The "gather" is when a sheepdog goes out and brings the sheep in to the handler for a specific purpose.
When it came to travel, Sebastian was the fastest mode of transport Ciel possessed. However, Ciel, being of a practical nature, in most cases insisted they take a coach wherever it was they were going.
"I don't need anyone troubling me with questions about you," he'd said at nearly the beginning of their contract. "That'll just come back to bite me later. Besides, people might pay attention to how I get places, if I arrive really quickly or mysteriously. No, we'll take carriages and look as normal as possible, and then we won't have to worry so much."
The exceptions to this rule were when fleeing danger, at times when no one would see them, or, as it was today, a time when they didn't want to be identified. Should anyone suspect Ciel and "Astre" were the same person, spying a Phantomhive carriage at all near Gwilym Hastings's residence would be quite a tip-off.
"Astre is an interesting choice of alias," Sebastian had commented early that morning while dressing the boy in his East End guise.
"Isn't it?" Ciel tugged at the loose collar of his gray shirt and pulled the thin wool vest across his frame. "My parents considered a number of nontraditional names for me, and apparently Astre was one of them."
"I see. Trying it on for size, then, are we?"
"As if!" Ciel sniffed, and then shook his head. "Astre is hardly the worst of them. My parents also considered calling me 'Celeste,' 'Estelle,' and 'Angel.' Aunt Francis must have wanted to strangle them, she can't tolerate anything even mildly bohemian. I mean, can you imagine? Angel? Forget the irony of having you around, I don't think I could possibly stand it. Thank God they settled on Ciel."
Sebastian put a hand to his chin. "Hmm. All of those names are related to the cosmos."
"Yeah. I think my parents were kind of eccentric in their own way." Ciel turned around so Sebastian could tie on his eye patch. "Anyway, I'm going with Astre Renault, so put it to memory." He adjusted the string around the back of his head when Sebastian finished with the knot. "Did you decide what you're going to call yourself yet?"
Like Mr. Northcott, Gwilym Hastings lived on the cusp of Surrey just outside Greater London, in the rural town of Banstead. A map was provided on the back of the competition poster, but Sebastian had the way memorized. He had been there several times already.
The night before Ciel's jockey training began, Sebastian visited the Hastings residence for the first time, to see if he could deduce anything unusual. Alas, he did not. Hastings had not been home. Nor was he home the following night, or the night after that. And the staff that maintained his quaint stone manor did not gossip about a racetrack, even in lowest whispers.
The stable hands had the closest thing to an answer. This Sebastian discovered on his final visit to Hastings', which he attended in-person. He had donned his own East End disguise, composed of cotton trousers, lace-up boots, and a white collared shirt with a pinstriped amber vest over it. Amber was not his color, but that was part of what sold the appearance. A lower-class vagabond could not afford to buy clothes that always matched his summer or winter palette.
"Good morning," Sebastian had called as he'd stepped into the Hastings's stable. He'd bowed to the stable master and the teenaged hand that he knew were inside. The two blinked at him curiously, pausing the swat of their brooms on the hay-covered floor. "Please do pardon my intrusion. You're just the gentlemen I was looking for. May I have a word? Or shall I come back later?"
The stable master, a short, burly man with a mustache resembling his push broom, tipped up the shepherd's cap higher on his forehead. "Depends. What're you needin'?"
Sebastian smiled and from behind his back drew out one of the posters for the competition. "I, like most of South England, am quite intrigued by the prospects presented on this advertisement."
The stable master interrupted before Sebastian could get any farther. "That competition's for li'l boys. Not grown-up men like y'self. Sorry."
Sebastian chuckled. "I'm well aware, my good man. But when it comes to finding work, I consider myself somewhat of an opportunist. And when I look at this poster, I see more than a competition: I see a job. You'll find few more talented than myself at both handling skittish horses and rowdy young men, on top of anything else you might need. A jack of all trades, if you will, and master of most. So, how may I be of service?"
