A "soft" is a term applied to a sheepdog who is sensitive and may be difficult to work with unless treated gently.

The Phantomhive stables contained five horses, all of them male. Three nearly-identical Welsh cobs were specifically for pulling the carriage. They were dark brown, sturdy animals, kept as sleek as burnished brass. The only notable differences between Yankee, Merrylegs, and Gilbert were the length of the socks they bore on their well-muscled limbs. Ciel did not concern himself with these horses, thinking more of them as extra servants — just as well, as he'd allowed Bard, Finny, and Mey-Rin to name them. Only Irish and Sysonby were worthy of bearing the young master on their broad backs.

Irish was a mild-mannered thoroughbred, aptly named due to his red coloration. He was fourteen years old, just like the boy who owned him, though himself far past adolescence. He was gentle, easy to ride, but not opposed to a jaunt through the Phantomhive territory. Irish was bought with the intention of having a horse for Lizzie available, if she ever wanted to go riding when she visited, but Ciel liked the sorrel too. It was an obedient creature, not at all unpredictable, and difficult to spook. Though Ciel did not often proclaim it, he had a fondness for tame animals and their unconditional loyalty. "I can trust him more than I can most people. More than you, without a doubt," Ciel had once sneered at Sebastian, before twice thumping a hand against Irish's velveteen neck.

Sysonby was the very opposite of the gelding. For one, he was a stallion, and for another, he was very proud. A handsome black hackney horse, Sysonby had the attractive high step his breed was known for and flaunted it whenever possible. He adored being ridden, though he would often get overexcited and move a little more quickly than Ciel wanted him to. Sysonby was a challenge to control, and Sebastian knew Ciel was quietly thrilled by it. When it came to the stallion, the only thing Ciel seemed to enjoy more than reining him was making remarks about Sebastian's likeness to the beast.

"What an idiot," Ciel would say with a smirk as the nine-year-old horse paraded about in his stall, longing to show off for his master. "He's just as eager as you are to do everything perfectly. And see how he looks to me for approval — or for an apple, maybe. It all comes down to food for the both of you, doesn't it? I fancy your brains work just the same way."

Sebastian did not consider himself at all similar to the horse, or any animal that man had bred for servitude, but as both shared a master, both would have to endure said master's evaluations from time to time. Sebastian theorized he and the horse alike would receive a rather scathing review from a tired, biased lord today.

Though Bard was, by title, the chef of the manor, he was more often the horses' caretaker. The stable just off the servant's entrance was where he spent half his day, feeding, grooming, and exercising its five residents. He also kept the tack and leather in good condition, one of the few lessons the army had managed to ingrain, as far as Sebastian was concerned. When Sebastian walked into the stable that morning at half past five, Bard had one of Gilbert's huge fetlocks in his palm and was examining the hoof's underside.

"It was jus' a pebble stuck in your shoe, Gil," he teased the large cob. "You're limpin' and carryin' on like a big baby over nothin'! Why, if you was a person, Mr. Sebastian'd have you right out the door and flat on your tailbone, lickety-split."

"Hmm, would I now? And here I found myself considerably lenient when it came to you and the other two simpletons," Sebastian announced himself.

Bard leapt up from where he'd been crouching in the open stall and threw a tall-backed salute. "Mr. Sebastian? Eh, uh, morning, sir. W-What can I do for ya?"

"What you can do is prepare Irish for a ride." Sebastian took out his pocket watch from his jacket, sprung the lid, and tucked it back away. "The young master is going to be waking up in half an hour, and he'll be working the horse hard. Make sure you choose a good headstall and a bit with fair tongue control."

Bard's shocked expression said he had a number of questions. "A ride this early, sir? What for? I've got nothin' against anything the young master does, jus' didn't think he was wakin' up before ten these days…"

"Well, that's about to change," Sebastian said jovially. "Please get to it, so that the horse is ready by the time I have the young master dressed."

"Sure thing, sir… Ah, wait! Jus' thought of something," Bard called as Sebastian began to turn. "Does it hafta be Irish that the young master rides? Sysonby'll be right upset if he sees Irish gettin' first pick. Horses, they got a hierarchy a' their own, y'see. Don't like to have it messed with. Sysonby and Irish get along great most a' the time, but I reckon Syson'll bully him out in the pasture and act up somethin' fierce if the master doesn't make him the first choice."

Sebastian knew it would be easier for Ciel to practice riding skills on a more obedient beast, hence why he had requested Irish. Ciel had not ridden in some time, either, and would probably need to reacquaint his muscles with the saddle, the motions of the horse.

But… Sebastian's humiliation at the orphanage was fresh in his mind. The taste of raw meat he'd plucked out of the bin… The look of disgust on the nun's pretty face as she watched him swallow… What an unbecoming aesthetic. So he agreed with Bard that yes, the eager, rambunctious, boastful Sysonby would be a terrific mount for the day and to prepare that horse instead.

And now, it was time to face the little Fred Archer[※] himself.

The sun still burned low on the horizon at six o'clock. When Sebastian cast apart the bedroom curtains and invited in a face full of sunshine, Ciel didn't move a muscle. It was clear he had been in the midst of deepest sleep and was still processing what the act of being awake at this hour even entailed.

