Continuing with shepherd terms, the heft is an area of land a ram might instinctively stake out or recognize as their own territory, something often taught by the parent.

As it happened, the Queen had sent not one letter but two. Ciel finished the first within a minute before thumbing over to the next. He read the second message diligently, carefully, and his expression held more irritation than disapproval when he mumbled under his breath, "Human trafficking again." Sebastian stood by patiently for the full explanation. The boy read the letter through twice, slouching down in his chair and rolling his head across its cushioned backing, as if a different angle of his chin would give him a different angle on the matter too.

Finally Ciel folded the papers and tucked them inside his jacket. "We should get to work immediately. I need to change into travel clothes."

Sebastian kept pace with his charge as they walked out of the study and into the direction of his bedroom. "How far will we be traveling, my lord? Should I prepare for a day trip?"

Ciel's cane tapped the carpet rhythmically. "No. Today we're only going to the outskirts of Surrey, at the farthest, and then back into London. But from there on, who knows? I can't yet tell how much of a wild goose chase we're going to be sent on."

The rest of the walk to the bedroom was contemplatively silent. Ciel would not discuss the content of the letters until they were in private, it seemed. Sebastian closed the door to the dressing room softly once they arrived. "I suppose you won't keep me in the dark any longer, my lord?"

Ciel began to remove his jacket and the letters from within it while Sebastian selected a sturdier outfit from his wardrobe. "An hour ago, when the Queen's initial letter was sent, I was to apprehend a Mr. Algernon Northcott, who'd been discovered to be smuggling Middle Eastern children into the country through his shipping business."

"Children, hm?" Sebastian removed Ciel's vest and replaced it with a heartier one of brown tweed. "So this isn't just a repeat case of human trafficking but specifically the trafficking of young victims."

Ciel climbed out of and into another set of proffered trousers. "But apprehending him is no longer possible, because Northcott has been murdered. He was discovered dead in his own stables just this morning when the police came looking for him. Hence the shorter letter, updating me on the matter – and, seeing as dead men tell no tales, we'll have to discern what we can from the living." Ciel paused for a moment as Sebastian fastened his trousers. "I have little doubt that Northcott's reveal as a human trafficker is linked to the murder," he continued, in a voice suddenly strained. "Someone knew that they could be tracked through him… which makes me think Northcott is merely a pawn in a much larger game."

"A detail that I'm certain surprises you in the least," Sebastian said, threading his lord's arms through a matching brown Inverness coat. "Well, well, a murder in the morning, and that's only for starters… It seems the quiet of London's districts has finally been disturbed. No doubt the flies will be swarming."

Ciel made a soft hiss of disapproval between his teeth as Sebastian worked at the coat's buttons. "Don't be daft. Surely someone's moved the body by now."

Sebastian leaned back to survey his work. "Not bottle flies, my lord. Scotland Yard."

A sigh. "That lot… Let's hope they haven't sullied my investigation too much. They're just fine for handling the day-to-day cases, but you can't trust them with anything grander in scope than Fagin's band of pickpockets.※"

Sebastian handed Ciel back his cane. "Then I suppose we should arrive before much more damage can be done to your investigation, hm?"

"Yes. Get the carriage ready straight away." A single step forward, and then Ciel froze, his entire body going oddly rigid. "Oof…!"

Sebastian whirled back in concern. "My lord…?"

Ciel was wide-eyed. "Damn it, I can't even bend my knees! These trousers are way too tight, I've outgrown them! Don't just stand there laughing, you idiot, get me new ones!"

By eleven o'clock, they had arrived in Merton and Northcott's estate, a boxy gray building with black shutters and little to boast about, other than size. Willow trees fenced the territory in a perfect rectangle, and Sebastian imagined it was a relatively quiet haven when a murder hadn't just been committed. As it was, uniformed staff and Scotland Yard alike dominated the grounds, and there was an especial crowd around the stables behind the house. The only benefit to the populous was that Ciel and Sebastian were relatively unnoticed in adding to it.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing here?!"

Relatively – the accusatory eyes of Scotland Yard's police commissioner would never miss the entry of his arch nemeses.

"Well, well, Lord Randall," Ciel said snidely as they approached him outside the stables, "are you asking me to enlighten you on the very crime that has taken place here?"

Randall ground his teeth, peering down at the boy angrily. "When are we going to be rid of your meddling ? Shouldn't little aristocrats your age be off in school?"

"Perhaps the normal ones. I personally prefer discovering history over studying it. Let's get to work, Sebastian." Ciel made to go into the outbuilding, but Randall took a step in front of him.

"Scotland Yard has this under control," he snarled. "You might be here on the Queen's orders, but so are we. Don't you dare make a mess of our investigation."

"Your investigation?" Ciel laughed twice. "Oh, do excuse me for not realizing justice belonged solely to the Yard. I'm sure you'll have this one swiftly in the bag, just as you had Jack the Ripper."

"Old wounds!" Randall barked. "We acknowledge our missteps, and we learn from them. Our methods and manpower only continue to improve. We're leaving no stone unturned. My men are in the process of gathering alibis from the Northcott staff. These interviews aren't something you're privy to – I won't have you ripping documents out of Abberline's hands again and memorizing them."

"That's fine. I don't need your interviews. None of the staff did it anyway," Ciel dismissed. Sebastian had to smirk: it was much more entertaining to observe this adolescent bluntness than it was to be on the opposite end of it.

"You don't know that much, insolent brat!" Randall fumed.

"What could their motive possibly be?" Ciel scoffed. He was very much in his element. "Until I see proof that Northcott was poor at handling his finances or had an otherwise contemptuous attitude towards his staff, gathering alibis is meaningless. You're wasting your time scolding the dogs while the fox runs off with the hen in its teeth. Because Northcott's murder is most likely linked to his recently-discovered malpractice, that is the lead I intend to follow. Now, do let me at the scene of the crime so I can conduct a real investigation."

"Hold on a damn second!" Still Randall refused to budge. "I'll tell you this much, since you would have found out sooner or later anyhow: the way that Northcott died was by being crushed to death by an old racing horse he kept. Someone must have trapped him in the stall with the animal. It is mad and volatile. We are waiting for a horse doctor to properly secure the beast, identify it, and remove it from the premises."

