Cielle squited towards the window as the light from the outside assaulted her eyes.
"Good morning, my Lady," said Sebastian and walked towards the tea-cart.
"Define good," she grumbled, pushing herself up on the bed with a sigh.
Yawning and glaring, she rubbed the last remnants of sleep out of her eyes. She had been telling him to let her vision adjust for a few minutes before wrenching the curtains open, as if they had personally offended him. Well, then she would have to remind him again.
Sometimes she wondered whether he had been doing it on purpose.
"Good: a subjective term often used to describe mornings for everyone except you, apparently." Sebastian poured the hot water into the tea-pot, and the room filled with floral, muscatel aroma. "For you, my Lady, it's more like a morning suggestion."
"A suggestion I'd prefer to ignore until the caffeine reinforcement arrives."
He smiled. "But of course, my Lady, today's tea is—"
"Darjeeling, I know."
She accepted the offered cup and took a sip. The liquid spread its warmth in her chest and then pooled in her stomach comfortably.
Today was the day she would give her report on the circus case—an audience with the Queen. It was her least favourite part of any investigation and today it applied twice as much. Not that she regretted her decision, but… just what was the seemingly nice old woman going to do with the information Cielle was about to deliver?
She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror; the pale reflection staring back at her seemed far more suited for a morgue than the Queen's court. Dark circles clung to her eyes as evidence of the latest nightmare streak.
For days in a row, night after night, she had been haunted by the uncanny emptiness etched upon the faces of these children. The lecherous stare of that wrinkly, drab eye that made her stomach turn and her skin crawl. No! Don't kill him! Whatever else he may be, he's our savior! The smell of burning flesh that seemed to be imprinted in her nostrils. You will pay for that, you will pay for that, you will pay for that!
No. There was no way the Queen would let it slide.
Cursing, she put the empty cup onto a nightstand. Then rose from her bed, weariness clinging to her every movement, and stepped behind the oriental dressing screen.
"Was the tea to your liking, my Lady?" she heard Sebastian's voice from behind the partition, along with clinking of porcelain.
"You've been serving me this tea for years," she replied after she shed her nightdress. "Jacksons, huh?"
"Yes," he said, the room fell into an abrupt hush as his movements ceased. "But was it to your liking, my Lady?"
She fastened the buttons of her bloomers and proceeded by putting on a chemise that Sebastian had laid out for her. Linen, for now; in the afternoon she would have to change into a silken one.
"It's Darjeeling. It tastes the same because it is the same. Tea leaves don't magically change flavours overnight," she scoffed and extracted her hair from underneath the clothing. "I'm done," she added.
Sebastian joined her behind the dressing screen, a pile of fabric in his hands.
"No tea is ever truly the same, my Lady. While the ingredients may remain constant, each brew carries its own story of its cultivation and preparation."
"I see," she said, watching the white-clad fingers as they placed a beige corset around her waist and chest. "You're fishing for a compliment."
"Is it a crime to desire a compliment? Your tastes are as fickle as British weather, and I strive only to meet them."
"I would let you know instantly if I disliked your tea, Sebastian. I don't see why should I stroke your ego for meeting my basic expectations."
"I suppose it was rather naïve of me," he concluded with a snicker.
For a second, she sensed his hands halted while fastening the laces of her corset. Then resumed its activity; not by continuing to dress her, but by brushing lightly against her sides instead.
"What?" she asked.
"I cannot tighten it properly."
She frowned. "What do you mean that you cannot?"
"It does not fit," Sebastian said, and a chill slithered down her spine as his breath warmed her ear. "You've grown."
Her muscles tensed in an attempt to suppress any outward sign of shiver. She wasn't sure if she succeeded.
"Have I? I feel the same," she responded at last. "Can't you just pull harder?"
"If I did that, you wouldn't be able to breathe, Young Mistress," he chuckled. "It would compromise your blood flow and leave marks on your skin. No, that wouldn't do at all; a lady's corset has to be a perfect fit, so that it meets her needs for comfort and aesthetics."
She rolled her eyes. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Sebastian. I couldn't have grown so much within such a short time, that's ridiculous. Just pull, or I'll fall behind the schedule—"
A sudden feeling of jolt interrupted her mid-sentence when the long fingers slipped underneath the corset. A sharp pinch ensuing as the fabric dug into her skin.
"What the deuce!" she yelled.
