WriterGreenReads! I remember you! Nice to see you again, your review made my WEEK. Always nice to be appreciated so much. And hey, as I mentioned last time, this fic and the one before it are now fully transferred over to AO3 (archiveofourown) under the same penname and the same titles, so if you want to keep jiving on that site over there, its available! PaperWorld, too, I remember you from before. Arya's going to go through a LOT...speaking of which, Arya's currently unable to know this, but her final winnings come out to about 2,649,359.55 British pounds, which is 3,250,202.83 USD, in modern currency. That is a LOT of money holy crap. (She'll be spending most of it over the course of her nonsense but still, damn.) Also, Crockett Rocket, I cannot express how much I love your username.

March 21st, 2020

Arya's POV:

Pink betting stub tucked away inside my morning coat in the changing…building, I was free to snag a quick cup of tea before the next match started. Playing all day, even in these bright white uniforms, was somewhat punishing in the bright June sun, so combining that with all the running around I had been doing left me somewhat deprived of liquids. Even a piping hot cup of tea, not exactly one's first choice of beverage when already sweating freely, was a welcome chance to rehydrate. I also had a chance to try the famed English tea sandwiches, which were being served alongside the tea, as any other opportunities to do so –namely with Ciel– had been somewhat lacking, as he did not deign to dine with someone who was technically his inferior, in terms of being his hired help. The school didn't serve them either, which had left me deprived of this classic dish until now.

Personally? Bit overhyped.

Sure, they'd chopped up the sandwich contents so it was easier to eat in small, well-mannered bites without fear of something sliding out, and sliced them into triangles with the crusts cut off, which was nice, and elegant, but they also put straight-up cucumbers in some of them as the main filling and I did not trust like that. I stuck with the egg and chicken, which was safer, and the salmon, which was yummy.

…am I turning into that Haruhi chick from Ouran High School Host Club? 'Ooh tuna' and 'damn rich people' and all that…?

Shaking such character allusions and absorptions aside, I nommed my sandwich and, much in the manner of a soldier about to be tossed out of an airplane into a live battle zone, decided to enjoy what time I had left before the inevitable. Looking at the members of the Blue team gathered across the pitch at their own tables and lawn chairs, I could practically sense the malignant cloud of Ciel's evilly plotting aura from all the way across the pitch.

Okay, maybe that was just me. Most of the Blue players seemed pretty down, probably because they didn't actually believe Ciel's reassurances that they would win no matter how much they'd planned…which made it a little bit odd in comparison that I, on the opposing team, was so very sure of their victory.

Ah, well.

Tea and ensuing dainties dutifully eaten, we brushed ourselves off and marched across the field, taking our places along with the Blue team. A gentle, warm summer breeze blew across the field, tugging at the hems of our white cricket uniforms and bringing with it the smell of grass and a tiny hint of flowers. Part of me was sad that I was busy doing "work" on such a nice day, the rest of me was cheerful that after the Weston arc and all that was done I could go boating on the Thames or whatever the hell else I wanted during a weekend off.

If Ciel gave me a weekend off…

Speaking of which, I glanced down the row of Sapphire Owl players and saw him about three down from the head of the line, looking quietly confident, unlike many of the Blue players, who were masking trepidation with trembling stoic masks. To my amusement, Ciel was just about the only player on his side without glasses, whereas Edward and I were just about the only Green players whose shirts weren't strained by the bulging muscles underneath. I half expected our people to break formation at any moment and give the Sapphire Owls a collective headlock and/or wedgie.

"The final match, the Sapphire Owls vs the Green Lions, will now begin!" the announcer called, and about fifty seconds later, Lizzie's piercing voice echoed across the field.

"CIEEEL! DO YOUR BEEEST!"

Next to Greenhill, Edward started and spluttered indignantly. "Ngah! Lizzie!"

"That attitude is unbecoming, Midford." Greenhill said, expression wooden.

The prefect's fag ground his teeth audibly as he turned down the line to glare at Ciel. "We'll give you a thorough thrashing!"

"…do go easy on us." Ciel muttered as a line of sweat slid down his jaw. I noticed he was wearing a different eyepatch than normal: when going about his life as a student these past few weeks, he'd been wearing the white gauze square with four separate strings tied under his ears, and at the party the night before, the same sleek black one he wore as an earl, and now, it was a sturdy leather job with two small brass buckles glinting on either side of the patch itself. Smart of him: that eyepatch looked like it could take a beating, and not like I planned to hit Ciel (or anyone else, for that matter) in the face, but, well, accidents happened on all sides of the pitch, some of which actually were pure accident and not the diabolical machinations of a certain earl.

Lord only knew what would happen if that patch slipped off in the middle of the game and everyone and their auntie in England's upper crust saw Ciel Phantomhive had a Faustian contract tattooed on his right eyeball. I mean, sure, it wasn't like everyone –or maybe anyone except me– actually knew what the contract was, but. Well. Pentagram, mystic sigils, the sheer impossibility of tattooing an eye –it did not take a genius in Victorian times to figure out that sigil on Ciel's eye was probably demonic in origin.

Although…can Sebastian wipe memories? I think I saw a thread somewhere about his making a deal with Ciel that suggested he could at least manipulate them…or was it just the memories of his contractor as a condition of the contract? Dang it.

"We'll come at you with everything we've got." Greenhill said, breaking me out of my brief irrelevant tangent.

"We are honored." Lawrence Bluer replied formally.

The coin was flipped, the Blue players declared to be first at bat, at which point they changed into their sweater vests and we took the field, ready to catch any balls. I clenched and unclenched my hands a few times, shifting from foot to foot, trying to ease the tension in my body. Sure, I knew Ciel was going to win barring any weird butterfly effects, but the fact was I had to be a pulling jockey, as it were, without actually alerting my teammates or the general field that I was deliberately holding back. How far was too much? What was not enough? It was a ticklish line to tread, and I knew the rapid changeover in this match would ensure, almost certainly, that I would be both batting and pitching at some point.

At least some of the pressure was taken off by the fact this wasn't my first game.

Not to say I wasn't nervous, so. Hand exercises. Yeah.

"Play!" the announcer shouted, and halfway across the pitch, near the stands, I saw a knot of what seemed to be students with instruments, accompanied by a certain tall figure draped in black.

Oh my god.

Sebastian turned to his makeshift band and tapped his conductor's wand against the podium –I was too far away to make out details, but I definitely recognized that movement of the elbow from cartoons– before raising it. A bright, bouncy sort of music –lots of piping trumpets and the sort of high-stepping rhythm you got with marching bands– floated across the field, as a dude I vaguely remembered went by the name of Heinz wound up for the first pitch.