The stable master and assistant exchanged a brief glance. The younger returned to sweeping. "Well, it's not up to me to take on hires," the stable master answered with a shrug. "Only Mr. Hastings decides on who works here, and he won't be back till the day of the competition."
"I see." Sebastian put a hand to his chin. "I'm surprised he's away from home right now."
The stable master started sweeping again too, dismissive. "Aye, he's off in the north, doin' some research. In Manchester, Liverpool, Nottingham. Lookin' for where he might want to take the young winners for some learnin' up." He shrugged. "He's goin' to have 'em travel before they start trainin', watchin' races n' the like. Says he wants the boys to become a bit more worldly first. Meet some folks in the business. See their country. Round 'em out, I s'pose. In any case, there's not much I can do for ya right now. Come back on the eleventh. If you're as good ya say, maybe Mr. Hastings will find somethin' for you to do. But don't be countin' on it. Good day."
Sebastian had bid him good day in return before leaving the property. His confidence in securing a job there was scarcely an act. Mr. Hastings would hire him come race day. After all, if he couldn't impress a mere human, how could he call himself the butler of Phantomhive?
It took Sebastian forty-five minutes of dashing through the countryside, across rooftops and treetops, skirting the perimeter of London Proper where they may be noticed, to reach Hastings's territory. It took forty-five minutes because Sebastian could not move at top speeds while carrying his charge — it would make Ciel sick, and it was well enough that this pace was tolerable. In fact, the boy slept most of the trip. It was six o'clock in the morning, and Ciel wanted all the energy he could muster for the race, but it was rather incredible that this jilting ride could more lull than nauseate him.
Perhaps it was related to the bond of their contract. Sebastian always felt more powerful when nearer to his contracts' souls. Being in this proximity to the delicacy that was Ciel's very existence flooded Sebastian with a beautiful sense of invincibility. It was possible that Ciel also benefited psychologically from this closeness.
As they entered Banstead and encroached upon Hastings's home, Sebastian could sense a comingling of souls near the property. He kept his path to thickly forested areas, as the territory's many farmers were all awake now, and the road somewhat populated this particular morning.
Sebastian and Ciel were far from the first to arrive at Hastings's residence. Sebastian had expected this, but still the attendance was a sight to behold. More than a hundred boys, nearly identically dressed in plaid knickers and brown caps, were scattered in a line outside the fence that marked the territory. They huddled together and chatted, their excited breaths like small clouds in the dawn air. The oldest boys looked to be about sixteen, and some were as young as five, holding tightly to the hand of a brother or cousin, seeming barely capable of sitting upright in a saddle. Amongst the crowd, Sebastian even recognized two girls dressed as boys, pretending for the sake of this incredible opportunity.
Many of the children were coughing. Almost all were dirty. Sebastian narrowed his gaze. It would be terribly unfortunate if Ciel were to fall victim to another asthma attack, spurred on by this cesspool of affliction…
The aforementioned was awake now; he was a vigilant sleeper, and the pause in movement doubtless roused him. His gaze on the crowd was observant and haughty. In this ragtag band of children, all he saw was his own success uncontested.
"I hope it doesn't take long for the actual competition to begin," he said at last. "There are so many boys here. Some of them are barely beyond infancy. There must be some sort of vetting process, the horses would be exhausted if everyone got a chance to ride."
"It would seem there is." Sebastian pointed out a doctor who was giving each child a general inspection as they waited in line. The white-coated man had the boys stick out their tongues and pull down on their eyelids, roll back their sleeves to observe their skin. If there were to be a breakout of smallpox or yellow fever, it would happen during the summer, and it was best to take precautions to keep it from spreading.
So far, quite a few boys were getting turned away. The majority didn't seem to be from illness, though, as the dismissed boys had a strength in their disappointment, kicking at the dirt bitterly or even crying, if they were young enough not to feel ashamed to do so. Most of the boys told to leave were the little ones, but Sebastian noted one child with a twisted foot was sent away too.
He tapped at the thread of Ciel's eye patch with a finger. "What will you say, if the doctor tries to keep you from entering because of this?"
