(A/N)

I wrote and rewrote this chapter many times before I realized I didn't like rehashing canon. Well, rehashing canon more than usual, so a great chunk of it has been taken out and replaced with something thematic that some of you will see as self-indulgent. I hope this is not the case.

The following chapters will be short; hopefully that means quicker updates (don't push your luck).

Anything else… oh right.

Bit the bullet and made a Kofi on my profile.

To celebrate, a surprise on SB!

Thanks to fallacies, fluflesnufaluphagus, Jen and GreggxitVoter69 for beta reading.

And thank you to OhBems for sending a coffee my way.

"I was loved more than your average male. Do you know James Bond? My love life was very similar to his. If I was starting a job, a relationship with a beautiful woman was inevitable. But when the job was over the relationship was too."

- Nameless

King Arthur had asked his wife to be kind to the young man. She was fond of her husband, and she realized that she had come between him and his friend. She was not foolish enough to try to offer recompense to Lancelot for this, but she had taken a fancy to him as himself. She liked his broken face, however hideous it was, and Arthur had asked her to be kind. There was a shortage of assistants in Camelot for the hawking, with how many people were going at it. So Guinevere began going with Lancelot to help him with the balls of string.

He did not take much notice of the woman. "Here comes that woman," he would remark to himself, or "There goes that woman." He was already deep in the hawking atmosphere, which was only partly an affair for females, and he seldom thought of her as more than that. He had grown into a beautifully polite youth, in spite of his ugliness, and he was too self-conscious to allow himself to have petty thoughts for long. His jealousy had turned into unconsciousness of her existence. He went on with his hawk-mastery, thanking her politely for her help and accepting it with courtesy.

One day there was particular trouble with a thistle, and he had miscalculated the amount of food which ought to have been given the day before. The falcon was in a foul temper, and Lancelot caught its mood. Guinevere, who was not particularly good with hawks and had no special interest in them, was frightened by his frowning brow, and, because she was frightened, she became clumsy. She was sweetly trying her best to help, but she knew that she was not clever at falconry, and there was confusion in her mind. Very carefully and kindly, and with the best intentions, she wound the creance up quite wrong.

He took the wretched ball away from her with a gesture which was almost rough.

"That's no good," he said, and he began to unwind her hopeful work with angry fingers. His eyebrows made a horrible scowl.

There was a moment in which everything stood still. Guinevere stood, hurt in her heart. Lancelot, sensing her stillness, stood also. The hawk stopped batting and the leaves did not rustle.

The young man knew, in this moment, that he had hurt a real person, of his own age. He saw in her eyes that she thought he was hateful, and that he had surprised her badly. She had been giving kindness, and he had returned it with unkindness. But the main thing was that she was a real person. She was not a minx, not deceitful, not designing and heartless.

She was Guinevere, who could think and feel.

As was usual, the Counter Guardian woke up 5 minutes before the alarm rang.

Stifling a yawn, he turned the clock off, and walked up towards the dresser as he put on his coat. He took a second to feel up his chin, examining it for nonexistent stubble, before taking some time to coif his hair in front of the little mirror on the mantelpiece.

Sleep was something he didn't strictly need as a servant, and indeed, he felt his time was better spent elsewhere when it came to the running of a woefully understaffed manor, but Archer had been in his master's service for nearly a year now. Time had passed, month after month, the days devolving into a sort of halcyon humdrum that had become predictably pleasant, if dull.

He was more than willing to just keep on working through the night – maybe pore over the occasional book and practice his magecraft – but Finnian's arrival had prompted him to stick to a normal routine as part of his rehabilitation. Eating with him, supervising his work, lying in bed at night staring into the ceiling as he monitored the manor's outskirts for intruders…

I work, I eat, I shower, Archer thought sardonically as he made his way to the kitchen, occasionally, I'll use the toilet as a sort of treat.

He flicked the lights on, making his way towards the french cooking suite, turning the oven and griddle on with a sigh. A trip to the pantry later, and eggs and lamb sausages were sizzling merrily on the griddle, and a rich tomato sauce was simmering gently on the hob as he rolled frozen pastry into croissants, settling them onto a tray before depositing it into the oven.

He was in the middle of slathering great dollops of marmalade upon two slices of toasted and buttered bread when the kettle whistled. Setting the cutlery down, Archer poured half of the kettle's scalding hot water into the porcelain teapot, watching as the shriveled tea leaves unfurled with life amidst the errant bits of orange peel within the strainer before chucking a few ice cubes for good measure.

Upon a tray, he set croissants, a bowl of shakshuka, and a panna cotta he'd garnished with a vanilla tuile before gently setting a cloche over the ensemble. A knob of butter – left to soften at room temperature – was sliced and deposited onto a condiment dish.

Upon two smaller plates, he piled on over-easy eggs, lamb sausages, marmalade sandwiches and grilled tomatoes on a stem.

It was as he removed the coffee grounds from the burr grinder that he checked the clock.

Deciding to give it a little time, he scooped the grounds into the paper filter, and gently poured what remained of the boiling water over the grounds, starting at the outer rim and moving in a steady spiral toward the center.

He looked around.

Predictably, he was still alone.

With a sigh, he placed the kettle down, wiping his hands onto a kitchen cloth as he made his way towards the servants' quarters.

Without preamble, he opened the door, making his way past rows of empty beds and ignoring the tinny screeching of the mechanical alarm clock on the bedside before he arrived at the one near the end, where a boy laid spread-eagled and drooling.

Archer cleared his throat.

"Finnian."

"I'm up! I'm up!" Immediately, the boy sat up, blearily rubbing his eyes as his vision focused upon the unamused butler. "I'm ready to work, Mister E!"

"Not dressed like that you're not." Archer tossed him his clothes. "I thought I told you that you're meant to wake up on your own. I can't be expected to wake you up every morning, you know."

"I set the alarm clock!"

"Yes, well, clearly it isn't effective." Archer turned the alarm off with a sigh. "Come on. We've got a big day ahead of us."

"A big day?" Finnian blinked. "What's happening today?"

Archer made to answer, thought better of it, and frowned.

"... actually, there's nothing happening today." He muttered. "It's just another day serving his lordship."

Just like the past few months.

"Then why did you say-"

"I don't know." The Counter Guardian looked irritable. "I wanted to be motivating and light a fire under you, seeing as a clock just won't cut it." Archer made for the door. "Get dressed. Eat your breakfast. Then start your regular duties. Remember, there's always something to be done in the garden, so don't let me catch you slacking off. If you don't know what to do, find me."

