Just in case, Iver still handed Sherlock's letter to Mycroft.
Avalon's Grand Justice had now retired due to his advanced age. As the Privy Council Minister, Mycroft had essentially become Avalon's most powerful official beneath the two people at the very top.
Mycroft had gradually adapted to his new work and no longer went to Isabel every day to complain about how busy he was.
It was not because he had adapted to the intensity of the job, but because he had found a group of trustworthy young people and was gradually transferring key authority to them.
In other words, Mycroft had now assembled his own team and established a new management system. Its efficiency was at least far higher than it had been during the old Queen's tenure. As a result, Mycroft was no longer quite so busy.
He had returned to his own "Wooden Barrel Club," quietly reading and studying with fellow enthusiasts of the Path of Twilight and attending to their own affairs. No one was allowed to speak to anyone else here, much less ask about or pay attention to what the others were doing... Even Mycroft, the Privy Council Minister, was no exception.
When he saw the letter Sherlock had sent to Iver, he froze for a moment before suddenly looking up at Iver.
The man, who looked like a fat seal with a peaceful smile, a walrus mustache, and a round head, and who liked patting his own belly, sprang from the sofa in an instant. He seized Iver and hurried outside with him.
As they left the club, he spoke at lightning speed, as if someone had lifted a gag from his mouth. "Let's set the other matters aside for now—I assume you already know what kind of trouble Sherlock has run into,