(A/N)

With this arc, we're off for more worldbuilding and setup, the last bit before we enter canon proper.

As always, thanks to flufesnufaluphagus, Hecturnus, and fallacies for beta reading.

"There's no such thing as a bad student, only a bad teacher."

"I think we both know that's rubbish, Master."

- Ciel. P and Emiya

The manor was on fire and it wasn't Archer's fault.

Well, if anyone was being particularly pedantic, he did hire the people who caused months of his work to go up in smoke.

But still.

Those three idiots.

Those three fucking idiots.

Archer took a deep breath, calming himself.

"Okay. Run-" The deeply tired butler to the House of Phantomhive pinched the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes shut as if he could imagine the blaze away. "Run it by me one more time."

He felt the three servants panic behind him, looking amongst themselves for a volunteer brave enough to be thrown to the metaphorical lions. Finally, Bardroy stuck his seventh cigarette of the day into his mouth and ignited a match, shielding it from the night breeze with his palms. The chef took his sweet time with his first drag, relishing the feeling of tar painting his lungs gray as Archer's patience wore thin.

"Well." He began. "I was doing as you told me and was preparing the young master's supper, the missin place and all-"

"Mise en place." Archer corrected.

"Yeah, that." Bard nodded distractedly. "And I plucked the chickens, all nice like you insisted on, and I placed it within the pot to make the stock."

"Before you decided that the entire process was taking too long." Archer supplied dully.

"Yeah, I mean, we got tons of other stuff to deal with on our plates, don't we? And then I remembered Mr. Hiram sent his new goods to us for testing and approval for mass-production, and I decided to kill two birds – heh – with one stone. I figured tripling the cooking temperature would cook the thirty minute recipe in a third of the time, right? In the end I came out of it with soup and a good estimate of the capabilities of the… the uh…"

"The flamethrower."

Archer's eyes twitched as he watched a windowpane shatter to pieces, weakened by the heat.

"You decided to use an-" Archer barely managed to stop himself from cursing, feeling the rapid onset of a migraine hammer the side of his head, "an honest-to-god flamethrower to cook the young master's chicken soup."

He could practically feel the miserable excuse of a cook scratch his hair and look away behind him.

"Sums it up nicely, yeah."

"I see. And I suppose after reducing the dish to cinders you just decided to be Guy Fawkes the second and just proceeded to torch the place for fun, is that it?"

"Hey, I'm not that crazy!" Bard protested. "I practice good firing discipline as much as the next man: point your weapon only at what you want to blow to pieces. KABLAM!" He clapped his hands for emphasis. "I kept the fucker pointed firmly at the stockpot the entire time! If we're assigning blame for this mess, a good chunk of it belongs to Mey-Rin!"

Said maid whimpered where she stood, huddled together with the rest behind an increasingly irate Archer.

"The blame belongs to the maid, you say." Archer watched as an old spire that had survived the previous blaze finally collapsed upon itself, great chunks of stone sending up embers into the night sky. "Mey-Rin!"

"Y-Yes!"

"Explain what happened."

"U-um," She twiddled her fingers, looking anywhere but at Archer's back, "today, I did my usual rounds like you entrusted me to do, Mr. Emiya. I scrubbed the floors… with soap and water this time, I double-checked! It's just… I just didn't notice-"

"She didn't see that there was still grease lining the cooking shelves, the walls, and the rafters." Bard finished for her.

Mey-Rin eked out a small shriek as the Phantomhive visibly shook with rage before collecting himself.

"Right." Archer finally said, his level voice trembling with an undercurrent of exasperation. "So naturally when Bard used the blasted… flamethrower… the whole place went up in flames."

"Yep." Bard nodded, "Gave me the shock of my life when the walls went up in smoke faster than one could say 'Solomon Grundy'."

"And throughout this entire process you didn't bother putting out the fire at all."

"Oi. We tried! Me and Mey-Rin soaked the fire blankets, and we were already lining up to quaff the blaze where we could, but then the snotty kid showed up."

Archer whirled around, panicked. "The young master was at the scene of the fire?!"

"No." Bard looked sheepish. "I meant Finnian."

The youth with unkempt locks of golden hair looked dearly like he wanted to be anywhere but under the Phantomhive butler's flat stare.

Archer opened his mouth to continue his tirade before he remembered that he was talking to a child barely older than his master and closed it.

He took a deep breath.

"Finnian." He finally said, polite-like.

"Yes, sir!"

For the life of him, Archer was going to try to be nice to a child that was the only one of the three that couldn't have known any better.

"What was it you did when you heard the fire?"

"I um," Finnian scratched his cheek, sheepish. " I was outside weeding the vegetable garden. When I saw the smoke coming from the kitchens, I knew I needed to help!"

"Yes, yes, that's very good," Archer spoke with the patience of somebody explaining the concept of gravity to a chicken. "Helping people is good. Now how exactly did you decide to help?"

"Well, I took the buckets from the tool shed."

"Right…"

"And then I filled them with water-"

Archer held up a hand, and the trio stiffened, warily watching as the Phantomhive butler palmed his face with a low groan.

"Water." He repeated, sounding pained. "You decided to throw water on a grease fire."

The gardener nodded, oblivious as to what was giving the butler grief.

"OK." He recovered, "Go on. And then what happened?"

"Well, I rushed into the kitchen, and Mister Bard and Mey-Rin were already there with their wet blankets, and I flung as much water as I could! Funny thing, though… instead of being quenched, the fire went FWOOOOOM," the boy waved his arms around, eyes wide, "and spread everywhere! That's not supposed to happen, right?"

"Finnian." Archer muttered, long-suffering, "You don't throw water over a grease fire. Water and oil don't mix at all, so when you fling the water everywhere the grease spreads. That's why you saw the blaze flare up. This is basic, Finnian!"

"Uh, Boss. In the kid's defense," Bard piped up, nervously watching as the boy grew close to tears, "he didn't know what caused the fire in the first place?"

"... Now that I think about it, you're right." Archer glared. "You were there with Mey-Rin. You knew better. You already have a particular proclivity for pyrotechnics. So why did you let a child throw buckets of water onto a grease fire like it's a blasted pool party?!"