"Here we go!" he shouted, throwing hard and fast as his opponent, a weedy-looking brunet a year or two younger than me with round glasses, squeaked –actually squeaked– in terror, frantically throwing up a defense as he clumsily swung his bat around –and hit, sending the ball flying over Heinz's shoulder and rocketing off for a four-run bat as incredulous cheers washed over the pitch.

"That was pure luck! Pull yourself together!" Greenhill called, and Heinz scowled as he grabbed his next ball.

"Right!"

He wound up, pitched, and to our collective shock (minus me, of course) the Sapphire Owl player managed to hit again, scoring three more runs before the startled Greens managed to grab the ball and get him out. The Sapphire Owl player was then replaced by the Clayton guy I vaguely remembered was Ciel's prefect's fag, who took his place with a decidedly calmer demeanor and swung his bat a few times, as if getting ready.

It took me a hot minute to get the hang of the trick as the Sapphire Owls continued miraculously successful bat after bat, but there was a rather obvious clue in the music. Cricket matches didn't get music at this point in history, and there was no way in the fresh hell Sebastian would simply casually start up a garden orchestra, just because. The fact that his startlingly out-of-character penchant for classical music coincided with Ciel's cricket match –well, no coincidences were that convenient.

So, the music was there for a reason. What use did music serve, especially in regards to cheating? Probably a cue. Or maybe a series of cues. Same difference. Or maybe it was to disguise another noise serving as a cue…

Eh, whatever.

So…music as cues or disguising cues. Cues serving for what?

It took another minute or so for observing the batting Sapphire Owls, but eventually I noticed something. Their actual swings, as they moved the cricket bats, were pathetic, sloppy and uncoordinated. But they still hit, and because we of Green House were pitching so hard, those ricochets grabbed a lot of air. So, the way those wild swings were suspiciously well-timed and always hit just right…

So, cues to hit the ball right, cues that were probably timed to the swings…

Granted, I wasn't really all that into music, and it wasn't like I actually knew what march or ragtime or whatever it was being played, but there was something just a little bit…off about it, when I started to focus on the notes. Not too much, not too noticeable unless you were really paying attention, but there was a faint, occasional jangle in the rhythm, a jarring extra bit in the bars, and when I widened my attention, those extra notes coincided perfectly with the errant but still somehow accurate swings of the Blue House players.

Hmm.

Standing off on my right, Edward Midford suddenly gasped and whipped around, looking towards the band. I was impressed he managed to figure it out without meta cues like me, never mind so fast.

"Now I get it…" he murmured, and several meters off on his right, Greenhill nodded.

"So you picked up on it too?" he said, before a sparkle glinted off his brow. "They…worked really hard!"

"Its true. I can't condone their using music, but- EH?!" Edward spluttered as he realized midsentence that the true context had passed Greenhill completely.

"Nn?" Greenhill blinked as his fag looked at him incredulously.

This man trusts people too much… Edward and I thought simultaneously, though my perspective was decidedly more smug.

Edward inhaled slowly. "Greenhill. Will you let me bowl next?" he asked after a moment.

Uh-oh.

I glanced up at the scoreboard as a kid on a stepladder chalked out a 40 on the Blue House's line, with no runs scored yet by the Green team.

Uh-oh.

Edward stepped up to the metaphorical plate, holding the ball grimly. "You've resorted to dirty tricks no gentlemen should stoop to." he said, taking a very familiar stance. "I will not tolerate it!"

Uh-oh.

"Wh-what is that?!" a trio in the crowd gasped.

"Rushing Violet Vapor, Purple Burnout!" Edward cried, pitching the ball in exactly the same manner as Cheslock from before as it hit the ground and zipped forward under the wild swing of the unprepared Blue batsman.

"Bowled! Out!" the announcer roared as cheers broke out across the stands and I saw Ciel's remaining eye widen incredulously.

Uh-oh.

I shuffled and tried not to look too complacent as Edward continued batting with that sneaky trajectory-shifting bowl, outing batter after batter as Blue House rapidly lost what little ground they had gained. What little cohesion they had left was lost in a very extreme and sudden manner as the dude currently batting –spiky-haired blond with oval glasses– completely missed the cue to even swing his bat, looking around frantically and locking his gaze on the small bandstand, which was now conspicuously empty of any tall black-haired Housemasters. The place of conductor was now manned by a fluffy-haired pipsqueak who probably didn't even come up to my shoulders, someone who I guessed was that Maximillian/Macmillian/Mc-something kid Ciel had been hanging about with during this arc.

Sans Sebastian and Ciel's first ploy, we ate up the remaining half of the first inning pretty quickly, as the Blue batsmen swung with increasing panic and decreasing coordination, managing to score a paltry lead of 60-0 on us before the teams switched, with a dark-haired dude in a buzzcut grabbing the first cricket bat as Greenhill punched and shook the rest of us encouragingly.

"All right, you chaps! Time to bat! First order of business is evening out the score!" he shouted, as we all saluted like the military officers most of the others would probably grow up to be.

"Yes, sir!"

I kept an eye on Ciel as the rest of us sat in the fold-out canvas chairs, and blinked as I was rewarded with the sight of Ciel thrusting his right arm out diagonally towards his hip as he simultaneously slapped his left hand against his right shoulder, two fingers extended. It was obviously some kind of signal, but to whom…Sebastian? Where had the demon…oh, right. Chasing the headmaster. Who was Undertaker. Who hopefully hadn't sensed my illusion.

Nervous and self-conscious, I smoothed a hand over my short blond hair.

The Sapphire Owl bowler pitched soft and high, and our guy moved to swing, then flinched, almost physically taken aback, before he quickly remembered himself and hit, knocking the ball up high in the air.

"I've got it!" a bespectacled Blue House player cried, yelping as the ball hit his hands hard enough to bounce out for another Sapphire Owl to lunge and grab it before the cricket ball hit the ground.

Wait a second…

"How could you let that pathetic ball get the better of you?" our next guy snorted, snatching the bat from his predecessor –who seemed oddly flushed– and marching up to his position. "I'll give it a right good smack!"

And the same process repeated: aggressive beginning, deer-in-headlights-freeze, before a quick jump back into action that barely managed to save the ball but sent it right into the hands of a Sapphire Owl player.

"Not again!" Edward cried.

"What on earth is the matter with you lot!?" Greenhill berated as that guy came back, apologizing and rubbing the back of his neck, and I swallowed as I accepted the bat from him and marched up to the plate.

If this is going where I…yup.

Posed perfectly to fall within the vision of a batting player, Lau was sprawled on a very nice embroidered blanket underneath an umbrella –along with what seemed like every last girl from his betting booth, and all of them (minus Lau) wearing costumes that even I considered more than a tad risqué. Fitted tightly to every curve they had, above and below, the hems of these…cheongsam, they probably qualified as that and not just shirts…barely cleared the thigh, so that unless they were wearing very short shorts underneath, all it would take is a lift of the leg and maybe a small breeze for any one of these girls to flash the entire stadium.

