25th, December, 1886. 1:47 AM
When he places his ear against the pillow just so, and if he listens very, very closely, he almost hears sleigh bells . . . just the barest tinkling ring above and beyond the howl of the wind lashing against the walls and windows of the manor.
"And if you should ever hear those sleigh bells jingle before the sun rises on Christmas morning, Ciel, no matter how faint they sound or how distant, you may sleep sweetly knowing Santa Claus is on his way . . ."
He doesn't believe in Santa Claus. Of course he doesn't. He isn't a child anymore, after all. He is The Earl of Phantomhive, the Queen's Watchdog, owner and Chief Executive Officer of the Funtom Company, and head of the Phantomhive estate.
"It is the wind worrying some distant, unlatched gate. Nothing more," he says to the surrounding darkness, his voice trembling and tinny. He shifts his head on the pillow and muffles the sounds of the night outside, but the ghost of his mother's voice still echoes against his mind and heart.
The grip of loss squeezes his soul. He misses her with an ache so painfully intense it's suffocating. He misses them both. Behind his closed eyes he sees them, vivid as life and infinitely more beautiful. He sees them as they were on that last Christmas morning, a year before the fire, wearing tousled hair and rumpled nightclothes, sitting beside him on the parlor floor and marveling with him at the train Santa had brought as it raced miraculously upon its track around the Christmas tree. Steam billowed from its stack. Perfect tiny people looked out of the pristine glass windows of the half-dozen passenger cars bearing the Funtom brand. Santa only brought the best his father had declared, grinning as he accepted a cup of tea from a bleary-eyed but smiling Tanaka, who still wore his slippers and robe.
A tear escapes the tight squeeze of his eyelids and scalds a trail over the slope of his cheek. Ciel rubs his face against the silk pillowcase and wipes it away, swallowing hard against its brothers, berating himself for this weakness he can't afford. Not now. Not ever again. He must be strong, always, right to the very end.
The wind howls, and in the distance . . . sleigh bells.
The cold floor shocks against his bare feet before he even realizes he is out of bed. Ciel shuffles through the dark toward his chamber door, each step cautious despite the familiarity of the room which somehow feels alien in its resurrection. Too often he wonders, especially at night, at the power of the malevolence that must surely reside within timbers and masonry remade whole from ash and rubble.
Shuddering, he slips out into the dark corridor and pulls his arms around himself as he scampers toward the staircase. The air chills his bare legs, whispers coldly through the weave of his nightshirt and prickles his skin from nape to heels.
This is ridiculous. I should return to bed and forget this foolishness, lest he finds me. What explanation might I give for this idiocy?
"I needn't give any explanation," he mutters, gripping tight to the banister and tip-toeing down the stairs. "I am the master of the manor. He is but a servant, and I will show that damned demon his place."
When he reaches the family parlor he hesitates, every nerve alert, the fibers of every muscle strung tense and ready to bolt. Ciel takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and drops his arms to his sides. Straightening his spine, he opens the door and crosses the threshold.
Like the rest of the manor, the parlor is dark. At his instance there is no tree this year, even despite the sadness that had extinguished the light of hope in Tanaka's tired, dark eyes. No decorations adorn the hearth's marble mantle, and no yule log waits to warm its cold, hollow belly.
Ciel kneels before the fireplace and breathes deep the scent of smoke and ash from fires past. Tanaka must visit this room, he realizes, for he himself hasn't set foot in it since the manor was restored—until now.
Eyes glued to the black hollow of the hearth, Ciel sits down upon the thick, Persian rug and wraps his arms around his knees, drawing them to his chest. Stock still, he waits. He listens with every fiber of his being, and he doesn't believe, he doesn't believe, he doesn't believe . . . but oh, how badly he wants to.
"What will you ask Santa Claus to bring you this year, Darling?"
I would ask him to take, rather than bring. I would ask him to take this past year. I want nothing more than to wake up and discover the fire and everything after was nothing more than a very vivid bad dream.
The symbol of his Faustian contract emblazoned upon his right iris tingles and alerts him to Sebastian's presence a moment before he hears the snick of the parlor door ease open. At the snap of Sebastian's fingers, fire blazes within the hearth—orange and white flames fueled by nothing and radiating the heat of Hell.
Ciel bites down hard on his scream before it can erupt and fights the urge to scramble away from the fire. His hands clench into fists and his arms lock tighter around his knees.
"It's quite chilly in this room, Young Master," Sebastian says. His tone sounds too deliberately calm and gentle, as if he speaks to a potentially volatile toddler. A goose-down quilt, soft and warm and scented with lavender settles around Ciel's shoulders. "You'll catch your death of cold wandering around the manor at night without the benefit of your robe and slippers."
