Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, nor do I own the movie Kitty Foyle, from which I got some useful information.
Chapter Two:
Of Bribes and Transparency
"Ah, well, life goes on," people say when someone dies. But from the point of view of the person who has just died, it doesn't. It's the universe that goes on. Just as the deceased was getting the hang of everything it's all whisked away, by illness or accident or, in one case, a cucumber. Why this has to be is one of the imponderables of life, in the face of which people either start to pray… or become really, really angry.
~ Terry Pratchett, The Last Hero
Ciel Phantomhive looked out across the murky distance of the River Styx that separated him from the mortal world. He knew that somehow he must get across, and that he probably wasn't supposed to be able to. But he wanted badly to get out of this eerily quiet, dark and foggy place that surrounded him with the fact of his own death. There was a hanging lantern on the ferryman's miniature craft, which creaked in a rusty sort of way with every dip and sway of the waves on the sides of the little boat. It lit up the tall, tall, cloaked figure of the boatman that towered over Ciel, waiting for him to act.
Ciel had to crane his neck upwards to look the ferryman in his lack-of-a-face. He was thoroughly tired of being short. What was even more frustrating than his height was that Ciel knew exactly how he would handle this if he were still living.
"Sebastian," he would order, with a languid wave of a kid-gloved hand, "Take care of it." And Sebastian would, with an obedient smile, hand the ferryman two gold coins. Ciel would never have been carrying any money.
But of course, that was now out of the question. How inconvenient. Ciel puzzled over this, feeling increasingly at a loss. Charon withdrew his hand, his strangely long fingers curling in like spider legs, and spoke.
"Were not two golden coins placed on your eyes for your journey into the afterlife?" he inquired solemnly, in a surprisingly mild voice. "How did your living companions expect you to cross with no toll for the ferryman?"
"They didn't," replied Ciel crossly, because he felt so little in the giant's shadow. He wished he had his skull-topped cane to make him feel more imposing. "because it wasn't- exactly-" Ciel realized the truth of what he was saying as he said it. "It wasn't my time to make the journey. But I had to fulfill a contract, so… so Sebas - the demon had to row me across the river himself." He thought for a moment. "And besides," he said, "That isn't the way funerals go in England."
"Ah," said Charon, in a soft and fascinated tone. "I knew there was something off about you. No soul. Hm." There was a motion beneath his cloak that Ciel knew must be the ferryman crossing his arms. "Well," he said, "Unless you are in possession of something of value to offer me as payment, you are wasting my time, soulless child. I ferry souls to the afterlife for a price. You are soulless, and your path is out of my way. I will require something of greater value than coins."
Ciel, being the head of the Phantomhive multinational corporation that he was, knew perfectly well that he was being hustled. Unfortunately, he was also, in fact, soulless and alone, which left him rather vulnerable to unadvisable business transactions. But how in the world was he ever going to make it across the river? He had nothing to –
"Oh -" said Ciel as the answer occurred to him. "Wait just a moment!" He turned and ran back into the stony silence of the ruins, glimpsed his ticket back to London, snatched it up and carried it back to where the ferryman waited on the other side of the archway.
Charon tilted his head in surprise at the boy's ingenuity.
Ciel lifted up the dark, satiny jacket that Sebastian had left behind on the bench, offering it to the ferryman.
"Your cloak and hood are worn to shreds," observed Ciel, managing somehow to look patronizingly down his nose at the tall, tall figure. "If I may speak plainly, you look shabby. Shabbiness is not a favorable impression for the boatman of the River Styx to make. Don't you agree? This will serve you better. I promise you, this is worth more than a few shillings. I presume it will do?"
Charon's empty sockets observed Ciel appraisingly from their tilted vantage point. His long, spindly fingers reached out and took the jacket, then slid over the smooth, soft material. The lacquered buttons and Phantomhive crest shone appealingly.
"It will do," he said, and Ciel, very pleased with himself indeed, stepped into Charon's boat and sat down, looking out at the water.
