The outrun is a word used to describe when a dog is being sent out to work the flock. A well-trained dog will not run straight at the sheep but take a sweeping curve around them, to keep them from scaring.

Sebastian wasn't the sort to look before he leapt. That was evident in the way he'd stolen Ciel off of Avalon's back without warning. Therefore, Sebastian knew he shouldn't be surprised that he would find himself at Undertaker's funeral parlor without a plan either.

It had only taken him fifteen minutes to travel from the Phantomhive manor to London, alternating between human and demon speeds, depending on if anyone may be near enough to catch a glimpse of him. Now Sebastian stood hesitant before the great, ugly door of the mortuary. He was not nervous. He was embittered by the idea of relying on anyone — let alone Undertaker. He had never had to before.

Sebastian let his teeth grow sharp in his mouth and his pupils become slotted. Even if he turned to someone for help, there was no reason to show that someone submission.

The mortuary was cold and still, yet the air was so thick with frankincense, the atmosphere felt heavy. Sebastian stood in the midst of it, eyes ticking across each corner of the room. There were barrels of salt and sawdust, bookcases of assorted legal and medical texts, and, on the walls, lengths of rope with bundles of herbs dangling from them like pennant flags. Towards the back wall was the large black coffin that Undertaker used as either table or chair, however it pleased him in the moment. The lights of a few melted candles and a low fire could scarcely brighten the room. Sebastian sniffed. What a farce the dim ambience made. Undertaker likely spent more time sanding pinewood than he did embalming bodies. It was probable that this aesthetic was just one that appealed to his warped tastes.

"Well, well, well... Look who it is. It's sooner than I expected, but here you are."

First the gravelly voice and then the Undertaker himself emerged from behind the hanging black cloth that served as the door to his back rooms. His Cheshire grin seemed all the wickeder. Though his eyes were hidden beneath sheepdog's bangs, Undertaker faced Sebastian the whole time he made his way to his favorite coffin and sat upon its lid. He slung one leg over the other, and the pointed toe of his boot stabbed at the air.

Sebastian glared and did not yet speak. He resisted the urge to show off his teeth. He didn't like to be looked at that way by anyone he couldn't tear to ribbons.

"Did you change your eyes just for me?" Undertaker said innocently, spreading an open palm across his chest in mock wonderment. "I'm touched! You shouldn't have."

The demon kept his expression flat. No doubt the jokes would only persist if Sebastian proved his annoyance. Still, Undertaker was quiet for ten seconds more, drinking in the moment, until he finally said, "Now… why don't you begin by telling me why you've decided to come today?"

Sebastian shook his head stiffly. "You will begin by telling me how you intend to be of use."

Undertaker mirrored his client. "Well, I can't rightly do that without the proper details, now, can I?"

"You know enough. You've made that clear." Sebastian felt himself pull at the shadows of the mortuary, so that they grew where he stood. "If you can sense my 'changing aura,' then you must have some idea what it might mean and what to do about it. That is what you will tell me. I'll be the one to decide how much more you need to know."

Undertaker had his chin propped in both his hands, drowsily pleased, like a child watching a warm fire. "Very well," he agreed, still smiling in that same way. "Though the truth is that I have no answers for you. I merely have educated guesses, theories that I entertain myself with."

Before he began, Undertaker reached back behind the coffin and picked up a bleached skull, cradling it gently in his palm and tracing the teeth and cranial sockets with a pointed fingernail. He seemed to speak more to the skull than Sebastian when he said, "Tell me, butler. What does it mean to be immortal?"

There were a number of answers to that question. Sebastian would not recite them all, like some little schoolboy. "To live without time affecting ones' physical form," he said curtly.

Undertaker nodded, and made the skull nod at the same time. "Simply put, yes, that is immortality. And a fascinating thing, isn't it? Humans lust over the idea of living forever, even if life is not kind to them. They sing of heaven, but fear the grave. Strange… Quite strange." Undertaker paused to scratch a bit of dirt or dust out of the skull's gaunt jaw. "But immortality comes with its own disadvantage."

Two long, pale fingers were held up. "In my research, I have determined that not one but two types of immortality exist. I have taken to thinking of them as true and false immortals. The differentiation comes from where each draws their strength. The false immortal, for instance, can live forever, as long as they still rest and eat. They must create their own energy, but they can use that energy more efficiently and precisely than a human."

"As a Reaper does," Sebastian said.

Undertaker seemed delighted with that answer. "Yes, yes. Like a Reaper," he simpered. "True immortals, however, create none of their own power or strength. They draw it from elsewhere. From the stars, from the darkness, from God himself — that I cannot say. What I do know is that it allows true immortals to have almost unyielding levels of control over their environment… and themselves." Undertaker tapped his long nails against the skull's cracked scalp. "A true immortal such as yourself is designed to siphon energy from external sources. But putting trust in others is risky… and must be done with caution. Or else you would have come to me sooner, yes? In any case, I imagine that choosing a supply for your power is akin to putting faith in a stranger."

Sebastian was lightly intrigued. He had never 'chosen' where his power came from; he had just done whatever he'd wanted, conjuring up sweet foods and deadly weapons with the slightest inclination. There were limits to his magic, but he'd never given those limits much thought… which was really sort of embarrassing. No reason for Undertaker to know that though. "What sort of risks do you imagine come with choosing an external source of energy?"

Undertaker cackled softly. "Well... let's say one had no knowledge of where their energy came from… they might find themselves… unintentionally manipulated."

