And from the deep-shadowed angles
Comes the soft murmur of lovers,
Then through the quiet of dusk
Bright with sudden laughter.
~ 0 ~
From the hushed street, through the portal,
Where soon my lover will enter,
Comes the pure strain of a flute
Tender with passion.
— Sappho
Perhaps he's always been attracted to her—after all, there was no denying Lady Elizabeth's physical beauty. She looked like a Renaissance, all soft curves and flushed cheeks, draped in fine silks and diaphanous shawls that only served to highlight her pale neck and fine décolletage. Her swan-like throat and delicate collarbones, the soft rise of her breasts and the hourglass of her waist. His former master's fiancée had been painted by the sunrise, blending all the fresh colors of dawn into a single entity of light-filled beauty. She was a Pre-Raphaelite dream whose tears could revive even Icarus.
She did not belong in this lone graveyard, weeping over marble pillars and wilted blue roses. It was a pathetic image, Sebastian conceded. The backdrop was too grey, the sky too overcast, and the fog crept around her ladyship's fallen form like a tiger at midnight. The lady's golden curls had been tucked under a black veil and she was draped in hideous onyx satin but for heaven's sake the crow demon wanted to cry, it'd been five months. How long did humans mourn over their loved ones? Two, three months? Five months was already excessive but anything more would simply be decadent.
From the plumed black shadows, Sebastian melted forward to gather around Lady Elizabeth in a dark haze that she did not seem to notice. Her eyes were downcast and fresh tears continued to roll down her cheeks.
How long was this golden girl going to cry? That boy—selfish and vain—was hardly worth her tears.
"I'm sorry Ciel." Sebastian heard her murmur, voice soft as a raven's wing. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry I couldn't take your pain away and I'm sorry that…that you never knew how desperately I wanted you to smile. To be happy." She pressed a linen handkerchief to her mouth in an attempt to muffle her quaking sobs. "P-perhaps you think this whole ordeal is foolish. Me, Lizzy Midford, weeping over veined marble—silly, isn't it?" She tried to smile but the tears continued to flow, falling down her face as Sebastian moved closer, wanting to soak in her lavish grief. "I love you Ciel." She says shakily. "I always will, I promise. So please…please don't be angry with me." Her lower lip trembles. "M-mother thinks it's best and I've put it off for l-long enough. I'm trying so hard to be brave and to move on but every time I close my eyes, I see you Ciel. You. Seventeen and blue and beautiful." Her breathing is uneven—as if every word is a knife to her heart. "I'll be getting m-married soon. I don't know who my husband-to-be is—and quite frankly, I can't bring myself to care. I'll do my best to be a good wife and I-I know it's blasphemy to say this but Ciel," she leans closer, lips almost touching the marble pillar, "you'll always be first in my heart. Always."
Well, well, well. Sebastian smirks, canines sharp and gleaming in the pitch-black darkness. Isn't this a sight. He chuckles, low and malicious, as he watches the lady confess—confess her deepest sins and darkest desires to a chaplain six feet under. But not to worry, my lady—I've heard your cries. Sebastian coos, half-intoxicated with greed.
Wasn't it a thing to see—to know—that good, honorable Lady Elizabeth still pines for a dead boy who sacrificed his soul without a second thought and marched into the abyss with weary delight. It was a contradiction too beautiful to witness.
In spite of all this death, in spite of all this decay, Lady Elizabeth still burned bright with a light that threatened to consume all those around her. She brought so much laughter, so much genuine joy to this overcast city with its gothic towers and dour women that Sebastian can't help but gravitate towards her. Even now, as a free demon, he is still chained to this city by a mistress completely unaware of the power she has over him.
She only need call and he would be by her side, on his knees if she wished it, because the sin of lust—the sin of desire—has replaced his hunger. It is the only truth he knows and, after all—demons mate for life, don't they?
My lady.
"We need something lighter, Nina—something that won't attract so much attention." Francis Midford looked rather disdainfully at the low cut French gown Elizabeth was currently dressed in—the material was plum taffeta, with a tight, waist-cinching bodice that deprived Elizabeth of all oxygen and a full skirt that flowed out like a tulip blossom. In truth, her daughter looked exquisite—effortlessly lovely and so melancholy that it was almost beautiful.
And yet.
"Surely you can't be serious, marchioness!" The headstrong seamstress cried, rushing forward with a measuring tape wrapped like a scarf around her neck while pincushions decorated her wrists. "I can't take the lady out of this dress now! She looks stunning—no, more than stunning! She looks the very image of beauty—Psyche herself! To deprive your daughter of this dress would be like depriving the sky of all stars! Surely you can make a few concessions? After all, I can't very well dress her like a nun! Think of my reputation—your reputation! Why, even now there's talk that Lady Elizabeth might be joining a convent in the south of France if she—"
"Enough, Nina." Francis turned away to face Elizabeth, silent as she now was. It'd become a common occurrence after the death of Ciel and while Francis was hardly the doting mother, she worried for her daughter—her only daughter.
