Man, you guys are quiet. Is that a bad thing? It's okay though, I'm pretty quiet myself when I'm not writing stories, so I won't hold it against you. You're like my little box of reader-mice. :)

*gives new chapter*

The very first time she had ever used her gift to leap, as Lydia called it, she had been fifteen years old. On that October evening, she had accompanied her father to a factory in conjunction with his position as a Scotland Yard inspector. It was only supposed to be an evidence-gathering mission. Aberlaine was charged with investigating accusations of corruption and money-hoarding on the part of the factory's owners. Upon arriving at the large building beside the Thames, they discovered that the owners appeared to have fled, deepening their suspicions. In accordance with the tip the Yard had received, they climbed up on the wooden scaffolding beside a half-finished wall and began searching the stones for hidden niches where ill-gotten money was stored. But the factory owners had devised a bold tactic for making sure no one found their loot. Lydia never knew which of the workers they had paid off to trip the wire that led to the explosives hidden underneath the scaffolding's supports. She heard a tremendous noise below them, and she and her father were suddenly rocked like an earthquake as the ground beams buckled. Aberlaine seized the top of the wall with one arm as the scaffolding fell away, his other hand straining to hold onto Lydia as she dangled forty feet above the crowded factory floor. Her father tried to heave her to the top of the wall, but she felt his grasp slipping on the bandages of her right arm. She was too terrified to even cry out; she could feel the gravity of the earth stretching their tenuous connection, indifferent to her fear, ripping her away from her father forever. She heard a tremendous tear, and then Lydia plummeted down the wall faster than she could have believed, her father's horrified face screaming her name from above, a wilted rag of white bandages clenched in his hand. She looked down and saw the ground rushing up to meet her. She had no time to prepare to die. Lydia closed her eyes and thought powerfully of her home on Camden Street, her room, the safety of her bed…. She felt no pain of impact. The world before her disappeared into a flush of golden light. She beheld many, many stars, and heard the far-off singing of someone's heart. She thought she was dead, and her fear left her. She felt that she was moving, a kind of rushing flight.

Then she fell again, this time only for a split second before colliding face-first with something soft. Her awareness of her physical body returned, and she moved each limb tentatively, wondering why she did not feel broken. When she lifted her head, she was alone in her little bedroom, inside her own home, listening to the familiar bustle of the world outside.

Lydia had never felt more inclined to become hysterical. She managed to keep enough presence of mind to tie a sheet around her bandaged arm and stagger across her lawn to the Weatherstaff home. After demanding of a very confused Thoms whether he could see her and feel her solid hands, she implored him to drive her immediately back to the factory. To his credit, Thoms hitched up his horse at once and rode them both across London to the building on the Thames. Lydia raced inside to find her father, also nearly hysterical, searching desperately through the rubble with half a dozen Scotland Yard associates. She had only seen him cry once before, on the day her mother died.

The first place they went to was the Church. Rector O'Malley was an Irishman by birth, and an intrepid traveler who had lived long, journeyed longer, and seen a great many things. He did not have to be convinced of the supernatural. They had consulted with him before about Lydia's arm and the phenomenal strength it held; now, he observed with great interest as they experimented with the effects of removing her bandages, secreted away from the world in the rear Churchyard. They discovered several things. First, while she existed in the world of light, she could 'leap' anywhere by merely focusing on it. Second, not even a moment of time passed between her disappearance and reappearance, no matter how great the distance. There were limitations to this power, however. She could only take others with her if she was touching them when the bandages came off. To those merely watching her, they saw a faint, narrow pulse of light and then she was vanished. It was much more difficult for her to 'leap' to someplace she had never seen, and if she was not concentrating properly, she usually ended up reappearing sideways or upside down somewhere in the general vicinity of her disappearance. It was crucial that she cover up her arm immediately after reappearing, or she would flicker in and out of the world until she managed to get ahold of herself.

