A drover was a person who led the sheep to market to be sold.

"… All except for the French boy. That one wasn't supposed to win."

Sebastian blinked curiously down at his false master. From their place beneath the manor's awning, Hastings was pointing out at the fenced ring where the preliminary trials had been held just the day before — where now Ciel and the other boys practiced their riding on high-stepping thoroughbreds. Hastings had a gentle smile plastered on his features, so if 'Astre' were to notice the pointing, he might assume he was being complimented.

This information was bound to be quite illuminating. Sebastian did not betray his personal interest in the answer. "Is that so? And what happened, then?"

"Well," Hastings laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck, "I suppose what happened is that I underestimated him. He told me… Astre, I think his name is… Astre told me that he had a technique that was sure to secure his victory. To be honest, I believed him. He seemed so very confident in himself. So I did take precautions to keep him from winning. It just seems they weren't enough."

"What precautions exactly did you take?" Sebastian could only hope he didn't sound too eager now.

Hastings spoke willingly to the devil. "I made notes to my men about which horses to assign to each boy," he said. "The strongest horses were given to the boys I wanted to win… and the first four races went just as planned. As for Astre's race, I told the men to give him whatever horse seemed the most aggravated — and then to nick its flank with a knife. Not enough to be seen or to stop the horse from running, mind you. Just enough so that the horse's performance would falter." Hastings sighed. "And yet still, that French boy was good enough to win. I would be lying if I said I wasn't impressed! But he wasn't exactly the sort of boy we were looking for."

The pricking of the horse's flank must have happened while Sebastian was saving Nelson Marlee from a crash. "What sort of boy were you looking for?" he pressed.

"A boy with no family at all. A boy with no one who will ever miss him, if something were to happen to him," Hastings said distantly. "Fortunately, it seems that young Astre has few relatives to put up a search, nor anyone who lives in the country… but we can't just let him go free now. It would look very strange, and I don't have a good reason to dismiss him. So we'll just have to take this little hiccup in stride."

Sebastian revealed the tips of his sterling fangs, trying to look devilishly intrigued. "A boy with no family at all, you say… My, my. And just what might you be planning to do with these stray pups?"

Hastings wagged a gloved finger at him. "Tt-tt-tt. We mustn't talk about that here or now. But have patience, my friend. I promise you will be pleasantly rewarded."

Corbin followed in his master's wake as he walked over to the corral. "Good work, boys!" Hastings called to get their attention. "I see you all are trying your hand at Astre's curious technique! Why don't you take a break and have yourselves some lunch?"

The boys, eager for more of the delicious food they'd first sampled yesterday afternoon, made to scramble down from their mounts, tumbling out of the unfamiliar saddles as a toddler dismounts a pony. The horses weren't small, so even with all of Ciel's training, the process was awkward at best. He swung one leg over to the other side and tried reaching to step down, but couldn't figure out how to touch ground without leaving his other foot too high in the stirrup. Eventually, Ciel had to lie on his stomach across the saddle and slowly slide off his horse's back so that both his feet met earth at the same time. He was very pointedly not looking at Sebastian as he scurried over to the others, who were accepting slices of bubble-and-squeak wrapped in newspaper from the scullery maid.

While Marlee, Whit, Teddy, and Trevor gnashed at their fry like hungry dogs, Ciel looked at his with mild distaste before forcing himself to sample it. Sebastian understood his feelings. The two had very similar appetites, had even discussed it before: they had no desire to eat something that was not made with the finest ingredients nor resulted in the finest appearance. It pleased him to see Ciel noting the dish's troubles with a discerning eye. The "food" was so deplorable that Sebastian had to truly restrain himself from going to the kitchen and lecturing the cook at once. Her master would likely be imprisoned or die in a matter of days, and if she wanted to find herself another position, she'd have to at least crack the spine of a Mrs. Beeton's cookbook.

"Don't know how you do it, Patch," Whit was saying to Ciel. "You're really fizzing at this whole jockey business. How'd you learn to ride so jemmy?"

"Oh... Um…" Ciel swallowed his bite. "Eh… If you're saying what I think you mean… I just learned it from some of the other farm boys. If we had any free time, we might race for sport, but we didn't have any quick little thoroughbreds to run with. The draft horses were so heavy that the only way to speed them up even a bit was to take your weight off their backs. The higher you could hold yourself, the better chance you had of winning."

"You must've won an awful lot!" chirped Marlee.

Ciel shrugged. "As much as any of the others."

"How long'd it take ya to learn?" Whit asked.

"About a year, I suppose. I was never too good at it."

"Fimble-famble!" Whit laughed. "The rest of us has got bellows to mend, while you're still ridin' flashy."

"Speakin' a which," Teddy cut in, "you gonna finish that bubble-n'-squeak, Patch? Y' don't seem too int'rested in it."

Before Ciel could put in a word, Whit's easy smile flashed to a defensive frown. "Don't you go griddling him! That's his, and he'll eat it in his own good time."

Teddy narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed tah mean? I only asked 'im for it, I didn't say he's got tah fork it over."

"It's all right, you can have it." Ciel handed Teddy the sorry excuse for food. "I've… got a stomachache."