"Just look how tight it is," he muttered, his voice low and hoarse. The fingers curved, causing her to flinch in discomfort. "Hardly allowing any room for even the slightest movement."
She slapped the offending hand away and turned around. His eyes had changed their colour from maroon into a carmine red. They almost glowed. She clenched her fists.
"I told you to stop doing these things!" she hissed through her teeth. "If you insist, then make yourself useful and arrange for fitting with Nina."
"I apologize, my Lady," he said, and there was nothing apologetic in his tone. He lowered his head. "It will be done."
"Hurry up and dress me already," she barked. "My hair needs to get done too!"
"… used as raw materials for the doctor's experiments. During our attempt to apprehend Baron Kelvin, his violent actions left us with no choice but to neutralize the threat he posed. And the rest of the Noah's Ark Circus troupe was eliminated when they attacked my manor on his behalf."
The Queen sat rigidly in her ornate chair. Her piercing gaze fixed upon Cielle Phantomhive as she delivered her report. "And the children?" she asked.
Cielle looked up. Another pair of eyes was trained on her; the crimson red burning through the nape of her neck. She could almost hear him say in that tone dripping with glee: I told you so.
"They could not be saved," she replied.
Through the Queen's black veil Cielle could not read her expression very well, but the silence that followed spoke volumes. Yes, this outcome had fallen short on the Queen's expectations.
As Cielle had been replaying the events of that night, she grappled with the realization that her decision had been rash—driven by her manic desire just to burn the replica of that cellar to ashes, again.
Yet, the more she had revisited it, the more logic emerged. What lives could possibly await these children, brainwashed and broken beyond repair as they had been? Best case scenario, they would get locked up in Bethlem Royal Hospital and dosed with laundanum all day long—not that they would need it.
She didn't have any regrets… she didn't.
The Queen smiled and Cielle didn't need to see her eyes to tell her smile didn't reach them. "I'm pleased with your efforts on this case, my dear girl," she said. "You may leave now."
Cielle could only guess what that meant. With a curt nod, she curtsied and turned around to take her leave.
Sebastian stood by the door. She did not meet his gaze and he followed her as she passed him.
"This fucking monstrosity of a dress," the girl cursed again, tugging at her bodice and Sebastian had to try his best to suppress a sigh. "Her majesty and her bloody dress code…"
The second they had stepped out of the Buckingham palace she had launched into a tirade of curses and swears. How could one exhibit such impeccable demeanor and grace so effortlessly, and then resort to language that would befit drunkards of the East End just a few moments later?
"… like a stuffed sausage. And to make things worse, I'm sweating like a pig and it's still winter. Ugh," she groaned and started fanning herself excessively, as he helped her into carriage.
Her face was scrunched up, her cheeks flushed fetchingly; and as much as he found her endearing in her angered state, he could not shake the nagging sense of disapproval.
"Young Mistress," he uttered, "such language is hardly fitting for a lady of your stature."
She raised her eyebrows. "You no longer get to teach me about proper etiqutte, now do you demon?"
This time he sighed.
He had been wondering whether she had inherited this specific trait from her late aunt, even though their choices of profanity were a lot different—while Madame Red had a penchant for lewd jokes, his Mistress hated such things and chose to lean towards sarcasm, dry wit and—he sighed again—this.
At least she mantained decorum when other people were around.
He closed the door behind him and settled in his seat across his Mistress.
Her gaze was fixed on the passing scenery outside, the thin fingers fidgeted with her rings. The earlier exchange with the Queen had touched a nerve, hadn't it?
The girl was perpetually peevish. Especially the first year into their contract she had seemed to wear her grumpiness like a badge of honor; her foul moods evident in almost every interaction.
However, as time went on, those outward displays of irritation became less frequent. As though she had learned to conceal her true feelings behind a veil of composure, the inner chaos now surfacing only seldom and in fleeting moments.
Oddly enough, despite occasionally finding those moments irritating, Sebastian couldn't help but welcome them. It was as if they offered glimpses into her true self, unfiltered and unapologetic. A reminder that beneath the cold exterior lay a complexity that defied easy categorization.
It was exactly what had made him enter this contract in the first place after all—this anguish disguised as rage.
Moreover, he had been seeing a side of her that only few others had been privileged to witness, and that fact alone made it strangely addictive. And so, he had found himself poking and prodding, eager to coax out those unguarded emotions once more.