So, of course, probably just as if not more alarming to the Victorian crowd, this left their legs completely exposed right down to their neat little leather shoes, and these legs were lifted or displayed in a variety of attractive, alluring poses, with some (including Ran-Mao, who was in Lau's lap) sitting on the blanket with a single leg lifted enticingly, others standing in a rough semicircle in slightly bent positions, leaning forward or away to draw attention to their balance and poise.

I sighed and returned my attention to the bowler as he wound up and pitched.

"Oh no," I deadpanned, taking an ineffective swipe in the general direction of the ball. "Limbs."

The ball shot past and bowled me as the crowd roared disapproval, and it was with a pitifully contrite expression that I trudged back to Greenhill and the others and Edward took the bat from me. He rolled up his sleeves a little in preparation before grabbing the bat solidly in both hands.

"Let's do this!"

Glare, swoop, failure, yelp.

The crowd cried out as Greenhill yelled through a megaphone of his hands.

"Not you too! That was a golden opportunity!"

"I-I'm sorry!" Edward flustered.

"What's happened to Green House?!" the crowd booed. "Don't tell me they're relaxing 'cos they're up against Blue House!"

Edward had another go, which he failed –again– as I tried to muffle my giggles with game-appropriate scoffs of failure, the back of my fist pressed tightly against my grinning mouth.

The very wind seemed to rustle ominously over the field as Greenhill stiffly marched up to bat, the best cricket player of the school, one of the most physically intimidating students of his year, the cricket team captain…all sorts of ominous vibes for the other team.

"Let's go!" he shouted, hefting for his swing: and promptly spotted the ladies, freezing up and turning red. His swipe was even more ineffective and belated than mine as he squeaked. "Nwah!"

"Out!"

Unfortunately for Ciel, the next thing I saw was a very angry and very pompous-looking gentleman marching over to Lau and his…employees, barking out what was clearly a very hostile order to put on some pants/skirts and vacant the area, possibly in that order. A chorus of subtle, disappointed "aw"s rippled across our metaphorical bench as the other boys spotted Lau being dragged away with his betting assistants following with chipper steps, which forced me to fake a cough that had Edward patting me on the back in slight alarm as I tried not to audibly cackle.

***Time Skip***

Ten more overs and at the end of the first inning, with the current score 60-52, Blue House leading, Greenhill rallied his somewhat flustered troops, myself included, as we prepared to pitch once more.

"It's the first half of the second innings! We'll keep our losses to a minimum!"

"Yes, sir!" we all cried, saluting again.

Laurence Bluer strode out onto the pitch to be the first batsman, hunching over in a very odd pose indeed.

"What kind of form is that?!"

"He's holding his bat with a reverse grip!?"

"You there!" the umpire barked. "Hold your bat properly!"

"No, this will do." Bluer answered calmly, not straightening up as he held his cricket bat grounded in front of his wickets like a sword he was about to pull from the stone. I got the principle: there was no way, barring some weird shift of his legs, that a ball would get through to the wicket while he was at bat…but that also meant he couldn't swing.

Although…

Sure enough, our guy pitched good and hard, and Bluer's eyes flashed before he twisted his planted bat, the ball hitting it hard and ricocheting off towards a spot in the outfield conspicuously free of our outfielders. He and his fellow batsman ran between the creases, scoring two runs.

"So that's their game…" I mumbled, before sighing. Legally, I was required to try and catch those balls, when logically, I knew Bluer and the others would be doing their best to send them into the gaps between players, meaning I would have to run. And in all this June heat, after another game, too…

I sighed again.

Technically speaking, with some small calculations of my own, I supposed that since their new strategy here required twisting the cricket bat to bounce the ball off, creating a limited fan of direction between incidence and reflection that they could send the ball in, it would be comparatively easy to clog up and slow down by us grouping in a fan around said batting zone, instead of spread out all over the field in preparation for the typical cricket ball, which could go a full 360 degrees.

This was an observation I did not share with any of my fellow Green players, since they could figure it out on their own, and I was technically committed into helping the Sapphire Owls win.

Another thing we could do was just simply not pitch as hard, which left a much weaker energy for the Blue House to use to rebound their ball, something I slightly doubted the Green Lions would come up with at all, since their solution to many things was to hit harder until it went away.

As I suspected, we eventually came up with the first solution, though not the second, and I was forced to run all over the field with the other boys until I was red faced and panting and uncomfortably sweaty, and Blue House's score crept slowly up by twos and threes, and we retired for a tea break at the end of the third ten-over set, with ten more overs total (Blue House pitching) before the game was ended. The score was at their 105 to our 52, and depending on how the game would go, there were sixty bowls left (ten per Blue House bowler), so sixty balls would be thrown, or –if by some miracle they managed to get us out with every shot, ten more balls.

Between ten and sixty, hmm? Pretty wide margin.

Meanwhile, I rehydrated with agonizingly warm tea, and even begrudgingly nibbled on some of the weird cucumber sandwiches for electrolytes or whatever it was that cucumbers held. Or was that pickles?

Eh, same difference. It was disgustingly green, so some part of it had to be healthy. Thus, my nibbling was in good cause.

However easily Green House may or may not have coasted by in past matches –I didn't know, as I hadn't existed in this world for any of them– there was a certain amount of tension when we headed back onto the pitch. Blue House should've been clobbered into some ridiculously unpassable lead a whole inning back, like 289 to 12 or something, and that gap should only have gotten wider as the game played on. But here they were, not only in the lead, but also putting pressure on us with new and unexpected tactics that we were having a hard time countering. Violet Wolf was infamous for its trickiness, sure, but the Sapphire Owls were pulling out all the stops on their legendary calculating acumen, splicing together numbers and using their fullest knowledge of physics to run rings around us macho ball-throwing types.

Me, I was in a fairly good mood, since I had little to no emotional investment in the game as itself, but even I was dragged down a little by the grim and stoic faces around me, since I was, at least, friendly acquaintances with Greenhill, and one step below that with Edward. For the rest though, I was mostly a blank face replacing whatever other NPC that was originally supposed be batting in my place on the team, so I didn't really care about them and they didn't really care about me.

Playing was tough, as Green House started hitting harder as Blue House bowled, both hanging on with grim determination. If the Sapphire Owls could keep us on the back foot, their lead was big enough that they had a chance to win this. However, if we put our metaphorical pedal to the metal, we'd be able to power through and claim victory ourselves, so tensions were high at the eighth over, when four more outs or twelve more bowls would decide victory, and we were at 105 to 91, Blue House leading.

It was then that they put Ciel up to bowl, and even though I was benched on one of those comfy canvas chairs, I swallowed hard.