"A stomachache?" At once Whit's voice became worrisome. "We've been workin' like dogs out there, though. Your guts should be cryin' cupboard."

"Uh," said Ciel, "I think it's just…" He seemed to steel himself for the upcoming lie. "The food is richer than I'm used to is all."

After saying so, he glanced very, very quickly at Sebastian, who stood nearby, keeping watch according to Hastings's instruction. Sebastian had a guess at what that glance meant: Ciel probably expected his butler to prepare him a real meal at the soonest available moment.

Whit filled his mouth with a last bite of fry and stood up. "I'll nip off to the area for yeh. I bet there's some poppy you could fill up on."

"Some what? " Ciel snapped, irritation finally getting the best of him. Whit looked surprised at the tone. "Uh… I… I don't know what you're talking about," Ciel tried more calmly. "In fact, I really don't know what you're saying a lot of the time. I mean, my English is pretty polite, I never learned any slang from this country..."

"Oh! Cor, I plum forgot! Sorry 'bout that," said Whit. "I shoulda realized. I mean, ya speak so polite n' all. 'Course yeh wouldn't know anything about anything."

Though clearly perturbed by that wording, Ciel forced himself to say, "Er, yeah… What is it that might be in the kitchen? I can get it for myself."

"Jus' bread," Whit laughed. "Are you sure I can't fetch it for yeh? I'd be happy to, y'know, 'specially since you ain't feelin' well."

Ciel waved his hands. "N-No, really, I can manage it."

Ignoring him, the other boy jumped to his feet. "I'll come with yeh!"

"Uh, that's all right… I'll just be a second…"

After a brief moment of deciding whether he should act like Hastings's guest or another one of his staff, Ciel decided to go around the back of the house and enter the kitchen from there. Whit plopped back down with a sigh.

"Oy, Whit," Teddy said, with a keen grin slowly lighting up one cheek, "ya get kicked by a horse out there t'day?"

Whit looked at him in flustered confusion. "What? 'Course not. What's with that? You callin' me a half-wit?"

"No, no, no, no," Teddy trailed off in a singsong way, "just seems to me like you're a bit familiar with iron hoofs."

Nelson Marlee didn't seem to understand what had been said, and Trevor mumbled, "Enough a' that, behave y'selves, we only jus' got 'ere," words which seemed to hold back Whit's fury by just a hair. His face turned red and his fists were balled up, but he didn't lunge at Teddy.

"Shut your bone box, or I'll shut it for you," he growled.

Teddy looked surprised, laughing as he said, "What's the trouble, then? Just a bit of fun, right?"

Whit glared down at the other boy. "'A bit a fun.' Sure didn't sound like 'a bit a fun.'"

Trevor's brow furrowed. "A' course it was! D'you really think I'd let you stick around if I thought you was a bloody sod? Cor!"

Whit's posture relaxed, almost drooped. He plopped back on the grass with a huff. "Well… don't go spoutin' off about it in front a' Patch. He doesn't talk our English. He might take you serious, if he knowed what you meant."

"Heh! Wouldn't that be funny."

"Oh, shut your head."

Finally satisfied that the arguing would not result in a brawl, Sebastian walked away unnoticed, treading the same path his master had moments before. Though his knowledge of Cockney vernacular was also limited, he had gathered enough from the conversation to know what it was about. He smirked lightly. It seemed his young master would attract attention everywhere he went, whether he meant to or not...※

Sebastian rounded the house towards the rear entrance to the kitchen. A nagging voice grated from within, words spilling from the propped-open door into the outside world.

"... isn't good enough for ya? Well? When I was a lass, I ate what I was given and didn't say no word otherwise. Ain't they still teachin' little boys to mind their manners? Or were you one a those orphans raised by yer own kind?"

Ah. It sounded as though Astre's confrontation with Hastings's cook was not going well.

"I-I'm not trying to be rude." Ciel's voice was forcibly steady, reining in tight on his own anger and trying to pass it off for hesitancy. "I-It's a fine lunch, really, I'm just not used to all those, er, flavors."

"And why do you talk like a li'l prince? You tryin' to insult me?"

"Er, no, ma'am, this… this is just how I speak."

"Oh, right, right you do. That's a good story, that is." There was silence for a moment. "Fine, then. I'll take pity on you, prince. Here. Yeh can have the end a' the loaf, then. Go on. Take it."

"Oh. Um… I appre-"

THWACK!

Sebastian had entered the kitchen just in time to see Ciel's outstretched hand getting solidly struck with the back of a wooden spoon. Ciel promptly dropped the slice of bread he'd been given with a small shout of alarm. The middle-aged cook folded her arms over her proud bosom, and seemed about to mock Astre further, but her words never got the chance to debut.

"I think you'll find there's only one person in this room who deserves to have their knuckles rapped, and it isn't the boy who came asking for something else to eat."

Both turned at Sebastian's voice. Almost at once, Ciel looked a little disappointed. He was likely embarrassed to be caught in the midst of a scolding so beneath his stature, but Sebastian had no interest in teasing him for this. This wicked old crone had struck his charge. He wasn't going to sit idly by, even for the sake of this mission. He couldn't.