Even now, when he saw the first signs of her agitation subsiding—the blue eye growing distant, as she gazed out the window; disconnecting from the world around her—he felt this urge.
"Do you regret it, my Lady?" he asked.
For a few seconds it seemed his question had not gone through as she sat there, not showing any signs of registering that she had been being talked to. Then she sighed, like a parent fed-up with their child's incessant questioning.
"We've already had this conversation, haven't we?"
"Yes," he conceded, his gaze unwavering. "But do you regret it now, my Lady?"
Her jaw clenched slightly before she spoke, "Because she was dissatisfied? I knew what would be her stance on this when I gave you that order."
Did you though? he wanted to ask. Had this been on her mind when she screamed him in the face; all trembling and delirious after watching that little girl being butchered on the altar? Shut up, shut up! Burn everything here down to ash! Do you understand me? Am I making myself clear?! This is an order!
He still shivered at the memory.
"You're walking on a thin ice, my Lady. Your title, the heirdom, our resources—all of that had been granted by the Queen's favour, even though Lord Midford would traditionally be the one to whom they would fall. Any misstep could lead to their swift removal and your disgrace."
She finally turned her head from the window to look at him. The flickers of sunlight cast a soft glow on her cheekbones.
"I'm well aware of the risks, Sebastian," she replied. Impassive, guarded. "But I'm far too valuable for her to simply cast me aside. It was me who achieved this significant decrease in crime activity within just three years. London has become safer place to live in under her reign than ever before. What ruler can say that? And that's what she cares about; image."
His lips twitched almost imperceptibly. Truly, what an arrogance.
"I have no qualms about your conduct, Young Mistress, I'm merely offering my advice; even the most valuable assets can be discarded if they become liabilities."
"I see your wisdom knows no bounds as always," she scoffed mirthlessly. "Rest assured, I know my actions have consequences. But what is done cannot be undone, there is no use regretting it. And so, I do not."
With a subtle nod he hummed, "Very well, my Lady."
"Young Mistress," Sebastian said as he opened the door with his back, wheeling a tea-cart, "I have prepared your evening tea. Next, I shall draw you a bath to help you unwind after the…"
His words fizzled out when he saw that the girl had fallen asleep in her chair.
Behind the piles of unopened letters and untouched Funtom financial reports scattered across the desk. Tired from the backlog of work, she had probably let her eyes rest for a while and dozed off.
Her head was turned to a side, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A few stray hairs hung loose around her face, framing the delicate features that were unusually softened by slumber.
Serene in the chaos of her office.
He shook his head. "My my, it seems, all the tea will go to waste after all," he tutted and walked over to the sleeping girl.
This was her first peaceful sleep, since their return from the circus, and it would leave her with neck pain. He could almost hear the complaits that she would grouse the first thing in the morning.
He lifted her from the chair, slowly and carefully as though she were made of glass. She mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled up against his shoulder, as he carried her out of the office and stepped into the dim corridor. She always did that when he held her like this.
It had taken some time for her to actually allow him to do so—averse to physical contact as she had been—but once she had, it became a second nature to her; to both of them.
With his hands under her back and knees, or her legs around his waist, she would loop the slender arms over her butler's neck and wrap herself around him snugly, so that he could bury his mouth and nose in her hair.
She had never mentioned it and so neither had he, lest she would put a stop to it altogether.
In the girl's bedchamber, he set her on the bed, and with a flick of his hand he lit a few candles on the nightstand, despite his perfect ability to see in the darkness.
He untied the thin strings of her eye-patch in one smooth pull, and removed the several pins from her hair, allowing the long tresses to spill across the pillow. Then, layer by layer, he began undressing her, his movements careful and precise as not to wake her.
Because if she would wake—open her eyes; bottomless blue and venomous violet—she would likely smack his face and yell at him to get the hell out of her bedroom. She had done so in the past.
Layer by layer, sleeve by sleeve, was a mantra he kept repeating to himself as his human body began feeling unbearably heated. Began malfunctioning.
He knew he was risking. He had been risking, for a long time now. Teetering on the edge of her tolerance and his own self-control, frail and flimsy. Like a hound growling through its muzzle and thrashing against its chains that threatened to snap at any moment, all the while unable to turn away from the treat right under its nose.
