The Ritz Carlton. May, 1965.
"Before we begin, I'd like to start with a brief inquiry into your background at that time. You'd just become a partner at Paramount Pictures, correct?" Vanity Fair chief reporter Annie Holdman inquired with a tap of her pen even though the entire room had been wired to ensure no word would be missed.
The man sitting opposite her—white haired and mystically ancient—seemed to defy time as a plume of pale grey smoke escaped his lips. "Indeed." He was dressed in all black and had sunglasses covering his eyes. It looked as if Gaston Leroux had dressed him even though the man's suave posture was more like that of an emperor assessing his court. "I was just 32 back then." He chuckled wryly. "And I think William Hodkinson—one of the three primary founders of Paramount—wanted to have my head. But both Zukor and Lasky thought it was far too pretty a head for me to part with. So I kept it and my position as producer and director for the next 35 years."
Annie's pen stopped moving and she adjusted her black framed glasses. "You've only retired five years ago, after the 30th anniversary of your most celebrated film The Blue Hyacinth." She paused, somewhat hesitant. "Why stop?"
"Art is an ever-changing muse. I suppose she grew tired of me, not the other way around."
The journalist gave a wane smile. "Forgive me, but I think that is the most ridiculous line of bullshit I've ever heard." She saw him smile, ever so faintly. "Your last films have garnered six Academy Award nominations; you have three Best Picture Oscars, one for Best Director as well as two for Best Screenplay. You are lauded as the greatest filmmaker Hollywood has seen since D.W. Griffith." She leaned over, notepad and pen forgotten. "Why quit?"
Another billow smoke left his lips. "I prefer the term selective stasis." He chuckled. "My grandson thought of that. But I suppose I also want to do justice to a story that was never told in full."
"What do you mean?" She'd already begun scribbling away, sharp blue eyes never leaving the enigmatic figure in front of her.
"The Blue Hyacinth was a pitiful excuse for a film. I hated it."
The journalist (a pretty young thing he noted) looked utterly appalled. "That film swept the Oscars in '38! You alone garnered enough press to hold off the prince of Wales for days."
He shrugged. "All the same. I hated it."
"You said it was based on the most personal experience of your life. That this film meant something to you."
"Tragedy means a great many things to a great many people. It's the artist's job to conform such tragedy into an aesthetic that can be viewed and admired and thought about." He paused. "Art without question is not art at all."
"So you're saying you don't like the film because it wasn't…mysterious enough?"
"No." The cigarette was now held between his fingers. "I'm saying I deliberately changed the script to fit it for Hollywood. The real story was the one I should have told."
"The real story?"
"Yes. The…" he hesitated, thinking for a moment. "The thankless tragedy of love."
Annie frowned. "You mean to say the film was based on actual events? Actual people?"
"But of course." He affirmed coolly. "Human emotion can be dictated but for every paragraph of spun fiction there is a grain of truth embedded in there somewhere. My truth was quite transparent and the fiction..." he paused. "The fiction was there to stall the inevitable."
"And what was that?"
Sebastian took the cigarette to his lips again and Annie watched, mesmerized, as another pale grey cloud joined the shadows of his darkened corner. "Do you really want to know, Miss Holdman?"
"Me and everyone else."
He chuckled. "Then we'll have to go back to 1925 for you to truly understand…"
I had come to the French Riviera for inspiration and 1925 seemed to have flooded Europe with expatriates and brilliant writers. In fact, my original mission was to track down F. Scott Fitzgerald and convince him to allow Paramount to make a picture of that bestseller of his, This Side of Paradise. The girls loved it and both Zukor and Lasky thought that it would be a fantastic hit. I, of course, resorted to other pleasures in the Riviera after I learned Mr. Fitzgerald and his charming wife Zelda had left for Paris the week before. Consequently, I found myself engaged in conversation with the most delightful young lady—she was an American from New York City and the most enchanting little ballerina I ever did see. Her fiancé, on the other hand, seemed like a most auspicious gentleman…
"And how do you like France and all her fair charms?" Sebastian leaned against the cherrywood bar, a half finished glass of scotch in hand and carnelian eyes fixed on the golden haired girl in front of him.
"Oh I think it's the loveliest region I've ever seen!" She beamed brightly, sipping a champagne cocktail that was almost as golden as her hair. "I've never left New York until this year. Mama thought it would terribly vulgar if I traveled unchaperoned and since Edward was away at university, I couldn't very well leave by myself."
Sebastian raised a brow. "And why can't you? I find that women these days are far more resourceful than men." He turned, back pressed against the bar. "Do you see that woman over there? With the black and red feathers in her hair?" He pointed to a creamy skinned brunette with bobbed hair and a Cheshire smile. She held onto the arm of a potbellied gentleman with red cheeks and a flaccid appearance. "That man is about to become the most fortunate victim of high class robbery on this side of the Riviera."
The girl laughed, a beautiful, tinkling sound. "This is the only side of the Riviera, Mr. Michaelis." She looked at him, drink still in hand. "And you can't mean that. Surely she wouldn't rob her own suitor."
"Well. Oscar Wilde might have said to keep love in your heart but a Swiss bank account and South African diamonds can seduce just as quickly." He raised his glass in mock salute. "To you, Miss Midford, and all your intangible charms."
"I'm afraid I don't have a Swiss bank account to give you." She dimpled, sly and bright.
He chuckled. "I don't expect anything other than the pleasure of your company this evening. Do me the honor of having dinner with me?"
"Oh." She immediately colored, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Mr. Michaelis. You see," she put down her drink, "I'm very much engaged."
"Yes, I'm well aware." Sebastian slid a cigarette out from his case, followed by a gilded gold lighter. "You've broken the heart of everyone on this side of the continent—surely you don't expect me to indulge in my own sorrow? I might clean out the bar otherwise."
She frowned. "But…if you knew—"
"I would be honored to dine with both you and the man who shall one day be your husband. My dinner plans for this evening have been thrown somewhat off course by the recent party held by that Trancy fellow in Paris. It seems I won't be discussing Princeton literature and Amory Blaine after all."
The girl's eyes—jade green and honest to goodness windows of her soul—widened with delight. "You mean to say you're in acquaintance with F. Scott Fitzgerald?"
"Briefly." He exhaled pale grey smoke and looked rather sophisticated in a way that was both totally European and completely original. "I'm one of those men your fiancé would hate." He smirked, bringing the cigarette to his lips.
"You're a film producer?"
