(A/N)

See bottom of chapter for notes.

Thanks to Fluflesnufaluphagus, Fallacies, and Hecturnus for being the best betas.

"Keep calm, stay quiet, and hope that they fuck off."

Ciel P.

Buckingham palace was always in a state of disrepair.

While the state rooms were a riot of gilt and color, the necessities of the palace were somewhat less luxurious. Ventilation was so bad that the interior smelled, and the gas lamps introduced midway into the 19th century didn't help matters. The chimneys produced so much smoke that the fires had to be allowed to die down, and as a result the already imposing residence was often cold as a result. Prince Albert, God bless his soul, quickly endeared himself to his wife by busying himself with a reorganization of the household offices and staff, addressing the design faults of the palace as much as a man in his position reasonably could. For perhaps a decade, things got better.

And then he shuffled off his mortal coil and everything went to hell all over again.

The grief-stricken Queen withdrew from public life and left Buckingham Palace to live between Windsor Castle, Osborne House and Balmoral in Scotland, and the palace was neglected as a result. Who could blame her? Happy memories with her husband were now unbearable to recall, and even without them she had little fond memories of the place to begin with. Indeed, between the palace being too small to house her family comfortably, and the time her knickers were stolen from her by a particularly audacious boy that broke in for shits and giggles, it can be safely said that her Majesty thought the place particularly unbearable. Naturally, things fell further into disrepair, and the staterooms that held politicians and the ballrooms that had housed the most celebrated contemporary musicians were left to shuttered darkness, with their gilt chairs stacked in a corner and their chandeliers stuffed in bags.

It was only later, when public opinion turned against her – as was their wont – that the Queen was forced to return to London, and back to the palace in all its discolored scagliola and pink lapis. Though arrangements were made such that court functions were held at Windsor Castle alongside regular trips to Balmoral, the Queen was forced to live in Buckingham Palace for the rest of her life.

Such were his thoughts as Marquis Alexis Leon Midford, dressed in full military regalia and sitting on one such gilt chair of plush velvet beside his wife, stared ahead at the empty throne within the grand ballroom, waiting alongside the fifty or so others invited to the decoration ceremony of his son-in-law to be.

"Why is he being decorated at such a young age?" He whispered, leaning towards his wife. "You'd think her Majesty would see fit to offer him some time off given what has happened."

"On the contrary; Ciel insisted." The Marchioness murmured. "He believed the sooner it was done the better."

"All he's doing is painting a larger target on his back." Marquis Midford muttered, looking around at the nobles engaging in similarly hushed conversation. "People looking upon him and seeing what he is, a child. It'll only put him in more danger."

"Tanaka has been released from Ann's care." She mused. "Age notwithstanding, I daresay he's able to defend the manor and Ciel should the need arrive."

"Really?" His eyes twinkled. "Not a word about our dear Mr. Emiya?"

"Mr. Emiya is in training." She demurred, eyes narrowed. "Besides, I shall pay a visit to the manor one of these days, just to see how they are getting on."

"Come now, Franny. We don't want to scare them." Alexis smiled, wincing slightly at the glare he received in response to her pet name. "It'd be better if I go. I do possess his vote as a member of the House of Lords, and I can see how things are handled in the manor whilst discussing important happenings of Parliament."

"And I can't do the same?"

"I think we both know that your reputation precedes you." The Marquis' eyes glinted. "You showing up would only put them on edge. What else could your visit be but a test?"

The Marchioness pursed her lips.

"I am his aunt, you know. I'm allowed to visit my nephew."

Alexis blinked. Right. It was difficult to remember sometimes, given the way she behaved, but Frances was right.

The two returned to silence, allowing the hushed whispers of the rabble around them to engulf them. Absent-mindedly, the Marquis checked his watch. Five minutes.

"I say." Frances muttered, glancing behind her.

"Hm?"

"Don't turn around now, but Diedrich's a few rows behind us."

The Marquis immediately swirled in his seat, ignoring the sharp smack on his thigh from his wife. Sure enough, there he was: his former senior at Weston, bristling and fidgeting in his seat as he stared straight ahead, distinctly unimpressed at the pomp and grandeur of it all.

Looking back, Vincent had ran the man ragged as his fag and contact in Germany, abusing the deal he leveraged in their days as fellow students and upperclassmen. No, it went deeper than that. He recalled the last time he dropped in, angrily demolishing platters of pastries with gusto as he regaled Alexis of the time he was summoned back to the manor at the drop of a hat, never mind the preparations already made for him to spend autumn in his retreat at Baden-Baden. The letter – Help. Manor. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient come all the same. Please – had been thrust into his hand as he was already halfway aboard the gangplank to the steamer across the channel.

Fearing the worst, he'd abandoned his plans of well-deserved rest and relaxation in Germany's premier spa town and made for the estate at once, only to blow a gasket when he arrived. The Phantomhive patriarch and heir apparent were unharmed, playing chess, and Diedrich was promptly requested to make the same meal that he fed Vincent when he was sick in college for his ailing wife.

Retelling the story, bits of German – a language that had the curious quality of making the speaker sound angry even if he wasn't – had slipped into Diedrich's rant as he waved his arms about, and Alexis could understand little of it other than the words 'emotionally manipulative son of a bitch' and a few choice curses that had him pause in their creativity.

Diedrich had grumbled, Diedrich had complained, Diedrich had ranted, but in the end he cooked the savory Milchreis for Rachel Phantomhive all the same. Somewhere deep inside that perennially unhappy and hot-headed man was someone who cared deeply.

Their eyes met over the rows of nobles, and Diedrich gave the customary tilt of his chin in acknowledgment, which Alexis returned with a smile.

"He's gained a little weight." Frances muttered into an open fan. "I can barely see his cheekbones now."

"Can you blame him?" Alexis tittered. "Vincent was a slave driver. Be it in matters of diplomacy, business, or espionage, Diedrich was always his first contact. The man has the unfortunate habit of snacking when stressed. And then Vincent died, and he's left picking up the pieces and getting his own affairs in order. It's a lot for a single man to handle."