Lydia, however, was greatly concerned with understanding why she had this power. To this end, Rector O'Malley tried to reassure her in her faith. "To be sure, lass, the good book does say, 'The meek shall inherit the earth,'" he relayed good-naturedly to her on the first day of November of that year, sitting in the Church's courtyard in his sacred vestments. "And I'm sure you've taken note of many verses to do with strength, power, and light, all gifts of those belonging to the Lord. And if you want to take a scientific perspective, well, they say light is the fastest thing on earth. I think there's even a part of Acts that says, now let me see…." He rifled through the Bible which he kept perpetually at his side. "Then both Philip and the eunuch went down to the water and Philip baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the spirit of the Lord suddenly took Philip away, and the eunuch did not see him again, but went on his way rejoicing. Philip, however, appeared at Azotus and travelled about…." Rector O'Malley nodded and closed the book in his weathered hands. "However, if you want to know what I think, the reason you have these gifts probably has less to do with what these folks did with them, and more to do with what you're going to do with them. That's something you don't know about yet, but the Lord Almighty, He surely does. He's made you this arm to replace the one you gave up, and He did it for a reason. He won't give you more than you can handle." The old priest smiled down at her, and in his eyes Lydia saw the mysterious soul of a man who had lost his health to smallpox while serving the poor in India, seen his parish burned to the ground seven years ago, and contended for decades with worshippers who questioned his dislike of gold and lavish trimmings in the Church, and who still found the heart to come to God every day, without hesitation. "Trust Him."

After a terrifying night of huddling in the freezing darkness, jumping at every noise and feeling her eyes burn from lack of sleep, Lydia was trying to find the strength to do just that. She knew she could not stay in this gazebo much longer. The face of the giant clock, looming over the campus roofs, told her it was 5:45 in the morning. She knew from Edward that morning turn-out was scheduled at 6:30 for regular students, which meant that housemasters and prefects were awake even earlier. She could not risk someone coming outside and seeing the glow of her lantern in the gazebo. It would be past noon before Edward, Ciel, Sebastian, or possibly all three had time to approach the tower to visit her. She needed to intercept them at the bottom of the staircase. However, until then, she needed to find somewhere to go for the next six hours. Somewhere she would not be found….

Hands shaking in the cold, Lydia held up the piece of parchment left upon her bed and read it again. She had been puzzling over it all night. She was sure she had never seen the handwriting before. Moreover, the circumstances under which it had been delivered were most disturbing. She moved her lips silently as she read;

My dauntless girl-

I'm sure you know it would be such a shame

for this lovely game to stall.

So do not hide, and don't slow down;

I will protect you in your demon's place

while you make your play.

Don't stop or your world falls down.

There were so many things that bothered her about this missive, she scarcely knew what to worry about first. She had nearly fainted upon reading the words 'your demon.' Absolutely no one outside of the Phantomhive family and Tanaka was supposed to know about Sebastian's true nature. Moreover, the more she thought about it, the more she began to suspect the letter-writer was not a normal person at all. There had been no one in the room with her last night during that entire ordeal. There had certainly been someone on the opposite side of the door, but they could not have placed the parchment on her bed. If they could turn invisible or pass through walls, they would not have needed to attempt to break down her door. Did that mean the pitch-black silhouette and the presence outside her door were different beings? And perhaps the silhouette was actually….a ghost? Lydia shivered, huddling closer around her lantern. She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. Edward had said that the reason no one came to the tower was that it was supposed to be haunted. However, he seemed to have spent years in the little room without incident. Perhaps the ghost did not appreciate a new person moving in? All the same, what kind of ghost could manipulate paper and pen?

Lydia shook her head and gazed down at the letter again. I'm sure you know it would be such a shame/ for this lovely game to stall./ So do not hide, and don't slow down;/ I will protect you in your demon's place/ while you make your play. She frowned fiercely. The writer, however dead or alive they might be, communicated like an immature child who wanted to make sure their amusement would continue, no matter what the cost. Moreover, they called her dauntless; fearless, courageous. She did not feel particularly fearless or courageous after the events of last night. And what was this nonsense about 'protecting' her? Nothing that had happened in the tower thus far had made her feel the least bit protected.

