it’s so lonely in my mansion

February, 1895

The Phantomhive Estate’s Dining Room

Before the day could have a real chance to start, you had a dreadful sense of it.

Heavy rain drummed dramatically against the estate’s roof, droplets streaming like rivers down the tall vertical windows that lined the north corridor. The sun didn’t stand a chance against the hefty blanket of grey clouds, which decisively sealed away the first light of dawn. Rumbling thunder rattled the wood floorboards as you stalked towards the dining room, fresh tea pot steaming in hand.

About twenty minutes ago the chief of Scotland Yard, Arthur Randall, called Phantomhive urgently, alerting him of yet another robbery in London. This time, it was a high-profile jeweler with significant losses. Three fatalities.

That call roused the entire manor into action about two hours ahead of schedule. No civilized person would be walking a teapot down to a noble before sunrise without a good reason.

The dining room door was open, revealing a dour Earl sitting behind it, making impatient work of swallowing down a scone. He stared at the photographs spread out on his dining table as if they’d personally cursed his family name. That glower scared a great many people, so you’ve heard.

To you, it was just another morning.

Sebastian was in the middle of arranging the last photograph, a wide-lens shot of an exquisite pearl necklace.

“All of this?” Phantomhive questioned, disbelieving heat smoldering in his tone.

The makeshift collage in front of him contained at least a dozen photographs of different sizes and films sat scattered against the varnished mahogany table, precisely cut from an assortment of periodicals. Each one pictured a gem or full jewelery piece. “You mean to tell me it wasn’t just that bloody oversized ruby?”

Oversized ruby? Your eyes widened, and you nearly stopped your approach to the end of the table cold. With a heartbeat’s hesitation, you topped off Phantomhive’s empty tea cup, you took advantage of your proximity to the table to investigate.

The largest print sitting in front of him featured an ornate necklace with five gems encrusted. It was a 16th-century jewel set in a considerably modern mount. The metalwork was recently constructed, given that the gem was in the artisan’s possession at the time of the robbery, instead of the Tower of London’s Jewel House. The Jewel House was the royal family’s vault, holding all of its most valuable artifacts and jewels throughout its lengthy history.

At the sight of this familiar gem, your stomach dropped, dread expanding heavily in your chest like ink bleeding through paper.

Someone stole the famed Timur Ruby. Consequently, Lord Phantomhive, the everlastingly loyal Queen’s Guard Dog, was on the case at five in the morning.

But—

“It’s not a ruby,” you interjected urgently, capturing the Earl’s attention. Failing to recall the look of that historic jewel would be like failing to recognize your reflection. Your next words came automatically as you met Lord Phantomhive’s frustrated gaze. “The Timur’s an irregularly-shaped, red magnesia, spinel.”

The gem’s misnomer originated from the historical understanding that the crimson gem was a ruby. They were practically twins gemologically, but certainly not identical. Until recent history, artisans lacked the chemical science to distinguish a spinel’s signature crimson shade from a ruby’s.

That gem was one of the most prized in the royal collection.

The artisan responsible for refurbishing that 361-carat cabochon from time to time was the monarchy’s first official crown jeweller: Garrard & Co. Not even you were foolish enough to attempt robbing the artisan responsible for all royal commissions.

Regardless of your history there, you never would have risked touching it. As far as you knew, only The Band would, for the right price. A flare of range made your shoulders tense. You wanted to punch someone.

“Y/l/n,” Phantomhive nodded familiarly. A wrinkle creased between his furrowed brows. Exhaustion sat in a dark circle under his eye. He looked a shade paler.

With more force than necessary, the noble dropped two sugar cubes in the cup you just topped off. Then a third. He considered a fourth. After hesitating a moment, he seemed to think better of it. “This investigation would benefit from your expertise. Have a seat.”

That didn’t sound like a request.

You tilted your head and glanced at Sebastian. It was his responsibility to set your schedule for the day. After you served morning tea service, he usually tasked you with polishing pieces of silver, an endless task on this estate. You didn’t understand the utility of having so many sets of the same utensils, and you really didn’t care to learn.

It was ironic if nothing else. You could polish endless piles of silver in your sleep, having mastered the procedure before learning your vowels. The butler had been shocked to see your flawless polishing work. During your first day at the manor, he presumed to give you a thorough start-to-finish demonstration.

You didn’t interrupt, but when he told you to take your time and give it your best, the spotless serving spoon you polished spoke for itself. Evidently, you didn’t confess a word when Sebastian asked how you’d perfected your technique. If you told him… well. The answer included only one of multiple reasons you were wanted by law enforcement at the moment.

“I will see to your tasks for the day,” the butler said brightly. His voice always seemed to carry this polite cadence, even at the most inappropriate times. Such as five in the morning, in the middle of this dismal downpour. “Allow me,” he seamlessly tugged the teapot out of your hands.

Suddenly empty, your hands dropped to your side, fingers flexing uselessly. You frowned, disquieted by the butler’s unprecedented speed and agility.

“What do you want to know?” You reluctantly pulled out the chair next to Phantomhive and settled. He gestured to the wide collection of photos in front of him, and you scanned over their glossy surfaces. The monochrome images featured deep shadows and silvery highlights. Fine lenses caught their intricacies flawlessly.

You raised your eyebrows, inviting a question.

Typically, you weren’t one to spew information out unprompted like a fountain. Like a fool. At a minimum, you usually knew better not to insert yourself in a conversation. You couldn’t say what caused this interjection.

Phantomhive studied you, his stare digging into your periphery. He slowly stirred his tea with one of the smallest spoons you’ve ever seen—or polished—within your lifetime. Balanced between the Earl’s dexterous fingers, the proportion was almost amusing to you. He meticulously broke down the sugar cubes with the bottom of his spoon.

“How did you know the Timur’s a bloody spinel?” Phantomhive replied. The query hinted at something akin to disbelief and suspicion. He sat back in his seat and continued stirring in his sugar, the side of his utensil chiming against the china cup.

“You identified it from this photograph alone.” He set his teacup down and tapped the photo’s glossy surface impatinently. The film was shot in greyscale—you recognized the gem by its shape and luster alone. Even without color on the film. You’d know that spinel anywhere, anytime; frankly, if you were a betting woman, you’d venture to say that you’d know it by handfeel and weight.

“I was a bound apprentice at Garrard until I was, I don’t know, fourteen?” You answered flatly, shifting uncomfortably. Despite your best efforts, you failed to keep your voice free of intonation. The Earl’s unsettling tanzanite stare made your chest feel tight—mumbling out the truth of your life never came easy, anyway. That discerning look burned into you like a bullet. “Guess I picked up on a few things here and there.”

Your earliest memories took you back to a dilapidated orphanage before some local official dragged you to Garrard’s to learn a trade.

Binding out, they called it. Apparently, the crown legislated these involuntary labor contracts between orphanages and assorted trades to dissuade orphans from taking up street crime. So, you spent much of your childhood as an aide to master jewelers, wielding fine steel needle files, engraving chisels, and pliers.

Most of the time, your meticulous eye and steady hands kept you out of trouble. You burnished cast metal and polished silver around the clock. Until your fingers cramped, trembled, and bled.

“You were a contracted apprentice, and yet, you robbed jewelry shops up until a month ago,” Phantomhive enunciated slowly, piecing together the logic of it all. That background taught you what to lift, where to hit. When. How. That expertise made your solo heists so quick and bloodless—you knew your targets on sight.

“I never robbed Garrad’s, evidently,” you shrugged, pursing your mouth into an unrepentant line. You wouldn’t have even ventured to call the site of your former apprenticeship a shop. Its brand was far too venerated, being the monarchy’s chosen artisan. “Nothing wrong with a bit of irony, Phantomhive.”

“I suppose not.”

“If you were a bound apprentice, you would’ve been contracted until adulthood. Why, how, did you—” Lord Phantomhive started, evidently well-versed in the legality enshrined in those contracts. Had you followed your contract’s terms, you would’ve been legally released from Garrard’s around a year ago. The penalties for contract runaways were severe.

Clearing your throat, you pointed to one of the images of the spinel, sitting in an ornate necklace. It’s not like Phantomhive needed that personal information for the good of his investigation.

The nerve of him, you seethed to yourself.

“Garrard designed the gold and diamond setting you see here. It must’ve been there temporarily for refurbishment. They crafted it for versatility. The queen can switch the Timur out with one of her diamonds.”

The Earl’s dissatisfied stare weighed heavily on your skull, but he didn’t interrupt, and you refused to falter. With a fountain pen, he smoothly copied down notes of your commentary on a pocket-sized pad. His loopy script was elegant and small, neat within the thin lines.

Phantomhive wore his focus sternly.

“These here are spinels, too.” To punctuate your point, you tapped the other four jewels encrusted on the necklace’s hardware. They were much smaller than the Timur, seamlessly drawing the eye to the gleaming centerpiece.

The rest of the photographs captured assorted strands of pearls, Ceylon sapphires, and emeralds. The cuts on all of the gems were distinctive—broad and flat to emphasize the color instead of the shine. That was stylistically non-European. It was strange that The Band would target such specific pieces. They tended to favor traditional jewels that would appeal to European tastes throughout the mainland.

You hummed, short and flat.

“Natural pearls are some of the most expensive materials on the planet right now. Do you know the odds of twenty-some oysters producing pearls with the exact same luster, color, size, and shape?” You ventured.

Phantomhive started to answer, but you shook your head and continued your train of thought. He looked impatient, but you had found your bearings. “At the end of the day, they can always dig up another Ceylon, another spinel.”

“—But there’s no forcing an oyster to produce,” he finished for you. Your eyes rolled.

Phantomhive was an atrocious listener. An arrogant one, at that.

“Right. Divers cut open hundreds of thousands.” You said shortly, frustration sharpening your tone. Pearl harvesting was a game of chance, entirely—there was no manufacturing organic nacre, the iridescent substance mollusks secrete to create pearls.

With an agitated sigh, you picked up a photograph of a cluster of emeralds and slid it closer to him. “And these look like a collection. Antique, I’d bet. The sapphires, too. This is all beyond market. Royal grade.” You added, thinking out loud. “None of them are locally mined.”

“From India and Ceylon, presumably?”

“Yes. That includes the pearls,” you confirmed. “But it’s unusual. The Timur spinel is the headline here, but its value essentially comes from its history. Not its gemological value.” You could think of hundreds of other gems that were more valuable, had less notoriety, and were significantly less defended than this spinel was. Even the collections of impeccable Ceylon sapphires and emeralds made for too complex a target for what buyers would pay.

Thunder rattled again. You were decently sure you heard Mey-Rin or Finny squeal a ways down the corridor.

“Of course. Professional thieves target nameless jewels that will disappear into the luxury market without a trace,” Phantomhive’s expression only darkened the longer he thought, that stormy look contending with the violence drumming in the thunder outside. The piercing lightning strikes. “These all have some form of provenance.”

“If all they were after was the value, they would have chosen easier targets,” you said. Near-nameless and small-time artisans and jewelry labels, just like one of the shops you targeted in the weeks before Phantomhive tracked you down. As a professional thief, you lifted and promptly sold off the unengraved gems you clawed into your pockets. They certainly weren’t prized possessions of the bloody crown.

“That means this was an ideologically-motivated hit,” he concluded.

“I suppose.” You worried your lip, thinking over the complexity of this situation. All of your operations with the bandit group in the past targeted gemological value. They’d only go out of their way like this for a hefty commissioner. Who would pay off The Band to carry out such a specific, ideological operation?

And what were you going to do about it?

The gang was hunting you. This was your chance to hunt them with something of a tentative alliance with the Queen’s Guard Dog—a man you once presumed was a myth among London’s underworld. You couldn’t trust the Earl as far as you could throw him, but you knew an opportunity when you saw one.

You had to recognize these circumstances for what they were: suspiciously advantageous.

“We should take our leave, Sebastian. This storm will only slow the carriage down. Are you coming along, Y/l/n?” Phantomhive asked, his tone indiscernible to you. He finished off the small remainder of his tea and pushed his chair in.

“No chance,” you insisted tenaciously, crossing your arms. As much as you itched to examine the scene for clues of The Band yourself, it wasn’t worth risking your neck for it. “The Yard will nail me for bailing seven years early, or if not, for—”

The Earl exhaled through his nose, exasperated. You’re also quite accustomed to that frustrated look, the flare of his nostrils. He always worked his jaw.

“I outrank them. They can’t touch you,” he answered with an edge of finality that competed with yours. Your dubious expression remained unchanged, set definitively like forged cast metal. The set of your mouth clearly communicated your determination.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” you remarked flippantly, tilting your head derisively.

“Y/l/n.” Phantomhive said impatiently, shrugging on a heavy jacket Sebastian brought for him as he rose from his seat. He gestured vaguely with the notepad in his hand, emphasizing the volume of information you’d offered in the past few minutes.

“I have silver to polish,” you snorted derisively, sitting back against the back of the dining chair.

“You have a unique perspective—I need you there more than I do here.” His nostrils flared, betraying the beginnings of exasperation.

“Unique, why?” You answered with an incredulous lift of your eyebrow. “Because I was an apprentice there or because I robbed shops?”

Phantomhive didn’t miss a beat.

A self-satisfied grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, caustic and irritating. “Can it not be both? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of irony,” he said snidely, borrowing your irreverent remark.

He had you there.

“Oh, alright,” you grumbled, sighing through your parted lips. You rolled your eyes, dangerously close to reflecting that smug smirk yourself. That stuttering, warm feeling spreading in your chest perplexed you. “But if I catch so much of a glimpse of handcuffs, I’ll shoot.”

. . .

About an hour later

Garrard & Co., London

The rain was still pounding down by the time the carriage rolled into the city. Drops pattered aggressively against the roof. You watched the grey world roll through the window, peering carefully through the downpour. Isolated rural roads slowly transitioned into the main city’s narrow, uneven streets. The cobblestone roads made the carriage wheels bounce unevenly.

You sat across from Phantomhive, your leg bouncing restlessly underneath your black gown. The gesture made your boot’s thick heel knock against the floor repeatedly, the staccato rhythm of your mounting anxiety. Journeying back to Garrard’s with the Queen’s Guard Dog was one of the most senseless decisions you’ve ever made.

Almost as ridiculous as the trust you once put in your old comrades. If one could even sagely refer to a band of criminals comrades. Never again. Loyalty was a fickle thing. A foolish thing.

A chill ran down your spine, a tangible reminder of how paralyzing the winter wind felt after being pummeled half to death. You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut and opening them.

The incident happened weeks ago, but it could’ve been yesterday.

“Relax, would you?” Phantomhive mumbled under his breath, keeping his stare level with his book. “You’re going to put a dent in the floorboard.”

For the extent of the ride, Phantomhive had been reading the same book, keeping the cover balanced casually in his lap. Expression impassive, almost bored, like a painted portrait. Pensive and meticulously crafted. You couldn’t understand how he could sit still for so long.

Your boot reluctantly slowed to a stop. You released a breath. Then he met your eyes, a step beyond certain.

“Y/l/n. I have complete jurisdiction over this investigation,” he reminded you. “They won’t dare act otherwise.”

“I’m aware,” you answered a beat too hastily. Your fingers tapped aimlessly on your kneecap. “It’s been around nine years,” you stressed. The buildings and pavement around you were only growing more familiar by the block. Even in this rain.

Sebastian stopped the carriage and opened the door. He handed off an umbrella to Phantomhive, a rush of wind causing it to flutter in his grasp. The umbrella was large enough for you to fit underneath without having to crowd Phantomhive. You kept in stride with him easily.

The butler left to tend to the carriage, leaving you and the Earl to the crime scene for the time being.

He shared a curt nod with the officers surveilling the workshop’s front door. Part of the window to the front entrance was fragmented, hastily blocked off with corrugated cardboard to keep out the rain as well as nosy press.

You followed your employer as he crossed the familiar threshold. He closed the umbrella, shook it out, and held it low at his side. While he met a man’s stare in begrudging acknowledgement, you took the opportunity to survey the storefront before you.

It was chaos, to say the least. Bustling with officers, shop managers, artisans and apprentices meticulously taking inventory of the works present, display case by display case. Insurance representatives meticulously ticked off paperwork on their clipboards, their somber expressions taut and grim. Senior clerks and managers exchanged with officers solemnly.

Despite being the perpetrator of countless, you had never seen the aftermath of a jewelry heist.

You assumed most of the damage would be in the back workshops and the cellars, where the most valuable gems and projects remained secured during off hours. Only the artisans with the highest authority wielded the keys to those vaults, but the concrete and steel locks couldn’t have withstood controlled explosives. Whether the target was trains or vaults, The Band was always sure to pack some heat.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it Lord Phantomhive?” Arthur Randall, called out in a gruff, disdainful greeting. The man sported a standard navy officer’s uniform, though his chest pockets were embellished with a variety of colorful insignias to denote his seniority. He extracted himself from a harried conversation with a man you knew to be James Garrard, one of the artisan’s owners. He and his brother, Sebastian, inherited the company from his father.

A look of disdain sat plainly in your honest features.

“Idyllic,” Phantomhive commented, devoid of humor. He didn’t wait to entertain further pleasantries. “What do we have here? Three casualties, correct?”

“Yes. All security. You heard word of all the stolen pieces, we haven’t noted more. The staff is nearly finished accounting for the rest of inventory. Head designer, William Spencer, and Sebastian Garrard are in the middle of questioning,” the chief said absently.

Randall gave you a long, hard look. Two gloved fingers pushed his frameless glasses further up his nose. Recognition flashed across his face; his pursing mouth made his greying mustache twitch.