"Between you and me, I think he rather enjoyed it."

Alexis stared.

"No." He breathed.

"Yes." Frances Midford glanced conspiratorially at her husband. "Why else do you think he came all the way here from Germany?"

The leader of her Majesty's knights squirmed in his seat. "Because… he cares about our dear Ciel?" The excuse sounded weak, even to him.

"If he really considered the deal between him and Vincent to be off the moment he died, he wouldn't have come all the way here from Bonn just to meet the new Earl." The Marchioness languidly fanned herself. "He could have written. He could have sent apologies that he couldn't attend. He could have politely but firmly said that whatever arrangement he and his father had had ended with the passing of his father, but no. He's here in person."

"Here's how I see it happening." She went on, unperturbed at the suddenly thoughtful look on her husband's face. "Diedrich will present himself to Ciel when the ceremony is over. He will congratulate him on his earldom. He will offer his condolences over what befell his family, maybe offer a platitude or two about what Vincent meant to him. Ciel will seize the opportunity and ask him about a few projects his father had left behind. Diedrich will fuss. Diedrich will complain that it's no longer his problem. Diedrich will eventually acquiesce and help Ciel with whatever he's asked, thinking that it will only be for a few jobs at most. One job will fold right into the other, and soon Diedrich will be back in a hell of his own making, and he will keep on eating. He will keep putting on weight, cursing one Phantomhive after the other. And he will have no one to blame but himself."

"... Poor man." Alexis grimaced. As much as he wanted to speak up in his senior's defense, Frances painted an eerily plausible picture. "Maybe I should warn him, get him to leave, if he knows what's best for him."

"You couldn't persuade him not to challenge Vincent to that blasted cricket match, and I don't see you being able to convince him today."

"Well, he survived Vincent, don't you think he'd be able to survive whatever our Ciel throws at him?"

Years later, Alexis would muse to himself that as with most things in life, Frances was right. The man known as Diedrich would later have an immense accretion of flesh descend like lava upon him, changing him from a fit military man with toned calves and chocolate abs into something as vast and august as a natural phenomenon. A flight of smooth double chins beneath a scowl and a magnificent handlebar mustache would lead down into the dizzying depths of a hirsute expanse of jiggly white flesh, and while he would remain remarkably agile and spry for his new physique, it would be difficult for any reasonable person to reconcile his present and future self.

All courtesy of one Ciel Phantomhive.

There was the sound of a door being opened, and a herald announced her Majesty's presence. The military band played the familiar opening chords of God Save the Queen, and there she was: flanked by the white figures of Double Charles and her silent attendant John Brown, Queen Victoria glided to her throne in predominantly black robes, as was her wont after her husband's death, but in accordance with the special occasion, splashes of color could be perceived here and there. As always, her Majesty's face was fixed with a pleasant, kind smile, which did wonders in masking the shrewd and calculating depths her eyes sometimes took. One did not rule over Britain, at her most prosperous and powerful, without some measure of intellect and intuition, and never with just a smile. After all, one gets a lot more done with a kind word and armies at their beck and call than just a kind word.

The congregation retook their seats only when her Majesty gracefully settled herself on the throne.

"I realize this isn't appropriate," Alexis muttered, watching the Chamberlain unfurl a scroll, "but her Majesty gets dumpier the more I look at her."

"Alex!" Frances hissed, aghast.

"I know, I know, age is rarely kind, just making a general observation." His eyes narrowed as the chamberlain announced the reason why they were gathered here today. "It's not like I've been insinuating anything about her and Brown like the Lefferts."

"There is nothing going on between the widowed Queen and her attendant." She whispered firmly, shooting a glance at the man in question standing slightly behind Victoria. "Although, one wonders why she allows him to wear goggles in court."

"Maybe he has a condition. Jaundice, perhaps."

"The Queen wouldn't send a person with jaundice to work."

"Who knows? Maybe it's pink eye. Maybe he's blind, and he has his own means of detecting how he should move." Alexis went on, enjoying his wife's gradual irritation, despite himself. "Maybe those eyes of his sees dead people. Maybe-"

"Shush."

Amidst their inconsequential back-and-forth, Chamberlain had finished his speech, the band had started up again, and the doors to the ballroom opened. As one, the audience gently turned in their seats in unabashed curiosity, and as one, they stilled.

The young Ciel Phantomhive cut an imposing figure in a single breasted, midnight-blue frock coat reminiscent of those worn by the Blues and Royals. His hair was trimmed, his bearings touched up, and the leather eyepatch on his eye complemented his scowl chiseled on alabaster skin. A ceremonial rapier hung tightly by his side. Dressed to kill with the mentality to match, Alexis thought as he watched the young heir stride purposefully towards the throne where her Majesty sat. But the countenance of one older than his years wasn't what took people off guard.

"Aren't those aiguillettes Vincent's?" He murmured, blinking as he took in the numerous gol bradis that adorned his shoulder and collar.

"Seems so." Frances whispered. "Apparently some survived the fire."

"I wonder if he's aware that it's considered gauche at best and offensive at worst for someone to wear honors not bestowed upon them."

"Oh, he probably is." Frances leaned further into her chair. "As I said before, Ciel wants to make a statement. The House of Phantomhive is still alive. Vincent Phantomhive is gone but not forgotten. Ciel Phantomhive shall finish what his father started. Easy enough to infer."

"Consider such statements made." Alexis whispered softly. "Still, one wonders if her Majesty will overlook the chutzpah-"

"She won't say anything about it now that things have reached this point." The Marchioness fanned herself. "Besides, there are certain things one must embark on in life even if one knows they are, in the end, mistakes."

Ciel Phantomhive passed by their row, sparing neither of them a glance as he carried on forward.

"It's not Nina's usual style." The Marquis remarked, giving the boy a once-over. "It looks like something one would commission out of J. Dege & Sons."

"It is the work of Hopkins the tailor, as a matter of fact. She visited the other day. Chatted with Paula all about it as she designed Elizabeth's boating dress."

"Did she?"

