Gwilym Hastings emerged from the front double doors of his house, flanked by a small troop of maids and butlers, who were working together to carry tables and trays heaped in meat pies and scotch eggs. The boys all straightened to attention and made themselves look good for their ultimate judge. Ciel joined them in their posing, but Sebastian noted his brow furrowing the slightest bit as he took in Hastings's visage. He was a younger man than Ciel had expected, roughly thirty where Northcott was at least forty. The fact that his hair was a rather bright ginger and his face was shaven bare further encapsulated that youthfulness.

Hastings carried himself with squared shoulders and smiled encouragingly at the boys on his hillside. As his entourage put together the luncheon, Hastings greeted the first round's winners.

"My, what a fine lot of lads you all are!" He spoke as a man admires a litter of well-bred hounds. Sebastian could not pick up on any further nuances in that tone — Hastings was too far away to be heard with perfect clarity. "I saw, from my upstairs window, how many, many boys came here today. Over two hundred, I was told! You were the best of them — I can see it in your faces. Strong and eager, as boys ought to be! If only I could choose all of you to come live with me. I don't doubt a single one would disappoint." He heaved a big sigh. "Unfortunately, the competition must continue until only five are left. But let's not launch into it right away. I'm sure you all are quite hungry!"

Some of the younger boys nodded. Most just stood tall and obedient as soldiers, waiting for a command or a chance to show off.

"I want to get to know all of you," Hastings said. "So while the rest eat, I shall call you one by one for a brief interview. It isn't anything you need worry for. I only want to know more about your family and why you think you deserve to win." He clapped his hands together twice. "Now, I'll count you off, one to twenty-five." Hastings did so then. Ciel was coined number sixteen. "I look forward to shaking all your hands," Mr. Hastings said. "Please, enjoy the lunch spread while you wait. If number one will follow me for the interview, then, the rest of you will have your turns in due time."

Hastings took the first interviewee a short distance away to a gloriously large, twisted hornbeam tree nearby, where there was a set of chairs with a little dish-top table between them. Here Hastings and boy number one sat and began to talk.

The discussion was very brief. Mr. Hastings hadn't been minimizing when he said he merely wanted to know about the children's family lives and motivations. The younger boys answered shyly or enthusiastically, while the older ones kept themselves straight-backed and dignified, or some approximation. Ciel, who wanted very much to feel like he was investigating, stared hard at Hastings as he talked with each contestant. Whit distracted him before too long.

"Cor, if this isn't some a' the best grub I ever had!" he cheered as he plopped down beside Ciel on the grass. "Never had a biscuit before that wasn't a 'quick biscuit'※ — or catsup, and with lamb, too! Listen, I just wanted to tell yeh, if we're versus each other in the race… well, I hope we're not, because wouldn't it be somethin' if we both got to learn together, Patch? I think you're going to win, is what I mean. Anyone who goes against ya will be eatin' dust. So best of luck to us, right?"

"Uh, right, yeah," Ciel mumbled offhandedly, stuffing a sardine and cracker into his mouth. When he swallowed, he'd refocused on his role. "I hope you win too, Whit. I didn't get a chance to see your handling while I was in line, but I bet you'll do all right."

"Bet I will too, 'long as I'm not against you." Whit gestured with his thumb across the lawn. "I was checkin' it out. Over there's where we're goin' to be racin'. They're gonna have five of us go at a time and do a quick sprint, and the winner of each round gets to move on and become a jockey-in-trainin' for Mr. Hastings. I don't know how they're gonna choose who races who. Guess we'll jes' have to see, hm?"

"Y-Y-Yeah," Ciel stuttered, as Whit shook his shoulder hard for the seventh time.

"Sixteen!" called one of the judges from before, and Ciel took his grateful leave over to the hornbeam.

Ciel settled himself in the chair before reaching to shake Hastings's hand, with a modest, "How do you do, sir? I'm Astre Renault."

"Astre? What an interesting name. Pleasure to meet you." Hastings smiled, and Ciel smiled back, amiable and false. Sebastian could imagine what was going through Ciel's mind: Am I, right now, mere feet away from the very man I must apprehend?