The quickness of her answer, coupled with the genuine curiosity in her voice, brought forth another bout of genuine laughter from him. "Indeed." Sebastian's eyes glowed with amusement. "A Society Scandal with Gloria Swanson—delightful girl. Disliked the film."
"Paramount Pictures then."
"Bar none." He affirmed with a sharp nod. "It's a shame we lost Mary Pickford though. Beautiful woman."
"And she's mine and mine alone." Another voice cut in, cool and swift as the Atlantic current.
"Oh Ciel!" The girl whirled around like a summer storm and was immediately enveloped in an embrace of striking cobalt. Sebastian was mildly amused by the gentleman's cold glare.
"This is Mr. Michaelis." She introduced prettily. "He's a film producer for Paramount Pictures and a very wonderful conversationalist and I do think it'd be best if we dined with him this evening. He's the only gentleman in this whole world who'll speak of This Side of Paradise and think it wonderful without worrying about the opinions of others."
Her fiancé didn't seem particularly pleased by her praise. "Is he?"
"Your bride-to-be is a very generous woman." Sebastian's half-smile was pleasant as he offered his hand to the gentleman in blue. "Sebastian Michaelis."
"Ciel Phantomhive." The man—boy—nodded without looking at the proffered handshake. Instead, he wrapped one arm around the golden girl beside him, eyes continuing to gaze at Sebastian as if he were the most curious abomination to society. "Are you staying here long?"
"The week at least." He confirmed with a nod.
"Then I suppose we'll have to suffer through this weather together." There was a hint of a smile on his pale countenance. "Elizabeth adores the heat."
"You said you liked it too!" She protested easily, turning to him with a look that betrayed her affection.
He kissed her forehead. "I never said anything of the sort."
What a contrast. Sebastian mused, observing the two bicker through a cloud of pale smoke and filtered sunshine. "I never said anything of the sort." — Now that's a trope Hodkinson would enjoy. "Mama thought it would terribly vulgar if I traveled unchaperoned and since Edward was away at university, I couldn't very well leave by myself." — This could work marvelously as an opening line. A romantic comedy, perhaps?
"Michaelis?"
Sebastian broke from his revere and focused on the couple in front of him. Midnight and sunrise.
"We'll be dining at Hostellerie Jérôme at eight. The reservation is under Phantomhive."
He smiled. "I would be delighted."
"That wasn't a question." The boy retorted irritably. "Don't be late."
"It was very lovely to meet you Mr. Michaelis!" The girl called out before she was swept away by her fiancé, the two of them disappearing into the hazy sunset like a distorted fairytale—one half-broken but still beautiful.
"Ciel Phantomhive?" Annie interrupted, looking half-awed and more than a little star struck. "The earl himself?"
"An irritable boy with a nasty temper and cruel tongue." Sebastian asserted briskly, pouring himself another tumbler of scotch.
The young reporter glanced at her notes. "I can't picture him on the Riviera." She conceded after a while.
"Neither could I. Imagine my disbelief when I learned he and Miss Elizabeth had spent four days in St. Tropez."
"Dear god. She must be a wielder of magic to get him to leave England." She re-started the tape recorder. "Did you ever meet them for dinner?"
"I did." He nodded. "An intriguing affair to say the least, one infused with liquor and revelations."
She arched a brow. "That was a direct line from your film."
"No." Another cigarette was lit. "That came from Ciel Phantomhive himself."
Annie frowned. "How long was this before the…incident?"
Sebastian's smile was like ice. "What a hideous topic to pursue."
"It's one you've never addressed. The Blue Hyacinth—"
"A film I hated, need I remind you."
She shrugged. "A film you claim to hate but one you said meant more to you than any picture you've done before or since." Annie clicked open her pen and gave him a pointed stare. "Mr. Michaelis?"
He finished his glass of scotch.
"You're an awfully nice color scheme, darling." Sebastian appraised. Emerald green was Elizabeth's color.
Ciel scowled. "Please refrain from saying such things in front of me."
"She's not your wife yet." Sebastian pulled out an engraved cigarette case—solid gold. "And besides, I'm a producer—I appreciate art in all her forms."
"Thank you for your generous compliments." Lizzy cut in, taking a seat across from Sebastian in the dimly lit night cafe of dark blue velvet and fine gold trim. She unraveled her silverware while Sebastian observed them. There was a nervous tick in her fiancé's left hand, one that was almost imperceptible to the casual observer.
"Something the matter?" He inquired airily. The restaurant's opaque lightening had darkened his cherrywood eyes to a shade similar to that of freshly spilled blood.
The gentleman in blue glanced at Sebastian with a peculiar expression that the producer found he did not quite like. There was something sinister in that sapphire gaze—something so derisive it made his skin crawl.
"Ciel has a terribly important conference call later," Sebastian's eyes returned to Elizabeth who was still smiling as she glanced between her fiancé and Sebastian. "So he's keeping track of time in that mind-labyrinth of his." She gently brushed a loose strand of azure from her fiancé's temple and the gesture was so intimate, so startlingly vulnerable, that Sebastian felt compelled to memorize every detail of her caress. It was soothing, he realized as he continued to watch the scene unfold.
The Phantomhive boy, after a moment of deliberation, took Elizabeth's hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to her palm.
"Thank you." He murmured, eyes fixed on the delicate white of her wrist. Elizabeth's own eyes softened with emotion.
A few seconds later, the atmosphere cleared and Sebastian found that his drink tasted infinitely better.
"Tell us Mr. Michaelis, what film are you hoping to push into production?" Elizabeth inquired while a glass of champagne was brought to her. "It must be something wonderful if you've decided to draw inspiration from the Riviera."
Sebastian hid his smile with the rim of his glass before addressing her. "It's certainly a motion picture to be seen." He confirmed vaguely. "As for the storyline…well, there's nothing more sensuous than a night of French excess, wouldn't you agree?"
"Nothing more tedious, you mean." Phantomhive sneered. "A distasteful and raucous medley of sybaritic idiocy."
His fiancée rolled her eyes. "Yes darling, but that's why people come to the Riviera in the first place."
Sebastian smirked. "Indeed. You'd be hard pressed to find a populace more interested in the pursuit of pleasure than the denizens right here."
"You would claim that of your own countrymen?" Phantomhive arched a brow.
"I am infinitely fond of the French and that is why I find their aptitude for pleasure all the more remarkable. Art, history, literature—the aesthetics of the world reside here in France. All the other continents can keep their engine oil and battered morality. I much prefer beauty to hypocrisy."