Just to look at things without the context I had, such a move was honestly laughable. Ciel was a skinny little twig at the best of times, and he was easily a whole head and a half shorter than even the other Blue players, so standing out on the field with us, he looked positively miniscule. Seeing him ostensibly being put forward to bowl against our guy –who was twice as broad and definitely a foot or so taller– was pathetically ridiculous, especially when you considered this was basically the bottom of the ninth and only fourteen points separated our scores, the work of three successful bowls if worst came to worst.

It was at this point that Ciel stuck his left arm straight up in the air and tapped his right thumb, middle, and ring finger in a peck against his cheek, his index and pinky stuck straight up like he was rocking out at a concert –or flipping someone off in some parts of Europe. This was apparently a signal to his fellow Blue House players, who all rushed to gather –on the sides and directly behind our batsman.

"Nearly all of the outfielders are positioned around the batsman?!" the announcer cried as the crowd murmured in excitement and trepidation. "How do they plan on defending like that?! Green House will be able to hit the ball to wherever they please!"

"Its just one trick after another with this lot…" the batsman muttered, looking around himself uneasily like a lion surrounded by jackals. "Are they messing us about?!"

"Here I come!" Ciel called, and bowled the expectedly wimpy throw…which, upon striking the ground, bounced right up at the batsman's face.

"Ack!" he cried, barely getting his cricket bat up in time to protect his nose from the sharp delivery of the leather ball as it bounded off, bounced once on the grass, and was caught by the Clayton dude. "Hey, watch where you're bowling!"

The crowd murmured as our guy set up again. "You have absolutely no control!" he grumbled. "Well, it was a dot ball, so at least we get to have another go."

"I do beg your pardon." Ciel said, bowing.

"Its fine."

Ciel dashed forward and bowled again: and the ball bounced again, going right towards the dude's eyes as he frantically swatted it away with his cricket bat and the ball was caught without touching the ground.

"Out!" cried the umpire as our batsman spluttered in shock.

"Wha-?!"

"I do beg your pardon." Ciel said mechanically, with another bow.

"Now just a minute!" our guy began heatedly. "I was only avoiding a dangerous ball just now. First off, bowling so carelessly twice in a row is-"

He trailed off with a gasp.

The realization that Ciel might have pitched those balls to fly towards the face deliberately was slow to come, but vocal once it hit.

"How cowardly can you be?!" Edward cried as the my teammates took up the cry.

"We misjudged you, Blue House!"

"Will you really resort to foul play to win?!"

"Foul play?" Ciel asked, still frozen in that polite bow. "When did that happen? Who did such a thing?"

"What…?" Edward hissed.

"A bowler delivers a ball toward the wicket. The batsman hits the ball in front of the wicket in order to defend it. The ball passes in the vicinity of the batsman as a matter of course." Ciel explained as he straightened up. "On this occasion, the ball traveled a path in the vicinity of the batsman's face due to my poor control. The batsman, "for some reason or other," swung and hit the ball into the air, and a fieldsman, who "just happened" to be near the ball, caught it before it hit the ground. Doesn't that make this a "simple" out?"

My eye twitched. You wanna call it simple, maybe don't put so much sarcastic emphasis on the obviously dubious parts, kid.

"T-true." Edward stammered. "It doesn't violate the laws of cricket, but…"

"How can you call yourselves English gentlemen?!" the dude next to Edward cried.

"He's right!" added someone in the stands. "It's not cricket!"

"It's not cricket!"

"It's not cricket!"

"It's not cricket!"

"It's not cricket!"

I winced as the crowd took up the chant as a single rolling cry, the mood on the pitch souring rapidly as the Blue players looked around themselves, wary and pinched of face.

"QUIET!" Greenhill bellowed, striding angrily out onto the pitch as an obedient silence fell, his deep voice and powerful lungs lending a certain amount of command even towards the forming mob.

"I won't stand for heckling during this sacred match!" he continued, heading towards Ciel. "And how can you, in good faith, call Phantomhive a coward?!"

He grabbed Ciel by the wrist and pulled his right hand up high, displaying his chalky hand.

"Are you louts blind to this?!"

I could feel the mood shifting again, and sighed in relief as Greenhill lowered Ciel's hand a little, no longer looking like he was trying to pull the smaller earl right off his feet and hang him in the air like a puppet.

"This hand tells the tale. The tale of his efforts, and his persistence. Bowling accurately to target a batman's head is easier said than done. He must've put in a good deal of training to make it this far. This small lad, who hails from the unathletic Blue House, has gone to these great lengths! Do you understand what that means?! The owl has come with might and main to hunt the lion!"

The Green players gasped as the Blue players narrowed their eyes at us, and Greenhill dropped Ciel's wrist entirely and turned to his team.

"Is Green House so weak that we'd fall to one little trick?!"

We saluted. "NO, SIR!"

"So let's bring 'em down with everything we've got!"

"YES, SIR!"

Greenhill turned towards Bluer with a smirk. "I'm glad to have the chance to take on the real you before graduation, Bluer!"

Laurence Bluer smiled slightly. "Thank you. I share your sentiment…Greenhill."

"Right, then." the umpire coughed. "Play!"

Which was really unfortunate, since I was the next guy due to try and match wits against Ciel's wicked and devious ball-throwing tactics. So it was with a nervous wince that I accepted the cricket back and took my place, swallowing hard.

I broke my nose for you once please don't make me break it for you twice.

Ciel wound up for his next tricky throw, and I wound up as well, preparing for another face shot –as the ball hit the ground and shot forward low and to the side, making me miss by a mile as I belatedly slapped my paddle down, at least blocking it from hitting the wicket and getting me out immediately as the ball bounded off.

"Right." I muttered as a line of sweat ran down my temple. I got this idea easily enough, especially since it had been pretty straightforward as explained in the manga.

There's no dead ball in cricket, so Ciel's not going to be penalized for trying to hit me and the game's not gonna stop if I do get hit. Ergo, he can hit me, and we both know he can hit me, so its only natural for me to tense up and try and protect my face when he bowls. But if and when I do that, it leaves –shit, practically everything else completely open, and Ciel can take advantage of that by bowling off to the side where I basically have no chance of adjusting and swinging in time to actually hit the ball.

As another panicked Green player so eloquently said in the manga,

Defend, and you're caught. Attack, and you're bowled.

This is over-the-edge tactics!

I had another go, but now this ball came at my face as I blocked it just in time, feeling the solid whack of fast-flying leather against the wooden paddle as my cricket bat jerked back and nearly hit me in the face anyway, the ball sailing off into the unknown as my heart pounded hard against my ribs.

"Caught! Out!" the umpire cried, and I sweatdropped behind my bat.

"Thanks, boss." I said sardonically under my breath, lowering the bat to look at Ciel, who was outright smirking at me from across the pitch. Cheeky little brat.