The woman puffed up her chest. She had convinced herself that this was her domain and everything here fell under her rule. "Beggin' your pardon?" she grunted. "You're that new gent, aren't yeh? What business d'you have in my kitchen?"

"Plenty, I think you'll find," Sebastian began, "if you indeed believe that sorry excuse for food to be an acceptable presentation even to street urchins."

Cradling his beaten hand in the other, Ciel nonetheless whispered sharply, "Calm down."

Sebastian neglected to calm down. His smile was biting as he continued, "You are the head cook, correct? I would be ashamed to bear such a title if I were you. That bubble-and-squeak you prepared is not even worthy of being called the leftovers that it is. To let such an item leave your kitchen… how you managed to earn a position here is baffling to me."

The woman's face was as red as the tomato sitting on her cutting board. "And where do you get off?!" she fumed. "What do you savvy about cooking, ya barmy tramp? I'd graduated from scullery work while you were busy gettin' your arse switched. Though I guess you didn't learn anything from it, didja? And how d'you know what's so wrong with my cookin' anyhow? You take this un's food for yourself when he didn't snap it up?"

Sebastian had not stopped smirking at her all through her tirade. "I don't have to taste it to know the trouble," he answered. There was some fry still left in a pan on the stove. Sebastian walked over to it. "The decision to purchase cauliflower was your first mistake; it is far too early in the season. Perhaps you could have created something halfway decent had you chosen to make pie or beef hash. Even then, your chopping technique is all wrong. You should know that an onion must always be sliced with silver to preserve its color, and that the knife should not be shared with any other vegetables, even after washing, or the harsh flavor spreads and taints them. And I can see here that the quality of the beef is poor. Perhaps cow is easier on the budget, but flesh from a heifer or an ox is going to make for a superior meal." He fixed her with an earnest look. "Your ability to purchase quality produce for this household is lacking. So is your ability to sculpt that produce into a worthy dish. You may as well throw your stipend in with the rubbish if this is how you plan to feed your master and his guests."

Ciel had buried his face in his hand, seething for his own reasons while the cook seethed for hers. "Is this Buckingham Palace?!" she bellowed. "Am I makin' a four-course meal for royalty? Yeah? Or am I cookin' for five scrawny whelps who don't add a penny to my pay? Feh!" She raised up her dimpled chin. "You come in here and speak like that t' me, a woman old enough to be your mam, when I'm the one makin' sure you get your fill! Well, you can just go right ahead and be in charge of your own meals from now on! I think you'll quick find cookin' ain't the pretty world of winkin' silverware yeh might imagine it t'be!"

"What a great shame that you have never known a meal better than your own," Sebastian tutted sadly. "I will gladly take up the mantle, and not just for my own sake, but for everyone in this household. I shall prepare tonight's dinner, and then you can see for yourself just how food ought to taste."

"Tuh! Be my guest!" The cook gestured to her kitchen. "But you treat my tools with respect! You hurt a one a them, I'll see to it you replace it with your own pay!"

"I would be more than happy to replace them all," Sebastian said, only to notice Ciel glaring at him near the exit. Hmm. He may have gone too far. "In that case," he finished, brushing past the burly woman, "I will get started on preparing supper shortly, given I have received permission from my master."

"I hope he gives you an earful then!" the cook shouted, not knowing her wish was about to come true.

Sebastian followed Ciel around to the other side of the house, near a collection of rain barrels and a sorry-looking trellis. The boy spun around sharply on his heel, his blue eye glowing with anger as if it had a contract mark of its own. Gone was the humble orphan; the demon's master was here now.

"What are you doing?!" Ciel hissed. "Just parading around your culinary expertise like that! Are you an idiot?! Do you know how suspicious you're making yourself look? Is showing up that woman so important to you? God's sake!" Ciel bit down on his lip, massaging his temple as he did so. "What's got into you all of a sudden?" he finally asked, still angry.

"Is your hand all right, sir?" Sebastian said first, grabbing for the hurt one gently and studying the back of it. The skin was colored the loud red of stinging pain, but it did not appear that it would bruise to match the welt Avalon had delivered to Ciel's calf a few weeks ago.

The hand was snatched back by its owner. "Obviously I'm fine! It was just a slap on the wrist. You're acting like she took a finger." He glowered at his butler. "Explain yourself."

"Apologies, sir." Sebastian put a hand to his chest. "When that pitiful woman struck you, I could not allow her to get away unscathed — if not physically then verbally. My young master does not deserve to be handled in such a brutish way."

Ciel raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, don't I? So what, is this a belated apology for striking my palms when we first started out?"

Sebastian blinked. He had not thought about that in some time.

The question was apparently rhetorical, as Ciel had already moved past it. "Keep yourself together," he growled. "You're only allowed to be a demon around Hastings, remember? What's done is done, so you'll have to cook, but be more clever from here on, damn it. I don't need anyone else finding out what you are." He started to walk away, back to the front of the house where the other boys likely still sat waiting for Astre's return. "And tonight's dinner had better be comparable to anything I'd eat in the manor. If you're going to give yourself away like this, at least make it an asset to me somehow. That's an order."

With that, Ciel rounded the bend.