Wouldn't that put quite the damper on your dinner plans, Ciel thinks. He says nothing and forces himself to stare down the fire, forces himself to believe the flames won't escape the confines of the hearth and consume him.
"It's nearly two o'clock in the morning, My Lord. May I ask what prompted you to rise at this hour? Did something disturb your slumber?"
"No," Ciel snaps, his eyes trained on the fire. "You may not ask."
"Ah. I see." Sebastian chuckles. Out of the corner of his eye, Ciel sees a white-gloved hand against the back-drop of black trousers as his butler steps up beside him. "Sometimes I have to remind myself just how young you truly are."
Refusing to be baited, Ciel doesn't respond. He stares resolutely at the fire, his fingernails digging deep crescents into his palms.
"What if I told you he was real?" Sebastian asks, quietly. "Your Father Christmas. Jolly ole' Saint Nick. Santa Claus."
"He's not," Ciel says, but he looks up at Sebastian with wide eyes, his heart and mind racing. Could Santa be real? Was it really that far beyond the realm possibility? Sebastian was real, after all—Sebastian, who resurrected the ruins of this manor and everything in it with a few choice words and a couple snaps of his fingers. Sebastian, who could travel to Naples and return with grapes fresh from the vine before the minute hand on the clock managed to move a quarter-hour . . . If Ciel ordered Sebastian to leave now and touch every chimney top in England before dawn, it would be done. So if demons existed, why not . . .
"On the contrary," Sebastian smirks. "I can assure you at this very moment, and on this very island, there is a rotund immortal with a long, white beard climbing out of a fireplace. Of course, he isn't delivering presents to good little boys and girls so much as he's swallowing their startled screams and devouring their souls, but then, that's merely a matter of semantics, is it not?"
The chill freezing down Ciel's spine starkly contrasts the heat of the bile rising in his throat. He looks up at Sebastian gape-jawed and his stomach churns at the humor flashing within the demon's crimson eyes.
"These hours before dawn on your Christmas morning are a time of great feast for the derelict among demon kind . . . for those without pride or aesthetic. A revelry of gluttony." Sebastian nods, and then his smirk dies beneath an expression of faux concern as his eyes travel over Ciel's face. "You've nothing to fear, of course. Rest assured, Young Master, should anything attempt to shimmy down the chimney, I would kill it with merciless haste."
Ciel swallows hard against his turbulent stomach and glares up at his butler. "I'm not scared, you imbecile."
"Quite right, I'm sure, My Lord." Sebastian says, humor glittering within his crimson irises once more.
With a huff of frustration, Ciel returns his attention to the fire. "You may leave, now, Sebastian."
"It would be unbefitting of a Phantomhive butler to leave his young master unattended when he is awake at such an hour," Sebastian says, his amusement adding a rich layer of texture to his silken tone.
It's a game, Ciel realizes as he bites down on the order aching to explode from his tongue. Sebastian is playing with him, pushing to see how far he might bend before he snaps . . . although for what purpose, Ciel cannot fathom. He supposes it simply amuses the demon to torment him while he is vulnerable and heartsick. He supposes Sebastian smells his weakness and can't help but salivate at the stink.
He will not break. He will not.
The silence grows between them, louder than the crackling of the hellish flames that dance within the barren hearth, thicker than the quilt draped around Ciel's shoulders, and then Sebastian says, "I can't help but wonder, Young Master, if your Father Christmas were a benevolent reality as your heart had dared hope, what would you ask of him?"
"I would ask him to remove your insolent tongue and shove it up your arse until you gag on it, Sebastian," Ciel replies tonelessly. He shrugs the quilt from his shoulders, the room having become suddenly, uncomfortably warm. "And then, after you've expelled that vile hunk of meat from your gullet, I would ask him to shove it up your backside again."
"Such vulgar fancy," Sebastian chides. "You wound me, Young Master."
"Leave, Sebastian. Now," Ciel says softly, no longer caring if Sebastian believes he's bested him. "Leave before I order you to do something heinous to yourself."
"Very well," Sebastian intones. Out of the corner of his eye, Ciel sees his butler bow. "I won't be far, My Lord. I'll never be far."
The unholy fire in the hearth flares and then dies as Sebastian vacates the room.
Ciel shivers in the dark. He tightens his arms around himself and listens to the wind lash against the windows, listens to it howl between the barren branches of the surrounding woods . . . and in the distance, he hears the tinkling ring of the demon's laughter.