Frances nodded. "It was the same old with Hopkins: raving about his boyish features, talking about how she cannot wait to design couples' outfits for Elizabeth and Ciel both…" her eyes narrowed, "though a fair bit of it was complaining about that new butler of his."

"Emiya?" The Marquis turned, frowning. "What would she have against him of all people?"

"The words she used aren't fit for polite company." She rubbed her temple tiredly. "But apparently Emiya made a few remarks that she took the wrong way."

"Such as?"

There was a faraway look in her eyes.

"We're in polite company." Her tone was clipped and brooked no further discussion. "Come on, it's about to begin."

The band was winding to a close. The two returned their attention to the ceremony in front of them, watching as Ciel knelt in front of the dais. Standing up, her Majesty was handed a navy cloak as she slowly descended the steps.

That cloak was heavier than it appeared. With it came the title. With it came the duties. With it came expectations. With it came responsibilities. And despite his faith in him, Alexs couldn't help but wonder if Ciel was up for the task.

He wondered what was running through the mind of Ciel Phantomhive.

If one were to look from behind the spectacle of Her Majesty affixing the navy cloak onto the new earl, one would notice a man standing straight, hands behind his back as he watched the proceedings from a respectable distance outside the ballroom. Said man was dressed in his usual attire of a shroud and a black protective mesh suit, against the wishes of his master, stating that he needed to be prepared for any circumstance that should arise.

After all, if the master was dressed for battle, it stood to reason that the servant should follow suit.

Outwardly, the man behaved as appropriately as one could reasonably expect of his station. He was quiet, he was unobtrusive, he was deferential to the nobles that had walked past.

Inwardly, though…

'You know, for all you are pants at romance, I daresay the Queen is even worse. Do you know how she proposed to her late husband? It was with the words 'it would make me so happy if you would consent to what I wished'. That's something you say when you ask for another helping of chocolate cake, Master, minus the politeness, and she used it to ask someone to join her in holy matrimony. Funny, isn't it?'

'Emiya, if I so much as giggle during this entire process we will have words when we go home.'

Never one to back down from a challenge, Archer went on, smirking.

'Interesting thing to take note about Queen Victoria: she wasn't very popular when she was crowned, but every time public sentiment grew against her someone had the brilliant idea of trying to kill her. Naturally, after each failed attempt, she was loved by her people all over again until they didn't. We have a word to describe this sort of relationship where I come from. Do you know what it is?'

'Emiya.' It was amazing how much venom could convey through their mental link. 'Her Majesty's literally in front of me adjusting my lapel. I don't want any accusations of me not taking this ceremony seriously, and if I fucking laugh there will be major ramifications for the House of Phantomhive.'

'You're laying it a bit thick, Master. You could always attribute any corpsing to being immeasurably excited and happy about it all. Heir to the Phantomhive name at last.'

'I have a reputation to maintain as well. God's sake, Emiya, I thought we went through your basic etiquette lessons enough for you to understand this is a terrible idea.'

'Can you blame me, master?' Archer sighed. 'I'm so very, very bored. I've finished examining all the paintings, all permutations of Pitts: Pitt the Elder, Pitt the Young, Pitt the Even Younger… and all of these paintings look the same these days, because they're painted to a romantic ideal rather than a true depiction of the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the person in question. You wouldn't even allow me to sit inside with the rest of them.'

'We both know you'll draw too much attention as you are, dressed like that, and with your general… everything, I'm not going to take chances. If only you didn't needlessly antagonize Hopkins she'd be happy to fashion you a proper suit for my investiture.'

'I only said that she's a deviant who's into little boys and girls. I don't think I spoke any falsehoods. I didn't make any mention of her trousers, I'm not that much fo a prude, but you saw the way that she rhapsodized about your, and I quote, waif-like and prepubescent body, end quote. Besides, she isn't a noble, and I'm not required to be civil.'

'Still.' His master chided. 'It'd do you good to have a good relationship with the associates of the Phantomhive family. You overreacted when Pitt arrived, too.'

Archer grimaced at the memory of the family photographer arriving, looking far too happy at the prospect of fresh business and with his camera in tow.

'I have nothing against Mr. Pitt. I was merely taken by surprise and reacted accordingly. Besides, I thought throwing him out after what he did was what you would have requested of me.'

'If it were anyone else, maybe so.' Ciel allowed, still standing ramrod straight as the Queen fussed over his bearings here and there. 'But I need all the allies I can get, and that includes those that worked with my father for so long.'

Archer watched as the Queen finished her task and stepped back.

"Welcome back, Earl Phantomhive." Her voice was warm as it reverberated across the room. "We welcome your return."

And just like that, it was over. The band started up again, there came a smattering of applause, the congregation stood and clapped, and Archer half-heartedly brought his hands together once or twice. All that work for a ceremony that barely lasted five minutes, he thought tiredly, already making plans for his afternoon tea when they returned.

The ceremony was over, and now came the reception. Archer watched as nobles and ladies glided, chatting aimlessly, to the room's sides, where platters of finger food and refreshments were laid out, gone lukewarm in the spring air. His own master was accosted by a severe Frances Midford, fussing over whatever she found lacking in his bearings, her husband following close behind.

Same old, same old.

He was seriously considering continuing his endeavor to make his master burst into laughter with a tidbit on what a Prince Albert piercing entailed when his thoughts were interrupted.

"Mr. Emiya?"

Archer turned around, blinking.

"I thought it was you." Before him was a lady garbed in various shades of deep red that complimented her rich, crimson hair. "You're very distinctive, even at a distance."

"Lady Durless." He bowed, extending an arm. "It's very nice to see you again. I regret not having the chance to speak with you more the last time we met."

"On the contrary, I'm glad we didn't." Angelina Durless tittered, placing her hand in his for Archer to kiss. "You were introduced to me when I was at work, hardly the sort of place where one wishes to be seen. This, though," she returned her gloved arm to her side, "this is more like my scene."

"Oh?"

"High society, Emiya." She shot him a knowing glance. "Ladies gossipping, men barely disguising their stares, chatter over who's who and who's done what… this melting pot of intrigue and envy is where I flourish."