"Good morning, my lord," Sebastian said, leaning over the motionless form beneath the covers. "Are you ready to begin your first day of jockeying? I'm sure that Sysonby is raring to start."

Ciel lifted his head a bit and opened only his cursed eye, wincing through the daylight. His face was scrunched up, tired, annoyed. "'s too early," he managed in a sleepy slur. He rubbed all over his face with the heels of both palms and, when he was done, turned right into the mattress to hide from the sun.

Sebastian wagged his finger cheerfully. "It isn't too early for the East End boys, sir. They'd be awake by now, on the fishing boats and by the street corners with their newspapers."

Ciel made an ungentlemanly snarl in the back of his throat.

"Of course, the East End boys are usually in bed by nine o'clock to be sure they have ample sleep for the day's work… And you went to bed after midnight last night, yes?"

The boy still lay there like a corpse.

"Up, up, and let's get you dressed." Sebastian leaned closer. "Dear, dear… Such a slow riser will not be tolerated at Hastings's residence, I have no doubt… Are you giving up on the competition already, young master? What a pity."

Apparently Ciel's pride did not wake up with his consciousness. "My riding boots don't fit," he grumbled into the coverlet. "I can't practice anyway…"

Sebastian tutted pleasantly. "You won't be wearing riding boots, my lord. The East Ends boys wouldn't have any, so neither shall you. You'll be practicing in the old Brogan boots you use for going undercover."

This injustice finally had Ciel raising his head. "That's too complicated! I'm not used to all this." He split off from whining to yawn. "What'll you do if I fall off the saddle because I couldn't ride right? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Always did like thinking up new ways to make me look stupid…"

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, surprised but amused. A tired Ciel was difficult to deal with, yet it seemed that a very tired Ciel couldn't form a thorough-enough argument to take seriously. "I thought perhaps you would need the extra energy today, my lord, which is why I prepared a lapsang souchong brew for you. Such luxuries you won't find as a jockey, naturally, but perhaps this is proof enough that my intention isn't to make you suffer."

Ciel sat up at last, glowering as he took the warm cup in hand. "Not yet, it isn't…"

The expensive black tea opened the boy's eyes and stood him to his feet but did not make him rational. Sebastian dressed him in long socks, plaid knickerbockers, and a white shirt with a club collar — not one of the designer pieces Nina had fashioned for him, but a tired, cotton one. During this, Ciel had a lot more to say.

"When am I going to eat breakfast?"

"At nine thirty, we will take a break."

"We? You make it sound like you're going to be working, too."

"I won't be riding, my lord, but I will be attentively coaching you the entire time."

"And what are you going to have me do?"

"Practice on posture and form."

"Is that going to take long?"

"Unless you prove yourself a prodigy, I imagine it will take all month."

"But how long will it take today? "

"It should take only four hours, my lord. Any longer and you may overwork your muscles."

"Only four hours?!" Ciel swung a kick at Sebastian's shin. "That's not short at all!"

"It's your decision whether or not you follow through with it, young master," Sebastian reminded with a wry smile. "Four hours is what I would recommend, if you want to have a surefire chance to best the others in the competition by next month. But if you'd rather not train at all and wing it… well, that's an option too."

Another kick was delivered as Sebastian pulled a wool sweater over Ciel's head. "Like I need your cheek," said the voice, muffled beyond the layer.

"Oh? Was I being cheeky?"

"It's you we're talking about, of course you were being cheeky!" Ciel's head popped free in a splash of static hair, and he folded his arms crossly. As Sebastian began tying on the boots, he heard Ciel drop his voice in pitch and mock under his breath, "It should take only four hours, my lord."

Sebastian paused in creating a bow, and looked up to see a boy who was blushing with self-awareness at the childish tone he'd just used. "Well, isn't that unexpected. My lord does impressions," he grinned as a third kick was administered promptly to his knee. "I was unaware I sounded so boorish. I shall endeavor to pay more attention to my inflections."

"Stop talking altogether if you're just going to be a nuisance!"

Half an hour later, Ciel had trudged down to the stables with Sebastian in his slow wake, still rubbing his eyes and yawning and drooping his shoulders forward. Sysonby looked the opposite of his master: dressed in gleaming leather, snorting and bouncing his front hooves, eyes wide and ready. Bard held the romping horse by its reins, warning laughingly, "Calm down, ya big fool! Behave yourself in front of the young master! You're right embarrassing, you are!"

Ciel reached out to the tossing head, and Sysonby stuck his blazing white muzzle right into the palm, sniffing happily. The honest spirit had Ciel smiling in spite of himself. "Calm down, brute. How am I supposed to mount you if you don't stop moving?" As if understanding English, Sysonby tried to hold himself still, though his legs did shake with contained excitement. He threw back his head again, snorting hard and tossing his mane, begging for mercy. "All right, all right. Hold him steady so I can get on," Ciel told Bard as he put one foot in the stirrup, stepping high and allowing Sebastian to help him swing his body atop the huge animal. Ciel gave a huff as he settled himself on the saddle.

Bard looped the reins through his master's hand and held Sysonby by his bridle. "Sorry if this is a mite forward a' me, young master, but eh, is there a reason you're wearing that to go out ridin'?" he asked, scratching the nape of his neck. "And so early, too! Though I suppose it ain't any a' my business," he added as Sebastian glowered him into obedience.