Do I know how to make a trade, or do I not? thought Ciel with significant pride. Charon folded the black jacket neatly and carefully, and set it beside him on the boat. Then he straightened, took up his long pole, and pushed away from the bank where the ruins stood in their heavy silence. Ciel looked back at them, but they quickly vanished into the fog.
Ciel felt uneasy as he looked down over the edge of the boat. He could not see his reflection in the water. He felt that the black depths of the River Styx ran impossibly and unfathomably deep, and that the still, dead things that resided far, far beneath the surface were not pleased at his crossing. But the boatman pushed on, and the little boat moved swiftly and silently, except for the creaking sway of the flickering lantern that cast odd shadows on the waves and made the darkness mobile; first it shrank away from the boat, then it appeared again, lapping at the edges.
The boat glided more quickly still.
It only took a little while for Ciel to figure out that something was very, very wrong.
Elizabeth Middleford, ever since she entered into society's circles at thirteen, was widely becoming known as an epitome of good breeding. She possessed her father's warmth and social grace and her mother's poise and determination, as well as a few endearing qualities that were entirely her own.
She was ladylike and very sociable, and was generally approved of wherever she went. Her laughter was charmingly honest and she was filled with an infectious enthusiasm for life. She made friends effortlessly. She liked people, and people usually liked her.
So she couldn't figure out why she felt an instant antagonism towards one Jeremiah Reed from the moment he stepped into the room.
He was tall and not unattractive, with brown eyes and hair and a burgundy waistcoat, but his smile was too slick and his manners seemed forced and sarcastic. On Ciel, this had been charming rather than otherwise. Ciel had worn his manners the way he wore his clothes; no matter how fine they were, they were only there to cover what shouldn't be shown. It had been natural on Ciel. But on Mr. Reed, common courtesy seemed oddly ill-fitting.
He was there to speak with her parents, and Elizabeth was not paying much attention to what was being said, opting instead to watch the critical narrowing of her mother's eyes, and the way her father was leaned slightly forward in his chair, displaying his interest in the conversation. She did catch a few pieces of information, though.
She caught that Mr. Reed had been away at school in America, but had suddenly decided to return due to… certain circumstances that he was sure he didn't want to bore her parents with. And also the fact that yes, the Marchioness was correct, his parents had disowned him, and of course their sudden deaths had come as a great and tragic shock to him; no shock being greater, though, than the fact that they had left their entire fortune, their estate, their business, and everything they owned to their estranged son. And yes, his poor parents' deaths had been rather gruesome, hadn't they? And wasn't it heartbreaking? And Mr. Reed was so looking forward to doing business with Marquis Middleford, who had been a trusted friend and advisor to his father for so long. And…
And Mr. Reed kept looking at her.
They were nothing more than occasional glances, but Elizabeth could feel the weight of them. She met his glance once by accident and looked away quickly, feeling uncomfortable. Why weren't her parents noticing that there was something in those glances that wasn't quite right?
The Middlefords and Mr. Reed were seated in the north parlor, the one done in lavender with the big bay window. Elizabeth's attention soon wandered out this window, where birds chirped and jumped and flew with no perceptible pattern. It was a pretty, sunlit picture. She stared through the glass at the sunlight and the birds and thought about the Phantomhive mansion burning to the ground with Ciel trapped inside it.
Elizabeth's thoughts had been taking an uncharacteristically morbid turn as of late. To her maid and her parents, it was beginning to seem like a very long time since Elizabeth had been fully herself.
Perhaps because the Phantomhive mansion was so prevalent in her mind just then, Elizabeth tuned in abruptly to what Mr. Reed was telling her parents.
"- and I believe you were connected with that family, yes?" said Mr. Reed.
"Yes," confirmed Elizabeth's mother, setting down her teacup and saucer. "Ciel was the son of my late brother, as well as my Elizabeth's fiancé, and his death came as a blow to all of us." Her tone was clipped and soft; a hint that she did not wish to remain on the subject. Mr. Reed did not get the message.