“Of course you’re foolish enough to show your face here,” Randall glowered, stalking a step closer. You immediately reflected the man’s threatening expression, straightening your spine and standing your ground. You sized up his broad shoulders; he had a number of centimeters on you, but that didn’t mean anything. “I could arrest you right here for…. Where do I begin? Abandoning your parish apprenticeship, half a dozen counts of armed robbery at lea—”

“Keep talking, and we’ll have another crime scene on our hands,” you warned, your dominant hand snapping down to the leather holster fastened carefully around your hips. Your fingertips grazed one of your guns’ polished frames.

Randall started to draw his pistol. Your fingers mechanically unclipped your holster, grazing your derringer’s handle.

Lord Phantomhive raised a dismissive hand, quickly stepping between you and the Yard. “That is quite enough. Both of you: Stand down,” he insisted, steady and authoritative.

Your glare could’ve cut someone. Your eyebrows pinched together, conflicted. Without meaning to, you noticed you were holding your breath. Phantomhive had insisted that he could handle this. Could he?

This might’ve been a mistake. Your chest felt heavy, and each shallow breath came quicker. If this went wrong, you’d be walking out cuffed.

Trust was fatal.

Phantomhive fixed his attention on Randall. “As you know, Y/l/n is employed by my estate. On my authority and good name, she is present today as an informant. Ensure all units under your discretion are aware of that fact. Anyone with concerns, answers to me,” he enunciated loudly, for the rest of the crime scene to hear. Unwavering.

“I anticipate you have received Her Majesty’s permission?” The police chief demanded.

“Randall. Surely you know better than to insult me with such a query,” Lord Phantomhive remarked scathingly, a biting finality rising in his words. He loomed tall, painfully composed for a man willingly standing in the path of two firearms. Stoic as anything. “We are all at this scene for the same bloody reason. Understand?”

Randall studied you suspiciously, gaze glowering. Your hand remained resolutely on your holster, but you didn’t provoke him further.

“Stir up a hint of trouble here, and I won’t hesitate,” he warned you, his grey eyes just as thunderous as the storm outside.

Neither will I, you almost answered, but you thought better of it. Instead, you scoffed indignantly and crossed your arms, drumming your fingers against your overcoat’s thick sleeve.

“Abberline.” Randall barked over his shoulder. With one last visible pulse of hesitation, he released his holster and waved haphazardly to a younger officer with auburn hair. He fidgeted with a pen between his fingers. “Show the Earl to the back vaults.”

“Certainly,” Abberline stepped forward. He’d been in the middle of a discussion with another officer during Phantomhive and Randall’s power struggle. “Good to see you, Lord Phantomhive.”

You could’ve led Phantomhive to the back vaults yourself.

It’d been a little less than a decade since you stalked down this narrow workshop corridor, but you’d know it blindfolded. Years of tireless labor worked the space’s intricate layout into your muscle memory.

The competing scents of metal filings and heavy haze of coal permeated the air. Wood shavings. Polish. Shellac.

Bright gas lamps illuminated the main workroom, crafted especially for gloomy dawns like these. They swung suspended from the ceiling’s wooden beams.

You’d spend hours slouched over the short work benches in this wide space, Garrard arranged them in rows; they were semicircular cutouts where craftsmen and their aides sat. The main furnace was unlit in the corner.

Gravers. Saw frames. Files. Tweezers.

As you walked, your thick heels echoed against the concrete flooring.

The cracked foreman’s bell sat in the same corner as you remembered, its chiming melody would denote the start of morning labor and release you hours before midnight.

The inventory room was still behind the door directly to the left. Ledger and commissions room to the right.

Before you could get a good look at the urgent notices pinned to the corkboard on the far side of the workshop wall, Abberline turned sharp right, towards the cellar entryway. “The vault’s just through here and down these stairs,” he explained, motioning you and Phantomhive to continue following him.

The investigator shared a stern nod with two other officers standing in front of the open threshold, a wide gap in the wall where a massive iron-plated door once stood. Now, that door sat uselessly down the corridor, discarded with warped hinges. Melted and pried off the threshold. The two officers recognized Phantomhive and stepped aside.

You followed them down the concrete steps—every night, you would carry parcels to the bottom of this narrow, winding stairwell as a child and hand them over to a senior clerk. His office was an official security checkpoint that supervised the outer iron gate. You were never permitted to step through it—only the senior craftsmen and managers were permitted inside.

As a child, this vault loomed tall to you. It was vast, unshakable. The heart of this workshop. A labyrinth of meticulously filed and numbered cabinets, stacked to the concrete ceiling.

Now, chunks of crumbled brickwork, steel-reinforced concrete, and thick steel plates sat in devastated shambles; it was nearly impossible to separate in the jagged wreckage of fallen shelves and strongboxes. Bits of brick dust flew scattered in the air, coating everything, from the wreckage in front of you, to the rest of the untouched vault room.

You had to step carefully around a considerable crater in the floor, fault lines cracked around it, the fragmentation pattern serrated unevenly. The acidic scent of ozone and burn chemicals hung low in the stale air, like a cloud, burning your nose.

Beyond the blast, The Band only pried into specific iron-plated cabinets against the North wall—evidently those that held the Timur Ruby, the antique emeralds, Ceylon sapphires, and strings of pearls. All other sections against East and West walls were just left as they should’ve been; after all this time, Garrard never altered its numbering scheme.

You knew exactly where to look. To hinder thieves, Garrard’s vault featured a meticulous and opaque cataloguing system. Senior clerks assigned gem families particular letters, and numbered individual cabinets.

“James Garrard said M-43 here held the Timur,” Abberline gestured to the wide gap between M-42 and M-44. A warped metal cabinet (presumably M-43) sat empty on the floor, its hinges half-melted and half-pried.

“Why would it be categorized under M?” Phantomhive asked.

“For magnesium," you answered flatly. “That’s the gem family’s primary mineral. This system’s supposed to act as fail-safe in the event of a robbery. The emeralds had to be in B-89. For beryl,” you pointed to the empty gap under the B row of columns, you scanned the cabinets to the right of row B and pointed to the next gap you spotted. “The Ceylon sapphires were C-64. Corundum.”

“Exactly,” Abberline said reluctantly, brown eyes warily regarding you. As if he expected you to turn on them at any second.

“Even so, they knew exactly where to locate their targets,” Phantomhive observed.

“Not to mention, sir, forensics recovered gelignite cartridge remnants from this area. Unexploded bits left behind,” Abberline spoke pensively. That information deepened the agitation in both your and Phantomhive’s expressions.

“Gelignite. Just as they found off Southwestern,” the Earl inquired, though by the finality in his tone, you guessed he already anticipated Abberline’s affirmative answer.

The investigator’s chin bobbed down in a hesitant nod as if the truth hurt to speak out loud. “Yes. The same cartridges left behind in Salisbury, the Antwerp diamond heist, and the Calais mail train station—all from this past year.”

Gelignite blasts were a trademark of The Band’s: immensely potent nitroglycerin-based explosives for industrial blasting. Gelatin was a chemical, rubbery substance mixed with combustibles, waterproof and much more concentrated than sawdust dynamite. It wasn’t at all like the consumable gelatin used for desserts.

“Then we know who we’re dealing with,” Phantomhive said decisively, scowling. He bent down, running a gloved finger along the cracked concrete floor. Near-microscopic specks of unburned nitrocellulose and nitroglycerine gathered on his black glove’s smooth surface.

“What could the bloody rodents be after this time?” He questioned rhetorically, rubbing the jelly between his thumb and middle finger and inspecting it. “A heist such as this is unusual for them. It’s not as though they can sell the Timur undetected.”

You swallowed hard.

If the Earl was spearheading this case, he had to be investigating the scene The Band left behind, just kilometers from the Salisbury Train Station, a railway owned by London and South Western Railway. Salisbury was only a handful of stops before the rail line’s London stop. Evidently, you had a hand in each one of the heists Abberline listed off. It wasn’t even a complete list of expeditions The Band ran in the past twelve months, if you were being honest.

“I don’t like the timing of this, my Lord,” Abberline said, shaking his head. He shifted his weight to his other leg and flipped through the slender notepad in his hands. “The Salisbury Explosion was just two months ago—they planned and carried out the assassination of palace architect Sir Harry Swindon. And, as if killing the bloke wasn’t enough, they stole his key to the—”

Your eyes widened. For a moment, your hand flew protectively over your sternum, just over where the key sat tucked underneath your corset. You had to mask your shocked gasp with a little cough into your sleeve. It didn’t sound natural to you, but thankfully, both the Earl and the officer seemed preoccupied with one another.

“Abberline,” Lord Phantomhive cut off the man’s train of thought sharply. Warning gleamed into his tone like a freshly sharpened blade, glaring under the sunlight’s riotous rays. “You are not permitted to speak of that matter in non-secure spaces. Most people do not possess such clearance.”

Like The Band, The Yard and the Guard Dog were also in pursuit of the key the target gave you the day of the accident.

What did Abberline call it?

The Salisbury Explosion. You never thought of the incident in such sensationalized terms—you simply thought of it as the worst day of your life.

With one simple lie, the only person you’d ever considered a friend manipulated you into pouncing on Harry Swindon the moment you located him in his train car. You pressed your pistol to the architect’s forehead moments after your gang detonated gelignite 150 yards up the railroad track, according to plan.

That gave the train conductor just enough time to pull the emergency brake, but the massive locomotive’s momentum was far too great to stop it entirely, causing its front wheels to slip off the disintegrated track. It skittered to a screaming halt, the wheels grinding painfully into the earth.

You clutched a railing inside the train to keep upright, holding Swindon tight by the back of his collared shirt. The moment the train car stabilized again, you kept your pistol’s muzzle flat against the man’s head.

He babbled, begging for his life. In his hysteria, he’d shoved a key into your hand, sobbing, “I know what you’re after. Here, take it. Just don’t hurt me. I have a family. They need me—I love them.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me.”

After fastening the key around your neck and tucking it safely underneath your shirt, you shot him square in the forehead, fulfilling your mission. Or so you thought. With a triumphant grin, you dragged his body out of the train car to your awaiting superiors. Your arms strained with effort, but adrenaline more than made up for it.

“Swindon cried like an infant,” you reported flippantly, carelessly dropping the man’s body into the snow like a limp doll. You were seconds from presenting the key to Captain Menter; you parted your lips to ask him what or where it would unlock, but what came out was a pained gasp.

The captain struck you hard across the face. Pain exploded across your cheek, and you stumbled back, touching the red impact wound disbelievingly. Salty reflex tears shone in your eyes.

“Why is he dead as stone, Y/l/n?” He demanded, frostier than ice. “Your orders were to retrieve the key, and take him back here breathing. Damn you. You have no idea what you’ve cost us,” he hissed, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.

Your vision blurred as you scanned your gathered comrades rapidly for your friend. “Take him alive?” You questioned, completely aghast. “The lieutenant told me that priorities changed—”

“Lieutenant Menter?” The chief barked. He’d been ready to strike you again, but he hesitated, sparing his son a burning, hostile look. Incredulous that his own blood would be the root of such a blunder. That trust would always beat a gang’s star shot. Save for Chief Menter himself, every member of The Band was replaceable. That understanding kept every active member working to their fullest capacity.

“I told her to take him alive, father. But she lost her temper and shot him. She’s a liability,” he spat resentfully, looking you smugly in the eye. There was no trace of familiarity, the closeness he regarded you with just hours ago. Your mind’s eye torturously recalled the day he told you that your life was worth more than polishing useless rubbish and handed you your first pistol.

He looked like a complete stranger to you, sneering so maliciously. Signing your death warrant and savoring every moment of it. You couldn’t comprehend why.

“What?” You asked helplessly, panic rising in your chest. Then, white-hot rage. Your voice was thick, wavering as your throat tightened. “No—just before A-Team set off to blow the rail, he told me—”

“She’s lying. You know she can’t control herself. She’s a bloodthirsty jade.”

“No! I—” you couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You know we don’t tolerate liabilities, foolish girl. This operation was priceless.” the chief seethed smoothly. “You’re finished here. I ought to kill you for the inconvenience,” he looked to his top enforcers. “Teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”

They swept your boots out from beneath you, landing you back first in the powdery snow. The impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, forcing you to heave for air. Chief Menter’s steel-tipped boot landed an angled kick against your ribs, causing a bolt of jarring agony to tear through your chest. Someone nailed your lower back.

You exclaimed, raw and unmeasured, trying to form the truth, but it couldn’t surface. Instead, the animalistic noise caught in the base of your throat and you choked on it. All you could do was sputter and curl inward on yourself in a desperate attempt to defend your most vulnerable points. You shivered violently as snow soaked through your clothes; those winter layers were your only saving grace against those merciless kicks.

Evidently, nine years of dutiful service, careful shooting, and grit meant nothing against the word of Lieutenant Menter. The boy who first pulled you out of that miserable workshop and gave you your first semblance of agency in this world.

Someone tore your guns off their holsters.

Between the anguishing haze of being beaten into the snow and your mounting rage and fear, you thought the distant explosion had been a figment of your imagination. It was a deafening roar, a blurry blast of red flames and smoke, the blinding color illuminating the countryside’s nightfall. The ground trembled under your bleeding body.

Like you, the locomotive had reached its breaking point. Must’ve been the boiler room.

Horrified civilians screamed and sobbed. Some limped uncomprehendingly around the rubble, in search of loved ones or their possessions. It seems most passengers had already dismounted the grounded locomotive, but there had to be numerous casualties.

The bandits around you instinctively covered their heads, taking defensive postures. Once they recovered from their shock, they refocused on the chief. Awaited orders.

Using every bit of strength you had left, you dragged yourself away from the group, every battered muscle in your body ached. Icy snow crunched around you. Warm blood dripped from your nose, running down your chapped lips and chin. Your ears tingled, but through the static, you distantly heard Chief Menter speak again, as apathetic as ever. “Forget her. Check his body for that damned key. If it’s not on him, search the wreck. Be quick about it. We gotta get out of here before the Yard gets word.”

Your world went black.

The next time you returned to consciousness, you found yourself in a workhouse infirmary, bedridden and in a great deal of pain. You snuck out that night—before a nurse could check on you—and rapidly rebuilt your life. You stole from city jewelers for days on end, until Ciel Phantomhive tracked down your new doorstep.

“Something wrong, Y/l/n?” The Earl’s posh tone tore through your stupor, snapping you back to reality. He and Abberline had turned back towards the stairwell, and you lingered several beats too long, eyes wide and detached on the rubble under your boots.

“No,” you lied, fighting the knot rising in your throat. “We should get moving, we have work to do.”

Apparently, you and Lord Phantomhive had a common purpose.

But the timing was too serendipitous, come to think of it. He was leading the Salisbury Explosion investigation, the assassination of Royal Architect Harry Swindon that you committed. He and his butler tracked you down after a month and a half after the accident. With a convenient work offer.

The Earl never took unnecessary action—he had to have some idea of your involvement in Salisbury, then. Your employment was a tacit strategy to keep a close eye on you and use you as an informant.

You laughed wryly to yourself, climbing the steps behind the noble and the investigator. So, that was why he refused to let Abberline talk about the key’s destination out loud. Not even the press reported on the missing key.

Considering your minimal trust in Phantomhive, you couldn’t be offended without being a hypocrite. At least, your hesitation was justified.

Sebastian waited in the workshop for Lord Phantomhive. Once Phantomhive, you and Abberline crossed the busted threshold, he bowed at the waist like the smug bastard he was.

“My Lord, Miss Y/l/n. Apologies for my absence,” the butler said, righting his lean shoulders again. Despite the pouring rain, he seemed mostly dry. You assumed he left his umbrella at the shop’s front door; the Yard had to be familiar with the Earl’s Head Butler.

“The Yard found gelignite at the explosion site,” Lord Phantomhive said, extending his glove towards Sebastian. Some of the gelatin remained on his glove—his butler swabbed it. You didn’t know Sebastian had an understanding of chemical compounds, but somehow, you weren’t surprised. “I want you to do a sweep of the southwest countryside again. They hit Garrard’s around four in the morning—they can’t be far.”

As Phantomhive updated Sebastian, you showed yourself around the main workshop. Pausing at the urgent notices board you passed by earlier, you couldn’t help but laugh.

In the center of the bulletin featuring shop safety posters, newspaper clippings, design mockups, and comedically large calendar was a clipped news handbill. It was a photograph of you as a fourteen-year-old apprentice with the blocky text beneath it reading Wanted: Dead or Alive. Smaller print underneath it listed some of your crimes: Murder, abandoning your contracted apprenticeship, armed burglary, abduction, destruction of property.

You’ve seen that handbill all over the city—different variations of the same idea. The same photograph, even, it was all they had. This was nothing new.

“Is that all?” You asked ambivalently, shrugging your shoulders. “They certainly missed some.” If you hadn’t been surrounded by officers, you might’ve suggested they add a few more, for accuracy’s sake. Receiving stolen goods, railway sabotage, possession and/or use of explosives…Perhaps, printing your long paragraph of crimes would’ve required too much ink.

Your sarcastic snicker caught the Earl and his butler’s attention. Phantomhive’s stare cut to you, darted to the news handbill behind you, and returned to your irreverent face. He raised an eyebrow, begrudging amusement slipping through his noble facade.

He hummed shortly, a low note of observation. “That would’ve taken up the whole page of the pamphlet.”