"You can blame the one who chooses my wardrobe," Ciel growled, shooting his butler a similar glare. "Apparently dressing me up like a little street rat is grand fun for him. As is rousing me at first light."

Bard looked between the two of them, trying to piece together the strangeties. "Ah, well," he said at last, "do have a pleasant ride, my lord. It is a beautiful mornin' out there."

It was a beautiful morning, by human standards anyway. The black horse's strong legs parted the mist and sent dewdrops and grasshoppers scattering beneath his hooves. The sun was a strong young light that washed everything in an orange palette. Despite that, Ciel shivered beneath the wool. "You didn't dress me warmly enough. Didn't you think about that, or were you too busy making certain I looked like I had a single penny to my name?"

"I apologize for your discomfort. I'm sure my lord will find himself plenty warm, once he begins practice," Sebastian said, leading the horse and his rider through an outcropping of trees surrounding the north side of the estate.

Ciel took one hand off the reins to rub away the goose bumps on his upper arm. "And dare I ask what it is you're going to make me do?"

"That deserves an explanation, when the time comes," Sebastian said, turning right towards a thicket. "Once you become comfortable riding in those boots, I will tell you what to do. And hopefully my lord will trust my judgment… For I believe it will be the key to his victory."

"The key to my victory, hm?" Ciel was pensive for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I'm not looking forward to this. You sound too sure about it. No doubt that spells my misery."

"We'll see," Sebastian said, and felt Ciel's eyes on him again at that response. "Maybe misery now, to later trade in for success."

"How am I going to practice this 'misery' anyway?" Ciel was grappling for excuses again. "There isn't anything like a racetrack out here, and the ground is far from flat."

"Of that you are mistaken, my lord." Sebastian pulled back a low-hanging bow to reveal a new addition to the Phantomhive territory. "I believe this shall fulfill the requirements of a racetrack."

Where once grew a circlet of trees and soft grass was now a perfect oval of dirt road, lined by a wooden fence extending three furlongs. The ground was groomed and level the full way around the circuit. This was far from the most impressive of Sebastian's work, taking only four hours to build, despite his contractual requirement that he create it step by step. Sysonby was curious about the structure, having run these backwoods a number of times and thinking himself familiar with the area. Ciel, however, was clearly perturbed that this jockey thing was really happening.

"Stop looking so proud about it," Ciel snapped to Sebastian, as his horse leaned forward to explore the wood slats with his muzzle. "You didn't even ask me if this was okay first."

"But you agreed to let me be in charge of training," Sebastian reminded, pulling at one of the fence posts to reveal it was a hinged gate. "I assumed that meant being certain there was a place for you to train."

Ciel wrinkled up his nose. "Whenever you make an assumption, I should always be worried." Still, he drove Sysonby forward onto the track.

It did not take Ciel long to get back in the habit of riding. Over the course of a few laps, Ciel worked the stallion up to a gentle canter. He swiftly fell into the motions of the horse's rocking, moving his arms with the reins and his body with the momentum. Sysonby, however, was distractible and trying to show off his pretty step, and Sebastian allowed Ciel to speed him up and wear down his first layer of enthusiasm. Once the horse had been dulled by the monotony of the run, Sebastian addressed his lesson.

"So, my lord," he called out from his place in the grassy center of the track, swiveling slowly to follow Ciel in his looping pattern, "what I'm about to propose may seem a bit unorthodox. But if you can adapt to the following technique, it will bring you absolute success in the competition."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?" Ciel barked back.

Sebastian laughed behind his lips. "We will see when you give it a try, won't we, my lord?"

The boy made a face. "Just tell me what it is already."

"What you must do," Sebastian began, "is lean yourself forward so that you rise off the saddle, up and over the horse's neck as much as possible, and hold this position as long as you can without sitting back down."

Ciel's frown held, but he decided to follow the instruction — or at least try. He hiked himself out of the saddle and plummeted back down almost immediately. Again, with the same results. Sysonby slowed a fraction and twisted his head around, wondering what his rider meant by this. "That's bloody impossible!" Ciel cried. He brought the horse to a walk and towards the inside perimeter of the fence. "It's way too hard! Why in blazes have I got to do that anyway? Are you just trying to torture me?"

"Now, now, my lord. Consider it logically," Sebastian said. "What do you think pulling yourself up small and close to the horse would do?"

"… It would cut down on wind resistance." Ciel's tone said he was stubborn to see his butler's point.

"Correct — and it will minimize the effect your weight has on the horse's movement. Streamline yourself, and you and the horse will cut through the air as a bullet." Sebastian smiled. "But, as you've exemplified, it is much easier said than done."

"Not to your displeasure," Ciel snapped. Then he looked away thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb against the soft leather of the reins. "This is clever. This could completely change the way jockeys race… and yet, it's so obvious when you say it out loud. It's just too bad that a damn demon came up with it."※※

"From the young master, I suppose that is a compliment," Sebastian beamed, making Ciel glare beneath his bangs. Sebastian returned a gaze full of his own fire. "But this technique won't learn itself, now, will it? So, my lord… are you ready to try again?"