"Ah," he said, with another surreptitious glance in Elizabeth's direction, "then you may be interested in the information I've found through my numerous connections in Scotland Yard." His voice had an odd American twang to it, which twisted his British accent strangely as he boasted. "You see," he continued, and paused for effect, leaning forward like he was revealing the ending of a mystery novel. "We've found the murderers responsible."
Elizabeth gasped quite audibly, in spite of herself. Her parents, in the same state of shock, did not notice. Reed, reveling in the reaction of his audience, nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, indeed!" he said, oblivious to the fact that this was not a moment where enthusiasm and theatrics were appreciated in the least. "It was those three treacherous Phantomhive servants – what were their names…?"
"Maylene, Bardroy, and Finnian," murmured Elizabeth, wide eyed with disbelief. "I knew them," she said. "They couldn't… they wouldn't ever have - "
"Oh, but they did!" interrupted Mr. Reed, taking this opportunity to stare at Elizabeth openly and intensely. "All the evidence proves it." He glanced at her parents then, and seemed to re-think his reaction. He cleared his throat and affected a sober expression. "Tragic, of course. Very sad."
"All three of them adored Ciel," said Elizabeth, more softly still. "I don't believe you."
Reed let out a bark of laughter.
"Elizabeth," her mother hushed her warningly. "Manners." Elizabeth hushed, having been traditionally raised to be seen and not heard. But she was listening carefully now, and her mind was racing. It couldn't be true – it couldn't be.
But according to the information Reed was reeling off to her parents… it was. Kindly, bumbling Maylene, cheerful, deep-voiced Bard and sweet, optimistic Finny had all been in prison for the past few weeks and would remain there as convicted criminals until another culprit was found. And there was no sign of such a thing happening any time soon.
Elizabeth wanted to rush from the room and burst into tears, but of course, she couldn't just then. Manners dictated. So she sat and stared at her shaking hands and tried to swallow the lump in her throat and wished ardently that Jeremiah Reed had never set foot in her home.
About a month after this unpleasant social call, the Middelfords found themselves cordially invited to the home of the distinguished Mr. Jeremiah Reed, Esq., for tea and business. No one was less thrilled by this than Elizabeth, who, though she was still in mourning and not quite herself, could think of about a million things she would rather be doing, but the invitation had been for all three of them, which was odd but unavoidable.
Elizabeth had prepared herself for a tediously dull time of it, but she had not at all prepared herself for a great and sudden shock, which turned out to be what was waiting for her at the Reed estate instead.
She was helped out of the carriage by the footman and she followed a step behind her parents up to the grand front door. Her mother rang the bell. Her father adjusted his cuff links. Elizabeth tugged lightly at her gloves. The door swung promptly open.
And there stood Sebastian.
"Marquis," he greeted, "Marchioness. Miss Elizabeth." He smiled pleasantly as he ushered them in, took their coats and The Marquis' hat. "The master will receive you in the round parlor. Allow me to escort you." And with that he turned, and proceeded to do so.
Elizabeth glanced desperately at her mother, who must, she was certain, have been at least as staggered as she was. But Frances seemed as collected as ever. "Thank you, Sebastian," she said. And that was that. Elizabeth realized eventually that she was practically gaping at him, and quickly closed her mouth, clutching her handbag frenziedly. There he was, Sebastian himself, all in gleaming black and as cordial as if he hadn't just had to deal with Ciel's horribly gruesome death and a sudden career change.
She must do something – but what? Smile at him? Catch his eye? This was the home of a practical stranger, so she couldn't very well address the help. But then her mother spoke, her voice level and casual.
"You certainly get around, don't you, Sebastian?" she said. "And you're just as indecent as ever, I see." She eyed his long black locks with a look on her face that was almost reminiscent.