"Yes, Mister E!"

Minutes later, cup of coffee in hand, Archer crossed the marble floors towards the manor's main entrance and opened the front doors.

The skies were clear, overcast in the horizon, great dabs of grays and whites and faded blues that were as sharply defined as gouache on fresh canvas.

Looks like rain.

Making a mental note to cancel his master's shooting lessons for the day – and to do the laundry some other time – he bent down to collect the newspaper, unfurling it with a flourish, and there he was: Ben Swain in all his sweaty, drunk glory.

… Maybe I should have this framed for my master.

And with that happy thought, he took another look around the grounds and gently swung the door shut.

Breakfast wasn't about to serve itself.

The wagon rumbled to a stop on the outskirts of Buckinghamshire.

The mare bristled, genty raising a foot up and down as the man made his way to the back of the vehicle, throwing back the tarp with a flourish.

"Owl. Get out. We're here."

Mey-rin winced, blinking at the sudden brightness of the mid-afternoon sun. Shakily, she stood up, taking care not to trod on any of the sacks of vegetables and produce, and clambered off the wagon.

"Chenjia. This is a clearing." She muttered. "Unless my eyesight suddenly got worse, this doesn't seem the place an Earl would call home. "

She saw the slap coming, but it did little to blunt its sharp sting as her head snapped around with a crack.

"You are in no position to be dealing out sarcasm, Owl." The man spat. "I'm not bringing you all the way there, it'd draw too many eyes. You're to make the rest of the journey on foot."

Mey-Rin never got the chance to observe the lanky man at a distance – and thus never had a clear idea of what he looked like – but the image she had in her mind was pock-marked, wrinkled, unshaven and greasy… in short, a git.

Biting back another pithy remark, she slung the rifle around her arm. "Whereabouts is it, then?"

"A few thousand yards in that direction."

"A few thousand-" She whirled around, scowling. "You could stand to bring me closer, you know."

"No, I can't. This road brings me to the village, a little way off." Chenjia informed her, lighting up a cigarette. "I'm already passing through as a trader with goods to sell, and I can't explain why I have you standing around with me, a rifle attached to your hip."

"Just say the rifle's to ward off any highwaymen."

"Don't be slow, there are no highwaymen robbing people in broad daylight." He gave her a withering look. "And if I were you, I'd get a move on. There's a lordly brat that needs killing."

The child sighed.

"And after I kill him, what then?"

"What do you think? You run. Run back here. Find someplace to hide, and eventually I'll come and collect you." He exhaled, and with it came the sweet smell of tobacco mixed with cloves. "I'll be staying at the inn in the meantime, but don't take too long. A trader can only stay in town for so long before people start asking questions."

Mey-Rin blinked.

"... why would you need to stay in an inn?"

"You heard the boss. The Earl's a recluse. He barely shows his face in public. You might have to wait a while until he emerges for a clean shot." He scowled. "Plus, the manor's well guarded. We've sent people there before, and they've never reported back. You will only get one chance before they raise the alarms and send out search parties, so don't get too close, and don't fucking miss."

Her face fell. "You never told me this was going to take days. What am I going to do for food?"

Chenjia cursed, muttering obscenities as he reached past her into a burlap sack.

"Here. That's fruit. It'll stave you long enough to get the job done."

Mey-Rin looked distinctly unimpressed even as she made to store the peaches in her shoulder bag. "I mean no disrespect, but this will barely last me a day."

"Then try not to take so long that hunger becomes an issue." Chenjia waved her off, disposing of his cigarette with a well-practiced flick of his index finger. "I'll bring something a bit more substantial should it come to it the day after, but until then, just do your best and shoot the bastard."

And with that, he made his way back to the front of the wagon, barely sparing a glance back as he gripped the reins.

"What're you waiting for? Get moving."

There was the crack of a whip, and the wagon lurched forward, leaving Mey-rin to stare dully in the dust as they plodded ahead.

For the briefest of moments, she entertained the thought of Chenjia's head turning into a burst of pink mist.

Uncertainly, she gave her rifle a glance.

Freedom would never be so easy.

Resigned, she started off the beaten path, and into the woods into her uncertain future.

"But you have hardly been at court at all," said Arthur. "Why do you want to go away so soon?"

"I ought to go away."

"Ought to go away?" asked the King. "What do you mean, you ought to go away?"

Lancelot clenched his fist until the knuckles stood out, and said, "I want to go on a quest. I want to find an adventure."

"But, Lance—"

"It is what the Round Table is for, isn't it?" shouted the young man. "The knights are to go on quests, aren't they, to fight against Might? Why must you stop me? Is this not the purpose of our gathering?"

"Oh, come," said the King. "You needn't get excited about it. If you want to go, of course you can do whatever you like. I only thought it would be nice to have you with us for a little. Don't be cross, Lance. I don't know what has come over you."

"Come back soon," said the Queen.

This was the beginning of the famous quests.

They were not made to win him fame or recreation.

They were an attempt to escape from Guinevere.

They were his struggles to save his honor, not to establish it.

"No, I'm not getting it framed, what do I look like to you?"

"It was just a thought." Archer said glibly, tucking the newspaper back onto the tea trolley. "It's your first foray into politics. One should celebrate, even if said foray dealt with the regrettable acts of sabotage and entrapment."

"He's only the first of many." Ciel muttered, taking another bite of bread. "And it's only a job. I don't see you celebrating when you finish cleaning the manor or complete a task."

"Oh but I do." Archer snarked. "I share a big, fat cigar with dear Finnian, call a prostitute or two, and we drink ourselves silly with your wines. You should see him in action: half-pint that he is, he really knows how to handle his liquor."

"He can barely handle a shovel without it snapping in two." Ciel muttered, refusing to rise to the bait at such an ungodly hour as dawn. "He'd shatter a wine bottle into bits, and you know it."

"You think I wouldn't take care to prevent such a thing by reinforcing the glass? For shame, Master, for shame. I'd never waste your wine."

The Earl shot him a sour look, before bringing his lips over the gilt rim of the teacup once more.

"At the very least, Lau's definitely coming along." Archer announced.

"What, have we received any word from him?"

"No, but I suppose that's inconsequential. If he's half as self-interested as he makes himself out to be, he'd be halfway across France by now."

Confident as his master was, hours before he'd left with Lizzy to the opera, Archer had been instructed to send another telegram to Lau, informing him to make preparations to come at once, that by the time he'd reached England the opium operation would be his for the taking.

"Right." His master set the teacup aside, flinging off the covers as he stepped away from the glare of the sunlight streaming through the window. "What's my schedule today, then?"

