( chapter thirty-two ! )
"Who sends packages so early in the morning?"
Morning light streams through the dining room of Barrett Manor. It is mostly quiet, save for the sounds of cutlery and the occasional empty chatter between the family. If Vivienne had not pointed out the package, the others would not have even noticed.
The parcel is large, weighty enough that it requires two footmen to carry it in. The paper is smooth beneath Leah's fingertips, the string tied with precision—whoever had wrapped it had done so with painstaking care. Of course, she already knows who has sent it.
Daniel, seated across from her at the breakfast table, watches with the distinct air of someone unimpressed by the grand display before him. His arms remain folded as Leah sets aside her teacup and tugs at the ribbon, allowing the wrapping to fall away in neat folds.
Inside, layers of fine fabric rest in pristine condition, each dress more exquisite than the last. Silks, velvets, delicate lacework—meticulously selected for her figure and complexion, though there is no mistaking that some of these choices have been influenced by another's preferences.
Nestled atop the fabric is a letter, sealed with the Phantomhive crest. With careful fingers, she breaks the wax, unfolding the paper to reveal Ciel's familiar, precise script.
"Leah,
I trust this parcel reaches you without issue. Given the circumstances under which you lost your last gown, I find it only appropriate to replace it—along with a few others, for good measure. Each has been selected with your preferences in mind, though I admit some choices may have been influenced by my own inclinations. I will assume you can determine which ones those are.
The green should suit you well.
Ciel Phantomhive"
Leah lets the letter rest between her fingers, eyes lingering on that last line. 'The green should suit you well.' She reaches into the box, lifting the very dress he means—a deep, rich green, velvet so fine it shimmers beneath the morning light. The design is painfully familiar, almost a perfect replica of the gown she had worn the night the Campania sank, the night everything had gone horribly wrong.
A rush of something unspoken passes through her, but she masks it well.
"Impressive," Daniel remarks, though his tone remains as flat as ever. "Has he not sent you an entire wardrobe already?"
Lucius, who has been observing the exchange with quiet calculation, leans back in his chair. "Lord Phantomhive is proving himself a most attentive fiancé. It is good to see him taking his responsibilities seriously."
Leah keeps her expression neutral, letting her gaze drift toward her mother.
Vivienne barely acknowledges the exchange, sparing the dresses a brief glance before resuming her tea. "You ought to ensure they do not end up like the last one," is all she says.
The comment is an offhanded one, spoken with disinterest rather than malice, but it settles under Leah's skin all the same. It is nowhere near her fault that her last gown had been torn. It was an impulsive act to save her life that is likely to not happen again.
Daniel, catching the slight shift in her posture, exhales through his nose in amusement. "A shame he did not include a guide on how to avoid disaster. I imagine that would be of more use to you."
Leah shoots him a sidelong glance but does not rise to the bait. Instead, she sets the letter aside and traces the fabric of the green dress between her fingers. It is absurd, really, how much effort he has gone through to find something so accurate. Especially considering that the original green dress was custom-made. Ciel Phantomhive is not a boy prone to sentimentality, yet he makes such a gesture.
She folds the dress carefully, returning it to the box with the others. "I shall send him a letter of thanks," she says simply.
Daniel scoffs, tipping his chair back slightly. "You sound thrilled."
"I am always thrilled."
The deadpan delivery earns a small smirk from her brother, though he says nothing more on the matter.
Lucius, evidently finished with his assessment of the situation, rises from his seat. "We have guests arriving for the luncheon later. You will both be expected to conduct yourselves properly," his gaze lingers on Leah for a moment longer, as if the expectation is more for her than for Daniel. "Do not forget that."
Leah offers a demure nod, though she does not miss the glance Daniel shoots her as their father exits the room. The moment the doors close, he relaxes against the back of his chair, resting his chin in his hand.
"Careful. You nearly looked obedient for a moment," he chuckles.
Leah lets out a breath of amusement, but her attention returns to the dresses before her. The weight of the green velvet remains against her palms, its presence an unspoken reminder of the past. Perhaps, in Ciel's own way, this is an acknowledgment of all that had happened. A silent offering.
She accepts it.