Sebastian smiled his old, achingly familiar smile. "Just so, Marchioness," he consented. Then he bowed them through the door of the round parlor, where Mr. Reed was seated and waiting for them. Elizabeth looked up into Sebastian's face as she passed him, but he did not meet her eyes. He bowed once more, and closed the door behind himself as he withdrew.
It only took a little while for Ciel to figure out that something was very, very wrong. He knew that there was something wrong because the moon was laughing at him.
The fog drifted away above him for a fraction of a moment, and there, glowing brilliantly white against the darkness of the sky was a cheshire cat sliver of moon, mocking him with a grin so malicious that Ciel could almost feel the snicker vibrating through the night.
He had been relaxing in the back of the little boat, but now he sat up very straight.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion and blunt with dread.
"Across the river," said the boatman. "That is what you paid me to do."
"Across the river… to where?" pressed Ciel, gripping the edges of his seat with white-knuckled hands.
"To the Other Side," said Charon, never ceasing the steady rhythm of his rowing.
"Which other side?" insisted Ciel. Though really, he already knew.
"The one to which I have travelled since time began and will travel always; the one to which all must eventually travel… with their souls – or without them."
Ciel gasped in fury and the Cheshire cat moon grinned even more brightly down at him.
He jumped instantly to his feet and the little boat tipped precariously at the shift in balance, but Ciel's fists remained clenched at his sides.
"Careful!" exclaimed the boatman, "You'll get water on my new tailcoat! What do you think you're doing? Sit down – you're rocking the boat."
"I will not sit down," said Ciel, the volume of his voice rising. "This is wrong! You are supposed to be taking me back to the living world!"
"You do not belong there."
"That is no concern of yours! This is unacceptable – I have paid you your toll. I demand to be taken back to England this instant!"
"You paid enough for passage into the afterlife," clarified the ferryman. "And you do not belong there, either. For passage back to England… I will require still more."
More. Ciel did not have any more. Too infuriated to speak, Ciel glared at the ferryman, blue eyes ablaze.
"There must be something - " he gasped finally through his rage. Charon tilted his head to the side yet again, wondering curiously what this strange soulless boy would come up with this time.
"There must be something…something!"
But what?
Sebastian knew, as he removed himself respectfully from the master and his guests, that Elizabeth would soon attempt to seek him out. With this in mind, he had supplied himself with four extra handkerchiefs in addition to the two he already carried, just to be safe. He had toyed with the notion of using the ones with the Phantomhive crest embroidered on them, but eventually decided otherwise, since that would only serve to prolong the inevitable weeping.
Pausing in his tracks at the top of the blue carpeted staircase, Sebastian pondered the slight dilemma before him. It was a simple matter, but one that posed an interesting challenge. The truth of the matter was –
He didn't know what he was going to tell her. He could only imagine how the conversation would go…
"I do beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, but you see, I've eaten his soul."
No, that wouldn't do at all.
The sound of a door clicking softly shut on the ground floor alerted Sebastian that it was time to improvise. Elizabeth's father, begging her age and the subject matter of their meeting, which was surely boring her, had allowed her to be excused from the room. Reed had consented and out Elizabeth promptly went, and she had only taken a few steps when she caught sight of Sebastian descending the stairs.
"Sebastian," she called, softly. He came closer and stood before her. Elizabeth glanced back towards the parlor door, hoping that no one should come out of it and interrupt them. She turned back to face him, then hesitated, suddenly tongue-tied. But Sebastian was equal to the occasion. He smiled kindly; reassuringly, and placed his hand over his heart.
"My condolences, Miss Elizabeth," he said, "for your loss."
"Oh!" breathed Elizabeth, her eyes welling up with tears. "You're so selfless, Sebastian! I could never be as brave as you." Tears began to trail down her cheeks. "How," she began, and searched vainly for her handkerchief. Sebastian gently offered her one of his extra four, which she gratefully accepted. "How on earth can you stand it – without him?"
"I stand it because I must," said Sebastian. Elizabeth nodded shakily, making a fair effort to restrain herself. But every word she attempted to say held the traces of a sob.
