Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

A Lady's First Impression

The ballroom doors swung open with the weight of history itself. Adelaide felt the collective gaze of London's elite society snap to her position with an almost physical force – two hundred and forty-seven pairs of eyes, all scrutinizing every detail of her appearance, her posture, her expression. The sudden hush that fell over the crowd reminded her of that heart-stopping moment before a major story broke, when the world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. She'd felt that same electric tension in newsrooms across London, but never quite like this – never with herself as the breaking story.

Her stomach growled quietly, and she silently cursed the Victorian obsession with tiny portions and late dinners. The "light refreshment" she'd been permitted before the ball had been laughably inadequate – a few delicate sandwiches and tea served at three o'clock, as apparently eating close to an event was considered vulgar. She would have killed for a protein bar or even one of those awful meal replacement shakes she used to survive on during breaking news cycles.

"Lady Adelaide Felicity Blackwood," the footman announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the gilt-edged ballroom, "youngest daughter of His Grace, Lord George Blackwood, Duke of Ravenscroft."

Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip, she silently chanted, carefully managing the cascade of silk and beading that threatened to tangle around her feet. The marble staircase stretched before her like a gauntlet – forty-two steps (she'd counted them obsessively during rehearsals) between her and what felt suspiciously like a Victorian version of a press junket. In her previous life, she'd covered enough red carpet events to recognize the familiar dance of social performance, though she'd typically been the one wielding the questions rather than dodging them.

The ballroom itself was a masterpiece of Victorian excess – soaring columns of white marble veined with gold, elaborate frescos depicting classical scenes across the ceiling, and enough gilt to make Versailles seem understated. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, their thousands of candles creating a warm, flickering light that softened every face and made the diamonds sparkle like stars. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see the carefully manicured gardens, where clever gas lamps had been positioned to create romantic vignettes for couples seeking a moment of "private" conversation under the watchful eyes of a dozen chaperones.

She deployed her camera-ready smile, the one she'd perfected during her brief stint covering Parliament. Head high, shoulders back, hands positioned just so on her fan – every detail precisely as Margaret had drilled into her over countless hours of preparation. Three months of intensive training had transformed her from a modern journalist into a passable imitation of a Victorian lady, though she still felt like an actress in an extremely high-stakes performance.

The diamonds in her tiara caught the light from thousands of candles, creating a subtle halo effect that she suspected was entirely intentional. Some Victorian PR genius had clearly understood the power of good lighting long before Instagram filters. Adelaide couldn't help but appreciate the theatrical brilliance of it all, even as her modern sensibilities rebelled against the sheer excess of wealth on display.

The assembled crowd's reaction would have made any social media influencer weep with envy. Whispers rippled through the room like waves, carrying fragments of approval and speculation:

"Exquisite," a voice whispered, reverberating with awe. "Like a dream."

"The diamonds complement her beautifully," another voice chimed in softly. "But I hear she hasn't been the same since the accident..."

"I've heard she speaks four languages now..."

"They say she's transformed completely," a third voice interjected, laced with intrigue. "I heard she's been consulting a doctor for months."