and thanked him.
After about thirty minutes of tea, his conversation shifted from her appearance to her figure, and then to vulgar remarks that made her uncomfortable.
His hand naturally tried to touch hers, pretending to pass her the teacup.
James pulled her hand back.
She smiled and said, "Lord Viscount, please have a little more self-respect."
Albin paused for a moment, then laughed.
"Miss Morstan is joking."
He said, "We're going to get married someday, so what is this?"
His gaze was fixed on her. That gaze reminded James of something.
She remembered her abilities.
The next afternoon, Albin broke his leg in the stables when a horse suddenly got spooked.
According to the doctor, the horse had suddenly gone wild for some reason and knocked the viscount, who was inspecting the harness, to the ground. The horse's hoof struck the viscount's knee directly.
The bone was shattered into several pieces. Even if it healed, he couldn't expect to walk normally again in the future.
James was practicing the piano when the news came in.
She placed both hands on the piano keys and played Chopin's nocturne with flowing elegance.
No one suspected her.
According to the servants' testimony, she had indeed been in the music room that afternoon.
No one knew that she had secretly mixed something into the horse's feed in advance.
It wasn't fatal at all. It would only make the horse more irritable, more prone to anger, and more easily startled.
The next day, Pierre was asked to come for a French lesson.
After the lesson ended, he looked at her and smiled, saying,
"Congratulations."
James didn't deny it.
"How did you know it was me?"
"I don't know."
Pierre said, "It was just a guess."
In other words, in addition to French, she would be taking one more subject.
He led her into a new world—the world of darkness.
After the first attempt, there was a second, and a third.
She no longer needed to set up surprises every time to scare off potential blind date partners. She just needed to make herself better and more valuable.
This way, Arthur Morstan would begin to undervalue the men he had initially chosen and reconsider his options.
Occasionally, she would also take legal action against the Morstan family's business rivals.
The Morstan family could not be allowed to fall, because she still needed a stage to showcase her talents.
Later, she also heard the name Charlotte Holmes.
Because that detective possessed extraordinary intuition and sharpness in certain areas, James always controlled the extent of her actions very well.
As long as there were no deaths, the detective wouldn't spare even a moment's attention to such matters in high society.
If someone broke their leg while horseback riding, it could only be attributed to their own lack of skill and desire to be a hero. If someone had a food allergy, it could only be attributed to their own gluttony and overeating.
If a secret that shouldn't have been revealed came to light, it was your own fault for not hiding it well enough.
What did all of this have to do with the elegant and refined Mary Morstan?
She didn't directly benefit from it. At most, she managed to avoid a few meaningless blind dates.
The young woman accumulated experience and absorbed knowledge through her design work. All of it was for the hope that one day she could drag that man down from his position.
From the moment his wife and daughter died, that man was no longer the person he once was.
The real him died on the morning his wife committed suicide.
Today's Arthur Morstan was nothing more than a demon wearing human skin.
She had no intention of letting this evil spirit ruin everything she had.
Absolutely not.
The girl spent until she was eighteen plotting an astonishing robbery plan.
This incident, disguised as a jewel theft, ultimately involved a large number of people, threw many into confusion, and successfully established the Morstan family's position in London's economic circles.
It was also the last opportunity Pierre taught her.
After the French lesson that day, he talked to her about many things and finally said, "I have to go now. This will be the last lesson I teach you."
"You have already graduated."
He said.
"From today onward, you are no longer a student. You are a professor."