"I can see why." Archer easily agreed. "You look lovely as always."

"Thank you." Ann laughed. "But I'm sure you say that to all the girls you meet."

"On the contrary. I can count on one hand the number of women I've met since I've been conscripted into indentured servitude," Archer demurred, "trust me when I say I mean every word I say to you. You wouldn't see me complimenting Marchioness Midford's general appearance. Or Miss Hopkins, for that matter."

Angelina blinked, before her eyes narrowed, the corners of her lips twitching.

"I don't think it serves a butler well to speak ill of others."

"We're in high society, my lady." Archer countered. "I was under the impression that talking trash behind other people's backs is not only allowed but encouraged."

Angelina looked shocked for but an instant before she laughed, a lovely sound that had Archer stifle a chuckle as well.

"I guess I can't deny that." She recovered, still smiling. "Far be it for me to criticize you when I've spent many an hour dishing over the latest scandal. God, it really is an addicting feeling. The attention, the mutual disdain, there really is no better means of bonding with someone than the knowledge that you're both doing something naughty."

"Naughty is right. Besides, you know as well as I do that the Marchioness would take any compliment on her appearance the wrong way."

"True." Angelina sighed, shaking her head in mock resignation. "Franny was always too serious for my liking. She'd bring up poor Lizzy into something unrecognizable and unladylike if I weren't there to offer my own advice."

"... Advice, ma'am?"

"Please, Mr. Emiya. Call me Ann." She waved an errant hand chidingly. "I'm far too young to be called Ma'am."

"I'm afraid I've been lectured rather severely that I should refer to you at the very least as Lady Durless."

"Oh, pooh, they've got to you too." She huffed. "There's no need to stand on ceremony with me. You should know what it means when a lady allows you to call her by her name."

Archer paused.

This was veering very slightly into dangerous waters.

"Oh, please." He finally smiled. "I'm sure you say that to all the men you meet."

"Oh?" She grinned, nudging him lightly. "What are you implying, Mr. Emiya? Has Ciel told you all about me?"

… Oh dear.

Archer had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire, from one dangerous conversation to another.

His master had told him, Archer reflected, during one of his lectures on who's who in the noble circles, and it wasn't a particularly happy story. No, no part of it could ever pass for happy. Widowed at her age, womb removed as a result of an accident, and her extended family lost in the fire. Being a widow was one thing. Being someone who couldn't produce an heir was another. Her chances of ever being married again was reduced to close to nothing. It was a wonder the lady could even put on a happy face.

He did his best not to fidget under her expectant gaze, as he carefully considered his words.

"He tells me you're an accomplished doctor," he finally said, "and a wonderfully doting aunt besides. He told me of the day he spent with you and Lady Elizabeth in the gardens with Sebastian. It is clear my master is immeasurably fond of you."

"Oh, I remember that." She looked fondly to where Ciel stood, flanked by the Midfords. "I recall faking anger and wanting them to call me big sister."

"Faking, Lady Durless?"

"Oh, hush, you." Angelina looked annoyed as she lightly hit him in the arm. "A girl's allowed to indulge in whimsy."

"If you say so, my Lady."

"It's like I always told Lizzy." She recalled. "Men would be happiest if their wife was cute. These men all enjoy being under the impression that they are the only source of emotional and intellectual stimulation a lady has… amongst other things."

Archer's lips pursed.

"You give my master too little credit. He isn't as shallow as you perceive him to be."

"Oh, no one's accusing anyone of being shallow, Mr. Emiya." For a moment her smile was gone, and her face had become terrifyingly blank. "It's how it's always been. When you've been in my position for as long as I have, certain truths come to light. It was the same with Ashley, the Beauforts… and Rachel, come to think of it."

It was clear to anyone paying attention to the conversation that despite how she phrased it, her sister was who she was predominantly referring to. There was a story there, but Archer felt that the conversation was heavy and loaded enough without adding the deceased Phantomhive matriarch into the mix.

"Lady Elizabeth doesn't have to worry about trying to maintain Ciel's affections for her." Archer assured her. "He's very much smitten and committed to the idea of making her the happiest bride there is."

"Of course he is." She nodded approvingly. "My nephew isn't the type to do things by half. I'll always be there to listen and offer advice on how to spice up the marriage, if need be."

"Oh dear." Archer muttered. "Whatever happened to coaxing her to be naive and innocent?"

"Time and place, Mr. Emiya." Angelina wagged her eyebrows suggestively. "Time and place for everything."

He scoffed good-naturedly, and the two watched Ciel move from one noble to the other in the distance.

"There's Diedrich." She suddenly said.

"Hm?"

"That man in the German uniform."

"Ahh." Archer nodded, watching as the man gruffly shook his master's hand. "My master did mention him once or twice. He was his father's assistant, if I recall correctly?"

"Oh, there's no need to sugarcoat it." Angelina sighed. "He was Vincent's slave, more like."

Archer winced.

"I hope you're only exaggerating."

"I wish I was." She shook her head. "Vincent took to calling him 'his loyal German dog' out of earshot… and within earshot a couple of times, come to think of it. You could not find a more mercurial and irritable man. Goodness, what he needs is a woman to mellow him down."

In the distance, his master said something that had the man react, and they watched as Diedrich protested, gesticulating wildly as he argued, Ciel's own face set in stone.

"It doesn't look like he'll have time for such frivolities," Archer murmured, "with the plans my master has in store for him."

"It does seem to run in the family." Angelina clicked her tongue. "Merciless, the whole lot of them. I swear, that man will work himself to an early grave if he doesn't settle down soon with someone that will dote on him."

"Who knows what is in the cards? I don't think anyone would have suspected the former Earl dying before him."

"Yes…" her face darkened. "Life's full of those little twisted ironies, isn't it?"

Sometime in the middle of their conversation, Diedrich had stormed off in search of refreshments, taking an entire plate of finger sandwiches as he growled under his breath. Archer watched with detached fascination as the hot-blooded man made short work of cream cheese and cucumber, moving on to egg and smoked salmon with a single-minded intensity.