Ciel's expression immediately soured. "I would tell him he's a fool, and I'll make him sorry he even thought about it! I haven't needed to take this thing off once since we started training. I'm more capable than anyone else here. Nothing is going to stop me from winning now."
And nothing would. Sebastian knew it. His master was proud, but his confidence often wavered. It was present today. It made his soul glow like a sun.
Ciel turned to face him abruptly. "Okay, don't you think we've stood up here enough? I need to get in line before it stretches all the way to Newport. You've got your orders. Get to work."
Moments later, Sebastian was bounding off the way he came, back to a manor bathed yellow in dawn. By now, the Phantomhive staff had finished their early chores and eaten breakfast, and Sebastian gathered the four of them promptly in the kitchen. Finny and Mey-Rin looked chipper and expectant, eager to please. Bard was more subdued. Ever since their altercation in the paddocks a few weeks ago, the relationship between Bard and Sebastian had been… different. Bard's work ethic had not changed, but his attitude towards Sebastian had. When asked to do a chore, Bard would somewhat roughly sigh, "Sure. I'll get on it." Sebastian had not broached the topic of their acquiescence because he didn't feel like it. Still, one detail had impressed yet confused Sebastian: Bard had not told anyone else about their argument.
There were more important matters to consider now than that. "You all are going to be alone in the manor for an unspecified amount of time," Sebastian began. "Naturally, you remember why you were hired in the first place. The young master is away on a mission. Should anyone take advantage of his absence, you know your duty."
The puppyish faces of maid and gardener grew shadowed at that. "Is there anyone in particular we should expect?" Mey-Rin asked. She even removed her glasses as she spoke, taking on a different persona. "Should I go up to the roof as soon as you leave and make sure the rifles are clean?"
"If you haven't seen to their condition in a while, please do. But no urgency is required." Sebastian checked his pocket watch. Half past seven. When he looked up, Mey-Rin had adorned her glasses again and Finny was breaking a stray piece of straw off the brim of his sunhat; the noble hunting dogs had gone back to lolling their tongues. "While I'm away, Mr. Tanaka is in charge, as always. I do not know when the young master and I will be returning. If anyone other than the Midfords, the young master's lawyer, or a Queen's representative asks when he'll be back, merely tell them it will be soon. Take note of unfamiliar faces. As I said, I do not suspect an ambush. But ruling out the possibility is too dangerous. Understood?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sebastian!" Only two of the three voices were enthusiastic in their declaration, and Tanaka bowed the affirmative.
The next order of business was preparing their suitcases. Each was filled with four outfits an East Ender would own — and doubtful an East Ender would own much more than four outfits. One suitcase was for Ciel, the other Sebastian, for their temporary new lives. Then Sebastian dressed himself in the same clothing he wore to Hastings's stables a few days ago, tucking his bangs beneath a gray wool shepherd's cap and feeling he must look younger than he typically liked to present himself. Finally, it was off to the Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey.
Sebastian did not knock when he arrived at the little ramshackle place. He strode right in to where he heard the children noisily eating their breakfast of oatmeal and chattering like chickens. The nun stood from the table when she saw Sebastian and approached him, her arms reaching forward for the suitcase. Unlike her orphans, she was solemn. "Lord Phantomhive is very bold, to go right into the belly of the beast," she said. "I will be praying for his safety all while he is gone."
Sebastian handed the suitcase off. "So then, you believe this competition may lead to the uncovering of the missing Middle Eastern children?"
The nun's chest lifted as she breathed deeply. "I believe that somewhere children are being harmed and that it is God's will for those children to be saved. My orphans and I have been pleading for their safe return. Lord Phantomhive could very well be our answer… If you find the little ones, bring them here. We do not have much room, but since you began your search, I have felt a responsibility to their souls. I have promised God that as long as their hearts still beat, I will share with them His teachings. And if it is already too late… I know in their innocence, they have found their way to Him. " She shed two tears as she spoke. They left clean spots on the musty floorboards.