The blue eye stared at him hard, but eventually Ciel nodded once. He pressed his legs against Sysonby's huge rib cage and goaded him into another canter. Once they'd gotten up to a nice even pace, Ciel lifted himself out of the saddle, holding his body up a bit longer this time. Only a bit, though — two seconds later, he faltered unsteadily. Determination swept over the boy, and he tried again… and again… on the seventh try, he managed to hold a rough crouch for four seconds before Sebastian saw his eyes widen and his balance almost totter. Ciel sat down swiftly and regained his footing, then slowed Sysonby and road him over to the inside fence again.

Panting hard, Ciel worked his sweater off and over his hair. "It's. Too. Hard," he growled through gritted teeth, and launched the balled-up clothing at his butler's face.

It was hardly a projectile. Sebastian caught the limp wool in his outstretched arms. "Too hard to make perfect," Sebastian offered, moving closer to the edge of the fence, "and certainly not in a mere day." He took ahold of Sysonby's bridle with one hand and reached out to Ciel with the other. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"

Ciel didn't reach back. "Some demonstration that would be. You'll do it just right without even trying. As if I could learn anything!"

Sebastian shrugged, then removed Ciel manually from the horse by seizing him under the armpits. "My perfection is exactly how you will learn," he said above the boy's ranting, and deposited him inside the middle fence, as one places a rabbit in its pen when they are done petting its ears.

Ciel was red with frustration as Sebastian took his effortless turn on the saddle. The stirrups were at an improper place considering Sebastian's height, but it didn't matter — this was nothing for a demon who opposed gravity whenever it pleased him. Sysonby was clearly unhappy with this change in command, but allowed Sebastian to bolster him to a jog anyway.

"This won't just take just the efforts of your legs," Sebastian said. He lifted his long body out of the saddle, hefting his knees over the top of the horse's shoulders and laying his arms parallel with the neck, so that his head was just behind those pointed ears. "Every part of you should be engaged. The muscles in your abdomen should be holding you steady and hunched low, so that your knees stay crooked. Your arms must not go limp. They must remain just so along the horse's neck. If you are to maintain utmost speed, than you must not think of yourself as a rider. You must think of yourself as being the least burden possible, to pretend as if you aren't there at all."

Ciel followed the display with his eyes but was mentally unmoved. "Congratulations. You've just made it sound even worse than it did before."

"Given your physical prowess, I do not think you will manage to refine this technique in a month," Sebastian said, making Sysonby nicker in surprise when he sprung out of the saddle and landed beside Ciel with a low bow. "But if you can even hold the crouched position for twenty to thirty seconds come the day of the competition, this Hastings fellow will surely find you talented enough to be within the top five contestants." Sebastian held up a single finger. "Practice makes perfect, you well know. Therefore, what you will do is practice every single day, and how you will practice is through repetition. You will attempt the pose; I will tell you how to fix it. Then you will rest for a brief minute, and try the pose again. Again and again you will do this, for twenty-eight days, until it is second nature to you."

"This is torture, damn it!" Ciel snapped with clenched fists.

"This is how you will infiltrate the racetrack," Sebastian said. It was hard to mask his delight when his charge's soul was so clenched. "Do you remember when I helped you bluff your way through the Noah's Ark assessment? After a few days, the circus members were suspicious of your initial performance, because you could no longer throw knives and walk a tightrope. It ended up being all right, as we only stayed for a short while — not to mention you fell ill… but will things work out so smoothly here? I'm sure we could falsify your way through this test of skill as well… but that could lead to further complications. Would Mr. Hastings introduce you to his underground racetrack in a matter of days? Or would you have to prove your worth at his manor first? Would he not catch on to some such charade if you couldn't explain your own training?" For the second time that day, Sebastian extended his hand as an offer to the boy. "What would you like to do, young master?"

For the second time that day as well, Ciel did not accept the hand. Instead, he glared at his demon quietly. A strong spring breeze sent his bangs billowing about his ears, sticking to the new sweat on his forehead. Then his glare disappeared behind his lids. "I think… I would like to have myself some breakfast."

"Eh?" Sebastian's elbow and wrist dropped ever so slightly. "… You mean, then, that you would like to stop already, sir?"

"No, I want you to serve me bangers and mash while I engage in this real-life carousel. Yes, I'd like to stop," Ciel scoffed, "and I'm well aware we haven't even been working for half an hour. But this is difficult, I'm starving, and I have something I want you to do instead anyway. Wipe that disapproving look off your face, I'm just done for now. Seriously, what did you expect, putting me on Sysonby instead of Irish? Look how impatient he is already, he doesn't want to do this anymore. I'll have to give him a jog around the estate or else he'll start cribbing at his stall door."※※※ Then he extended a hand of his own, jabbing his index finger at his butler. "This work is hard. I can already feel my muscles starting to ache, and we've only just begun. If you really expect me to learn from you, you're going to have to rethink your strategies. And you'll have time to rethink them while I send you on an errand to go buy Northcott's racehorse from the veterinarian."

That spiel had given Sebastian a lot to consider. He chose to comment only on the final sentence. "What are your plans for Northcott's horse, my lord? I have trouble seeing its necessity in the investigation any longer."

Ciel folded his arms. "It doesn't have any necessity in the investigation. I merely want the horse for my personal stables."

Sebastian was confused. "A horse that has been so distressed?"