"And you think you have the ability to capture all this on film?"
"Well," he raised his scotch glass to a mock toast. "It can't hurt to try, now can it?"
Across from him, Phantomhive's glare could mimic the coldness of an iceberg but his bride-to-be, with all her youthful exuberance, suddenly clapped her hands together, demanding attention be drawn to her once more.
"I know!" She cried, leaning across the table with a look of complete and utter mischief. "What say you, Mr. Hollywood Producer? Dinner has become far too dull and we haven't even been served an appetizer!"
"So what do you suggest, madame?" A bemused smile appeared on his face.
"I think we all—and I do mean ALL—" she gave a pointed glare at her betrothed who looked torn between annoyance and curiosity, "need a breath of fresh air and what better way than by—"
"Lizzy, don't." Phantomhive all but pleaded even as she continued to grin.
Suddenly, without word or warning, Sebastian watched as Lizzy (as Phantomhive so called her) shot up from her seat, champagne glass still in hand. "Last one to the coast brings the Dom Perignon!" She shouted over her shoulder before twirling around and racing out the door, charming two waiters who were quickly reduced to blushing, stuttering messes as she absconded with crystal champagne glasses and a pink rose in her hair.
Distantly, Sebastian heard the faint scraping of a chair and looked up to find the boy-earl wearing an expression of exasperated affection.
It evaporated a millisecond later after he caught sight of Sebastian's mahogany gaze.
"What?" He snapped irritably, one hand in his pocket. "Someone needs to make sure she doesn't end up running away with the prince of Monaco and causing an international scandal."
A trickle of laughter threatened to escape Sebastian's lips but he endeavored on, schooling his features into one of mild amusement. "And here I thought the English had no sense of humor. Tell me Phantomhive, however did you coerce your vivacious young fiancée into leaving America for the dour expressions of London's elite?" His question—impertinent and somewhat poorly phrased—hung in the air.
To Sebastian's mild surprise, a faint smile actually appeared on the nobleman's lips, softening the harshness of his otherwise angelic face. "That was an intriguing affair to say the least, one infused with liquor and revelations."
The producer arched a brow. "How poetic." He stood up as well, towering a good twelve inches over the diminutive earl. "And a tale for the seaside I'm sure."
"Yes, well—" the earl adjusted his platinum cufflinks, "be sure Elizabeth returns home at a reasonable hour—"
Sebastian arched a brow. "Ah, shall you be committing ritual suicide or…?"
"My conference call," Ciel answered smoothly. "If you'll excuse me."
"Sounds like just the thing a man with ice in his veins would do." Annie muttered under her breath, watching with a mixture of interest and confusion when the gentleman in front of her laughed—a rich, dilettante laugh—that sounded far more bitter than his expression allowed. "Is something the matter, Mr. Michaelis?"
It was 1965—free love and communes—but that was no reason to discard courtesy.
(And the fact Sebastian Michaelis had a rifle collection that'd make any Texas oilman jealous.)
"Not at all." He took another drag of his cigarette, laughter dying on his lips. It was then that Annie realized the sharp nobility of his features had begun to look more like wax than marble. "I've merely wondered if this story is truly appropriate to tell."
"No explicit details will be printed." She reassured, confident that the Frenchman's hesitance stemmed from whatever illicit affair he was about to confess. "I would never—never—be so vulgar as to report…well, you know."
"My sexual escapades are hardly lecherous," his waxy smile made Annie uneasy, "but in the case of Miss Elizabeth, it's all irrelevant."
The young reporter's eyes widened. "You mean…this was when…?"
"I told you Miss Holdman. All fiction is born from a grain of truth."
"But…surely…" she looked confused. "The official report said that Elizabeth was—"
"Kidnapped on the Riviera." He interrupted. "That's a pretty sight isn't it?"
Sebastian rang Ciel Phantomhive for the fifth time before slamming the black lacquered receiver down, a string of French curses leaving his lips as he lit another Marlboro. At this point, he'd welcome suffocation. "Mother of god, you insolent little brat—" he hissed, turning to face a petrified front desk operator. "What room is Ciel Phantomhive staying in?"
"Th—that's confidential information, sir, I can't give it out—"
"Let me reassure you Mr…Montier," he glanced at the boy's name plate, "the only concern you'll have come morning light is your family's nauseated expressions when they attempt to identify the scattered remains of your eviscerated body. Now," Sebastian's smile was all teeth, "tell me. What room is Ciel Phantomhive staying in?"
If this were a Hollywood film, the orchestra would have begun its strings and this poor son of a bitch would've fainted by now.
"P—penthouse s-suite." The boy squeaked, face pasty white and eyes as round as saucers when he heard Sebastian mutter a harsh and very audible fuck!
Gritting his teeth, the raven-haired producer ran a hand through the silken strands before he turned back to the ashen-faced Montier. "Give Phantomhive one last call and then telephone Scotland Yard and the American bureau. Tell them their golden girl has just been taken."
At those words, the boy managed to stop shaking for half a minute to stutter out: "Taken sir? What do you mean taken? As in, she was picked up or was she—"
"She was kidnapped you dim-witted, incompetent, inexcusable piece of—" Sebastian bit his tongue, taking in a deep breath before he acknowledged the bright-eyed blond sitting beside Montier. "You—what are you called?"
The fair-haired boy blinked twice before jumping to an upright salute, determination writ all over his childish face. "Finnian, sir! Whatever you need, I'll help you retrieve!"
Well at least someone here has an iota of dedication. He rolled his eyes.
With a swift, abrupt yank Sebastian snatched the telephone from Montier's sweaty grip and threw it at the boy who could have passed for Elizabeth's long lost twin brother. "Get to calling the authorities both here and in Scotland Yard."
"Scotland Yard has no jurisdiction here." A tall dark-haired femme fatale interrupted. She looked like the type of woman Sebastian would've seduced had he the time. "This is the French Riviera, we offer our cliental luxury free from the trappings of day to day living—"
By now Sebastian was sure his blood pressure was at an all time high. He'd missed his scheduled phone calls with Douglas Fairbanks and Buster Keaton and now, his handmade Italian derbys would forever be ruined by salt and seawater.
"Excuse me?" The woman demanded, forcing Sebastian to glance at her again and yes, he wanted to sigh, she was quite lovely with her soft full breasts and sharp crimson eyes but—
"Listen, darling—you're beautiful but if you don't telephone Scotland Yard within the next twenty seconds then you'll be the most beautiful corpse in the whole of France." His mouth twisted in a bitter, grotesque smile. "Elizabeth Midford has just been kidnapped and her fiancé, Lord Ciel Phantomhive, is entirely within his power to sue the whole lot of you. So pick your poison darling, lawsuit or a little compliance now and then?"