"Manipulated?" Sebastian's brow darkened. "Why? And how?"

"Consider... that you are growing soft for the little Phantomhive boy." Undertaker spoke just above a whisper. "Your aura has always been drawn to his… but it is different now. You are more watchful of him. More protective." He held the skull over his heart. "More fearful. That weakens your judgment. And it weakens you."

Undertaker was right. Sebastian, again, would not let him know. "You speak as if you've already drawn a conclusion."

"As I said, I only have theories," Undertaker continued. "I almost regret sharing them with you… But I am too curious not to. So I begin by asking: do you, butler, know where it is you draw your power?"

Sebastian was not so easily won. "I can think of no reason why you require that information."

Undertaker giggled. "There is no dire need for me to know the source. But you should worry if you don't." He cupped the skull in his palms like an apple. "Because you must ask yourself… Do you trust the source of your energy? Do you know it to be… safe? Pure? Can its magic alter your mind, for instance? Your thoughts? Enough to convince you that you care for the human child? Or… could someone else have access to that power source?"

Sebastian merely stared.

"The Earl has promised you something," Undertaker said. His words were edged with a slyness. "An immortal such as yourself would have no interest in him otherwise. But if you really cared for the boy… you might not want that promised something very much anymore. And then…" Undertaker used the skull to block out his own visage. "Someone else could be free to take it."

The dead kindling in the fireplace suddenly snapped ablaze.

Undertaker leapt up when his back felt the heat, but he was baying like a hyena. "Touched a nerve, I see!" he cackled loudly. "Am I right, then? Or is the idea enough to make you angry?" Undertaker reached up to his throat. "How comforted I am to be wearing rosary beads, heh, heh… I do believe you just invited Hell into this room… Oh my, leaving so soon?"

"I cannot confirm nor deny your claims," Sebastian growled over his shoulder, "but I'll be returning to my master now."

"Ah, yes. Got to make sure no one's laid a finger on his precious little head!" Undertaker crooned to the skull, for his guest was already out the door.

Though Sebastian moved with the swiftness of his ilk, his rage settled by the time he took his second step. At long last, there was a possible answer behind the sympathy beast. With answers came relief and confidence. What the Undertaker hypothesized made sense. Sebastian was no earthly creature, and so he was not confined to an earthly source of power. He was a vessel, not a producer. Therefore, it was reasonable to think that wherever he derived his dark magic, it was within an ethereal location that others could locate or tap into. Sebastian was a powerful demon, but there were others of a greater strength. Was it possible that, instead of hunting souls, there were demons who hunted other demons, took control of them, and then stole their contracted when the moment was right?

The English countryside peeled back from Sebastian's quick stride. If that was the game, he would play into it no longer. He did not need to be afraid of these thoughts: they were not really his. And he would prove his independence from the sympathy beast by craving the soul twice as much. He would become closer to his master than ever before. And he would make it abundantly clear that nothing would get in the way of his meal.

Sebastian tapped the bedroom door with his knuckles. He was not sure what kind of response to expect from the other side, but felt enthusiastic to face it, no matter what it was. He was reminded of the day, just five weeks ago, when Ciel had barred anyone from entering his bedroom, due to the nightmare that brought forth a wave of panic and shame. Sebastian had initially been angry then, too. Losing his temper hadn't gotten him anywhere; apology and acceptance had. Apology and acceptance would do the trick today as well.

A few seconds after the subtle knock, Ciel responded. "What?" Flat, bitter, but otherwise hard to describe — it was a tone like watered-down coffee.

"My lord. May I enter?" Sebastian made sure his own voice was a perfect blend of serenity and sophistication, with a spoonful of penance for good measure.

There was more hesitation, but Sebastian was pleasantly surprised when he was allowed passage. "Fine."

Sebastian closed the door gently after entering. He looked at Ciel, who was lying in bed with his arms clamped tightly across his chest. A pride swelled in Sebastian at the sight: this tortured, delectable soul was his and only his, and no one would take it away from him, no matter how they may try. Ciel, knowing nothing of the mortuary's prior drama, had a dull expression on his face, aimed at the opposing wall. He was using his pillows to prop himself up, two under his back and another tucked under his legs, which tended to get cramps from the exercise. His expression was hardened and fierce, but his cursed eye, which was currently uncovered, had an almost soft sheen over it.

This image harkened back to another memory, one from when Ciel was only ten. Sebastian had been preparing lunch in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon when Finny had burst through the servants' entrance, clutching Ciel in his arms. Finny was still learning English then, and he'd explained in hurried, sniveling German that Ciel had accidentally ridden his horse too close to the manor's apiary and disturbed a hive and been stung. Finny had rescued him from the swarm and been stung too, and now stood in the kitchen, muddy and tear-streaked and blubbering on about how he hoped the young master would not perish.

Ciel was wide-eyed but quite coherent, so there had been no need for panic. Sebastian immediately marched Finny back outside, because both boys still had drones crawling over their clothes. Sebastian swatted them down, then instructed Finny to stand the young master to his feet so that he could sufficiently check for bees that might be hiding under Ciel's riding jacket.

Ciel hadn't made a sound since he was rescued, whether out of shock or a lack of anything to say. As the boy stood there silently, Sebastian's hands whisking over his shirt, Finny asked in his unsteady (and sob-filled) English, "Why are you not crying? You are also hurt?"

"I'm too old to cry over something like this," Ciel had answered in a quiet huff. Those were the first words he'd said since being stung, and he didn't speak much more for the rest of the day either.