There wasn't really any mode of retaliation I could go for with hundreds of people watching us, aside from telepathy (which I had yet to learn), so I merely made sure to glare at him sternly as I spun on my heel and marched off to give the bat to Edward. I'd get Ciel later. We lived in the same house, as labyrinthine as the Phantomhive Manor may be.

The trick would be doing something petty enough to irritate Ciel but not so bad as would result in getting a visit from a certain black-clad butler.

An uproarious cheer thundering across the field jerked me out of my thoughts of plotting, and I looked up just in time to see the Green sections of the crowd in the stands going wild as that poor bastard on the stepladder –who had remained on said stepladder for the entirety of this match– wiped out our score of 91 and replaced it with that of 97, and Ciel, his six bowls over, wiped the grungy back of his wrist across his equally grungy face, which was decorated with a smile of satisfaction.

Uh-oh.

Laurence Bluer stepped forward, ruffling Ciel's hair. "Good job, Phantomhive." he said, tugging open the wrist buttons of his sleeves and folding them up near the elbow. "Leave the rest to me."

Ciel hurried to grab his catcher's mitts and scuttle across to stand behind Edward as Bluer called across the pitch.

"Its been a year since the last time, Midford."

"I scored thirty runs on you back then."

"And I'll turn the tables here all by myself." Bluer said implacably, before stepping forward to do his pitch. "Article 8 of Weston College's School Regulations: Students must make every effort to devote themselves to their studies and training daily. So this year!"

He wound up.

"We will be taking the victory for ourselves!"

Bluer threw hard, overhand: and the ball flew straight up in the air, disappearing into the bright burning disk of the sun.

I winced, Edward blinked, and I think all of Blue House –those not on the team– winced too as the laughter began.

"Did the ball…slip out of his hands?"

"He's all show!"

"Just 'cos you got smarts doesn't mean you oughta try your hand at sports toooo!"

Laurence Bluer turned away from Edward and the wicket, and reached up with his middle finger to adjust his glasses. They glinted a little in the bright sunlight: and the cricket ball came down like a missile directly behind Edward, smashing into the wickets and sending them to the ground with a hollow wooden clatter that echoed and re-echoed in the sudden dead, shocked silence that rang across the field.

Ciel smirked as he caught the ball on its first bounce, Edward gaped, and Greenhill and me and all the rest of the Green Lions stared.

"A-AMAZING!" someone screamed from the stands.

"WHOA!"

"What was that?!"

"How is that even possible!?"

"You did it!" the squeaky Blue House guy from before cried, squeezing Clayton in a bear hug from the side. "Bang on, House Captain!"

"Did you see that, Green House!" Clayton screamed across the pitch, shaking his fist in the air.

"The ball…fell out of the sky?" Edward murmured, still staring up at the blue vault of heaven as if it would yield up its answers. Laurence Bluer's glasses gleamed even more brightly as he turned around again, like a laser beam cutting across the field.

"It just took a simple calculation of trajectory." he answered calmly, and a tangible chill ran through the Green House players –minus me, who was quite frankly loving the absurd lengths this cricket match was going to and quite pleased that I would no longer have to bat or pitch at all. I wished I had some popcorn. Did popcorn exist at this point in time? It should.

"H…how exactly are we s'posed to hit a ball like that…?" Heinz murmured, shaking.

"He brought down the seasoned Edward Midford with one delivery!" the announcer bellowed as the stands shook with the crowd's cheering. "What on earth was that ball?!"

"Leave it to you to come up with that, Bluer." Greenhill said as he accepted the bat from Edward, striding ponderously across the dusty grass. "A delivery calculated to within an inch of its life is so like you. However," Greenhill swung his arm –and the bat– out in front of him to point at Bluer like a challenge of war. "There's no such thing as a ball I can't hit!"

"The last batman's Greenhill."

"It's a P4 showdown!"

"Brains versus Brawn, which will prevail?"

There was a brief pause, the calm before the storm as everyone settled into their shoes and a hush fell across the stadium, before Bluer began.

"Here we go!" he shouted, dashing forward and pitching that signature ball again: straight up, no deviation, untouchable, sailing into the sky as free and lonely as a cloud as the Green Lions all held their breath.

"GO-O-OOOO!" Blue House and all its team members shrieked as Greenhill looked up and swung his bat back in an overhead hold, like he was holding a broadsword. With a roar that sounded like it came from a bear, he slammed his bat forward, and with a crack so loud I half-expected the leather ball to split in half, he hit the damn thing as it plunged forward, shooting like a comet across the field and ploughing into the stands so hard that, when the dust cleared and the terrified spectators were revealed to be huddling away from the point of impact, it was revealed to have shattered at least one part of the wooden planking.

"A-"

"A…"

"A SIX!" the announcer cried as the crowd roared. "Its 105 to 103!"

"I've seen right through your bowling." Greenhill declared as he lowered his bat, and Bluer choked, his face going pale. I saw in his expression something of the defeat a cornered rat might have, mingled defiance and hope and utter, crushed disbelief. Hell, he'd put lord knew how many days and hours into mastering that utterly absurd and impossible delivery, something he had been so sure would grant his beloved House victory for the first time since Ciel's dad had been in residence (and wasn't that a suspicious coincidence), and here Greenhill had quite literally smashed his carefully calculated plan all to pieces. If it were me, being the House Captain in the hot seat as Bluer stared at me like that, I'd honestly just fudge my swing maybe a little on the next pitch, because, like, fuck, man. Give the guy a break. Dozens of wins over the years compared to two in all Blue House's recorded history? I could set my pride aside for a bit for that.

But nah, we were all die-hard sportsmen. Greenhill was going to whack that second ball just as hard, if not harder, than the first, and Bluer knew it, and Ciel knew it, and every damn member of both teams knew it. Victory didn't count if they both weren't putting forward their all and whatnot.

Ciel crossed the pitch, stepping up to his prefect and patting his shoulder, and a few words passed between them. Bluer looked towards his team, who all beamed at him with exhausted, confident expressions and a few errant thumbs-up. They were ready for this. They had come so far, had dealt such a blow to Green House's implacable pride, their tower of being the most successful House. They'd done this much, come this far –and there was always next year, even if they didn't quite get it this time. Next time, next time, they could all do this again next time.

It was all about the next bowl, and my eyes narrowed as I saw Ciel press it into Bluer's hand. I did remember this part, since it was one of the rare times Ciel came away visibly injured, with blood and everything.

Bluer had based his calculations on a number of things, probably, I thought as he stepped back and Ciel returned to his place behind Greenhill. The windage (minimal), the actual shape of the ball (unchangeable), the strength of his pitch (no doubt carefully identical), the distance (measurable), the angle of incident (also identical) and finally, the weight of the ball itself.

The fun thing with variables, is that even if you got every single last one of them exactly identical, if you missed just one, things were going to get thrown off. So, say, if Ciel had somehow passed Bluer a ball with a barely adjusted weight, something even the guy throwing it wouldn't notice –well.