Hastings's kind smile became one of slight surprise. "You speak the Queen's English. Where exactly are you from?"

Ciel repeated the same story he told Whit of his rural upbringing in the French countryside and his rapport with a diplomat.

"And I imagine you suffered some incident on the farm that cost you your right eye?"

Ciel nodded, downcast, giving all the appearance of a boy who didn't want to keep speaking on a subject so delicate.

"… I see." Hastings still looked perplexed. Was he disbelieving? "You've had quite a life, young Astre!" The man was all smiles again. "What a story yours would make… all the way from France to England… A French jockey who speaks like a noble. Oh, forgive me; I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't mean to get your hopes up. But I won't lie, I am fascinated by your circumstances! So then, where are you living currently? Are you still with your uncle?"

"No, sir. My uncle had a poor harvest, and I'm too young to be of much use to him. He's been kind enough to let me live with him until I came of age, but now I'm old enough to make my own way, and I didn't want to be a burden on him anymore. Campagne-lès-Guines is hardly a place to find employment, but England is just across the pas de Calais- er, I mean, the Dover Narrows- and I knew there would be plenty of labor in the city. I've been staying at the Sacred Heart Orphanage of Westminster Abbey since I arrived a few months ago."

"You had no other family in France?"

"No, sir, or prospects. That's why I came to London."

"You are an orphan, then. I'm sorry to hear that." Hastings's sorrow did not sound so deep, but that wasn't necessarily suspicious. Many of the boys here today were orphans. "But you've pulled yourself up by your bootstraps! You're a fighter — else you wouldn't have gotten this far. So tell me, then, why you believe you deserve to become a jockey?"

Ciel needn't lie to answer this question. "Because I have a technique that ensures my victory in the race."

Hastings was quiet for a moment, but still smiling. "That sounds very intriguing."

Ciel didn't bat an eye. "It is."

"You are very confident!" Hastings laughed sparklingly. "I admire it… and I look forward to seeing this technique in action. Best of luck, Astre." They shook hands again, and Ciel took his leave of the table. Sebastian watched, but Hastings betrayed no signs of suspicion towards Astre, or that he suspected Ciel of lying. He merely had one of his men call, "Seventeen!" Though, as Ciel walked away, Sebastian did observe Hastings mark something down on a notepad.

After the last nine boys finished their interviews with Hastings, the air became taught as a bowstring with anticipation. The boys grew ill with silence, and didn't talk with each other anymore. They were firmly reminded, watching a new herd of fourteen racehorses trot past them, that everyone was an enemy now.

Sebastian now saw that Hastings had converted some of the lawn to the south of his abode into a flat dirt track, approximately one furlong in length. It would be a sprint, then, a quick chance to show how one's skills translated into speed, and to prove how much control one had over that speed. Sebastian followed the C-curve of the treeline around the property to get a better angle on the race. Some race it would be, all but fifteen seconds, but that would keep the horses from wearing out. Besides, similarly to Ciel's estate, there wasn't enough land for Hastings to make a true racetrack here. A sprint was more efficient in all ways.

Hastings's stable was not large enough to accompany all of these horses, meaning that some of them were borrowed. Sebastian studied the equine crop. All of them were thoroughbreds, a fast breed that surged with the hot blood of Turkomans and Arabians. They were also all bays, like Avalon, brown with black manes. Their wide eyes and gnashing jaws gave away an anxiety equal to the boys who were about to ride them. It was natural for a racehorse to be flighty. But some of the horses seemed more aggravated than merely nervous. Sebastian could not decipher their moods with total certainty. The behaviors of horses were not ones he had ever paid especial attention to.

Hastings also had a few extra stable hands on duty. Sebastian watched as Hastings passed on to these men the notepad he had been marking before, which turned out to be a list of who would be racing whom. Sebastian wished he could read it from here. How had Hastings made his decision on which racers were best? Was the competition rigged, and if so, how? Either way, Ciel's victory seemed assured: his riding was superior to every other contestant, and Hastings had taken somewhat of a liking to 'Astre' and his curious upbringing.

Sebastian grinned to himself, feeling something akin to pride. Maybe Ciel had been right to keep his natural voice after all.