There had been only seven stings, despite the uproar. Sebastian had used baking soda paste and witch hazel to reduce the pain, and the boy had spent the rest of the day in his smallclothes in bed, applying ice to the welts and drinking chamomile tea. Sebastian had checked on him frequently to apply more salve and bring him books. Each time he came in, Ciel's jaw had been clenched firm and his gaze far-off. He didn't cry, just as he claimed he wouldn't — but there had been a pitiful, strained look on his face for the rest of the day. It was a look that Sebastian had before only acquainted with humans who had been denied something they craved, such as when a confession of love was not reciprocated. The expression was a combination of sadness and shame that Sebastian had not understood at the time, nor did he now. But unlike three years ago, Sebastian felt the need to make sense of it today.

He could not start by asking something so bold though. He had already been bold once today; he had to make amends for that first.

Sebastian walked until he was three feet from the bed before bowing deep and cordially. "My lord. I imagine you are appalled with my behavior earlier. I should deserve such disapproval. It was outside of my position to be so forthright. Therefore, I will not ask for your forgiveness; I will merely consider myself lucky if you so choose to award it."

It was easier to apologize for speaking out of turn than it was to apologize for overreacting: the first was a fact, the other a confession.

Ciel made a noise in his throat. "Whatever. It isn't as if I can dismiss you or anything anyway."

Dismissal, no, but punishment was certainly not off the table. Ciel knew that. Sebastian inclined his head but kept his posture bowed as he said, "It isn't just my disrespect that I need apologize for, young master. I was not a proper teacher to you. Without thinking, I failed to make your success at jockeying known. I have been most unexemplary today."

"What success?" the boy snorted, finally looking at him. "I'm not good at it at all."

Sebastian straightened, shook his head. "That isn't true, sir. You have been working very hard, and have improved enormously since your first attempt — two hundred percent, if you simply consider how long you can stay risen above the saddle. And your form's accuracy is entirely better."

Ciel turned away again. "Fine. But I know you didn't come here just to atone. So get on with it already."

Sebastian chewed this over for a second. "It is, indeed, why I came, young master. I have no ulterior motive." He tapped his chin with his index finger. "Though… Since I am here, and since the young master has invited further discussion, I am curious as to why you wanted so badly to ride Avalon."

"I thought I said that didn't matter!" Ciel snarled. "Some apology that was, if you're just going to continue questioning my choices anyway!"

"You don't need to tell me, sir. That is up to you." Sebastian made sure to keep his voice kind. "Frankly, I think your decision does matter — all your decisions matter, as they matter to you. May I at least ask to understand your thoughts?"

"… Did you see Bard on your way up to my room?" Ciel asked suddenly, suspiciously.

Sebastian blinked. "I did not."

"Oh." Ciel's expression relaxed a trifle, though he still frowned. He shifted his legs on their pillow. After a quiet moment, he responded. "Avalon is a horse. Horses are meant to be ridden. I wanted to see how he handled. That was all."

"Even though Bard told you it was not yet safe to do so?" Sebastian asked.

Ciel stiffened. Evidently, he didn't think Sebastian knew that much. "… I dunno."

"You don't know?"

The boy picked up his eye patch, which had been resting on the bed beside him, and wound the strings between his fingers. "That's what I said, isn't it?" he growled.

Sebastian took in a long breath through his nose. "You're saying that you didn't have a reason for deciding to ride Avalon, despite the warning it would be dangerous, then?"

Ciel sank lower on the pillow and honed his attention on the patch. "You don't have to make me out like some sort of idiot."

"I don't mean to 'make you out like some sort of idiot,' young master. I'm only trying to be sure of what you're telling me. I think it is unusual for you to do anything without a purpose in mind. And I recognize your interest in this particular horse and his rehabilitation. You've been joining Bard almost every day to assist in it." The pieces began to slide into place. "… You rode Avalon because you thought it would be helpful to him somehow, didn't you?"

"Well I sure as hell didn't do it to make him miserable." Ciel sounded almost miserable himself.

"You thought that riding him might make him his old self again," Sebastian realized as he said it. "Perhaps that he would remember his purpose, if put to the test… Am I correct, my lord?"

Ciel shrugged loosely. "So what if you are?"

Sebastian smiled lightly. "If so, it is more proof that I vastly misjudged you, and more proof that you deserve my sincerest apologies. I took you off of Avalon's back based on my own assumptions. I should have trusted you to know better than to put yourself in danger without care or thought. If your motivation was indeed to help Avalon, I should have respected your decision. At the very least, I could have spoken to you before I acted. Then I could have helped you in your goal, instead of immediately assuming you did wrong."

The eye patch's string was threaded between each finger of Ciel's left hand. Ciel tugged it free and rubbed at the soft leather cord with his thumbs. "I don't even care about that anymore. You were right and I was wrong, so you may as well stop with all that gracious talk. It's making me sick."

Sebastian's brow furrowed. "Beg your pardon, my lord?"

Ciel huffed and swung his legs over the ledge of the bed. He began rolling the right leg of his knickerbockers up past his knee and then tugged down a white stocking. Sebastian was confused, until he saw the purple blossom. "Avalon kicked me when I went to his stall to see him later. So you were right, he hates me, and it was stupid of me to go near him."

