Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

The Art of Disguise

The weeks leading up to Adelaide's debut blurred together in a whirlwind of endless lessons, fittings, and increasingly tense family dynamics. As both her eighteenth birthday and social presentation loomed, every minute of her day was scheduled, monitored, and critiqued as an army of tutors worked to mold her into the perfect Victorian debutante. The pressure was immense - as the Duke of Blackwood's daughter, she would be expected to be nothing less than the crown jewel of the Season.

Her father had taken to pacing the library in the evenings, his footsteps echoing through the halls as he discussed his concerns with her mother in hushed but carrying tones. "She was always so accomplished," Adelaide had overheard him say one night, the worry evident in his voice. "What could have caused such a dramatic change? It's as if she's forgotten everything we've taught her."

"Perhaps it's merely nerves, my dear," her mother had replied, though her own voice betrayed similar concerns. "The pressure of a debut can affect even the most prepared young lady."

"Nerves don't explain how our daughter has somehow forgotten how to play pieces she's known since childhood," the Duke had countered. "Or why she keeps making those strange references that nobody seems to understand. Did you hear what she said at dinner last night? Something about 'going viral' when discussing social influence. What could that possibly mean?"

"No, no, Lady Adelaide!" Madame Delacour's voice carried its usual note of elegant despair, pulling Adelaide back to her present predicament. "The fan must move just so—a whisper, not a declaration!" The French deportment instructor demonstrated the motion again, her own fan creating a delicate pattern in the air. "Each movement must suggest rather than state. You are not conducting an interview, ma chérie. The Queen herself may attend your debut ball - we cannot have you wielding your fan like a common street performer!"

Adelaide bit back a retort about the relative merits of direct communication. After six weeks of intensive training, she'd learned that such modern sentiments only earned her extra hours of practice and concerned glances from the household staff. Instead, she adjusted her grip and attempted to recreate the precise angle that would communicate "polite interest" rather than "forward invitation."

"Better," Madame Beaumont sighed, though her expression suggested she was resigning herself to mediocrity. "Though I cannot understand how you've forgotten years of training in mere months. It's as if—"

"As if I were a completely different person?" Adelaide suggested dryly, then immediately regretted it when she saw Martha's warning look from the corner.

The lady's maid had become increasingly protective as the weeks wore on, carefully monitoring Adelaide's interactions for any hint of "strangeness" that might draw unwanted attention. Their private conversations in Adelaide's chambers had revealed Martha's deep-seated fears about Dr. Harrington's growing influence in the household, fears that only intensified as the debut drew closer.

"Your morning letters, my lady," Martha murmured, providing a welcome interruption to the fan lesson. Among the various social invitations and family correspondence, Adelaide immediately recognized the distinctive cream-colored envelope with its precise handwriting.

Her mother had taken to hovering during her morning correspondence, ostensibly arranging flowers or adjusting curtains while stealing worried glances at her daughter. Today was no exception. "Another letter from Dr. Harrington?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light. "He seems quite... attentive to your health these days."

"He's simply being thorough, Mother," Adelaide replied, though she, too, felt unease at the number of letters from Dr. Harrington. The Duchess had grown increasingly vocal about his frequent visits, yet she struggled to articulate why they troubled her so.