Follows immediately after the end of the last episode of season review :-)
"That was very, very good indeed."
Sebastian (yes, he would go by Sebastian for a little longer yet) finally lifted himself and stretched, his back cambering with feline grace. An insistent fog had wreathed the moon with wet sugar and misted the air with milk. His hair hung limp with moisture. He could still see for miles and miles with his peculiar sight, but physical distance was of little relevance here.
"You have really outdone yourself this time," he mused, his lengthening smile a sharp arc across his face. "Choice ingredients, exquisite technique, flawless timing. A recipe for the ages. Well, it is time for clearing up." A brief shimmering between his true and chosen forms, and his left arm was intact anew. Sebastian had always prized efficiency. Besides, this was hardly any effort now that he was suitably sated.
He cradled the slight body and headed for the shore. A certain sallowness had already settled into the skin. The cheeks and eyelids had grown waxy and sunken under the fat, dipping moon. To house the latest -- now last -- Phantomhive heir in this loose-limbed child must have been a chronological joke of the highest order. Sebastian smiled again, but not sardonically. He bore his charge like one would a lamb or a bride, like a hothouse darling of clandestine blood and private pain.
The air, ocean fresh and midnight sweet, moved to the chatter of anticipatory gullets as black birds gathered on the sand. Sebastian paid them no heed. He stripped twice. First, he shrugged off his own tailcoat and vest, untangled the tie from his pale throat, and unfastened his shirt such that it hung off his shoulders. He then peeled every scrap of wool, silk and cotton from the cadaver, hands grazing over familiar crevices and curves.
Yes, this was truly a remarkable meal -- bold but balanced flavours, delicate but satisfying textures, a full course meal stuffed into this tiny, gilded shell. It began with an amuse-bouche, a generous quenelle of defiance, with its crunchy mouth-feel and flinty aftertaste, manifested as a final command for honest brutality, garnished by the young earl's angular poise, all starched lace and oiled leather. The entrée was a heady concoction of pride, redolent of blue-blood privilege and aristocratic scorn, laced with a coulis of equal parts unquestioned loyalty and unquestionable duty. It enfolded the tongue in peppery velvet and bitter ermine.
The birds grew quiet as Sebastian waded into the surf. His open shirt bloomed white, first the train of a wedding dress at the waist, then a wizard's cape flaring from his torso, as the waves lapped higher and higher. Pulling off the shirt, he wadded it into a rudimentary puff and began to wash the corpse, which swayed leisurely at the surface of the water, buoyed by air trapped in its bellows and bowels. He wore the proficient, professional face of the embalmer, but his touch was languid, knowing, and undeniably kind.
The main course consisted of misery three ways. First was a meaty slab seared by humiliation, encrusted with fear. It lashed at the tongue like hot iron, animal panic and the urgent, panting breath of desperation. This was followed by a melting tartar made fiery with rage and sharp with vengeance, every mouthful savage and ambitious. The trio was completed by an intricate terrine layered with loss, a burial mound for all renouncements past and future.
Presently, Sebastian dressed twice -- first, himself in his usual impeccable livery, then the small body in its usual fetching finery, patiently folding each stiffening limb into shirtsleeves and trouser legs. Ties and laces were deftly looped into dignified bows. He did not replace the various crested rings and pins, for the boy was neither heir nor hound in the end, but only a boy.
Dessert was a deep, decadent affair infused with familial, romantic and patriotic devotion, paired with an airy foam of regard for childhood playmates, business acquaintances and the domestic help. An earthy glaze of desolation tempered this aching sweetness. A decanter of tears served as aperitif and wine, for there were as many libational flavours in the world as there were reasons to weep.
In the slim wooden boat was a bed of snowy petals, each plucked separately, individual entries in a botanical catalogue of faults and virtues. Sebastian took care in positioning the corpse, correcting an unbecoming gape of the jaw and the awkward roll of an ankle. Overhead, the birds cawed in a tightening gyre.
"Good night, sweet child, though no flight of angels shall sing you to your rest."
He did not play sculler or squire this time, but instead sent the craft slicing into the waters with a firm tap on the prow.
In fact, what set this particular meal apart was the last and shortest course, the mignardise, a sweet afterthought just prior to parting. It was a curious confection wrapped in reciprocal suspicion, bridled violence and contractual calculus, all sly glances and toothy leers. Its center, however, held contrasting fragrances evocative of summons answered and makeshift redemption. Sebastian could not quite place this alien yet alluring sentiment. At length, he concluded that it fell somewhere between appreciation and resignation.
The birds were louder now, avian hunger rendered in sound, awaiting permission. The small boat rocked its passenger in his perfect slumber, unperturbed yet. Sebastian absentmindedly rubbed his signing hand. The binding seal had faded and the blank flesh was ready again for a new brand. He waved his fingers loosely like a timid magician. The craft at once erupted into roaring flames, fanned by a sudden gust which made the tree tops swell and churn with a creaturely air.
"Sorry, friends," purred Sebastian puckishly as the birds unfurled blackly into the night, disappointment and consternation evident in the twist of their wings. "This one belongs to me alone."