"It's just that… it's just… he was so miserable. So miserable, all the time. I never asked… I never tried to make him tell me why, or about… whatever happened."
"It was good of you not to," acknowledged Sebastian, who was finding the concept of comforting Elizabeth easier than he had expected, since she was doing most of the talking. "I am sure he appreciated it."
Elizabeth gave a quavering momentary smile. "I'm just so sure that… in time, eventually, I… I mean I could have tried… I could have made him happy, so happy again." Her tears were falling fast now, and Sebastian handed her a second handkerchief. She took it, but did not use it. She lowered it from her face.
"But he was miserable," Elizabeth continued, her eyes darkening. "All the time. And then he died."
Sebastian looked down at her, preparing to say something comforting; but he stopped. He had suddenly gotten the strangest feeling. Sort of like his stomach had just flipped over, as it would if he had had a sudden flare of emotion. But in an instant it was gone. It was very odd.
Elizabeth, looking up at his face, mistook his puzzled expression for one of empathy. "Oh, Sebastian," she said, with a flutter of a tearful laugh, "I'm sorry. Here I'm going on and on while if there's anyone who misses him as much as I do, it's you." In the sweet way which was most natural to her, Elizabeth impulsively reached out and took one of Sebastian's hands in her own. "You're so good to listen," she said. "I knew that you would understand."
Sebastian smiled as she let go of his hand. "I am honored that you would confide in me, Miss Elizabeth. And glad – there is certainly no one else to speak about the Young Master the way you do." Elizabeth's green eyes through her tears fairly glowed at the kindness of his statement, though Sebastian had made it purposely vague and pointless.
And there – there was that strange, unfamiliar feeling again, deep inside him. He wondered what it could possibly be.
But he had no time to ponder this, because he soon discovered that Elizabeth needed to talk, and that she had not had any chance of an understanding audience for the past three months, and that she was fully convinced that he, Sebastian, would fit this role. So, for the better part of an hour… Elizabeth did not even think to sit down… she talked, and Sebastian listened. His infinite patience did not abandon him, though to his mild surprise, listening to Elizabeth talk and talk about Ciel did not require much patience. It was almost nice to hear. She knew the Young Master much better than the Young Master had probably ever suspected. Sebastian, in spite of himself, found that he was growing almost interested as Elizabeth delved descriptively into the years before "that month", in which she had known Ciel, but Sebastian had not.
"– and he was bossy," continued Elizabeth as she sniffled, "but I didn't mind being bossed… most of the time." She wiped at her nose again; she was getting the last use out of handkerchief number four. "We quarreled over it sometimes, but he would usually win. He was good at quarrelling."
Sebastian nearly rolled his eyes, as he remembered this to be something of an understatement.
"You know how bossy he could be," Elizabeth said. "That's one thing that didn't change after Uncle Vincent and Aunt Rachel died. But he'd stop bossing me around if I started crying. He hated that," she said, and her voice broke at the end of her statement. "I'm sorry, Sebastian," she gasped again, trying to regain her composure. "I suppose I'm being an awful crybaby."
She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and carefully dabbed the tears from beneath her eyes. "Ciel wouldn't like it, I'm sure. It's just that… I miss him so terribly," she said, her voice full of quiet feeling. She raised beseeching eyes to Sebastian. "You're really the only one who can understand," she said again.
Sebastian privately agreed with her. And he could not deny that it was a pleasant intermission from Jeremiah Reed, being able to discuss his former Young Master. In fact, Sebastian would have been quite content to go on reminiscing just a bit longer; had not something very strange happened just then.
Later, Sebastian would always remember it having happened slowly, though he knew it couldn't have taken more than an instant.
The moment that Elizabeth had lifted her eyes to him, the air behind her had shimmered. And as soon as she said "You're really the only one," Sebastian wondered for the first time in his life if he mightn't be hallucinating.
For as soon as Elizabeth uttered the word "understand," Sebastian found himself staring, transfixed, at a point slightly behind Elizabeth, just to her right, where Ciel Phantomhive was suddenly standing.