It would feel the same as he threw it.

It would go the same as it flew up into the air.

It would dive down towards the wickets almost the same –just a tiny bit farther away.

And Greenhill, instinctively adjusting for this, would shuffle back just a little for maximum potential.

The combinations of all these new factors meant one and only one thing: as Greenhill roared, swung back, as the ball plunged down out of the sky, an ugly smack resonated across the field as the business end of Greenhill's hard wooden bat slammed into Ciel's forehead with enough force to knock him backwards.

Laurence Bluer froze.

The crowd froze.

Greenhill, staring over his shoulder, froze too.

"No ball!" the umpire called frantically as Ciel collapsed onto the ground and the ball bounced softly into the grass a few feet away, a judging that I vaguely remembered meant that Green House got one point and the ability to run between the creases, hence giving the opportunity for more.

Since the ruling meant our scores had been changed to 105 to 104, Blue leading, our dude in the opposite crease obviously started to run, eager to tie up the match and hopefully score a win.

However, as Ciel curled up and screamed, hands over his bleeding head, Greenhill had a different response.

"Are you all right!?" he gasped, abandoning the crease entirely and running towards Ciel as the young earl lay prone on the ground.

Ciel, who was but a few feet from the ball, looked groggily over his shoulder as Greenhill's partner skidded to a stop in surprise. "Aren't you gonna run!?"

I watched, not entirely sure if the dizziness and the scream were false or not –sure, it was a direct conk on the forehead, and blood was streaming down Ciel's face, but A) head wounds bled a lot no matter what, and B) Ciel was a scheming little shit who may very well be faking the whole thing just to pull Greenhill away from the game– as Ciel valiantly struggled forward on all fours, grabbed the ball, and threw without raising himself up from his elbows.

Greenhill, who had just reached and was kneeling over him as he threw, obviously couldn't stop it. His fellow batsman, who had cottoned onto Ciel's movements a lot faster and was frantically running back for his crease, was facing the wrong way to stop it.

No one else on the field was currently legally capable of stopping it.

The ball hit the wicket with a soft clack that echoed around the stunned silence of the stadium, bowling it over.

"Umpire!" Ciel wheezed.

The man gasped, before hastily remembering his job.

"OUT!" he cried, jabbing a finger up in the air. "Green House, ten outs! Time! The match is over!"

"B…"

"B-"

"B-!"

"BLUE HOUSE WOOON!" the crowd and announcer screamed as one, as all member of the Sapphire Owls cricket team ran onto the pitch to pile onto Ciel and yank him to his feet as he was buried in an avalanche of hugs, and Greenhill bowed his head with an accepting smirk. I, shameful to admit, rubbed my hands together greedily as dollar signs (or would that be pound signs here?) flashed in my eyes, imagining just how much I had inadvertently suckered out of my fellow betters at Lau's booth.

"It's a second Miracle of Sapphires! Huzzah!" the team cheered, hoisting Ciel up like he was crowdsurfing. "Heave-ho!"

Before they could complete their implicit promise of tossing him up and down in the air, Ciel was whisked right out of their arms.

"Hold it right there!" Sebastian chided, holding Ciel bridal style. "How could you be so reckless?! Getting that cut seen to comes first."

"Mister Michaelis…" Ciel began, before apparently forcing an angelic smile onto his face. "But…winning alongside everyone has made me so happy that I've all but forgotten the pain! We got to prove to everyone that even Blue House can win if we put our minds to it…"

"Heh." Sebastian smirked, before standing with his exhausted contractor as the assembled players and the audience began clapping politely. "You really are…a most incorrigible boy."

The appreciative claps continued as Sebastian walked with Ciel out of the stadium, and I looked around at my calmly resigned fellow players, before beginning to slowly edge in the direction of Lau's betting booth.

***Time Skip***

"WHOOO-FUCKING-HOOOO!"

I burst into the doors of the Weston College Sanitorium with a giddy grin on my face, ecstatically waving a bundle of bills.

"Bloody hell." Ciel muttered, deadpan, his bangs already raked back with one hand and eyepatch removed as Sebastian finished pouring out what was apparently some kind of sanitizing solution into a small handheld basin and looked up. "What have you done now?"

"I won 20,250 pounds off you and your genius underhanded tactics, that's what I did." I said with a beaming smirk, and if Ciel had been sipping any tea as was his usual habit, he would have spat on it.

"You were gambling?!"

"Yeah dude." I said casually, folding that lovely thick wad of bills and sticking it in my pocket. "I mean, sure bet."

I bent over him, inspecting the wound in his forehead, and winced. "Yowza. Greenhill got you good."

Ciel's eyebrows twitched, but before he could offer any scathing comments I was hustled to the side, Sebastian sliding me aside one-handed with the same implacable absent-minded force of a mother with a toddler, before he picked up a cotton ball with some tweezers and dipped it into his bowl of solution.

"Yes, and if we want the young master to avoid an unsightly infection, we shall need to tend to said wound." he drawled.

"Ow! Ouch!" Ciel yelped as Sebastian went about it with his typical ruthless efficiently, dabbing the ball soaked in alcoholic solution directly onto that open wound. "Can't you go about it a little more gently?!"

"Dear, oh dear." Sebastian sighed mournfully as he bent over him. "Had you not forgotten your pain out of happiness?"

"You must be joking!" Ciel snapped. "If it hurts, it hurts! Ugh!"

Sebastian chuckled as he dabbed the ball in the solution again. "Your playmaking went exactly as planned. Superbly done. However…it appears you came away with an even finer badge of honor than you had anticipated."

Ciel growled as Sebastian finished dabbing the wound clean and set down the tiny basin. "Curse that Greenhill…"

"Eh, if you told me this was what you were planning, maybe I'd have given you like some magic face shielding or something." I said, bouncing down onto the bed next to Ciel as he turned his head to glare at me.

"You are obnoxiously chipper."

"And decidedly more informal than your usual wont." Sebastian said, flicking the cotton ball and its attendant dripping alcohol solution (mixed with some of Ciel's blood, ew) at me like he was trying to punish a cat. "Give the young master his proper space."

"Dude, I just won like -like infinity money, for a plebian like me." I said, before collapsing back to lay on the bed with a blissful sigh. "I am riding high and on cloud nine."

"Sebastian, remove this invasive, uncouth female from my bed immediately."

"Alright, alright!" I yelped, launching upright before Sebastian could make any moves in my direction. "Grumpy gus."

Ciel huffed as Sebastian took out a roll of cotton bandages and began winding them around his forehead. "I don't know what kind of goings-on are permissible in your world in the future, but I can very well do without your theatrics, Thompson." he said firmly as I stood before him, arms folded.