"At the rate he's going, you'd think he's trying to engineer his own demise by sheer gluttony."

"Oh, I don't want to even imagine." Angelina complained. "Can you imagine a fat Diedrich? Even now he's quite the looker. God, the things I'd do to him when no one's looking. I'd scrub my cheeks on his abdomen if he'd let me."

Archer looked heavenward. Christ Almighty.

"Bah. If he survived Vincent, he'll surely survive Ciel." She nodded, reassuring herself. "How bad could that boy be?"

"My lady, you're talking to someone who has the dubious pleasure of attending to his every need." Archer demurred. "I assure you whatever Vincent Phantomhive was as a master and Earl, my master is more, in every way."

"Oh? Do go on."

"He has me rebuilding the mansion by night, acting as his butler AND tutor by day. I cook, I clean, I slave away, and I cannot for the life of me remember the last time I've properly rested. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm talking to such a lovely lady I'd keel right over with how boring this ceremony has been."

Angelina giggled. "Dear me. And the other servants aren't of any help?"

Archer sighed. "I'm afraid my master is particularly selective over who he chooses to serve his household, to the point that it's just me and Tanaka at present… and he cares for him too much to overwork him, so the bulk of the duties fall to me. Between you and me, serving my master can be difficult at times."

"I can imagine."

"All due respect, no, no you can;t." Archer made a show of looking around before leaning forward conspiratorially. "Did you know that a month ago, he barely had the dexterity in his fingers to button himself?"

"No!"

"Yes." Archer shook his head at her disbelieving expression. "Even as I obey his every order, I do have my limits, my lady, and it'd amuse you to know that amongst the usual lessons I give him as his impromptu tutor I also had him dress himself every morning until he could do it to my satisfaction."

The lady guffawed, raising a gloved hand to hide her laugh. "Really? Now there's something juicy and worth sharing when the Lefferts have me over for tea next week."

"Please don't." Archer paled. "If my master got wind of me airing his dirty laundry, he'd have me hung, drawn and quartered."

"Oh, relax, Mr. Emiya. We're family." Angelina Durless chided. "Even I have standards. I won't go about gallivanting and gossipping about dear old Ciel… well, not for a good couple of years, at least."

Archer hoped that by that time he would have finished whatever assignment the counter force had for him. It was one thing to talk smack to his master. It was quite another to talk smack of his master in front of others, never mind the fact that Lady Durless was family.

And speaking of family…

"If you don't mind me asking, my lady." Archer began, reluctant to broach what felt like another dangerous conversation. "Why aren't you in there with the others? Surely this servant isn't so interesting that you'd neglect the reception and ceremony."

"I could ask the same of you, Mr. Emiya."

"Well, before being his butler, I am his guard. And my master took offense to me wearing my battle clothes. Says it stands out."

"Oh. so Ciel doesn't want to be outshone by his handsome butler on his big day, is that it?"

"No." Archer laughed. "Not quite what I meant. I insisted on my attire, he demurred, we compromised." His eyes narrowed. "That's all well and good for me, but why aren't you in there, my Lady?"

At this, her smile drooped, relaxing into something pensive as she looked to where his master stood, in deep conversation with Diedrich once more.

"This is my first day back in high society after a long time, Mr. Emiya."

"... after the fire, you mean?"

"Yes. Amongst other things." She murmured, taking the time to fix him with a searching gaze. "It's not particularly nice, you know, hearing people whisper and talk about the worst day of your life… of which I have multiple candidates to choose from. Bless all of their short attention spans that they only talk about the largest and most tragic of all."

Archer thought this line of thought particularly ironic given her own propensity and admission for the love of gossip earlier, but he kept his mouth shut. People were allowed to dabble in hypocrisy. One could not really see or judge themselves the same way that they judged others, after all.

"It's easy to throw yourself into work to keep your mind off the terrible things… for the most part. Of course, there are always people that talk behind your back even there, but there's little one can do about that. It's a part of life. I enjoyed it once, after all, I can't really blame them for it, can I? And that isn't to say that there aren't people that show care and concern in their own way. But it's a curious feeling, you know, wishing ill on those people that care about you for the simple fact that they never could understand."

Angelina Durless laid a hand on the doorframe, and Archer noted with some wariness that it had started twitching intermittently.

"On the other hand, you have the people involved with it, one way or the other. Like dear old Franny and Lizzy. You know, it's difficult to grieve when someone's outwardly suffering more than you are. As a matter of fact, the day of the funeral, I had brought along my makeup when it inevitably ran from tears, but I had no need of it after all. Lizzy cried them all for me that day. I was behind her, strong as Franny, as we consoled her accordingly. It seemed my own grieving was to be done on my own time. On my own."

She mulled on that for a moment before turning to Archer, slightly abashed.

"Please don't ever think that I resent her for it, it'd break my heart. I love her dearly. She's the daughter I never had, and never will. But it's difficult not to feel detached when someone is breaking down in front of you. And then you begin to wonder…"

The duo watched with some interest as the Queen's personal attendant John Brown approached Ciel, speaking in low tones, interrupting his conversation with Diedrich.

"Franny was as always difficult in her own way." Angelina went on. "Superwoman that she was, she assumed responsibility, claiming it was her own fault that Rachel and Vincent perished. She could not protect them. She could not save them. The entire attack was thus her own failure, she'd like to think… It's odd, you know, how assuming the blame and responsibility is, in its own way, more egotistical and prideful than not admitting to anything at all. Were she any other person, I'd take it the wrong way… or right way, depending on where you stand on the matter."

His master begged the leave of his companions and followed John Brown into another room, presumably to have an audience with the Queen in private.

Archer was beginning to wish that he could follow suit and beg leave from the heavy conversation.

"And so, I threw myself into work, ignoring the parties and socializing that I've been accustomed to, and resigned myself to dealing with it in my own time. I didn't plan on returning for a good while, but my nephew is coming back into the fold. If Ciel can do it, weakened as he is, there's no excuse why I shouldn't be able to put on a brave face and be right there with him."

"... you're allowed to deal with your own feelings and resentments at your own pace, Lady Durless." Archer murmured. "Everyone handles grief in different ways."