Once out of sight, Sebastian stood there, feeling odd and reflective. Yes… yes, he had used a more corporal form of punishment when he was teaching Ciel how to be a proper nobleman those four and a half years ago. Ciel had punished him back in a similar fashion. But still, to hit his charge, even though he had been a child… no, especially because he had been a child… it felt so barbaric now. Had he really once thought that was the best way to instill a lesson? To help the boy learn? He supposed he had. It was only half a month ago that Sebastian had forgotten to praise Ciel for his efforts on horseback. And what a difference it had made. What a difference it would make.

There was that twinge again, that sense that he should be nervous. He had never responded passively to his young master's injuries, so it wasn't so unusual that he should snap at the doddy old woman for her impertinence… was it? He was just shielding his prey from threats… wasn't he?

Or was he feeling sympathetic?

Something like a growl started low in Sebastian's throat. He cut it off at once, closed his eyes. These thoughts didn't mean anything. As long as he still wanted the soul… this didn't mean anything. Yes. That was still true. They'd have to pry the meal from his cast-iron grip before he'd let anyone else so much as look upon it. He was fine. He was fine.

Shaken at last from his subtle delirium, Sebastian turned back towards the kitchen to set his mind on the challenge of making a delectable dinner from meager ingredients.

The cook's odd decision to boil beef in the summertime was further proof of her missing talent. Sebastian wondered how best to make use of the remaining mouse-round and thin flank she had cooked for last night's dinner. It was not the cheapest cut of meat, but it had certainly not been expensive. However, Sebastian was fortunate to discover the cow's aitch-bone had not yet been disposed of. Its flavor as a boiling piece could serve a meal well. A sack of dried green peas in the pantry cemented his decision to make soup. And if he used the flank to make a simple forcemeat, the mouse-round could be transformed into beef olives. Naturally, there would be no more bread in the kitchen, and that had to be made before anything else could get started…

It was only when he set the dough to prove and the peas to boil that Sebastian realized he had nothing to do for two hours.

In the Phantomhive manor, this would never be the case. This was largely because the house did not possess a full staff — but it didn't need to because Sebastian was around, hence why there was always something for him to do. Surely there was something here to do as well. Sebastian reported to Hastings in his study to see how he could be of use.

"Didn't you just tell me you were preparing dinner?" his temporary master asked.

"Yes, sir, but I possess ample time to perform other tasks in-between."

"Oh." Hastings thought for a moment. "No, I think I'm alright for now, thank you. Why don't you take a break?"

Take… a break?

"Are you sure there's nothing you need?" Sebastian inquired. "I could organize the pantry and check the perishables, for instance, or mend something broken… assist with laundry and tidying up… Take care of any specialty shopping the house might require?"

Hastings blinked at him. "Do you... want to do those things?"

Sebastian blinked back. "That doesn't matter, sir. I am here to serve you."

"Every minute of every day?" the man laughed. He waved him off. "No, I'm doing just fine. I have the domestics to take care of all that, and I'm not paying you immediately or monetarily. Besides, tomorrow night and over the next few days I'm really going to need your help. I won't have you doing petty housework all the while!"

"Very well. None of that then." He let his eyes and canines flash. "Then, do you by any chance require services of another nature?"

Now Hastings hesitated. He studied Sebastian as if evaluating every part of him, from his feet to the top of his head. It was a careful but musing look. Ponderous. "... Yes," Hastings said at last, slowly. The end of the pen he was holding slowly found itself in the corner of his mouth, and he clenched it in his teeth subconsciously. "Yes… but… not now. Report to me this evening, after you've put the boys to sleep. Then I'll have a task for you." Hastings smiled quaintly. "But for now, you are free to do as you wish."

Do as he wished. Did he wish to do anything right now?

There was a reason that Sebastian did not like to go too long without a contract: demons, naturally so insatiable, had few indulgences outside of eating a soul or grooming it to be eaten. The only two Sebastian could think of were sleeping and playing with cats, though that last one was more of a personal pleasure and not universal among all demons. He didn't want to sleep — a demon's sleep could actually be fairly obnoxious to wake up from — and it was probably better if he didn't play with cats when Ciel might call for him at any moment.

Ah, there he had it. Ciel might call for him at any moment. He could stand at the ready for that.

So he did, returning to the front of the house where the boys remained, making sure to be in plain sight so Ciel would notice his presence.

The boys weren't practicing their riding right this moment. Instead, they were distracted by a gangly young Belgian sheepdog who seemed to have escaped its duties in search of playmates. Nelson Marlee and Whit pointed and laughed at the sharp black ears that stood straight up in the air, rabbit-like, while the handsome animal gallivanted around the five boys in a circle, not even aware of its own natural instinct to herd. When one of the boys tried to break away, the dog would scamper after him and weave him back to the group, and soon it became a game. All while the shepherd corralled at the children, his feathered tail wagged and his merry trot never ceased.

Ciel was not much of one for running around. He did have a fondness for dogs, though, and he tried calling the cur over with a whistle. It absentmindedly obeyed. Ciel took the sloped face in his hands and offered the dog a half-smile of approval when it became attentive for an order. He thumped the shaggy black head twice and sent the eager animal off with a swat on the ribs. At once it was back at sport.

"You're pretty good with animals, aren't you, Patch?" said Whit.

Ciel turned and shrugged. "It comes with the territory."