"I'm well aware of its disposition," the boy growled. "I didn't ask you to question me, I asked you to go and buy the thing. Though none of Northcott's family wanted it, so technically it shouldn't cost any more than what the knackery would pay, but be sure to throw in a little extra to accommodate the doctor's care, and to keep him from spreading the word about my purchase. I don't need half of London wondering why I've decided to house some deranged beast. Now, get me back to the manor and make me some sausages. The carousel quip may have been sarcasm, but the bangers and mash wasn't."

The veterinarian was perplexed at why Ciel would want the traumatized racehorse ("He screams like a banshee whenever he gets frightened") and surprised but accepting of the hush money ("I'm not much of one for gossip, but if Lord Phantomhive insists…"), and helped Sebastian fasten the drugged-up animal onto the back of the carriage. Yankee and Merrylegs had been assigned to pull, and they rolled their eyes and ears over their shoulders, listening to the nervous whickering of their fellow creature. The racehorse had been blinded with a makeshift hood fashioned out of a potato sack, two places cut out for its ears to come through. Unlike humans, horses were more likely to take chances when they couldn't see what was up ahead — or far behind.

By the time Sebastian returned to the manor, the opiates had largely worn off, and the horse's sounds of distress were beginning to unnerve the cobs up front (as well as anyone unfortunate enough to pass them by). Once they neared home, these noises also attracted the attention of Ciel and Sysonby — they emerged from the backwoods to keep pace with the carriage.

Both the boy and his mount were glancing behind them at the newcomer. "I could hear his commotion from down the road," Ciel said to Sebastian, stationed in the driver's seat.

Sebastian smirked in mild irritation. "I imagine that you could, my lord."

"I see his time under the doctor's eye has done little to calm his nerves."

"Indeed. I'm not entirely sure what will, other than more opiates."

"Bard thought of some things," Ciel said. At Sebastian's raised eyebrow, he added, "When he was in the army, Bard said some of the horses would get spooked by explosions and gunshots, especially if things went off right under their feet. He thinks he might know some ways to bring this horse around too."

"You have quite an interest in rehabilitating him," Sebastian noted.

Ciel glowered again. "Well, I won't be able to ride him if I don't, will I?"

Sebastian felt an irritated stirring at that declaration. Ride him? Why was the young master so interested in riding him? A point of pride, perhaps? It seemed a misplaced priority, considering the Queen's mission they were practicing for. And the horse's persistent crying was a reminder of just how questionable he was for human handling.

Ciel clicked the reins and started to ride ahead. He shouted over his shoulder, "Bring the horse over to the paddocks when you're through in the carriage house. Then we'll hear what Bard thinks."

"Yes, my lord…" Sebastian said without total surety.

The racehorse had been fastened to the back of the carriage with a simple halter made of rope, above which was the crude sort of hood. Sensing Sebastian's nearness, the horse began to paw and shy away. It didn't act up too badly while he untied it from the carriage boot, but when Sebastian tried to lead it, the horse pulled back and reared slightly and shook its mane. Sebastian smiled and then yanked the heavy head down so that it was level with his.

"Oh my, we are feisty," he purred darkly. "I have small patience for those who aren't my charge, you see… Or rather, who aren't my charge or of feline origins. Would you prefer to be cutlets and salami right now? That is the fate you have escaped at the knackery, you should know — and yet, you treat me as if I am the enemy. Your kind cannot be reasoned with so easily… If you did not oppose me, I should not have to use force. But so be it."

And that was how Sebastian convinced the horse to go to the paddock: by tying a rope around its chest and shoulders and drag-tugging it along.

The horse was still snorting and whinnying roughly as they made it to the fenced-off area for the livestock. Irish and Gilbert immediately rushed to the front of the paddock, nostrils working to a catch a whiff of the stranger. Sysonby was in the enclosure with them now, too, looking especially curious. Ciel and Bard were standing by, watching Sebastian's handiwork.

"Some brace you've designed there," Ciel snorted. "Was that really the most efficient way you could think to get him here? Against his will?"

Surprisingly, Bard gave Sebasian's method his approval. "It's bit of a strange set-up, but it's all right. The horse needs to remember that people are in charge and that that's okay. Good things'll happen if he puts his faith in people — good things like going to pasture, gettin' food and water. Even if it means usin' a bit a' harmless force here and there."

The paddock was segmented into four parts for the sake of rotational grazing. Bard opened the gate to a section separate from the rest of the herd. As Sebastian guided the hooded animal inside, the other horses followed along from their side of the fence, long noses pointed and scenting, like a trio of sight hounds. Bard and Ciel watched from the sidelines as Sebastian removed the blindfold and the harness. Once free, the racehorse scattered across the grass, arching and weaving before coming to a stop in the field's center, his tail whisking as he watched Sebastian depart.

"I'm surprised he hasn't been branded," Sebastian heard Ciel say. "I suppose they wouldn't do that to a racehorse though. It would look unappealing."

Bard shook his head, chewing on an unlit cigarette. "Nah, he's still marked, I'm sure. Probably just on the inside a' his lip instead a' his flank."

"Oh." Ciel put a hand to his chin. "So then… what do we do from here? How do we make him tame again?"