"It does seem like it's going to rain." Archer informed him, already laying the Earl's clothes neatly atop the four-poster bed. "If you want to go out for your training on horseback and your shooting lessons, we'd better do it in the morning-"

"Sod that." Ciel waved him off, buttoning his dress shirt with focused calm. "I'd rather settle matters with regards to the operations of Funtom Co."

"Fair enough." Archer held the peacoat up behind him. "Then I'll leave your morning for your administrative affairs as Earl after breakfast, following which, a light lunch in the solarium, where the table with the Lazy Susan would be arranged-"

"Lazy Susan?" Ciel repeated, arms halfway through the sleeves.

"You'll see when the time comes." Archer looked into his day planner. "I'll give you a bit of time for you to indulge in your little fancies – a book to read, a kitten to torture – in the stead of afternoon tea, you will be sampling and giving critique to your company's proposed products, and if you even have an appetite by the end of it all, I'll serve dinner."

The butler snapped the day planner shut. "So really, it's just business as usual in wretched purgatory."

"Yes, well," The Earl snarled, "I'm sorry if the re-establishing of my house's legacy bores you."

Archer put a hand to his heart. "Truly, I'm touched. There's no need for you to apologize-"

"Are you trying to wind me up at 8 in the bloody morning? I'm in no mood for the same song and dance."

"Perish the thought, master. I am but a humble servant—"

"Fuck off, Emiya." Ciel snapped, already making his way towards the door. "If I'm going to hear anymore of this, I'd rather do it with a full stomach. Come on."

Archer watched as he left, frowning. It seemed his usual vice of annoying his master didn't seem to bring him as much joy as it used to as of late.

"Yes, master." He muttered under his breath, even as he made to follow. "Always at your beck and call, my master."

It was after half an hour's trek through the brambles and marshes of the woods of Buckinghamshire that Mey-Rin finally reached the woodland edge and found herself on a cliff overlooking the manor.

The Victorian fashion for brightly-coloured, contrasting foliage and exaggerated form was taken to new levels in the grounds surrounding the Phantomhive estate, evident in the preponderance of golden cypress, blue spruce, copper beech, white poplar, weeping lime and redwood, but the gardens looked spartan by comparison. A footpath large enough to accommodate two carriages side by side stretched out between the entrance and the porte-cochère and a layout of formal beds were planted to its sides with colorful displays of annuals and flowering bulbs. The house itself was sprawling, modeled after a French chateau, with towers, turrets and dormers, with red-brick and stone dressings, and great windows that allowed for plenty of natural light to be let in.

She took in the sprawling estate in front of her for a moment before looking around.

As far as locations went, this was as good as any; the cliff would facilitate an easy escape, and the elevation served as an excellent vantage point for the manor, and she was facing north, such that she'd be unaffected by the glare of the sun in hindering her aim.

But the ground was damp, and the little owl did not fancy spending the better part of the day sprawled with wet clothes.

She walked, further along the forest's edge before finding a redwood, a towering thing with a branch that stretched and knotted towards the manor.

Gritting her teeth, she climbed, painstakingly gripping the chipped bark as she scaled its trunk step by step. Launching an arm over the branch, she let go, wrapping herself around it like a koala as she jerked her body inch by inch until she was righted, panting and sweating with exertion, but righted.

Slowly, she crawled until her back was against the great trunk, and only then did she allow herself a moment's respite, closing her eyes in exhaustion.

… my socks are wet, she noted with some tired irritation.

Finally, she unslung the rifle from her shoulders, perching it on her right knee as she set the manor in its sights.

The hunt was on.

Having rescued another princess, the ill-made knight was currently housed in Corbin, drained of effort as he wrestled with the frightful pang of hopeless love. One evening, when the gnawing in the boy's heart had made it impossible for him to eat properly or even to sit still at dinner, the butler took the situation in hand.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked the butler.

"Have you ever," asked Lancelot, putting the question which all young men are always asking, and without noticing that it had anything to do with the drink, "have you ever been in love?"

The butler smiled discreetly and poured another glass.

By midnight Lancelot and the butler were sitting on opposite sides of the table, both looking red in the face. They had a jug between them—a mixture of red wine, honey, spices, and whatever else the butler's wife had added.

"So I tell you," said Lancelot, glaring like an ape. "I won't tell anyone else, but you are a nice chap. Understanding chap. Pleasure to tell you anything. Have another drink."

"Good health," said the butler.

"What am I to do?" he cried. "What am I to do?"

He put his horrible head between his arms on the table, and began to weep.

"Courage!" said the butler. "Do or die!"

Lancelot began to grin like an ass.

"Ah," said the butler, "and there is my wife Brisen at the buttery door, holding a message. I dare say it might be for you."

The butler read the paper.

"It says that Queen Guinevere is at the castle of Case, five miles from here, and she wants you. It says the King is not with her. There are some kisses on it."

"Well?"

"You dare not go," said the butler.

"Oh? Don't I?" shouted Sir Lancelot, and he went into the darkness staggering, laughing like a caricature, and calling for his horse.

But when he awoke in the morning in a strange room, miserable and wretched, he turned round and found himself looking not at some sweet Guinevere but the princess he'd saved, Elaine. She lay in the bed, her small bare arms holding the bedclothes to her sides, with her violet eyes fixed on his.

Lancelot was always a martyr to his feelings, never any good at disguising them. When he saw Elaine his head went back. Then his ugly face took on a look of profound and outraged sorrow, so simple and truthful that his nakedness in the window-light was dignity. He began to tremble.

Elaine did not move, but only looked upon him with her quick eyes, like a mouse.

Lancelot went over to the chest where his sword was lying.

"I shall kill you."

She only looked. She was eighteen, pitifully small in the big bed, and she was frightened.

"Why did you do it?" he cried. "What have you done? Why have you betrayed me?"

"I had to."

"It was treachery! You have betrayed me."

"Why?"

"You have made me—taken from me—stolen—"

When he began to cry, the gross lines of his face screwed themselves up fantastically. The thing which Elaine had stolen from him was his might. She had stolen his strength of ten. Children believe such things to this day, and think that they will only be able to bowl well in the cricket match tomorrow, provided that they are good today.

"When I was little," he said, "I prayed to God that he would let me work a miracle. Only virgins can work miracles. I wanted to be the best knight in the world. I was ugly and lonely. The people of your village said that I was the best knight in the world, and I did work my miracles when I got you out of the water. I did not know it would be my last as well as my first."

Elaine said: "Oh, Lancelot, you will work plenty more."

