A/N: Hello beautiful people! In this chapter: Sebastian decides to plant some irises in the garden when he discovers a strange box, decades old, buried beneath the earth. Madam Red flashback.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything. - Lord Byron

My dear nephew—

I don't suppose you'll know who I am—after all, you've only just been born. I held you moments ago—you were so small and fragile in my arms. I was terrified you would cry when you looked up at me but all you did was smile—and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Your eyes were bluer than the sapphire sky, just like Rachel's, and you gazed at me with such wonder, positing who is this strange woman with red hair and flushed cheeks? Well, my dear, darling nephew I am your aunt, Angelina. But please call me Anne—everyone does. I want you to find this letter when you're older, perhaps married and content with children of your own.

Your birth was a revelation to me although I can't explain why. All I know is that once I held you Ciel, it felt right—your body was soft and radiated warmth, even wrapped under all those layers of cashmere. You seemed to want to speak—demanded the right to be heard—and oh, how that reminded me of myself. Yearning to voice my own thoughts to a careless world, rejected for my beliefs because women are supposed to have none. But it will be different for you Ciel, you'll be able to do wonderful things and I cannot wait to see all that you'll accomplish.

I am but 19 myself, unmarried, and pursuing a medical license much to my own parents horror. Is it so wrong to want to be a doctor? To want to do something meaningful with my life other then chase after men and dance to pointless songs? Oh dear—please ignore that. I'm not yet 20 and already I sound so cynical. I hope you won't become like this when you're my age—I hope…I hope that you'll find someone who loves you. I hope you'll let them pursue their dreams in addition to loving you. In fact, if I ever become your spinster aunt, I'll be the one finding matches for you! Although, your Aunt Frances has a daughter—a golden haired little angel named Elizabeth who I think you'll love. She's beautiful Ciel (and if you two happen to be together while you're reading this then, what did I tell you? I am Cupid's arrow after all!).

As I write this I've come to see that I've said nothing of worth—this is one long ramble by a girl who's been completely thunderstruck by your presence. How do you do it, little one—you're not a month old and already you've got my heart in your hands. I promise Ciel, I'll always protect you and love you and be there for you. Never be afraid to speak to me for I shall always listen. Every word you say means something and every worry you have will be my burden as well. Keep safe and happy dear nephew of mine.

All my love,

Anne

Sebastian had found the letter not too long ago, buried in a faded and dirtied black wood box beneath the gardens of the Phantomhive Manor. It was mid-March and the weather was breezy—a bit chilly, actually, but the yellow sun was out and it seemed the right time to plant a few bouquets of French irises in the back lot. His young master was busy in his study while the other servants—bumbling group of fools they were—had actually made themselves useful cleaning the guest bedrooms. It was a rare moment of peace and quiet—and Sebastian wanted to take every advantage of this tranquil prelude.

He certainly hadn't expected a sinner's confession to come into his hands and briefly, the demon wondered why Madam Red buried it. It was old after all; the pages faded yellow and crinkled with time; the smooth black ink looked more grey than anything else. Her handwriting had been deliberate and rushed all at once—as if she wanted to put every thought she had on paper. Curious.

He'd stopped his planting midway and skimmed through the note, a calculated smirk dancing on his lips. Oh Madam Red, he pitied, so full of potential in a world filled with women of weak spirit and cheap guile. Yet, there you were—loving a man who could never love you in return—isn't that Venus's true revue? To plant the notion of attainable affection in man's minds before snatching it away, just as quickly.

He chuckled. Demons knew a great deal about love—after all, it was the tool men sought to conquer them by. What a lark, what a jape!

A poor safety net—a pitiable inviolability. Thinking that the devil could be kept at bay through love. What was it but a defect of the heart?

Yes, Sebastian pitied Madam Red; she had been ever so entertaining—wit and banter on the tip of her tongue, she managed to make humanity look like a theater show. The madame represented every cruel joke of society and satirized it to perfection—the socialite queen who wielded knives by moonlight, slaughtering prostitutes in an effort to bring back what she lost. Her final elegy.