"You said he was trapped in his stall with a dead body?" Bard scratched at his stubble. "I mean, I don't have any firsthand experience with that kinda circumstance… But to apply some general advice to it, we take it at his pace. Approach 'im softly n' treat 'im good. He's scared 'cause he thinks he can't count on people anymore. So what we have to do is show 'im that he's got to. I don't got a clue what could be goin' through his brain, but Avalon wouldn't be behavin' like this if he hadn't come to some conclusion that people weren't friends."

Sebastian closed the gate behind him. "Avalon?"

"The name of the horse, ain't it?" Bard said. "That's what you told me, right, young master?"

"Um. Yes," Ciel said, and lowered his chin to look at Sebastian from the top of his eyes, as if sheepish to be caught naming his own animal. He coughed into a fist. "Bard, your main job now is to look after Avalon and get him back to normal, or as close to it as possible." His blue eye looked onto the field. "Remind him what he is, what he's capable of being again. Understood?"

"A' course, sir. I'll do my absolute best, at least," Bard said. He sounded a bit taken-aback yet honored to be counted on for this. "Most a' the horses I worked with weren't so wary as this one. But I'll give it my all, you can count on it."

"As for you." Ciel fixed Sebastian with a hot glare. "I hope you reconsidered your strategies like I told you to. We have a lot of work to do."

Sebastian had been Ciel's teacher before, and he considered himself a good one at that. However, Ciel's mental fortitude was vastly superior to his physical ability. Where Ciel needed little guidance when it came to the fundamentals of language and music, Sebastian realized by the second lesson that this was harder for him to grasp. Being of a flexible nature, the demon had never needed to award much thought to athletic feats, but recognized Ciel was getting nowhere fast trying to imitate the crouch pose all at once. It needed to be broken down into simpler parts so that his muscles could adjust.

Ciel started practicing by standing in lowered stirrups and maintaining balance with his feet. It was hard enough for him to do this at a trot — he wobbled uncertainly the whole while, trying desperately not use his knees to hold himself steady. Sebastian had warned him that that would interfere with the horse's gait.

"You seem to know an awful lot more about what's going to trouble Irish than what's going to trouble me," Ciel snarled on the second day. But by the end of day three, he was able to hold himself upright with just a bit of struggling.

From there, Sebastian mentally constructed a schedule of what he thought Ciel would be able to accomplish. Standing up in the stirrups while at a canter; then doing the same but with knees bent at lowering angles; hovering above the saddle while leaning over the horse; and then working towards a true crouched position while minding that his knees and arms did not add increased pressure on the horse's body.

Sebastian was also quick to discover that four hours of labor in a day was too much to ask. Not only was the boy physically unable to meet the requirement, but mentally: the tedium of the task wore him down so that he could only stay focused for up to three hours at most before his attention and drive would disappear, and he'd need to break for food or rest or merely something else to do.

"I'm not meant for this," he would complain, walking with a stiff stride after a session, putting his hands on his lower back and arching over backwards. "Why anyone would dedicate their life to such a strenuous, mind-numbing headache of a regimen is beyond my understanding."

The training was taking an equal toll on his body and mood. Ciel would submerge in a hot bath each night, washing away the day's dust and letting his muscles relax. Then each morning he would wake up just as begrudgingly, just as in-pain. "Everything hurts," he'd moan as Sebastian fashioned him in another one of his East End outfits. "I feel like I've been stretched out on the rack※※※※… My legs are tight and my knees are clenching up and my back is aching and my neck has a cramp in it… And it doesn't matter when I go to bed. I'm always tired! I hate this!"

The complaints began at dawn and didn't stop until Ciel declared enough was enough and that he was finished training for the day. These complaints were always aimed at Sebastian — and more often than not had to do with Sebastian too. "This isn't working!" "Argh! Why aren't I getting better yet?" "No, I don't want to do that, so I won't!" "That's impossible, damn demon!" "Stop saying it like it's so easy!" "I'm the one actually working here, so quit looking so smug!" "No, I'm not going to do that because I'm done! Get me off Irish now! I need a break!"

At least once a day, Ciel's frustration would reach its peak, and he would declare himself finished with practice for good. "This is ridiculous," Ciel would snap. "This is too hard for me. I don't care about the competition anymore! I'll have to make do without all this miserable labor."

But something always changed his mind. Sometimes that something was an increased rationality after lunch (the younger Ciel had eaten like a bird, but this current Ciel was a bottomless pit). Mostly, Sebastian noticed, his interest in training was renewed after spending some time with Avalon.

"What are you doing today?" Ciel would call out to Bard from beyond the paddock fence, leaning his elbows on top of it and supporting one of his tired knees on a lower board.

Bard was taking Avalon's readjustment quite seriously. He and the horse were out in the field most of the day, doing small drills that looked simple, yet Ciel was still intrigued by. "I'm jus' leading him in a circle so he gets used to a person being in-control a' him again."

Ciel pointed. "And why are you using that crop to touch his back leg while he moves?"

"It makes him want to keep walking, and reminds him that if I touch him, it's nothin' to be afraid a' or do anything about."

"Why is he afraid of being touched? He wasn't abused."

"No, but that's how horses get, 'specially the ones prone to being skittish, like racehorses tend to be. When they get a bad opinion a' somethin', they want it to stay as far away from them as possible."