“True,” you shrugged, a short chuckle escaping your lips. The easiness in it took you by surprise, a light, fluttering feeling jumping in your stomach. You wound the bottom of your braid around your index finger tightly. You felt strangely hyperaware of your body—what your hands were doing, how close you stood to him.

“In any case, you were meant to dispose of the last of these, Sebastian,” Phantomhive said, forcing the remnants of sardonic humor out of his tone. That had to be why Sebastian was late—he’d been using his unsettling speed to rid the main city of each copy. Although you weren’t especially ashamed of your reputation, you couldn’t afford to let The Band locate you before you were prepared.

“Forgive me,” Sebastian sounded about as apologetic as you felt. “That copy should be the last of them,” he said.

“For now,” you tutted. Stepping past the butler, you tore down the poster and neatly folded the thin paper in half. You stuck the handbill in your pocket, eager to take it back to the manor as room decor for your quarters.

. . .

That Night

The Phantomhive Estate

You could see your breath in the chilled night air. The rain finally stopped, leaving behind the earthy smell of petrichor. Moisture sat heavily in the air. Grass squelched under your boots and your heels dug into the soft, water-logged dirt.

The moon peeked out from the clouds covering the black sky. The silver light illuminated the property around you just enough for target practice. Sharp gusts of wind made the tips of your ears feel numb.

Rolling your shoulders back, you aimed your right pistol at a wooden target nailed to a distant tree and pulled the trigger. With a clamorous blast, the bullet landed precisely in the middle of the panel. Your left pistol nailed the makeshift target just below it.

“Isn’t practice supposed to challenge you?” Lord Phantomhive’s voice cut through the night’s quiet, making you startle. You bounced on the soles of your boots, immediately turning on your heel to face him. “Might as well shoot a fish in a barrel.”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” you asked sarcastically, tilting your head.

The Earl didn’t immediately dignify the remark with a real answer. The corner of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a smirk and he shook his head. Bits of warm firelight from the lamp in his hand highlighted his angularfeatures. “Not when the crown jeweler’s been robbed of historic jewels.”

You raised your eyebrows once, offering an acknowledging nod. Fair enough.

“Do you have a better idea, then?” You asked dubiously.

“Yes.” Phantomhive’s hand dipped into his overcoat pocket and emerged balancing two glass balls, each the size of a tennis ball. The moonlight luminously refracted off their cobalt surface, emphasizing their quilted surface. “Try these. They’re Bogardus target balls. Sebastian finished them in limewash—you’ll see them in the dark,” he explained.

The brittle glass pieces looked delicate in his palm, sparkling like Christmas ornaments. The limewash amplified their shine, making them glint metallically. They clinked together delicately on his bare palm, and he set his lamp on a rock to ready one of the balls.

That smug look in Phantomhive's eye dared you.

Without warning, he took a few steps back, and flipped a target ball in the air. It soared against the black night sky, streaking blue and silver like a falling star. Immediately, your back straightened and you widened your stance. Your middle finger pressed down your pistol’s trigger.

Craning your neck up, you tracked the glass ball’s arc, predicting its movement with trained ease. The second your eyes locked on apex, you didn’t hesitate.

An earsplitting crack shocked the atmosphere as your derringer barked, spitting a led bullet that speared the glass ball in a dynamic blast. The shot echoed in the midnight silence deafeningly, the muzzle flash cutting orange and fiery.

The derringer pistol’s incredible firepower always impressed you—the barrels were only three inches—practically microscopic compared to most other arms. Despite the small diameter, the bullet’s impact immediately pulverized a target into a puff of glass, chalky mineral paint and silver dust. The remnants slowly cascaded in the air with the subdued grace of falling snow.

“Not bad,” Phantomhive tossed another, throwing you off guard. You could hardly track it through the hazy remnants in the sky. Frustrated, you clenched your teeth. That miss allowed the glass target to shatter against the grass with an anticlimactic thud. “You were only a centimeter or so off,” he said unapologetically.

A few beats of dissatisfied silence followed as you took a few steps closer to the glass wreckage, inspecting it.

“I get the sense you didn’t come out here just for target practice.” You arched an eyebrow, pulling down your pistols’ safety locks. They clicked into both holsters against your hipbones, fitting against the leather like puzzle pieces.

You fashioned your expression into something more neutral than you felt. Your eyes tore down to the broken target ball for a moment, then back to Phantomhive. After another pulse of quiet, you continued, “I have something to ask you.”

“As do I.” His expression was unchanged, composed. Entirely nonplussed. A gust of wind carded through his dark hair—it was slightly more mussed than usual, given the late hour. The moonlight made him look even paler.

“At the same time?” You suggested, taking another step closer to him. That brought you face to face.

Phantomhive adjusted his posture and tilted his head down towards the grass for a moment, giving it a disbelieving shake. His amusement registered as a short puff of air through his nose. There was a rasp in his voice, the remnants of a low chuckle he swallowed down. Still, his words came perfectly level, if a little clipped. “Alright. Go.”

“Did you track me down because you’re investigating Salisbury?" Your teeth sunk into the inside of your bottom lip.

“Were you once affiliated with a highly-mobile gang of thieves?”

You stared at each other for a moment, mirroring one another’s aggravation and reluctant admiration. A tiny knot of muscle flexed at the side of his jaw, clamping down most of a smug smirk. For a moment, only the sound of rustling tree branches stood between you.

Phantomhive was first to speak, the neutral line of his full lips unreadable. That ocean gaze unblinking. “Then I take it you were.”

You shrugged haplessly, though your heart drummed heavily. A painful ache in your ribcage pulsed dully, reminding you of the heavy kicks you sustained. The anxious rhythm reminded you of the earth-shaking thunder that plagued the city for most of the day. “It ended poorly.” Your voice escaped with a tremor.

“It ended poorly?” Phantomhive repeated flatly.

“That’s what I said,” you said impatiently, eyes widening. “I’m—we’re not on friendly terms. That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?” You asked, scouring his inscrutable face. “Being your informant wasn’t in the initial job description, I hope you’re aware.”

But then again, if Phantomhive had mentioned The Band when you had him pinned against a wall at gunpoint, his brain matter surely would’ve stained your floorboards. You wouldn’t have hesitated.

“The workhouse infirmary nurse found you unconscious and gravely wounded, kilometers away from the Salisbury wreck,” Phantomhive said. “You ran off before they even knew you were conscious. After the robberies, it wasn’t hard to locate you. Your birth certificate and apprenticeship contract are in the national registry and your likeness was posted around the city,” he explained, tugging another target ball out of his pocket. His eye gleamed in the moonlight just as elegantly as the glass did.

Those bloody handbills.

You cringed, laughing bitterly. At least Sebastian had taken the liberty to tear them down for you. That had been part of your conditions coming into your work here at the estate.

“We seem to have a common cause. It’s as I said: your unique perspective can be an asset to this investigation,” Phantomhive spoke with a calm certainty, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. The glass clinked softly against his rings when it landed back on his palm. “Cooperate with me, and we’ll put them behind bars. We will see to it that they are brought to justice.”

Again, you knew an opportunity when you saw one.

Phantomhive could confirm the confidential destination of the key hanging around your neck. It was a bargaining chip with unknowable leverage, and you desperately needed the full picture before you made your next move. With his resources and connections, you could hunt down those heartless conspirators much sooner than you’d planned.

Spill their blood across the snow, no matter what Phantomhive had in mind.

“Fine,” you said simply. “I’ll do it.”

As you shook his hand, you had a lingering feeling that you’d just finalized a deal with a devil.

It didn't matter; you were a devil, yourself.

. . .

Tag list: @mylostleftfootsock @theblueslytherin @luckyladylottie @yuzu-ku @zyrixal @nanaloverz @ilaurabhdh @cryptidterror @ollie11717 @queenskippy @the-astral-librarian @hiitsme-again @littlepinkymouse

Ciel Phantomhive

St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall

To anyone else, watching the way the rest of the bout unfold was a damn shame—comparable to observing a carriage wreck collide in slow motion. One miscalculated parry quickly devolved into two, and Y/n looked more surprised than anyone else in the hall. Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t known for his compassion, but even his lips pursed in a grimace.

After all, he knew better.

Everyone else would assume her sword arm dipped prematurely, a misinterpretation of the angle Lady Harrington’s blade followed. They’d conclude that her arm extended in an overeager parry. It was ill-timed and unfortunate, compared to the immaculate precision she displayed thus far.

But the fact of the matter was much more complicated than that.

For the past two rounds, Sebastian returned to Ciel’s side faster than he could process his departure. He hardly noticed he left, and that was with a little more than a decade’s worth of experience with his butler, who’s a downright dastardly demon. The Earl meant that literally.

His jaw tensed as he watched Lady Y/n blink away her unborn tears and shake Lady Harrington’s hand. Her disdain for showing such sportsmanship to the opponent she’d just had perfectly within her reach was palpable enough. Red flooded her face, painting her mortified.

“What the hell did you do, Sebastian? She was about to win. I told you—” Ciel demanded impatiently. He turned to face him, staring daggers. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. All Y/n needed was one final riposte to her opponent’s torso, and the bout would have been spokien for.

“You ordered me to drive the lady into your loving arms by any means necessary,” the demon answered plainly, eyes glowing just the barest hint of pink-hued crimson. He smiled serenely, watching the defeated noblewoman shake her opposition’s hand with palpable amusement. “You can trust that my actions will always be tantamount to achieving that end.”

“How could her loss possibly benefit me?” Ciel snapped incredulously, eyebrows drawing together as he watched the Yorkshire team receive their narrowly won first-place medals. Elizabeth and Y/n’s team took turns shaking hands with the victors and the other participating teams. They wanly accepted their silver medals.

“Miss Y/n will be in need of an experienced fencer who might reassure her of her skill,” Sebastian remarked, tilting his head guilelessly. “You do recall all those years I coached you, don’t you, sir?” The Earl’s memory supplied hundreds of hours practicing with the demon—sweating, suffering, cursing. Bleeding, in most cases.

“Sure. I have the scars to prove it,” Ciel remarked dryly. He begrudgingly reckoned that this was what he deserved for assigning the role of matchmaker to a sadistic supernatural being.

“This would be the perfect time for you to brush up on some of those skills. And you’d be smart to tell her she fenced beautifully,” Sebastian directed, ignoring his comment. Ciel’s fingers clutched the varnished banister in front of him in a tight squeeze, channeling his frustrations in the iron grasp. “Your endorsement will mean a great deal to her.”

“Evidently,” Ciel sighed, attempting to fashion his face into something neutral. The key to unlocking her heart was proving himself dependable in times of crisis, even if such vulnerability put a sour taste in his mouth. Even if it was unrealistic and fantastical. Whether it was a trip on the pier or a miraculously endangered child, Y/n would choose the man she trusted the most to be her husband, at the end of the day. And her father would extend his blessings to the candidate that would steer his shipping empire to growing its monopoly.

It was Ciel’s responsibility, his mission, to ensure that he would be that man. He didn’t care which superfluous society events he’d have to sit through to prove it. After all, he was clever enough to attend Y/n’s tournament, and as far as he knew, there were no blond, audacious retired military officials haunting the premises.

Against him, Biceps for Brains didn’t stand a bloody chance. Childhood friendship be damned.

Lady Y/n trudged off the fencing piste, her helmet tucked under her arm, her blade dipped low, and her posture sulking. Absolutely perturbed. As far as Ciel could see, she wasn’t too different from him: unaccustomed to loss and nauseated by the prospect of it. She made a pointed effort not to look his way as she stalked off the main floor, reuniting with her disheartened team.

Lizzie immediately wrapped her arm around Lady Y/n, her eyebrows knitting and her mouth soft and sympathetic. Their other two teammates flanked their sides.

. . .

Y/n Y/l/n

Looking your teammates in the eye was nothing short of painful—brutal and burning as if you’d decided to stare into blinding sunlight. You didn’t dare look at your parents or even Lord Phantomhive. It was difficult enough to hold your head high as you stalked out of the main hall, towards one of the private salles where St. Dunstan’s organizers directed the tournament’s participants to store their gear.

Lady Elizabeth’s consoling arm around your shoulders did nothing to ease the world-shattering guilt weighing down your shoulders. “We would have won a second season in a row. I destroyed our chances,” you lamented, tone low and miserable.

“The score was incredibly close. It never should have come down to this one match,” she assured you, matching your strides step for step as you walked. Samantha and Vivian repeated similar warm sentiments, all consoling smiles that didn’t quite meet their sad eyes.

You all had something you hoped to prove, and you shattered that opportunity. The worst part: It had been well within your grasp.

“Those rounds happened so fast,” you said, strained words resigned. Your eyes stung terribly, you blinked hard in hopes to moisten them and dissuade the tears that threatened to fall.

“There’s always the end-of-season tournament,” Vivian chimed in. “We’ll show them next time.” Your teammates shed their gloves and left their blades in the salle, opting to remain in uniform for the post-tournament fundraiser.

You set your fencing mask down and pulled off your leather gloves, dropping them on the wooden bench next to you with more force than necessary. With a sigh, you took a seat, abandoning your ladylike posture to hunch over and hide your face in your clammy hands.

The rest of your team started filing out of the salle to join the festivities. All proceeds from admissions and afternoon tea were slated to go towards a children’s aid nonprofit.

“You shouldn’t be this hard on yourself,” Elizabeth gave you a lingering pat on the back of your shoulder. “Take your time, and we’ll see you out there. There’s supposed to be some lovely sweets.”

You nodded your gratitude. She and the rest of your team filed out, leaving you to your lonesome.

Only then, you let hot tears stream down your cheeks, your throat tight. Your shoulders shook with the effort necessary to silence your quiet cries, your breath coming in short bursts through your mouth.

All you needed to win was one last point. Yorkshire was a full two points training. You essentially gift wrapped and handed them that win. A step further than mortifying.

You wiped your wet cheeks clear. You sniffled as you worked for control over your breathing. Shortly, you managed to breathe equally.

After you gave yourself a few extra moments to grieve, you reshifted your focus. Time to move forward.

There was no sense in crying over a finished game—your tears wouldn’t change the outcome or give you another chance. The silver medal hanging from your neck proved that. From here, all you could do was practice dutifully and learn a lesson in hubris and humility.

You pulled the medal over your head and dropped it with the rest of your belongings. As you rose to your feet again, your fingers reluctantly wrapped around your blade’s handle. You stepped onto the salle’s small piste, made to suit players’ practice bouts. The wall-length mirror reflected your alert stance, and you gave yourself a scrutinizing once over.

Your mind’s eye flashed through those bouts—the way your parry overzealously dipped. For all of your cultivated talent, it was difficult to imagine that you would misinterpret the same maneuver twice in a row. No matter how tired you were. It was almost as strange as your heel catching on the pier, you supposed, your body having moved before you could register the cause. These uncanny circumstances seemed to be following you around this season. Like some sort of bored supernatural being playing you for sport.

Come on, Y/n, get yourself together. The ridiculous thought made you laugh miserably. The noise caught in your throat, and tears threatened to fall again. You wiped any remaining tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand and rolled your shoulders back, stretching your back muscles.

You slid your fencing gloves on again. Completely resolute in your determination. You would perfect your technique and return even stronger at the end of the season’s tournament. To prove yourself worthy to yourself, your family, your team.

Envisioning the line of attack, you extended your sword and turned your wrist into position. You adjusted the angle just so, eyes tracking your reflection in the mirror.

Swiping the blade down hard, you weighed the motion, the parry in six’s arch. You repeated the same technique over and over again, analyzing what might’ve went awry. You studied each small movement until you were breathless, not from crying, but from exertion.

You were a diamond in the Richmond legacy. Your parents’ only child, the manifestation of their pride and the long, lasting lineages that came before them. Losing one fencing tournament wouldn’t change that. All you had to do was—

“You’ve got the idea, but you’re overextending. You leave your side open,” Ciel Phantomhive’s stern voice dragged you back to your senses; his tall reflection joined yours in the mirror. You were mid-motion, blade poised in the air. A show of your shock, your sword arm fell instantaneously. You turned to face him properly, bleary eyes wide.

A surprised smile tugged at your reluctant lips, nothing more than a diminutive curve at the edges of your mouth.

Sebastian and Daphne trailed inside after him. She knew you preferred space after disappointments such as these and had been waiting just outside the door for you. But the maid shot you a wink and an encouraging smile, establishing herself near the threshold to supervise.

“Beyond that, you fenced beautifully,” Ciel said, joining you on the piste. The corner of his mouth lifted in his conception of a mirthful expression. Sarcastic just at the edge. The room’s natural light danced in his blue eye. “You should be proud of your efforts today. You’re decently formidable. As I recall, you said so on the pier, and I wanted to see for myself. Not to mention, my cousin adores you.”

“I can hardly believe I forgot the two of you are cousins.” You laughed wryly, searching his stoic face for a hint of deceit. Formidable, he said, in that shrewd, witty manner of his that you’ve come to derive as the Earl’s idea of intimate honesty. When you compared Ciel and Elizabeth, almost no similarities rose to the front of your mind. Neither in appearance nor disposition. Where Lizzie was welcoming and radiant, the Earl was reserved and a tad standoffish. The sun and moon, yin and yang.

“I reckon there isn’t a lot of family resemblance between us,” Lord Phantomhive commented breezily.

“Right. I suppose there’s not,” you agreed, laughing a bit too weakly to mean it in full. You cast your gaze away for a moment, off to the side. “That said, you can’t mean all that. Didn’t you see the final match? I—” You started to reproach yourself, only for Lord Phantomhive to raise a dismissive hand. He shook his head and interrupted you.