Ciel drew back a bit. "Do you mean to tell me the body is still in there?"

"No," Randall said, quick to confirm his own team's diligence. "We managed to restrain the beast long enough to drag out the corpse – what we could of the corpse. But I'm not so foolish as to handle a berserk animal, let alone one that has already committed murder. So we're leaving it until it calms down enough for the doctor to lead it away."

"So you believe trampling was the cause of death?" Ciel mused. "That nobody would have heard the sounds of a struggle, if he were on-site? That maybe Northcott was attacked away from home, and the horse was employed so as to cover up the evidence of what really killed him?"

Randall leaned down to glare with his cinched eyes into Ciel's own. "I don't claim to assume anything yet," he spoke roughly. "Which is why we are gathering alibis."

"All right, all right," Ciel said airily, turning on his heel and walking a short way off. "We won't go in yet. But we are going be waiting nearby for our own chance at the scene. Let's go, Sebastian."

"Yes, sir."

"Hmph! Well, let that be a reminder that you can't just go traipsing in anywhere you please!" Randall shouted at Ciel's back, but the boy was far from caring.

They walked the sharp-cut perimeter of willows until they were out of easy earshot from Scotland Yard and the Northcott Staff, a three-minute stroll during which the veterinarian arrived and made his way into the stables. Butler and master trained their sights on the outbuilding as they conversed. "My lord, what do you propose we do next?"

"After the horse doctor does his work, we'll see what information we can gather from the crime scene, and then go to London proper." Ciel removed the Queen's letter from the inside of his coat. "The nine children they recovered from Northcott's most recent voyage are currently being kept at the Orphanage Infirmary in Southwark. I doubt they speak any English, so you can figure out what language they do speak and ask them if they know anything about why they were brought to England. I also want to go to the London piers to account for Northcott's ship, trade route, and which stevedores and dockers were assigned to his vessel. We need to find out how many trips he's taken and where he's been since his shipping business began… that might give us some guess at how long he's been smuggling in human beings before he was finally caught. After that… we'll go to Undertaker for the autopsy report. He should have information for us by then."

"I recommend that I go to the orphanage alone," Sebastian offered. "We don't know what condition the children were in when they arrived in the country. If they have tuberculosis or pneumonia, I would not want you to become susceptible."

Ciel gave a single nod. "Fine. I'd rather not wander around the docks on my own for long, though, so don't take your time getting back to me."

"On your own, my lord? I would never suggest that you do such," Sebastian said. "I assumed that you would be much happier having lunch at the Criterion while I visit the orphanage."

The boy glowered up at him. "I'd be happier smacking you in the head with my cane right now, too, but you don't see me doing that either. Don't patronize me, Sebastian. If the Queen sends me on an errand, I intend to be working, not milling about eating calves' brains."

Sebastian opened his mouth to make a retort about Ciel's onset of sloth just last March, but instead found himself saying, "It seems as if you anticipate danger, young master."

"I anticipate petty thieves and inebriated sailors. Things I may be able to solve with the glint of a pistol, but I'd prefer not to have to deal with at all."

"And yet you choose that over a relaxing lunch…" Sebastian sighed, and then felt a bit silly for saying so, especially after Ciel shot him a rather sharp side-glance. He rephrased his statement, as much for his own sake as for the sake of clarity. "It intrigues me that you would prefer to wait for my protection and yet you forego it. Is my lord in so much of a hurry to solve this case that he would put himself in the way of ruffians?"

"You can't complete a puzzle with half the pieces," Ciel sniffed. "It's too early to take a break, I've barely begun. I'd have nothing to mull over while I ate. A relaxing lunch? It couldn't be, not with so little known and so many questions unasked."

Sebastian smiled, barely. "Well then, my lord, I won't trouble your decisions further."

"You shouldn't be troubling them in the first–"

Their attention was then seized by a bevy of new arrivals, walking up the pebbled drive of Northcott's estate. Even from this distance, human eyes could recognize the tallest figure: a nun, thin and fully habited, flanked by a cluster of children in ebony. The group of them stood before the house in a line and, at the nun's demonstration, pressed their palms together and bowed their heads to pray. The Northcott staff that were scattered outdoors stared at them, none of them seeming to know why this makeshift cloister was here.

Ciel took a step towards them with intrigue. "Now this is the sort of detail that deserves my consideration. Let's go over to them before Scotland Yard can realize what a real opportunity for answers looks like."

Sebastian and his charge finished approaching the little group just as they finished their prayer. "My regrets, sister, but you've chosen a poor day to come collecting alms," Ciel announced when the nun opened her eyes. "The keeper of this manor has been murdered just this morning. I'm afraid his earnings are no longer his own to give."

The nun did not seem to pick up on Ciel's jocular tone. "Would you happen to be a relative of Mr. Northcott's, young one?" she asked, in a voice as wholesome and crystal-clear as her duty to the Lord. "I am ever so sorry for your loss. For all our losses."

Ciel shook his head. "My only relation to the departed is as his investigator."

The abbess put a hand to her mouth. "You are an investigator? At your age? I did not realize that child labor had expanded into police work… This breaks my heart. God has a better plan for you, young one, and it will come yet."

"… This isn't child labor, I'm fourteen," Ciel said, with such flat constraint that Sebastian's mouth tightened with clenched laughter. "And I don't work with the police or Scotland Yard. I'm here–"

"The National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will soon be founded, thanks to Thomas Agnew," the nun continued. "Then you will no longer have to work for a living. Be patient and keep saying your prayers, and all will be well."

"…" Ciel looked temporarily livid, but clenched his teeth and forced his mouth into a grimace. "Thank… you. How… comforting. But for now my work continues, and so I hope you will not mind if I ask what your own purpose for coming to the Northcott manor is today?"