"Oi, he's fucking fast and strong as hell!" He protested. "There he was, barrelling through, buckets full of water swinging about like a runaway train; I couldn't have stopped him even if I tried!"

"You're the supervisor, Bardroy, you're supposed to be able to control those working under you! Why do you think I even hired-" Archer stopped himself, took another deep breath, and redirected his attention to the fire.

"There's something else you're not telling me, isn't there?" He finally spoke. "There's no way a simple flare-up caused this much damage. Come on, out with it. What else happened?"

At this remark the three idiots began clamoring to speak up in unison.

"–brat who wasn't paying attention to the goods-"

"–thought it looked like rice, so I-"

"–didn't know where I placed it-"

"One at a time!" Archer roared, and the three fell silent.

Bardroy and Finian exchanged a glance.

Mey-Rin looked nervously between the two.

Something exploded in the distance.

Bardory took another long drag before sighing and resuming :

"Couple days ago, we received deliveries for gardening equipment. Hoes, rakes, seeds and the like."

"Yes, I remember. To replace the ones that Finnian broke."

"Well, there wasn't enough space to store them all in the shed, so I told Finnian to find somewhere cool and dry to store the rest. And then you pitched a fit about us storing them in the manor, so we built a larger shed and stored the rest inside."

"Yes…"

"Well uh…" Bardroy looked away, abashed. "It seems we overlooked something during the entire process. Mey-Rin, mistaking one of the bags and its contents for grain, placed the sack in the larder, where it stayed for a week before the fire broke out."

The migraine was getting more onerous by the minute.

"... a sack of what?" Archer pressed, almost afraid to hear the anwer.

Bardroy pursed his lips.

Finnian rubbed the back of his neck.

It was Mey-Rin who finally spoke, voice small.

"Fertilizer."

Archer blinked.

He couldn't have heard that right.

"Come again?" He managed, mouth agape.

"... I stored a bag of f-fertilizer in the larder."

Archer closed his eyes, feeling the familiar rush of blood to his head as his vision grew clouded from rage.

"You… three… imbeciles… stored Ammonium Nitrate within the manor."

There was little the three servants could do but shakily nod.

"A volatile compound that not only serves as fertilizer but also as a key component to dynamite."

They nodded again.

"In the kitchen." He went on, voice dangerously thin. "In close proximity to open flames."

The three servants, for the lack of anything better to do, nodded again.

And then Archer lost whatever internal battle he'd been waging since the night began.

Whatever sense of patience and civility had reined Archer back snapped.

"Since I've arrived here," he began, voice low, "there have been attempts on the young master's life happening on a weekly basis, and somehow it's you three IDIOTS-" Archer roared, and the three servants flinched in terror, Bardroy dropping his cigarette, "that have come closest to finishing the job! I leave the manor for ONE afternoon, ONE! Trusting that you three all had the barest veneer of common sense to at the very least NOT put him any danger, but no! You three can't even run a bath without creating a new estuary to the Thames!

You know, I can deal with a lot of things. I can handle a maid who can't walk two feet without tripping on her own feet, I can handle a gardener who breaks everything he fucking touches, I can even handle a Yankee cock-a-doodle-cuckoo cook who can't even wash a fucking radish without causing a health crisis! I can handle all of that! What I absolutely cannot handle is servants who put their master's life in jeopardy! You hear me?! I cannot afford it, you smooth-brained amoebas! Wombats! Pachyderms! Donkeys! Trisomies!"

He finally stopped, panting for breath, and through his anger-clouded vision noted distantly that Finnian was close to tears, and the other two were looking away in shame.

"We'll discuss your punishment later. For now, get to putting out the fire. Move it!"

With a hasty salute, the three servants hurried off back to the mansion.

"That went well."

Archer turned to his right, scowling at the sight of an amused – amused?! – Ciel Phantomhive, alongside an equally unflappable Tanaka, still drinking tea like his life depended on it.

"Why aren't you more angry about this?" Archer waved his arms, desperate. "That's months of work going up in smoke!"

"As far as I'm concerned, my room and study are situated on the other wing and seem to be relatively unscathed. The paintings seem to have escaped most of the damage. It could have been worse." Ciel muttered sardonically, watching as Bardroy yelled instructions to the other two hapless servants. "Besides, you should look on the bright side."

"What?" Archer was exasperated. "What possible bright side can there be to all of this? What?!"

Ciel tilted his head, watching as the three servants, armed with buckets of water and fire blankets stormed the door to his manor.

"I can now dock a year's worth of wages in one fell swoop, and have the manor fixed for free in the meantime."

Archer saw red.

"That's not funny, Master." He snarled, "The entire point of hiring servants was to avoid more work so that the both of us can focus on our respective duties! Now, not only am I stuck tutoring you, I have to deal with Dumb, Dumber and that fucking cloud-botherer as well!"

"To be fair," Ciel muttered, "it was you who hired that cloud botherer who decided to burn the place down without my input."

"Because I thought as an officer he'd have common sense, and he fulfilled all your blasted criteria too, but no! He's a fucking butterbar!" Archer almost screamed. "This entire mess could have been avoided if you just listened to me in the first place! We could have just put up some ads, picked up some maids from an agency, but no! You just had to have your blasted criteria, didn't you? What's wrong with having NORMAL SERVANTS?!"

Brunch wasn't always served in the Phantomhive manor.

The young master, in his effort to educate his butler more on his responsibilities, conformed to a strict schedule that allowed little in the ways of variety and freedom. Plus, the very idea of a late breakfast or an early lunch was initially taken as a cockamamie plot by Archer to get out of cooking an extra meal, an allegation that Archer took immense umbrage to.

So, brunch was tabled.

Come one morning, where Archer had innocently asked why he'd bothered with repairing the pool if his master didn't make use of it. Ciel Phantomhive had been predictably evasive, muttering meaningless nothings about being busy enough as is, but a stab in the dark by Archer revealed that his master was never taught how to swim.

That, Archer thought, was a grievous error that had to be corrected at once.

And so it came to be that breakfast would be postponed on the days that Archer taught Ciel how to swim in the morning, beginning with the absolute basics of treading water followed by the front crawl. His master – in a projected white floatie in the shape of a swan – had muttered and grumbled about his asthma until Archer helpfully conjured an idea of Elizabeth drowning and Ciel being the only one there to save her.