“—You’re far from without skill. Honestly. You won the rest of your bouts. Your ripostes are lethal. Few fencers can say the same.” He spoke with enough certainty for both of you, as if your talent was an indisputable fact. Just as sure as Newton’s Laws of Motion. His commentary wasn’t so obsequious that you thought he was patronizing you, either. They were objective observations.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate that—and your coming here today.” Your face felt warm. He was the Queen’s Guard Dog, the head of the Funtom Corporation, and he took the time out of his hectic schedule to sit through hours of fencing matches to watch you. Apparently he possessed the care to find and console you, when you didn’t immediately join the rest of the players and your community in celebration.

“Your talent is a wonder to observe,” he affirmed to you, as a matter-of-fact. Not overzealous. Not patronizing.

A wonder? Your stomach filled with butterflies. You cleared your throat, unsure of how to best take the compliment. All you could do was smile nervously.

Lord Phantomhive took mercy on you and filled your bashful quiet by asking when you’d be joining the festivities. He studied your face tactfully, gauging your mood. More than likely observing the remnants of your tears—wet eyelashes, shiny eyes.

But you were beginning to feel better. Honestly. Lord Phantomhive had proved himself so unmistakably considerate. You never would have anticipated this from a sly businessman like him.

“I’ll join the others soon. But first, I need a few minutes to perfect that parry,” you insisted. You shifted eagerly on your feet; your resolve forced away any hint of your exhaustion.

. . .

Ciel Phantomhive

The plan was working well. Ciel smiled slightly, satisfied that he had crafted his words flawlessly, if the look in Y/n’s eyes was any indication. It wasn’t even too difficult; finding ways to compliment her technique had been easier than he thought. He could say so without lying. That was a fact.

He had delighted somewhat in watching her competitive streak come to life again.

“As I said, you have the idea. All you need is a few adjustments. Shouldn’t take long,” He advised, smiling a little indulgently in sardonic challenge.

With a new sense of purpose, Ciel stepped off the piste and shrugged his blue morning coat off. He draped it over the wooden bench and to free his wrists, he rolled his sleeves up his forearms.

Lizzie’s fencing gloves sat on a wooden bench—Ciel recognized the pair by her embroidered initials, the pink threading just at the wrist cuffs. He fastened them on his hands, certain his cousin wouldn’t mind. She all but suffocated him with her gleeful embrace when he told her why he would be attending her tournament.

“You know, fencing practice is far more productive with an opponent,” Ciel said pensively. He abducted Lizzie’s blade and studied it in his hand, weighing it, testing how the hilt felt in his grip.

As he rejoined Lady Y/n on the practice piste, he couldn’t help but take note of the slow smile spreading across her face. It was a little brighter this time—restorative, radiant, like the sun’s rays managing to peek out from behind foreboding storm clouds. She flushed from his remarks, her lips twitching in contest with suppressing a hopeful grin.

The Earl’s countenance eased somewhat, reassured. He had this.

What did it matter if Ciel had cautiously projected this exact exchange in the forefront of his mind? He meant what he said. Every syllable of it, really. The lines were coming easier to him, now. At least in comparison to the beginning of the season.

“You’re honestly challenging me to a bout, Lord Phantomhive?” Lady Y/n laughed reluctantly. The questioning one that fluttered out of her chest when she was uncertain. Bashful. She tugged some stray hair behind her ears.

“I am. So tell me. What do you say?” Ciel asked conspiratorially, as if they were scheming some sort of crime. He felt somewhat indulgent and much more impishly animated than he’d typically find himself. There was something inviting about her that he couldn’t name. Infectious. It was as if he couldn’t help himself.

Ciel fastened on Lizzie’s gloves. Her hands were smaller than his, but the soft leather was forgiving enough. It wasn’t so tight around his knuckles that he’d disfigure the shape. He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the stiff give. “We may have a thing or two to teach one another,” he prodded.

“I can take you on,” Y/n agreed, after a few beats. She grinned.

“Good,” Ciel answered, brightening. Analytical. Amused. He showed himself to the piste’s opposing side and readied Elizabeth’s blade in en garde. His dominant foot stepped forward, his other foot perpendicular, and a step back.

“Best of three?” She suggested, her mouth pursing with focus. The noblewoman reflected his stance, stepping back and tipping her blade at Ciel with a soldier’s austerity. His heartbeat picked up in his chest, his awareness narrowing around her and the platform they occupied.

“Yes. Best of three.” Ciel confirmed. He cast a sidelong look at his butler. “Would you count us off, Sebastian?”

The demon didn’t hesitate, stepping forward. He counted off in French, and called out, “en garde prêts allez!” His gloved hand gestured downwards to signify the start of this unofficial bout.

Ciel set his jaw.

How could he fence with her constructively without handing her too sound of a defeat? Taking a quick loss to him would make this whole effort meaningless. But he wasn’t about to make it easy. Never that, from the head of Phantomhive.

She feinted on him, to start off. Pretended to commit to direct thrust before disengaging just centimeters beneath his blade. Mid-extension. She lunges opposite his opening line. Smart, complex.

After observing her fencing signatures for nearly a full day, he saw it coming, but he chose not to nip the feint at the bud, so as not to discredit her.

The gentlemanly thing to do.

Ciel counter-parried once he was certain her blade cleared out. He could have pressed, but didn’t return her offensive with the same oppressive intensity. His blade thrust directly, but light. Enough so, that the noblewoman could step back slightly, rather than hustle a blade defense together.

. . .

Y/n Y/l/n

Lord Phantomhive’s years of training certainly weren’t lost on you. He struck precisely, embodying the same degree of caution and wit he did in all other pursuits. Crossing blades with him with just as much a mental effort as it was an athletic one—he certainly wasn’t the Queen’s Guard Dog for no purpose—schooled and raised to fulfil his duty to perfection. In that way, you were alike, born and raised to dedicate your life to a particular purpose.

You had much more in common than you previously thought.

The Earl infringed on your half of the piste, extending his arm fully in a high point-in-line. It was a beckoning invitation to draw closer.

But he didn’t swing beyond that, missing that side had been vulnerable for a few seconds too many. He certainly could have ended you there, but he seemed to hesitate.

Your swords exchanged a few more times following that. Lord Phantomhive offered constructive corrections, but there was something missing. You could feel it.

“Time,” you called out, stopping where you stood. Your heart drummed in your ears, you caught your breath.

Lord Phantomhive froze immediately, attentively examining your face for clues of distress. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” you nodded. Your eyebrows furrowed as you considered your next words, playfully exasperated. “I said I could take you on, and you’re holding back on me?”

“Who says I am?” Lord Phantomhive tilted his head. He had the nerve to look amused.

“Show me a real counter parry, my Lord. When I said I could handle you, I meant it. And a lady never lies,” you smarted.

“Well. I’m just getting started, my Lady,” the Earl said, dipping his head in a mock concession. “Forgive me if I’m out of practice,” he remarked. There wasn’t a hint of an apology in his tone.

“That’s reassuring.” You hummed. And then they were off, stepping back into en garde.

Sebastian counted the bout off again, and you were off. Freshly motivated, you pushed harder. The tempo finally stopped being polite. He was sharper than he let on, interpreting your blade as if he could predict your every move.

Every advance met resistance.

Finally, the two of you fought tooth and nail for initiative. He forced you to start thinking moves ahead, to step faster, turn sharper.

. . .

Ciel Phantomhive

When the flat tip of Lady Y/n’s sword touched Ciel’s dress shirt, he could’ve sworn his heart stopped. He paused, his gaze immediately darting down to her offending blade. She landed it just above his navel, pressing the blunt tip against his grey dress shirt.

Y/n nailed him with that expert riposte of hers.

Had this bout taken place two years ago, just before Sebastian deemed him to have outgrown constant practice, her blade never would have touched him. She never would have scored this point.

But that wasn’t the case, and unfortunately, the only explanation for Ciel’s loss was his slight lack of try.

His mouth felt dry, incessantly parched. He was silent for a beat, watching the foil sword’s blunt point retreat as Lady Y/n stepped back.

She met his eyes, laughing a little. Her gaze sparkled with a certain deviousness that Ciel could only describe as intriguing. He felt drawn to further explore that impish, nefarious expression of hers. Looks like those were unusual for a noblewoman like Y/n, she tended to default to the same politely detached, vacant expression, time and time again.

He preferred her like this. Dynamic, a little enraged. Genuine.

When she paired with the same snide grin Ciel tended to offer his own bested opponents. That kind of smile was immaculate enough to reprieve its wearer out of the worst kinds of trouble. It electrified his pulse with a new sense of urgency. Even more to the Earl’s surprise—and mild frustration—he found himself wanting to understand what exactly it was that broke that tepid mask of a noblewoman that she was so attached to.

He’s seen glimmers: when he asked her to elaborate on the engineering behind hydrogen balloons, school him in the intricacies of ferris wheels. Comparing their respective tastes in literature. Matching wits. And now, crossing swords.

“You’re fast,” Ciel told her, mutter the grudging compliment without thinking twice. He fashioned his face into an expression that wasn’t horrified at the prospect of his defeat. Thankfully, watching the way she blossomed from the win, it wasn’t too difficult.

Although every bit of his flesh and bones detested this sense of loss, a gentleman such as himself had to provide credit where it was due. Particularly if he aimed to maximize the impact this bout had on Lady Y/n. He would’ve been remiss not to note this foreign warmth blooming in his chest and stalling his breath. It persisted despite his petty horror and dissatisfaction from losing.

“Then if you hope to win, you might match my pace, my Lord,” Lady Y/n watched his face, looking for evidence of the Earl’s anguish—as if he’d ever offer anyone that satisfaction. She crossed her arms over her chest, foil pointing to the floor, and raised her chin. Stood taller. Waiting for his ego to possess him.

The Earl hummed flatly. He wasn’t entirely surprised by her competitive streak, anyway. He was out of practice, and she had a lot of rage to provoke. A point to prove. He welcomed this ignited spirit of hers; her stare was sharp and cunning as if she truly intended to skewer him straight through. Ferocious and unladylike. Exhilarating.

Let her try.

“And don’t offend me by holding back again,” Y/n demanded. She smiled viciously. Her nondominant foot stepped back, and its counterpart settled centimeters forward. She pointed the tip of her foil at him, sword arm poised and ready to strike. Like lightning. The tougher the better.

“As you wish,” Ciel mirrored her en garde. He raised his blade and stepped back, unable to ignore how the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a daring grin. Sweat gathered in his dark hairline, running down the nape of his neck. He bounced on the soles of his dress shoes, redistributing his weight. Wishing he were suited properly.

For all of Ciel’s scorn for his loss, he appreciated the prospect of marrying a woman who challenged his blade. Aside from providing the most immediate access to the top of TransAtlantica’s executive board, Lady Y/n was magnetically competent. Relentless like a knife’s edge, versed like a scholar.

Lady Y/n lunged straight for him, thrusting her foil in a front attack. She feinted, falsely extending her blade out in an effort to misdirect him. Just when Ciel felt confident she’d disengage, she drew back in towards him. He held his position, but she jabbed her blade towards him in a real thrust that he narrowly managed to parry.

Smart, but he was faster in his full capacity. It’d take more than a sneaky beat attack to score on him again. He drove his blade’s motion by turning his wrist.

Their blades clattered sharply at the impact. He intercepted her foil at the final line, just moments before she might have scored. Ciel counted off the seconds until she reached the optimal commitment point and acted accordingly. Her maid involuntarily shrieked a little, the mousy noise causing Sebastian to suppress a chuckle.

“Focus on redirecting the blade. Rather than stopping it,” Ciel explained, deflecting her attack with a parry in six. His words came a touch more smug than he intended them, but he couldn’t help himself. Even without Sebastian’s interventions, he observed Y/n’s somewhat compromising habit of swinging wider than necessary. Most of her competitors wouldn’t have caught it, but against someone like Elizabeth, it could cost her the match. “When you swing too broadly, you leave your side open.”

“Right,” Y/n muttered breathlessly, half-considering his commentary while she focused.

And then he drove his blade forward, a purposeful riposte. He recovered a step closer, reclaiming one she had stolen previously.

Y/n answered with a better parry, this time. This technique closely resembled his—the same inward turn of her wrist. Stronger. She protected her side, distributed the weight and successfully redirected his foil. Her counter-riposte would’ve clipped him, had he not trained under a demon for years. Frankly, if she hadn’t called him on it, he might have let her take the bout with that move.

Don’t hold back, she’d ordered.

And he seemed to have made a promise.

Therefore, he caught her blade in six and applied a fair amount of pressure on her outside line. It was a closing measure, one that made a wrinkle form between her knitting eyebrows, but she managed to hold steady, dragging his blade centerline. Almost all of the movement was in her wrists.

Ciel disengaged. He destabilized his lunge, the movement somewhat limited by the trousers he wore. They weren’t made for athletics. He hadn’t anticipated he’d be sharpening his own fencing skills today. Really. But this wasn’t much different than Sebastian forcing Ciel to save that child from the air balloon that just somehow floated loose.

Not unlike the way Y/n lost out of the blue.

Their blades continued to exchange; answering each attack and giving it directly back. The distance between them expanded and collapsed in patterns. Blades stayed in the short range between their chests and shoulders—just shy of awkward, given their heights.

All this, and still, Ciel observed Y/n as she exemplified a sense of fortitude he’d never seen of her at redundant social engagements. She’d normally paste on the best smile she could manage and grit out the same prosaic pleasantries but not here. He found himself crossing blades with the most met a genuine, unvarnished version of Lady Y/n Richmond-Y/l/n he’s ever encountered. St. Dunstan’s was his bloody witness.

It was true that only forces beyond himself could predict the sorts of situations a future Lady Phantomhive may find herself in. Whether that be a ship infested with reanimated corpses or some vengeful gang, safety was never a certainty on Ciel’s estate. At his side. Resilience was key, and she was the very portrait of it.

. . .

Y/n Y/l/n

The sound of your foils meeting echoed throughout the room’s high ceilings. The sun poured in through its large windows, some stained with ornate designs. That made the light shining out of those particular panes take on rosy and amber hues. Those shades reflected in Lord Phantomhive’s hair.

Though, as much as you wanted to admire him, you had a round to finish. A round to win.

The round was nothing short of exhilarating. Even outside of a typical fencing uniform, the Earl held his own against you. He struck precisely, his depth perception seamlessly adapted to his eyepatch concealing part of his peripheral vision.

A beat after he disengaged, Lord Phantomhive immediately extended towards you again. Seamless and merciless, just like you. Exactly as you asked. He gave you the opportunity to practice your parry, just as you wanted.

You mirrored the sharp turn Ciel’s wrist took on when he showed you that technique. You were only a few seconds late, but since your elbow kept close to your ribcage, you defended yourself. A surprised exclamation passed your lips as your foil disrupted Lord Phantomhive’s, just centimeters before his extension would have caught your blouse.

In response, you pushed your own blade forward again.

Lord Phantomhive parried. Then his counter riposte, taking notes from yours, and struck you just on the side. Your arm had been mid-rotation, forming a parry too late. In all fairness to you, that was a lightning strike of a lunge, one you could only respect. And perhaps it was a little flattering, too.

You regarded one another carefully, sharp with competition. But there’s also an intimacy there.

“All tied up. You fence beautifully, Lord Phantomhive,” you said lightly, swiping your forehead with the back of your gloved hand. You hadn’t faced such a challenge since the last time you fenced Elizabeth during practice. Both cousins seemed to be masters.

“That was a better parry,” he said.

“And that was a better riposte.”

You stepped back into your starting stance, and Lord Phantomhive did the same.

But just before you could get back into the throes of it, you froze the moment a familiar voice called your name.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Your mother asked, arm in arm with your father, surprise painted delicately on her elegant features. Visible tension left her shoulders when she saw Daphne there with you. Still though, there was a stiffness in her eyes that made you feel uneasy. “The luncheon outside started twenty minutes ago, my dear.”

“I was—Lord Phantomhive and I were—practicing,” you explained, smiling awkwardly. Your foil dipped just as the Earl’s did. “He was helping me perfect my parry in sixte. You know how I take to losing. I’m determined to return to this hall much improved by the end of this season.”

. . .

Ciel Phantomhive

“Practicing,” Lady Richmond repeated. Her eyebrows knit, puzzled. Her mouth pursed in a similar way to Y/n’s when she’s thinking. “You should come have some refreshments after such a long day.”

“My parrying,” Y/n said. Both she and her mother looked to Lord Richmond for his verdict. He huffed out something close to an entertained laugh, and to Ciel’s surprise, changed the subject at hand. “Since…today was a difficult match day.”

“Y/n. I assume you’re giving him the Earl here some trouble?” Her father asked expectantly, quickly taking in the situation. “Lord Phantomhive, good to see you,” he turned to Ciel.

“We’re almost finished here. The score was one to one,” Y/n explained, nodding tastefully to his question. “I need to perfect it to win the next tournament.”

“Of course she is, sir,” Ciel confirmed, ensuring to infuse the word with stoic warmth. He lowered his blade and extended his hand to the Earl of Richmond. They shook twice. Firm. Respectable.

“There will be plenty of time for that. Later. First, come join the rest of us. Eat something,” her mother urged. She gave Ciel another quick once over and a shallow nod, her face a touch colder than he’d otherwise like. To Ciel’s surprise, Lord Richmond seemed to take more of a liking to him.