"We are here to pay our respects to Mr. Northcott," the nun explained, "who was, in every way to us, our friend. Wasn't he, children?" A few of the little ones behind her nodded, though most were staring at the manor with a dull sort of awe. They were clearly orphans, none older than ten and all looked after by this generous sister. From the way they gazed at the house, it was clear they were equally intrigued and dissuaded by this luxury, because they knew such could never be theirs. The nun kept speaking. "Mr. Northcott was a very private man, but donated food and money to us regularly. He was very humble and asked that his donations be kept anonymous. But now that he has passed, I see no reason for his good deeds to be hidden from the world. God rest his poor soul, and may we pray that he felt no pain in his darkest hour."

Ciel had developed a natural avoidance of the devout, but he seemed to sense what Sebastian had immediately picked up on: that this woman was steadfast in her faith. She also seemed honest in her generosity, as a mop-headed toddler began to whine and she immediately went to soothe him, picking him up and rubbing his shoulder through the black fabric of his hand-me-down dress shirt. "I'm very sorry, but you must excuse us now," she said, as Ciel opened his mouth again to speak. "We've come from Westminster on a coal delivery wagon, and the driver said he wouldn't wait for us if we missed his return route. But we had to do something to show our appreciation." There were tears budding in her short-lashed eyes. "Children, keep Mr. Northcott forever in your hearts. He was a dear, dear soul."

"Your orphanage is located in Westminster, is it?" Ciel said before she could turn to leave. "What is the name of it? I would like to pay you a visit tomorrow."

The nun's eyes were still wet but she brightened suddenly. "I would be more than happy to accommodate you, young one. There would be a bed and food for you there, so you wouldn't have to work anymore to–"

"It's to ask you more questions about Northcott!" Ciel huffed, blushing, while Sebastian again choked back amusement. "Now what is your orphanage called?!"

"The Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey" turned out to be the answer, an orphanage that Ciel had in fact donated to using the proceeds from his display auctions. Though Ciel only gave to reputable organizations that put the wellbeing of the children and disabled first, he did not intimately acquaint himself with any of their occupants, as it seemed Mr. Northcott had. "A human trafficker who is secretly altruistic." Ciel watched the nun and her brood walk down the drive and out of sight. "Well… that certainly is a curiosity."

Sebastian dipped his chin. "His motivations are rather contradictory."

"I want to find out more about what Northcott donated, specifically," Ciel said. "If he ever gave clothing, for instance… Items he could have taken away from the abducted and given to the orphanage as a means of discarding evidence. Though Middle Eastern clothing would rather stand out…"

There was little time to ponder that further as the veterinarian emerged from the stables, leading the quarter horse with a rope around its neck – evidently putting a bit in its mouth was not currently advisable. The horse had also been blinded with a rag around its eyes, yet its brown flank still shivered with want to bolt and froth remained at the corners of its lips. The doctor led the animal away from the brunt of the crowd, warning "not to come too close – he has been sedated with an opiate, but he's still very skittish." Ciel eyed the sleek, petrified, supposed murderer, hand on his hip.

"Since I have no desire to see bloody bits of person scattered about the hay," he began, "you go investigate the crime scene while I ask the doctor about what he thinks of the horse's guilty sentencing."

"Sir." Sebastian bowed and went to take a look. For him, seeing a live person or dead corpse garnered nearly identical emotions, unless that person happened to be his contracted.

Northcott was no exception. There was, in fact, less gore than Sebastian had anticipated, though still a fair bit of blood had spilled. Scotland Yard eyed Sebastian as they went about their work, but they did not speak to him. Sebastian needed no more than his senses to gather what forensics would for them. He breathed in the air: hinted with blood, nine hours old, blood belonging to a man in his forties with no major health issues. He saw the flesh and sinew that had been ground into the cobbled floor with intense, consistent force.

But what was this? The scent of blood did not just linger by the stall, but on two paths leading to the stall as well. So Northcott had been presented to the horse already bleeding, if not already dead. This was further proof in favor of Ciel's hypothesis: that the trampling of the horse hid the marks of the true murder weapon, rather than being the actual cause of death. Unfortunately, Scotland Yard and Northcott's staff had muddied the air with their human smells, and it was impossible to tell the characteristics of the person who had delivered the man to his fate. With that gathered, Sebastian left.

Ciel was standing a fair distance from the doctor and his patient, cautious of the horse's unpredictable nature. As Sebastian approached, he heard the veterinarian say, "Well, I don't know, but I'd say it's unlikely at this point. It's not something I have the time for… and not something I can imagine anyone else having the patience for."

"… No, I imagine not," Ciel said, and looked over his shoulder briefly as Sebastian stopped behind him. "Well, I'm going to be in touch with Northcott's lawyer and clerk. I would pay you handsomely, if you would be so kind as to tend to the horse until it's confirmed that Northcott was crushed to death."

The doctor nodded but looked puzzled. "Sure, if it matters so much, I'll keep the gelding in my stable for a few days… But whether or not it's guilty, it's as I just told you. He'll be sent off to the knackery; horses like him ain't much good anymore after they've been spooked and riled up like this one has, and nobody's going to want him." As if to further prove its wildness, the horse suddenly thrashed on its rope lead and gave a screaming whinny.

"Yes, I understand," Ciel half-barked, though whether in frustration at the doctor or surprise at the horse's loud retaliation, Sebastian couldn't be sure. "I'll be by in a few days to give you word… Until then, I'll let you take him before the sedative wears off. Let's go, Sebastian. We still have a lot of ground to cover this afternoon."

It was two o'clock when Sebastian exited the Orphanage Infirmary and hailed a cab to meet Ciel at the docks. He told the driver to wait while he fetched his master, following the pulse of Ciel's soul to the outside of a pub, likely a friendlier place at this hour of the day than the evening. Ciel himself was not looking friendly, arms folded as he leaned against the wall, bearing a sour, impatient scowl.

"I hope you didn't get into any trouble with the local riffraff, my lord," Sebastian said by way of greeting.

Ciel snorted, walking over and allowing Sebastian to lead him to the carriage around the corner. "I almost would have preferred that. It was the Docker's Union that gave me trouble, damn it. They refused to supply any information on who worked Northcott's ship. The strike last year has made them feel apt to protect their members' privacy, even if their members might have assisted a trafficking ring apparently. And you remember, too, how the gentry were commending the union for their peaceful protests, including myself… See if I ever speak well of that lot again… What a nuisance…"

Sebastian held open the door of the cab once they arrived and climbed in after him. "So then," Ciel began with a sigh, as the carriage tottered off in the direction of Undertaker's mortuary, "please tell me that what you learned from the children was actually useful."