"Should my lord win a place in the competition, he will ask to be sent here in order to gather his belongings. I do not think you will be questioned, but if you are, tell them Astre Renault has not lived here long. He came here from his Uncle's farm in France, after a poor harvest left his remaining family with empty purses." The nun was gazing at the floor. Her eyes were glassy and tired. "You have a forgetful nature," Sebastian reminded, "likely due to the amount of work you take on by yourself. But it is very important you do not forget these details." He next removed a cheque from the lining of his vest. "Perhaps this will keep your memory fresh — even if your vow to the cloth keeps you from bowing to greed. Hm?"
The nun took the cheque but, admirably, did not look at the number it bore. "Astre shall be welcome here any time."
The day was in full swing as Sebastian departed the orphanage steps. Boys carrying newspapers and girls with baskets of early orchids hustled amongst droves of silk-gloved gentlemen and their wives. The London population always rose during the social season: in from the country came the rich to mingle and matchmake, and out from the gutters came the poor to hawk their wares or pick pockets. Sebastian could not afford to reach demon speeds when there were so many eyes about to sight him, and so he hailed a cab. The driver he managed to stop gave him a once-over, shrewd — in that garb, Sebastian didn't look like he would ask for a ride unless he was planning to steal the carriage. But presenting the money upfront cleared the driver's countenance, and Sebastian was back on his slow, rumbling way to Surrey.
Half an hour later, the cab reached the border of Woodmansterne. Sebastian knew it was safe to travel on his own two feet again, and he bid the driver farewell. There were few trees to hide him here, but it mattered little: these were the quiet parish lands belonging to St. Peter's Church and the scattered gentry, with manors spaced so far apart, their masters did not even share oxygen. It was pretty here, by human standards. In contrast, the beauty of Banstead was broken up by ugly limekilns and chalk pits. Or a thick, untouched bit of forest might suddenly turn into farmland, and then into an ungroomed meadow. If one ventured deep enough into Banstead, all became rural — fortunately, where Sebastian needed to travel, the trees remained to conceal him. Scratch Wood became Swingfield Plain; from there he could move into Solome Wood, which just touched Doctor Wood; and finally, between the end of the Doctor Wood treeline and the main road leading to Chipstead, Hastings's land was situated, and alive with the sound of excited boys.
Sebastian had last stood in this tree ninety minutes ago, and the view had since changed. The line of boys, which had initially just curved around the long wooden fence of Hastings's land, went down the lane, around two hundred strong. There weren't only competitors here now either: it was becoming an event for the whole of the East End to participate in. Wagonloads of boys were delivered by locals charging threepenny for a ride from London. Some small newspapers had sent photographers and young headliners to get the scoop. Vendors had chosen to bring their luncheon stalls here for the day, offering Chelsea buns and baked potatoes, slices of plum duff and fried fish. Sebastian had given Ciel his own breakfast wrapped in a checkered kerchief, a ham sandwich with Leicestershire cheese and pickled cucumbers, a modest meal secretly made with as fine of ingredients as ever. Ciel munched on it now, looking impatient, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing around at nothing and everything.
Sebastian recognized quickly that his angle from the treetops was a rather good position to observe the show. From here he could see a circular track next to the stables, not unlike the one he had built for Ciel back home. It was too small for a proper race, though: the turns would be too sharp for a horse to manage at high speeds. Where exactly did Hastings intend for the competition to take place?
That question would answer itself, in due time. For Sebastian, there was no need to wait with bated breath. A young tortoiseshell farm cat was hunting dormice not far from him, and as soon as she made her kill, Sebastian would be sure to reward her accordingly…
Quickly passed a nectar-sweet half hour, lost in the mottled fur and white-grape eyes of a darling mistress. At the sounds of cheering boys, Sebastian realized the competition was starting, and had to put real effort into tearing his sights from the feline, who had only just begun to retract her fickle claws and settle in to his affections. There was no fanfare to announce the event's grand opening — Hastings did not even appear present yet. The gates to the property swung wide, and two men Sebastian did not recognize from Hastings's usual staff were managing the crowd, making sure the boys went in one at a time. After the first eight boys entered, there was a cut off, and beyond the entrance, another man led those boys to that circular track by the stables.