“It appears that we’ll have to settle this another time,” Y/n turned to Ciel bashfully, lowering her sword. She sighed as she stepped off the piste. He followed in suit and returned Lizzie’s equipment to the bench.

“I’ll be better equipped. With gloves that fit,” he affirmed, making her laugh. The both of them followed her parents back through the main hall’s double doors, out to the large courtyard where the foundation set up rows of brunch tables.

“I’m counting on it,” said Y/n. Shortly after stepping outside, they made a quick rendezvous with Elizabeth, who nearly broke his ribs in a soul crushing embrace upon sight. She just had to chirp to Lady Y/n that this fencing tournament was the first Ciel’s bothered to come to spectate in the years she’d been begging him to.

“And I can only begin to wonder why that is…” Elizabeth had said, shamelessly fixing her large green eyes on Y/n. Changing the subject, Ciel recounted his and Y/n’s promenade on the pier, sharing that she’d sparked his curiosity when she mentioned the sport.

He was a lost cause from there, he said.

By any standards, the afternoon qualified as a success. He spent the rest of the fundraiser out in the courtyard with Y/n, Elizabeth, some of his extended family. The whole courtship routine was only growing easier with every outing Sebastian managed to turn awry.

. . .

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Mid-February, 1895

House for Now

It was your first night alone, and above all, in the cheapest shack you could find with four walls and an intact roof. Accordingly, you had to barricade each and every window (possibly even the door) before you could consider settling down with a cup of hot tea.

The Band was looking for you, or if they hadn’t started already, they were bound to soon. A fortified house was a necessity for rest. With rest, came more work. With more work, came more funds. Those funds would bankroll your vengeance trip. But it would take time.

With a hammer, you knocked a nail into the next thick plank of plywood as you balanced on top of a thin barstool. Squinting in the dim light, the dull tones of orange and dramatic shadows from your fireplace concealed the small nailhead. You cursed yourself for failing to take on this task in the daylight. You grit your teeth, your jaw hardening from the eruption of pain that the movement afforded your healing wounds. Your ribs especially complained; even though it’d been a good month and a half, your body remembered the impact of steel-tipped boots well. And bloody hell, it hurt.

Rage fueled your next hammer swing as you hit the long nail through the plywood and into the wall next to the window. Your free hand kept the wood in place and you tapped the next nail in place. Everyone who made you hurt was going to pay for it tenfold.

You dismissed the strain in your arms, ignored it entirely. You didn’t have time for fatigue.

Outside the window, snow fell lightly, wind blew through the naked trees outside. It was dark, save for the distant glow of a faraway streetlight.

This wood would keep the cold out, too. It wouldn’t just stop the adversarial bullets of those hunting you. They could be anywhere. You lost at least a month of preparation time stuck in that hospital.

You worked efficiently, taking another two pieces of plywood to fully cover the window. Now, for the other front window.

The rest of the wood could be for the fire.

Just as you slid your barstool towards the other side of the front door, you hesitated, hearing the intruders before you could see them. The crunch of two sets of boots crunching in the snow, two masculine voices in converation. You caught pieces of it.

“Are you…this is…it?” One voice asked.

“Last time I….was here.” Another voice answered.

Your hand flew to the doorknob. You peered out of the unbarricaded window to your left, immediately catching two tall figures. Pistol beats hammer, you decided, and casted the tool aside to free both hands. Barricading the window would have to wait—it seemed you already had some unexpected guests to tend to.

Without waiting another moment, you pulled your derringer pistol out of its holster on your side, mechanically unclipping it and fastening your fingers around the grip. In your mastery of the firearm, it acted as a mere extension of your body. Shooting came as natural to you as breathing, walking. You never missed.

Acting first would give you the upper hand. Waiting was for prey.

You unlocked your door, drew it open, and pulled the person closest to you through the threshold by his jacket collar, just tall enough to pull it off in your heeled boots. Each move was fluid, you moved with the intensity and speed of a lightning bolt. You dragged him through the doorway and trapped him against the wall centimeters away from the door, just to the left of your freshly-barricaded window.

“State your business before I shoot you in the head,” you snarled, dominant hand unlocking your pistol and pressing the barrel hard against his jugular. You used your handful of wool coat, vest, and undershirt to keep the man’s chest pinned firmly against your wall, sliding your forearm against his torso horizontally.

While you didn’t falter, you were taken aback for a number of reasons when you gave the man a proper look.

First, you didn’t recognize him.

Second, he only seemed mildly inconvenienced, unfazed by your pistol digging into his neck. At least once his initial shock subsided.

Third, he was dressed in luxury, a glittering deep-blue sapphire ring set in silver wrapped around his finger. The exquisite gem was emerald-cut.

Fourth, his accomplice made no effort to come to his aid or fight you. He seemed amused, if anything, taking in the scene in front of him like a theater goer.

“Well?” You demanded, unlocking the gun‘s guard. He had about another thirty seconds before you pulled the trigger and turned on his friend. Maybe even thirty seconds was too generous—you didn’t appreciate your door ajar this late and you couldn’t be sure if the man you pinned was armed or not.

“Miss Y/l/n, might I introduce you to the Head of the Phantomhive Earldom and the Queen’s Guard Dog,” the tall accomplice announced brightly, letting himself inside your base. He closed the door behind him, looming tall in your small living room. Dark eyes filled with intrigue, polished charisma.

“We mean no harm to you, we can assure you,” he added.

Neither of those titles really meant anything to you. Instead, the sound of your name only made you more anxious to shoot the man. No one was supposed to know you.

“On my good name, I can assure you.” The man in your clutches interjected, his proud voice incredibly proper.

“I am Lord Ciel Phantomhive. If you wouldn’t mind unhanding me so I might explain my being here, that would be immensely helpful.” The Earl watched your face and stared at you. His deep blue eye was the purest representation of tanzanite blue you’d ever seen aside from the gem itself. Not sapphire. Tanzanite. Sapphire didn’t convey the hues of indigo; not to mention, the pleochroism. The various shades of blue depending on how the light hit them. A black eyepatch covered his other eye.

“Especially if you could manage doing so without blowing my brains out,” he added just as dryly. His dark hair nearly fell past his eyes and his pouty mouth was relaxed in its frow. The fireplace cast dancing shadows on his fair skin, further contouring his sharp cheekbones.

When you didn’t move to release him, the nobleman continued, “I have a job proposition for you. Work. Free room, meals, board. I’ve heard the rumors about the fight you can put up, and my estate is in need of a new private guard.”

Phantomhive’s accomplice merely watched. He must’ve been the Earl’s butler or steward—you didn’t know the official title, but during your apprentice days, attendants like him would always come to the jewelry shop on their master’s behalf.

“What rumors?” You snapped. Any muttering of that catastrophe, and he was dead. You didn’t care how big this job seemed to be.

“The string of high-profile robberies across London this week,” Phantomhive said. “You excel at some aspects of your work—speed clearly,” he paused, as if still processing the position you managed to pin him into in seconds. “But you are in no way subtle. The Yard knows he’s looking for a young woman in her early twenties with two derringer pistols; there were enough witnesses for the connection to be made. After all, I found you easily enough.” When he spoke of your pistol, he glanced down at the firearm pressing into his throat purposefully, snorting as if he didn’t think you’d actually shoot.

Your reluctance was a testament to how much you detested proving the man right. You deliberately locked your pistol and stepped back, the motions coordinated into one. You plunged the pistol back into its holster, but you kept your hand on the grip, ready to fire in case you changed your mind. Your free hand rested on your hip.

The Yard didn’t scare you. The Yard had been nipping at the Band’s heels for years, to no avail. If they couldn’t find a dozen and a half of you running amuck of the country—and the rest of the European mainland for nearly a decade—you sincerely doubted they could locate you in a matter of days. This week’s robberies were hardly high profile, anyway, how motivated could they be? You didn’t even kill anyone.

Get real. Those were all warning shots.

Still, if the Yard could place someone with your characteristics at these scenes, so could your former colleagues. You didn’t need to help them locate you by being careless.

“If you think I was behind those robberies, why would you want me to work at your estate?” You raised your eyebrows in challenge, lifting your chin defiantly.

“With sufficient pay, there is no incentive to steal,” Phantomhive answered, righting his collar and his jacket, the fabric wrinkled by your grip and stained with soot. Your hands must’ve had dirt and soot leftover from handling the fireplace. He shot a disdainful look at the stains left on his dress shirt, but quickly refocused. “And in the meantime, you would aid with domestic tasks and all that. All of my security comes from unconventional situations, they learn, and they guard the estate.”

“From who? You’re a noble Lord,” you pointed out flatly.

“One with plenty of enemies. Anyone with something to stand for has a few, that ought to be something you can relate to,” Phantomhive said evasively, catching the hints of a grimace you failed to conceal. “I am a private investigator for Her Majesty. It isn’t the safest line of work, and having discrete preparations is truly the best approach.”

“I would be a maid,” you clarified. You started to insist that as a trained thief, you didn’t know the first thing about domestic labor—barricading windows was about your limit—but he interrupted you.

“—Part of a private militia,” the Earl corrected. “Take a day or so to think about it. Consider your other prospects. We’ll come back in a few days. We could use your close-range expertise. I’ve never been bested like that, and so quickly…” he said, awkward hints of respect underscoring the observation.

You did need steady income. And it didn’t help to draw attention to yourself by stealing. Those other prospects could very well end in you being caught. Not by the Yard, but by a force much worse.

Estate beats shack.

. . .

After Two Weeks

The Phantomhive Estate

You positioned yourself into readiness. Take a solid stance, slight bend in the knees. One hand by the head of the axe, one hand by the wooden base. Your abdominal muscles tightened with anticipation, your calloused palms perspired. You fixed your boot heels into the soft Earth beneath you, the dirt dampened by melted snow. With a grunt, you brought your axe up over your head and squatted down, burying your axe deep into the wooden log.

Finally, a task you could accomplish without that bloody butler haranguing you.

You hadn’t the slightest idea of how to dress a table for a fancy noble dinner—how to arrange the cast of unnecessary utensils when all you were acquainted with was one’s standard fork, knife, and spoon. So what? You maintained that four forks for one single meal was a complete waste, no matter how Sebastian stared down his nose at you. Much like you’d continue to insist that a wrinkled bed sheet was nowhere near the end of the world, but it seemed to instead be an insult to the Phantomhive standard of care that you were now a part of upholding. Going into this endeavor, you hadn’t considered the ways an Earl’s estate might function differently from a highly mobile band of thieves.

To your elation, the log flew apart and your axe dug into the wooden base that you’d used to balance the offending log on. Once you pulled the axe head out of the base with a jolt, you replaced the log with a thicker piece, reinvigorated by the challenge. Your body was finally free of residual pain, and you intended to make the most of your full capabilities. You pushed your white sleeves further up your arms and rammed the axe back down, chucking when it tore through the wood as easily as silk.

After about a dozen more of these swings, you readied the kitchen furnace’s supply of firewood for the next week. It didn’t take you long to transfer the cut logs into the cellar’s storage room using a wheelbarrow. Regrettably, that was your last truly active task of the day. The rest was centered around preparing the estate for Phantomhive’s business dinner later that evening. Dusting, sweeping, whatever.

Sebastian assigned you the west wing of the main house—Mey-Rin’s former rotation. The new maid in you assumed that was because the area had such a large number of antiques that Sebastian was tired of Mey-Rin nearly fumbling due to her extreme nearsightedness; the trained strategist in you guessed it was because it freed Mey-Rin to work near the side hall with closer access to her rooftop Winchesters in case of a sudden fight.

You supposed your particular talent gave you a mobility Mey-Rin and Baldroy lacked, your derringer pistols safely tucked into your thigh holsters. As you learned two weeks ago, a maid’s petticoat gave you more than enough volume to conceal the firearms secured around your thighs.

Mey-Rin…you glanced at the watch on your wrist. Nearly four. Well-near your pre-company staff meeting, but well-past the time she would need your assistance with polishing silverware. But she never found you.

You swept imperceptible dust and debris into your dustpan on the floor, your neutral expression crumbling into a frown. The estate was quieter than normal. Usually, one of the other undercover guards—either Mey-Rin or Finny—interrupted you to ask for a hand with their own work, a nuisance in the moment, but you were strangely intrigued by their easy trust.

Even that morning, they were rather quiet. And that was by your standards, as you were the quietest of Phantomhive’s staff, save for perhaps Tanaka, Phantomhive's aging house steward and bookkeeper. Even Snake interjected here and there on his reptilian friends’ behalf more often than you did, and yet, your breakfast table had been near-silent that morning. Normally, there was some sort of chatter with dramatic attempts to pull you out of your shell, overlapping rowdiness that Sebastian had to break up before he could assign chores.

You’d only just noticed the break in your routine, consumed with your own agenda for the day. Every day, though similar, contained something different. This estate was by far the most elegant place you’d ever lived and with the kindest co-workers, so good natured that you compulsively locked and barricaded your small quarter’s door at night, waiting for the night they decided to drop the facade and pounce. You had to be prepared; the kinder they were, the more wary you found yourself.

You weren’t friends. You shared an employer—that was no basis of trust. You had to focus on tending to your own work. Fretting over your co-workers avoiding you or acting strange was fruitless.

You pressed your lips into a firm line, determined to refocus on sweeping. Somehow, Sebastian always knew when you skipped a room or dusted around a piece of furniture instead of taking the time to move it. If you worked at a steady pace, you could finish the west wing before Sebastian’s mandatory meeting in less than an hour. The butler didn’t take kindly to tardiness, either, the most pedantic as one could possibly be. It was no coincidence Phantomhive’s manor ran just as steadily as the watch on your wrist.

That was why you waited in the sitting room at the top of the next hour. Properly intimidated into punctuality, your co-workers filed in behind you, ready to listen to the same speech they must have heard time and time again. After watching four of these formal dinner meetings unfold flawlessly, you could practically recite Sebastian’s You Are The Personification of Phantomhive Care speech. You couldn’t imagine working at the estate for the years that the rest served and maintaining the same sense of urgency each time Sebastian uttered it.

Once the lot of you settled in, Mey-Rin and Finny sent you cautious glances from the small sofa. Baldroy claimed one of the wingback chairs, laid back and smelling of a fresh cigar. Sebastian cleared his throat, demanding their full attention as they chattered among themselves.

You situated yourself by the door, arms crossed. You left a considerable distance between Snake and yourself, not blind to the snake that was currently winding itself around his waist. You were decently assured that the snake was Webster.

“I anticipate all of your preparatory assignments have been tended to?” Sebastian started, never one for formalities. “The antique silverware set I requested for this evening is polished, the dead shrubbery has been cleared, and the vegetables are prepared?” He asked, making eye contact with each individual servant assigned to that particular task. A blushing Mey-Rin and a babbling Finny nodded vigorously while Baldroy offered him a casual nod of assurance.

“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” You were unsure where Mey-Rin’s hurried assurances stopped and where Finny’s began.

“Sure, everythin’s chopped n’ ready for ya,” Baldroy affirmed, reclining back in his chair. “I’ve got the roast from the market, too.”

“The west wing halls swept and dusted, the firewood cut and moved?” Sebastian met your gaze, visibly relieved that his initial dinner plans were still intact. Oftentimes, Baldroy could be overzealous with his preparatory work, ranging between a few minor fires on a bad day and mutilated ingredients on a good day. To have no outward kitchen concerns seemed rare—rare enough for Sebastian to seem surprised by the lack of emergency.

“Taken care of,” you confirmed.

“And I do mean, swept cautiously this time,” Sebastian clarified, causing you to scoff without humor. You rolled your eyes, arms defensively crossed against your chest. He was referencing the first three times he asked you to sweep—the invisible spots of dirt and debris he caught after you made your rounds.

“With the most caution one could manage in a situation like that one, yes,” you replied, the dry comment causing Sebastian’s placid expression to flicker with frustration.

“Good,” Sebastian answered tersely, unwilling to justify your tone with a response. You’d only been there for two weeks, but he was quickly learning to ignore your wry commentary. “Now, as I reminded you all this morning—” he started, only for Snake to quickly interrupt.

“‘And don’t forget, Sebastian, we received the postage from the postman and delivered it to the master,’ says Emily.” Snake dictated, using an affected, feminine voice to deliver his snake’s message, but his own somber tone to denote that the message was hers. The red and black snake in question wrapped upwards around the footman’s arm while Goethe, his orange snake, stuck his head out of his jacket pocket. Apparently, Goethe had no further commentary for Snake to communicate and neither did Webster.

“Of course,” Sebastian acknowledged offhandedly. “As I was saying…the Master is having guests for supper this evening—Randall, McElory, and Jones, a small-time mechanic team with a product pitch for him. Somehow, I tend to find myself both demanding and pleading with you: do be on your best, your best, behavior tonight. You will all be assisting with dinner service, in the roles typical of you.”

Again, there were two separate conclusions to make. The first, you had to ensure not to drop any dishes or break a single utensil, and the second, should these guests prove a threat to this estate, you and Mey-Rin would be among the first to respond. And you would have to swallow the urge to pick their pockets clean.

It was always so easy. Too easy. But last time, Sebastian had admonished you and refused to allow you to keep your spoils.

“Do not cause any disturbances, and we may just manage through this evening without any major catastrophes. Am I understood?” He asked expectantly.

“Understood!” They chimed back with an enthusiasm you couldn’t understand. For their pay? The food on the table? For the boss? Phantomhive didn’t strike you as the type to welcome such warm loyalty from his hired help. He was courteous enough, a saint compared to your previous employers, you supposed, but he didn’t seem particularly attached to any of you. If he and Sebastian handpicked employees from questionable backgrounds, you could only guess what kind of conditions they hailed from to develop the talents they possessed. Plenty worse than this, you guessed.