"Still." She shook her head. "If my nephew insists on claiming the title and duties as heir to the House of Phantomhive, I need to be there. Maybe not with him, but at the very least within his periphery. He needs to know that I'm always there, ready to be called upon. Anything that would make his job easier. Lord knows it's not easy."

A little way off, a noble was asking a palace attendant whether they were allowed to smoke.

"And that's why I'm here, ruminating on just how I should make my own debut." The smirk was back on her face, and Archer relaxed accordingly. "I've narrowed it down to being fashionably late, showing up for the reception, but I'm still stuck on how I should present myself."

"Maybe you should just be yourself?"

"Oh grow up, Mr. Emiya." She scoffed. "No one is ever themselves here."

"True." Archer shrugged. "My master is a lot more polite today than he usually is. He's normally a lot more curt and surly."

"Surlier than he already is?"

"Lady Durless." He pointed to the room. "That was his happy face."

She tut-tutted. "Oh dear. We're going to have to work on that, the two of us."

Diedrich had taken to commiserating with the Marquis, ranting as the Midfords stood back, bemused.

"Still, your absence was very much felt in the room." Archer pressed. "I'd imagine he was a little disappointed not seeing you there."

"On the contrary." She looked resigned. "I'm exactly where I need to be, Mr. Emiya. Our talk at the hospital made things quite clear."

"... my lady?"

The smile Angelina Durless had put on then was a small and brittle thing. "Of course, I empathize completely, the idea that others can't understand what you're going through, and wanting to deal with things on your own. And If he won't tell Lizzy or Franny, there's little chance he'll talk to me about it. Little Ciel sees us all as his little chess pieces. Pitt, Diedrich, Lizzy… even James if he didn't leave. Talking to Ciel inevitably allows one to get an idea of where one stands on his side of the board. And as for me," she looked down at her shoes, frowning slightly. "I'm where I've always been. Just on the periphery, looking in, waiting to be called upon."

The two allowed the murmurs and hubble of the crowd to descend upon them.

Archer cleared his throat.

"My master is a prideful sort, my Lady, and you give yourself too little credit. No matter what you see yourself as, the fact remains that you're family. You're what's left of his mother. He's always been too proud to ask for help, but I assure you he has his own depths and his own twisted sense of kindness and vulnerability. Are you aware of what happened when Pitt visited the other day?"

"Pitt?" She raised an eyebrow in interest. "What sort of trouble did he get into this time?"

"Well." Archer huffed. "My master had written to him, asking for pictures of his ceremonial attire to be taken. He'd arrived, looking all too happy at the thought of business at last, and promptly asked if he could use the washroom. I escorted him there myself."

He closed his eyes.

"Half an hour later, when he still didn't emerge, my master told me to check up on him. Do you know what I discovered?"

"Don't tell me. Dysentery? Diarrhea? Cholera?"

"Something more pedestrian." Archer had a faraway look in his eyes. "Pitt took the opportunity of being offered a washroom and decided to have a nice, hot bath."

Angelina blinked once or twice in rapid succession before bursting with laughter. "Oh dear. That sounds like Pitt, alright. Ever the starving artist."

"Quite." Archer grimaced. "He later told me that he was experiencing problems with the pipes where he'd shacked up in Fleet Street, and this was the first proper washing-up he's had in weeks. I have the sinking suspicion that even if I showed him the servant's toilets, he was desperate enough to just fill a basin with water from the sink and just give himself a good scrubbing right then and there. I was prepared to throw him out and give him the third degree when my master waved me off. Pitt dried himself, put on his best suit, and went on to do his business like nothing out of the ordinary happened. My master made no mention of it again."

"As amusing as this story is, Mr. Emiya, is there a point to this at all?"

"There is." Archer inclined his head slightly. "This might be presumptuous of me to say as a mere butler, but please, don't give up on him. He doesn't show it, and Lord knows he'll continue to deny it, but he does cherish whatever family and friends he still has. I am not enough. I will never be enough. So please, don't relegate yourself elsewhere. Don't give up on my master."

Angelina looked surprised at his outburst, searching his face for anything, eyes flitting here and there.

Finally, she sighed.

"I've never given up on my family." She said after a long while. "And I don't intend to start now. There's no need for you to worry, Mr. Emiya. I'm just… more aware, is all. "

Archer sighed. "I understand."

"Still. I had you pegged for the strong and silent type." The devilish grin was back on her face. "Look at you being all sentimental. It's a wonder you aren't here bringing a debutante of your own."

"Indentured servitude doesn't really give many chances for one to socialize." Archer muttered, flushing slightly. "And I've been reliably told that fraternization between servants is frowned upon."

"Really? Never thought about getting between a maid's knickers? Bah." She waved him off. "I've a mind to bring you along to all my functions from now on as my personal chunk of eye candy."

Archer blinked.

"Isn't the purpose of appearing at such functions to come off as an available bachelorette? It seems a bit counterproductive bringing someone like me along." He smirked. "I'm sure I'll ruin most men for you."

"You have a lot to learn, Mr. Emiya." She wagged a finger. "People want a lot of things, but they all especially want what they can't have. A girl who's merely a six is instantly elevated to a nine when a man's beside her. With you, I daresay she'll be an eleven. God willing, I'll have half the men in London eating out the palms of my hands in a week."

"Please don't." Archer tried not to smile. "As amusing as the idea is, I don't think my master would appreciate rumors of his butler well on the way to becoming his uncle. The Marchioness would tar and feather me."

"Oh, let them talk. It's never going to really escalate to anything serious. Oh, yes," she stroked his arm, eyes widening slightly at his toned muscles, "I wouldn't even need a week."

Chuckling, she let go of his arm and adjusted her dress here and there.

"Alright. How do I look?"

"Ravishing." Archer assured her.

"Well then. No sense delaying the inevitable. I'll be off."

"Go get them, ma'am."

Angelina Durless shot him a wink. "To you it's Ann, Mr. Emiya. Remember that."

And with that, Angelina Durless stepped back into high society.

