Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of Yana Toboso and the author's imagination.

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The streets were dimly lit as a young blonde woman stumbled down the cobblestone pavement, clutching her head; her mind flashing with images she couldn't piece together: eyes watching her, the colour red, blinding lights. She couldn't remember the events of the evening or the past few weeks. She couldn't remember how to get home, or even where she lived.

The woman let out a hysterical sob as she sank to her knees, her eyes prickling with tears that soon overflowed, cascading down her rouged cheeks and smearing her makeup. She felt nauseous. Was it simply panic? Or had something happened to her that her mind wasn't letting her remember? Who could she ask for help? What should have been bustling streets, even at this time of night, were completely deserted.

The road suddenly seemed unfamiliar, despite the fact she travelled this way often on her way home; but where was that? Her mind was fuzzy, the panic slowly subsiding as pure shock began to set in. All she could do was sit and stare ahead.

Those who discovered her the next morning would ask her what she was doing out here. What happened? Who was she? Was there some place she could go?

The blonde couldn't answer any of those questions; both because found herself unable to speak, and because she simply didn't know.

XXXXXXX

Ciel Phantomhive stared at the envelope on his desk, watching it apprehensively, as if it would jump up and bite him at any moment. The red wax seal had yet to be broken, though the young boy knew for a fact that as soon as he opened the letter all Hell would break loose, and he wasn't sure he was quite ready for that.

"Today's afternoon tea is French Earl Grey served with a pineapple Tarte Tatin," his butler, Sebastian, commented as he placed a delicate teacup and saucer along with a neat slice of pastry in front of the young nobleman, also eyeing the letter on the desk. "If the young master is too tired for letter-opening, might I do it for you? Her Royal Majesty should not be kept waiting too long."

Annoyed, Ciel clicked his tongue as he reached for the envelope and pried it open, bringing the teacup to his lips as he read.

My Dear Boy,

I wanted to write and tell you about the sheer fun we are having with Funtom's new parlour games. Phipps is particularly skilled at Charades.

Are you resting well? I often worry that the requests I make of you may be too taxing on one so young, yet you continue to deliver results beyond my expectations, so I feel I must rely on you once again.

I have heard troubling news from our neighbour across the Channel. There has been a recent swell of amnesia victims cropping up in Paris. While many have been successfully reunited with their families, several have remained unidentified and have been institutionalised out of necessity.

My heart aches for the young women and their families who have been affected, and even more so for those without support. I empathise greatly with anyone who has lost someone precious.

Many of our fellow countrymen use France as a culturally enriching holiday experience. It would distress me to learn of our own citizens being caught in such strife.

While a cure may be asking too much, I implore you to travel to Paris and uncover the truth behind what happened to these women. At the very least, perhaps you may discover a way to prevent this from happening in our own cities.

- Victoria

Ciel sighed as he placed the letter back on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. A migraine was coming. He could feel the pressure building up behind his eyes.

"Shall I start incorporating more French lessons into your schedule, sir?" his butler asked nonchalantly, pretending as though he hadn't been reading the letter over Ciel's shoulder.

The boy scoffed but said nothing, his eyes scanning the letter as he reread the words over and over again. Perhaps it was the lingering memories of their previous case, but a twisted feeling in the pit of Ciel's stomach told him that this Parisian predicament was more than it seemed at first glance.

A chill ran down his spine as Sebastian left the room to prepare for their trip, and Ciel took another sip of his tea and dug into his snack, hoping the warming beverage and rush of sugar would stave off the exhaustion that weighed down on his small body.

To say he had been sleeping well since 'the circus incident' would be a lie. Every time Ciel closed his eyes at night he could see all of those faces — all those children he couldn't save. He saw fire. He smelled burning. Even in his sleep he couldn't escape that choking feeling of being surrounded by smoke.

Ciel quickly shook his head. He had something else to focus on now. The queen's request demanded his full attention. He didn't have time to waste dwelling on past events.