"I'll see what you can make of it, my lord," Sebastian said. "For starters, seven of the boys spoke Persian – two spoke Kurdish and told me they were brothers."

Ciel already stopped him there. "All of the children were boys?"

"Yes. And all of them had been sold by their parents into servitude to work as camel jockeys in Dubai. They had grown too old for it, however, despite that not one was more than nine years. Apparently many child slaves begin their career in camel jockeying at the age of two – living for seven more years with such a profession and such fragile bones is rather impressive."

Ciel sniffed, waspish. "Get on with it, now. What else did you learn?"

"They did not know why they had been sent to England," he continued. "They did not even know where they were going until they were taken to Egypt's ports to be sold. They had never been on a ship before and were frightened, but said they were swiftly used to it. Aboard the ship, they were treated more kindly than they had been as jockeys. Though no one could speak to them, they were fed and allowed to move around the deck where they pleased, given they didn't cause any trouble. When they eventually arrived in London, it was nighttime, and they were being shepherded off of the ship into a wagon. The police stopped the wagon not long after and evacuated it, arresting the driver. The children thought they were under arrest as well at the time. Until I arrived, I still don't think they really had any idea what was happening."

Ciel propped his elbow on a knee and leaned his chin on his wrist, thoughtful. "Northcott's treatment of children continues to perplex me," he said at last. "It's expensive to transport live cargo overseas. If he merely dealt in general trafficking, there would be no reason to go outside of Europe for victims… Which naturally means it had to do with these children in particular, their expertise." Ciel leaned back again. "They were young and lightweight, they had a history of jockeying… it sounds to me like the dealings of an illegal racetrack, especially when you consider Northcott's so-called murderer. But it's hard to imagine an illegal racetrack going to such great lengths to acquire this 'perfect jockey.' The dangers of it attracting attention to their cartel are too great – they've already made that mistake, if a racetrack is indeed at the center of all this."

Sebastian bowed his chin in agreement. "Our opportunity for further answers shall arrive shortly. Thus, while we wait, my lord–" Sebastian made a small show of revealing an orange from the inside of his jacket "–how about a sweet snack to drive away hunger and a peel to drive away the smells of the mortuary?"

Another ten minutes later and they had arrived at the funeral parlor, a building with about as much charm as a shrunken head. When Sebastian tipped the driver and told him he need not wait up, the man muttered, "Thank God for that… I ain't hangin' around here one more second." Though the appearance of the mortuary was hardly appealing, the aforementioned scent of the place was even more unsettling. It was a strange cornucopia that seemed to work its way into the human psyche: a mix of incense, salt, formaldehyde, and sawdust. Heady yet fragrant, lingering here too long often gave Ciel a headache. Before they went inside, Sebastian observed Ciel rubbing the orange peel between gloved fingertips and pressing it to the base of his nose before tucking it away in his pocket.

And then, as they entered, they were made quickly aware that they weren't the only ones here on business.

"Wha-? You?" Ciel cried at the redheaded inspector, who was propped on all fours in the center of the cold stone floor. "Just what the devil are you doing?!"

"Wouldn't I like to know," Fred Abberline choked back, blushing profusely. "I'm trying to be funny, that's what the devil I'm doing!"

Ah yes, the Undertaker's fee: a laugh, or rather a fit of them, as the Undertaker always seemed to be laughing by nature, knitting such sounds of glee into his speech patterns. Sebastian had little difficulty finding the right words or actions to pay the toll, but it didn't go without saying that Undertaker had a particular sense of humor. Abberline seemed to be attempting a sort of visual gag. Sebastian wasn't sure what was supposed to be humorous about a man with both shoes tied around his ears, posed like a beast of burden, and he didn't really want to know either.

Undertaker did not seem amused by this display himself. He was leaning one elbow on the lid of the coffin he was sprawled behind, using it as most would use a desk. He cupped his cheek in one hand, bored, though his mouth was curved up like a crescent moon at the sight of Ciel.

"Well, well, look who it is. Little Lord Phantomhive," Undertaker greeted. "It's been some months since I last saw you… I was beginning to wonder if your next visit would be for a coffin. But you're going to be too big for the one I've crafted at this rate… I'll have to start over, hehe."

"Hilarious," Ciel growled. "If you can just make yourself laugh, I don't know what you need him for."

Abberline sulkily put his shoes back on his feet where they belonged. "Don't say it so dismissively… I've been trying to get a laugh out of him for over an hour now!"

Undertaker snickered, hiss-like. "Come now, if you aren't going to be funny, then I'm not going to laugh, I think that's fair. But your honest nature did make me feel almost sorry enough to pretend."

"Ugh! Oh, I give up!" Abberline hung his head, then appealed to Ciel. "Earl, let's work together on this, all right? Clearly you know him better than I do, and no doubt you're here for the same reason I am. If you can get him to tell us about Northcott's cause of death, I'll let you take a look at the case file I have on-hand. Is it a deal?"

Things weighed in the boy's favor here, and Ciel agreed to the exchange. "Sebastian, I'll leave this to you. I've had to put my mind to enough today."

"Yes, my lord." Sebastian took a step forward and opened his mouth, sure whatever dirty limerick or double entendre he chose from his thousand-year arsenal would do the trick here. But Undertaker surprised him with other ideas.

"I think," he mused, putting his sleeve-covered hands together, "that the butler has something he'd like to tell me in private."

"In private?" Ciel repeated, and glared at Sebastian. "Is that true?"

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "… Evidently."

Ciel's gaze stayed on Sebastian for a few seconds more before drifting back to Undertaker. "I don't like the sound of that one bit… The idea of you two degenerates swapping secrets without me present seems like a formula for disaster."

Abberline was thrown-off. "You consider your butler a degenerate…?"