She did not speak unless spoken to and remained so courteous and polite that Francis wanted to scream. Where was her bold, high-spirited girl with the fiery eyes and bright smile? Did Ciel snatch her away when he died too? What more could death take, Francis mourned, after it'd already deprived her of her mother, her father, her brother, her nephew and now, she touched her daughter's pale cheek, her dear, darling Elizabeth.
"Mother." The girl with the golden hair addressed, eyes blank and unseeing. Around them, Nina continued to bustle and sigh, collecting swatches of fabric and rolling up piles of organza, kindly pretending not to listen. "What is it?"
Francis resisted the urge to smash a window. "What do you think, Elizabeth?" She said at last, knowing full well her daughter would not speak of her heartbreaking burden—at least, not without a fight and Francis, while not fond of Nina Hopkins, did not wish to destroy the young woman's store and countertop.
"It's lovely, mother." Elizabeth's fingertips grazed the fabric of her gown but the sparkle in her jade eyes was gone—there was no excitement, no joy to be gained from the delights she previously reveled in.
"Is that all?" Francis, never a weak women, detested the faint hint of sorrow that had somehow seeped into her tone. "You would not object to a more conservative gown? One of lighter color and looser cut?"
"Not at all mother."
"Do you not think this dress is beautiful?" She tried again.
Elizabeth nodded. "But of course I do."
"Do you suppose your future husband would like to see you in it?"
"Perhaps he would."
For the love of god—Francis's lament was cut short when a gust of cold, January wind blew open the window next to them, throwing pieces of colored fabric and thread into disarray. Satin and lace flew through the store in a wonderful silk cyclone as Nina shouted for all the blasted windows to be closed. The hurried footsteps of her employees could be heard and the rattle of falling needles, colliding mannequins, and windswept buttons added to the cacophony of sound that was now transforming into a migraine of epic proportions.
Returning her gaze to the daughter, Francis was about to order Elizabeth back to the changing room when she saw, with stunned silence, a familiar smile she had not seen since the day Ciel Phantomhive died.
Elizabeth was laughing, emerald eyes bright and curious as she spun around on the little stool, taking in the chaos with ebullient delight. Her curls were almost being caressed by the breeze—an invisible lover's touch—while her dark skirts blew all around her, as if she were standing by a seaside cliff.
"Oh mother look!" Elizabeth pointed giddily, gesturing towards a strange black cloth that was now swirling towards her.
Francis grabbed Elizabeth's wrist. "Come Elizabeth, you're getting changed and we're—"
"One moment mother!" In one swift motion, Elizabeth escaped Francis's grip (an impressive feat in and of itself) and ran towards the gently falling square of cloth, jumping to reach it. A cold gust of gale rose under her feet, almost lifting Elizabeth up as her fingertips met the silken material. "It's a handkerchief, mother!"
From Francis's position on the other side of the room, she could hardly make out anything at all and really, this was all getting quite ridiculous. Straightening her spine, Francis marched over to the open window and with a forceful, almost inhumanly strong tug, slammed the glass panes shut. Gravity took over in a split second, causing the colorful hurricane of chiffon and brocade to slam back onto the ground.
"Wonderful." Francis crossed her arms. "Now get changed—and Nina! Have someone tidy up this mess immediately."
On the carriage ride home, Elizabeth sat near the window, gloved hands caressing a cool piece of black silk.
A handkerchief.
She did not recognize the initials at the bottom—hand sewn, and embroidered with a black lily—made it unique among the aristocracy. After all, no gentleman would dare to carry around a black handkerchief. Too frightening, they would say, too closely associated with death.
Carefully—and perhaps a touch recklessly—Elizabeth slipped her right hand out of her glove, gently pressing her palm against the water-like fabric. It was cool and smelled of winter plums.
A smile curled on Elizabeth's lips, once again rouged and talkative. Closing her eyes, the golden girl leaned her head against the windowsill, eyes taking in the gothic scenery of London before, at last, she drifted off to sleep.
Dearest lady. The crow demon chuckled, marveling at her calm. Sleep well—for tomorrow, we meet again.
- Psyche: the princess whose beauty surpassed even that of Aphrodite's. She later married the Greek god Eros, son of Aphrodite.
A/N: I posted this fic on AO3 a while ago but someone recommended I should put this on here too so...here it is :)
Reviews appreciated :)