Privately, of course, Archer surmised that Lady Elizabeth probably already knew how to swim, and in such a scenario it would be up to her to do the saving instead of the other way round. But the idea of his fiancee in distress was enough of a motivational tool for his master to take the lessons seriously, and coupled with the sport being not particularly intensive, and thus unlikely to trigger an asthma attack, swimming became the only real form of exercise the Earl of Phantomhive engaged in.

And as expected, Ciel was quite hungry at the end of it all.

"Oysters Rockefeller." Archer gestured to a tray of ice where oysters broiled with butter and parsley were perched, "Chicken Karaage with potato waffles, and gateau de mille-feuilles for your dessert."

The Earl of Phantomhive – hair dried and combed – didn't hesitate, ravenous as he was, and promptly took an oyster fork and began working on loosening the meat from their shells.

"To accompany your meal, I've prepared a Mimosa."

Ciel looked up, puzzled. "Pardon?"

"Equal parts orange juice and champagne." Archer glibly informed him, busying himself with squeezing fresh orange juice at a small workstation he'd projected. "To be precise, Krug." He gestured to the bottle sitting snugly in a bottle of ice beside him. "It feels excessive and a shame to dilute such a great vintage with orange juice, but today's a day for celebration, Master, and if something is worth doing, it's worth overdoing."

"If it's your birthday we're drinking to, I'd rather you didn't open up a bottle of my own Krug Clos du Mesnil to celebrate, that stuff's ridiculously pricey."

Archer fixed his master with a flat glare. Ciel merely smirked.

"... Personally, I could go without the stuff myself." Archer finally said, extracting the bottle from where it was wedged with some effort. "And it's not my birthday."

With an expert hand, Archer gently squeezed the cork out of the bottle with a soft pop, and almost immediately the air – already marked with tangs of citrus from the oranges – was punctuated with effervescent sweetness.

"So. What are we celebrating?" Ciel asked, watching with polite interest as Archer poured the bubbly liquid into two champagne flutes, already half-full with freshly squeezed, pulp-free orange juice.

"The end of an era." Archer handed his master a glass. "The manor is finished, master."

Ciel blinked.

"You mean the stables?"

"Yes."

"And the greenhouses?"

"Yes."

"And the garage?"

"Yes, yes, yes." Archer proudly huffed. "The only thing that we are missing are horses for the stables – I sent Sam the Shepherd for some hay the other day – a car, books for the library and paintings for the walls, but let's not quibble. Interior design was always at your discretion anyways. For all intents and purposes, the manor is finished. So, master, a toast." He raised a glass. "To the end of construction work, and to more purposeful work."

Ciel half-heartedly allowed his glass to be clinked, and as Archer took small sips of his own Mimosa, he noted with some consternation that his master had barely touched the stuff, so lost in thought was he.

"What, Master?" Not in the mood for a drink ?"

"... no, and you are to be congratulated, don't get me wrong," Ciel muttered, "but you're not finished on that front."

Archer froze, glass halfway brought to his mouth.

"What." His voice was flat and without inflexion.

His master finally deigned to take a small sip of his cocktail. "We still have the townhouse in London to take care of. Much of it is still in good condition, and it wasn't subjected to arson in any case, but it's also similarly in need of renovation. You can hire two or three contractors to handle the minutiae, but I'm sending you there one of these days to oversee work."

Archer set his glass down, frowning.

"I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with the idea of you being left alone in the manor."

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to be alone, I have Gramps."

"Look, as much as I'm sure that Tanaka is illustrious and talented," Archer muttered, "I'm not sure that a man in his seventies is the best sort of guard when the manor is under constant attack by looters and assassins."

"Tanaka will be enough." Ciel set the glass down. "He served this family for generations. I assure you he's well-versed in the arts of combat."

"Really." Archer raised an eyebrow. "And you've seen this first-hand?"

"He wouldn't serve the Phantomhive family if he wasn't good at it." Ciel declared. "He's an expert with a sword, you know."

"If he really was so tough," Archer felt the need to point out, "one wonders just what happened during the attack on the manor."

Archer ignored the darkening of his master's features. It was something that had to be asked. Back in the hospital, Tanaka had recounted how he'd come to sustain his injuries, trying to prevent his master from seeing some macabre scene.

"... I'm leaning into the theory that he – along with the rest of my family – was taken by surprise by someone we knew ." His master finally said, sampling an oyster, deep in thought. "Had it been just regular bandits and assassins, I doubt Gramps would have allowed the attack to ever take place. It's why I'm unwilling to discount the theory that we were betrayed by a close associate of ours."

"Given the fact that he has not, in fact, provided you with any names or possible elades, I think that theory's rather full of holes, Master." Archer felt the need to point out. "You'd think a butler would be able to recognize somebody who betrayed your family."

"True." His master muttered, sour. "But what else do we have? My father probably made lots of enemies in his time as Earl, and as the watchdog the number of people in the underworld that would profit from his death are numerous."

Ciel looked at the delicate melange arranged in front of him. Despite doing a good twenty laps just that morning, he found he was close to losing appetite.

"Let's leave your grand plans of revenge for another time." Archer finally said, downing the remains of his drink. "Say Tanaka is as good as you say he is. But if he's so capable, one wonders why you're not putting him to work alongside me, instead of having him glue a cushion to his cushy bottom, drinking one cup of tea after the other."

"Well." Ciel laid his chin on his hands, amused. "Surely you don't want to have an old man do all the work? That can be arranged, but I expected more from you, Emiya."

"That's not what I meant, Master, and you know it." Archer waved him off irritably. "The point I'm trying to get at, is that me being your butler invariably draws attention, and it means that I am bound to restrictive social conventions that hinder my ability to work and serve our mutual interests to the best of my ability. Maybe it'd be better to have me occupy a different role while I'm in your employ."

"What do you expect me to do about it?" Ciel asked, cutting into a potato waffle. "You've already been introduced to quite a number of people as the new butler to the House of Phantomhive. And if you think that a strange man hanging around a lord all the time wouldn't draw attention, you've got a whole other thing coming."

"And here I thought you'd be pragmatic about this and take my suggestion seriously. We could always just say that I'm your right-hand man and leave it at that."