"I think I could have done all right on a farm," Whit continued. He leaned down and plucked a long piece of grass and put it in his mouth. "I always wanted a dog, but it wouldn't have done me any good. There's no work for dogs in the West End."

"The West End?" Ciel looked at him with mild surprise. "Er… Isn't that a very wealthy area?"

Whit chewed at the grass. "Sure, yeah, it's got a lot a' rich folk, but my people live there too." He grinned. "The most bloody brilliant people in all a' London, Patch! Actors and actresses, writers and artists. Don't listen to anyone who says different. They took me under their wing when no other soul would. Raised me up so I wouldn't have to be no hook." He paused. "That's, eh… ya know what a pickpocket is?"

"Oh. Yeah, I do." Ciel watched as the dog ran laps around the yard, moving like a shadow celebrating freedom from its host. "I've always wanted to see a play. What actors do you know?"

"What actors don't I know!" Whit laughed. "I know Miss Ernestine, and Miss Ernestine knows everybody! Or, well, everyone knows her. She was famous back in the day." He folded his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. "She would let me stay with her when she wasn't touring in Lancashire. She moves around a lot. But because I know her, I can stay with jus' about anyone, s'long as I help 'em memorize their lines an' put on their costumes or do chores around the house. So I've stayed with, lessee… Mr. Maskelyne... Mr. Soutar... Ms. Studholme... Mrs. Campbell, she sometimes had me keep her little boy Alan busy when she was at the Adelphi, and Mr. Campbell was so often in Australia that I kept her company too… oh, and Mr. Barrington let me stay in the St. James in the warmer months, at least until 'e went bankrupt, which didn't take so very long, and lovely Mrs. Langtree was much more businesslike than 'im, so I couldn't stay there after she took charge..." He grinned proudly. "There's more, but Miss Ernestine is the best. I wonder if I'll get t'be famous like her! I think that would make her right proud."

"That's a lot of people," Ciel said, sounding more than a bit surprised. He knew most of those names, even if he didn't know their work. There was one that stood out in particular. "I learned a little bit about the British theatre from my aristocrat friend… The name Ernestine… Would you happen to be referring to Mrs. Ernestine-Constance Lefèvre? She's the wife of a photographer in France who is pretty well-known."

"Who?" Whit laughed. "I don't have any idea. Miss Ernestine is…" He paused. "Miss Ernestine is jus' Miss Ernestine. I dunno her last name."

"You said she's very famous, though," Ciel tried. "She must have a surname, right?"

"Um…" Whit looked awkward. He shrugged after a silent moment. "Never mind it! We'll have plenty of time tah talk brass tacks in the future, right? C'mon, then, let's go join the others! Soon we'll be the ones makin' names for ourselves. You know, we might jus' be the luckiest cast-offs in the world, Patch! I can hardly wait t'get started!"

Whit once more took off running after the wily dog. Ciel tagged a couple weak steps after him before stopping, staring at the other boy as if he were a ship bound for a distant land; as if he were something that might never return. His expression only grew more complicated as he watched the four boys playing with the dog, innocent, blissfully unaware, and when he eventually caught Sebastian staring, he promptly turned away.※※

"Cor!" cried Whit. "This is the best soup I've ever tasted in my entire life!"

The other boys could scarcely nod their agreement, lapping up the last drops off their spoons and scraping every morsel of the beef olives from their plates. It was likely they had never tasted pea soup made with brown sugar and dried mint — apparently neither had Hastings's cook, who, after trying a spoonful, had merely grunted, "Feh!" before turning in early for the night. Sebastian felt prideful, even though he knew he shouldn't. After all this time, besting a human at their own game still holds this much appeal for you, doesn't it…

"I'm inclined to agree!" said Hastings. He was eating with the boys again tonight, further solidifying his role as a trustworthy mentor. "It's really one hell of a meal."

Sebastian gave a subtle snort at hearing his own coy phrase spoken from another's lips. Hastings knew exactly what he was insinuating, what precious information he dangled out in front of his unknowing tablemates. Ciel had never granted much acknowledgment to Sebastian's puns, though he did ignore Sebastian whenever he thought his demon was trying to be funny. It was part of what made repeating the puns so endlessly amusing, little did his charge know.

Alas… there wasn't room for amusement right now. Despite his order that dinner be "comparable to anything I'd eat in the manor," Ciel seemed uninterested in food. He chewed his bread as meticulously as if it were taffy; the soup and beef remained untouched. Whit noticed Astre's despondent air with a touch of worry.

"Are yeh sick, Patch?" he doted. "You've hardly eaten a thing all day. Don't ya feel hungry, then?"

"Huh?" With a blink, Ciel snapped to a sluggish attention and then stared at Whit as if he were looking at him through a fog. "Oh… Um… No, I'm not sick… just… Tired, I think."

"Maybe you should go to bed early," piped Marlee helpfully.

"No…! Uh, no," Ciel half-shouted, then corrected. "I'll be all right, really. It's only seven-thirty, after all."

From outside, there was a bark.

"Josef's back!" cried Marlee with a merry gasp. "He missed us!"

"Could we go play with him some more before bed, sir?" Teddy asked their host.

