Later that evening...

"Sebastian you bastard..." the child cursed me—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he ground out my name with what was left of his voice. He was desperately furious with me over what I'd done to him in front of his straight-laced aunt, but far too ill to do much of anything about it. He'd spent the better part of the time between our impromptu 'meeting' with Lau in the smoking room and the disastrous supper with the Midfords wrecking his voice yelling and simultaneously sicking up into every available vessel in his bedroom. Now that it was time to dress him for bed, he'd so thoroughly exhausted himself he could not lift his head for the pounding and his voice was worn to a mere whisper.

I do so love my job.

"Aaaaurgh," he groaned, wiping his mouth and shakily hugging the wash bowl sloshing in his lap. He still managed to thrust an accusing finger in my direction and threaten me with dire retribution.

"How long has it been since I last ordered you to saw your own head off, damn it!"

"Oh," I replied casually, "must be at least six or seven months, now I suppose."

"I begin to think you're overdue!"

"And how, pray tell, is any of this anguish of yours my fault?"

"You ...you..." he looked up and snarled at me softly but angrily. Unfortunately the violent movement of his head as he jerked it up to give me a filthy look seemed to stir up the nausea again and he paled, gulped a few times and closed his eyes.

"I did not force you to drink all of that alcohol before your family's visit, now did I."

"That's not the...oh, oh god" and he plunged his head into the water pitcher this time, making a noise so vigorous and wretched it suggested he might actually deliver up his soul for my inspection. When the moaning and straining tailed off I peered into the pitcher curiously but alas: no business had resulted, only bits of pheasant and winter squash.

"Ought I to fetch my garrotte then, young Master? You do remember the mess it makes and how long I will be unable to serve you afterwards, do you not? Plus you will have to single-handedly manage the servants as well as entertain the Midfords for a whole week, not to mention manage the masque by yourself."

"You don't fool me you fiend," he rasped, "You were just being a big pouty baby because I made you do the honours yourself. I refuse to believe it took you an entire week to get over a simple little beheading."

I drew myself up, affronted by the mere suggestion of such behaviour on my part.

"My lord. I do not pout."

It is,however, quite true I had milked the situation for all it was worth the last time, in protest over the sheer indignity of being forced to do the deed with my own hands-though I must say my master is wonderfully inventive when it comes to punishments and torments. He would've made an excellent demon himself, I often think- I'd claimed disorientation at the time and an inability to get my eyes to work properly for something like a solid week, but really it was only that I couldn't summon up more than a fitful demonic spark with my eyes for a couple of days and my ability to enthrall with a simple look was somewhat disrupted as well, but I let the boy think I was nearly blinded and the staff was told I'd suffered a severe blow to the head while assisting the Queen's guard dog, in a freak accident when I walked past Norwich cathedral and a gargoyl fell on me -which truly would've been a freak accident as Norwich has no gargoyls!-the other servants scanned the paper for days looking for some mention of it.

After a week though, I became bored with playing with cats and buffing my claws all day and willingly got back into uniform and got to work resolving the frightful conditions the three inept servants had wrought while I was lazing about in the nude, making the cats chase leafy withys around the bedroom and incinerating spiders with my eyes.

In essence it was a simple sin of omission, but I did not lie and I certainly never pout.

"Oh...just ...never mind," the boy groaned as he sat on his bed holding his head. "It doesn't seem to make a blind bit of difference when it comes to your bloody cheek, head off or on," he muttered looking quite green. I quickly re-offered the water pitcher. He'd already filled the wash bowl. Since his stomach had essentially gone into shock since he poured so much alcohol into it first thing in the morning, and he hadn't actually eaten that much at supper all he produced was a set of impressive dry heaves. He then sat up, looking sweaty and—I must admit, quite deliciously devastated. I had a momentary struggle on my hands suppressing my darker instincts which, since he was feeling so delicate, he failed to notice.

After about fifteen minutes passed with nothing more dramatic than Ciel wiping the damp hair out of his eyes, I asked "Feel stable enough for me to dress you for bed now?"

He nodded weakly. I wondered if he were vowing to himself never to drink again just about now. He had the look about him of a backslider who'd Seen the Light. I stifled a chuckle as I washed out the washbowl and pitcher in the bathroom, re-filled them with cool water and brought a cloth along with his nightshirt so I could clean him up and cool that sweaty brow of his before putting him to bed for the night.

And after that, the final preparations began.

First, and most importantly, to provide access as well as controls, at least twenty sigils had to be drawn with inhuman precision upon the ballroom floor, after which the temperature in the room began to plummet. Very much against my personal tastes, but in keeping with the theme, I used my power to draw every spider in a hundred-yard radius to come decorate all the chandeliers and sconces with web, and while I was at it, encourages anything humans might consider slithery, slimy or unpleasant to come make the ballroom it's home for the evening. *I reasoned a few toads hopping about and some friends for Snake's snakes might add to the atmosphere.

I also opened wide the windows in the ballroom and switched out the drapes for dark and rotted-looking velvet with equally shredded gauzy sheers underneath, and darkened all the walls and ceiling, giving the foyer similar attention and encouraging the spiders t finish in the giant chandelier there—it would make quite a statement as one entered the manor. Immediately the rooms took on a disturbing, otherworldly atmosphere—or at least what humans imagine that would be like. I was quite pleased with it.

I then assigned the now (apparently) permanently mortified Maylene and to spend whatever she needed to further adorn the house as she saw fit for a 'Hallowe'en masque' and to buy costumes for the servants as well. Maylene was clearly relieved to go, whereas the other two, a bit bewildered about what they'd missed while...drunk earlier, they were only too happy to be assigned to raid the forest for firewood to build two gigantic bonfires in front of the house and another small one for the house steward. Tanaka had some private project he was working on which was somehow related to his heritage he was working on—that was all I could get out of him between the hohohos, that and the word 'capa' which he kept repeating. As he spoke was (bizarrely) busy trying to tie a large leaf to the top of his head. He wasn't too forthcoming on details however and seemed eager to get on with it, so I left him to it. I was intrigued and rather eager to see what the others would manage and what Maylene might bring back.

Ciel offered Lau 10 years of carte blanche immunity in trade for an indecently large amount opium to be delivered to the viscount in trade for him coming and passionately pursuing Lady Frances all night without let-up, no matter what she or anyone else might be doing. On the same trip to deliver Lau and his girls back home, he stopped off to visit Undertaker and invite him and any friends he might have to come as well. I encouraged Ciel to emphasize to Undertaker the more troublesome his friends might be the better we should like it. The laugh he got out of that invitation alone would probably buy us his services for the next five years or so.

While they were gone I made several quick trips to a number of otherworldly venues to invitations to the masque, explaining they had carte blanche to do as they liked, up to, but not including killing any of our human guests.

On all invitations were directions for visitors to leave any carriages or other conveyances they might have brought them at the very beginning of the front lawn and to be prepared to walk at least a little way, so as to pass between the bonfires as they arrive, following the grand old Celtic tradition.

As the sun set, Maylene returned with a wonderful haul of candles, root vegetables to hollow and turn into lanterns, a large basket of apples to bob for later, and a nice basket of skulls and a richly appointed casket and a book of ghost stories, care of the Undertaker. All the atmosphere anyone could want.

He also sent over another funerary urn filled with those dreadful biscuits of his, which I left on the counter in the kitchen when setting up the buffet in the ballroom. I sent the servants off to don their costumes.

It was nearly time.