Sebastian closed the gap between them at once. He crouched down and twisted the leg around carefully in his hands. On the fatty part behind and below the knee, a bruise the color and width of a plum had formed. No wonder the boy had been lying in bed, that was sure to be swollen… Though, all things considered, Avalon could have done a lot more damage, especially considering the horse already associated stalls with danger. Fortunately, Ciel made no sounds of pain as Sebastian studied the area, and the bruising was minimal. But this did explain the boy's wounded spirit. "Young master…"

Ciel jerked the leg out of his gloved hands. "Don't give me your pity. You were right, act like it."

Sebastian had to give a half-smirk at that. "This isn't something I wanted to be right about, young master."

"You always like proving me wrong, though."

"Always? That might be a bit much, even for me." Sebastian stood, went into the adjoining bathroom, and came back with a hot, damp washcloth, which he wrapped around the bruised area before placing the leg back on the pillow to keep it elevated. Ciel had his chin ducked and was glaring expectantly, daringly, for any mockery that might come his way. "If it wasn't already obvious," Sebastian said instead, "your getting hurt isn't something I take enjoyment from."

Ciel rocked his foot from side to side, watching its pendulous sway from his position at the headboard. "It's not really much of a bruise."

"No," Sebastian agreed, "I imagine your pride took more of a blow."

Ciel's eyes tightened. "It was my fault, I deserved it. Whatever."

"Maybe it was your fault," Sebastian began, "just as it was my fault that I made you angry. And you responded just as Avalon did, yes? With an attack. So it seems we both learned something about staying within our boundaries today."

It was quiet for a moment. Then Ciel asked, "Do you think that Avalon really killed Northcott?"

"I know as much as you do… but I do not." Sebastian took another glimpse at the washcloth on Ciel's calf. "Avalon clearly knows what power he has in his hooves, and how to exact that power. If he wanted to, he could have done more damage. Much more." Ciel winced; Sebastian couldn't help being a little pleased to see evidence of future caution. Still, the bruise was enough of a lesson. "He could have, but he didn't. And I have trouble believing Avalon would murder his master, yet show benevolence to someone he had known for only a short while."

A corner of Ciel's mouth lifted slightly. "That's some relatively recent knowledge. Do you really think I would have bought the horse if I thought he was a killer?"

Sebastian decided to humor him. "And what was the young master's reasoning then?"

"After Undertaker said Northcott died of blunt force trauma, at first I thought maybe I was wrong and Avalon was the murderer. But why would a horse kill someone and then panic because they were dead?" Ciel snorted. "Maybe it's fine for a demon like you, but us normal creatures aren't going to choose to be in a small space with a corpse."

Sebastian closed his eyes with a light smirk. "… Indeed. A human's reasoning has perhaps outdone mine today." Sebastian had gathered this much himself, but there was no reason to say so. It was not worth sacrificing the notion that he and Ciel were on fair terms once more.

Ciel was doing cat's cradle with his eye patch again and then said, with barely-masked curiosity, "So… I'm okay at jockeying, is that so? That is, I'm not terrible?"

"You know I can't tell lies, young master."

Ciel rolled his eyes. "Yes, obviously, but you can embellish. I want a serious answer out of you. Just say yes or no. If I keep practicing for the next two weeks, do you really think that I'll succeed at Hastings's competition?"

Sebastian was pleased with his answer that came without hesitation. "Yes."

Ciel studied Sebastian for any signs that he might have cheated the question. Eventually, deciding there were no loopholes, Ciel dipped his chin in acceptance. "Fine, then. I concede. I'll keep doing this damn training." Right after saying so, he slouched bitterly. "Even though it's one of the most tedious and exhausting things I've ever been put to… Ugh. I can't believe I just agreed to more of this! I must be mental!"

"The Queen will be delighted with your efforts, I'm sure," Sebastian said quaintly. "But for the rest of the day, I believe you should stay in bed, so your leg can recover as much as possible before you return to horseback."

"Mm." Sebastian removed the washcloth from Ciel's leg, dampened it with more hot water, and returned the compress to its place. "I saw the tea in the hallway, by the way," Ciel said, laying his leg back on the pillow when Sebastian was through. "And the cake."

"Ah, yes, I nearly forgot about that. Would you like me to heat up the tea and bring you the snack?"

"No need. I already finished the cake," Ciel said, and at Sebastian's shocked expression, burst, "What?!"

"You're speaking as if you ate the whole thing!" Sebastian tutted.

Ciel looked incredulous. "It was my cake, wasn't it?!"

"My lord, it wasn't a small cake…"

"It wasn't that big either!"

This whole afternoon was a prime example of why most fourteen-year-old boys were not the bosses of their own lives. "That much sugar is certainly terrible for your body."

"This jockey business is terrible for my body," Ciel shot back with fierce delight. He folded his hands behind his head. "I've been working too hard for too little of a reward. You said so yourself you haven't been encouraging me enough. Let me have this one thing. Qu'ils mangent de la brioche."

Sebastian shook his head, taking his leave as Ciel waved him off. 'Let them eat cake.' It was not a quote meant to be applied so literally. A century ago, it came to represent the French royals' blunt misunderstanding of their people and their peoples' hunger.

Sebastian licked at his fangs, sheathed beneath his lips. He didn't want Ciel to understand his hunger either. And he certainly wasn't going to let anyone take his bread away.

Thus, training commenced the very next morning. The weather that had been almost unbelievably fair for England in April finally took a turn towards the usual rain. Sebastian built a sort of roof over the racetrack to keep the dirt (and Ciel) dry, but that couldn't help the damp chill in the air. Ciel wore two sweaters on those cold days — the last thing he needed right now was to get sick — and he nestled his chin under the top one's collar as they rode out to the track.