Commence the Easter activities! First activity of the day? Egg painting. An activity Leah Barrett has long grown out of, finding it rather dull since the age of nine. Having been roped into this, she tries to make it at least somewhat entertaining for herself, putting to use her dormant art skills.
Leah dips her brush into a deep blue paint, the bristles gliding smoothly over the eggshell's surface. She has little patience for such trivial pastimes, yet if she is to be forced into them, she will make a spectacle of it. The other young ladies at the table chatter pleasantly as they dab at their own eggs, their work ranging from charmingly simple to utterly disastrous. None of them, of course, can match her precision.
"If I must suffer through this, then I might as well outshine the lot of you," she whispers to no one but herself.
The fine details of her design take shape with ease—delicate swirls and filigree forming a pattern reminiscent of embroidery, each line meticulous, every curve deliberate. If she must sit here, confined to this table with brushes and dyes, she will at least do so with a display of skill that puts the others to shame.
A soft weight settles against her lap, and she glances down briefly. PomPom nestles comfortably at her side, his tiny paws pressing against her skirts. He does not so much as fidget, merely watching with that small, expectant gaze, as though unimpressed by her current predicament. Leah huffs.
"Yes, I know," she mutters under her breath. "This is hardly an entertaining way to spend one's morning."
Across from her, Daniel observes her work with an infuriatingly amused expression, arms crossed as he leans lazily against the table. "Impressive," he muses, tilting his head, "but I cannot help but wonder, dear sister," he reaches forward before she can react, dragging a single finger through the wet paint with a slow, deliberate stroke, "does perfection not bore you? Or deliberately showing off?"
The destruction is instant. A smear of dark blue ruins the intricacy of her design, breaking apart the delicate lines she so carefully crafted. The sheer audacity of it.
Leah inhales, her smile pleasant but thin. "You are as insufferable as ever, Daniel."
Daniel, utterly pleased with himself, simply grins. "You wound me."
She says nothing more. Instead, with all the poise expected of a young lady, she sets aside her brush and leans forward ever so slightly—just enough to graze the edge of the table with her elbow. One of Daniel's finished eggs, resting precariously near the edge, teeters. Wobbles. And then, with a subtle nudge of her sleeve, topples over, rolling straight into a damp pool of paint.
A slow, deliberate smudge drags itself across his once-neatly decorated surface. The moment is quiet.
Daniel stares.
Leah meets his gaze, tilting her head in mock innocence. "Oh dear."
Their father's voice interrupts before Daniel can retaliate. "Do try to behave."
Lucius barely spares them a glance as he passes by, the weight of his sigh betraying long-suffering exhaustion. "You are nearly of age, Leah. You ought to act like a lady."
She turns to him with a sweet, saccharine smile, all too insincere. "But of course, Father."
Vivienne, seated with the other ladies, does not look up from her own careful brushwork. "At the very least, do try not to make a spectacle of yourself," she murmurs, utterly disinterested in the exchange.
Leah rests her chin on her hand, fingers tapping idly against her cheek. "I would never."
Daniel huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for another egg. "You truly are the very picture of decorum."
PomPom, ever unbothered, shifts in Leah's lap, his small fluffy tail wagging ever so slightly. Leah absently runs a gloved hand through his fur, her amusement lingering as she watches Daniel resign himself to fixing his ruined work.
Second Easter activity of the day? Egg rolling. How dreadful.
The estate grounds are alive with movement, laughter threading through the crisp spring air as noble families gather for the festivities. The scent of freshly turned earth lingers beneath the floral breeze, mingling with the faint fragrance of tea from the tables set further up the hill. Brightly dyed eggs dot the lawn, glistening in the afternoon sun, prepared for the upcoming round of egg rolling—a tradition that, for all its supposed charm, holds little appeal to Leah.
She lingers at the edge of the gathering, hands loosely clasped before her, watching as younger children take to the field with enthusiasm. The sight of them scurrying after their eggs, dresses billowing and polished shoes pressing into the grass, is almost amusing. Almost.