It had been easier back then—when the beast would only claw at his insides when he watched the girl's soul. How it shone bright and iridescent, the way her blue diamond caught the light. It had been hunger; the kind he recognized and knew how to keep at bay.
This, right now, was hunger too, but for something else. The kind the demon seldom experienced during his long life and never so vehemently. Ardently.
A tormenting fusion of cravings.
For a long time now.
With the last piece of her clothing shed, he exposed the creamy skin to the candlelight.
Such a rare sight it was. Even rarer now that he could afford more than a quick, furtive glance.
She truly looked like she was made of porcelain. More so than those dolls in Kelvin's manor. Her complexion was as pale as his, but different in its rosy undertone; ivory now, as warm hues from the candles danced all over it. How was such uncanniness even possible for a mere human?
It was no wonder maggots like Kelvin were always mad; manic with desire for her. Even a demon was tempted. A demon who should be the one to tempt, not the other way around.
But for now, looking would have to be the only thing he would allow himself. For now.
Sebastian opened a drawer to retrieve her nightdress. He ran his fingers across its lace trim, delicate embroidery, and tiny pearl buttons that added a touch of opulence. Still, it was rather plain in comparison to another nightdress, stored in another drawer. The one crafted from the finest silk.
The one she would wear for her wedding night.
But that would not happen until several years from now.
Perhaps… he tore his gaze from the nightdress in his hands and looked over his shoulder to the sleeping girl on the bed. She had worn it only once since it had been washed, but… When he was sure, she was truly asleep he lifted it to his nose and took one, greedy lungful of its scent.
It was redolent of her natural smell mingled with the fragnance of lavender oil. Though faint—the smell of laundry soap and the fabric itself prevalent—it was still intense and he could not stop a groan from getting out of his throat.
It would have to do for now. For now, the demon was sated. For now.
Once she was dressed and tucked in, he grabbed a candelabra from the nightstand and was about to take his leave, but came to an abrupt halt when he heard the quiet voice.
"Sebastian."
His breath hitched in his throat for a moment. How long had she been awake? Had she seen him when… Thankfully, his voice was normal when he spoke:
"Yes, my Lady?" He turned around and relaxed a little when he saw her eyes were still closed shut. "Is there anything else that you require of me?"
Did she want him to stay in the room until she would fall asleep? It had been some time since she had asked him that.
She moved her sleepy, dainty limbs and rolled onto her stomach.
All she said was a muffled: "You're a sick fuck."
The light from candles flickered for a second before it extinguished.
And the only source of light in the dark room was a glowing pair of crimson eyes.
Cielle squinted when the lights came on. After several precious hours of darkness. The metal bars of her cage glistened and the chunks of the cold floor not hidden under the sleeping bodies of other children and filth reflected the sudden surge of illumination.
The only clothes she had on were some tattered scraps of what used to be her underwear, barely covering her malnourished body.
And there were faces everywere around her.
No. Not faces.
Masks.
Ornate masks. Prurient, vile and terrible eyes watched her from behind these masks.
Hundreds of them.
No.
Thousands.
Millions of eyes.
There was only one face not hidden behind a butterfly mask. This one was covered with bandages. Only his mouth and the single, lecherous eye were visible.
"My cold moon," he said.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She could hear the squeaking of his wheelchair as he was getting closer. And closer.
"No!" she yelled and tried to crawl to the back of her cage, tried to hide, but her limbs were stiff and uncooperative, despite the panic surging through her entire being.
"My cold moon," he said again. The single eye brimmed with tears.
His hands—his filthy, nasty hands—stretched towards her. To touch her. Defile her.
"No, shut up, shut up! Don't touch me!" she screamed, everything about her screamed, tried to move, tried to do anything, anything at all but her body—her own body—refused to listen!
"Cruel," he whined. She screamed some more when he fell from his wheelchair with a loud 'thud', and started crawling to her cage like a worm. "Cruel, so cruel," he cried, fumbled along the walls of the cage. Searched for a latch or handle.
"No, no, no, no, no!" she wailed at the top of her lungs. Desperate, paralyzed with fear. "You're dead!" she shrieked, her throat raw and sore. "You're no one! You're nothing!"
The door to her cage opened with a creak.
The bright glaring light—so strong, almost scalding, like the sun—continued to confuse her senses. Continued to expose her. Expose everything. Made her see everything—every awful detail—in a perfect clarity.