Sebastian could see right through him to the mirror on the far wall, where only he and Elizabeth were reflected. Ciel, aside from being see-through, looked just as he had looked in life, from the proud tilt of his head to the displeased downturn of his mouth.
The transparent Ciel stared right back at Sebastian and crossed his arms petulantly.
"You've really no idea how much trouble I've had getting here," he said.
Sebastian was fairly floored.
"Sebastian."
"Sebastian…?"
"Sebastian," Reed hissed sharply through his teeth for the second time, and Sebastian finally seemed to hear him. "A moment, if you would."
Sebastian had only distantly heard his master the first time he was addressed, and he had not even thought to respond to Elizabeth's soft query. Reluctantly, he tore his intensely perplexed eyes off of what he could only conclude was the beginning of his descent into madness, for it was obvious that no one else; not Reed, nor any of the Middlefords could see or hear whatever it was that Sebastian could.
"If you'll just allow me a moment, Marquis," said Reed to Elizabeth's father, "I must confer with my butler over a small matter. I won't be more than a minute." And Sebastian followed him into his study, where, once the door was shut, Jeremiah seated himself behind a gargantuan desk of black oak and dropped any imitation of civility. His smile melted from his face.
"Well!" he said, before Sebastian had a chance to ask. "Well, what did I tell you? They're falling right into my hands! Just like I told you they would."
"With all due respect, sir," said Sebastian with flawless decorum, "Until you close the deal, it might be wise not to get ahead of yourself. The Marquis did not become a knight by being hastily trusting, and the Marchioness is a shrewd woman. I would humbly suggest that, before you proceed, you make quite sure that - "
"Sebastian," cut in Reed with a glower, "Shut up. I've made it this far and I sure as hell don't need any crummy advice from no squawking butler."
"Sir, I would never presume to -"
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Reed leaned forward in his chair, fixing Sebastian with an almost mocking expression. "Christ, Sebastian," he spat, sinking back. "Sometimes I start to get the idea that you think you're somethin' smarter than me." He raised his voice angrily. "I don't think I like it."
Sebastian opened his mouth to give an appropriate response, but a new voice cut him off.
"Goodness, Sebastian… does he talk to you that way all the time?"
Ciel, looking as though he was made of mist and air, had appeared silently in the room and had moved behind the desk, where he stood at Jeremiah's right and narrowed his arrogant eyes as he appraised Sebastian's new employer. "Atrocious accent," he remarked.
Sebastian's surprise obviously showed on his face, because Jeremiah rapped his knuckles on the top of the desk and gave a little whistle, as if he were calling to a dog.
"You listenin' to me?"
"Of course, sir," said Sebastian, recovering. This was terrible. He had never been so inattentive or distracted. It was making him appear amateurish. Not that Jeremiah Reed, frankly, was anyone to impress, but still - he had an image to uphold. "I was just about to suggest…"
But Jeremiah cut him off again with a theatrically impatient groan. "Of course you were; you and your everlasting suggestions. D'you know how sick I'm getting of you and your suggestions? Look here, now, I don't need you telling me every minute of the day that "Sir, if you please, that's the third notice the bank has sent you," and "Don't you think that six glasses of wine is enough for tonight, sir?" and "Do you think it wise to bet even more on that horse for the third time running?" and"Actually, sir, the cook's name isn't Robert, it's Benjamin," or…"
"Benjamina," corrected Sebastian coolly. "Your cook is a woman, Master Reed."
"There you go again," exclaimed Reed. "It is not the butler's place to correct his master, Sebastian. Ever. Get me?"
"My apologies, Master Reed," said Sebastian. He noticed, to his slight relief, that Ciel… or whatever had taken the shape of Ciel… seemed to be content now with simply watching their interaction and had not made any more comments.
"You even had a damn issue with the invitations to the Middlefords! I mean, really. How much of a snob are you?"