"It was so much warmer in bed," he whined, tucking his sleeves around his fingers to form mittens as best he could.

"And despite that, you came out to practice anyway," Sebastian reminded. "Not an easy thing to do, I'm sure."

Ciel shrugged. "Well, I don't really have a choice."

"Of course you do, my lord. And you chose to do the more difficult activity."

"I mean I don't have a choice if I want to do well in the race." Ciel eyed him narrowly. "You're laying the praise on way too thick. It's weird from you, you know."

"My apologies, my lord."

"Calm down. Just focus on if I'm actually doing well. I don't need any mock flattery."

"That wasn't mockery, young master. I meant what I said, that you—"

"Ugh… Seriously, shut up."

But Sebastian persevered with his compliments, honing them as he would any skill. He had given compliments before, certainly, but wasn't accustomed to doing so before the skill in question had been perfected; before the "job" became a "good job." Of course he enjoyed a well-earned compliment, but only when he felt it was, in fact, well-earned. He could get by on his own until that moment arrived.

For centuries, Sebastian considered it rather laughable that humans were so desperate for attention and approval that you could dangle it before them, like a chicken bone above a starving mutt. Sebastian had made contracts with those who coveted approval. These people became fast insatiable. But in controlled amounts, and with the proper wording, Sebastian now saw how a human could reach their full potential through incantation alone.

"You lasted two seconds more than the last time. Good."

"That was your longest run yet. You should be quite pleased."

"Remember, keep your arms off of the neck… Like that, yes. Well done."

"And again, just like before… Very good. Your form has become impeccable, young master."

"Wonderful work this morning, sir. My goodness, look at the time; surely you'll be wanting to take a break? I think you've more than earned it."

"I'm… fine," Ciel panted, half-smiling and wiping at his brow. "Just give me… a minute. I'll be ready to go again. I bet I can reach fifteen seconds today. I don't want to leave until I do it."

"Quite ambitious," Sebastian mused. "I wonder, can it be done?"

"It can be done," Ciel returned. "It definitely can."

Sebastian raised his chin. "Well, why don't you show me, then?"

And Ciel did.

Despite the newfound enthusiasm, Sebastian did not increase the amount of time Ciel trained above three hours. "You'll overwork your muscles and do more harm than good," he explained. "Already the exercises you're doing would be too much, but the daily repetition is a necessity. We'll just have to keep the regimen to a minimum instead."

After practice, there was still plenty of time in the day for Funtom work and attention to the shire, as well as some free time that Ciel had once filled with Avalon's training. Since being kicked, he tended to retire to his room or his office or the library. When Sebastian brought tea to the study one afternoon, the boy was peering out the window at Bard, who was training Avalon in the paddocks below. By the time Sebastian reached the desk, Ciel had pulled away but hadn't manage to hide the longing in his eyes.

"Missing your old pastime, my lord?" he asked as he handed over the cup and saucer.

Ciel sniffed, shrugged. "Doesn't matter if I did. I already messed up once, I don't need to make things even worse."

"Hmm." Sebastian placed an apricot flummery on the tabletop, made using some of the evaporated milk Agni had left behind. "Do you not suppose the situation can be remedied?"

Ciel shrugged again. "I scared him. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd run at the sight of me."

"Perhaps," Sebastian said, "or perhaps not. It is natural for a horse to frighten — otherwise, Scotland Yard wouldn't have been so quick to define Avalon as his own master's killer. If you try again, on the horse's terms, I imagine he will accept you."

Ciel considered this over a spoonful of pudding. "I wouldn't like anyone who scared me," he grumbled. He rolled his eyes over. "And before you make any jokes, no, I'm not scared of you."

That thought hadn't crossed his mind, and Sebastian laughed low in his throat. "Consider it this way," he said next. "If someone did scare you, on accident, and then they came to you with every bit of an honest apology… How would you respond?"

"Doesn't matter if the apology is honest. They're probably an idiot, and I wouldn't trust them not to try it again," Ciel said, too quickly and probably too triumphantly. "I wouldn't tell them that, though. I'd pretend it was all water under the bridge, and hate them secretly."

"… Well," Sebastian continued, "I doubt such complexities exist in the mind of a horse. But I'll leave it up to you, whether or not you approach Avalon again."

The next afternoon, while Sebastian was sharpening Finny's gardening shears by the greenhouse, he observed from a distance as Ciel tentatively, sheepishly, asked Bard if he could help with Avalon's rehabilitation again.

"O-Of course, sir! Absolutely!" Bard scratched at the nape of his neck. "How's that leg of yours doing, by the way? I mean, I don't think Avalon would kick you again, I've been workin' 'im good n' close out there, he'll let me pet his neck these days… But, eh, I'm only thinkin' that it would be best if, eh… That is… If I made sure, uh…"

Ciel caught on to the hesitation. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do. I won't ask to ride Avalon or anything." Then it was Ciel's turn to hesitate. "… I'm sorry that I did before."

"Eh?! Um, no, that's-! You don't hafta apologize for nothin', young master!" Bard's cigarette actually fell out of his mouth as he blathered, waving his arms about. "It's your horse, sir, you can do what you like with 'im! I just wanted you to be right n' safe was all!"

Ciel glowered. "I know, that's why I apologized. Just accept it already."

"Eh, right! I'm sorry! I mean, thank you! I mean… it's no trouble? … Blimey, young master, I don't rightly know what to say. Is there etiquette for somethin' like this?"