For a moment, no one (except Finnian, who was quietly jabbering away in English on the phone) moved as Sebastian and the woman—Mally, her name tag read—glared each other down with mirrored expressions of contempt.
Then—
With expert aim, she lobbed a heavy bronze key at Sebastian's head.
He caught it easily in his left hand. Compliance then. He suppressed a smirk.
"Top floor, first door to your right." She signaled. "We'll take care of the rest."
Her words sounded like a promise and while Sebastian was hesitant to trust anybody or anyone—including his own studio partners—he had, at this moment, very little choice.
Giving all three of them a sharp, succinct nod of thanks, Sebastian took off, bypassing the elevators to head for the stairs.
You better be in your suite you lousy, pompous brat.
For someone whose fiancée had just been kidnapped, Ciel Phantomhive was rather calm about the whole affair.
"Gone you say?" He inquired mildly, a glass of cognac on his desk. "We'll have to notify the proper authorities."
"As I've already done." Sebastian's eyes narrowed. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark and while he was no detective, Ciel Phantomhive was a rather poor actor. "You don't seem terribly upset about the ordeal."
"Do you expect me to beat my chest, tear my hair, and cry like a madman?" He sat down in a monstrous high-backed armchair Sebastian found vaguely sinister. "Elizabeth is one of the most prominent socialites in the world and certainly the most beautiful. If the French police are unable to locate her—"
"I've sent for Scotland Yard and the American bureau as well."
Rigidity—as suspicious and misanthropic as a bloodied handprint—took over the earl. "Did you?" He asked, teeth clenched and eyes cold. "How very…industrious."
"Yes I pride myself in making three phone calls." His eyes flickered to the large crystal window behind the earl. The frosted glass was so thick that light itself appeared distorted. "Do you intend to actually look for her or shall I also telephone the coroner?"
A wry smile appeared on the boy-earl's face. "You think I'm involved in Elizabeth's disappearance?"
"You're rather hard to read. I've never met a man who's looked as guilty—or as indifferent—as you. So I suppose I could lay money on either option."
"Then keep your gambling funds, Mr. Michaelis," the earl rose, faded sunlight darkening his features. "I fully intend to bring back my bride-to-be."
"You believe she's still alive?" The question was, for all intents and purposes, mildly asked but the nobleman's reaction—an icy flash of his sapphire eyes, a deepening of his already prominent scowl—surprised Sebastian.
It was far more visceral than the older man ever expected.
"I see." Sebastian smirked.
"What?" The earl snapped, clearly annoyed.
"Nothing." He returned with a simple shake of his head. "Only let me know when Miss Elizabeth has returned. She has a face built for cinema, you know."
"I suppose you're not wrong in that assessment." The Phantomhive brat allowed with a slight nod of his head. "I'll be sure to ring you up—goodness knows Lizzy will never let me live it down if she doesn't get to see you drunk."
He chuckled. "It's not terribly entertaining I'm afraid."
"Well," the earl returned to his chair, looking more impatient than before. "We'll let Lizzy be the judge of that won't we?"
"Quite."
"Now," Ciel Phantomhive all but motioned towards the door. "If you would…?"
"Leave?"
"Yes."
Sebastian felt around his pocket for a cigarette but finding himself empty, merely shrugged. "Very well. I suppose you're going to continue whatever investigation you started before I so rudely interrupted?"
"Yes. Now get out."
Three days passed and Sebastian found himself rather bored without the company of Miss Elizabeth Midford and all her latest Riviera news. The whole town was falling asleep, its occupants too busy preparing for the August soiree to concern themselves with amusing Sebastian and his rapidly diminishing interest in the French coastline. Seated in a shadowed corner with a glass of scotch in hand, an ashtray beside him, and sheets of fresh paper just waiting to be inked, Sebastian felt a strange sense of disconnect as he finished his fourth Marlboro and lit up his fifth.
Of his second pack.
At this rate he was going to need Zukor to send him another boxful if he wanted to last the rest of the week.
"Michaelis."
He glanced up, mahogany eyes meeting with an unfamiliar face.
He smirked.
"I'm afraid we haven't been introduced." Sebastian observed. At this point, dull entertainment was better than no entertainment. "Should I know you?"
"No sir, I'm here on behalf of Lord Phantomhive." The strange, stoic man continued. "He's requested your presence for an urgent meeting concerning the safety of his fiancée, Miss Elizabeth Mid—"
"Yes, I bloody well know who she is." He interrupted, not realizing he'd added in an English colloquial term that Zukor'd piss himself laughing at. "Has she been found?"
The man blinked twice. "Please come with me."
Sebastian immediately grabbed his pack of cigarettes.
There wasn't nearly enough to get him through the afternoon.
"What's the meaning of this Phantomhive?" Sebastian demanded after 45 minutes of waiting in the empty library of the brat's private suite. He exhaled another lungful of silvery smoke, ready to begin a tirade of cinematic proportions before the afternoon sunlight hit, reflecting the haggard—almost grotesque—slant of Ciel Phantomhive's face.
Sebastian observed his approach to the dark brown armchair, drink in hand. "Sit." Even his command lacked its usual sharp strength.
"You look like hell." He reluctantly took a seat on the wingback across from Ciel's. "Long night?"
"I don't have time for this." Ciel muttered under his breath.
"Come again?"
Without another word the earl slid a heavy leather binder across the coffee table, sapphire eyes empty. "Something went wrong with the kidnapping."
Sebastian reached for the portfolio.
"It was a necessary action," the younger man continued, looking less like the ice-cold earl newspapers made him out to be and more like the exhausted 23 year old he was. "You don't need to read the crime journals to know of the serial killer Blavat. A mass murdering psychopath who's wanted throughout England." He placed one elbow on either side of the armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Sometime ago he developed a deranged obsession with Elizabeth. He sent her letters—notes and proclamations of affection. Elizabeth wasn't particularly concerned at first—she's had many admirers in the past and quite a few of them are now institutionalized. But then," Sebastian turned a page in the portfolio, "bodies began to appear. Blavat thought they were love confessions. Each dead body an admission of that psychopath's sincerest admiration towards my Lizzy."
Photographed in black and white were the broken and mangled remains of serial killer Blavat Sky's victims. Each, Sebastian noticed, holding a scrap of paper.