"Oh, sure." Ciel snarked. "And how do you expect that to play out? I disappear with my brother for a month, then I return with my brother dead and a stranger like you creeping around me to and fro like the second coming of Spring-Heeled Jack. Yeah, sure, I can see that going over well with the rest of high society."

"Fine." Archer went on, unperturbed. "On the other hand, if you are still serious about making that toy and sweets company, you could always say that I exist as your consultant and manager of domestic operations… or something to that effect."

"Impossible. You don't legally exist." Ciel shot that idea down. "And I don't need a ghost to manage my operations, especially when I can't count on you staying for good."

"That sounds like an excuse, and you know it." Archer muttered. "Need I remind you you're an Earl who deals in the underbelly of London. Surely you can grease a few wheels to provide me with false identification for legal affairs."

His master set his cutlery down with a clatter.

"Emiya, let's get something straight." His tone was curt. "I tolerate you like this in private. I appreciate your ideas and your help. But I can't ever have my seniority over you be called into question by anyone. It'd weaken my image and reputation as an Earl. People don't take me seriously enough as is, and if you're introduced as anyone other than somebody under my employ, people will talk, and I can't have people getting the wrong idea. Surely you understand?"

Archer grimaced as the logic of his master's reasoning sunk in, before nodding sullenly.

Satisfied, the Earl of Phantomhive went back to his meal.

"I shall have the schematics of the London townhouse pulled for you from my study. Take a look at them, and we can discuss the specific plans later."

Archer bowed.

"Yes, my master."

A burlap bag was placed unceremoniously onto his desk of rosewood with a dull thunk.

"As you requested." Emiya muttered, watching his master rifle through the bag's contents with polite disinterest. "What you needed from London for market research. Though I really must question whether this is a good idea so close to your afternoon tea. You'll ruin your appetite."

"I'm not finishing all of it." Ciel muttered, extracting a bag of toffee from the burlap bag, "I'm just getting the measure of the competition."

"You say you want to sample candy to understand what you're up against, but it really seems like you're only using this as an excuse to have the opportunity to eat more sweets."

Ciel glared, but any attempt to give his servant a scathing retort was foiled by an unholy mess of brittle toffee sticking to his molars. Irritated, he washed it down with a mouthful of Puer tea, before making note of his general impressions of the confectionary in a small notebook.

"Speaking of which, you also have mail," Archer fished out a stack of envelopes from his pocket.

"Unless there's a letter from Her Majesty the Queen, just leave them on the desk, I'll get to them in a bit."

He'd moved on to the Pontefract cakes, biting into the little black disks, chewing twice before retching and spitting them out in disgust.

"Not a fan of licorice, master?" Emiya looked amused.

"Who the hell enjoys the taste of medicine?" Ciel spat, rinsing the taste of anise from his mouth. "Suffice to say, I'm not about to mass-produce this swill when I get my hands on a royal charter."

"You're not producing sweets for your own consumption, Master." Emiya reminded him, "You might want to consider that your target demographic has long turned to alternative means of sweetness when sugar remains out of their price range. Liquorice, barley, sarsaparilla… awful stuff, but that's what comes to mind when children think of sweets. So unless you want your company to be regarded as hoity-toity and out of their league, you really shouldn't rule those flavors out, no matter how medicinal they may be."

Ciel took a moment to consider this and sighed.

"If I must. But I refuse to manufacture any candy unless I'm satisfied with it. We'll probably need to sandwich the blasted stuff with proper, sugar-based candy if it ever comes to pass."

"Ah." Emiya nodded. "Like the Allsorts."

Ciel blinked. "What?"

Emiya frowned, turning to his master, suddenly thoughtful.

"... huh." He finally said. "I expected as much when I didn't manage to find milk chocolate or lollipops on the market, but candy really is still in its infancy these days, isn't it."

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Ciel repeated, feeling lost.

"Nothing, master." Emiya waved him off, amused. "But if you want Funtom Co's candy division to really corner the market and flourish, you'll ask me for input. With my help, your candy will be the greatest thing to happen to food since the Earl of Sandwich was busy playing cards and wanted two slices of bread over roast beef."

"As much as I appreciate your confidence and enthusiasm," Ciel's eyes narrowed, "I feel like I should remind you that what you invent should remain… appropriate for the period we live in."

"Nothing too crazy. I'm thinking of sweets like lollipops. Sour candies. Wine gums. Candy corn. Chocolate kisses." Emiya rattled off, feeling thoughtful. "I've taken a look at what the market has to offer, and despite the increased access to sugar, there really isn't that much innovation to be had. Your biggest competition is Barratt's and Bassett's, and their respective product lines are mostly limited to boiled candies. You can outstrip them in a year with the right approach, there's no doubt about that."

"They're making great strides, though. You see this?" Ciel held up a Yankee Panky. "It's a milk candy wrapped in wax paper. Wax."

"We can do better than that." Emiya scoffed. "Give me enough time, and I hand you the patent for edible sweet wrappers on a silver platter."

"Emiya." Ciel looked tired. "I'm aware that you probably come from a different time than I do, but let's not go overboard. I do want to be revolutionary, but not to the extent people start asking questions over how I come up with half of my product line. I can't very well say I have an incarnated spirit who lives outside the domain of time who tells me what to manufacture."

"Fine. Remain unimaginative." Emiya muttered, sinking into the seat opposite him with a huff. "I'll pace myself."

"That is all I needed to hear. Now leave me to it, you have the townhouse to look over."

And with that, master and servant set to work. The earl popped a piece of Fox's Glacier Mints into his mouth, sticking the peppermint candy into his cheek as he made notes in his little notebook. The butler took the plans of the townhouse from the bookcase and started pouring over them in detail, jotting down proposed plans here and there. This went on for the better part of an hour as both parties worked in busy silence.

Sometime between the pear drops and the strawberry bonbons, the earl had moved on to opening his mail. All standard stuff, the odd invitation from a nameless earl that he promptly chucked into the wastepaper basket, flyers, advertisements from solicitors, nothing special.

Ciel slid the knife into the envelope's flaps, quickly scanning the letter's contents.

"Oh dear."

"Hm?"

"It's Lizzy." Ciel muttered. "She wants to see me again soon."

"Well that's certainly odd."