The only thing Ciel had a true smile for these days was honesty, and Sebastian had observed the boy smile at that, too. Sebastian felt his own mouth mimic the expression as he turned back to his task.

He was smiling because he wanted to, of course — sympathy beast be damned.

In the entire month of training for the competition, there was but one day Ciel went without practice. This was the day that Nina came to give him his new wardrobe. It was also the day that Lizzie visited, as Ciel had promised he'd see her again before the middle of May. The two appointments were combined for convenience, but it worked out swimmingly, as Lizzie loved to see Ciel all dressed up.

"You still haven't cut your hair!" she exclaimed upon arrival, reaching for the strands that were getting a little too far past his earlobes. She covered her smiling mouth with both fists. "Mother would be so mad if she knew!"

"Don't tell her, please," Ciel groaned. "I don't need Aunt Francis coming here and threatening to chop it off with one of her sabers."

"Oh, I wouldn't say a word!" Lizzie promised. "I think it looks very dashing, anyway! I like it!"

"It's not how I like my hair to be," Ciel said, taking her hand away from his head and guiding her up the stairs to the front doors of the Phantomhive manor. "I'm growing it out for a mission for the Queen. I'll cut it when the mission's over."

Sebastian, in their wake, stifled a laugh. Ciel had definitely come up with that on the spot.

Lizzie's response was the opposite of good humor. "A mission? Is it soon?" she asked, sadness and worry lining her tone like the lace on her two-piece day dress.

"Yes. That's why I wanted to see you today. Because I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"You don't know how long you'll be gone?" Ciel stopped in the front doorway as Lizzie took his other hand in hers. "But it's the social season," she fretted. "Does that mean you're not going to the Chambers' annual game bird feast next week?"

Ciel sighed heavily. "I imagine that's exactly what it means, Lizzie."

"Hnnnn…" she pouted. "I guess missing just that one's all right… but you will be back in time for the Ascot, won't you?"

From his side of the door, Sebastian saw Ciel flinch irritably. The idea of living as a jockey for an entire month was surely nightmarish. "If I'm not back by then… ugh. I'd rather not think about it."

"What do you mean?" Lizzie could only assume the worst. "Are you going to be in danger?"

"Ah, um, no. At least, not more than usual, I should think," Ciel said quickly. "Eh… Probably less than usual, to be honest… It's just going to be… Tedious. I can't tell you much more than that."

Lizzie had picked up her fiancé's habit of searching for honesty in the faces of others, and she did so now. Finally, she managed a small smile. "All right. Good… I just want you to be safe, you know. To come back in one piece…" She was looking at his eye patch as she said it.

"I'll be fine. Nothing to worry for." Ciel did away with the topic by leading her into the entrance hall. "Sebastian has tea and pastries for us up in the drawing room. Come, let's take it while it's still hot. We'll want to have eaten before Nina gets here anyway."

Lizzie had feigned a happy atmosphere for Ciel's sake when she heard about his mission, but her joy was genuine when Nina arrived. The girl leapt out of her chair when the woman entered the room. "Nina! I've missed you!"

"And I you, ma chère! " Nina hurried over to the tea table in a swirl of navy skirts and pecked the girl gently on the cheek before stepping back to admire her dress. "Ah, yes! Crepe silk, white trim, lace ruche, and velvet bows… I made this for a boat race last summer, did I not? It's a shame that your mother insists on such conservative fashions, but no one wears them more prettily than you, my dear. But this bodice is nearly too small for you now! Next time I tailor your dresses, I shall have to be sure to give a few extra inches for your chest to grow into."

"Nina! Don't say things like that!" Lizzie laughed, embarrassed. Whatever hue of pink her face turned, Ciel's was easily three shades darker.

"You'll thank me, if you're anything like I was," Nina said, putting her hands on her hips and puffing out her own chest as she said so. "But, unfortunately, we're not here for you today. Mon lapin! " She went over to Ciel's side next and kissed him on his reddened cheek, too. "I spent a little time in Paris a few weeks ago, and it set my heart aflame! It inspired me as only Parisian couture can. The House of Worth… The up-and-coming House of Paquin… All awash in the bloodiest reds and the richest blacks! And Miss Paquin herself, oh, a woman after my own heart… And the artists of La Mode! Suprême élégance, indeed!※ Ahh… All that to say that my osmosis of French talent has granted you the wardrobe I bring today! Tell me you are not satisfied, Earl."

Sebastian had been a bit apprehensive to see Nina's creations, as the childish fashions inspired by Little Lord Fauntleroy were all the rage right now. Such a style would not become his growing master. But Nina had more than come through for them.

Sebastian had carried up the trunks for her, and from inside the treasure boxes she displayed cross ties and string ties, ribbons and cravats, some simple in their colors and others bearing stunning patterns to brighten up an otherwise drab outfit: imperial trellis in blue and cream; ogee, a repeating turnip-shaped pattern, in black and navy; braided frieze on emerald. A series of gorgeous vests were presented next. Two in the single-breasted style came first, one in ivy green with art nouveau leaves, the other in black cherry with gold quatrefoil. Another vest with shawl lapels, then a double-breasted with Baroque foliage, and finally a gold thread brocatelle waistcoat with twill figuring on beige dazzled them next. More subdued options for home included brown and dove Bengal striped silk, gray wool with glen checking, and brown brushed cotton. Each vest came with matching trousers and a tailcoat or jacket.