Finny and Mey-Rin even saluted.

It was a well-paying job, free room and meals. Phantomhive even supplied you with clothing—not only a standard maid’s ensemble like Mey-Rin’s, but comfortable options you favored for yourself regularly. If you stayed there for a few more months, you would have more than enough saved to sustain your hunt for vengeance without having to steal.

“Are we helping with culinary preparations again, too?” You asked. Last time Phantomhive had company for dinner, Sebastian had you help with the mundane aspects of meal preparations, measuring, cutting, stirring.

“Yes. Report back to the kitchen with Baldroy and myself.” Sebastian directed. Mey-Rin made a noise that seemed to be halfway between an excited squeal and a hum of uncertainty. “In a clean uniform. That goes for all of you,” the butler clarified, but his intense stare was only fixated on you and the stains on your plain maid’s dress. For this reason you preferred to take on your outside work in trousers, but you hadn’t had the opportunity to take care of your laundry.

Another chorus of yes sirs followed, and you obediently started for your small room to change into a clean maid uniform—one that wasn’t splattered with assorted chunks of wood, dirt, and dust.

Although you had yet to defend the estate with them, you heard plenty of what Mey-Rin and the rest of your colleagues were capable of. Sebastian debriefed you about their respective skill sets, and he didn’t seem the type to exaggerate. And you knew better than to judge anyone by the way they looked. Truly. But even still, it was hard to believe that Mey-Rin’s trembling hands made the steady grip of a markswoman in times of need. Especially that of a lethal sniper where accuracy was of the essence.

Still. Her hands weren’t typically this unsteady. Even the wine glasses and the bottles on her small steel cart clattered as the both of you walked to the dining room. You balanced several platters atop the large server in your hands. You didn’t know her well enough to ask about her nerves. The two of you had to focus, anyway.

Any guest could easily become an assailant. Being vigilant was your real work. The rest of this nonsense—the dining service, the sweeping—was just noise.

Even though dinner service wasn’t your main priority, Sebastian was intensive in instilling his formal dining choreography. You each had clear parts to play. Delaying that plan to ask Mey-Rin about her feelings would be childish and wasteful. She needed to rally herself.

“I present you with our first round of the evening,” the butler said, those words cuing Finny and Snake to open the dining room doors to make way for you and Mey-Rin.

Wordlessly, you handed off the platter to Sebastian to allow him to distribute the dishes on it, Mey-Rin handed you wine glasses on her cart one by one for you to fill with wine and distribute to each person, and Finny took the empty from Sebastian to return it to the kitchen.

There were a little more than a dozen guests total at the extended table, they were all men. Each dressed well, each older than your employer. Their voices overlapped in their conversation, unctuous compliments about the estate, the meal, the dining table.

Phantomhive was about as engaged as he normally was, his expression stormy and hard to read. A touch smug around his mischievous eye, his mouth a hard stoic line. He always looked as if he were three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

He hardly spared you or any of the staff a look, his attention fully focused on the table he headed. A battlefield for a businessman. And apparently, some business exchanges could turn lethal on this estate.

But that was why he hired you. More eyes to watch his back. Your attentive stare paid special attention to the men’s hands, waiting for them to dare pull out a firearm or anything else that could remotely be a weapon. All it would take was two seconds for you to draw one of your pistols, and one more second to fire. Your bullets could reach a good 130 meters in just one second—and you were much closer to them than that.

“What an impressive spread, Lord Phantomhive. You’re treating us better than any other chairman—you’d think you were attempting to earn our faith,” a man said, immediately picking up his glass of wine when you set it down to his side.

“It is important to me that my guests feel well tended to, Mr. Russell,” Phantomhive answered easily, poised and perfected. “My staff works according to that standard.” Always so direct in his words, so precise. There was something he wasn’t saying. You simply didn’t know him well enough to have a clue.

“You have an excellent mind for hospitality, sir,” another man chimed in.

“Yes, truly,” another parroted.

Your eyebrows wrinkled, disconcerted. You finished distributing the filled glasses of wine to the guests, refusing to hesitate and break character. You were supposed to look like a young, clueless maid. In their eyes, you only refilled their wine glasses, accustomed to having to interpret a variation of strange waves, looks, and nods over the course of an evening to do so.

These compliments seemed forced, haphazard, and suspicious. If they weren’t entirely there in Phantomhive’s best interest, your orders were to eliminate them. For now, though, it would be best to survey them closely and wait.

Phantomhive waved away the positive attention dismissively. His shoulders squared into his usual perfected posture. He shook his head, long raven hair nearly reaching the bridge of his nose at its longest. “Now, I would love to get to the heart of the matter. This proposed production machine of yours, the cost of investment it would take. The long-term resource commitment. Do you have a working prototype?”

His fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass you served him as he took an expectant drink. His eyebrows lifted as if to say, have a go at impressing me. You watched him make eye contact with each man as they fumbled to choose a decisive spokesman.

“Well—it’s a,” the one named Mr. Russell started, gesturing with his hands. He looked at the man to his right for help.

“Sort of fabric processing machine,” the other man finished for him.

“A sort of fabric processing machine, all right,” Phantomhive repeated back to them boredly, with a hum. “And what else? My textile factories are already supplied with tufting guns.”

And the rest of the night proceeded in the same way: Phantomhive posed a complex question. The group sitting before him stumbled to answer. It was almost a challenge to follow their points through all of their stumbling. Still, you and the rest of the staff managed a smooth presentation of each dinner course.

You grew more suspicious by the second.

Eventually, Sebastian sent you to get the dessert cart. You walked back to the kitchen from the dining room, carefully preparing to fight. They couldn’t be engineers or mechanics, so they were lying. It was only a matter of time before they made a move. You didn’t have an opportunity to convey your concerns to Sebastian, but Baldroy was the second best choice.

You moved quickly down the hall, conscious of your steps and surroundings. Two of the men were absent from the table, having left for the bathroom. They could be anywhere. So your eyes caught on every shadow, lurked on each corner. Anticipation made your pulse quicken, your senses in overdrive.

There was someone behind you, the wood floor creaked under his shoe.

You were almost relieved when he pounced, leveling the blade of a knife directly underneath your chin. Because it confirmed your suspicions. These people were terrible businessmen—they had to have some other agenda coming here.

Finally, it was clear, giving you cause to take them out. Waiting had been miserable.

Your mind sharpened as your hands took hold of your enemy’s elbow and wrist. Bending your knees, you lowered your hips and center of gravity to give yourself the leverage for this satisfying motion. Dragging him down with you, you snapped your hips sharply to throw him over your back, his feet forced off the ground. You ignored any last whisper of pain in your back ribs and torso the dynamic movement caused. It was worth it, so worth it. And the last of your pain was subsiding, anyway.

Your enemy’s back hit the floor with a crash, his knife clattering away. You dug your boot into his chest, unlocking one of your pistols from its holster and aiming at him. He fought to breathe; you must’ve knocked the wind out of him. He panted for breath, reflex tears pooling in his eyes and rolling down his reddening face.

“What’s the problem? You weren’t playing fair, obviously,” you snapped at him, emphasizing your heel in his sternum when his hands tried to move your leg.

“Bard!” You called out experimentally. Keeping your gun fixed on the man under your boot, you looked up. The light of the kitchen was just down the hall. He was close. The sound of the man’s struggle was certainly long enough to catch his attention.

“Y/n? That crash happen by you?” Baldroy didn’t take long to respond, leaving the kitchen with his own firearm in hand. “Oh, I get it,” he approached, picking up the steak knife from the dining table that the man took and inspecting it. Recognizing that exact utensil.

“Come on man, these were for the roast. Not for bloody people,” Baldroy chastised, eyebrows knitting. “ ’Specially not your host’s staff. That’s just plain rude, now isn’t it?” he unlocked his gun and shot a bullet into the floor—a quick way to tell the rest of the staff to locate the speaking tube nearest to them and listen. Thankfully, there was one in this hallway.

In almost every room and corridor in the estate, there was a brass pipe, they all connected in a complex intercom system and allowed you to communicate from almost all locations in the house.

“Everybody, we’ve got a rodent infestation. First encounter neutralized by Y/n on hall two, level one. Steak knife,” he relayed. “Mey-Rin, Finny, clear the house. Y/n and I’ve got the exterior to start, Mey-Rin to the roof once you’ve cleared, and Finny to the side entrances. Snake, Tanaka, help ‘em search the place.”

You found it strange that Baldroy didn’t assign Mey-Rin to the perimeter. Her long-range coverage would be much more efficient, you thought. But you were faster than she was, you supposed, and much closer to an exit. And you could find yourself lost in the main house from time to time if someone asked you to report to a particularly insignificant room. The main house even had a labyrinth of passageways you were still mastering.

“I know this is your first go at a rodent infestation with us, Y/n,” Baldroy smiled as if he were clueing you in to a joke. “I know we’re all excited havin’ you on board—guess I’m just tryin’ to say that I hope it’s a good time for you, too,” he extended his hand to shake yours. He had been the first to rise and introduce himself on your first day at the estate.

Baldroy’s smile lines made his blue eyes crease, the hues of green meshed in them reminded you of blue topaz. He seemed genuine, but the pit of your stomach twisted with apprehension. Even when you shook his hand, suspicion crept up your back.

“Thanks,” you answered, tucking some hair that fell out of your braid back behind your ear. You broke eye contact, both unwilling and unable to further return his welcoming words. Sebastian said the rest of the staff would be thrilled to meet you, but you assumed they were exaggerating.

The man underneath your boot squirmed, causing you to dig your heel harder into his torso once more and shoot him in the forehead. You pulled your other pistol from out of its holster.

“We have to clear the perimeter, ensure it’s just them in here,” you said. “It sounds like Sebastian is with Phantomhive,” you claimed, referencing the screams just from above.

“Always is,” Baldroy said. You didn’t know how Sebastian chose to fight, but you knew he was formidable. He never left Phantomhive’s side. Baldroy motioned for you to follow him through the kitchen and into one of the many inconspicuous doorways that led out of the manor. “All we ought to worry about is keepin’ the place in one piece. Ready for some action?”

You hesitated at the door for a moment, the thought of the immense number of acres you and Baldroy were about to attempt coverage of. Really, it was no surprise they were looking for an extra pair of eyes.

In front of you, Baldroy opened the door and stepped into the chilly night. “No need to be nervous. Clearin’ the house won’t take long at all—there’s no lot more capable or stronger than that lot,” he said with a reverence for his co-workers that you scarcely recognized. You used to feel that way, the warmth of camaraderie as reassuring and invigorating as summer sunlight. But now, there was a pit in your stomach, the thought of being close to people—close to a group with more loyalty among themselves than to you.

You didn’t step through the threshold because you were assured that the rest of the staff had your back. You did because you trusted your own ability to get yourself out of most anything.

And there was no guaranteeing that anyone else here was truly on your side, or even Phantomhive’s. A good liar could take on any facade, blend in seamlessly, and backstab you at their leisure. That was how traitors operated. All you could do in the meantime was be vigilant.

“No need to worry about me,” you told Baldroy, quickly stepping out behind him to start the scout. Your head jerked in each direction to check for an immediate threat, gun following your gaze. Light from the main house illuminated the property from around you somewhat, revealing the stables in the distance and the side of the front garden. But if you were attacking the manor, you would absolutely set up camp in the tree line; far out of sight. The Band would always have extra reinforcements waiting. It was best practice, and even better to destroy waiting reserves.

“We should see if there are reinforcements,” you said. “Behind the tree line.”

“Believe me, that won’t be necessary,” Baldroy’s dry scoff made you clench your jaw. “We stay right by the house. Wait for anyone tryna make a fool’s escape from our friends in there and mow ‘em down.”

Our friends in there. You would’ve scoffed if you trusted them in the same way Baldroy clearly did. You disliked waiting for your adversaries to find you—especially when you could seek them out first and take them by surprise.

“Seems counterintuitive,” you observed, scanning around you. You started towards the tree line, squinting because you could hardly see in the night. “If they have reinforcements, we ought to find out while they deal with the ones in the house.”

“If anyone else comes into our space, we’ll deal with ‘em. It’s better to maintain proximity to the entrances and the others, believe me,” Baldroy caught your shoulder, making you turn on your heel sharply out of instinct, just barely suppressing the instinct to shove him out of your space. Instead, you scowled at the offending hand, and he removed it. “Look, all I’m saying is this ain’t my first go at things here.”

You didn’t like it, but you relented. If there was anyone urgently close attempting to break an entering, that took precedence. Baldroy was correct in that respect.

“Fine. We’ll clear the entrances and windows, then,” You gave the woods one last look before refocusing on the elegant stone estate. It truly was an impressively large amount of land, and this was your first attempt at defending rather than attacking. You were well-acquainted with the art of breaking and entering; not preventing them.

Apparently though, this estate was just as important to Phantomhive as his life was to him. If you knew Sebastian was at his side, you were directed to prioritize this property from infiltration and disgrace. It went against your grain as a thief.

The best fighters adapted well, you supposed.

You scoured the property with Baldroy, cautiously surveying the side of the house, the gardens, the entrances. You could hear fighting inside—the unmistakable crash of a statue lobbed by Finny and the piercing echo of Mey-Rin’s shots. She truly was a talent—you could tell by the frequency at which she shot. Apparently, those trembling hands of hers could do the trick just fine. But that didn’t make you less anxious for action.

You detested waiting. It made you turn on your heel in the direction of each and every noise you heard—rustling tree branches, hooting owls—and kept your head on a swivel. Opponents could come from any and all angles.

“Not the usual for you, is it? The waiting?” Baldroy tried to make conversation, but you ignored the effort, hardly able to make out his face in the lowlight. The men inside had to have reinforcements waiting—Phantomhive spoke as if he was known to be unforgiving and relentless, any enemy who knew him would prepare sufficiently.

“I want to keep moving,” you said, eyebrows knitting when Baldroy stopped at the main house's east entrance, it was disguised cleverly behind tall shrubbery.

“Just stand by, Y/n,” Baldroy insisted. “Hear that?” he asked, referring to the sound of gunshots getting closer, and closer. Heavy statues clattering closer. Mey-Rin and Finny were truly driving the invaders towards these exits.

In fact, just as you reached for the door’s handle, an extremely loud crash came from the door and the door ripped open. You barely managed to jump out of the way before a little less than the dining table dashed out. Some bleeding. All yelling, completely in disorder.

Immediately, you took aim. Your right pistol fired, then your left. Four men fell to the grass between your and Baldroy’s bullets. After a few seconds, Finny strode out of the cellar, haplessly wiping his hands clean on his trousers. You assumed he threw a statue or some bookshelf to drive them to this doorway.

“Mey-Rin and me got another six of ‘em in there, these were just the fast ones,” the gardener chuckled. “Sebastian got the rest. C’mon you guys, we should regroup.”

You frowned, unconvinced. Was everyone truly accounted for? It only took one man to plant a firebomb. The Band would only assign two people to blow up the train tracks because igniting them was such a quick effort. By the time the conductor knew there was something amiss, the track was already blown to bits. It was just as easy to plant explosives in an estate, even one as grand as this. You’d need more than two hands to count the number of times the Band would lull victims into a false sense of security before delivering the killing blow—whatever the mission objective was, it was usually some derivative of lethal.

Without wasting another word, you started toward the tree line in the fastest sprint you could manage. Past the bodies on the ground, past the stables. You had to clear the treeline.

“No! Y/n you shouldn’t–” Baldroy started to protest urgently, immediately taking to a run to accompany you.

“Then stay back for all I care! I can handle this!” You called over your shoulder, reading your pistols. If there was anyone waiting beyond this treeline, you’d get them.

You were too fast for Baldroy to catch up to, and it seemed that was the product of immense misfortune on his part. Apparently, one of the men bleeding on the grass, had just enough life in him to pick his head up, lift a small gun he must’ve had on his person, and shoot at you as you passed. Baldroy was fast enough to shove you out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the shot as it grazed his side.

“Oh, damn you!” Baldroy hissed at the man (or you, you couldn’t be sure) and stumbled from the impact. Blood immediately stained his traditional chef whites, pooling out in the fabric like watercolor on thin paper.

“Bard!” Your throat immediately tightened as you returned the shot to your fallen opponent. You gave the woods one final look, but reconsidered your priority. If there was someone waiting there, they would’ve attacked when you approached, you supposed. Thus, you surged closer to the chef, allowing your guns to drop to the Earth as you ripped some of your uniform to help handle the bleeding.

“Sit down,” you ordered. “The hell were you thinking, doing this for me? We don’t know each other!”

“I’m fine, just thought I’d help the new kid,” the chef hissed through his pain, his face was white. You helped guide him to his knees. “I mean, I told ya not to bother with the tree line yet, didn’t I? We’ve got Sebastian for those kinds of operations,” he made a weak attempt at a joke, laughing when your eyebrows only knit more. Movement from his laugh caused him to grimace.

As if his name summoned him, Sebastian came out with Mey-Rin and Finny at his sides. “And what on Earth happened here? Do we not employ tight defensive positions around the estate for this reason?”

“Guess I got a bit ahead of myself, what can I say?” Baldroy said, but everyone could see the truth of the situation just by taking in the scene. “Help me up. I can walk with a bit’a help and you can sew me back up inside, Nurse Sebastian.” The butler bristled at the nickname, but he and Finny helped the chef back inside regardless, leaving you to pathetically trudge behind them, an uncertain thank you twisted on your tongue.