"Did they—?"
"The notes Blavat left in his victim's hands were edited out for the newspapers." The earl intercepted smoothly, voice devoid of any one emotion. Apart from hate—black, venomous hate that surrounded his delicate being and coated his bones in ice. "Each letter held almost the exact same message. A deranged proposal. A promise they'd be together forever. Scotland Yard worked overtime. I myself began hiring private investigators from all around the world to aid in their effort. But Blavat proved elusive—slipping through our fingers each and every time, his letters growing more and more disturbed until I decided it had to end. Forget arrest. I'd kill him myself."
"That's why you came with Elizabeth here. To the Riviera." Realization dawned with chilling effect. Sebastian turned his eyes to the photographs. "The letters," he skimmed through a brief police report. "Did they grow more violent when Elizabeth failed to respond?"
"Yes."
"Your police department never thought of sending him a false letter? Bait him? Lure him into a trap?"
Ciel scoffed. "Scotland Yard is many things but I myself have a personal dislike for uncertainty. I couldn't trust them to do the job right."
"So you did it yourself instead. Elizabeth's kidnapping…you planned it? To lure Blavat out of the shadows."
The earl said nothing.
"How did you know he'd follow you to the Riviera?"
"The man's a wanted criminal throughout the whole of Great Britain. He wouldn't let something as simple as geography stop him."
"So you kidnapped your own fiancée." Sebastian continued with growing disquiet. "What went wrong?"
"By the time Wolfram was on the scene, Elizabeth was gone. At first he thought she might be late so he waited for over an hour before realizing something was amiss. The champagne glasses she had with her were found discarded on the far edge of the beach."
"If your hired gun was already aware that something wasn't right, why were you so unconcerned when I brought up the issue of Elizabeth's disappearance in the first place?"
"At that point in time Wolfram simply thought I'd called off the operation. It wasn't until that night I received his telegram." Ciel pressed one hand to his jaw, sapphire eyes fixed on the empty coffee table. "By then it was too late. I sent five private detectives and an entire squadron of police to search the area Elizabeth was last seen. As of right now they're still interviewing the hotel staff, the boutique workers—every bloody person who Elizabeth ever made contact with but fuck," he tore one hand through his hair, expression tense with barely suppressed emotion. "Elizabeth's always been open—flitting from one person to the next, always smiling, always cheerful. It's impossible to identify every individual she's ever spoken with—"
"Then why call me here." Sebastian interrupted, closing the binder. "I'm a film producer, Earl Phantomhive. Not a detective."
"Because you're the only person on this southeastern coast I can trust." Ciel's eyes cut into Sebastian. "You love her—just a little. Am I wrong?"
Sebastian said nothing, more dazed than genuinely surprised.
"She has that effect." Ciel's voice was resigned. "She makes you feel as if you're the most important person—not just in the room but in the world. Her world. She makes you smile and feel and god knows she'd go to the moon and back if it meant making you happy."
"I believe," Sebastian re-opened the portfolio, "she would only do such a thing for you." He resumed his inspection of the photographs and haphazard police descriptions.
"Help me find her."
It wasn't a request, Sebastian noted with a hint of bemused aggravation. But then again—
It's not a command either.
"What do you expect me to accomplish that your five private investigators and police squadron couldn't?"
"They're noble. They obey the law. They interrogate and search within the law." Ciel adjusted his silver cufflink. "You have no obligation—to either law or morality."
"You make me sound like the worst sort of hedonist."
"Modesty isn't a good look on you, Michaelis. I already know you flatter yourself a Holmes imitator. Here's your chance to test-drive that theory."
The smirk slid from Sebastian's face, replaced instead with rare sobriety and solemn discontent. "Elizabeth could be—"
"Don't." Sebastian flinched. It sounded as if someone had butchered the earl's vocal chords and left him screaming blood and mist into the night air. "She's alive."
"Yes, she could be, but—"
"I have a lead we ought to pursue." Ciel interrupted. "A man by the name of Knox. German interloper. He's found something useful."
"Lord Phantomhive—"
Ciel stood and walked out the library doors.
Ronald Knox turned out to be a ginger-haired (strawberry blond, he all but muttered under his breath) 25 year old with a penchant for Breguet luxury watches (gifted to him by Lady Radcliffe), bespoke suits (purchased after "aiding" Mrs. Lena Rockefeller), and high end Rolls Royces (a "payment" by someone he vaguely referred to as a "relative" of J.P. Morgan). As a result, Ronald Knox, in Sebastian's opinion, was one of the most put together gigolos he'd ever encountered.
"Here," he tossed a nondescript black folder onto the table in front of Sebastian and Ciel.
They were seated in a small local cafe not far from the hotel he, Phantomhive, and Elizabeth had dined at a lifetime ago. Tourists, American expatriates, and French residents of every kind spoke in soft accents, filling the atmosphere with an indiscriminate lull of sound that perfectly masked the unease of their situation.
Sebastian had even traded his tumbler of scotch for a cup of coffee while the earl, strangely enough, sat chain smoking beside him. It grated on Sebastian's nerves that the English noble was expressing his anxiety so blatantly but he supposed smoking was a better alternative to mindless panic.
Opening the folder he saw two sheets of paper—one describing the life and times of another German, Drossel Keinz, and the other, of an underground…
Sebastian's eyes widened.
"That's the Mandalay Circle," Knox explained, elbow on the table as he held a Lucky Strike cigarette between his fingers. "One of the largest and worst sex trafficking rings on this side of Europe."
"And what does this have to do with Elizabeth." Ciel's voice was tight—like a violin string ready to snap.
Knox shrugged. "She's a pretty thing, your fiancée—"
"Watch your tongue if you don't want to see it cut out—"
"What he means to say is, we would appreciate fact over rudimentary observation of Miss Elizabeth's appearance." Sebastian interrupted smoothly, fingers itching for a Marlboro. "What can you tell us about Keinz?"
"He's a cold son of a bitch and I'd skin him alive if I could." The womanizer's voice turned poisonous as he glared down at the document. "Nasty piece of work. He's sold off more than three hundred bodies and is reputed to be amongst the best at what he does."
Silence descended for a brief few moments, punctuated by a brunette waitress with a cheery smile and blue painted eyes. "C'est terminé?"
"Ah, not now darling, no," Ronald Knox smiled breezily.
The waitress—whether or not she was bilingual—blushed, muttered a few words in French, and quickly disappeared back into the lunch crowd, weaving between straw baskets and colorfully clothed tourists.