The boys stood in a straight line with their shoulders back, again like soldiers, though this time perhaps soldiers who had been informed they were being sent on a deadly mission. Commanding officer Hastings approached them, surveying his troops with his hands behind his back. He assuaged them, then, in the manner of a friendly uncle. "I can see in your faces that this race holds gravity for you," he began, "and I must tell you, it's no great comfort to be the man holding the scepter either. If I could, I'd have you all win."

Sebastian saw Ciel wrinkle his nose. Hastings did not earn any Phantomhive respect today.

"But please don't allow your nerves to hamper your performance," Hastings went on. "Things change. This life is not for everyone. There is a possibility that a winner may find the training is more than he bargained for. And then I'll need one of you to take his place. So, chins up, lads! All is not lost by this race alone."

This did cause relaxation in twenty-odd faces. But Ciel's remained perturbed. Sebastian was in agreement: that was more ominous than reassuring.

"With that said—" Hastings gave his hands a solid clap "—shall we get to it, lads?"

"Dorsey, Sutherland, Tatham, Jepson, Wilkie!"

The race was rigged. Sebastian quickly discovered how.

The Sutherland boy won the first sprint. His assigned thoroughbred blew through the string that marked the end of the furlong. Sutherland was shocked at his victory. He gasped, panting in exertion and wonderment, while his horse stood on four steady hooves. Was this race nothing for a champion steed? Perhaps… but the other four horses who came in last (for, in Sebastian's mind, there was no second or third, only last) panted before settling. They'd felt the exercise in their cores. Sutherland's horse? Its muscles twitched with the desire to keep going. A detail one might miss if they weren't paying close attention. It was the only sort of attention Sebastian could pay, where his lord's orders were concerned.

"Kersey, Dickinson, Pender, Browning, Tracy!"

The horse would run again, only once more. It would run for his master. And in the sea of identical brown stallions, no one would know. No one but Hastings, and his men, and Sebastian Michaelis.

The winner was Browning. Sebastian saw it again: a horse with just a slight bit more energy leftover at the end of the sprint. It was not the same horse as before. This he was certain of. Hastings had already decided who was going to win. He'd given the instructions for which horse should go to which rider. All the groomsmen had to do was be certain they were correct in their assignment.

Now the question remained: how had Hastings made his choice on the victors?

"Adams, Fenn, Whitby, Hanley, Simpkin!"

"Wish me luck, Patch!" Whit thumped Ciel again on the back. Ciel suffered through the treatment, hopeful it would be the last of this friendly abuse. But it wouldn't be. Whit won the race, and the four losers were beaten twice, once by the finish line, once again by Whit's crowing.

"Marlee, Harlow, Baker, Erickson, Black!"

And then, as if he was being called to the spotlight by his old circus moniker, it was Sebastian's turn to perform.

The firing of a blank sent the horses on their path, and it was Marlee who won this time — but his horse didn't get the memo. When the string broke across his chest, the horse kept running, at full speed, tearing the lawn with hooves like spades and ignoring the warning tugs of its small charge, as well as his cries. "Whoa! Whoa! Stop it! Hey! I said whoa!" But this horse had fire instead of blood, and only someone with the might of Apollo could curtail its course now.

Sebastian was quite the opposite of a sun god, but he would have to do.

"Corbin Bleu."

Ciel raised an eyebrow, an action he'd gotten quite good at despite the eye patch's string. "That's your undercover name? It's strange. How did you come up with it?"

"Perhaps my lord can dissect it, using his knowledge of language?"

Ciel looked at him reproachfully. "Well, I'm assuming 'Corbin' is related to 'corvid' or 'corbeau.' Crow. You're hilarious."

Sebastian only betrayed his delight through a small smile. "And Bleu?"

Ciel waved his hand. "It's just a color."

"Is it?" Sebastian walked to open the bedroom door for his master. "If my lord says so, than perhaps it is."

Ciel glared at him as he passed, with that sapphire jewel studded in his slimming face. "'If my lord says so…' Feh. As if I would embody such a statement. I should hate to live in a world where what I speak becomes anybody's truth. I'd always rather know the truth, and then speak it."