"Indeed." Sebastian murmured. "Speaking of theatrics, I have retrieved the ball from earlier, per your command."

He shook his sleeve a little, and the ball fell into Ciel's waiting hand as the earl looked at it ponderously beneath Sebastian's hands and the winding bandages.

"I really don't think Bluer would've noticed the trick. But better to be safe than sorry. After all, the weight of the ball only differs slightly." He smiled and hefted it up and down in his hand a couple times. "But thanks to this, we were able to take the championship all according to plan. Still…" He looked down at the small leather ball. "To bowl a ball you know will be beat…I don't understand Bluer and the others one bit."

"I too cannot comprehend the human aesthetic of a "beautiful defeat" at all." Sebastian agreed, and I raised an eyebrow as he knotted the bandage off and bowed away.

"Out of curiosity, is there a human aesthetic you do get?" I asked archly, looking at the butler.

"The finality of death and the beauty of cats."

I snorted. "Edgy bitch."

Ciel coughed loudly in our general direction. "In any case…how did you do, Sebastian?"

The demon sighed as he rummaged around behind one of the racks and pulled out a neatly folded suit and pants with a black top hat perched on the top of the stack. "The Headmaster…is here." he said, holding it out to a bewildered Ciel.

"Hunh?"

Sebastian sighed again as he replaced the hat and suit…somewhere inside his long black academic gown. "I regret to inform you that I did my utmost to pursue him, but the moment I had him, this was all there was."

Ciel's eyes widened as I gave a low whistle, trying to pretend this was someone or something else and not the Undertake which I already definitely knew. Method acting, yeah. Feeel the role…

It seemed to work, since neither Ciel nor Sebastian cut my suspicious looks as Ciel flopped back a little on the bed with an irritated scoff. "In that case, I should've just had you make me some desserts or something. I'm famished!" he grumbled, and Sebastian smirked as he turned aside, picking up a domed dish platter.

"I thought you might say that." he said, turning around and presenting it to his master. "So I prepared this for you. But…you will have to save this for later."

I barely had time to think of what that might mean before Sebastian popped the lid back on the dome and the doors burst open, and before I could think the world had gone very dark indeed and I was somewhat unable to move as the ecstatic cries of the Blue House rang around the vaulted stone walls and ceiling.

"PHANTOMHIVE!"

What what what what what the fuck what-

I began to struggle frantically against the iron bar clamped over my chest as the sound of a dozen or more cheering boys rushed into the room, before the grip on me tightened and I heard Sebastian murmur under his breath.

"Struggle and you risk complicating this immensely for all of us."

What -oh. Right. Green House, Blue House, rivals, me being in the Sanitorium while Ciel was here, hella suspicious and so on. Hence, being bundled away out of sight.

My pulse began to climb as I realized Sebastian's solution to that problem was to quite literally stuff me inside his voluminous black teacher's robe and keep me there with an arm folded over my (but ostensibly his) chest before anyone could spot the fact that I'd been in the room.

Being back to chest with a hot bishie was somewhat more nerve-wracking when you realized he was in a perfect position to snap your neck and a significant portion of him actually wanted to. Like, yes he was hot, but possible imminent looming death? Sort of took psychological prominence.

I did think I finally managed to pin down what was so weird about Sebastian's body, inasmuch as the weird way his hand had felt when he'd helped me down from the crates on the Campania. No body heat.

And it wasn't like he was cold, not quite, it was more –cipher. Even with the multiple layers of cloth sandwiched between us, with a regular human I still would be able to at least subconsciously sense the presence of their core temperature, and with steel or ice or some other substance that ordinarily felt or radiated cold, I still would've felt that. But Sebastian was –nothing. Neither hot nor cold, just…there. He wasn't breathing, either, just…standing there as the Blue House students babbled around us, arm firmly pressed over my sternum and keeping me trapped between that and his chest like I was caught in some weird sort of metal clamp.

"You there! Quiet in the sanitorium!" Sebastian barked as one particular high voice rose above the others, and hoo boy, that was even weirder, because even though I felt his chest expand against my back it didn't- it didn't do it right, was all I could really describe it as, and there was no vibration from his lungs resonating out into his chest and against my back when it did.

So this is what the fans that are actually caught up mean by saying Sebastian's human shape is basically just a malleable container for him…

None of what I was feeling right now was something the average person would have cause to notice, and even if the situation changed –Sebastian could clearly fake what was necessary to fake. He just didn't see a need for it, not right now, not with a magician who already knew what he was and not when none of the boys crowding around and congratulating Ciel were even paying attention to the Housemaster as a concrete entity, never mind the fact said Housemaster wasn't really breathing or even simulating the movements of doing so.

Creepy.

I tapped my fingers nervously against my own thigh, waiting impatiently for all these brats to clear out so I could take a nice big step away from the terrifying demon quite literally looming behind me and pinning me down, and then several more steps for emphasis. Potentially to possibly enough steps to take me right out of the Sanitorium entirely. Trying to distract myself from the not-quite-literal feel of said demon breathing down my neck, I focused on the words being tossed about on the outside of this surprisingly heavy muffling cloth as Ciel was pelted with questions that he attempted to answer in his usual calm way.

"Are you alright!?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Bluer was crying! Did you see?!"

"No."

"Even stingy old Clayton was raving about you!"

"Oh?"

"I never imagined I would witness the Miracle of Sapphires firsthand! Thank you, Phantomhive!"

"It really wasn't my doing."

(Sebastian and I both snorted at that, thankfully more or less in unison.)

"Here you go!" another voice said cheerfully.

"Wah!"

"Your hat for the boat parade! They said you get to be the cox!"

"Th-thank you."

"Well, let's be off!" the same voice that had thanked Ciel for the Miracle of Sapphires said, and Ciel yelped as he was, judging by the scuffle of shoes, yanked to his feet.

"Eh?!"

"Its time for the champion House's boat parade!"

In an agony of anticipation, I waited as all the dozens of feet pattered off, presumably dragging Ciel with them, and then when the doors creaked and slammed shut again, pushed at Sebastian's arm and stepped forward.

And nothing happened, except my feet swinging forward uselessly before falling back to their original position.

What the fuck what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK-!

"Sebastian, let me out!" I squeaked, wrestling with his terrifyingly immovable arm for several increasingly panicked seconds before he finally spread it out and let me stumble out of his robe, gasping, and then whirling to see that mocking angelic smile.

"Fuck you!"

"You seem disturbed, Milord Thompson."

"I thought you were gonna -like pull me into that hammerspace you stashed the Headmaster's clothes in or something! Asshole!"

Sebastian's angelic grin shadowed over slightly into the toothier smirk that I knew was his quietly smug version of a boy stealing apples.

"I would never."

"Oh you absolutely would, you utter and complete inhuman dickwad! You fucking scared me half to death!"

Sebastian's grin slowly, ominously widened.