The earl lit another cigarette. "How did he know Elizabeth's location?"
"Listen, I'll tell you anything you want but do you mind putting down that fork of yours? I've no intention of going blind after this." Knox eyed the sharp-edged eating utensil in the Englishman's hands. "You're not going to like the answer."
"But we'd appreciate it anyway." Sebastian chimed in, shoving his coffee cup in between Ciel and the cafe appliance set.
Knox tapped his Lucky Strike on the glass ashtray, expression troubled. "What I'm about to tell you is something that can't ever get into police records, you understand?"
"Shall I call ahead and arrange for my coffin to be delivered to the Riviera?"
"Usually I'd joke right along with you but in this case...the organization isn't supposed to exist."
"What organization?" Ciel demanded.
"The Mandalay Circle." Knox pointed to the second sheet of paper in Sebastian's hand. "They use the coast here as an import-export dock. A secondary location exists under the Rose Petal brothel."
Rose Petal brothel?
Though the name in and of itself was mundane and carried little to no implications of debauched scandal, Sebastian could have hardly been more surprised then if Knox had turned into a pink elephant and doused him in paint thinner.
Surely the location didn't refer to—
"The brothel on Rue Daaé?" The earl's voice was a distant saturation of sound and color.
Don't—
"The very one." Knox confirmed. "Oy, Michaelis—? You're looking distinctly green around the gills."
"Rose Petal brothel." Sebastian murmured. Of all places—it was if the universe was determined to contrive comedy from this whole affair.
"Er—you feeling alright there, Michaelis? You're looking a tad nauseous…" Knox waved a hand in front of Sebastian's face.
"Yes?" The producer raised his head only to meet two pairs of eyes—one sapphire and murderous, the other lime-green and amused.
"Is there anything you care to share with us?" The serrated edge in the earl's voice could cut through concrete.
Ah…so here the blood shall spill. Sebastian winced. "The Rose Petal brothel," he began, "has a reputation for illegality. Patrons there are given black cards that become an entrance badge. Those badges then allow you to hire entertainment for the night."
Knox looked thoroughly enraptured.
"Mind if I borrow this?" Sebastian snatched the cigarette from the other man's hand and took a deep, much needed inhale. Calm filled him as nicotine coursed through his bloodstream. "As I was saying," slivers of pale-grey smoke escaped his lips, "the Rose Petal brothel is an internationally known secret—one that's acknowledged but never talked about. The process for obtaining a black card is done through reference, meaning you have to know someone who's already a member. Those who have high ranking black cards earn access to something called the Jewett Lounge."
"The Jewett Lounge?" Knox repeated. "Isn't that the name of—"
"Helen Jewett." Ciel cut in. "The upscale New York prostitute whose killer was acquitted in court."
"Bit of a cynical name." The interloper mused as Sebastian finished off his cigarette.
"Indeed. And the Jewett Lounge is a luxury parlor where the selection of paramours is of the…epicurean variety."
"You think that's where Keinz took her?"
Knox shrugged. "Good a guess as any. More than likely he sold her off for one hell of a profit."
"How much?"
"With your fiancée's looks and pedigree then I'd say she'd be auctioned for about 40,000. In American dollars."
"Can we get access to this auction?" The earl's azure eyes were fixed on the grainy black and white photo of Drossel Keinz in front of him.
Knox raised his head, eyes meeting Sebastian's.
"We could." Outside, a dark haired Louise Brooks lookalike pulled up on her bicycle. "I have a black card but access to the Jewett Lounge is a price in and of itself—"
"Does it look as if monetary burdens are amongst my primary concerns?" Ciel glared at Sebastian with an expression of utter contempt. "Whatever the price, I'll pay."
"The brothel's holding their primary auction tomorrow night." Knox lit up another Lucky Strike. "You boys'll need to dress up for that. Jewett auctions are notoriously finicky—dress wrong and they'll kick you out. It's black tie only—top hat and tails. You'll also need to buy invites."
"Invites?" Sebastian was caught off guard.
"Yeah," the German leaned back, allowing the afternoon light to dye his hair amber gold. "I have it on good authority that it's a closed auction, most likely because your fiancée's gonna be amongst the options."
"Michealis."
"Yes?"
"Who gave you a reference to the Rose Petal brothel?"
The two men were seated in the back of Phantomhive's Rolls Royce, dressed to ridiculous fashion in tuxedos with collars and cuffs so starched and white they may have been made of plaster. Their individual three-piece suits (bespoke on the earl's part while Sebastian's was custom Caraceni) had black cummerbunds decorating their waists, tailored waistcoats complete with pinned boutonnieres. The earl even had a sapphire-jeweled ebony walking cane while each had on gloves—white for Sebastian (in an odd and not so ironic twist) and black leather on the earl's.
The mahogany-eyed producer, whose gaze had been fixed on the passing scenery outside, turned to the earl. "Hm?"
"Your reference." He repeated. "Who gave you yours."
Ah. In truth, Sebastian was waiting for that question to crop up in one form or another. "A former associate of mine," he explained, pulling a gold-plated cigarette case from his breast coat pocket. "Claude Faustus."
"The same Claude Faustus who's now doing 75 years in a state penitentiary?"
"The very one." Sebastian selected a Marlboro cigarette, holding the case to the earl.
"I don't need the scent of cigarette smoke clinging onto me when I see Lizzy again." The earl responded coolly, crossing one leg over the other.
"You really believe your plan will work?"
"It should if you remember your part."
A small orange-yellow flame sparked from the older man's obsidian lighter. "Well," he lit up the other end of the Marlboro, "we'll see won't we?" He exhaled, a faint smile in place. "I don't have a particularly good feeling at the moment."
Ciel glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "That's because you're smoking in a moving vehicle." He plucked the barely smoked cigarette from Sebastian's white gloved hand, rolled down his window, and tossed it outside.
"That didn't do much." Sebastian's eye twitched.
"Well not for you, but I certainly feel much better."
The Rose Brothel's Jewett Lounge could only be reached when one took a spiraling staircase of carpeted crimson, illuminated by low-lit gas lamps mounted on velvet and gold wallpaper. Down below, the descent exposed a circular chamber that was round as a jeweled music box. Gilt and heavy gold lined almost every surface in a gaudy displace of superficial wealth; maroon chairs upholstered in velvet (and separated by Japanese folding screens) were placed in a circle behind a dome of crystalline glass. A single platform of veined marble stood at the center while a chandelier of white light hovered above. A spotlight, then, for the merchandise.