She saw his twisted smile. The plaque on his crooked teeth, wrinkles around that hideous mouth as he reached for her. She saw every hair on the back of his hands, every yellow fingernail, every protruding vein, every scale of the dry skin.
Worthless. Yes. That's what they were. Useless, repulsive and worthless. They had no right to frighten her like this. To have so much power over her!
Yet the mere sight of them made her teeth chatter and her stomach clench.
Those filthy, nasty hands.
"My Lady, please wake-up. You're having a nightmare."
She woke up screaming.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and alert, scanning the dark room for any signs of danger.
They stopped on the butler who stood by her bed with a candelabra in his hand.
The franctic rhythm of her heartbeat seemed to echo throughout the entire manor. Her senses hyperaware and hypersensitive to the slightest sound or movement.
She focused on her breathing, not taking her eyes from Sebastian, who continued to stand there motionlessly, like a statue.
With shifting shadows and lights from the candles his face became sharper and more angular.
It made him look even more demonic than usual.
The hellish beast that watched over her. Day and night.
She looked at his hands, enclosed in white gloves. How pure they looked. Even though she knew there was nothing pure about them. They could always unsheath their claws and turn into weapons.
Always prepared to kill.
For her.
With this thought in her mind, the panic began to abate. The tremors faded. Her stiff muscles eased—apart from the soreness at the back of her neck.
Suddenly, she felt very cold. Her sweat had dampened the thin material of her nightdress.
Her nightdress.
She felt her face contorting into a glare; it was addressed to no one else, but the butler next to her bed. He did not move a single muscle in his face, only stared right back. With that cheeky, stupid glint in his eyes.
"Would you like me to prepare you some hot milk with honey, my Lady?" he asked after a few seconds of their staring contest.
She shook her head. "No. I'm going to sleep. You can go," she replied and covered herself with her duvet.
He stayed rooted to the spot. His eyes now strangely intense. "Are you sure? It might soothe your nerves."
She raised her eyebrow. "Didn't you say I shouldn't drink that at night? Tanaka's rule, remember?"
"Well, that is a rule I'm willing to waive if it helps my Young Mistress fall asleep."
For a moment she was almost tempted to accept that offer, just to see whether he had truly meant it. But she really just wanted to be left alone.
"How generous of you," she scoffed skeptically. "But no. I'm tired."
"I will just heat it up and be right back, my Lady," he said and started walking towards the door like he hadn't heard her.
"No," she grunted, shaking her head again. "What's gotten into you? I said no."
He halted his movements at the feet of her bed.
She studied his face. His pursed lips and furrowed brow spoke of irritation, as if it was her who had been acting like an annoying fly, and not the other way around.She had long stopped questioning some of her demon's antics, but this new thing was beyond bewildering.
"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you, my Lady?"
"Except for finally letting me sleep? No," she grumbled, growing properly irked.
"Very well, my Lady. Should you need anything just let me know," he offered, still not making any move to leave. Smiling, he bowed. "Anything you wish I shall provide."
At those words she was hit by a sudden thrum of emotions; rage, that one she recognized—the icy poison spreading trough her nervous system that made her feel like she might combust at any moment—and something else… Something strange and foreign. It pooled in her abdomen and frightened her so much she wanted to bury herself into the blankets and never come out.
"Get out," she commanded, her hands shaking.
"My Lady, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here!" she snapped, not giving any damn that other servants might hear her. "Get out of here, you filthy fucking beast!"
He walked—practically ran—out of the door as quickly as he could before she had a chance to reach for a vase on the nightstand and throw it at his head.
Once she was sure he was really gone, she slumped down onto the mattress, hiding her face behind her arms and breathing heavily. She wouldn't give it any further thought. No, she just wouldn't. She would go to sleep and hope she would have forgotten everything by the morning.
With that thought, she pulled the duvet nearer to her face and closed her eyes. Then opened them again because of the uncomfortable dampness on her body.
Her nightdress was still wet with sweat. Sticking to her skin. She felt gross.
With a frustrated sigh, she flopped off the bed, pulled a new one out of a drawer and laid it on the bed. Then she peeled off the sweaty garment and threw it on the floor.
Sebastian would have something to sniff at. Like a depraved mongrel he was.
She wrinkled her nose, staring at the crumpled, white heap on the floor.
In the morning, she would order him to burn it.