Not knowing what was happening, the boys waiting their turn began to whine and grumble that the line had already stopped moving. Even Ciel was giving in to his age, looking annoyed at the lack of communication and wanting very much to get this over with. Only Sebastian had a clear view of the scene.
As the first eight competitors made it to the track, the man that guided them there secured each one with a different-colored armband. An octet of thoroughbreds was marched out of the stable then and matched to a rider. The boys mounted their steeds using step stools, and all of them appeared uncomfortable, testing at the stirrups with their feet. It was likely that most of them had never sat a saddle. This would be another great advantage for Ciel — though it would look suspicious if he held himself with the nobility of an English gentleman.
Ciel had been right about there being a vetting process. With two hundred boys in line, the horses would be worked to death if they were ridden all day at top speed. Therefore, the competition had to be narrowed down by testing the boys on their form. Eight boys at a time were brought to the ring to show their handling and posture. Three men observed them, one of which was the Hastings stable master, the other two being strangers to Sebastian. The boys were given three minutes to show their skills in the ring while the horses moved at a steady canter. Then, from among the eight boys, one and occasionally two would be selected to continue on to the next round.
For Ciel and the rest in line who could not see the track very well, the wait was dull. Comparatively, Sebastian was having a ball. He had nothing to do for some hours yet, a cat in his arms, and the best seat available. And the show he was seeing — at this point, he had to wonder if all of Ciel's practice really had been worth it. These boys had learned to ride by simply climbing onto a horse, and had developed their own bad habits and postures. Some of them refused to put their feet in the stirrups, and relied heavily on their legs for balance, as they would if there were no saddle present. Most were fidgety, constantly switching the way they rode and eyeing the judges heavily, trying to figure out what was wanted of them.
Those who passed the test did not show exceptional talent. What they showed was a quick adaptation to the saddle, or an understanding of a horse they had not grown up riding, or something else Sebastian couldn't or didn't bother to pick up on. In some cases, Sebastian felt the judges' choice was entirely random — or, at least, based on something other than their performances in the ring.
The potential jockeys who passed the test sat in the grass beyond the track, waiting. They were sitting tall and proud, and looked on like they were judges themselves. Some pointed and whispered while the riders took their turns. And when another joined the winners' circle, he was greeted merrily by his peers, as if they were all part of an exclusive club. It was a strange camaraderie. Sebastian found it very amusing. He wondered how Ciel would respond to it when he was inevitably added to their ranks.
The line of participants had been completely thinned of boys who were too young or ill to compete, putting Ciel at around a third of the way from the front. Still, it took some time for his turn to arrive. When it did, Ciel huffed out a big breath and walked with the other seven onto Hastings's land.
For the past hour, Sebastian had observed every stride a child could exhibit: excited bouncing, hesitant rocking, long steps with swinging arms, bumbling confusion. Ciel's stride, like his soul, stood out. It was impatient, confident, in front of the pack but not the pack's leader. Sebastian smirked. It was his master, through and through. There were times when even the world's littlest liar could not bring himself to lie, and this was one of those times.
Ciel was given a green kerchief to tie around his arm, and a brown thoroughbred with a white blaze on its face. While the other boys fumbled on the provided stools to mount their horse, Ciel stepped smoothly aboard, as if the saddle were a throne and he its prince. Sebastian had watched this horse work for over an hour now, saw the tolerance and monotony take over its stance, so that its neck and tail drooped a bit with each new rider. It snapped to attention when Ciel snapped the reins. It practically danced into the ring when Ciel's heels swatted his ribs.
Sebastian's fingers carded the feline beauty's fur. Perhaps demons had more in common with horses than he'd given them credit. They too had an innate understanding of who was worthy and how to treat them.