It was here Sebastian and the earl sat, closest to the double doors that led to the spiral staircase while a masked servant poured them champagne and Hennessy.
"Will you be needing anything else, sirs?" He asked, a white linen draped over one arm as the other was held behind his back.
Ciel waved him away with barely a glance in the man's direction. Performed, Sebastian mused, like a true aristocrat.
"Very good, sirs." He bowed once, then twice, and finally departed.
The moment he did, tension returned to the nobleman's shoulders. His jaw sharpened and the cool, sapphire eyes held a tinge of panic as he scanned the empty dome. "Where is she?" He all but demanded.
"Patience, little lord," Sebastian warned under his breath. "The walls here are thin and I have no doubt that waiter who just left will be keeping tabs on us."
"Yes, but when does the auction start?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait quite a while," Sebastian's eyes adjusted to the dome's white light, making out an abstract clock hanging overhead. "If what Knox said is true then Elizabeth won't be presented until the very end. The Jewett Lounge's grand finale."
"And how far will the bidding go?"
"Difficult to say." He took a sip of Hennessy, hands needing to do something as the reality of the situation crashed down around him. "With her beauty and reputation the figure could rise to the tens of thousands."
"That's not what I meant." The earl's voice sounded strained.
Sebastian, who was seated only a few feet from Ciel, contemplated the question. If the men running this auction knew Elizabeth's identity then he had no doubt she would be killed in the end. Purchased, raped, and ultimately killed. The Midfords were, in a sense, American nobility—they certainly had the wealth of one and their political clout ran deep. Furthermore, even if the engagement between the earl and Miss Elizabeth was not yet public news then the diamond ring on the fourth finger of her right hand would have given Keinz or whoever ran the show an idea that Elizabeth Midford had a suitor somewhere. No doubt someone of great power and prestige.
Whatever their deduction, the outcome would be the same: death.
Which meant that even if Ciel managed to purchase Elizabeth, he would be expected to use and discard her, whereupon she would be sold again in consecutive auctions until her worth was completely depleted. At that point, Sebastian knew, she would be killed without a second thought.
Before he could speak, the panel of wood in front of them slid open to reveal a series of dials and buttons while overhead, the white light in the dome grew even brighter.
"Good evening gentlemen of the world and welcome to the Jewett Lounge." A smooth, serpentine voice that was neither male nor female greeted them through bronze radio speakers. Suspended, Sebastian noted, right above our heads. "As standard evening procedure goes, the auction is now in session. If you wish to bid on a lady of your choosing, please press down on the bidding button to your right and speak your desired sum into the mouthpiece beside it. As always, we shall begin with returning favorites before ending our show with a bona fide aristocrat—a lady of the finest breeding whose appearance here at the Jewett Lounge is sure to please. For now, gentlemen, I present our first product of the evening…"
The voice continued to echo as a masked man dressed all in black half-carried, half-led a scantily clad young woman to the marble pedestal. She was dressed in the cruelest imitation of a gypsy costume, with a translucent red sarong wrapped around her waist; a bejeweled red silk corset cut clean in half, allowing thin gold chains to connect to her bellybutton. Similar thin gold chains decorated her neck and wrists while bells jangled at her ankles. Her long black hair was pushed away from her face as she struggled to remain upright, body swaying in a drug induced haze.
"Please submit your figures now."
"Panel A—$1000."
"Panel B—$1050."
"Panel E—$1100."
"Panel E at $1100. Panel E at $1100." The voice paused for half a moment, allowing the masked man to grab the black-haired girl by the wrist. "Sold, to Panel E for $1100. Your purchase will be waiting for you at the Butterfly Chamber."
"Michaelis." The earl's voice was hushed, low enough so that only Sebastian could hear. "The masked man. He was our waiter."
"I realized." Sebastian returned. "If we both leave right after Elizabeth is purchased that's sure to raise a few alarms."
"Agreed. So here's the new plan: no doubt Lizzy will be their final woman on auction. You'll have to bid for the girl right before her, that way we'll have an excuse to head to the collection chamber together."
It was a haphazard plan at best—filled with far too much risk and not enough certainty but it was also their best shot. Particularly when the masked man, their former waiter, knew their faces.
"Very well." Sebastian nodded, right as the lights brightened and another girl was brought before them.
"Gentlemen, I present to you our second product of the evening. We will begin the auction at $2000…"
By the time they'd reached the final auction, the earl's hands were clenched into fists so tight that the soft leather of his black gloves now had half-moon crescents from where Ciel's nails had dug into the material.
"Where is she." Harsh, urgent agitation bled into his demand as the lights dimmed one final time.
"She'll appear at any moment." Sebastian responded faintly, closing his eyes as the lights flared on again—brighter and more distinct than all the previous times.
"We have arrived at our last auction item for the night." The voice spoke smoothly as the masked man stepped into the light, one hand wrapped around a girl's slim forearm.
A forearm covered in violent purple bruises.
From the corner of Sebastian's eye, he saw the earl's lean forward, eyes fixed on the emerging figure.
"The item presented before you is one of amorous beauty reminiscent of Botticelli's Venus. Long golden hair falling to her waist; cream and roses skin—a true English rose, gentleman; emerald eyes; and around 23 years of age. An untrained, untouched virgin. We will begin the auction at $10,000."
Stumbling onto the marble pedestal, dressed in nothing but a diamond corset that criss-crossed across her chest and ended as a choker around her throat, Elizabeth Midford—with her unbound hair the shade of golden fire tumbling down her shoulders—appeared before the auction.
"Panel B—$10,500."
"Panel F—$15,000."
"Panel D—$18,000."
"Panel E—$20,000."
"Panel A—$25,000."
"Phantomhive—"
"Panel C—$40,000."
Sebastian's eyes widened as he turned to Ciel.
"Don't you think that was a bit premature?" He muttered. "You should have started with $30,000 and moved—"
"Panel G—$45,000."
"Panel C—$50,000." Ciel's voice was winter frost as he spoke into the bronze microphone.
Silence descended.
"Panel C at $50,000. Panel C at $50,000." The voice announced and even when the masked man came to grab Elizabeth down, the earl remained utterly rigid until the voice spoke again, confirming what he desperately needed to hear. "Sold, to Panel C for $50,000. Thank you gentleman, this closes the auction for tonight. Panel C, you may collect your purchase at the Swan Cathedral. All other purchases will be at their respective locations. Once again, the auction is closed. Thank you."