"What about it?"

"I don't recall her asking for permission the last time she sneaked off on her own to visit the manor."

"I think she means she wants to go out with me in public." Ciel murmured. "Visit London, take a stroll in one of the royal parks, see how the Tower Bridge is coming along, maybe accompany her to Mayfair to go shopping while I sit outside the dressing rooms, twiddling my thumbs, wishing I was anywhere else but there."

"Oh, what fun." Emiya smiled. "Does my master need any advice on proper etiquette when escorting a lady? Bit of advice, give her your coat when she's feeling cold and keep a clean hanky for when she cries."

"Oh, piss off, Emiya. I'm well aware of how to conduct myself on a…" He swallowed. "A date."

Good Lord, even saying the word prompted an ugly flush to bloom on his cheeks.

"I'd just prefer it to be a casual affair."

"In that avenue, you're asking the wrong person entirely." Emiya frowned. "On the only date I ever had, I took her out shopping for toys, and went to my era's equivalent of croquet. I had more planned on my itinerary, but she was always a bit of a sore loser, and we spent the better part of the afternoon there as a result."

Ciel tilted his head, mulling over the idea in his head.

"I don't think I can play croquet well." He finally admitted.

"If it makes you feel any better, I have a feeling Lizzy will let you win."

"It does not, in fact, make me feel any better." Ciel muttered, sour. "Any other ideas?"

"Well there's always the fallback plan. If all else fails, take her for dinner and a show. Dinner à deux at the Langham, and then maybe something at the theater. Come to think of it, Camille Saint-Saens is in town to premiere a new symphony in a week at St James' Hall." His butler recalled, hand on his chin. "I saw the leaflets and posters on the walls on the way back. Might be worth taking her there. If memory serves, he says it's his magnum opus."

"What, you've heard it before?"

"Bits of it, yes. Difficult not to. It features an organ and it'll bring him lots and lots of fame. Not to the point of Beethoven, Bach, or Mozart, but he'll still end up a noteworthy figure in music nonetheless." Emiya turned another page of the townhouse's blueprints, absent-mindedly taking a peppermint humbug for himself. "Besides, if you want to have an evening not spent in frivolous conversation with your fiancée, I can't think of anything better."

Ciel ignored the jab, giving the idea some serious thought.

"On the other hand, if you think your fiancée is incapable of sitting still and would want something a little more dramatic, there's always Wagner's Tristan und Isolde on Drury Lane, though I'd imagine the sheer melodrama will get to her near the end and you'd end up having to escort an inconsolable Lizzy home by the end of the night."

"... Organ symphony it is, then." He uncapped his fountain pen, taking a piece of letter paper and began penning his response. "Go ahead and purchase two tickets the next time you're in London. Box seats, of course."

"What, I'm not invited?" Emiya smiled sardonically, hand over his heart in a mockery of pain. "You wound me, master."

"You can wait in the lobby. Have a drink at the pub. Go to the races." Ciel shook his head. "The less you're involved with my love life the better."

"You don't want me providing commentary as the acts go along? I'm sure Lizzy would be interested in the sordid tale of how he left his wife without warning after she caused the death of his eldest child."

"Emiya…"

"Right, right, I'll be out of sight. Have fun gallivanting with Lizzy."

And thus the two descended back to comfortable silence, punctuated by the crinkling of sweet wrappers and the scratchings of pen on paper. This went on for a quarter of an hour before Ciel added the letter to his outgoing mail, moving on to the final envelope on his pile, raising an eyebrow at the considerable amount of postage plastered on.

Who on earth wants to talk to me all the way from Shanghai?

Frowning, he slid the letter opener across the envelope, unfurling the letter with a flourish, and began to read.

Dear Earl Phantomhive,

Forgive a man for soliciting you unprompted, but I believe the two of us can work well together. My name Is Lau, and officially, I am an associate of the Chinese trading company Kun Lun. Unofficially, I am but a humble vice-president of the Qing Bang's foreign division. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

I do hope this is the right address; I paid good money for this information, and my little sister Ran Mao will have words with a certain broker if this letter finds its way to the wrong hands. But I digress. One gets dreadfully bored doing grunt work all the time, and even the regular puff of opium loses its shine every once in a while, to the point that I have decided to find a pen-friend to write to and talk about my problems. If you would indulge a silly man in his pastime, I would very much like to be your friend.

The further he progressed down the page, the higher his brows rose.

Lau was nothing if not courteous, talking about a day in his life – handling accounts, the evening puff, overseeing shipments, the odd torture session – with remarkable candour, as if the two were already thick as thieves. If this was a prank, it was rather elaborate, down to the stamp of a red chop with what was presumably the company's name.

… Ciel Phantomhive would have to deal with this carefully.

He finished reading the letter, and set it down, deep in thought.

"Emiya."

"Hm?"

"What do you know about the Qing Bang?"

His butler blinked, looking up from his work, saw the letter in his hands and blanched.

"Oh God. Please don't tell me dear old Vicky's planning on sending you to Shanghai."

"Fuck's sake, Emiya," Ciel admonished, "it's Her Majesty the Queen."

"Fine. Please don't tell me Her Majesty the Queen's planning on sending you to Shanghai.

"No. Not as of yet, no. I just received an interesting letter.

"Oh?" His butler frowned, leaving his chair to head to his side of the desk. "Who from?"

Ciel pushed the letter in front of him. "Somebody named Lau."

"Actually, that Chinese character's pronounced Liu." Emiya muttered, pointing at the character beside his signature. "Though if he's taken to calling himself Lau in English, it's probably for ease of correspondence, or more likely a pseudonym."

"Quite." Ciel took another bite of Barratt's stickjaw toffee, which took immense effort to chew as he examined the letter again. "He refers to himself as an associate of a trading company Kun Lun, though he takes care to also mention the fact that he's also part of a syndicate known as the Qing Bang." He frowned, eyes scanning the letter's refined script. "Is there any light you can shed upon them?"

Emiya straightened up with a sigh, preparing himself for a long lecture.

"Right, this is what I remember from my history class, keep in mind I might get a little vague on the details."

"Sure."

"I'm sure you're well aware of what caused the opium wars."

"Money." Ciel immediately said.

"... I think you'll find it a little more complex than that, master."