A minute later, all were assembled in the ring, and the boys were instructed to begin. Round and round they went, a three-minute loop. Ciel was the star of the show — that much was clear. He made a few adjustments to his normal riding technique, so as not to betray his noble upbringing, but no ounce of propriety was shed. He moved with the horse, kept his shoulders squared, his head up high, while the judges nodded their approval from the sidelines. When time was up, Ciel was the obvious selection, and he was called to the winner's circle with clapping and cries of, "Good show, good show!"
Now that Ciel had made it past the first trial, Sebastian's eyes left the ring and instead focused on his master. The seven losers looked on enviously as Ciel made his way over to the winning boys on their hillside.
"And that makes nine!" a sandy-haired skinny boy announced with a gappish grin.
A freckled boy rocked to his feet to look more closely at Ciel. "Wow, but you're a pale thing!"
"He's only got one eye!" shouted a scrawny young one in awe.
A stockier lad put his hands on his hips but smiled broadly. "Well? Whadda they call you, then?"
"Um. Astre," Ciel finally said, swallowing his bewilderment. "Astre Renault… Pleasure."
The stocky boy drew back a bit. "Oy, but you speak real proper. Whassat about?"
Sebastian chuckled lightly. He was just as curious to know the answer his young lord had concocted. "I grew up in France," Ciel said quickly. "Working my Uncle Durant's land in Campagne-lès-Guines. I was lucky enough to learn English from a diplomat who vacationed in the countryside. I only knew to copy his accent, so I speak English like him."
"You was taught English by a diplomat? " Naturally, it wasn't quick to be believed.
Ciel was ready for that, though. "It's a long story, but, to put it short, my uncle got the diplomat out of a tight spot when his carriage broke down near our cottage and a couple of ruffians came over to give the poor man trouble… Uncle Durant's put his brawling days behind him, but he still remembered a thing or two, and gave the rogues what-for. And until the day he died, that diplomat was our friend, and visited us each time he came to the countryside." Ciel sighed mournfully. "France may not be my home anymore, but if I can speak English as well as any gentleman, I want to believe I'm doing my country proud."
The boys nodded slowly, digesting his story. They didn't need an explanation for why Ciel was so far from his native land. They knew how life could swallow you up in its terrible sea and spit you out far from home.
The stocky boy chewed his lip and finally smirked his approval. "Oh, guess you're all right. You come in talkin' all uppity, like you're better'n the rest a' us, you're right coppin' a mouse※, y'know. But that 'splains it." He put out his hand and ensnared Ciel's in a vigorous shake. "Cuthbert Whitby's the name. You can call me Whit."
So, that was the tall tale Ciel had chosen to explain his proper diction. Sebastian smirked at the show of it all. There would be no need for this silly lie if Ciel didn't just put on an East End accent, or even a French one. But Ciel had made it very clear since the beginning of their contract that his acting skills couldn't be pushed to that extreme.
"I'm no good at accents," he'd insisted when Sebastian first proposed he disguise his voice, years ago.
"Perhaps you are too critical. Go on, show me your best," was Sebastian's response.
But Ciel had dug in his heels. "I told you, I'm no good at them. I won't convince anybody. I'd have a much easier time making up some story about why I speak like a noble."
Sebastian had chuckled at him. "That I doubt."
"I'm telling you, it's easier, and that's that."
It had taken Sebastian only seconds more to catch on to the truth of it: Ciel was too embarrassed to use any voice other than his natural one. When he spoke French, he spoke it properly, but that was as far as Ciel deviated from his own dialect. He was sensitive to such a critique, and would go to all lengths to avoid humiliating himself… even at the stakes of failing a mission for the Queen.
The competition continued, and Ciel settled on the grass to watch the next round of racers, but the winners were not done with their interrogations. "What happened to yer eye?" the scrawny boy wondered, kneeling beside him.
"There was an accident on the farm years ago," Ciel said merely. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sounds awful!" the scrawny one yipped.