"Never. You have stolen my miracles. You have stolen from me my becoming the best knight. Elaine, why did you do it?"

She began to cry.

He got up, wrapped himself in a towel, and went over to the bed.

"Never mind," he said. "It was my fault for getting drunk. I was miserable, and I got drunk. I wonder if that butler tried to make me? It was not very fair if he did. Don't cry, Elaine. It was not your fault."

"Lancelot!" cried Elaine. "It was because I loved you. Haven't I given something too? I was a maiden, Lancelot. I didn't rob you. Oh, Lancelot—it was my fault. I ought to be killed. Why didn't you kill me with your sword? But it was because I loved you, and I couldn't help it."

"There, there."

"Lancelot, suppose I have a baby?"

He stopped comforting her and went to the window again, as if he were going mad.

Lancelot turned upon her in fury.

"Elaine," he said, "if you are to grow with child, it is yours to bear. It is unfair to bind me with pity. I will take my leave now, and I hope I shall never see you again."

"I want to have your child," Elaine called, desperate. "I shall call him Galahad, like your first name."

The startling thing was that Lancelot returned to Guinevere. Straight from Elaine, straight from her robbery, Lancelot came like an arrow to the heart of love. He had already been cheated of his tenfold might. He was a lie now, in God's eyes as he saw them, so he felt that he might as well be a lie in earnest. No more to be the best knight in the world, no more to work miracles against magic, no more to have compensation for ugliness and emptiness in his soul, the young man sped to his sweetheart for consolation.

And then, before she was quite certain of what had happened, Guinevere was laughing or weeping, unfaithful to her husband, as she had always known she would be.

Hours had passed before Mey-rin became distantly aware that something was off.

There were neither the sights nor the sounds of life. A house steward, a head butler, a valet, an under-butler, footmen, housekeepers, maids, gardeners, stableboys, chefs, she saw none…

So where was everyone?

The manor — as sprawling and august as it was — seemed almost deserted. The sun had inched slowly along from where it hung across the overcast skies, but she had yet to see any sign of life and activity, no sign that anyone lived there. There wasn't even the rustle of a curtain she could discern.

… am I really in the right place?

Just as she was beginning to wonder whether this was the makings of something markedly more nefarious in store from Haku, there was movement.

A child with hair as radiant as the finest silks bounded across the path, water sloshing out in drips and drabs from the watering can he was carrying as he made his way towards the flowerbeds.

Alert, she positioned her rifle against her knee, scanning the vicinity for a possible sighting of the earl whilst the child called out towards the manor.

The front door opened, and she became still.

As if he'd emerged, borne out of her thoughts, she saw him once more.

"Mr. E! They're flowering!"

"I can see that." Emiya smiled, bending down to take a look at the dwarf irises. "Nice job… though I must remind you that these flowers don't require much tending to, to flourish."

"I kept the soil moist, just as you told me."

"And I'm very proud." Emiya muttered. "Though you should take care next time not to plant the dwarf irises too deep. They grow slower and lead to less blooms."

Finnian looked troubled. "But… I did as you instructed."

"Yes, which is why I'm not angry." The butler sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'm afraid as multifaceted of a life I've led, gardening has never really been something I put any serious thought to. I am learning just as much as you are, Finnian… at least, I hope you are."

Emiya looked around, expression critical.

"The flowerbeds will have to be discarded." He decided. "It's getting colder out, and we need hardy perennials to be on display for winter. Tell me, Finnian, what sort of flowers would you put on display in winter?"

The young gardener blinked.

"I… uh…" he sheepishly scratched his head, "tulips?"

"No, Finnian. I've said this before, tulips can survive in cold weather, but the accepted practice is to bring the bulbs in during the winter and replant after the worst of the frosts have passed, so that they can bloom once more in spring." Emiya gestured around them. "What we need, come winter, are primroses. Cultivars of colorful vegetables. The Winter Heathers. Periwinkles." He gave Finnian a sharp look. "This is the part where you start taking notes, Finnian."

Obedient, the boy made to do just that, taking out a little notepad and pencil and feverishly scrawling across cream-colored pages.

"As the gardener to the Phantomhive house," Emiya went on, "you need to maintain its overall image, and yet stay true to its original vision." He gestured broadly. "This is all the work of Capability Brown."

Finnian looked up. "Capability?"

"He was one of the foremost landscape architects in Britain." Emiya informed him. "He earned the moniker for always telling his clients that their gardens were 'capable' of improvement. Mr. Brown was distinctive in his style of wide open turfs, groups of trees in clumps, maybe a gazebo or an alcove here and there… he was not regarded for his imagination in any sense, Finnian, but this gives us some leave to put our own designs in place. Flowerbeddings. Parterres. Statues. Fountains. As the gardener, it will fall to you one day to present a garden that reflects upon the image and illustrious history of the Phantomhive house."

Finnian digested this for a moment.

"... his parents really named him Capability?"

Emiya resisted the urge to say something rude. "No, Finnian. Capability is a nickname… frankly, I think he preferred it to his actual one."

"Which is?"

The butler shook his head.

"Lancelot." He muttered. "Stupid name, terrible implications, honestly, what were they thinking? I don't blame him, as asinine as it is, Capability's still better."

"... who's Lancelot?"

Emiya turned around, incredulous.

"You don't know who-" Emiya stopped himself, "... that's right. You barely got through that book on the Fenian cycle without my help."

The butler shook his head. "What he is, Finnian, is not important. Come on. You've finished your morning tasks, I'll get you some biscuits and then I'll walk you through the process of beginning a parterre."

"Right… right." Finnian nodded, looking unsure as he followed him back inside the manor.

"... and what is a parterre?"

From where she perched, Mey-rin watched dumbly as the door to the manor swung shut.

Were she to be honest, she'd spent a great deal of time thinking of him since they locked eyes back in the Yellow Flag. It was difficult not to, after all.

No, it wasn't the fact his hair was a shock of white unlike anything she'd seen before. It wasn't his cold, unflinching gaze flecked with something more. No, it was something far more simple.

Mey-rin pursed her lips.

He was…

The clap of thunder in the distance interrupted her thoughts.

Looking up, she noted with considerable annoyance that the overcast skies had grown heavy and dark, the air growing thicker than dough, tinged with the sterile smell of ozone.

Sighing, she wrapped the traveling cloak tighter around herself, tucking the barrel of the rifle against the side of her neck. Unclasping her satchel, she took out a peach – discolored fuzz and all – and took a bite, wiping the juice that stuck to her cheeks as she chewed.