You weren’t surprised when Sebastian summoned you to Phantomhive’s study after he finished tending to Baldroy’s wound. The butler assigned you to start cleaning up the shattered remnants of the statues Finny weaponized, and you took on the task without complaint. Now, you sat across from your employer who regarded you with mild interest. There was nothing accusatory about his expression, but certainly nothing reassuring about it, either.

“Why did you disobey direct orders? Sebastian did inform you that you are to act under Baldroy’s discretion in these circumstances, did he not?” Phantomhive broke the silence in a measured voice, taking a calm drink out of his tea. He held the teacup formally, slowly bringing it up to his lips and returning it to the dish it came with.

“He didn’t need to follow me. I had reason to suspect there were further assailants waiting in the woods, and I took a calculated risk,” you replied, looking down at your lap. You straightened your back, painfully aware of your slouch when you noted the nobleman’s shoulders impeccably squared and attentive.

“You are meant to work with them as a unit,” Phantomhive said.

But you hardly understood what a unit entailed, anymore. The only experience in a unit you had was: survive or die. Follow along or be left in the dust. Complete your duties well or they’d find someone else who could.

“No one has ever tried to push me out of harm,” you admitted begrudgingly, hyperactive fingers re-braiding your hair. You looked down at your braid as you tied it off, uncomfortable under Phantomhive’s scrutinous stare. You felt like a child getting scolded, your heart clobbering in your ribcage with your buried premonitions. For a reason you couldn’t name, there was a lump growing your throat. “I didn’t think…didn’t know…he’d do that. I mean, we work for you.”

“Giving you all common cause, yes,” Phantomhive set down his teacup, his blue eye still attempting to decipher you. You’d never felt so out of balance in front of someone since…you refused to entertain the troubling thought. “Can you tell me what incentive there may be for foul play among you?”

You failed to form an appropriate response, but that didn’t change your mind. You used to believe that a common cause made for some degree of camaraderie, but people were more complex than that. Vile, underhanded, jealous…everything you knew was clawed right out from under you in less than five minutes.

Everything. Because of him. And you never would have predicted it at the time.

You thought of the glacial snow that encompassed your body that day like a coffin. Your last few seconds of consciousness before your body gave out to the pain and the frigid cold. The metal smell of your own blood, the bitter taste of it on your lips.

If anyone had asked you that morning if anyone in The Band had incentive for foul play, you also would have answered confidently. No. Why would they betray me? I’ve worked for them for most of my life, you would’ve said.

And you hardly knew these people. Baldroy, an American with salt and pepper lightly speckling his blond hair, his firm handshake. Mey-Rin’s trembling hands and fumbling kindness. Finny, only a couple years older than you, and stronger than anyone you’d ever seen. Snake and his friends. Tanaka’s quiet fierceness.

You were there to earn a living, get out, find your old accomplices, and end them. That was all you wanted. You didn’t need to befriend these people, but they’d surely throw you out if you failed to assimilate. What would you do, then? Cower in a shed and slowly build up funds with your back unprotected in that shack?

“Fine,” you said. Your face felt hot, your mouth dry. “We sink or swim together,” you continued reluctantly, fully aware that you didn’t believe a single syllable coming out of your mouth, but self-aware enough to know that the lie was essential to your survival. It was what Phantomhive wanted to hear, and that was what mattered. Keeping your boss happy would keep you paid, fed, and sheltered.

“Indeed, and you should offer your thanks to Baldroy. Who knows what might’ve happened had he not intervened,” Phantomhive said purposefully, watching you as you stood to your feet, not waiting for proper dismissal. You were too uncomfortable.

“Fine. Is there anything else, then?” you asked, impatiently standing behind the seat you had just occupied. Unappreciative of your restlessness, Phantomhive’s gaze hardened.

“Speak with the rest of them, too. Trust among you is essential,” the Earl said as casually as if he asked for another cup of tea. How couldn’t he understand? He found you isolated in a shack. Did he truly think he could make a loyal footsoldier out of a criminal like you?

“I will. In the morning,” you said, stepping closer to the door.

“Y/n,” Phantomhive said, stopping you as you started to open the door. You looked over your shoulder at him.

“Yes?” Your tone was tougher than you intended it to be, but he didn’t flinch.

“For your first go with them, it was a decent job done,” Phantomhive tacked the comment on, rushing through the words with a hint of awkwardness uncharacteristic of him.

“Thank you,” you heard the same rushed uneasiness in just those two words of yours. You closed the door and showed yourself back to your room before Phatomhive could keep you any longer. You had enough of other people for the day, and you needed to be alone. You locked your door and stepped out of your uniform, the material damp with sweat and somewhat ripped from your efforts to tend to Bard’s wound.

Removing your dress revealed the key you wore around your neck, usually tucked quite cautiously underneath your clothing. It was your most valuable possession, the target on your back that would ensure your enemies to come running back to you once they realized it was lost. You were betting on the importance of the key, even if you hadn’t the slightest clue of where or what it unlocked.

If you knew your former colleagues as well as you thought, they were looking for you. This key. They were switching up their home bases, knowing you were out there searching for them, too.

If they knew you, they knew you’d want to fight. You were never one to go down without one.

Tag List: @mylostleftfootsock @theblueslytherin @luckyladylottie @yuzu-ku @zyrixal @nanaloverz @ilaurabhdh

Regent’s Park, London, 1895

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel arrived at Regent’s Park far earlier than he should have, but he would have otherwise been a fool to risk arriving after Adam Kingston did.

He had to be in control. It was imperative to maintain Lady Y/n’s attention, and he was decently assured that they would both be in attendance today. No one with an exclusive invite would miss an Edward Sutton exhibition—the grossly affluent man picked a new engineering project to sponsor every year. He accepted applications from engineers and funded the fruits of their imagination and labor into reality, oftentimes developing these innovations into businesses. Each year, he’d host these outdoor exhibitions, turning them into social functions to make the most of his publicity.

This time, Ciel supposed Sutton chose some engineer who made an advancement with hot air balloons. Something about changing the burners that fueled them. Ciel didn’t particularly care for engineering—Sebastian suggested he allow Y/n explain it to him, anyway, it made her feel confident—but there was something to be said about annual sponsorship programs. TransAtlantica was nothing without its charitable pursuits, and Lord Richmond and Edward Sutton were old friends. 

Nevertheless, it was another tiring, unfortunate outdoor social gathering that Ciel had to grit his way through. Even worse, this event came just on the heels of that cursed Grand National race a little less than a week ago. He hadn’t seen Lady Y/n since—he’d failed to secure another invitation from her at the end of the race because he’d been so livid. Her face had been overshadowed with something between pity and regret, smoothed over by a smile that would have fooled anyone unacquainted with her. Ciel had to make a quick escape to avoid making an ass of himself.

Kingston’s appearance wasn’t her doing, it seemed to have been at her mother’s hand, Ciel reminded himself. He took a long drink out of his sherry cobbler cocktail, the sour wine undercut by hints of orange. Ciel needed the beverage’s cold reprise before she showed. It was going to be soon, and he needed his mood to improve before that happened. 

Ciel settled next to a high table, one of many near Sutton’s outside bar and banquet table crowded with hors d'oeuvres. It was an open cocktail bar; therefore, bound to get busier as more guests joined, so he thought to request one for Lady Y/n, too. She might appreciate the thought—Sebastian did say she liked fruity wine selections. 

The sun was beating down on the Earl hard, and he was positive his dark hair absorbed the light and made him warmer. At least there was a notable breeze, a strong one that pushed through his heated hair and dried up the beginnings of perspiration on his face. Ciel’s nose wrinkled at the scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering scent of gasoline. Down the field, Sutton’s engineering team fussed with the giant hot air balloon. The massive balloon bobbed, but each person held a rope to tether it into the ground. 

“Everyone is arrivin’ early! Hurry up and secure it already!” One of the workers snapped, hurriedly looking up as more guests entered the field. It was just about time for the prompt noble families to start showing up: in tandem with the exact time printed on their invitation. 

Ciel could handle this. He’d planned and prepared for this event. Adam Kingston was no one but a husk of an entirely prosaic man. It didn’t matter that he was more acquainted with the Y/l/n family than Ciel was. Once Y/n spent longer than a moment or so with Kingston now, she would realize he was no conversationalist. She and Ciel were intellectuals. He was a soldier. A cocky, over confident son of a—

“Lord Phantomhive, good afternoon.” Lady Y/n sounded nervous behind him.

The moment he heard her voice, Ciel urged his scowl to fall from his face. Sebastian had condescendingly coached him about the abrasive expression he wore time and time again. Apparently, Ciel’s frustrated glare and impatient purse of his lips made him appear dour and sanctimonious. So he took a long drink out of his chilled cocktail before he turned around, urging the tension out of his shoulders.

A man Y/n would want to love was patient and understanding. Not dour and sanctimonious. The future chairman of the foremost shipping country in the United Kingdom, and perhaps most of Europe, thought before he acted.

Y/N Y/L/N

Lord Phantomhive was slow to face you, likely occupied with the sight of Edward Sutton’s group of sponsored engineers struggling to re-tether their giant gas balloon to the ground. It was quite a sight, though you hoped the engineers didn’t rush the important process of reliably securing it down.

“My Lady,” Lord Phantomhive answered easily, meeting your gaze confidently in spite of the discourteousness that perspired the week before. He was nursing a cocktail, just as most of the young men at the gathering were. It was hot enough outside to justify it, you supposed. An untouched cocktail stood on the high table next to the Earl. “How do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” your answer came out more hurried than you wished. Unladylike. You pursed and released your lips, they slid easily from the light lip rouge on them. Your gloved hand tucked a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, it fell free from the braided bun Daphne twisted your hair into. “I apologize for last week…I—” your breath stalled, unsure how to verbalize that your mother hijacked the outing without your consent. As a young girl, your etiquette master never covered a situation like this.  

Speak with intent. “I was not as informed as I would have liked to have been. And I apologize because…” I should have been.

It was your fourth time meeting the Earl in any official capacity, and yet your mouth still felt dry with unspoken words, embarrassment. He drew such wariness and uncertainty from you—not at all like most eligible men your age. You’d never felt so unsure of yourself in front of someone, but you simply couldn’t know what to make of him. 

“My Lady…” Lord Phantomhive acknowledged your apology, but he didn’t entertain it. He seemed to accept it with a diminutive shake of his head, dismissing your guilt. He offered you the untouched cocktail to his right, and you took it with thanks. Your fingers brushed against Lord Phantomhive’s bare hand in the exchange. The drink was a peace offering and an invitation to talk longer, you hoped, so you stepped forward to stand at his side and watch the engineers secure the balloon. 

He must have thought to request a drink for you. And a tasteful sherry wine selection, at that. You could tell by the smell of its fruity fragrance—you adored sherry wine. 

“Here to see Sutton’s new toy?” Lord Phantomhive asked, a ghost of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “I certainly am.”

“Of course. My father reviews Mr. Sutton’s applicants with him every cycle,” you answered with a thankful smile, appreciating the way the cold glass felt through your lace gloves. You turned to gesture at your parents engaged in a vibrant conversation with Edward and his wife, Maria. 

“Right,” Lord Phantomhive nodded. “This hot air balloon has an adapted burner or–” he stopped himself, immediately catching the way your eyebrows drew together. Your mouth opened and closed because you wanted to interject, but immediately thought better of it. “You may correct me, please,” he told you with false exhaustion. He took a purposeful drink out of his cocktail, gesturing at you to explain the project’s significance.

You laughed, ice in your drink clattering against your glass as your shoulders bounced. “Come. I can show you,” you guided Lord Phantomhive down the green field. As you walked together, you explained, “Mr. Sutton’s team devised a gas balloon filled with hydrogen. Hot air powered balloons are unreliable because there is no device that can efficiently regulate the heat, which controls the balloon’s altitude. Hydrogen gas, meanwhile, is easily adjustable and eliminates the need to maintain a steady fire.”

“How would they manage to get the hydrogen inside?” the Earl asked you, indicating that he was actively listening. So few truly listened to you…it was considered unladylike for you to jabber on, but he asked! He asked you. He could have asked one of the engineers—they were each answering questions and engaging with other guests—or even Sutton himself...but he waited. For you. With a drink—a selection you liked.

Most of the guests stood around the balloon, a few too many people close to its swaying tethers. You pointed to the balloon’s open bottom, “they fill it with pipes that funnel the hydrogen through—they make the hydrogen with sulphuric acid and iron filaments.”

“Fascinating. The gas inside is lighter than the material outside, so it rises…” Lord Phantomhive mumbled, looking intently at the craftsmanship. The balloon itself was red, blue, and white, the colors of the British flag. 

“Did you know that they used hot air balloons in the Civil War? In the States?” you asked, taking a drink out of your cocktail. Your throat seized uncomfortably when a familiar blond inserted himself between the gas balloon and you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Indeed they did, Lady Y/n. Indeed they did,” Lord Kingston’s voice made you pause.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s first mistake was allowing Lady Y/n to relocate them closer to the heart of the event. If Adam Kingston was going to be anywhere, it would be working the room. Or the lavishly decorated field, in this bloody case. 

“Hello, Y/n. You look breathtaking on this fine and flawless day,” Kingston greeted disingenuously, pointedly ignoring Ciel. He seemed to have just stepped out of a conversation with Leonardo Sutton, Edward’s son, and a few other heirs Ciel didn’t care to identify. “I was hoping to see you here. We never got to speak the other day.”

Ciel had just opened his mouth to tell Y/n that no, he hadn’t known that, and the slimy bastard took the opportunity to insert himself in the middle of their conversation. Shameless. Shameless. Instead, Ciel merely watched Adam Kingston, his snake-like green eyes illuminated in the sunlight, the glare making them appear paler. He dressed plainly in a white shirt, brown trousers. A ruby family ring sparkled on his finger and another gold signet ring on his other hand with the number 32, his regiment number from South Africa, or something like that. Sebastian took Ciel through a decent two hours of reconnaissance about the guy.

A man like Kingston will aim to get a rise out of you my Lord. You must not allow him to make you a fool, Sebastian had reminded Ciel when he stepped out of the carriage that afternoon. 

He will not make me into something I am not, Ciel had insisted.

“Thank you, Lord Kingston,” Y/n answered sheepishly, red blooming in her cheeks. Adam’s compliment seemed to land, and Ciel wasn’t blind to the way his gaze risked downwards, certainly not interested in her simple diamond necklace, but most definitely the way her light sage gown looked on her body. The subtle floral print on it was a delicate shade of baby pink. Her neckline dipped slightly down, leading to a small bow towards the bottom of her sternum. The shape of this particular gown hugged the curve of her waist and fell down her legs in ruffles. The wind made her skirts hike up slightly, exposing hints of her matching pink heels and pushing her hair about. She had it arranged in an elegant bun typical of her, but much like the beachy wind on the pier, the gusts on the field pushed strands out. 

She did look good, objectively. 

Y/N Y/L/N

Your etiquette master certainly never covered this type of social crisis—Lord Kingston watching you as if Lord Phantomhive wasn’t even there, and Lord Phantomhive examining you as if Lord Kingston’s comment suddenly gave him something to consider.

Facing each other, they were an artistic sight, too. Lord Phantomhive’s dark and intense look directly contrasted by Lord Kingston’s traditional princely charisma made for such a marvel. Particularly as their gazes met—stern and unforgiving blue against easygoing, mischievous chartreuse. 

Kingston crossed his arms over his chest casually, lifting his chin and staring down his nose. 

Each man was silent too, expecting the other to introduce himself first. They were unwilling to take the introductory step because it was a vulnerable position, and they were of the same peerage rank, Earls. Had one of them been lower, the burden of introduction would have been yours. But judging by the tense silence…it was yours regardless. 

It would be worse to hold two separate conversations concurrently, you decided. You presumed your etiquette book would agree. So you would introduce them.

“Lord Phantomhive, this is Lord Adam Kingston,” you urged yourself to sound calm. Perfectly well—not as if you were wishing to escape. Not as if your throat was threatening to close. “Lord Kingston, this is Lord Ciel Phantomhive,” you said.

“Good to meet you,” Lord Phantomhive said first, extending his free hand to shake Adam’s. He took a slight step forward, but Lord Kingston did not step back as anyone else would have. “You’re the fellow who took the Grand National home, aren’t you? What impeccable luck for a soldier.”

Luck. From the way Lord Kingston’s seafoam eyes hardened, the word and its implications were far from lost on him. His fingers intertwined with Lord Phantomhive's in a single terse shake before releasing. A tad too hasty.

“Guilty,” Kingston said with a dry laugh, one you could tell he didn’t mean. “And you sell children’s toys and confectionery. How delightful,” Lord Kingston simpered. Your eyes immediately darted to Lord Phantomhive’s face. You held your breath, your grip on your glass tightening. 

You were sweating. You wanted to use your panic signal with Daphne, but there was no good that would do. It wasn’t a dangerous situation. It was only…excruciating. 

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

So Adam did his research about Ciel, too. Good to know.

“Quite. Funtom has been rather fortunate to have outperformed in every quarter this year,” he answered seamlessly. Adam Kingston was not going to attack his company and flirt with the woman Ciel was clearly courting right in front of him. For the second time. Over his mutilated, dismembered, corpse.   

“God forbid the little boys and girls go without their stuffies, right?” Adam teased. It would have appeared good natured to anyone else, but Ciel knew better. Lord Kingston was the worst type of man—-too immature to obey proper courtship ordinances and wait his bloody turn. 