Mr. Hastings nodded and shooed at them pleasantly. "Of course, run along! Just be back inside once it's dark."

"We will be, sir, I'll make sure of it," Trevor promised over his shoulder as the younger children scampered out of their chairs and made a mad dash for the front door.

Whit tugged on Ciel's hand. "C'mon, then, let's go too! We can walk instead though, since I know you're tired."

"Uh, right… Yeah, here I come," Ciel mumbled hollowly before shuffling after into the dimming evening. Outside, the boys' laughter could be heard, along with more barking. Sebastian already knew Ciel's voice would not join in the fun. Perhaps Hastings would soon let his demon off-duty, and maybe then he could ask the boy how he was faring.

"Josef the dog… Sounds familiar. That's from a book, isn't it?" Hastings was quiet, snapping his fingers as he tried to remember the title while Sebastian closed the three doors leading to the main hall, parlor, and study. "Heidi, maybe… I think that's her St. Bernard."

"Indeed, correct." With a snap of his own, Corbin had the plates and bowls neatly piled up at one end of the table. "Though the way this dog fancies running away from home, I'd say 'Kashtanka' is a more suitable name."

"Kashtanka?※※※ Is that Russian? I don't think I know that story." Hastings spoke casually, but his eyes lit up whenever he saw Corbin flaunt his abilities. This instance was no exception. "The domestics," he said, "by now, they should have all gone to their rooms and started packing their luggage. Now's the time to discuss our plan for tomorrow."

Hastings reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little blue bottle of what Sebastian correctly guessed was chloral hydrate. "You've been a brilliant asset to me these past few days," Hastings said with a smile. "Your cooking tonight, for instance, will make our job all the easier tomorrow. Some knockout drops in the leftover soup at dinner, and we'll have the boys ready for delivery in short order."

He handed the vial to Corbin, who tucked it away safely on his person. "Sykes and Pickering will bring around a pair of carriages," Hastings continued. "We'll stick all the boys in one. I'll go behind in the other. As for you, I'd like you to follow the entourage as a bird of some sort and keep yourself alert for anyone who may see us. We won't leave until after nine o'clock. The roads should be plenty clear by then, but I'm not going to risk it. Of course, the carriages are nothing but your average broughams; on their own they shouldn't raise suspicion. I would just prefer you were doing surveillance as well. Can you?"

"Of course." Corbin bowed ever so slightly, keeping his gaze on his master. "I take it we're headed for none other than the Hundred Acres?"

"Precisely." Hastings put his elbows on the tabletop, folding one hand over the other and propping up his chin on them. "And that's where you'll see what we've been working on for so long. The thing that has brought you to me."

"I'm infinitely curious." Corbin cocked his head to the side eagerly. "I don't suppose I get any hints?"

Hastings's eyebrows raised as a smile lit his cheek. "Maybe if you're good," he said, standing up and walking to the door, all without breaking the gaze. "After you finish your nightly duties, come visit the master bedroom again. There, I'll have another very important task for you." The door opened without a creak. "But before that… I'll need you to tidy up the kitchen and get the boys to bed."

The kitchen wouldn't take long to clean, especially if Sebastian were able to use his demon's abilities to speed up the process. Just his luck, then, that one of the maids kept nipping in to grab a spice or utensil she meant to bring with her. Sebastian wagered the grouchy old cook was sending her on these errands, too, loath to face the man who proved her wrong. Unfortunately, it meant there was no time to check in with Ciel before Sebastian needed to put him and the other boys to bed.

As the eldest boy, Trevor, had promised, everyone had been shepherded back indoors by nightfall. They were, in fact, already in their nightgowns when Corbin was at last able to venture upstairs to their makeshift bedroom. Teddy and Whit were teasing Little Marlee, who could barely stay awake and was swaying on the spot.

"Don't fall asleep, Marlee! You can't barely keep on yer plates!" Whit laughed.

"All right..." mumbled the youngest of the brood, before immediately closing his eyes and almost losing his balance.

Teddy clapped his hands loudly. "Don't fall asleep! Don't fall asleep!"

Whit pushed his accomplice somewhat. "Not so loud! Patch's tryin' ta kip!"

Teddy narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Honestly, the way you go on about that bully-trap…"※※※※

Whit pushed Teddy again, more forcefully. "Patch isn't a bully-trap!"

Teddy didn't take this advance so casually. "Oy! You want a go, then?"

"I think not," Sebastian snipped, stopping their fight with the lilt of his voice and the glint in his eye. It was a warning that always made Bard, Finny, and Mey-Rin stop what they were doing at once, and it worked here just as well. "Into your beds, off to sleep. Anyone who thinks they can continue this little spat after I shut the door will find their new quarters in the kitchen. Do I make myself understood?"

"Yessir…"

"Mmhm…"

"S'rry about them," said Trevor guiltily. He really had designated himself the caretaker. "I should've been lookin' after 'um better."

"Never you mind it. It isn't your concern." Corbin picked up the drooping Marlee and settled him into his cot before he could topple to the floor — an action he seemed mere seconds away from exhibiting. "You boys must practice your own self-discipline. Fighting won't be tolerated under Mr. Hastings's eye. Not a bit."

"Yessir..." chorused Trevor and Whit quietly.