She was going to be here a while.

"Are you ready to prove this accusation?"

"We are."

"You know," Arthur asked them gently, "that it has been made before?"

"It would be extraordinary if it had not."

"The last time that rumors of this kind were circulated, they were produced by a person called Sir Meliagrance. As there was no proof, it was put to the decision of personal combat. Sir Meliagrance accused the Queen of treason, and offered to fight to back his claims. Fortunately Sir Lancelot was kind enough to stand for Her Majesty. You remember the result."

"We remember well."

"When, finally, the combat took place, Sir Meliagrance lay flat on his back and insisted on yielding to Sir Lancelot. It was impossible to make him get up in any way, until Lancelot offered to take off his helm, and the left side of his armor, and to have one hand tied behind his back. Sir Meliagrance accepted the offer, and was duly chopped."

"We know all this," exclaimed the youngest brother, impatiently. "Trial by combat has no meaning. It is an unfair justice anyway. It is the thugs who win."

"If you would consent, uncle, to go away for the night, we should get together an armed band and capture Lancelot in the Queen's room. You would have to be away or he wouldn't go."

"I'm not going to set a trap for my own wife, Agravain. I think it would be just to say that the onus of proof lies with you. Yes, I think that is just. Clearly I have the right to refuse to become—well, a sort of accomplice. It is not part of my duty to go away on purpose, in order to help you. No, I should be able to refuse to do that with a clear heart."

"But you can't refuse to go away forever. You can't spend the rest of your life chained to the Queen, on purpose, to keep Lancelot away. What about the hunting party you were supposed to join next week? If you don't go on that, you will be altering your plans deliberately, so as to thwart justice."

"Nobody succeeds in thwarting justice, Agravain."

"So you will go on the hunting party, Uncle Arthur, and we have permission to break into the Queen's room, if Lancelot is there?"

The elation in his voice was so indecent that even Mordred was disgusted. The King stood, pulling his gown round him, as if for warmth.

"I will go."

"And you will not tell them beforehand?" The man's voice tripped over itself with excitement. "You won't warn them after we have made the accusation? It would not be fair."

"Fair?" he repeated.

He looked at them from an immense distance, seeming to weigh truth, justice, evil and the affairs of men.

"You have my permission."

His eyes came back from the distance, fixing them personally with a falcon's gleam.

"But if I may speak for a moment, Mordred and Agravain, as a private person, the only hope I now have left is that Lancelot will kill you both and all the witnesses—a feat which, I am proud to say, has never been beyond Lancelot's power. And I may add this also, as a minister of Justice, that if you fail for one moment in establishing this monstrous accusation, I shall pursue you both remorselessly, with all the rigor of the laws which you yourselves have set in motion."

"The key thing here is to ensure that we don't have too many resource inputs with regards to the business. Beyond the staples of flour, oats, sugar and cacao beans, we want to make sure that everything else can be readily sourced in bulk. I don't want to spend extra for oranges just to use them on one singular product."

"I get that, but I know from firsthand experience this is a popular item."

Ciel looked at the tray of confectionaries in front of him.

"Jaffa cakes." He repeated.

"Yeah. Small layer of genoise sponge, a layer of marmalade, a layer of chocolate." Archer popped one into his mouth. "It's good stuff. It'll be good alongside the Twix and Hobnobs we're offering."

"I don't deny people will find it delicious. But I question whether taking up an exclusive route to and from Spain just for oranges is prudent."

"Look, no one said that you could only get oranges from Spain, you know." Archer crossed his arms, nodding his head to another plate to the side. "We could also get raisins for the oatmeal cookies."

"I'm not putting raisins on our cookies!"

"They taste good."

"They're boring. They give the impression of being cheap. That's intolerable." Ciel shook his head, taking another sip of Darjeeling. "I mean, when was the last time you saw someone get excited over blasted raisins?"

"I've seen Finnian be excited over the oatmeal raisin cookies." Archer felt the need to point out.

"Irrelevant." Ciel snorted. "Finnian eats absolutely anything, and I doubt you could find a chef that'd make him something he'd actively dislike."

Somewhere across the Atlantic, on a cruise ship, Bardroy sneezed.

"It matters little. We can finalize the details about what specific ingredients we need when Lau gets here."

"I'm not solely relying on him for our products, that'd imply we rely on him." Ciel rubbed his temples. "It'd make him complacent."

"Then have fun figuring it out on your own time." Archer muttered, bringing forth another tray of sweets. "By the way, I hope you've given some more thought as to whether you'd like to focus on baked goods or traditional confectionery."

Ciel looked tired. "Remind me again why I can't just do a mix of both?"

"Well to begin with, they require radically different infrastructure if we want to keep scalability in mind." Archer tapped a folder of papers. "I'm sure you'll understand that gums, fruit drops, sour candy and other such sweets are produced in different ways compared to chocolate wafers and miniature sponges…" Archer muttered. "Unless we hire a bakery to do the basic prep work for us before we sell them off?"

His master gave him a dull look. "I'm not opening a patisserie, Emiya. It's a sweetshop. I already have the patents to manufacture the wrapping paper and the method to extract citric acid to extend their shelf life. I'm going to bloody well use it."

"Then we're back to square one." Archer tsk'd. "You still have a decision to make. Sweets, or baked goods?"

His master huffed, reclining back onto his chair, looking out at the spread of sweets and confectionery on the desk of rosewood like Tony Montana would a mountain of cocaine.

"... I'll make a final decision after Lau gets here. Until then, I'll visit the factories firsthand, see if a balance can be reached."

"Not in this weather, you're not." Archer snorted, busying himself with another tray of sweets. "It's been raining since yesterday. Moving on, here's something I personally can't believe hasn't been invented yet, the lollipop…"

"I understand," continued Mordred, in what was almost a soliloquy, "that our King himself must watch the execution from this window."

And little Gareth lost his temper completely.

"Can't you hold your tongue about it for a minute? Anyone would think that you enjoyed watching people being burned."

Mordred replied contemptuously: "So will you, really. Only you think it is not good form to say so. They will burn her in her shift."

"For the sake of God, shut up."

Gaheris said, in his slow way: "I don't think you need to worry."

In a flash Mordred was facing him.

"What do you mean, he need not worry?"

"Of course he needn't worry," said Gawain angrily. "Do you think that Lancelot will not come to rescue her? He is no coward, at any rate."

Mordred was thinking quickly. His still pose by the window had given place to nervous excitement.

"If he tries to rescue her, there will be a fight. King Arthur will have to fight him."

"No. King Arthur will watch from here."

