Eleanora woke up about a day after the wedding and wondered what was wrong. It took her a while until she figured it out: she was completely fine.

A month of fever and sickness and pain had rattled her nerves so much that when she was absolutely healthy, she could hardly believe it. She s-l-o-w-l-y sat up, moaning softly to herself. Her body ached and her head hurt and for some reason she couldn't feel her left arm.

At first she thought that it had been amputated, but it was still attached to her body, and it was the right arm that they had taken off, not the left one. They had been smart—keeping her writing hand intact and all.

She groaned and rubbed her left arm, trying to feel it. Then she realized something else—she had her right arm again.

She wiggled her toes and stared down at herself. Both legs were perfectly intact.

She examined her right arm—absolutely fine. As if it had never left. The only difference was that there were red marks everywhere, but they looked as if they would quickly fade. She shuddered at them. The marks indicated where they had taken things off—they proved that what had happened wasn't a nightmare. She gently touched the marks. They didn't seem to hurt; the arm didn't pain her; but then again, touching it wasn't reliable as her left arm was still absolutely numb.

Her right arm had been investigated; she moved on to the left one. It didn't have any red marks; no trace of anything being removed. But for some reason, there was a ring on her left ring finger. It was a beautiful ring: made out of some kind of smooth black metal and imbedded with small slivers of rubies, so that it glistened like embers from a dying fire. She ran her right arm up her left one, feeling for anything else out of place, and noticed something on her upper arm: some kind of symbol. It looked like a pentagram, but there was writing all around it. It looked incredibly detailed and she strained to read the words: ton…te…tra…Nonsense words. Some kind of practical joke, probably. But why couldn't she feel her arm?

"You're awake?"

She jumped and whirled around. The butler—that damned butler—was walking down the steps towards her cell, carrying a tray.

"We were wondering when you would wake up," he commented, setting the tray on the table. "The Mother said that if you never did, I would be unbaptized and kicked out of the Church. I'm relieved to see that you made it out okay."

Eleanora could have said several things to this. She could have asked him what kind of a churchgoer was he, if he thought that it was alright to torture young women for no reason. She could have sarcastically said something about how important it was for him to remain a member of the church, much more important than the safety and well-being of a young woman. She could have told him where to shove his so-called "relief." However, she was too angry to say anything. And also—she hated to admit it—she was scared. Maybe if she insulted him, the tortures would begin again. She did not want that to happen.

The tray had some porridge, some tea, some water, and a small briefcase on it. He removed the briefcase and set the tray down on her lap.

"You should eat something; you've gotten thin."

"And whose fault was that?" Eleanora said. She didn't remember much, but she weakly recalled the nuns putting IVs in her remaining arm and giving her nutrients so they wouldn't have to actually feed her.

Sebastian shrugged and opened the briefcase. It was filled with vials and syringes.

"I didn't want to have to do it," he said quietly, "but you're just so stubborn."

He filled a syringe with something from one of the vials and held his hand out.

"Here, give me your arm."

She scooted away from him, protectively clutching her right one. He rolled his eyes.

"Here, let me—" And he grabbed her left one.

"What is it? What are you doing? What are you putting into me?!"

He injected whatever-it-was into her arm and now she really couldn't feel her arm.

"It's a simple numbing solution," Sebastian said, tossing aside the syringe and the now-empty vial. "You'll have to inject it into your left arm once every twenty-four hours for a month. That should be enough time…"

Eleanora told him where he could shove his injections and threw the tray at him. He easily dodged the flying food and stood up, reclosing the briefcase.

"If you're ready, we can leave."

She stood up rapidly and almost fell down. She had been lying down for a month and had lost one of her legs, so it was quite a shock to suddenly stand. Sebastian grabbed her to try to steady her but she shoved him aside and fell down on the floor. He looked down at her pityingly.

"We won't get anywhere if you won't accept my help. Here, let me—"

Eleanora slapped his hand away and told him where he could shove his help, as well as other things too impolite to repeat. Sebastian withstood her barrage quietly and didn't help her as she staggered to her feet and then stumbled up the stairs. By the time they had left the church, she was walking normally.

Ah, the relief of being alive! The sheer joy of having limbs! The wonderful feeling of movement! She would never take anything for granted ever again. She wanted to run—and run she did, because Sebastian was still following her.

He kept up with her easily, and when she paused to take a breather he jogged up next to her.

"I don't think that you're ready yet," he said, looking at her with concern. She looked so pale and thin and weak…"I'll call us a cab."

"Shall I tell you where you can shove your cab?"

"Oh—No thank you."

She told him anyway, along with other things. Again he stood quietly.

"Well don't just stand there, you !, say something!"

"Like what?" he said tiredly. "What could I possibly say?"

"That's right; you can't say anything." But she could, and if they were in America, she would have used up her right to free speech.

"Are you sure you don't want a cab?" he asked her when she was done and she resumed her panting.

"No. I don't want anything from you."

"It's really no problem; I can get one and I'll pay for it and…"

Eleanora whirled around, eyes blazing with fury.

"Let me make one thing crystal clear to you:" she snarled, "I. Hate. You. And if you know what's good for you, you'll go away forever and leave me alone and never bother me again."

"But how can I do that?" he said. "We're inextricably bound to each other for all eternity."

"What?"

"We're married," he said, removing his glove and lifting his hand. There was a symbol on his hand: the same symbol that was now on Eleanora's upper arm. On his left ring finger was a wedding ring. It looked almost exactly like Eleanora's, same black metal, only instead of having slivers of rubies in his, he had deep blue sapphires. "We're married, so even if I wanted to leave you alone forever, I can't."

"Why not? You go that way and I'll go this way and then…"

"…I'm bound under contract," he said. "We both are. We signed a marriage contract—I can't break it. So sorry, but you're stuck with me."

Eleanora blinked at him. He was about to offer a cab again when she jumped him.

He kicked her off a few seconds later, after he had gotten over the shock of being attacked. His cheeks were scratched and both of his eyes were black and his nose was severely bleeding. Eleanora leaned against the wall, wiping tears off of her cheeks.

"I hate you," she whispered. "I hate you."

"…Aren't you even going to ask why I did such a thing?"

"I don't need to ask," she said. "I never want to talk to you ever again. I never want to look at you ever again. And if you dare to follow me, I'll take a rusty lead pipe and tear you a new one with it."

Normally Sebastian would have scoffed at this threat, but she seemed pretty serious. He allowed her to leave in peace and spent several minutes on the ground, staring up at the sky before he realized how late it was and how he really should be getting back to Phantomhive.