He will try to make you look uncaring and aloof. That is his game, Sebastian had insisted. Make him look childish when his jabs fail to land. Remember who you are there for.

Ciel could handle a catty, flirtatious nobody. He was here for himself and his future prospects. TransAtlantica was not an option; it was an inevitability. 

So Ciel, with his own dry laugh…that was also clearly, far from genuine, let Adam’s comment roll off his back. There was no use in another retort. It’d be too inflammatory and juvenile. 

“My Lady, you were saying that the Americans used gas balloons in their Civil War? You were just about to tell me,” Ciel reminded her. He didn’t even cast a glance at Adam. Although he was truly there for himself, everyone else had to believe he was there for her. This was a clever display of partnership. He would help Y/n diffuse the situation and seemingly set his pride aside in doing so.

But, this decision would favor him in the end. She would appreciate it—he could see it in the way her shoulders dropped. 

Y/N Y/L/N

Immediately, your shoulders relaxed. Your next smile was easier to construct because Lord Phantomhive had given you such a seamless transition. Your chest had felt tight from the moment Adam interrupted you. Lord Phantomhive had understood exactly what you needed—just by reading the situation. 

“I was,” you confirmed, attempting to hide the full extent of your relief. You didn’t want your old friend to assume that you didn’t want to talk to him. And you did not have the luxury of speaking without consequence, Leonardo Sutton and that group was not shy about their presence. You could hear Leonardo making some crass joke to his circle somewhere behind your back. This affair, much like most of your outings, was populated with your peers. And those of your parents. 

You couldn’t appear vapid and indecisive. 

Your father dedicated too much time to cultivating your knowledge for polite society to believe you were catty. What would he say to you right now? You had to fight the urge to look back at the tables situated near the bar in search of him. 

 “…Shall we return to our table? I can bore you with facts about reconnaissance and artillery hot air balloons, if you wish, Lord Phantomhive,” you attempted to quip, turning to him. 

The transition was far from subtle, but Adam hadn’t been either in his objectives. And he had stolen your attention at the last outing. You hadn’t been fair to Lord Phantomhive, and you had to repay that. Adam Kingston could not break the standard for proper courtship processes; if he wished to declare his interest in your hand, he needed to do so properly. If you continued like this, the three of you would make a scene.

“That would be delightful,” he answered, meeting your gaze. Understanding was clear in his face, amusement curving his mouth yet again. You took a step back, indicating that you were finished with the interaction. Adam’s face fell and he took another short step closer.  

“Lord Kingston, it has been lovely speaking to you, but we should be going—”

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“To your table? I would love to try one of—whatever it is you’ve got there, they look divine,” Adam interjected, gesturing to his and Y/n’s identical cocktails. “And of course, to hear about the hot air balloons, and all. I forgot how much you like to…read,” he said, the last word flat and disdainful to his ears, but Y/n didn’t seem to notice.

Kingston wasn’t going down without a fight, but it was only to his detriment. He was maddening, but the worse he acted, the more Lady Y/n would wish him away. The gentlemanly action would have been to let them leave; both she and TransAtlantica desired someone diplomatic and rational. Socially adept.   

Ciel could see Lady Y/n’s dissent in the way her eyebrows furrowed together and her mouth pressed into a politely frustrated line for a moment. If Kingston noticed, he made a persuasive effort in acting as if he hadn’t.

“I always have,” she answered as pleasantly as she could manage, observant eyes swiftly gathering that the rest of the party was invested in this exchange. Ciel could feel eyes on them. Craning necks were ever-present in this life of gilded luxury, always. If he could feel the interest of interlopers, so could Lady Y/n.

“Though…” the noblewoman started to say. Her gaze met Ciel’s, somehow asking, fretting, and apologizing all at once. Her resolve crumbled under the scrutiny around them.

The rest of the aristocracy wanted to know if Lady Y/n would truly tell her old friend to leave her be after such a grand gesture last week. Fine. Let her see how he and Kingston compared intellectually, if she wished. Fine!

“They are sherry cobbler cocktails,” Ciel interrupted seamlessly, his voice polite, verging on unctuous. The same subtly impertinent tone Sebastian took with him. From experience, he knew it was enraging. “I chose them from today’s selection. You ought to join us back at our table, Kingston. You may just learn another thing or two,” Ciel challenged as politely as his select words could manage. He made eye contact with Adam, their sight lines meeting. Ciel refused to break eye contact—even if it was to risk a look at Y/n’s reaction. He and Adam were the same height, just about, but their physical similarities seemed to end there. 

Unable to deny Ciel’s confrontation, Adam reflected his chilling smile. He laughed a little, broad shoulders jumping. “With Lady Y/n? I always expect to learn something new. Ever since we were small.”

Ciel fought his urge to roll his eyes. And his urge to bury his face—now beading with sweat from the infernal sun in the damn sky—in his hands. 

Y/N Y/L/N

The exchange was painful, but a surprisingly genuine show of understanding on Lord Phantomhive’s part. The Earl had caught onto your fears and made conclusions based on your microexpressions, a silent language that you’d thought only Daphne would ever know. Was this what it was like to feel the beginnings of the connection you so craved? 

There was something traitorous about the hope you felt. You’d never thought girlish giddiness would feel so scandalous. 

The three of you stood at the same high table. A server brought Adam a drink and with the full utilization of your charisma and social awareness, you managed to hold one terse conversation between the three of you. Lord Phantomhive even helped you navigate it, somehow simultaneously fending off Lord Kingston’s disguised slights without making a scene.

He encouraged you to speak the most, to be the focus of the interaction because the animosity between them would never improve. Everyone knew why that was: they each wanted a chance at your hand. Two of your social class’ most eligible bachelors had their sights set on you. 

Or your family name and business. 

You managed to rebuild your confidence by talking through the intricacies of ballooning, their history, the science. After all, you’d only fostered that knowledge in light of Mr. Sutton’s project. Although you didn’t see every application your father looked at, he did show you some of the standout pitches. Lofty businessmen approached him and TransAtlantica with new ideas nearly every day—you had to know a good idea when you saw one. 

Once you found your stride, you nodded at Daphne. The maid had been sending you increasingly worried faces, but as you settled into a new topic, you knew you had this under control. You would not flail, you would not retreat. 

If you couldn’t do this much, how could you ever hope to have an executive spot in your family business?

Before you knew it, the sun started to set and dinner was served with a champagne toast led by Edward Sutton and your father. 

You knocked your flute of champagne with both Lord Phantomhive and Lord Kingston individually, the three of you taking a drink in tandem. Each nobleman made a point of not knocking his glass with the other. 

“Interesting selection,” Lord Phantomhive commented, taking another curious drink of the champagne. “Vintage?” He asked you, lifting an eyebrow. You couldn’t discern if he was truly curious or bidding to make conversation. 

“It seems so,” you answered with uncertainty, unsure without seeing the specific bottle. The champagne was strong on your tongue. The taste was complex: somewhere between honey, spice, and brioche.

“It’s rich enough to be. Not very acidic and rich on the palette,” Adam said. “I know Mr. Sutton likes 1800 Grande Cognac. He would certainly break it out for a celebration like this. Oh, Leo! Perfect. What selection is this?” He gave a bright smile to Leonardo Sutton as he approached your table, flute of champagne in hand.

The event only had about an hour or two left before it reached its natural conclusion. In theory, there might have been a way for you to complete it without another major social upset.

But unfortunately, that estimation would have required you to overestimate Leonardo Sutton. At least, he had the good sense to leave the rest of his and Adam’s friends back at their table. 

Most of them disliked you, and the feeling was mutual. They’d each struck out on courtship-intended outings with you—particularly Leonardo.

“1800 Grande Cognac, why? We’re liking this selection?” Leonardo grinned at the three of you bumping his flute with Adam and drinking, the latter laughing because his guess was correct. “How are you, Lady Y/n? Lord Phantomhive?” He extended his flute to you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Just lovely, Leonardo,” you replied dismissively. 

“You know I prefer Leo,” the young man smarted, as if you weren’t a noblewoman who outranked him. The Sutton family was not ennobled; they were the start of an fabulously wealthy lineage. If you married a man like Leonardo, you’d never see TransAtlantica’s boardroom ever again, much less a contract or a revenue summary…or…the thought was too horrible to bear. But that was why you would find a suitable man who loved you enough to throw social norms to the wind and honor your and your father’s wishes. The ones he fought such a long, legal battle to secure as a potential reality for you. Most women were never to engage in business or bookkeeping, but if you married a man who was the Chairman in name, you were meticulously trained to handle any of the responsibilities associated with it. 

All you had to do was find a man competent and modest enough to let you. If a man courted you for the business, he would surely ignore you.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The light in Y/n’s eyes died when Leonardo Sutton invited himself into the conversation. Ciel’s own mood dipped lower than he thought possible, too. Leonardo was not a malicious man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bothersome. Like a troublesome fly buzzing around his head. The man’s voice was irritating enough to equate to that frustrating noise.

Clearing his throat, Leonardo spoke again, disliking the silence that permeated when Lady Y/n refused to engage with his tired nickname quip. He primarily drank and rode comfortably on his father’s coattails; Ciel couldn’t help his amusement at Y/n’s (evident, to him) disdain. 

“They’re letting people go in it, two at a time. Not to ride—it’s too windy today—just to take a closer look inside,” he said, well aware of the implications of his words. He was attempting to imply that Lady Y/n would have to choose between Ciel and Adam, and trying to make another scene. 

Did Adam put his friend up to this stunt? Ciel wouldn’t put it past Adam—not after his cattiness thus far. 

“That sounds fantastic,” Kingston replied, a terrible actor. His snake eyes cut to Y/n purposefully as she lifted her glass to her lips. “They do seem like they’re...learning quite a lot in there,” he suggested, referring to the guests climbing in and out of the balloon’s wicker basket. The balloon levitated a few feet up in the air, bobbing in its fixed position through its tethers and ballast weights keeping it from floating away.

Adam’s statement was a flailing attempt to appeal to Y/n, Ciel felt. The awkward smile Adam gave to Y/n was just charming enough to make the trying statement seem thoughtful.

When he shifted in his seat at the dinner table—Sutton’s staff converted some of the casual high tables for dining tables—Ciel recalled he had a knife tucked into his trousers. All he honestly needed was ten minutes alone with Kingston, a change of clothing, and a shovel to hide the evidence. 

The Earl’s fingers pressed hard around the stem of his glass, instead, longing to wrap around something much larger, and warmer. Like Kingston’s neck, for instance.

“I’ve already studied the diagrams so much I’ve practically memorized them,” Y/n explained with a short laugh, one that was completely faux to Ciel, but he doubted Adam and Leonardo noticed. 

Knowing her, she was burning to take a look at the real mechanism and compare it to the diagrams from the proposal, but there was no graceful way to choose between Ciel and Adam. “I would hate to take up the time in there when someone could truly learn something,” she explained smartly, reasoning her way out of the affront. 

“I feel that studying the diagrams is entirely different than seeing them up close,” Kingston tried again. 

Before Ciel could help himself, he chimed in. “Some can grasp a new concept faster than others, I reckon, Lady Y/n.”

Y/N Y/L/N

Not even you could conceal the laugh that Lord Phantomhive tore out of you.

You felt a guilty sense of relief when the conversation’s focus shifted from your bemusement to Leonardo’s startling exclamation of worry, the curses that followed it. His brown eyes widened in shock, “No! Secure it, secure it!” Leonardo yelled, causing your head to jerk, looking behind your seat as two attendants struggled to pull the floating gas balloon back towards the ground… with a young boy inside, screaming and crying as the balloon ascended in the orange sky. The attendants around scrambled frantically, crying out for help to pull the balloon down by the ropes. 

“We must help!” Lord Kingston insisted. He, Lord Phantomhive, and Leonardo didn’t wait another moment before charging towards the balloon. Most of the men around you did, whereas you jumped to your feet, hands covering your mouth in worry. 

“This is horrible!’ You exclaimed at Daphne, breath labored as you lifted your skirts to run closer, joining onlookers as young men helped the attendants wrestle with the balloon against the wind. In the front of the crowd, a woman—-presumably the boy’s mother—-sobbed in the arms of another woman you didn’t know. 

“They’re going to get him back down, Elizabeth, they’ve got him. See? Look at all the strong young men,” the woman insisted, her voice thin with worry. 

You wracked your mind for an explanation. The tethering certainly seemed more than stable…the gas balloon had a number of weights on it. The wind was stronger than usual, but certainly not enough to make the balloon break free of its restrictions, surely. None of the ropes seemed to have snapped, either….what happened?

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

There was a silent, stiff understanding between himself and Lord Kingston: neither one of them was interested in fumbling this accident and appearing like halfwits in front of polite society. And Y/n Y/l/n. 

“Kingston, take this! Pull!” Ciel shouted over the overlapping yells around them. He took hold of the last rope without anyone to pull it down. He offered Adam the tail of the rope as he pulled from slightly further up the rope, the rough texture making his palms red and raw. The Earl dug the short heels of his boots into the grass, engaging every bit of his strength in urging the balloon down in one of the world’s most intensive games of tug of war.

“All right, all right,” Kingston said, gaze darting between the rope in Ciel’s hand and meeting his stare, as if he couldn’t believe Ciel would let him help. Not even the Earl of Phantomhive’s ego was large enough to refuse help in saving a child. The notion was nearly offensive.

Behind him, Adam started pulling as well, slightly lessening the resistance Ciel encountered.

“Heave, men, heave!” Edward Sutton grunted, pulling a rope with Leonardo and another engineer. There were six ropes with a few men to each one, gradually tugging the balloon back down to avoid tipping it or scaring the boy even more. 

Ciel gritted his teeth, his arms and the rest of his body shaking with effort. Sweat ran down his neck and the side of his spine. Ridiculous, this was, and he had a decent idea as to why it was happening, too. There was no doubt a smug demon butler in the vicinity watching his master put all of his mental and physical capabilities into romancing a young woman, and using any excuse to challenge him further. 

What is your point, Sebastian? Ciel wanted to yell out.

Y/N Y/L/N

As you watched the assortment between engineers, Sutton’s help, and noblemen work in tandem to re-tether the gas balloon’s restraints, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to watching Lord Phantomhive work. His royal blue eye and raven hair were even more striking against his light grey vest and white undershirt. When the Earl focused, he seemed unstoppable. You held your breath.

You’d never seen him move so dynamically, either, save from when he pulled you out of the way of a moving carriage. 

“My Lady…” Daphne reminded you gently, placing a sisterly hand on your shoulder. “You are staring at the Earl Phantomhive,” she reminded you quietly, close to your ear. The blond gestured to your mother at the front of the crowd, carefully watching your father. 

Flushing, you immediately stared at the blades of grass below you. You squeezed your eyes closed, releasing the breath you were holding. How shameful. There was a child in peril and you were….

Control yourself, Y/n. Mother and father are here.

“Thank you, Daphne,” you sighed. The young woman squeezed your shoulder affectionately and released you. 

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the group to gain control of the balloon, the attendants successfully re-tying it down. Lord Kingston helped the young boy down the short ladder and into his mother’s waiting arms. She kneeled in the grass, sobbing with her child close to her chest. “My baby, my baby,” she mumbled into his hair, gentle fingers running through it. Her husband, one of those pulling the ropes, embraced his wife and child on his knees, a scene that made your throat feel tight. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to run down your face. You blinked rapidly to regain control. 

Love. It was love.

“You should tell him he did a lovely job, my Lady,” Daphne suggested, a little more impishly than she’d typically risk. The blonde giggled at you.

You swallowed around your dry throat, nodding twice in agreement so hard that you could feel your teardrop earrings sway. 

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s right arm crossed his chest in a deep stretch. He was sweating more than a pig, it was miserable. He was in pain, and he would be for the next couple of days to a week for this strenuous exercise in—

“Lord Phantomhive,” Lady Y/n approached him rather than Adam, who masked his mortification by turning to Leonardo. “That was incredible.”

“It was an effort that required all of our participation,” Ciel answered as diplomatically as he could manage. He immediately dropped his right arm, disinterested in appearing weak or in pain before the noblewoman. Instead, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, certain his hair was disheveled along with the rest of him. The new pair of boots he sported had to be caked in dirt, too. 

“Of course, though it couldn’t have been easy,” Y/n insisted, likely taking in how disorderly and piggish Ciel looked. There was no way his appearance was appealing in any way, and yet, she’d never had such awe in her face when she regarded him before this. Save for perhaps the first few seconds after he pulled her out of the way of that carriage—before he misspoke.

It wasn’t easy. It’s a miracle I’m still in one piece, damn it. 

“I’m simply relieved we managed to help the boy,” Ciel told her, motioning towards the embracing family with his chin. The mother had yet to let go of their child or even stop crying. “And that we were there in time—what a strange accident.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Y/n agreed ponderously. “I cannot understand why the tethers would just…fail so suddenly,” she said, frowning as she looked back at the balloon. Edward Sutton, Lord Y/l/n, and the engineering team asked for the guests to return to the tables to allow them to inspect it for technical faults. 

They wouldn’t find any, Ciel presumed. His butler had to have taken some creative measures to…raise the stakes. Literally. 

“I’m sure they will find the cause and correct the issue,” he lied seamlessly as they started back towards their table. For all intents and purposes, the event was over. Most of the guests were too unsettled and worried to sustain the atmosphere and company. 

“Absolutely,” Lady Y/n agreed. “...Lord Phantomhive? Would you perhaps consider…tea? At my home? This week?”

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