"But this is monstrous!" he exploded. "Do you mean to say that Lancelot will be allowed to slip off with the Queen, under our noses?"

"That is exactly what will happen."

"But nobody will be punished at all!"

"Good heavens, man," cried Gareth. "Do you want to see the woman burn?"

"Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Gawain, are you going to sit there and let this happen after your own brother has been killed?"

"I warned Agravain."

"You cowards! Gareth! Gaheris! Make him do something. You can't let this happen. He murdered your brother."

"As far as I can understand the story, Mordred, Agravain went with thirteen other knights, fully armed, and tried to kill Lancelot when he had nothing but his dressing-gown. The upshot was that Agravain himself was killed, together with all thirteen of the knights—except one, who ran away."

"I did not run away."

"You survived, Mordred."

"Gawain, I swear I didn't run away. I fought him as well as I could. But he broke my arm, and then I could do no more. On my honor, Gawain, I tried to fight."

"But he didn't kill you."

What with the pain of his arm, and rage, the man began to cry like a child.

"You traitors! It is always like this. Because I am not strong, you side against me. You stand for the muscular fools, and will not believe what I say. Agravain is dead, and you are not going to punish anyone for it. Traitors, traitors! And it will all be as it was!"

He broke down as the King came in. Arthur, looking tired, walked slowly to the throne and set himself on it.

Mordred went over to him with haste, with a sort of shame-faced intensity.

"Father," he said, "do you know that Lancelot is bound to come and rescue her?"

"I know. I have been expecting it."

"And you have posted knights to stop him? You have arranged for a strong guard?"

"The guard is as strong as it can be, Mordred. I have tried to be just."

"Father," he said eagerly, "send Gawain and these two to strengthen them. He will come with great force."

"Well, Gawain?" asked the King.

"Thank you, uncle, but I'd prefer it if you didn't ask."

"I ought to ask you, Gawain, out of justice to the guard which is already there. You see, it would be unfair to leave a weak guard, if I thought that Lancelot was coming, because that would be treachery to my own men. It would be sacrificing them."

"Whether you ask me or not, I shall not go. I warned the two of them at their outsetting that I would not have anything to do with it. I have no wish to see Queen Guinevere burn, and I must say I hope she won't, nor will I help to burn her. There you have it."

The king looked exhausted. "That sounds like treason."

"It may be treason, but I have my fondness for the Queen."

"I also am fond of the Queen, Gawain. It was I who married her. But where a matter of public justice arises, the feelings of common people have to be left out."

"Maybe it is easy for you, my King, but I fear I cannot so easily discard my feelings."

The King pursed his lips, affixing the knight with a pensive stare, before he turned to the others.

"Gareth? Gaheris? Will you oblige me by putting on your armor, and strengthening the guard?"

"Uncle, please don't force us. Lancelot is my friend, so how could I fight against him?"

The King touched his hand.

"Lancelot would have expected you to go, my dear, whoever it was against. He believes in justice too."

"Uncle, I can't fight him. He knighted me. I will go if you wish, but I won't go in armor. I am afraid that my choice is treason too."

"Owl."

Mey-rin jerked awake with a start.

"If you're going to spend your time sleeping rather than shooting, it's no wonder that bitch isn't fucking dead yet."

Scowling, she looked down from the bough where she laid prone.

"I've been awake all day and all night," she bit out, "in these shitty conditions in a fucking tree, praying I don't get struck by lightning in this godforsaken weather, waiting for him to show his face. Excuse me for taking a nap when I can."

"Are you fucking retarded?! There was no need for you to stay up all night." Chenjia – dry and dapper under an black umbrella – had the audacity to spit. "He's not likely to go out for a midnight stroll, is he?"

"It's not like I could sleep if I wanted to, what with this weather." Mey-rin narrowed her eyes, wiping her wet bangs from her vision. "And for the record, no one said fucking anything about him going outside. I just needed to know which room he sleeps in."

Chenjia blinked.

"That's it?!" He snarled. "You took an entire night to figure that out?" He gestured wildly towards the manor. "Half the fucking manor's made of glass, it's not so hard to fucking see where's the master bedroom, is it, you cunt?"

Mey-rin grit her teeth. "You're fucking blind, Chenjia. All of the window curtains are drawn. I can see from far away, I can't bloody well look through walls, can I?"

The man turned, squinting through the downpour and oscillating sheets of rainfall as he confirmed her findings for himself.

"... be that as it may, Haku's growing impatient." He finally said, and Mey-rin knew that he saw that she was right. "How much longer is it going to take for that bitch to die?"

The sniper faced the manor once more.

"I found where he sleeps." she muttered. "This morning, one of the servants opened the curtains for an instant. The Earl was in bed."

"Then why didn't you take the shot?"

"Because the window of opportunity was too small." She sighed. "And there's a storm going on. With this much wind, at this distance, I didn't think I would be able to manage a clean shot.

But the skies are clearing. And tomorrow, at dawn, when the storm has died down," the owl opened her eyes, "I'll kill him."

"You'd better." Chenjia snorted, before flinging her a small sack. "There. That's your meal for the night. And if you need any more motivation, picture a bullet inside your head."

"That's really quality encouragement." She muttered, tucking the sack behind her with a huff. "And anyway, that's ambiguous."

"What?"

"It's ambiguous." She smirked. "I know you're trying to threaten me, but do you mean imagine me dying with a bullet in my head, or do you actually want me to imagine a bullet-"

The rest of her retort died in her throat as the man stalked closer towards the tree, furious.

"Ambiguous? My apologies for being ambiguous. I can do better. I can make my threats very, very indelible. " He seethed, eyes alight with malice. "Would you prefer I come up there and drag you down to break both your legs?"

"Haku wouldn't let you." She stated bravely, careful to not let any of her uncertainty show. "I'm more useful to him than you are."

"He only needs your sight and your arms, you bitch." The man grinned, an ugly thing full of yellowing teeth. "I'm sure once he knows how uppity you've become, he'd understand if I remove a tooth, or a nail or two."

For a while, there was nothing but the silence of rainfall between them, neither of them backing down.

Finally, Chenjia turned to leave, but not without a final parting remark.

"And who knows?" He smiled thinly. "Should the day come that you can't do your job properly, who knows? Some of our customers are always looking for virgins."

The man waited, and watched, until he was sure the blood had properly drained from the girl's face, before nodding in satisfaction as he disappeared back into the thick of the forest.

"Uncle Arthur," Gawain said, "you're a grand man. I told you it would be alright!"