"Speak for yourself, Emiya. I can't think of a single historical decision whose origins can't be traced back to money in one way or another. It is what it is, Emiya."

His butler sighed.

"Fine. In a very simplified sense, yes, it was money. Specifically, it was a trade imbalance. Britain wanted a lot of Chinese goods like silk, spices, porcelain, and so on, but China had no interest in anything the British Empire could produce, so Britain was forced to obtain silver pieces and trade them for Chinese goods. As you can imagine, down the line this caused a humongous trade imbalance. To rectify this, someone had the idea to find a substitute for silver. They found this substitute in opium. The narcotic was grown in India and sold to Chinese smugglers in exchange for silver, which they then used to buy more Chinese goods. It was in this manner that the British worked towards solving their trade imbalance bit by bit.

Of course, when the Chinese government caught wind of this ongoing illicit trade, they flipped their shit. They seized whatever opium they could find at the port, raiding warehouses in the process, rounded up some smugglers, and made a show of executing them and burning some twenty thousand crates like the second coming of the Boston tea party. They re-enforced their existing rules of trade and banned the trade of opium under threat of death. Do you know what tends to happen when something gets banned, master?"

"Black markets."

"That is correct. As you could imagine, the prices of opium skyrocketed, and despite the ban some cases of opium still managed to find its way inside China. Of course, it wasn't until a diplomatic incident – and here the details elude me – that served as casus belli, and thus the First Opium War began, which was predictably one-sided. As a result of the war, reparations were signed, the island of Hong Kong was served to the British as a colony, and treaty ports were opened for the purpose of open trade. One such port was Shanghai.

Now, under the new agreements, China was open for trade, but the trade of opium was not yet legalized. It took a second war – this time with the French wanting a piece of the action – for it to happen. It was much, much uglier. Attempts at diplomacy and negotiating an admittedly unfavorable peace treaty had the Chinese torture the diplomats to death, giving the British leave to raid the Peking summer palace. It's through this turn of events that we see so many Chinese goods and exotic memorabilia decorating the houses of noblemen these days."

"I'm well aware." Ciel nodded. "I saw the painting of Looty back when I was in Buckingham palace."

Emiya blinked. "Looty?"

"The Pekingese bestowed upon Queen Victoria." He clarified. "Apparently, the raiders brought back a litter of Pekingese puppies, one of which was gifted to Her Majesty."

His butler looked heavenward. "Looty." He repeated. "She calls a dog poached from the Chinese from a raid 'Looty'. And you consider me calling her Vicky in bad taste."

"It's not binary, Emiya." Ciel shook his head. "Both of you can be in poor taste."

Emiya sighed. "Fine. Long story short, the Second Opium War legalized the trade of opium within China, opened a new port in Tianjin, and allowed for British ships to bring back indentured Chinese servants to America and Britain."

"Yes, yes, I know about all of this already. But what about the Qing Bang?"

"I'm only providing the necessary context, be patient, master. Anyways, the Qing Bang – or Green Gang – owes its origins to a certain Buddhist cult consisting of workers and boatment along the Great Canal during the early 18th century. The Chinese authorities considered them a threat to the fabric of society, and the Emperor ordered the destruction of their temples and sect, scattering them throughout China. Some of them joined local rebellions, but others joined the smuggling trade and moved to the coast. These smugglers reorganized themselves to what would eventually form the Qing Bang.

Now, these people held little love for the administration and ended up lurking in the shadows of pretty much every movement against the current dynasty. To give you an idea, further down the line they'd fund anti-monarchist political parties and engage in clandestine activities where they took care of political rivals in an illicit manner. They further flourished in the newly opened port of Shanghai, where the mess of different jurisdictions and administrations, as well as the legalization of opium, bolstered their business."

"They don't care about opium sending their country into ruin?"

"As far as they're concerned, as long as it makes them money, who gives a shit. That problem was for the government to solve." Emiya stretched. "Anyway, there comes a point in every criminal organization where they seek to diversify into more official, stable, and legal sources of income."

Ciel looked at the letter between them again. "Like Kun Lun."

"Precisely." He nodded. "Whether this company is a means to launder their ill-gotten money from criminal activities like prostitution, gambling houses and so on, or simply a whole different business venture to expand their network, the Qing Bang further grew with the success and expansion of Kun Lun, who I assume deals with goods other than opium which are in high demand. Spices, grain, silks, tobacco, porcelain, sugarcane, the list goes on."

Ciel Phantomhive shifted his gaze to the window behind him, taking a moment to digest all this information.

"With that in mind, what does this Lau fellow want with you?"

"If he's to be believed," the Earl of Phantomhive muttered, waving the letter in front of him, "this is nothing more than casual correspondence."

"... you believe him?"

"Of course not." He scoffed. "He doesn't mention anything overt, reiterating that he wants to be pen-friends and nothing more, but the implication is there. He wants to set up shop in London soon."

"And an early partnership with the Earl of Phantomhive would be needed if it were to ever last in the long run." Emiya mused, considering it. "But he's still just a grunt, isn't he? Does he even have the authority to make such important business decisions?"

"His exact title is…" He checked the letter again. "Vice-President of Kun Lun's foreign branch."

"Master. When you get your company off the ground, the first thing you'll realize is that the title of Vice-President means jack shit. A company can have lots and lots of Vice-Presidents, and even more associates under them. It's just business lingo for a common worker."

"That may be so," Ciel readily admitted, "but this Lau is already showing initiative in taking the effort to engage with me. I'm inclined to show cautionary interest."

"Really?"

"Really. If he's also an experienced member of the Qing Bang like you say, then it might work in our favor to have someone in control of East End's Chinese district. It's only a matter of time before Her Majesty asks me to crack down upon the existing opium dens in the East End. In the long run, it would help to have someone also in the game to corner the market, and have them consolidate them all into one criminal empire. He'll control the district, doing exactly what we tell him to, and make sure no criminal activities spill outside the underworld."

"You're not at all concerned that his empire might grow too big to handle?"

"If he ever wants to last, he'll follow my directions to the letter." Ciel was firm. "And we'll burn that bridge when we get there."