"Of the cheekiest variety," Ciel growled, making Sebastian smirk primly. A thoughtful moment, and he asked, "But whatever it is he tells you, that will be enough to give us the details on Northcott?"

Undertaker nodded, that knowing grin never leaving his face.

"… Is this secret about me?" the boy asked then, immediately haughty. "I'm not going to let you gossip about me once I'm out of the room. True or false, I don't care. I won't have it."

"How interesting that you'd think so, Earl," Undertaker's words followed him to the exit. "Must it always be about you? Hmm… Maybe so, maybe so. Be patient now and wait for your answers outside, like the good guard dog you are."

"Nothing about me. That's an order," was Ciel's final warning. Then the heavy black door shut, leaving Undertaker and Sebastian in silence.

"My, my. Looks as though somebody is changing," the playful voice began. "Resembling Vincent more and more, but terribly confused about who he could become… Frightened, even, of who he could become. Behaving in ways he never has before. Forces beyond his understanding turning him into something new… and struggling to understand why."

The Undertaker strode to the other side of the coffin and sat upon it, crossing one leg over the other.

"Could I be talking about the Earl," he whispered, "or you, butler?"

Sebastian's face flinched in surprise. Otherwise he stood unmoving, waiting for further explanation. What did the Undertaker know about his emerging sympathy over the past few months, and how? He wouldn't simply reveal his fears to a man whose intentions were always in-question. Better to see what Undertaker knew from mere observation.

"You are not the same as the last time I saw you," Undertaker went on. "Don't look so shocked at my saying so – I have always been attuned to such things. Particularly those in the realm of the odd, and you, my friend, are most certainly an oddity. Do I know what you are, you might wonder? That I would never guess at, lest you consider it grounds to kill me… What I will say is this: you are at risk of becoming an entirely different entity."

The Undertaker was right about one thing: Sebastian did feel the urge to kill him, but mostly because of how uncommonly vulnerable he felt in this moment, and how angry that made him. The Undertaker himself… Sebastian had often doubted his species in return – the world was populated with numerous immortals masquerading as humans for their own pleasure.

"What is it that you assume makes me 'at-risk' of transformation, exactly?" Sebastian began tentatively.

Undertaker smiled wider. "I think you know that better than I do, hmm?"

He did. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He was bound to his master's order. He could not talk about Ciel right now.

Undertaker caught on to that. "Perhaps it has to do with the company you keep," he offered. "Company that you will not or cannot leave, I wager."

"You said that I had something to tell you," Sebastian pressed on, "but it seems rather you had something to tell me. Is that so?"

"Just looking out for you, butler. You should be grateful for my insight." The Undertaker spread out his arms in a shrug. "Your change in aura has me very curious. You've been an unwavering flame since the moment we met years ago. And now… that flame is growing inside of your rich black energy. Can you blame my inquisition?" He chuckled three more hisses. "And I suppose you're wondering what I meant by saying you were 'more like Vincent'… Well, that would be in your affection for the boy. Wouldn't it? When the Earl speaks, that flame in you flickers…"

"What is your intention of telling me all this?" Sebastian said thinly.

"Because I want to study you, of course," Undertaker proposed. "I want to see what other changes you go through, and why that might be, and why now… Why now, of all times, after going years unaffected… You'd like to know, wouldn't you? I would."

Sebastian made no movement. To admit his interest would be to expose his underbelly to a dubious ally.

"Do with my invitation as you wish," Undertaker said at last, rhythmically tapping his cheek with long fingernails. "I'll leave it up to you, whether or not you visit again, on your own time… But if you choose to keep me informed of what changes you go through, I will endeavor to come up with a cure… Because it frightens you to change, doesn't it? It would frighten me…"

Still Sebastian said nothing. If he were human, he felt there would be sweat on his brow. If the Undertaker could make these observations, than it meant the sympathy he felt growing in him was as much of a cancer as he feared. Perhaps relying on Undertaker was the only choice he had…

"Well then. That's all I have for you." The fingernails stopped their rhythm. "But you need an alibi for the Earl, don't you? So why not tell a joke after all? You may not feel like laughing, but I assure you, I do."

Minutes later, Abberline and Ciel reentered the funeral parlor to the sound of Undertaker's merriment. "Not bad…" he wheezed, arms and chin stretched across his coffin, as if he'd fallen over laughing and needed to be propped up. "Not bad at all…"

Abberline seemed put-off. "Wh-What did you do to make him laugh?"

"I told a simple joke." Sebastian smiled, forced. "Nothing more."

Ciel strode forward, plopping the thin case file into Sebastian's palms for analysis as he approached Undertaker. "All right, your ridiculous fee's been paid. Now tell us about how Northcott died."

Undertaker gave a long sigh, his breathing returning to normal. "The poor fellow," he said remorselessly, "died from lung collapse due to blunt force trauma."

Abberline smacked his open palm with the opposite fist. "So! He was killed by his horse, it wasn't an attempted cover-up!"

"Not necessarily…" Ciel laid a finger lengthwise across his lower lip, thought for a moment. "Was there anything proving that a horse was the attacker?"

"The body is in miserable shape," Undertaker shook his head. "The family isn't going to want an open casket for this funeral, I assure you, hehe… The hooves that may have killed him did turn him to a fine pulp. Not much more can be discerned, alas." He swept a long sleeve towards his back room. "You're welcome to take a look for yourself, Lord Phantomhive. I only hope you didn't eat recently."

"Ugh. Your explanation will do, thank you very much." Ciel took the case file from Sebastian as it was handed back, knowing his butler had read and memorized it easily even in that short time frame. "And there were no other signs of foul play? Rope burns on his wrists or ankles to imply he might have been restrained at one point?"

Undertaker shook his head. "There are no details I've spared you, Earl. It's a corpse that's been through much rough treatment. Certainly a terrified horse could have done this – so could a man, or a mob of them, with heavy enough of a weapon. Only further investigation can reveal the truth. But I wouldn't say the trampling is so farfetched."

Ciel turned. "All right, then. We'll be off. Report to me immediately with any further discoveries, should they arise."

Undertaker cackled softly. "I am your willing servant... Farewell, little Lord Phantomhive."

