He looked over the receipts. The mansion was well taken care of and I'm damned near perfect condition; he sold it to a charity. They said they'd make a museum about him, the closest damned thing to Sherlock Holmes they'd ever hope to have.
Not that they knew who they were buying it from, of course.
Curl chucked at the memory of the manager—Marian, if he remembered right—glancing at him and then the painting of him when he was 14.
"You look a lot like-"
"Yes, I get that a lot," Ciel said in the arrogant tone he'd carried throughout the entire ordeal. "I'm James, the third kid's, great-grandson, actually, so a direct defendant of Ciel." Ciel lord through his teeth, biting his tongue to keep his straight face. Marian nodded in fascination.
"Did you have any family stories of him, perhaps? My mother was good friends with one of his servants, Mey-Rin, and she always told us that Lizzie had a habit of putting the children to bed with stories of their father."
Ciel nodded. The sting of hearing about his family was damn near gone after 20 years, but the scar remained. It would always remain. "Just vague details," he settled on. "I'm certain it was all sugar coated anyway." Marian nodded.
"And with good reason too, from what I've read." She sighed. "Anyway, you said you lived here?" Ciel nodded. "I was quite surprised when I found out, I must admit. How soon can you be out?"
"My plane for America leaves at 8am."
"So soon," she wrote something on her clipboard before flashing a bright red-lipped smile at him. "Cheers! I hope you enjoy America!"
Ciel suddenly found himself back in the present day of July 25, 1979.
"Good riddance," he muttered, shoving the paper into Sebastian's chest. And so that would be the last time he laid eyes on the manor.