However, the thing that worried Lydia most about this message was the very last line. Don't stop or your world falls down. Whichever way she looked at it, it sounded like a threat. Was the letter-writer trying to imply they would do something against 'her world' if 'this lovely game' was 'stalled'? Or were they trying to warn her of impending danger and advise her to continue her pursuit of the truth before the truth caught up to her life? Lydia closed her eyes, listening to the calming drum of her heart. What was her world? She thought of Ciel, Aberlaine, Madame Red. She thought of Sebastian and Tanaka and Thoms and Camden Street and Hampstead Heath. She thought of her mother's grave, and laid a frozen hand over her heart. Blast it all, she was going to have to move forward and continue her search for answers, danger or no danger. Sebastian would be furious, but he needed to stay with Ciel. Who knew what on earth was going on at this school? Reaching into her emergency rucksack, Lydia pulled out the folders she had been given the other day, rifling through the pages until she found what she was looking for. Taking a deep breath, she stood and cast her eyes toward the tower where the middle hand was inching its way toward the bottom of the clock. She had stayed too long already. Gripping her lantern, she blew out the flame and slung her rucksack over her back. She stepped out of the gazebo, turning her eyes up to the cloud-covered sky. "It's you I need to protect me," she whispered lowly, reaching across her body to her covered arm. "Agnus Dei." Then the bandages split under her fingers and she vanished in a flicker of light, leaving the pristine white gazebo empty behind her.

/

Having just finished 9:00 breakfast, Ciel was currently ensconced in a small private study room in the corner of the library, waiting for Sebastian to appear and report on the results of his secret foray into the student archives the night before. The young heir rubbed his uncovered eye wearily; it was taking some time to get used to sleeping in the unfamiliar space of his new dorm room. He especially did not enjoy sleeping in a room with other people. Some boys snored, some tossed and turned, and some got up too often or whispered to each other after lights out. It was driving him a bit mad. However, as a regular first-form student, he would not be entitled to a room of his own for quite a while. He had heard that only housemasters, prefects, prefects' fags, and other seniors of especial privilege were given private dorm rooms. He could not help but envy Lydia in her room all to herself, high above the world. He knew he would not be at this school long enough to earn such a thing.

Ciel sighed and tapped his foot impatiently. If the case Her Majesty had given him continued to progress at this interminably slow pace, however, he very well might be. He had been at Weston College for a week, and he had hardly managed to glean any information about Derrick Arden and his four Red House fellows. The only information he had found was courtesy of McMillan, a red-haired, freckled, Irish-looking boy who had insisted on befriending him. According to the bespectacled first-former, Derrick Arden and several other boys had been transferred some time ago from Red House to Purple House due to a special order from the headmaster. Apparently it was rare for transfers to occur, but anyone he had asked had simply told him that it was the decision of the headmaster, and the headmaster's decisions were never wrong. Ciel rolled his eyes, snorting slightly. The headmaster seemed to be the absolute ruler of this school, an impressive feat considering very few students had ever seen him. Only the prefects and the vice-headmaster were allowed access to him. Therefore, Ciel had taken it upon himself to curry favor with the 'P4,' as they were called, through catering to the fag of Blue House's prefect, Lawrence Bluewer. His fag was a strict young man named Clayton, and Ciel was bound and determined to become Clayton's fag, irritating as it was to have to serve someone else. Ciel lifted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Well, it wasn't as though he was the one doing the work, after all….

The door turned open and Sebastian stepped inside, closing it perfunctorily behind him. The young heir folded his arms and looked up at the demon expectantly. "Well? Did you get the files?"

Sebastian removed his teaching spectacles and eyed Ciel warily. "Forgive me, young master, but I was not able to recover the files of the five students. They were not present within the archives."

"Not present-?" Ciel resisted the urge to slap his palm against his forehead. "Why ever not? Were you sure to check the archives of all four houses, especially Red House and Purple House?"

"Yes, sir." Sebastian nodded. "The student roll I was given shows Derrick Arden and the others assigned to Purple House. However, I checked the archives of all four houses and did not come across their names. There were not even any files to hold their paperwork. I looked through the files of other current students as well as the collection of past student records, just in case theirs had been misplaced. There was no information to be found."

Ciel sighed, leaning tiredly against the far wall. "Bother. That's one plan knotted. But, on the other hand, the fact that their files are missing is a very important clue. It tells us someone is trying to conceal something." He tapped his foot again. "But who? Could it be the students themselves? Have they done something untoward, and are now trying to cover their tracks? That still doesn't explain the transfer…."

"There is something else, young master." Sebastian paused as a pair of lively footsteps bustled by their door. "In my duties as housemaster, I am responsible for teaching several higher-level courses, one of which has Derrick Arden and another of the students in question enrolled. However, it has been a week, and they have yet to show up or hand in any assignments."