"I still insist, sir," asserted Sebastian, "That you cannot be both 'Mister' and 'Esquire' at the same time. It must be either one or the other."
"Bullshit," snorted Jeremiah. "I can be 'Esquire' if I damn well please. And another thing – this correcting my grammar all the time. That's getting awful old, and fast."
Sebastian had to almost visibly restrain himself from doing just that, but he still had one more thing to say. "Master Reed," he began, "I would implore you to, at the very least, refrain from using so many… colorful expressions in your speech, especially while your guests are present. And most definitely never around those as young as Miss Elizabeth. It might very easily put a stain on your reputation if the child were to hear."
A sinister, scheming, nasty expression crept onto Jeremiah's face at those words. "Well," he said in a dangerously soft tone, looking Sebastian in the eye, "We'll just see about little Miss Elizabeth Middleford, won't we? Stupid little cun - "
"Master Reed," said Sebastian, forcefully cutting off the last word. "I will take your orders to heart. Do remember that the Marquis is waiting for you."
"Of course," grumbled Reed, and, pushing his chair out so far that it nearly hit the wall behind him, he left the room. But what was said had been said, and if Ciel could have gone white with rage, Sebastian was sure that he would have.
He said not a word, but his eyes, though transparent, were furious, and before Sebastian could say a word, the apparition that looked like Ciel had swept out of the room and followed Jeremiah into his meeting with the Marquis.
Sebastian, left suddenly alone in the study, attempted to make some sense of his jumbled thoughts. Everything had become very strange very rapidly.
He was absolutely positive that a soul, once eaten, could not be revived. So, the thing that might be Ciel could not possibly be a ghost. He was positive that he was still contentedly full, which proved that the soul in question was most definitely gone. And he was positive that this mysterious appearance might bode very ill for him in the future.
Sebastian did not like it when forces outside of his control interfered in his life. As the head of the Phantomhi – the Reed household staff, he should always have control over any situation that might arise.
And yet… that voice had sounded so much like Ciel's, and the expression had been Ciel's, and the perfect posture, and even those clothes… It was all quite baffling.
Sebastian, in a rare state of distraction, sat slowly down on the edge of the black oak desk. His face sank into a frown and his brow creased in mystified annoyance. Outside the office, he could hear the voices of Reed and the Marquis in another room, and he could guess that Frances was probably in the process of wiping the last of the tears from her daughter's face.
Sebastian's eyes were lowered contemplatively, and he became so immersed in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice that someone was poking his head around the study door and grinning in at him.
It was the Undertaker, who proceeded to invite himself into the room.
"What a solemn face! Why, what ails you, Sebastian?" asked the Undertaker slyly. "Something you ate, perhaps?" he said, and cackled merrily at his own wit.
Sebastian looked up at him sharply.
"I take it the Earl arrived safe and sound, then? All in one piece?"
"I suppose you had a hand in this," said Sebastian darkly.
"Not really," the Undertaker shrugged, seating himself comfortably in Reed's chair and sprawling languidly in it. "I only helped move things along a bit. It wasn't my idea. I just thought it was funny, so of course I had to get involved."
"Feet off the desk, if you please," ordered Sebastian. "And whose idea was it, then, to bring… whatever is here, here?"
"Well," said the Undertaker in mock thoughtfulness, "I guess, mostly, it was yours. And the Earl's, of course."
"What do you mean my -"
"And little Miss Middleford helped as well," the Undertaker concluded.
Sebastian regarded him sternly. "I assure you, I haven't a clue what's caused this mess." Sebastian said. "Now, either you are able to tell me why a transparent version of the late Young Master is currently eavesdropping on Master Reed, or you have no answers at all, in which case, seeing as you saw fit to show yourself in, you may show yourself out."
The Undertaker's pleasant expression never faltered.
"You know," he said, "usually I would ask for a few laughs in exchange for my answers, but I'm not so sure you're up to it at the moment."
Truly, there were no traces of humor on Sebastian's face.