Ciel moved over towards the gate and began to undo the latch. "I want to do what you're doing. Show me how."

Sebastian felt a twinge inside of him, but said nothing, and watched on as his charge approached the unpredictable animal. Bard's work had already managed to pacify Avalon a little, and though the horse frisked away when Ciel approached, it didn't flee. Bard gave Ciel some brief instruction, showing him how to engage the horse with the crop and the rope at once, and then laid them in the boy's small palms. Ciel's arms were a little tired from training earlier that day, so he had trouble keeping them raised, but soon he was turning the horse in circles to Bard's approval. Out of context, the two could pass as a head groom and stable boy, given how Ciel was still wearing his East End garb. Sebastian looked on until Ciel gave the tools back. He left the scene before his charge could catch him staring.

Another week and a half went by. Another morning of work at the track commenced. "Keep your back straight, even when you hunch over," Sebastian called out. "Try to take your knees off of Irish's shoulders. Lift yourself up higher. Bring your elbows in." Ciel's posture shivered and he collapsed onto the saddle. "Eight seconds that time. Rest a minute and try again."

A look of pure rage crossed Ciel's features. He stopped the horse abruptly. "I don't want to try again!"

He'd only been practicing for forty minutes that day, yet he was already infuriated. Sebastian wasn't amused. "My lord, it is too soon for you to take a break."

That didn't seem to matter. "This is hopeless! I'm terrible at this, it's not worth practicing any more. Every time I get up on the horse, I do a thousand things wrong. I'm not getting any better, I'm just wearing myself out. I could be coming up with better plans for finding the underground racetrack, but instead I'm wasting time and energy on this exercise that I'll never be any good at anyway!"

"My lord, you've already put yourself through sixteen days of this," Sebastian reminded. "Twelve days more can be all the difference."

Ciel ignored him. "You tell me yourself," he shouted, "since you can't lie. I'm never going to be any good at this, and you know it."

"If I knew such a thing, I certainly wouldn't encourage you to keep at it," Sebastian half-laughed.

But Ciel shook his head. "Let me out of the track. I'm done."

"Young master…"

"I don't want to argue it, I just want to stop!"

When Ciel was upset like this, it meant he didn't want to be around Sebastian anymore. Sebastian sighed but awarded him his space. As Irish was ridden off at a clip to the stables, Sebastian was left to comb the track with a rake and think about what he'd just been told.

That outburst had been a bit of a surprise. Yes, Ciel hated the training — he never made any bones about that — and no, he didn't have a natural ability in this area. But to say he was hopeless was far from the case. And certainly his riding had improved since day one! Ciel's learning was not stagnant; he had been putting real effort into it. His balance was greatly improved, even if his muscular strength had built at a meager pace. He listened to instruction, followed it to the best of his ability. There were times when Ciel was so swept with determination, Sebastian wondered if there was an underlying passion, despite all the complaints — though Ciel had coined the racetrack "limbo" in reference to the first ring of hell in Dante's Inferno, a clever but not exactly endearing nickname.

Ciel's hatred towards racing was no surprise. The fact that he seemed to lack a concept of his progress was. He could hold himself aloft the saddle for up to ten seconds now. His posture wasn't perfect but it was an approximation. Of course Ciel had improved — logically he could only improve, yet for some reason the very logical boy couldn't recognize that improvement.

Come to think of it, have I ever made him aware of his improvement?

Once the thought dawned on him, the trouble seemed obvious. Sebastian had not been giving Ciel any praise — he merely told him what to fix and carried on. No wonder the boy thought he was terrible at jockeying. All he heard was that he was doing things wrong. Considering a human's innate need for affirmation, it was almost a wonder Ciel had lasted this long knowing only negative feedback.

Sebastian's aptitude for compliments was, like Ciel's riding, a skill that went against his nature but one he had half-learned nonetheless. He knew he had to remedy the situation at once. A pot of Ciel's favorite Darjeeling and a Battenberg cake to soften his demeanor, then a few kind words like a magic spell, and hopefully Ciel would be won back to the lessons.

It took forty minutes to prepare the colorful sponges and coat them in sweet pink frosting. That was probably enough time for Ciel's bad attitude to have cooled. But when Sebastian brought the tea and cake up to the study, he found it empty. The bedroom as well held no occupants. Sebastian puzzled this only briefly before shaking his head at himself. Of course Ciel was out with Bard and Avalon; these days, nothing calmed him as well as caring for the racehorse did. Sebastian left the trolley in the hall and ventured out the servant's entrance, around to the opposite side of the manor to the paddocks.

As soon as he turned a corner of the house, he could see Avalon running in the paddock of his own will, free from Bard's rope and crop methods. Bard was watching but not attempting to stop the speeding racehorse. And Ciel was riding it.

All composure drained from Sebastian in an instant. It was replaced with something dark, encompassing, and indefinable. It filled the whole of him with frost.

He acted before he could think, as if on instinct. He moved like lightning. He whisked Ciel off the saddle and into his arms, away from the four-legged danger.

Ciel was startled by this unexpected touch and cried out. He blinked up at his butler, wide-eyed, then peered over Sebastian's shoulder to see his bay horse springing away in the background, terrified at the sudden loss of its rider. Ciel's jolting surprise faded into disapproval as he registered what was going on.

