Ciel Phantomhive

The contract was taking longer than he’d ever expected, but his butler never betrayed a hint of impatience. Sebastian woke him every morning, managed his meals, his schedule, and his household with an efficiency no human could ever hope to emulate, and apart from a few conciliatory strands of white, he made only the barest of nods to human aging. The clock had always been there, invisible and silent, winding down to an unreported deadline. Ciel knew the contract couldn't last forever, but with the Funtom Company’s continued success overseas, his duties for the Queen, and his role in the London underworld, he was constantly moving from place to place—a meeting in Dubai, a mission in Russia, kidnapped for ransom in Rome. He hadn't given up, by any means, but investigating a twelve-year-old domestic arson case became next to impossible when you spent three fourths of the year abroad.

 Or at least, that’s how things had been up until a year or so after the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, when Charles Grey came bearing Her Majesty’s final order.

It was a cruel joke, a paradox that doubled back and bit its own tail. As the Queen’s Watchdog, Ciel had sworn to obey without question, but this directly interfered with his demonic contract. Even without the contract, how could he ever hope to find happiness after all the terrible things he’d done?

The letter picked at his sores for months, festering in his heart, and adding to the shock of Lizzy’s engagement. That was the last he’d heard from Queen Victoria. Ciel still had his business. He still held the reigns to an international network of con-artists and criminals, but he could feel the clock now, ticking in his mind like a buzzing insect. He couldn't wait anymore.

 “Are you quite well, My Lord?” Sebastian asked, removing the remnants of his master’s half-eaten breakfast. The Earl blinked, only vaguely surprised by the intrusion. Sebastian made no mention of the morning paper or its current whereabouts, but that didn't mean much. The demon never lied, but he still had the tongue of a politician and the composure of a marble statue.

 “Of course” Ciel said, pulling the rest of the paper off the cart, and hiding behind the front headline. “Is my nine o’clock here, yet?”

 “No.” The cart vanished under clean white linen. “Mr. Vanderbilt’s ship was delayed. He sent a telegram requesting you reschedule for next Tuesday.”

 “Fine.” Ciel put the paper aside and flipped through a stack of documents. “Contact Harrods. They’re expecting samples this week, and I need Vanderbilt’s signature before I can release them.”

 “Consider it done. In that case, it would appear you have the morning free. Mrs. Agnes Marshall will be visiting this afternoon. She was delighted by your proposal, and would like to discuss the collaboration over tea. I've scheduled fencing lessons before dinner, and you’re expected for billiards with Masters Lau and Chlaus later this evening. Ah, and this…” He paused to pull a letter from his pocket and Ciel stiffened, recognizing the royal seal. “…arrived before breakfast.”

 Ciel snapped his fingers and held out his palm, tossing the Vanderbilt file on the following week’s stack of papers. Sparing the haphazard stacks a disapproving glance, Sebastian passed the letter to his master.

 “This isn't the Queen’s handwriting.” Ciel noted, flipping the envelope over to examine the seal. There was no mistake. It was definitely the royal insignia, but the usual shade of red had been replaced with royal blue. Ciel frowned, fishing in his desk for a letter opener, before sliding it under the flap. The letter reeked of cloves and black licorice—a combination he recognized from years of obligatory social functions. It lingered in smoking rooms and clung to the skirts of beautiful women. Ciel knew who the letter was from, and he knew what it must mean. Scanning the contents, he dropped it the parchment with a sigh. “I've been summoned.”

 Sebastian lifted the letter, examining the cursive scrawl. “Ah, yes. Prince Edward. Has the Queen handed him your leash, already?”

 “Presumably.” Ciel replied with a hint of bitterness. The Prince of Wales was a pompous womanizer with a penchant for illegal gambling. That usually wouldn't bother Ciel. After all, he was something of an expert in questionable morality. Given his line of work, it was practically essential. Prince Edward, on the other hand, was a different story. As a member of the royal family, he couldn't be subjugated with bribery or coercion. Not by Ciel, at least. No, as the royal watchdog, he would be wiping the sleaze off the Prince's boots—a difficult task considering the man’s love for French brothels. Dealing with illegitimate heirs and their money-grubbing mothers sounded about as enjoyable as rusty thumbscrews. Ciel was no stranger to death, but he took no pleasure in its delivery, especially when children were involved. Besides, mopping up wild oats wasn't likely to garner new leads for his revenge.“She’s certainly allowing him access to national affairs, but I assumed—after the Queen’s last letter…”

 “He might leave you to your melancholy?” Sebastian raised his eyebrows in feigned concern.

 “No.” Ciel said with no small amount or petulance. The insinuation prickled more that he cared to admit, particularly in present company. “I’ve been thinking about that letter. You see, it raises several questions—things I never considered when I was a child. Doesn’t it seem odd?—Not the apology, though that’s curious in itself, but Queen Victoria, the very personification of morality, drafting a twelve-year-old orphan to a life of murder and criminal espionage? There’s something…off…and I need to know if it’s relevant.” The Earl spun the silver ring, now lodged with relative security on the fourth finger of his right hand. Even at twenty-two, he was smaller than his father. Childhood illness and lack of exercise had conspired to keep him from his full potential, but he suspected the weight of the contract might have some affect on his physiology, as well. Sebastian certainly kept him well fed, but Ciel never gained so much as a pound, despite his sweet tooth. “I need you to look around while we’re at the palace. With all the reports I've given, there must be records somewhere. I trust you can do that without being seen?”

 “Of course, My Lord.” Sebastian placed his palm on his chest and bowed. “You’re expected at half past six this evening. Shall I reschedule your game with Masters Lau and Chlaus?”

 “No. They’ll understand if I’m late.” Ciel said. He leaned back in his chair, sifting through a stack of papers on his left to extract his recommendations for Marshall’s Ice Cream. “I think I’d prefer to take the car tonight. Make sure it’s ready.”

 “Very well.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as he watched his master sift through the papers. “Might I suggest you to spend the morning on this paperwork? I apologize for speaking out of turn, but your desk is becoming an embarrassment to the household. If you would just permit me to—”

 “No.” One word cut the demon’s suggestion from his lips. The Earl didn’t even look up from his papers. “Keep your hands off my desk.”

 “Is that an order, sir?”