Archer watched, amused, as she made herself presentable to a single Mr. So-and-so, chatting freely over one thing or the other, making herself right at home in pleasant company. Amidst the nobles and ladies in various unobtrusive shades of black and white and creams, she cut a striking figure in red. The Marchioness, Archer noted, was already shaking her head in disapproval at it all.

Smiling, he turned away, refocusing his attention to the hall around him.

He'd expected more colors of gold and cream, akin to that of the Belle Epoque, but apparently that was still a little way off. Everywhere, he could see paintings of kings and queens, princes and princesses, along with the odd landscape.

I'd have to think about what would hang on our own walls, he mused. Archer wondered if his master would put any stock to his admittedly shallow expertise in art, and whether he'd trust his advice when it came to which artist was bound to be well renowned in the future. It wouldn't do to simply buy whatever was already in vogue; Fantin-Latour's paintings of flowers, popular as they were, were already exorbitant enough as is.

Archer was in the middle of planning a trip to a certain up-and-coming salon in France when his thoughts were interrupted once more.

"There's something you don't see everyday."

The servant stiffened, turning robotically to the source of the noise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Someone dressed for war." The owner of the snide voice stretched languidly as he approached, rapier hanging loosely by his side in a suit of brilliant white. The youth gave him a once-over, his gaze lingering over the black protective mesh that covered most of his torso. "Didn't anyone see fit to inform you of the dress code?"

"They did." Archer replied. "As you can see, I'm only here in my capacity as a butler, I'm not attending the ceremony and reception as I am."

"Butler?" The Lordling looked mildly intrigued. "You? To whom, if I may ask?"

Archer stood up straight.

"I serve as the butler to the new Earl of Phantomhive."

"Oh. The brat." He looked distinctly unimpressed all over again. "I say. Her Majesty goes and gets herself a Munshi and everyone else follows suit. Shouldn't you be in there with him, then?"

"He thinks I'd draw too much attention." Archer muttered, frowning slightly. "And my master wouldn't take kindly to being called a brat."

"I can call him whatever I want." He looked entirely unconcerned at Archer's veiled warning. "I'm as much of an earl as he is, and more."

Earl Charles Grey, Archer realized. The youth captured in the photograph his master had shown him was younger, but he was easily distinguishable all the same. It was difficult to forget those eyes that shone with casual cruelty and callousness.

… Archer would have to be careful about this.

"So. Munshi. What do they call you?"

Archer pursed his lips. "My name is Archer, Lord Grey."

"... No." Charles decided, leaning closer and inspecting his face with an unsettling intensity. "My eyes don't deceive me." He nodded once. "Yep. I knew it. You're a killer."

And just like that, Archer went cold.

"Excuse me?" He managed.

"Don't play dumb." He leaned back with all the casual indifference of one talking about the weather. "It must be killing you inside, being forced to come here and playing nice. You're just itching to get dangerous with someone, aren't you, killer that you are?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth." Archer spoke evenly, already desperately peering back into the ballroom for any sign of his master. "And I am but my master's butler."

"You keep saying that as if repeating it will make it true." Charles looked amused, relishing the sight of Archer fidgeting in place. "I've seen killers. I've shook hands with killers. I've executed killers." His eyes glinted with something unsettling. "And you are, without a doubt, the biggest killer I've ever met."

Fuck. Archer couldn't take it any longer.

"If you say so, Lord Grey. If you'd excuse me, I believe I hear my master calling for me-"

"Your master's conversing with Her Majesty the Queen at the moment." He barked, shutting down Archer's half-hearted attempt to leave. "Please. Chat with me in the meantime. Or do you find the company of an earl to be so insufferable, Mr. Killer?"

Archer gritted his teeth, counting to ten in his head.

"Perish the thought, Lord Grey."

"Hm." He leaned back, suddenly bored again. "That's more like it. At least you're aware of your rightful place."

All of a sudden, Archer was Emiya all over again: back in the hallway of Homurahara Academy, the bounded field erected, and everything colored in a curious shade of red. with Shinji being Shinji in front of him. He recalled feeling the urge to strangle him in hazy detail.

"Are you listening, Mr. Killer?"

Why don't you keep on calling me that, and I'll work on earning that epithet immediately, Archer thought acidly, forcing his face to remain neutral.

"Of course, Lord Grey."

Dispassionately, Charles Grey the Second looked back to the chatting congregation.

"Look at them." He muttered. "All of this fuss over a brat that's still in his swaddling clothes. I'd give it a month before he falls flat on his face, crying for daddy, and people seeing him for what he is: a brat."

"... I think you're being rather unfair." He supplied smoothly, carefully gauging the earl's reaction. "I believe my master will fill his father's shoes with all the appropriate grace and aplomb."

"His father?" Charles Grey looked disgusted. "Did you ever meet the man? He spoilt that brat rotten. Anyone with enough brains to cover a water biscuit could see it. And now his spawn is here, thinking he can pick up where his father left off like it's a game of Halfpenny. What a joke. I can tell you what all these people are thinking, that this entire ceremony's a farce. If the earl manages to accomplish even half of what Vincent had managed, I'll be surprised."

"... I think you're wrong." Archer felt compelled to speak up a little louder. "I've observed my master closely for the past two months, and there is no doubt in my mind that if he continues down his path, at this rate of growth, he will accomplish great things just like his father."

"Sure, sure." Charles muttered, clearly not paying any real attention. "Maybe I'm mistaken. What do I know? I mean, I'm only a member of the house of lords. I'm only just a knight. I'm only part of her Majesty's secret service. I'm only an earl. What would I know of that brat compared to a mere servant?"

And then, whatever was left of Archer's patience snapped.

Fuck it.

"You don't have the right to talk about my master like that."

The Earl froze, slowly turning to fix Archer a blank stare.

"Excuse me?"

"Know your place, Mr. Grey." Archer went on, in defiance of the Earl's growing incredulity. "Dress up and make big of your accomplishments all you want. You may be an Earl, a Knight, a member of the house of lords, but at the end of the day, you're just a servant like the rest of us. You just happen to have a nicer cage."