Meanwhile, Sebastian felt instinct give way to emotion: relief. The boy was safe now — the soul was safe. But Sebastian's relief swiftly became realization, then disappointment, and ultimately he found himself angry. His face became stern. "What," he began, "do you think you are doing, my lord?"

"What do you think you're doing?" Ciel spat back. "Who said you could interrupt me like that?" He fidgeted relentlessly in the cradle hold. "Set me on my feet right now! That's an order!"

Sebastian did as he was told, but his mood only heightened. "By riding that horse, you deliberately put yourself in harm's way." His words were seething, and he stooped so that he and Ciel's eyes met. "That animal is not trustworthy anymore. He could suddenly decide you were too much for him and throw you off his back. Your fall could mean anything from a simple sprain to even death, if you fell badly enough. What could have provoked this utterly misguided decision of yours?"

Ciel was appalled. "How dare you!" he finally choked. "You can't talk to me that way!"

"Your well-being is my utmost priority," Sebastian warned. "I cannot allow anything to jeopardize that… Even your own actions. Honestly, what on earth were you thinking? I fail to see how you thought that ride could possibly go without incident."

"I was doing fine! " Ciel shouted, clapping a hand to his chest. "Nothing was going wrong at all, at least until you intervened!"

"If I hadn't, I wonder what the results would be," Sebastian snarled, and straightened himself tall again. "This is just how it was with you in March. You are making life choices that go directly against your health and safety. I had hoped you had overcome such inane behavior, but now I see you are far from it. Must I monitor you at all times to be certain you do not give in to impulse?"

"I'm allowed to ride my own damn horse!" Ciel shouted. "If I think it's a good idea, that's all that matters! I don't have to run things by you firsthand and make sure it's bloody okay!"

"You are my contractual obligation," Sebastian snipped, quieting.

Ciel didn't match his volume. "You are disrespecting your master!"

"If my 'disrespect' keeps you out of harm's way," Sebastian spoke curtly, "than disrespectful is what I shall be."

Ciel reached up and slapped Sebastian as hard as he could on the cheek before stomping off through the paddock gate and into the manor.

Bard had been slowly moving closer during this exchange, but now he finished making his way over to his superior. "Oy," he practically breathed, "that was… hard to watch… Are you all right, sir?"

The slap had left no sting, at least not a physical one. Sebastian secured the chef with an icy gaze. "And you let him ride this half-tamed animal, did you...?"

By the complexity in his expression, Bard clearly felt the weight of Sebastian's words, like a slap of their own. "'Let him?'" he finally said with soft disbelief. He shook his head slowly. "He's the young master, Mr. Sebastian… We don't 'let' him do anything. We just follow his orders, no matter what they be… Listen, I told him that it was too soon for riding Avalon, but the decision isn't up to me. The young master insisted, so I saddled him up. I jus' did what I was told. You're the one who taught me that's how it works around here, you know?"

The air between the men was stiff. Bard paused momentarily, mouth opening and closing a few times as he selected his next words with care. "The… The way you spoke to the young master just then, too, sir… It was… Well… It was a pretty bad look." Bard scratched at the back of his head and chewed on his cigarette, seeming embarrassed. "I wouldn't tell ya so if I… if I wasn't so downright surprised at ya, sir."

These words seemed to snap Sebastian into his right mind. His eyes widened on Bard. In the moment when he saw Ciel riding the horse, instinct had taken over. His contract was in danger, and suddenly Sebastian had viewed Avalon and Bard as threats. Not immediate threats, nothing he had to dispatch then and there… but, with a curdling in his core, Sebastian knew he had wanted both to suffer at his hands.

It wasn't the notion of killing an innocent that Sebastian felt shocked by. It was his own overreaction to the situation. Ciel had walked into greater peril on every one of the Queen's missions — Sebastian had let him do it too. The presence of danger on his own turf, when he had least expected it, had thrown Sebastian into a frenzy. But that wasn't excuse enough. Seizing Ciel right off the horse's back and contemplating Bard's death were extreme reactions born from extreme emotion.

Extreme emotion. That sympathy beast was alive and well, and now it was a beast of terror, too.

The silence was pressing and long. Sebastian could not bring himself to break it either. There was nothing to say to Bard that would explain his actions — Sebastian could barely understand them himself. Something had to be done, something, anything. Sebastian never wanted to feel that way again. Viscerally upset. Charged with fear. Severed from the confidence and self-assurance that had led him all his life. What was he becoming? What was happening to him?

To turn and ask for help was the coward's way. But the coward outlived the daredevil and in that sense was not a fool. The thought of accepting the Undertaker's aid pained him — but it would be better than knowing that awful feeling again. And so Sebastian departed for the mortuary at once.

※: A popular and very talented Victorian era jockey, who was said to ride like he "had the devil at his elbow."

※※: This riding pose, known as the monkey crouch, was in actuality made popular by American jockey Todd Sloan in 1897.

※※※: Cribbing is when a horse gnaws on wood as a way of relieving stress or boredom. This wording also implies a habit of swallowing air while gnawing, which is bad for the horse.

※※※※: A medieval torture device that pulled a man in opposite directions by his limbs, stretching him out and usually dislocating bones. Ciel is definitely exaggerating the pain.