The hour had come, and as they all predicted, Lancelot – sweet, sweet Lancelot – had stormed through the guard and swept the Queen away on horseback to pandemonium and panic.

The King looked about him as if he were searching for the thing to do. His age, the suggestion of infirmity, had lifted from him. The crow's feet around his eyes were beaming.

"I think we ought to have a monstrous drink to begin with. Page, page!" he cried at the door. "Where the devil have you gone? Page! Here, bring us some drinks. What have you been doing? Watching your mistress being burned?"

The delighted child gave a squeak and rattled down the stairs again, which he was half-way up.

"And then, after the drink?" asked Gawain.

Arthur came back cheerfully, rubbing his hands.

"I have not thought. Something will happen. Perhaps we can make Lancelot apologize, or some arrangement like that—and then he can come back. We could get him to explain that he was in the Queen's bedroom because she had sent for him to pay the Meliagrance fee, as she had briefed him, and she didn't want to have any talk about the payment. And then, of course, he had to rescue her, because he knew she was innocent. Yes, I think we could manage something like that. But they would have to behave themselves in future."

Gawain's enthusiasm had evaporated before his uncle's. He spoke slowly, with his eyes on the floor.

"I doubt..." he began.

The King looked at him.

"I doubt you will ever patch it up in full, while Mordred still lives."

"Never," Mordred said with the bitter drama of a perfect cue, "while I still live."

Arthur turned around in surprise. He surveyed the feverish eyes, then went to his son with a movement of concern.

"Mordred!"

"Arthur."

"Don't speak to the King like that. How dare you?"

"Do not speak to me at all."

Gawain turned mechanically towards his brother.

"Mordred," he asked with a cumbrous accent. "Mordred, where have you left Sir Gareth?"

"Go and look for them, Gawain, among the people on the square."

Arthur began: "Gareth and Gaheris..."

"Are lying in the market-place. It was difficult to recognize them, because of the blood."

"They are not hurt, surely?" The King blanched. "They were unarmed. They are not wounded?"

"They're dead."

"But they had no armor," protested the King.

"They had no armor." agreed Mordred. "The top of Gareth's head was off," he said with indifference, "and he had a surprised expression. Gaheris had no expression, because his head was split in half."

Gawain said, with frightful emphasis: "Mordred, if you are telling a lie..."

"... the righteous Gawain will slay the last of his kin."

"Mordred!"

"Arthur," he replied. He turned on him a face of stone, insanely mixed between venom, blandness and misery.

"If it is true, it is terrible. Who could have wanted to kill Gareth, and him unarmed? They were not even going to fight. They were going to stand by, because I told them to. Besides, Lancelot is Gareth's best friend. It seems impossible. Are you sure you are not making a mistake?"

"Who else but the great, noble, Lancelot?" said Mordred. "The pure and fearless Knight of the Lake, whom you have allowed to cuckold you and carry off your wife, amused himself before he left by murdering my two brothers—both unarmed, and both his loving friends."

"Liar! I must go away to see."

Gawain stumbled out of the room, still rushing, in the same charge which had taken him towards his brother. Arthur sat down on the bench. The little page, coming back with the ordered drink, bowed himself double.

"Your drink, sir."

"Take it away."

"Yes, sir."

"Page," he cried, as the child went.

"Sir?"

"How many casualties?"

"They say twenty knights dead, sir. Sir Belliance the Orgulous, Sir Segwarides, Sir Griflet, Sir Brandiles, Sir Aglovale, Sir Tor, Sir Gauter, Sir Gillimer, Sir Reynold's three brothers, Sir Damas, Sir Priamus, Sir Kay the Stranger, Sir Driant, Sir Lambegus, Sir Herminde, Sir Pertilope."

"But Gareth and Gaheris?"

"I heard nothing of them, sir."

Blubbering and still running, the red, mountainous man was in the room once more. He was running to Arthur like a child. He was sobbing. "It is true! It is true! I found a man that saw it done. Poor Gaheris and our brother Gareth—he has killed them both, unarmed."

Overcome, the great man fell on his knees and buried his sand-white head in the old King's mantle.

The book closed shut.

"And I think that's a good stopping point for tonight." Archer said.

Finnian looked aghast from where he was snugly tucked in.

"But surely he didn't-"

"He did, Finnian." Archer glibly informed him. "It's a terrible thing, true, but the reality of it was, on the day of the Queen's execution, Lancelot was seized with the madness of one whose love was about to perish for his mistakes, and could make no distinction as to who he killed as he saved her."

"But why?" The child sat up, deeply engrossed with the story. "Why did he do it? Why would he kill his friends?"

"I don't know, Finnian. If he was here to tell the story himself, I don't think even Lancelot could explain it to you either." Archer relaxed, helping himself to another sip of mulled wine from the nightstand.

When he noticed Finnian did not seem satisfied with his answer, he sighed, and went on:

"Personally, I think his problem was that he loved too much."

Finnian blinked.

"He had a love for his knightly ideals, which he thought he had forsaken by laying with Elaine. He had a love for his Queen, but that was put into conflict with his love for the King. When one loves too much, madness often follows."

"Lancelot loved Arthur?"

"Not in the way you think." Arthur waved him off. "It's the love that any man serving a liege would harbor. The kind of love that would inspire such devotion between a king and his servant. It's the love between friends."

Finnian took a while to contemplate this, face adorably scrunched as he did so.

"Friends… devotion… is that love like yours and the Earl's, Mr. E?"

The ensuing silence might have been funerary were it not for the mechanical ticks of the alarm clock to the side.

After too long a moment, the Counter Guardian snorted and shook his head.

"Nothing like that, Finnian." He said. "I only serve the Earl because I have to, and I'd thank you to remember that."

If the boy felt – in a moment of sheer madness – that the man's words felt hollow, he wisely chose to keep that thought to himself.

"Then, Mister E…" Finnian asked, emerald eyes shining with curiosity, "have you ever loved someone?"

The butler felt half-tempted to leave the room and bid the little gardener good night, but the mulled wine must have left him in a pensive mood.

He thought about simple days, cooking breakfast and sharing meals with a quiet, sweet girl with lustrous, violet hair.

He thought about his days in school, his days in London, a time that was at once vexing and joyful as he spent it with a girl with long, wavy brown hair in twintails.

He thought about his days, a long way from home, spending rare days off under stained glass with his senior after missions.

He thought about that once and future king, and how in the end, after all the trials and tender moments they shared, each could not convince the other that their dreams were wrong.

Emiya sighed.

"I've loved many, Finnian." He finally said, no longer smiling. "But never as much as they deserved."