It wasn't until they were in the back of Ciel's Rolls Royce, Elizabeth wrapped in the earl's arms, his overcoat thrown over her shoulders, that she finally managed to wake. Blurry eyed and impossibly beautiful with her bruised mouth and tear-stained cheeks, she tried to shove herself away from the warm body beside her until—
"Lizzy?" The earl's voice was impossibly gentle, filled with a tender concern most would find unbelievable.
At the sound of it, Elizabeth startled, lifting her head to find eyes of the most beautiful sapphire gazing back at her. It couldn't be...
"Ciel?" She whispered, voice dry and choked from the diamond collar around her throat. "How did you—when did you—? They told me no one would ever find me, that I would be gone and no one would know—" hot tears fell down her face, staining the black coat.
Softly, the earl's arms came to hold her close, pulling her body towards him until her head was tucked under his chin. He pressed one of her hands to his heart, mouth coming to kiss her fingertips. "Whatever foolishness they've told you is just that, Lizzy. Know that no matter what—no matter the circumstance—I will always be here to protect you."
Elizabeth pressed her cheek against his chest, lips numb and heart racing. "I'm sorry."
"No, Lizzy—don't apologize. This was not—"
"If I hadn't been so silly and run off—"
Ciel jerked her chin forward, sapphire meeting emerald. A fire was burning in those usually cold blue depths and even from the rearview mirror, Sebastian could see the earl's lips mouthing the words every girl longed to hear.
I love you.
Annie Holdman adjusted her glasses one last time before she turned to her notes, tape recorder still on. "That's…very beautiful." She began, pen tapping against her left wrist. "But forgive me when I say that just sounds like a recap of your film The Blue Hyacinth. Slightly more graphic, yes," she nodded, "but—you said you hated the film because there was no truth in it. From your story, you accurately told the events of 1925."
"Did I?" The white-haired Hollywood legend, still larger than life in all black with a tumbler of bourbon by his hand, only smiled that curious little half-smile that was all at once familiar and strange. "I suppose you could see it that way. Or you could remember that my film was made in 1937 and released in 1938. The earl died in 1927, more than a decade before The Blue Hyacinth was illuminated on the silver screen."
She frowned. "That still doesn't answer my question. You said, and I quote, I deliberately changed the script to fit it for Hollywood. The real story was the one I should have told. What did you mean by that?"
"The meaning is simple. It's exactly what the words convey." Sebastian returned. "Because the truth is, Lady Elizabeth died that August in 1925. The earl and I never saw her at the auction chamber—even after Ciel Phantomhive purchased the Rose Petal brothel and burned its very foundations to the ground. Two years later, that same earl put a bullet through his temple in December 1927 and I was free to produce whatever fiction I wished."
Annie's breath caught, disbelief coursing through her as she gazed at the man who'd inspired legions of Hollywood filmmakers and producers. "You...mean…?" The words refused to cooperate as they remained burned in her throat.
"The Blue Hyacinth." Sebastian's smile was cruel—almost distorted like an image on water. "A film of no substance, little truth, and false pleasantries. I submitted over seventeen drafts of the original script to Zukor and Lasky. All were rejected until Hodkinson, in some misguided attempt at reconciliation, informed me that no matter how this script was presented, it would never be green-lit. No producer would touch it. The material, he emphasized, was too dark. Too grotesque. Who would want to walk away from a theater with such a film playing in their heads? It wasn't until 1932 that Paramount finally accepted the screenplay as it was but delays in production and then the Hays Code destroyed whatever it was that'd been written. I was ordered by industry and state to change The Blue Hyacinth and it resulted in a film that never should have been made."
The connotations of his explanation—the embittered acerbity of lost possibility—poisoned his tone like arsenic, corrupting the veins and lungs of a man so used to getting his way. Forced to witness two defeats—one made possible by death, the other by convention.
Annie Holdman could see the years of exhaustive regret writ across his still handsome face, the way he held himself—distant and cool and so far away from anyone and everyone. Perhaps it was the reason for all those divorces, one right after the other. The loss of innocence borne on the coast of the Riviera; the beautiful, dazzling youth of two people whose futures had been as golden as the August sun—and an ending of two cold corpses, as exquisite as Parisian marble.
Forty years ago truth produced the ruined architecture of half-constructed dreams. A mausoleum of hope and desire, burned to ash and scattered into the wave's depths.
It seemed strange, Annie thought, that he would despise a film that gave the earl and his countess their happy ending.
She asks as much out loud.
"A 'happy ending'? From a film?" He sounds appalled. "Can a film give anyone happiness once the reel ends? Do you suppose Lord Ciel Phantomhive would have preferred seeing a farce being played on screen when his own cold, dead body rots below the earth?" He shook his head. "The Blue Hyacinth was ruined beauty—nothing more, nothing less."
"Are those your words or the earl's?"
"After so many years and so many films, it occurs to me that I can't say." He turned his gaze to the rich mahogany of his Ritz Carlton penthouse. "I don't know."
Annie paused the tape recorder. She could feel the courage leaving her chest. "Then," she began softly, "do you know the reason behind the earl's suicide?"
He chuckled. "Would you like me to give you a sentimental answer? One for the lovelorn crowd?"
"No. I'd prefer something honest. Something substantial."
He finished his bourbon, fingers coiling around the glass. "Then tell your readers this, Miss Holdman." His words were a command, one Annie couldn't disobey even if she wanted to. "Tell them—"
And so he spoke, words echoed in the darkness of wood and smoke, fading into the evening night.
Notes:
- Jewett Lounge: named after 23 year old prostitute Helen Jewett who was murdered in 1836 in New York. The murder was quickly sensationalized by New York City newspapers, with New York Herald editor James Gordon Bennett reporting "Slowly I began to discover the lineaments of the corpse, as one would the beauties of a statue of marble…Not a vein was to be seen. The body looked as white—as full—as polished as the pure Parian marble. The perfect figure—the exquisite limbs—the fine face—the full arms—the beautiful bust—all—all surpassing in every respect the Venus de Medicis."
- Also the $50,000 Ciel bid on Lizzy is worth $90,173 in 1965 and $712,497 in 2018.
- Title comes from Andrew Lloyd Webber's rock opera 'The Phantom of the Opera' (specifically they're lyrics lifted from 'The Music of the Night')
A/N: Was this inspired by the film Taken and the Ian McEwan novel Atonement you ask? Why yes, yes it was XD
Comments welcome :)