Killed by a Reaper.

Using demonic speed, Sebastian finished his gardening with the grace of Artemis's arrow and now walked down to the kitchens. It was around 3 PM and his master would be wanting his midday tea. Stoking the fire, the butler decided on a maharaja chai, delicately spiced, paired with an apricot tartlet.

In front of him, the red and orange flames burned, incased inside the black metal stove. Sebastian stared into those depths with something akin to curiosity. Without a word, he pulled the tattered and faded letter from his breast coat pocket and, with a flourish, threw it into the fire. The flames ate up the offering greedily, devouring the thin, pitiful pages until nothing remained—only more flames, more fire.

Well, the butler thought with a satisfied smirk, that was that.

He didn't need Angelina Dalles giving advice to his young master from beyond the grave. Whatever words she uttered would no doubt be ignored but…why take such a risk? Sebastian had spent years cultivating his lord's soul, carefully preparing it to his liking. The darkness within this blue eyed lord seemed to grow and grow and soon, the demon reasoned, it would spread to every corner of his frail, porcelain body. What might have been redeemable was now gone; with every prod and quip that left Sebastian's lips, the harder and more indistinct his master became.

There wasn't much Sebastian liked in the world around him—oh, there were things he found amusing but nothing he particularly liked. He did, however, enjoy his master—perhaps that was as close to fondness as a demon could get but it was close enough. He wanted Ciel Phantomhive to march into the abyss triumphantly, wanted him to die in a splendid, silken fashion. Trussed in pearls and laced with silver lilies—that was how his master would die.

And no one would take that away from him.

Sebastian would see to that.

The first thing Sebastian saw when he entered the Phantomhive office was that his master was not there. Instead of sitting behind his grand rosewood desk, reading over paperwork and busying himself with acquisitions, Lord Phantomhive was seated on a plush, Persian blue armchair by the fireside, observing a fiery gold and blue painting. Turner's The Slave Ship.

"My lord, your afternoon tea." Sebastian pushed the trolley over to the carpeted inglenook, unbothered by his master's silence. "Today will be a finely spiced Indian tea known as maharaja chai followed by an apricot tartlet, lightly sweetened, and served with clotted cream."

"Fine."

His dispassionate response did little to stymie the butler's cheer. Sebastian served a perfectly round tart onto a Wedgwood platter—blue and white this time. "You seem troubled my lord."

"I'm not."

"Ah yes, I do forget that the scowl is your usual expression. Forgive me for my absentmindedness."

"You're lucky I don't order you to jump out the window for that comment."

"Piercing glass won't harm me." Sebastian chuckled, giving a short bow as he placed tart and tea on a richly carved pedestal table by his lord's armrest. "Is there anything else you need this afternoon?"

Ciel still refused to face him, eye and eyepatch fixed on the painting in front of him—the one that hung so proudly above the shaded hearth. "No."

"Very well then. Supper will be served at six. My lord." He bowed and turned to leave, carefully debating between a coq au vin or the heartier boeuf bourguignon. A difficult choice…if I do decide on the coq au vin, then it'll be necessary to prepare a gâteau de ménage. On the other hand, my young master seems not to have much of an appetite this evening so the bourguignon might be wasted…though if I prepared the boeuf, dessert could be a blackcurrant cake and the little lord does enjoy blackcurrant…

Tedious. It was all very tedious.

A/N: This was more of a character study regarding Sebastian's view of Madam Red but oh well. (I really, really miss her and wish Grell hadn't killed her even though it added to Ciel's character development but UGH. Madam Red—WHY.) Next drabble: Lady Cecelia and Lord Michaelis attend the Duchess of Brent's wedding.

- Also, J.M.W. Turner is one of my absolute favorite painters so if you see anymore references to him in my fics, you'll know why :)