The trio departed into the cloudy sunshine and the fresher air. Ciel handed Abberline back the case file. "So," he said to the inspector, "Scotland Yard changed their tune? You too were assuming Northcott had been killed by someone other than his horse?"

"Ah…" Abberline shuffled the papers together, which had become unruly in his grip. "No… That is, I didn't think so, until Randall gave me your opinion. He may consider you a rival, but the way I see it, we both strive for the same goal, and your sleuthing is so often correct, it seemed silly to ignore it. I trusted that you could be on the right path."

Ciel hardly contemplated this before making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat. "Hmph. Well, I wasn't on the right path, and it'll do you no good to follow anyone blindly. As for the goal we're striving for, it is the same, but don't think I'm as friendly as you. I intend to do things my own way. Good day, Addison."

"Abberline! It's Abberline!" was the shout that followed them out of the alley and onto the main thoroughfare.

There was no more discussion until Sebastian had hailed another cab. "My lord is not shy about saying he 'doesn't play well with others.'"

The carriage jerked to a start beneath them. "Is that a surprise to you? Of course it's not, you just like teasing me too much." Ciel fiddled with his cane, thinking again. "So it would seem that Northcott likely was killed by his old racehorse. But that doesn't mean the animal wasn't provoked… and I wager that being trapped in a small space with a stinking corpse for so long stirred up its fear sense even more. No wonder Northcott was a supposed 'pulp' by the time anyone found him."

"I don't think my lord was wrong in his initial assumption, though," Sebastian said. "From my evaluation of the crime scene, the smell of blood was in places aside from the body's location… two trails of Northcott's scent led from the stable entrance to the stall. I believe the man was already injured or dead when he was deposited inside."

"… Which would make some sense, if he worked an illegal racetrack and one of their horses murdered him," Ciel said. "Then his body might be put inside the stall, to make it look like some sort of freak accident … But why would Northcott be near enough to the track's horses for them to harm him? And why would he be trying to ride his own horse in the middle of the night without a stable hand to assist? Either scenario could happen… It just seems… strange. He wouldn't be a jockey, that's for sure. I don't know… Despite how many mysteries still surround it, this particular case is beginning to feel rather pretty, isn't it?"

"Pretty, my lord?"

"Like it's all coming together too nicely. I'm already very certain Northcott worked an illegal racetrack, for instance. There's just a lot of details I feel are already confirmed. It makes me wary." Ciel sighed. "Well, we still don't know where this racetrack could be located and who else is involved. I don't expect the whole charade to fall apart just because one man is dead." The boy leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes. "But that's enough for today… All I have energy for now is writing to Northcott's lawyer. Fix me some Assam tea when we get back so I can think properly."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh yes, and before I forget…" Ciel looked at his demon with suspicion. "Just what did Undertaker want you for anyway? Was it really just a simple joke?"

"It depends on your definition of 'simple,'" Sebastian dodged.

Ciel was wise to this game. "What else did he want from you, aside from the joke?"

"… He wanted little from me," Sebastian said, with masked care. "What he really wanted was to tell me something, not I him."

"So what did he tell you?" Ciel was getting impatient.

"He told me that… he wanted to study me."

"… He wanted to study you? Why-?" Ciel stopped and buried his face in his hand. "Ugh, never mind… I probably don't want to know, do I? It's the damn Undertaker, after all."

Sebastian sniffed a laugh. "Yes, you probably don't want to know."

"Do I even want to know what joke it is that won him over this time?"

"Perhaps. I don't believe your ears would be impartial to it."

"Go on, then. Try and make me laugh." A competitive edge had seeped into the boy's tone.

Sebastian straightened. "You can tell a lot about a woman's mood by looking at her hands."

Ciel raised an eyebrow, then shrugged in inquiry.

"If she's holding a gun, she is probably angry. "

After a second, the boy did give a half-grin. "Tuh! I was hoping for more of a play on words… Seems Undertaker prefers the silly to the clever. I'm certainly not compelled to share that one at parties."

Ciel was smug that he had not awarded Sebastian his own laugh. Sebastian was merely relieved that he had not been pressed for further details on his discussion with Undertaker. If there was anyone in the world who should not find out about his rapidly 'changing aura,' it was the boy who could best take advantage of it.

Algernon Northcott was forty-six years old when he died. He was unmarried, with no heirs, which wasn't so uncommon in this day and age. He had taken over his father's shipping business, using a sturdy ocean liner with auxiliary sails, built in 1882 and taking the same route through the Mediterranean Sea to Alexandria for most of her career. Her imports included Egyptian cotton, Algerian olive oil, Tunisian wine – and Middle Eastern children, presumably more than once. Northcott had turned a decent profit and was an established member of the rising middle class. Only his hired crew had knowledge of the abducted children, as far as could be deduced, and Northcott had not kept any records of who these men were, likely in the off-chance that his crime was discovered. The crew was not about to turn themselves in, in any case.

In his return letter, the lawyer described the initial outline of Northcott's will: that most of his money was to go to his remaining family (mainly first and second cousins, as Northcott had been an only child), with smaller percentages to be doled out amongst his staff, and the rest to charity. Unfortunately, the lawyer assumed most of Northcott's trade documents were forged, as they did not account for any money that was made or lost by human trafficking, and it was possible Northcott had even held a private bank account to make up the difference. Until a better understanding of the dead's financial exploits was known, Northcott's riches were subject to forfeiture.

These were the details that Sebastian had gleaned from the case file and the lawyer's letter, and this was the information Ciel had him regale on their way to Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey the following day.

"Aunt Francis told me that this was the most disgusting part of London when she was a girl," Ciel said, looking out the window as they passed along Pye Street. "They once called it 'the diseased heart'… But the year I was born, the Public Health Act was passed, and the worst of the filth was transformed into what you see today. Thank God."

Sebastian chuckled. "Very good, my lord. Reciting history lessons unasked, how proud I should be."

Ciel smirked. "They also called this sector 'the Devil's Acre.'"

"Of that you need not remind me," Sebastian sighed. "The human association of the devil with filth continues to perplex me. Even those who do not believe in demons speak of our poor taste. How misguided."