"I see. Better the devil we know, I guess." Emiya shrugged, returning to his seat opposite him. "You know, it's funny, but from what little I remember of Victorian London, I was under the impression that opium dens would be a much bigger problem than it actually is. It's like quicksand: you grow up, you read all the stories, you fear for your safety, but it turns out to be less of a problem than it actually is."

"You can blame Mr. Dickens for that." Ciel snorted, already moving the typewriter in front of him to compose a response. "I've a mind to pen a short snippet in Chinese with your help, what do you think?"

Emiya shook his head. "Why give him the knowledge that you can understand Chinese? Keep that to yourself. You might just take him unawares one of these days."

"There is that." Ciel nodded, and after inserting a leaf of thick, creamy paper onto the spool, began click-clacking a letter of response. "For now, I'll express guarded interest in wanting to meet him should he ever rise up to a position of importance, talk a bit about the current situation in the East End, and provide a small hint of what my company will need from him in the future."

Emiya blinked.

"Your company, master?"

The Earl of Phantomhive smirked.

"What does every candy company need, Emiya? Sugar. Lots of it."

His butler's jaw went slack.

"You're not serious."

"Of course I'm serious, why wouldn't I be?"

"You want to engage in peace talks with a Chinese triad just for easy access to cheap sugar?"

"And the bit about keeping the East End under Her Majesty's control, but essentially, yes."

"Right. I can see it now." Emiya shook his head in disbelief. "Here comes the newest confectionary from Funtom Co: Sherbet Lemon. Sponsored by the Qing Bang, the same group that brings you opium all the way down at East End. That ought to make for a spectacular advert."

"It's not as outrageous as you make it seem. And it's not the Qing Bang Funtom Co will be dealing with, it'd be Kun Lun." Ciel chided. "If they are to be rehabilitated, they need an appropriate avenue to pursue that isn't prostition, drugs, and gambling. I give them business in asking for sugar, I give them legitimacy, and eventually they'll close down their brothels and opium to focus on what really makes them money." Ciel rationalized. "It's just good business, Emiya."

"Really." Emiya raised an eyebrow. "So it has nothing to do with wanting to get sugar for cheap?"

"That's just a nice bonus." The Earl of Phantomhive dismissed him, utterly shameless. "One doesn't wash their hands one at a time, you know."

Emiya fell silent.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a real piece of work, master?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're as much fun as a pair of knickers filled with fire ants?" Ciel retorted, attention already back to the letter he was composing. "Get back to work. Emiya. I'll let you read my response when I'm finished looking for discrepancies."

His butler shook his head before obediently returning to his task.

"Yes, my master."

"You know, I took all this time to prepare a delicious Pastel de Tres Leches for your afternoon tea, and here you are, fit to burst with all that candy you sampled, telling me you're not hungry."

"I'll have it for dinner, get off my back."

"Not good enough. The next time you're off doing market research I'm not going to bother making afternoon tea."

Archer slapped a small stack of worksheets in front of his master's irritably.

"Right. Same as before. Encode this message line by line. I'll be here to correct any mistakes."

Ciel held up a sheet of jumbled letters, frowning. "This is gibberish, Emiya. Whatever happened to me encoding A Midsummer Night's Dream?"

"This is to test your mental acuity and sight reading." He held up a notebook. "I'll be here to check for any mistakes. You have ten minutes to get through this entire page. As always, the reference sheet is to your left, but try not to rely on it this time."

Huffing, his master set the first worksheet down before sitting at the desk where a telegraph key was affixed. Worksheet in one hand, finger on the lever in the other, Ciel gestured to his servant that he was ready to begin.

A stopwatch appeared in Archer's hands.

"Your time starts… now."

And the master was off, tapping feverishly onto the key as his gaze never left the worksheet. His servant sat beside him, listening intently to the muted dots and dashes as he jotted down every alphabet encoded.

ACW3 49D7 GFIE 4VF0 IBFD OFIR UBW4 SIGL…

Archer had first posited the idea of installing a telegraph in one of the rooms on the lower floors early in the manor's renovations. Ciel had demurred, rightly pointing out that telegraphs were hardly secure. By their nature, it was a non-confidential means of communication. You had somebody at the telegraph receiver that took the time to transcribe morse code to English, and unless the distance was suitably great, one often found that messenger boys could do the job in the same amount of time. It was only as Archer pointed out that he'd need a means to actually manage his continental holdings that his Earl finally greenlit its construction, and they agreed not to use it for matters that were for his eyes only.

Of course, if his master realized that installing the telegraph meant more lessons in Morse code, he might have given it another round of serious thought. Even now, Archer could make out his gritted teeth as his master caught a mistake that he no longer had the ability to rectify, blazing on with iron determination.

Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye, and Archer stopped the watch with a click.

"Time."

Snarling, the Earl fell back onto his seat, arms raised.

"I was almost done." He defended.

"I can see that." Archer quickly compared his scribblings to the worksheet, frowning. "You're still having trouble remembering numbers, and you've got a spacing error here and there. The last thing you need is to be in a disadvantageous position and sending an error-filled warning message to Buckingham palace. Still, you're improving from where we began." He allowed, smiling as the earl breathed a small sigh of satisfaction. "But we still have quite a ways to go."

"Right." Cracking his knuckles, Ciel went back to the telegraph key. "Get it over with."

"Actually, before we go on," Archer set the worksheet down, frowning, "there is a matter I want to raise with you."

"Oh?" The Earl of Phantomhive crossed his arms, curious.

Archer pursed his lips.

"Master, there's no other way to put this, but we need more servants."

Ciel Phantomhive blinked.

"Beyond the fact that I need people to take care of the manor's day to day operations while I handle things in London, I cannot serve you forever." Archer reminded him. "Tanaka is good, but I don't believe he can handle the job on his own for long. For both of our sakes, we really need to start looking into hiring more help, especially if you want me doing god knows what for your company and your blasted townhouse."

The Earl of Phantomhive weighed his words carefully.

"I understand." He finally said. "But we're going to have to be selective about this. Only the best of the best."

"Of course." Archer smirked. "You can't expect all of them to be as good as me or Tanaka, but I think that we can publish ads in the newspapers tomorrow and work our way down from there."

"No, Emiya, we need to be more selective than that."