And with that, he turned the lamp off, taking the cup of mulled wine with him as he exited the room without a sound.

"Gawain, forgive me. My own heart bleeds for what I have done. I know how you are hurt, because it has hurt me too. Won't you give peace to our country, if I make a penance? Don't force me to fight for my life, but let me make a pilgrimage for Gareth's sake. I will start at Sandwich in my shirt, and walk barefoot to Carlisle, and I will endow a chantry for him every ten miles in between."

"I have heard your speech and your promises, but you have slain my brothers. That I will never forgive. If it pleases my uncle, King Arthur, to agree with him, then the King will lose my service. However we may talk of it, we know the truth. The man is a revealed traitor, to the King and to myself."

"If it is the King's judgment, I shall accept it."

"The King agreed with me already, before you came."

"Sir, is this true?"

But the old man only bowed his head.

"At least let me hear it from the King's mouth!"

Arthur shook his head like a baited bear. He moved it with the heavy movement of a bear, but would not look from the floor.

"Speak."

"Lancelot," he was heard to say, "you know how the truth stands between us. My Table is broken, my knights parted or dead. I never sought a quarrel with you, Lance, nor you with me."

"But can't it end?"

"Gawain says..." he began faintly.

"My King," Gawain burst out, "my lord and my uncle. Is it the court's will that I pronounce sentence upon this recreant traitor?"

The silence became absolute.

"Know then, all ye, that this is the King's Word. The Queen shall come back to him with her liberty as it was, and she shall stand in no peril for nothing that was surmised afore this day. This is the Pope's will. But you, Sir Lancelot, you shall go forth banished out of this kingdom within fifteen days, a revealed recreant; and, by God, we shall follow you after that time, to pull down the strongest castle of France upon you."

"Gawain," he asked painfully, "don't follow me. I will accept the banishment. I will live in my French castles. But don't follow me, Gawain. Don't keep the war forever. If you follow me, Gawain, don't challenge me: don't let Arthur come against me. I can't fight against my friends. Gawain, for God's sake don't make us fight."

"Leave. Deliver the Queen and remove yourself at once from this court."

Lancelot pulled himself together with a sort of final care. He looked from England to his tormentor. He turned slowly to the Queen, who had not spoken. He saw her ridiculous olive branch, her clumsiness and silly clothes.

He took her by the hand, led her to the middle of the room, translating her into his remembered lady. Something in his grip, in his step, in the fullness of his voice, made her bloom again—it was their last partnership—into the Rose of England. He lifted her to a crest of conquest which they had forgotten. As stately as a dance, the gargoyle took her to the center. There, before the realm, he made an end.

"My King and my old friends, a word before I go. My sentence is to leave this fellowship, which I have served in all my life. It is to depart your country, and to be pursued with war. I stand then, for the last time, as the Queen's champion. I stand to tell you, lady and madam, in presence of all this court, that if any danger may threaten you in future, then I will come from France to defend you—and so let all remember."

But it was the last time that Sir Lancelot, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were to be together. The three friends would never see one another again.

He passed her fingers deliberately, turned stiffly, and began to pace in silence down the long length of the room.

His future closed about him as he went.

The day had dawned bright and cold, the ground awash with the lazy movement of mist, but the air was still.

The little owl roused herself from where she perched.

The time had come.

She tucked the stock of the rifle against her shoulder, peering between the iron sights as she set it against the window, whose curtains remained drawn tightly shut.

And there she waited. Seconds passed, followed by minutes, and there the owl laid alert, unblinking, unmoving as she awaited her prey.

One way or another, someone was dying today.

"How the bloody hell did you manage to break the alarm clock again?! Do you want me to graft it to a wall? Is that what it will take for you to wake up on time?"

"I didn't know I broke it!" Finnian protested, mouth full with eggs. "I did it in my sleep!"

"Well, get to the gardens at once. Keep on with the flowerbeds. I'll deal with you later." Archer made to turn away, tea trolley in hand. "It's another busy, busy day."

A bug crawled along the arch of her neck, but she resisted the urge to smack it away.

Any moment now…

Knock Knock

The door opened, and the butler strolled in, pushing the tea trolley beside the four-poster bed.

"Good morning, Master."

Mumbling, the Earl sat up, one hand propped as the other made to wipe the sleepiness away.

"Come on. Up and at them." Archer muttered, waving the curtains open with a flourish before busying himself with the teapot. "Today I've prepared Pu'Erh tea for you."

"There's a name that rouses one's appetite…" Ciel grumbled.

"Don't knock it before you try it, master." Archer put a hand on his hips. "I'll have you know-"

Hundreds of yards away, a lone pair of curtains were drawn open.

And the owl finally had her prey in her sights.

Got you, she thought as she watched it stretch from where it sat.

She breathed in.

She breathed out.

A finger tightened along the trigger, and the owl swooped-

"... black tea that has been roasted and fermented-"

Clink

Master and servant froze.

Somewhere, in the distance, there came the muted, unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

Robotically, they turned towards the window, already splintered and cracked in a circular fashion at the bottom.

Frowning, Archer approached it, taking in the small bullet embedded right in the middle of the spider's web of fractured, reinforced glass.

His gaze flitted between his master – still sitting stock still in the middle of bed – and back to the bullet that stood no chance, a myriad of calculations in his head.

Finally, he looked out.

The grounds were empty, save for a gardener that had stood eerily still at the sudden sound. There was no one at the gates, no one in the distance. His gaze wandered towards the cliffs-

Archer blinked.

Stunned, frightened, incensed, Mey-rin watched with mounting horror as that man looked towards where she perched.

She should run. Every instinct within her screamed for her to get the hell out of there, but she remained paralyzed in shock.

I could not have missed, she thought frantically, I never miss, but just how-

And then it happened.

Implausibly, impossibly, with hundreds of yards between them, ochre eyes met gray once more.

For a moment, all was still between them, one utterly bemused and the other unwilling to believe she was seen.

And then the man – for the lack of anything better to do – raised his hand in a half-hearted wave.

Fuck!

The tension broke, and Mey-rin – the full force of panic roiling in her gut – rolled out of the bough, landing in a rough heap as she scrambled, arms akimbo and gun half-strapped and dangling as she hurtled her way back into the forest's depths.

Archer watched her flee without a word.

Finally, he turned to his master, lips twitching.

"I beg your pardon, Master," he smiled beatifically, "but it appears that the manor is under attack. Would you like me to take care of it?"

And the sight of his butler being so blasé was too much for the Earl to bear.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK?!"