Silence.

The chatter of the congregation seemed to fade all of a sudden.

Charles Grey smiled, a thin, terrible thing.

"That sounded dangerously close to insubordination and disrespect, Mr. Killer."

"It's not. Insubordination implies that I work for you." Archer muttered, ignoring the Earl's darkening countenance. "And trust me when I say you'd recognize disrespect when I dole it out. This is me being nice."

Warily, he noted Charles thumbing the rapier at his side.

"Big words, Munshi." He grinned, eyes promising murder. "Why don't the two of us put that to the test?"

"Put away your sword, Mister Gray." Archer looked unimpressed. "Don't you have someone to attend to?"

"I don't give a rat's ass about-"

"Charles!"

The Earl paused, turning robotically to the source of the outburst.

John Brown, flanked by a wary ciel Phantomhive, looked between Archer and Charles Grey clinically.

"... I apologize for interrupting your conversation, but Her Majesty the Queen wants to see you." He finally said, adjusting his goggles slightly. "She's waiting in the drawing room as we speak."

For a moment, no one moved.

"Haaaah. You're a real buzzkill, you know that, John?" Charles Grey complained, sheathing his sword with a huff. "Things were just about to get good."

His master shot him a pointed look.

Archer shrugged.

"I guess we'll finish this another time, Munshi." The Earl grinned, eyes shining with malice. "We can get dangerous then."

And with that, he stalked off, whistling a jaunty tune, leaving the three in awkward silence.

John Brown cleared his throat.

"I'd better take my leave as well. Enjoy the rest of your day, Earl Phantomhive."

"Likewise, Mr. Brown."

"You too, Mr…" The goggled attendant turned to Archer with a frown. "Pardon me, I don't think we've ever been formally introduced."

"Archer, Mr. Brown." He extended his hand for John to shake. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

John Brown stared at the proffered arm for a barely perceptible moment before clasping a gloved hand firmly in his.

"Likewise." His tone was curt, dropping his arm. "I'll leave you two to it. Earl Phantomhive. Archer."

And with that, John Brown hurried off, joining Charles' side as they made their way through a tittering crowd.

Finally alone, Ciel Phantomhive turned to his servant, unamused.

"Why all the formality?" He questioned. "I don't see you shaking hands with anyone else here."

"I can be civil." Archer muttered, showing his master the way out. "Besides, that handshake was for another purpose entirely."

"Oh?"

"I was ascertaining whether the Queen's personal attendant is human."

His master stopped in front of a marble bust, turning to fix his servant with an incredulous glare.

"Why would you need to confirm that?"

Archer shrugged, memories of a purple-haired woman rising from the depths of his mind unbidden. "Call me paranoid, but I don't have the best experience with people that hide their eyes. They always end up being troublesome, one way or the other."

His master frowned.

"I have an eyepatch." Ciel felt the need to point out.

Archer smirked. "Did I stutter, master?"

Ciel scowled, making his way down the hallway once more. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows beside them.

"You know," Ciel went on, "I left you outside the ballroom so that you wouldn't cause too much trouble, and yet I returned to you engaging in a pissing contest with one half of Double Charles." He turned a corner. "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"

"I assure you, he didn't make it difficult." Archer followed close behind him. "That bastard was asking for it."

"Yes, well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't promise violence upon Her Majesty's personal butler." Ciel sighed, the vestibule quickly coming into view. "What did you talk about?"

Archer looked away. "He called me a killer and a munshi, whatever that means. I told him that his mother was a hamster and his father smelt of elderberries… then I farted in his general direction."

"Emiya…"

"Kidding, kidding." Archer sighed. "But it was really over nothing in particular."

"If you're going to make trouble, there had better be a good reason for it." Ciel shook his head tiredly. "I can't afford this, Emiya. I have a feeling we'll be paying for that little confrontation sooner or later."

"Like the Queen would allow him to go off the rails." Archer scoffed, following his master into the courtyard, stepping out into the mid-afternoon sun. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Years later, looking back on his life, Earl Phantomhive would later consider that moment to be the beginning of the end of the House of Phantomhive. His servant would digress, stating that it began from the moment he assumed his brother's name, but he knew better. His debut as earl also marked the beginning of his house's demise.

But that's a story for another time.

Archer opened the door to the two-horse carriage that stood waiting, and his master clambered in with a huff.

"I've talked to her Majesty about the plans to open my own company."

"Why?"

"For me to do business, I need a Royal Charter, Emiya." He rocked slightly in his seat as the carriage rumbled to life. "It's given to people at her Majesty's own discretion."

Archer nodded. "And did she?"

Ciel looked troubled. "Her Majesty was open to the idea, especially when I detailed how it would boost the earldom's falling incomes, but the key takeaway is that I must prove I can handle my responsibilities as an Earl before I can successfully run a business."

Archer considered that.

"In other words, she's testing you."

"Yes, I'd gathered. I shall have to prove that I can handle whatever she throws at me later on."

Archer huffed. "Well, I'm sure you'll manage, Earl Phantomhive."

The boy blinked, turning to gaze at his servant searchingly.

"Yes, master?"

His master opened his mouth, paused, thought better of it and shook his head. "Nothing, Emiya, I was thinking of nonsense."

"Same old, same old, then." Archer smiled, and was rewarded with a light kick on his shins.

Scoffing, his master gazed out the window as the carriage made its way out of the palace. Whatever misgivings one may have had about the interior, no one could deny that on the outside the palace was suitably magnificent and imposing.

Even if it was, at the end of the day, a cage to everyone within it.

"When we get back to the manor, I was thinking of a Black Forest croissant for your afternoon tea. Are you hungry, master?"

"Yes." Ciel muttered, staring resolutely ahead. "But not for food."

Happy New Year!

I spent the last day of 2021 camping in a warehouse, and it rained all night, but I got Melt and my first Emiya from the GSSR which is nice.

We've come to the end of the second arc, we have another and an interlude to go before we begin Canon proper.

And if you aren't already reading on Spacebattles, do visit. I post art sometimes.

Thanks for reading up until this point!