"What is he," Sebastian asked, "and what is he doing here?"
At this the Undertaker chuckled. "You know, he asked the very same thing of me not an hour ago? Isn't that killing?"
"Killing," agreed Sebastian in a dangerous tone. The Undertaker composed himself.
"Well, you've got his soul… in a manner of speaking. He's really here because you wanted him."
Sebastian stared. "I beg your pardon?"
The Undertaker's white teeth flashed in a grin. "Sometimes I wonder what the two of you would ever do without me," he said. "You summoned him yourself, you foolish bird. You and his little heartbroken fiancée missed him so much that you managed to get a piece of him back. And of course, it couldn't have worked if he hadn't wanted to come back badly enough himself."
Sebastian was only aware of one implication, and he was not pleased by it.
"You are spouting utter nonsense, Undertaker," said Sebastian coldly, "as usual. I have never missed anyone in all of my exceedingly long life. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't waste such feelings on a pitiful human soul."
But even as he spoke, Sebastian was recalling that fleeting, unidentifiable feeling… that he was beginning to suspect had very little to do with his own emotions, whatever they might turn out to be.
It had felt much more like… like a soul, writhing restlessly within him as if it knew its own fate and was less than satisfied.
The Undertaker noticed the change in the butler's face and smiled.
"I still say it is impossible for him to be here," Sebastian insisted. "He can't exist without his soul."
"Yet here he is," said the Undertaker. "You see, Ciel Phantomhive was full of spirit. Some people haven't any spirit at all, hardly. They would be done for if their souls were taken by the likes of you. But the Earl always had plenty, and that is what lives on, now. The soul is the self, but the spirit drives the soul. You see? Good heavens, what would you do without me?"
"Undertaker," said Sebastian, as a last attempt, "you are the most powerful Reaper to ever wield a scythe. You were even the one who sentenced Marie Antoinette to Hell. Couldn't you simply… remove the Young Master?"
For the first time, the Undertaker's smile melted away, leaving a rather irritated expression in its place. "I did nothing of the sort!" he said, plainly affronted. "She was a lovely woman. That was just a vicious rumor. And I know who started it, the gossiping shrew."
He seemed to come back to himself after that, and his natural smile returned to his face. He opened his mouth to give Sebastian an answer… but at that very moment, the voices of the Marquis and Mr. Reed suddenly rang clearly out in the hall as their footsteps travelled closer to the study door. The voices of Frances and Elizabeth chimed in soon after.
"Ah, well," said the Undertaker, getting up and sending a cheeky grin in Sebastian's direction. "I see you're busy just now. Another time, then, Sebastian. I'll be off, now. Ta!" And he was gone.
Sebastian fumed and seethed, but he buried his anger and did not let it show as he quietly exited the study to escort the Middlefords to their carriage and see them off.
The Marquis looked troubled, absorbed in thought, and did not spare Sebastian a nod as he opened the door to allow the Marquis into the carriage.
Elizabeth gave him another smile as he helped her up. It was quick, but fairly brimming with gratitude.
Frances lingered outside for a moment, and when Sebastian looked up, she was observing him with an even gaze. "I can't help but admire your resilience, Sebastian," she said, and gave a small sigh. "Poor Ciel. God rest his soul."
She stepped up into the carriage then, and Sebastian shut the door. He glanced over to the manor doorway, where Ciel, very transparent, but very real and very angry, was standing. He had watched the Middlefords as they left, and no one had seen him but Sebastian, who quirked a brow and placed his gloved fingertips lightly on his temple in response to Frances' parting words.
"Indeed," he replied.
A/N: Thank you, THANK YOU to those who reviewed the first chapter! Your words were balm to my soul. Just in case anyone is reading this who has only seen the show and not the manga, Frances' little comment about Sebastian being indecent is a reference to the incident in the manga where she slicks back Sebastian's hair (to his very great surprise) because she doesn't think he looks proper. It's definitely a lol moment :) Hopefully the next chapter won't take me so long!