"It is the least of our slights against you." Ciel was clearly pleased to have insulted his own personal devil nonetheless.

The orphanage was on Romney Street near Smith Square, in a two-story cubbyhole of a dwelling, squeezed between brick housing units. It was in some disrepair and clearly old, the shutters battered and walkway cracking, but a little garden out front tried to brighten the scene. The stairs creaked almost dangerously beneath their feet but held, and when Ciel knocked on the paint-peeled door, it took almost three minutes for the nun from yesterday to answer it.

She smiled warmly as she recognized Ciel. "Welcome, young one! I'm so glad to see you've found your way. Have you decided to come live with us after all?"

"Good grie- I'm not an orphan!" Ciel snapped. His shoulders unbunched as he considered his words. "Well… actually, I suppose I am an orphan, but… I'm perfectly able to take care of myself." Sebastian barely restrained himself from tutting. Perfectly able, is that right! That's news to me. "I'm here to ask you more about your relationship with Algernon Northcott. Do you mind if we come in and speak with you briefly?"

Tears came to the young nun's brown eyes again. "Yes, of course – it's the least I can do in his memory."

As Ciel strode into the narrow entrance hall, he couldn't be restrained from bursting her bubble. "I know he was very supportive of your orphanage, but it's worth noting that before he was murdered, Northcott was convicted of human trafficking."

"I did hear that," the nun said evenly, "and I have trouble believing it to be true."

"I have trouble believing the opposite." Ciel's voice tightened distastefully as they passed a banister steeped in laundry. "He was murdered within hours of the victims being discovered by the police. And the testimony from the man driving the wagon of children revealed that he was only taking them halfway. Their final destination would be a secret even to him. So, with that in mind–"

"Please." The nun held up her hand, stopping them before a whitewashed door. "The children are eating their lunch in here. I'd prefer they didn't hear this disturbing talk."

Ciel and Sebastian followed her into the little space, where the orphans were gathered around a large butcher block table, hunched over plates of what looked to be roast beef. They had no eyes for the newcomers, so focused were they on the meal they ate with their hands.

As if remembering it, Ciel said, "You told me that Northcott donated food to you, amongst other things. What specifically did he bring you?"

"What you see the children eating now is the last of the beef he gave," the nun explained. "He told me he had a cousin who raised dairy cows. When one of them grew too old to produce milk any longer, Mr. Northcott would have it butchered and deliver the meat to us. Once a month or so, we were given these offerings. The meat doesn't keep for long, but it would usually serve a couple days' worth of meals."

"A cousin who raised dairy cows…" Ciel's research on Northcott's extended family had thus far been meager, but this detail seemed to raise a red flag. "You said this was the last of it, but did you happen to discard any of the raw meat?"

"Only a bit of it," the nun said, almost defensively. "Only a part that had seemed to go gray faster than the rest… It wouldn't do us well to be wasteful here."

"No, I trust it wouldn't. If you still have it in your waste bin, I'd like for my partner here to eat it," Ciel said, smiling more at Sebastian's look of annoyance than the nun's cry of shocked disgust.

"Don't sound so worried, he'll be fine," Ciel spoke in his butler's place. "He's quite an experienced connoisseur... and he's digested much worse. Take my word."

"And mine," Sebastian interjected stiffly. Ciel's exposed eye seemed to sparkle.

"But why?" the woman had to know. "What is the purpose of eating raw meat that's been thrown away?"

"I suspect that what Northcott gave you is something other than beef," Ciel explained. "Nothing to worry about the children eating… but not beef. And if Sebastian tastes the creature's blood, he will be able to tell us what it is. Won't you?"

"… I imagine so." It wasn't often that Ciel was so forthright about Sebastian's ethereal abilities, but the boy was lapping up his demon's displeasure like buttermilk today.

There was a little metal pail in one corner of the kitchen, containing knotted fistfuls of pumpkin seeds and eggshells and apple cores, and a soft gray clump of meat like the cherry on top. Ugh… Sebastian reached in his gloved fingers, plucking the morsel out and tossing it into his mouth. He made no show of disgust, knowing it would only encourage Ciel's schadenfreude, though Sebastian's disapproval lay more in humiliation than nausea… But the meaning for this crude task became clear as a particular taste of death whirled around his senses. Ciel had been right to have Sebastian eat the raw stuff. If he'd sampled any of the cooked meat, he wouldn't have known what it was, for he had never eaten it before. The blood spilled secrets that the flame would burn away.

"Horse meat," he said, and by Ciel's expression knew the boy had anticipated this.

The nun hadn't. "Horse meat? Well, that's all right as well, just as fine as beef… but why would Mr. Northcott lie about this?"

"That's the question I aim to answer," Ciel said. "With him, it always seems to go back to horses… Whether he killed them or they him. Did Northcott donate anything to you, apart from money? Any clothing or other sorts of food?"

"He did not." The nun folded her hands in front of her. "It seems strange to talk about Mr. Northcott like this; almost as if I am betraying him. He would visit us a few times a year. He knew the children by name. He would share with them his favorite passages from the Bible. It isn't easy for us to accept that within his chest was a dark heart." The tears were in her eyes again.

Ciel was not well-versed in comfort. "Northcott left money for you in his will. Unfortunately, his assets will likely be forfeited to the government, as they may have been obtained through illegal means."

The nun nodded solemnly. "Even in death, he cares for us…"

"The dead can't take care of anybody," Ciel said, words shadowed by his own experience. "Therefore I'll be sending you a cheque tomorrow to help you keep up with the expenses of the orphanage. Expect it in the mail by the afternoon."

"I couldn't possibly take your money!" the nun cried, placing her hands on his unprepared shoulders. "God smiles upon such kindness… but a boy your age, working so hard to survive, should be saving every penny for himself."

"Does what I say go in one ear and out the other?!" Ciel clapped a hand to his forehead. "Maybe your selective hearing can retain this much: I'm Earl Ciel Phantomhive, watchdog to the Queen. I've donated money to you before. Now please get your hands off of me before I change my mind about it."

"You're… Earl Phantomhive?" The nun covered her mouth. "Then you have also been our dear friend… But you're so young!"