Archer frowned. "Well, what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well for starters," Ciel held a hand to his chin, "their loyalty needs to be beyond doubt. I cannot afford to entertain the slightest possibility of betrayal when I have enough on my plate. So, the three main things we are looking for – and the reason why we cannot simply advertise in the papers – is this: the servant must feel indebted to the Phantomhives, have nowhere else to go, and of course be very good at killing."

"Fair terms." Archer mused. "And they should also be good at their jobs, right?"

Silence.

His master examined his nails.

Archer sweatdropped.

"And also be good at their jobs," he repeated slowly, "right?"

"I'm going to be honest, Emiya, that's not quite as high a priority as the other criteria."

"What, why? What happened to being selective?" Archer complained, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. "If you're going to go through employees with a fine toothed comb, it shouldn't be too much of a requirement for them to be good at… I don't know, gardening, cleaning, cooking?"

"Emiya." Ciel looked unamused. "If you know of any other band of killers that also function as a cleaning service, please illuminate me. I'm dying to know."

Archer opened his mouth to protest, considered the question, drew a blank, and promptly closed it, chagrined.

"That's what I thought." Ciel said matter-of-factly, taking the teacup and saucer from the desk with a sigh. "Household skills like cleaning, gardening and cooking are a lot easier to impart than those of killing, which I'm sure you're well aware requires a certain je ne sais quoi."

"Oh, sure." Archer muttered. "The next time a band of looters and assassins shows up to shank you in your sleep, I'll just offer them a job as a dogsbody, how about that?"

"If they can be easily killed by you, there's no need to bother." Ciel shot him down, and Archer groaned at the fact that his master was seriously considering this line of thought. "That being said, if there ever happens to be a decent attempt on my life even with you defending me, I can consider offering them a job."

"I thought you wanted them to be loyal." Archer felt the need to point out. "It's hard to imagine an assassin who wants to kill you becoming your humble servant at the drop of a hat."

"No one is saying the process will be instant." His master shook his head, taking a small sip of Earl Grey with lemon. "But leave the process of convincing them to me."

Archer sighed.

"So. To sum it all up: our servants must be good at killing, have nowhere else to go, feel indebted to you, and if they previously made a decent attempt at your life even with me defending you it's a mark in their favor."

"That's right."

Emiya groaned. "We're going to be looking for a long, long time, Master." Archer muttered. "Just where do you expect me to find these people?"

DING DONG

At this moment, the doorbell rang, and the two looked up, suddenly tense.

"Are you expecting anyone, master?"

"No, and it's no longer visiting hours." Ciel set the teacup down with a frown. "Go see who it is."

"Right. Stay here. I'll let you know if it's safe."

And then Archer was off, shutting the door gently behind him and running up the stairs two at a time, quickly making his way to the door.

One person, he noted through his senses, male, with a… horse?

He opened the door a crack, peering outside, before throwing it wide.

"Lord Phipps." Archer bowed, sending a quick message to his master. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The taciturn half of Double Charles held up a letter with a familiar seal.

"I beg your pardon for arriving outside the customary visiting hours," he spoke in dulcet tones, "but Her Majesty The Queen wishes to let Earl Phantomhive know of this immediately."

In one of their drawing rooms, the Earl of Phantomhive put the letter down in disbelief.

"Germany?"

"That's right. Oh, thank you." Earl Phipps accepted the cup of tea with thanks and a nod as he regarded Ciel in front of him. "Her Majesty understands that you might be busy, and your manor might be… understaffed as is, but we can make arrangements to look after it in the meantime."

"That would help, yes," Ciel muttered, still reading the letter warily, "but why would she be concerned with what's going on in… Alsace-Lorraine?"

Earl Phipps didn't bat an eye. "It's not my place to question Her Majesty's decisions. But there have been reports on missing children in the hamlets and villages near Metz that echo a similar occurrence nearly a decade ago. We didn't bother investigating the last time this happened, chalking it as an isolated occurrence, but if there's a pattern forming Her Majesty believes it best that we nip it in the bud. She hopes that you'll be able to look into this and deal with any irregularities should they occur."

"Metz." Archer frowned, deep in thought. "That's on the border between Northeast France and Germany."

"That's right. A lovely place with a lot of woodland and small islands here and there, but I digress." He took a measured sip of tea. "The sooner we take care of this, the better, though she completely understands if you find yourself unable to complete the task."

Archer noted a barely perceptible twitch in his master's eyes.

"No, that's quite alright." He finally spoke in even tones. "I'll handle it."

"Her Majesty will be quite pleased you accepted the job." Charles nodded. "In the meantime, I'll stay on the manor's outskirts at night to deal with any intruders that should arrive. I trust Mr. Tanaka can handle the rest?"

"He will." Ciel confirmed.

"Excellent." Earl Phipps finished his tea and stood up, buttoning his jacket. "I'll go and inform Her Majesty of the news at once. Thank you for your hospitality."

"The pleasure is mine." Ciel waved him off. "I'll report back in a week."

"That sounds acceptable. I'll see myself out, have a lovely evening. Earl Phantomhive. Archer." The Queen's attendant nodded to them both, and with purposeful strides exited the drawing room, and a few steps later, the manor, leaving Master and Servant to stew in silence at the letter in front of them.

"Germany." Archer repeated with a sigh. "Vicky does know how to pick them."

"Oh, shut up, Emiya, I'm about as happy about this as you are." Ciel sank back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. "As if we're not busy enough already, she goes ahead and sends me all the way to the continent ." He complained.

Archer tilted his head in thought.

"You know," he muttered, "it'd be good to stop by Paris on the way back."

Ciel opened an eye in interest. "Oh?"

"We do need paintings." He gestured around them. "We need to restock our supply of Mariage Freres tea. We need good quality china for important occasions, and I've been told Sevres porcelain is the best in the world. And if you are willing to forgo the requirement of being good at killing," at this Archer hesitated, "we can get ourselves a good French chef. I know for a fact that a certain Monsieur Escoffier is excellent."

Ciel grumbled unintelligible rubbish under his breath, before sighing.

"Fine. Pack my bags, Emiya, then alert the Marchioness that I'll be heading abroad. After that, head to Dover and get me two tickets on the next steamer to Calais. We leave at dawn."

Smiling softly, Archer bowed deeply.

"Yes, my master."