Bleu. A French surname, derived from an epithet, specifically denoting one who dressed in blue or had blue eyes. So, Corbin Bleu literally became 'crow of the blue-eyed boy' and hid, as he loved to, in plainest sight.※※

A gloved hand caught the reins, near the bit, with all the darting precision of a cobra, and that hand had the huge head under its control in seconds. Wild eyes rolled and teeth, fearful, tried for a bite, but they missed their mark. Then the prey animal remembered it was a racer and calmed quickly, but not before that trained hand could gauge its strength. The horse was strong. Unusually so.

"Cor!" Marlee looked down at Sebastian as if he were his savior. "I thought we was about to bash into the trees! I couldn't make 'im do nothin'!"

"Then it seems I've arrived just in time," Sebastian said, tipping up his shepherd's cap.

The handlers had dashed after Marlee's mount when they saw it wasn't going to stop, but slowed their pace when they noted another man was handling it. The eyes of most were distrusting, but Sebastian was recognized by the stable master. "Oh, it's you," the old gent said. "You're, eh… Well, technically trespassing. But looking for a job also still, hm?"

Sebastian laughed in a way that sounded honest. "Yes, and I do beg your pardon. Your land does bend into Park Downs. I was waiting for the right moment to make an entrance… and to be honest, this seemed like a fine one. I did tell you that you'd find few more talented at handling horses than I."

"Yes, well." The stable master coughed to clear the air. "And I told you, that decision isn't up to me. But I s'pose Mr. Hastings will be interested in seeing who just spared his latest jockey a nasty fall."

Sebastian smiled charmingly up at Marlee. "You're a winner, then? Congratulations."

"N' double lucky, too!" The lad, at least three years Ciel's junior, was still breathing hard with the relief of being alive.

Sebastian was a head taller than Hastings, but that didn't stop the man from sizing him up. "You're clearly quite strong," Hastings said, while Ciel glared on in the background. "Even if you are a trespasser…" His eyes flashed with a hint of suspicion, a mood Sebastian would always be able to measure, no matter how quickly it blinked by. The suspicion disappeared into curiosity as soon as it came on. "Well!" he said. "I have always admired someone with mettle! Forward thinking… yes, I like it. I like it. Or else I wouldn't be holding such a competition! Well, boys, what do you think? Shall I give him an interview?"

The boys, whether they won and were full of vigor or lost and wanted to show good sportsmanship, cheered at this. Ciel was, in fact, the only one not hollering favorably, and only clapped a little bit to blend in. Sebastian was highly amused.

"Well, then." Hastings gave Sebastian a hearty handshake. "I think that says all. I look forward to speaking with you further, Mr. Mettle! And with that, let's delay no further. It's time for our last race."

There was no need to call names. The five boys remaining knew who they were. Sebastian observed from the sidelines as the quintet filed towards their horses, watched as Ciel was helped aboard the bronze Arabian that won for Browning. He wondered if even his young master, with his mortal sight, could tell the differences between the near-identical horses. He wondered if Ciel knew he'd been chosen to win, or if he spurred his horse to the starting line with blind determination.

"Ready, boys!" Hastings called, lifting his pistol to the air.

Ciel hunched in the saddle, holding the crop above the horse's right flank.

"On your mark! Get set!"

Bang.

Like a rabbit as it hunched before the bound, Ciel pushed himself out of the saddle, held his chest low over the horse's straight neck, and let the thoroughbred run as a wild mustang, while bearing his own weight up high. His knees and elbows were nearly touching each other, and Sebastian, the only one who saw life so clearly that the fastest things weren't a blur, noted his master's teeth were clenched tight in the fiercest grin. If only it wasn't the eye patch facing him: the blue eye was sure to be a firework. Hastings, the onlooking boys, the groomsmen — all were quiet in the presence of this magic. It was as though a blank hadn't been fired but a real bullet, and it had come alive and finished the race faster than anyone else.

Sebastian felt the muzzle of a gun jab his hip at the exact moment the crowd of boys took up cheering. "You'll go straight over to the stable without a word to the little 'uns, if'n y'know what's good for ye," a man's voice said low in his ear.

The last thing Sebastian saw before he turned heel was Ciel clinging to the horse's hot neck and using it to support himself as he dropped down to the ground, mobbed by lads who suddenly thought him a hero to poor boys everywhere.