"Only half?"

Were any Weston College students or staff to pass by the school Sanitorium at about this time, they would have spotted an absolutely furious Green House cricket player trying to strangle an oddly unperturbed Housemaster with his own rosary, but alas (luckily for me), there were none to witness this unprecedented degree of insubordination as everyone rushed to get down to the Thames for the aforementioned boat parade.

Sebastian, it should also be noted, was unfortunately impossible to strangle even when one was using a holy crucifix.

***Time Skip***

I sulked my way down to the Thames, and after wiggling in among the crowd –and admiring the admittedly gorgeous scenery of the sunset and the floating ornate paper lanterns, both on water in the air, allegedly lit by the same "fire of St. George" that the prefects had ignited the night before, finally managed to somehow find my way towards Greenhill and the other cricket players for Green House, most of whom were enduring surprisingly good-natured ribbing from their fellows about their ignominious defeat. Apparently even the most inveterate of sportsmen were willing to let one championship slide when the Blue House was so ecstatic about it…especially when Blue House wasn't lording it over them, too focused on their amazing good fortune to gloat.

Very nice, very healthy.

"Thompson!" Greenhill said with surprising cheer, slapping me on the back. Having endured backslaps from creatures that could literally lay him out flat, I barely wobbled and flashed him as bright a grin as I could under the circumstances. "Where have you been?"

Enduring a sadistic demon's idea of a prank, that's what.

"Eh, around." I said vaguely with a casual shrug. "What'd I miss?"

"Blue House fell into the water after saluting the queen." he said with a slight chuckle. "Their whole boat capsized!"

"Nice."

"Though you don't seem to have missed the last of the fireworks!" he added, pointing up as I oohed and ahhed with the rest of the crowd and the Green House team. Since I was ostensibly the "new meat," the Weston College students then took it upon themselves to show me around the ensuing party, something I was glad and secretly touched for. After all, it wasn't like I had really bonded with them that much…okay, maybe Greenhill, but again, spy-related ingratiation, so I felt a little guilty about his open-faced friendliness with me.

But no, I was the new kid, so they tugged me this way and that with all the exuberance of a dog with a brand new chew toy, introducing me to all their families –which induced more than one moment of heterosexual panic on my part as I was introduced to their "lovely young sister(s)" and had to do the bowing and hand-smooching and all that– and offering their condolences when I explained my family couldn't come for…reasons. Yeah. Totally legit ones.

They all seemed to assume something horrible had happened, since my offhand mentions of being basically "fostered" with a duo of Prussian and German military officials the past year or so and hastily stammered, awkward explanation towards my parents' absence did, admittedly, come off as a bit…well, tragic. After all, why would I, an American, be living in Germany as I was shuttled between two government officials not related to me? And why would I always stammer, wince, or look away when my family was brought up?

Obviously, there had been some sort of horrible tragedy, and I was an orphan who was too sensitive to bring up even the topic of his poor lost parents. Oh, woe for the pitiful Ryan Thompson.

Hence, a plethora of hearty backslaps, convivial "buck up and be a man" statements showered upon me every few moments, and insistences I try this one really good drink, or this one absolutely amazing pie, as Greenhill wandered off to treat with the other prefects and I was left trapped in the merciless clutches of a sympathetic sports team.

If I didn't end up smothered by the end of this night, I would die stuffed to the gills with food.

Still, this party was…nice. Even though I was still dressed in my grungy cricket uniform (apparently rushing off to snatch my winnings and then talk with Ciel and that scum-sucker Sebastian had eaten what little time I had to change) there were plenty of young ladies wanting to dance, and, alright, as long as they weren't too voracious in regards to the marriage market, dancing with them was…actually fun. I knew the proper dances, since picking up the waltz and whatnot was actually surprisingly easy, and since I'd only learned them as the leading partner, there was no muscle memories to confuse my steps, and talking with actual Victorians who had actual Victorian thoughts was almost as interesting as it was soul-crushingly exasperating, hearing all the outdated opinions and perspectives on things like women, animals, men, politics…eugh.

But still. Dancing, having fun, eating good food, talking with cheerful people, swirling around to spritely music on a well-lit plaza by the Thames River as it glowed with lantern light…you could do worse.

I was almost sad when the party ended and all the students trudged with varying degrees of exuberance back to our dorms along the moonlit paths, though I was definitely not sad about the opportunity to change into clothing that hadn't gone through two sweaty and dusty games under the hot June sun and actually get in a quick bath. God, I'd really started feeling filthy, especially when several people who seemed suspiciously tipsy had heard my accent and demanded I go deep. I mean, a Virginian accent didn't sound that Southern, did it?

Did it?!

Regardless, I had shamed my ancestors and all the state of Texas by busting out with what I considered an appropriately campy American accent, to delight all around…though I'd had to cut that shit and run pretty fast when I saw a silvery head of hair whip up like a fox catching a scent, tiptoeing –in what probably looked very comedic to an outsider– around Earl Grey who, for some godforsaken reason, had showed up at the party with his partner. Maybe they were alumni?

In any case, for the first time in hours, I was clean, I was pleasantly full of some admittedly wicked good food, and I was just tired and sore enough that burrowing into my nice thick featherbed and going to sleep sounded divine.

Which was almost certainly why, as I collapsed upon the pillow, there was a crackle of paper underneath.

Resisting the urge to roll over and scream with frustration into the pillow, which would confuse and alarm my dormmates, I had to wait, impatiently, holding myself as still as I could as they all completed their nightly rituals and turned in, murmuring to each other and me about the game as I answered in monosyllables, hopefully instilling in them the idea that I was tired and wanted silence and sleep, in that order.

Another ten minutes passed, before the last few rustles of the sleepy teenagers rolling over in bed faded out, and I was safe to roll over and yank the envelope from under my pillow, sitting up in bed to read it, since right now we were at the crescent phase of the moon and lighting was shit, even with the curtains parted.


A Fond and Hopefully Final Salutation,

Dear friend, as we come to what I hope the close of our separation, I find myself in need of your own, personal services for one last project. It shall entail some risk, so I shall ask you to come armed. Do not be alarmed, however, at this suggestion, for the danger is only a possibility, but nevertheless, one which we would both be keen on avoiding and may, if possible, be avoided by a show of force.

Do you come armed, then, to our usual meeting place, where my most trusted servant shall be to guide you. I have received the award you know I have been striving for, and would certainly appreciate your presence at the ceremony.

Father sends his greetings,
Your Fellow in the City


So…Midnight Tea Party. Reading between the lines, at least, that was what this was. Ciel wanted me to meet Sebastian by the chapel, probably secretly.

For this, I was definitely getting dressed. Confronting a Grim Reaper and the nefarious undead was a lot more stressful when in only a nightshirt, even as an idea.

11.50 PM, USA Central Time