The young heir bit his lip fiercely. "Stranger and stranger," he muttered. "Just what are they doing holed up in Purple House? And how can we reach them to find out? I've already tried to enter their dormitory during the day, and was rebuffed in a very hostile manner. Sneaking out at night is a substantial risk for both of us. There are too many people around who might notice our absence. We were lucky no one came knocking on your door last night while you were in the archives. We may not be so lucky again."

"Quite, sir," Sebastian nodded, frowning as the sound of bells pervaded the library, signaling a resumption of class time. "I fear we must now return to our façade as teacher and student."

"I suppose," Ciel grumbled, straightening his uniform jacket. "Well then, I'll just have to work harder to gain favor with Clayton and move closer to the P4. They may be my only hope of obtaining answers. To that end, Sebastian, I want you to organize Clayton's bookshelf and make treacle tart for his afternoon snack. Actually, make treacle tart for both of us. Then meet with me in the rear hallway at noon so we can slip out to the clock tower and speak with Lydia. As a matter of fact, I believe she likes treacle tart as well. Make some for all three of us."

Sebastian bowed in acquiesce, and Ciel moved toward the door. "A moment, young master," the demon's voice stopped him as he reached into his robes. "I may not have been able to obtain the files of the students we are investigating, but I did find this."

Ciel took the folder and felt his heart skip like a stone as he read his father's name upon the cover. He resisted the urge to search through it immediately, forcing himself to slide it into his bag for later. "Very good, Sebastian. At least we've got something. However, I would prefer that we refrain from mentioning Vincent to Lydia unless it becomes absolutely necessary. We do not want her to be hurt." He glanced up at Sebastian, and was surprised to find the demon staring down at him with a most troubled expression upon his pale features. "Why on earth are you looking at me like that?"

Sebastian cleared his face immediately. "Pardon me, sir. I was merely thinking." He replaced the spectacles over his eyes and held the door open for Ciel. The young heir had half a mind to inquire what exactly his butler had been thinking about, but he bit his tongue and strode briskly out the door. It was beneath him to concern himself with the thoughts of a servant, and besides, talking with Sebastian about anything other than business had always made him highly uncomfortable. He held his back straight and pretended he could not feel the demon's eyes upon it as he walked away.

/

Tom, he was a piper's son,

He learnt to play when he was young,

And all the tune that he could play

Was "Over the hills and far away…."

Lydia smiled tiredly at the pair of singing children as they skipped past the cart she was currently sitting in, her weary feet dangling off the back. She was lucky that this older gentleman had come upon her as she was trudging down the road and offered her a ride in his open-topped cart, full of clean, sweet-smelling hay. At this point she was near to falling flat on her face with exhaustion, having spent the previous day trekking miles around Hampstead Heath, only to be chased out of her bedroom that night by some bloody apparition the moment she tried to get some rest. It would have been much easier if she could have simply 'leapt' to her destination directly. However, Lydia had never been there before, and she did not want to risk all the chaos that could happen if she were to arrive in someplace she had not meant to go, especially if a citizen managed to spot her appearing out of thin air. Being found out by the general public for her powers was one of Lydia's most pressing fears- or at least it had been, until violent strangers had begun to try to kill her again. Lydia had decided to take the less risky path and start out from a certain intersection of Coventry Road, the route which her destination was supposedly located on. She had been at the intersection before with her father, and she had felt fairly certain she could manage to leap there without ending up somewhere completely unexpected. After successfully making the leap, she had walked for two hours through the countryside before being picked up by the merciful farmer with the hay cart. He had told her he knew of the hill she was trying to reach.

Over the hills and a great way off,

The wind shall blow my top-knot off.

"Here we are, missie," the hay farmer called deeply, hauling his reins back and bringing the cart to a standstill. "There's the path up the hill, see? Renbourn Workhouse oughta be jus' o'er the top."

"Thank you most kindly, sir," she replied, hopping down from the cart and feeling the rushing wind push some energy back into her body. "You've saved me from a great trouble."

"T'wasn't nothin', nothin' at all," the scraggly man protested, smiling with his eyes, which were almost as blue as her own. "I hope ye find wot 'tis ye came for."