Sebastian turned to view the middle bed before he shut off the lights. Only Ciel's recognizable hair stuck out from under the covers. The rest of him was burrowed deep in a shelter of blankets that felt much safer than it truly was. The only question remained was, what was Ciel hiding from this time?

He couldn't ask. Not now. He'd have to wait for Ciel to call him, whenever that may be; if the time even came.

Sebastian waited in the second floor hallway until four of the young souls pulsed with even breathing and even heartbeats. The fifth soul, the one that would always stand out no matter how crowded a room, tremored in its host like a small, cold thing. But outwardly, his master was motionless and silent. And alone.

Gwilym Hastings was sitting at the table when Sebastian entered his bedroom at ten o'clock. He was drinking again from a deep green bottle of wine, though tonight he seemed to be tolerating its effects with less nobility. He wasn't drunk when his eyes lighted upon Sebastian, but there was a certain punch to his words that likely sprung from a bellyful of liquid courage.

"There you are, at last." He spoke with just a hint of a slur, but it was present. "The lambs are bedded down, then?"

Corbin Bleu bowed his head. "Yes, sir. They are an excitable bunch, but they have settled."

Hastings nodded drowsily, his gaze drifting to the floor. "And the domestics? They're all asleep?"

Again, an inclination of his head.

"Very good." Hastings downed the rest of his glass and then held out the bottle to Sebastian. "Take it away from me before I finish the damn thing, would you?"

Corbin did so, and decided not to mention that Hastings had nearly finished 'the damn thing' already.

"Sit," Hastings instructed, and Corbin did so. The human's eyes were transfixed on his demon's face for a few moments. "I don't suppose the devil has any qualms about sinning," he finally said.

Corbin smiled. "You suppose correctly."

"Any sort of sin," Hastings tacked on. It seemed serious. Sebastian wondered what he had in mind.

"Any sort of sin," Corbin said, and added darkly, "Which of the seven do you desire to act upon?"

Hastings laughed with his mouth closed, a noise that seemed to resonate in his chest. There was a flush coming over his features. "I think you already know," he simpered, finger tapping at the base of the wine glass. "Forgive me for being so forward. But my bed is cold, and here I have the king of pleasure himself at my beck and call."

As usual, sexual desires shocked Sebastian not at all, nor did the idea of initiating in them with any adult or while he was in any conceivable form. It also didn't matter to him a mite that Hastings was a man and, currently, so was he. But this was no doubt an intimate detail that Hastings did not share with just anyone, and it made Sebastian wonder what other secrets he may be privy to.

He showed his reciprocation to the advances by leaning across the table, faces only inches apart, and offering, "Shall I follow you, then?" assuming correctly that Hastings would want to play the lead role here.

Hastings led him to the bed and met Sebastian under the sheets with the enthusiasm of a man too long deprived. He was voracious, and practiced, and knew well what to ask or demand in order to reach the heights of his pleasure. It went without saying that Sebastian knew how to answer him. If there was one thing he was well-versed in, it was how to abide a human's most primal need. Many of his contracts had used him for sexual gratification, whether or not that was the reason he'd been summoned in the first place. Hastings had been in more of a hurry than most to perform the act, and Sebastian learned why when the man admitted to him afterwards, "Northcott was the only one before this. I'm glad you're nothing like him. It might've broken my heart."

They were lying still in Hastings's enormous bed. It was calm now. Sometimes when a human finished with him, they wanted Sebastian to leave, or to go again, or, most commonly, they would fall asleep after reaching ecstasy. Hastings didn't seem to want anything but to lay beside Corbin and look at the ceiling.

"I see now why you miss him," Corbin said, chuckling low and deep. "He was the only one who knew, wasn't he?"

"He was the only one who knew." Hastings sighed. "He was the most genuinely kind man I ever met… He was a good Christian too. And I suppose he went to Hell all the same… Just because of whom he loved."

It had always intrigued Sebastian what humans thought 'Hell' was like; it was really nothing akin to their hypotheses. And a soul certainly wasn't "sent there" merely for relating with a person of the same sex. Why humans had decided their exclusive god judged that point so strongly was still amusing to him.

"I didn't understand why he still tried to earn God's faith," Hastings went on wistfully to the ceiling. "He was so brave… So much braver than me. I'd given up on God. I was born a heathen; I may as well live like a heathen. If Hell is my fate, why bother with doing unto others and loving my neighbors and all that foolishness? That's what I said to Algernon, anyway. And he said, 'It's the principle of the thing.' Imagine that! I thought he was full of himself. But no… he was just a man of good standards, through and through. The only crime he ever committed against God was allowing me to love him."

Sebastian saw an opening. "Is that so? But was he not a part of this little jockeying scheme himself?"

Hastings didn't speak right away. He closed his eyes. "Algernon was... a smart man," he said at last. "We — that is, I and the other men behind this little plot — thought we had him cornered. I knew he was an Urning※※※※※, but he didn't know I was, and we threatened him with that. We wanted his money to fund this project, and if he didn't agree, we'd reveal him.