The most glorious of the vests was a panther-black piece with crisscrossed lapels and indigo tapestry damask, the intricate variegation appearing as brightly blue as Sirius in the night sky. Even Ciel could not hide his delight with it. It was mature and brilliant, and eye-catching without being too gaudy. Sebastian had Ciel dressed in each item to make certain of their fit, all of which passed, thanks to Nina's precision, but it was well enough that Lizzie got to experience the fashion show.

"You look so handsome!" she'd cry, or, "Oh! Now I wish we were going to a party tonight!" or, "Nina, please make me something to match that! It's beautiful! "

Nina was glowing with self-importance (she kept making gloating eyes at Sebastian, which he pretended not to notice). "I knew they would be just right, of course. Though…" And here she narrowed her eyes sharply at Ciel. "I can't help but see that, even a short five weeks later, you are… Different."

Ciel blinked as Sebastian slid his arms out of a burgundy sovereign tailcoat. "Different how?"

"You're building muscle!" she tsked. "No doubt you're taking advantage of the outdoors too much! Stop getting so much exercise! It's changing your frame! And your thin proportions are so much more beautiful, anyway. Do us all a favor and retain them."

Ciel had only seemed to hear the first sentence. "I have more muscle than last time?"

"Yes!" Nina scolded. "The average eye may not notice it, but nothing gets past me!"

Ciel glanced over at Lizzie, as if wondering something, but she herself was lost in thought.

Nina left soon after receiving the cheque for her winning work. Lizzie stayed for the rest of the afternoon. She was not a girl who liked to sit still, and though she had fortunately stopped wanting to adorn everything in the manor with a bow, she was still someone Ciel made efforts to keep up with. At first Ciel asked if they could play jackstraws, because he was tired of moving around so much, getting in and out of clothes. It seemed Lizzie could only comply for a few rounds, because Sebastian was with them outside only forty minutes later, choosing flowers from the garden for book-pressing. Sebastian was tasked to properly cut them from their stems, but even that activity quickly lost its interest to Lizzie when she saw Bard training Avalon in the paddocks. She sped over to get a closer look, Ciel in her wake. Sebastian held the forgotten bouquet as Ciel pointed at his horse. He was likely explaining to her what Bard was doing, as Lizzie was watching him with rapt attention.

"I wish I could stay for dinner, but Mother insisted I be back by then," she said as they delivered her to her waiting carriage. She took Ciel's hands in her own again. "I had so much fun today. Is it really going to be so long before I see you again?"

"I don't know. I hope not," Ciel said. "I don't like when an undercover mission takes more than a few days of my time. Those days are usually very taxing."

"I like it best when I know you're home," Lizzie said. She blushed lightly. "Whenever you're off working for the Queen, I think of you. Even more than I already do. I think of how much I want you to be safe and come back to me."

Ciel still balked at the poetry of true romance, so at least his manners were passably Shakespearean. "I hate to know I worry you. I promise to take extra care, for your sake, so don't trouble your heart."

Lizzie shook her head. "Oh, Ciel, don't you know? That's the way a woman's heart is for the one she loves. I couldn't tell it to do anything but worry."

Now Ciel did balk. "Oh, well… That's… I'm… fortunate to have your… fondness."

Sebastian could have clapped a hand over his own face in exasperation. Lizzie took the tongue-tied speech well. She kissed Ciel on the cheek shyly before ascending the carriage steps. "Be sure to write me as soon as you are home," she called, and then the carriage took off into the sunset world.

Once the vehicle was out of sight, Ciel turned back for the stairs, a very hot flush taking over his face for the second time that day. Sebastian just had to tease him. As far as he knew, that was the first kiss Ciel had received from his fiancée, even if that kiss was best defined as 'chaste.' "My lord shall have all the luck he needs for his mission now, yes?"

Ciel hunched his shoulders, growing redder as he climbed the steps. "Luck! With you around, there is no luck! Just bloody talent that I still pay for in humiliation!"

"My, my, I've never seen someone so unhappy to be kissed by his betrothed."

"I'm not—! Sh-Shut up! I'm unhappy with you!"

"Oh, dear. Would you please tell me what it is specifically that I have done wrong, sir?"

"As of right now," the boy snapped, "what you've done wrong is exist! Now go make dinner, and be quick about it. And it had better be something delicious."

"Yes, my lord. I'll get right on it."

How odd, that Sebastian should not feel so rewarded by the teasing as he thought he would feel. Oh, well… he had been working hard on his compliments lately. The young master was likely overdue for a little ribbing. It was best that Ciel did not suspect things were any different between them anyway.

"Hey, this isn't the way to the track. Where are you taking us?"

"Have patience. You'll soon see."

The day before the competition glittered with dew and sunshine. It was into this jewelry box of a world that Sebastian led Sysonby by his bridle, down the dirt roads of flowering trees and liquid gold puddles that caught the light of early morning. Down and up and down the roads of an earl's lands they went, past fields of farmers and old ponies, both with heads bowed, tilling their soil while the air was cooler. The lower classes of the world always learned to look down, at the earth or at their hands, stooping, deferring. The farm children had yet to pick up this lesson. From a distance, they did not recognize their county's earl while he was dressed in brown trousers and wool, and so they stared unabashedly at the sleek ebony butler who guided the horse of a boy who could just as well be one of them.

The sun was still bright, but a gray-blue tinge on the horizon threatened an afternoon of storms. "Seriously, how much farther?" Ciel groaned after twenty minutes of this trek.

"Nearly there now." The main road forked off at every farmer's residence, and a minute later, Sebastian lead Ciel down one of those forks. "There were only so many locations I could pick from that fit the bill. Not a lot of choice land stays abandoned for long outside London."