"And when I show up unannounced, you suppose Mr. Hastings's will merely disregard me as a vagabond, and not suspect anything behind my sudden appearance?"

"I imagine he will. I imagine he'll suspect something immediately." Ciel stepped forward in the beaten-up Broglie boots as Sebastian held open the front door of the manor and watched him walk down the steps into the palest yellow of morning. "He'll be certain you know he's up to something. He might even shoot you, once he has you alone."

Sebastian crouched to pick Ciel up. "And what should I do if he shoots me?"

Ciel wrapped his arms around his demon's neck for support. "Seeing as you can't lie, you mean?"

"I could pretend to die. If it goes unspoken, it doesn't technically go against the contract."

"No. I need you around. I can't afford to have you 'die.'" Ciel shook his head. Thought for a moment. "If they shoot you… You tell them the truth."

"The truth, sir? How much exactly?"

Ciel didn't hesitate this time. "As much as is necessary to spark Hastings's interest."

And with his master's plan filling his ears, Sebastian carried Ciel off to the territory of the man who, in a short six hours, would want Sebastian dead.

Sebastian was held at gunpoint in the stables for an hour before Hastings appeared. He stormed into the stall Sebastian was being contained in, with a very different face than before, a darker and more mature one, and asked, "Has he said anything?"

The groomsmen shook his head. "Not a word, he tol' me, till you arrived."

"Not a word?" Hastings was distraught. "You have a gun, don't you? Did you consider waving it around a bit, or reminding him what a gun is for? "

"For announcing the start of a race, isn't it?" Sebastian answered brightly.

Hastings breathed hard out his nose. "A joker, I see. Did you search him?"

"O' course I did. He's not armed. Not even a knife."

"Not armed?" Hastings looked at Sebastian anew. "Nothing at all?"

"A man generally does not carry weapons when he doesn't suspect attack," Sebastian answered. "Being non-threatening usually helps win one a job. Wouldn't you agree?"

Hastings paused, shook his head. "No. I don't buy this." He held out his hand for the gun without looking at his henchman. "Leave us be, Hardwick. Guard the exits to the stable with the others. And if any of the boys ask about a loud noise, tell them the neighbors are hunting duck. Though none of them should be back from collecting their belongings yet."

Hardwick left, begrudgingly, and Hastings walked forward with menace, staring at his victim (staring him down, Sebastian imagined was the intent) with his brown eyes shimmering like his horses' backs. He stopped moving when their faces were inches apart. "How much do you know," Hastings began. He was no kind uncle anymore.

Sebastian tipped an eyebrow. "Evidently, too much."

Hastings jammed a gun against his jugular. "How much? And who told you, dammit?!"

Sebastian only smiled. "Nobody told me. Nobody but you."

"This," Hastings snarled, "is not the time to be bold. I've kept a lid on all this. Everyone has — everyone who wants to stay alive, anyway. If you think your life isn't the perfect thing to stopper a leak, you're damn wrong. And you wouldn't be the first one offed." Sebastian heard the hammer click, just below his left ear. "Now. Who… told… you?"

Sebastian repeated in a sly whisper, "You."

The gun flicked away from Sebastian's throat and sent a bullet cascading into his leg. As he was instructed, Sebastian did not flinch or feign injury. The only part of him that changed was his smile, widening at Hastings's shock. He let show the very tips of his eyeteeth.

Hastings immediately turned a ghostly white. "What in hell…?" he breathed. He fired another shot, right into Sebastian's chest. It put a hole in the shirt but not in the flesh beneath. "What in hell?!"

"A very astute pronouncement indeed, Mr. Hastings," Sebastian simpered. He held out the twin bullets to their trembling owner. "Right on the money, you might say. For I am not a man come to sabotage you." He spilled the silver nuggets to the dirt floor, leaving only his palm extended like an offer. "I am a demon come to join you."

※: A biscuit made of cream of tartar and baking powder.

※※: I don't know how famous Corbin Bleu is outside of the US but yes I did just nickname Sebastian after 2000s star of Disney Channel's High School Musical and Jump In! Corbin Bleu because I thought it would be funny