"You're awful," Whit said, plummeting between them. "Askin' questions y' ought not to be askin'. You ain't too young to know manners, are ya?"
"I'm eleven!"
"Then you should have enough sense to respect boys bigger than you, 'less you want a pop in the jaw," Whit said, showing a fist for gumption, but not really angry. He brightened when he turned back to the newcomer. "What about you, Patch? How old're you?"
Ciel blinked, realizing he'd just been nicknamed, before answering, "Fourteen. And you?"
Whit stared, then laughed. "Fourteen! No you ain't!"
"Y-Yes, I am." Ciel wasn't sure what he was missing here.
Whit was quick to clue him in. "No way you're older'n me!" he cried. "Your voice is higher than mine!"
Ciel colored; Sebastian grinned wickedly. Oh, the irony of it all. Ciel had used his true voice, specifically to avoid such humiliation, and that had managed to backfire completely. To Sebastian's further amusement, Ciel stuttered back, "It's… It's not that much higher!"
"You're really fourteen, then? Sorry." Whit looked at him pityingly. "I'd be sore if my voice hadn't started cracking yet."
Ciel's flush darkened. "It… does, too. Sometimes it does." It doesn't, Sebastian thought merrily.
"I'm thirteen, and my voice is already broken," piped up another boy smugly.
"Oh, bully for you. D'ya want a medal?"
"Mine breaks sometimes, too, and I'll be thirteen next month!"
"My da's voice is so low, when he had a bad cough, he frightened an old miss into thinkin' a big dog was right behind her!"
"A dog, huh? Must be half-terrier, the way you speak!"
"D'you want a blinker?"※※
"Oh, shove off, I'm only kidding. Save your pride for the race! Then we'll see who the real men are, voices broken or not."
The group of winners more than doubled over the course of the next two hours. The sun was high now, and everyone was getting a bit bored and tired — all except for Sebastian, who had been joined by another shorthair tabby and was fixated on the show of his master's awkwardness. Ciel spent very little time around other boys his age, and certainly when he did, they were aristocrats like himself, not the rowdy, streetwise variety he was surrounded by today. But there was one thing in particular Ciel was not used to, and that was the very physical way that boys showed each their feelings, from friendliness to disapproval and everything in-between.
The animated Whit was an especial deliverer of these blows. Over the course of that first trial, he'd slugged Ciel in the arm, shook him to get his attention, slapped him on the back, and even once used Ciel's shoulder to hoist himself up. Ciel struggled to keep his hackles from rising. He did not like this touching one bit. But he endured it, for the sake of the Queen, and with the clear rationalization that this would not be the most difficult part of his mission.
Eventually, the line had to reach its end. The hundreds of boys who had lost the competition dispersed slowly, glumly, ambling to Banstead Village or Chipstead, or loading into carts by the dozens for a sluggish but cheap return to London. They had known their chances of victory were slim, but they had longed to win anyway, and when the dreams of the young are dashed, they splinter like bone china. Their heavy faces told enough of a story. If they were lucky, London was their last stop. Many more would have to buy a second train ticket back to their homes in Hampshire or Kent or Sussex or Dorset. A ticket was an expensive item when one lived hungry and threadbare — travel was a risk, and the poor only did it when it was absolutely necessary. Some boys, from the snippets of conversation Sebastian caught, wouldn't even be able to return home today, and would have to somehow scrape together the pennies until they could afford the trip. An adult worry had darkened the eyes set in those gaunt young faces as they made their journeys away from Hastings, away from a wisp of a dream.
Little did they know what danger they had dodged. That is, if the young lord was right about Hastings's scheme.
The twenty-four winners who weren't Ciel smiled and laughed with each other about making it so far. They shook hands, as gentlemen did, but more in mockery than civility. The competition was not over yet. Only five of them would actually earn a sponsorship from Mr. Hastings. It was the tension that made them want to laugh, not the relief.
That was when Hastings at last made an entrance.
※: A "mouse" being a black eye and "cop" being "ask for."
※※: See above.