"There's only one piece of land in this county that goes unwanted," Ciel said as they ascended a small hill. The road here had not been tamped by hooves or wheels in some time, and Mother Nature had half-reclaimed it. "The old Durnin tobacco farm. I've actually never been here before. Funny, when I think about how much my father and Aunt Francis used to talk about it when I was little."

A small, dilapidated cottage with a thatched roof came into view. "What sorts of things would they say, sir?"

"I remember they were always angry at the Durnins. At least, Aunt Francis was." Ciel looked about at the rugged green grass in the yard that was allowed to grow wild. "The Durnins planted tobacco without asking my father's permission first. Usually we allow the farmers to plant what they want, but tobacco is hard on the soil. It drains all the nutrients right out of it. Aunt Francis was upset, because she knew the Durnins would make their fortune and then leave four years later, and we wouldn't be able to pawn off the grounds to anyone else. Father was annoyed but more fair. I think he asked them for ready access to their product." Ciel sniffed a laugh. "Come to think of it, he did always have a new box of cigars ready whenever we had guests."

The front yard was the opposite of the empty tobacco fields they came to next. Nothing grew here, and nothing could, not for years and years until the soil's nutrients were sufficiently replenished. To find a new renter would be nigh impossible, just as Ciel's predecessor had predicted. Ironic, then, that the useless farmland should benefit no one but the Phantomhive heir today.

There were many reasons Sebastian had chosen the old Durnin property for its assigned task. It was flat. It was without owner. It was long. It could be converted into a perfect strip of track, without the pockmarks or subtle turns and bumps any public road would have. This was what Sebastian had done with the land: groomed down the spent soil so it was just right for running a horse on, without worrying about it tripping and hurting itself or its rider.

There was not sufficient space on the Phantomhive grounds to allow for such a straight track of that length. Ciel knew this, and he knew what the track was made for. It was given as a statement, then, not a question, when he said, "So I run this as far as I can."

"And I will follow alongside," Sebastian confirmed.

Practice was over now. This was the final test. It was time to ride fast, and true.

Wordlessly, Ciel positioned his dark stallion at the beginning of the track. It was not fenced, like his track at home was, but it was wide enough that Sysonby wouldn't easily veer off-course. Sysonby was sensing something in this stillness, something important, and he grew tense with readiness, as a grasshopper before it springs. As soon as he heard Ciel cry, "Ha!" and flick the reins about his face, Sysonby ran like he was born to it.

Sebastian kept pace. Ciel had never ridden at this speed before, and if the boy faltered, he would be sure to catch him. But Ciel stayed steady, and fiercely attentive to what he was doing. He hovered just above the saddle, but his knees were pulled high over Sysonby's back, almost tented together. He held his arms parallel to the neck and hunched low over it, practically breathing into the mane. Only his feet and ankles were touching the horse now.

Five seconds… ten… fifteen… twenty... and at twenty-three seconds, all of Ciel's strength shivered out of him at once and he drooped in the saddle like a scarecrow. Sebastian was ready. He caught at Sysonby's reins and slowed the horse to a gentle stop. Before Sebastian could say a word, the boy's ragdoll body was sliding into his arms, heaving with exertion. Ciel gave a hard cough.

"My lord, are you all right?" Sebastian would not soon forget the asthma attack.

Fortunately, Ciel nodded weakly. "Just… exhausted… I'm… fine…" Still he spent a whole minute doing nothing but breathe, his eyelids shut, sweat and goose bumps spreading wherever his flesh was bare. Sysonby had felt the rigor of the exercise too. His nostrils gusted out great clouds as he caught his breath. Finally Ciel looked up at Sebastian, and his blue eye sparked like flint with pride. "How was that?" he could scarcely say.

"Magnificent, sir," Sebastian said. "Truly the magnum opus of your efforts. But I think you may need to push yourself a little less far tomorrow."

"Yeah, I think so too… Ugh. Put me down. I feel like I'm going to retch." Sebastian did so, and Ciel crouched in the dirt, made a bit of a choking sound, but then recovered. After another minute of rest, he looked at Sebastian again with that same molten eyeful of satisfaction. "I bet you didn't think I could do so well," he panted, and laughed dryly. "I bet you thought I'd just get a little better… or that I'd give up… But I didn't… I showed you… I showed you…" Then Ciel did spit up onto the dead soil. He dragged the back of his hand shakily over his lips. Laughed throatily again. "… Admit it. You thought I would give up, didn't you?"

Sebastian considered it best not to mention all the times Ciel said he would give up, as well as the one time he actually did. He held out his hand. "The young master has most certainly outdone my expectations."

"To be honest," Ciel admitted, reaching up so Sebastian could carry him home, "I outdid my own expectations, too."

Within minutes, the boy was asleep, and the thing that would rouse him from bed three hours later was the smell of a celebratory Manchester tart.

※: This paragraph is basically just Nina rambling about Paris and isn't terribly important, but if you are interested in a small explanation, the House of Worth and House of Paquin were both design establishments for haute couture. Jeanne Paquin was very new to the fashion world at the time, and a female designer who would go on to make great strides in marketing, and I feel Nina would recognize the brilliance even in her early work. Meanwhile, La Mode was an illustrated fashion magazine, which seemed to caption most of its drawings with "suprême élégance." They might have been just getting their legs in 1890, I couldn't quite tell, but in the case of these small details, I really don't care too much.