"You are good to hope it." Lydia waved as he urged his cart-horse forward and rolled off down the packed dirt lane. She turned toward the lonely path up the bare hill and squared her shoulders, beginning to stride upward at a determined pace. She could not help but notice that, like Weston College, patches of grass grew here and there in the roadway, apparently untrammeled by wheels or feet. Of course, she knew that Renbourn Workhouse no longer looked to the man called Baron Kelvin for patronage. If Sebastian's file was to be believed, he had ceased his charitable contributions and appearances in society years ago, which meant the workhouse probably had a new aristocratic patron. However, it was entirely possible that their administration had retained some paperwork, records, or pictures relating to the workhouse's founder. Perhaps someone working there knew where he had gone. If she played her cards right, Lydia was hopeful of discovering this information.

The wind rolled over the hill again like a flood, nearly pushing her back down the road. The brunette braced her arms in front of her face and forded upward, taking a careful look behind her as she continued to climb. Paranoia never led to anything good, but she could not help being on her guard. She still had no idea how the red-haired man had found her before in London, and it was possible, although improbable, that he would find her out here as well. If that happened, Lydia planned to leap back to the (relative) safety of Weston College, although the fact remained that there was also something there which seemed to want to get her. She shivered and shook her head, trying to force the fearsome details of last night out of her mind. Right now she needed to focus on presenting herself as calm, collected, and trustworthy, not an easy feat when she was technically wearing a nightgown. However, it was from the Phantomhive estate, and so finely made that she had thus far been able to pass it off as a dress. She assumed the people at the workhouse would not look at it too closely. She would distract them with her words. If she asked the right questions and dropped the right names, she should be able to gain access to their archives….

Lydia's foot caught on a rock as she reached the top of the hill and stumbled, staring baldly ahead in shock. The place she had come to was not a building, but a crumbling mass of stone. Ceilings were caved in, glass windows were shattered, and weeds and ivy grew over everything like fingers from the earth.

Her first inclination was to suppose she had not come to the right place, after all. However, a rusting metal sign overarching the dilapidated entrance held just enough letters to tell her it had once read, 'Renbourn Workhouse.' Frowning in disappointment, Lydia wandered through the abandoned ruins, skirting around glass shards as she approached the building. It was clear that no one had lived here for quite a while. Standing on tiptoe, Lydia peered through shattered windows of various rooms as she went along. The building had long since been stripped of its furniture; not even a single picture was left upon the walls. It looked like there had once been a second floor, but its base had given out, leaving towering walls slowly eroding under wind and rain.

Lydia finished circling the building, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It seemed she had come all this way for nothing. Now she would have to go back to Weston empty-handed and no further along in her search for answers. Kicking a small rock moodily, the brunette followed it into a grassy field just east of the former workhouse. A rotted bench sat in front of the overgrown clearing. Lydia stared at the grounds where no doubt children had once played and run about, merrily, merrily…. She wondered what had become of them after the workhouse had closed. Had they been moved to another charitable institution? She greatly hoped someone had taken them in. It was not their fault that Baron Kelvin, for whatever reason, had stopped funding them….

Lydia's eyes caught upon an unnatural shape lying in the grass. Stooping to pick it up, she brushed the dirt off and realized it was a wooden heart, carved by a short, swift knife. There seemed to be some etchings on both sides of the heart, which moss had grown over. Since she had nothing better to do, Lydia sat down in the tall grass and scraped the moss away with her fingernail. After a few minutes, a pair of names were revealed upon one side. Josiah and Charlotte. The two names were joined together by a double-tipped arrow. The formation of the letters was very well-cut. Lydia flipped the heart over and worked away the moss on the other side, until it was revealed to say Made by Laura. A little daisy-flower was carved above the name. She smiled and laughed softly, tucking the discarded heart away into her rucksack. It was obviously a childhood charm meant to bring two names together in hopes that their bearers would fall in love. She had taken part in such whimsical nonsense herself when she was not so much younger than Ciel was now.

Deciding there was nothing more for her to stare at, Lydia stood up and meandered toward the entrance, casting her eyes ruefully upon the crumbled stone around her. "I suppose they couldn't find another patron, after all," she mumbled to herself. The wind pressed upon her back as she threaded her fingers softly through the bandaged coating of her arm.

"How sad."