"But Northcott wasn't afraid of us. He said he'd give us that and more: he would provide us with the children we needed to act as jockeys. He brought them in from overseas. It was even better than we'd hoped. Without English, the boys were helpless. But those boys were as good as dead, even if they'd stayed in the Mediterranean. To us, they were the perfect specimens, but to Northcott, they were already angels in the arms of his lord. It was the children of London he swore to protect. They had futures, he felt. As long as he supplied us with these foreign boys with no hope anyway, he was keeping us from murdering the street rats of our mother country. He knew if he couldn't stop us, he'd have to derail us. That's exactly what he did. He helped us and scorned us every step of the way. I hate how much I loved him for it."

Sebastian felt the smirk on his own face. Algernon Northcott actually sounded rather interesting. He would have piqued the demon's interest, had he still been alive… but without a soul, he meant nothing to Sebastian.

"You said he died protecting the innocent," Corbin spoke softly.

Hastings looked at his bedmate out of the corner of his eye, then back up at the ceiling. "He jumped in front of a horse that was about to trample a boy. He should have just let it happen… The damned fool ... My men had to set up his body in his stables and make it appear that one of his own horses did it. But I… won't forget how he looked in death… No, not ever."

There was a long, haunted pause, before Hastings continued, "Northcott never could stand to see the boys die. Or get hurt, for that matter. I suppose you may know about the Cleveland Street scandal last year? Scotland Yard would never have uncovered it without his tip-off. Northcott thought young people should be treated as children until they were nearly twenty. Something about brain chemistry, I don't quite recall. Well, the boys in the brothel were around fifteen, and Northcott said he found that disturbing. He said it was wrong for men to bed people that young, girls or boys. And in giving that tidbit to the Yard, he very nearly revealed himself. All for a group of poor whelps he'd never even met!"

Corbin's grin seemed to glisten in the night. "You differ quite a bit in that regard, hm?"

A sigh. "Experimentation requires sacrifice." Hastings was quiet for a full minute before admitting tonelessly, "I wonder when I stopped caring about killing children."

That was when the pulse hit.

It had been some time since Sebastian had felt this odd, knotted feeling roil inside him like a tangle of eels. It was a summons — a desperate, whispered summons perhaps, a plea in the darkness, from a mouth only half-conscious of what it begged for. It tugged at him like a leash, with just the same message as it would mean for a dog: return to your master.

The pull was irresistible. Still, he could not leave without an explanation.

"One of the boys is awake," Corbin said, standing with his clothes donned before he had finished the sentence. He began towards the door.

"Don't worry about him. Come back." Hastings patted the now-empty side of the bed.

Corbin threw a forced smile over his shoulder. "Now, now. You've had your fill. We can't have too much of a good thing, hmm?"

Hastings sat up, sheets pooling around his lap. "I thought you said you were here to serve me." It wasn't a command or a threat, but a light question: why were you so eager to find work before, but now you are resisting it?

"Were I to stay," Corbin answered, "I would not serve you, but indulge you."

"To indulge me is to serve me," Hastings said.

Corbin snorted. "You are a greedy master, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Hastings.

The pull was irresistible. "Abstain from your desires, and the next time, it will be even better."

"I don't want to have another stitch. I want you to be my company."

The pull was irresistible... "Exercise restraint now, and perhaps I will return."

"Stay. Talk with me."

"I cannot."

"You must."

"I won't."

"You will."

"No."

"Yes."

Sebastian turned to face this nuisance. As he did, the shadows swallowed the room so that naught could be seen in the darkness but two glowing eyes and a pair of sterling fangs the length of knuckle bones. "You fear me not enough."

He cast off the guise like a cloak and left his false charge to shiver in the near-tangible hoarfrost of a demon's vitriol.

※: In the previous conversation between the boys, Teddy joked about Whit being gay due to his attentiveness towards Ciel. He used the term "iron hoof," which is Cockney rhyming slang for "poof," which is just regular slang/an insult for "gay dude" in case you also didn't know that. The reason Whit is so upset about the accusation is because he isn't straight and he does have a budding crush on Ciel, though this never really comes up in the story.

※※: "Ernestine" was a potential preferred name of Thomas Ernest Boulton, an actor who, at the time, was known as a cross-dresser, and would today be called a transgender woman. She and her partner, Frederick William Park, who also dressed in women's clothing, were part of a huge court case in the 1870s. Park died in 1881, but Ernestine lived until the early 1900s and continued to act even after the scandal. Having been partially brought up by her, Whit is significantly more open-minded about her gender than most Victorian-era people. In the end, he decides it's better not to tell Ciel who Miss Ernestine is. As of April 2023, more research has taught me that she may have preferred to go by Stella.

※※※: Kashtanka is a short story written in 1887 by Anton Chekhov about a dog who wanders away from home, gets fantastically lost, and has some wacky misadventures.

※※※※: A "bully-trap" is an effeminate-looking male who, despite not being physically weak or weak-minded, gets picked on frequently for appearing to be weak.

※※※※※: "Urning" is yet another term for a gay man, but it was actually used by gay men and wasn't an insult. Men who referred to their love as "Uranian" could mean they were in a sexual relationship with another man, but some vouched it could also mean they cared deeply about a male friend; basically the Victorian equivalent of "no homo." This term wasn't very common outside of certain circles. For instance, Whit and the acting community he grew up around would use Polari slang instead.