"And so exhausted by your declarations," the boy sighed, turning his back to her. "I think it's about time we left…"

"Young one." The nun placed one of her hands gently on the side of his head, making Ciel blink largely, surprised, confused, and a little affronted at this familiarity. "You engage yourself in a dangerous game… One that people your age have no business knowing."

Ciel rolled his head out from underneath her palm. "That's where you're wrong again." He began striding towards the exit, holding himself tall. "This is only child's play."

Over the next two days, the discoveries reached a drought. Ciel interviewed one of Northcott's first cousins when he arrived in Surrey to account for Algernon's possessions but, aside from confirming they had no relative who raised dairy cattle, nothing came of it. None of Northcott's shipping crew was apprehended or heard of. The man who had been driving the wagon of abducted children was still the only one known to be connected to the trafficking. Unfortunately, he knew nothing of the big picture – he was just an East End vagabond who would take whatever odd job gave enough shillings for food and liquor. Running out of human leads, Ciel had taken to scanning day-old, week-old, month-old newspapers for anything related to horses or the Middle East or similar crime, any clues that might have been hiding behind a petty headline all along. It wasn't until the letters arrived that any significant progress was made.

There were two of them, one from Undertaker and one from the nun, but their contents were virtually the same. Homemade envelopes contained twin posters for a competition, to be held by a Mr. Gwilym Hastings in a month. The font was bold, neat, attractive. Both nun and Undertaker seemed to find the announcement of this competition strange and a little too timely. Both also bid Ciel to take care – the nun with her candid worry, the Undertaker, more likely, with a sly, taunting edge.

The competition Hastings advertised was for a horse race.

"These posters were apparently tacked across the East End and London docks," Ciel explained to Sebastian. "And if you read the print, you'll see that this Hastings is looking specifically for poor young boys to train into jockeys. Poor young boys who, no doubt, are looking for work and may not have families who would miss them. This is out of charity, Hastings states, a way of helping the less fortunate to find work… perhaps even become famous. A real-life rags-to-riches story.

"Five of the most talented applicants will be selected to live at his manor. He'll pay their room and board while training them as professionals to someday compete in the Ascot." Ciel thrummed his fingertips over the center ink drawing of a man on the back of a rearing stallion. "Seems like the sort of competition one might propose if they, say, ran an illegal racetrack and had just lost their access to child labor."

Sebastian grinned. "Yes, this does reek of coincidence, doesn't it? And what would you like to do with this information, my lord?"

"Isn't that the question." Ciel plopped his elbows on his desk and knitted his fingers together. "This Mr. Hastings… I haven't heard of him before. I imagine he's also a member of the middle class, like Northcott was. Wealthy enough to sponsor a racetrack, perhaps… Not wealthy enough to run it through legal means." The boy leaned back. "I'm about ninety percent convinced that this racetrack exists now. But where it is and how to find it is the mystery. And I don't suppose confronting Mr. Hastings would convince him to outright show it to us, even if we threatened him. I'd try it if I knew that he were in charge of the whole operation, but he might just be another piece of the puzzle like Northcott was."

"The English countryside isn't small," Sebastian said. "Even if I were to search for a racetrack, without a direct lead, it wouldn't be a swift process."

"But now we know another player in the game," Ciel said. "Or at least, it seems very clear that we do. If we stood vigil outside his manor… followed him if he went somewhere in the middle of the night…"

Sebastian leaned forward a fraction. "Hmm. I think we both know why that wouldn't be the most surefire answer, my lord."

"Hastings might not go anywhere or do anything suspicious," Ciel answered in a growl. "And I might just end up wasting my time…"

"That, and even if we did follow him to an illegal racetrack, what would you do from there?" Sebastian smiled. "Let's say everything goes according to plan and we find just what we're looking for. Even if I killed everyone there, stable hands and gamblers, and we happened to find the child jockeys too, the ringleaders pulling the strings from far away would still live. These people are the real threat, as you well know… But the answers you seek would die with the racetrack if you invaded it mindlessly."

"Argh… And incapacitating or killing so many people would leave a lot of blood on my hands. The Queen wouldn't be happy with the way I handled things… Especially not after Noah's Ark." Ciel chewed his lip. "I'll have to infiltrate, of course. If I can blend in with the betting crowd, I could get them to lead me to their racetrack… Then I could explore the place and find out who the big bosses funding it were… And take out those leaders methodically instead."

"But why," Sebastian began, "would anyone be willing to lead a young aristocrat there? Or anyone so young, for that matter? Surely they must have standards for who is to be invited, or else word would get out all too quickly of their operation. Even if they did not recognize you as the Earl of Phantomhive, no doubt your age would raise suspicions."

Ciel grunted. "And if they did recognize me, it'd all be over."

Sebsastian took a step towards the desk, leaning forward even more. "If only there were some way you could attend as you are and not be suspected… Hmm?"

The grandfather clock in the corner tick, tick, ticked. Chimed.

"… But that would be worse than the circus!" Ciel cried in realization, jumping to his feet.

"Oh come now, my lord. You are just the proper age to try out for the competition. And you already know how to ride a horse."

"But I don't know how to ride a racehorse!"

"Neither would any of the other boys."

"I would just exhaust myself! Last time I did something so physically taxing, I got sick and couldn't properly investigate anyway."

"I don't think that would happen this time, my lord."

"And why is that?"

"Because you would have an entire month beforehand to practice."

Ciel went silent, angrily contemplating, angry because he knew this was the best course of action. A man who abducted young jockeys – killed when his trafficking was discovered. Another man calling for young jockeys – days after the first man died. Equine connections everywhere one looked. An underground racetrack, only hinted at, really only imagined, tucked somewhere in the foothills. Horses killed, a horse who killed, and a way to freely investigate it all plopped in their laps like a neat little gift.

"... I don't suppose you know how to train a jockey," Ciel finally sighed miserably.

Sebastian's smile only changed the smallest bit, but the angle of his head above the boy somehow made it all the more menacing. "I believe I have… some ideas."

※: From Charles Dickens' Oliver.

: To the original creator of this joke, my thanks and my apologies.