PomPom, pristine as ever, sits beside her, his white fur a stark contrast against the rich green beneath him. He is unbothered by the excitement, watching the proceedings with a dignity uncommon for a creature his size. Leah idly runs her fingers through his soft coat, finding far more enjoyment in the rhythmic motion than in the idea of chasing a painted egg down a hill.
Of course, Daniel is another matter entirely.
"Do not tell me you intend to sit this out."
His voice carries easily over the chatter, accompanied by the confident stride that brings him to her side. There is an unmistakable gleam in his eye—anticipation, challenge, the sort of restless energy that demands a contest.
Leah lifts a brow. "You say that as though you have forgotten who you are speaking to."
Daniel only grins. "Come now. Surely you would not pass up the opportunity to test your wits and coordination against mine?"
She glances toward the starting line, where other noble youths gather with far more excitement than the activity deserves. "It is rolling an egg, Daniel. There is neither wit nor coordination required."
"And yet," he muses, arms crossing over his chest, "I will still win."
Leah exhales a long-suffering sigh. "That is truly the most dreadful thing I have ever heard. Very well. If only to spare the others from your insufferable gloating, I shall participate."
Daniel's grin widens, but he says nothing more, merely leading the way toward the gathering contestants. Their parents, engaged in conversation with other guests, pay them little mind. Their father, if he even notices, offers nothing beyond a brief glance before returning to his discussion.
The rules are simple—each participant must guide their egg down the hill using only a small wooden spoon, no hands, no kicking, just careful maneuvering. First to the finish line wins. It is the sort of game meant for younger children, yet here they are, a group of well-dressed noble youths vying for victory as if it holds any real meaning.
Leah selects an egg at random, its soft pink hue entirely unremarkable. Beside her, Daniel examines his with far too much scrutiny, as though it might give him some advantage.
Shortly after the participants fall into place, the signal is given and they are off.
Daniel, ever the competitor, dives into the task with fervor, guiding his egg down the gentle slope with precise, determined strokes. The others follow suit, some with grace, others with flustered urgency. Leah, however, takes her time, nudging her egg forward with the bare minimum of effort.
Daniel shoots her a look. "You could at least pretend to try."
"I am trying," she replies airily, watching as her egg veers slightly off course. She corrects its path with an unhurried tap of the spoon, offering Daniel a languid smile.
His own pace does not falter, though the furrow of his brow betrays his irritation. He is too caught up in securing his victory to pay much attention to her movements, exactly as she intends.
With an ease that almost feels like an afterthought, Leah angles her next push with subtle precision, sending her egg rolling at a far better pace than before. It weaves past a floundering opponent, slips neatly ahead of another, and—despite her supposed indifference—crosses the finish line first.
Silence follows. Then, laughter. Delighted, incredulous, from the other contestants who had watched her lackluster approach, only to see her claim victory in the end. Daniel stares at her, flatly unimpressed.
Leah brushes nonexistent dust from her skirts, her expression one of mild curiosity. "Oh? Did I win?"
His sigh is dramatic. "You are the most infuriating person alive."
"It is one of my many talents," she agrees, casting a glance toward PomPom, who has remained where she left him, subtly playing with the grass.
Daniel rakes a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "Very well. Enjoy your victory, hollow as it is."
She hums, amused. "I believe I shall."
Their parents, predictably, do not acknowledge the results. Their father remains engrossed in conversation, their mother seated elegantly with the other ladies, not sparing them so much as a glance. It is as expected. They tend to be focused on being social to keep up reputations, it is not often that they let so many people into Barrett Manor. Especially if it isn't a holiday or special event.
Leah does not mind. The satisfaction of annoying Daniel is reward enough. After all, siblings often love to indulge in the hobby of annoying one another and the Barrett siblings are no exception.
She says nothing more as she makes her way back to her spot beside PomPom, resuming watching the children run about and enjoy themselves under the sun. For a moment, she can remember what it feels like—to be a child carelessly. She hasn't felt that in quite a long time. If she was more familiar with it, perhaps she would miss it.
Barrett Manor's dining hall is a vision of refinement for Easter luncheon, gleaming with candlelight despite the afternoon sun streaming through tall windows. The table, stretching nearly the length of the room, is laid with the finest china and silver, an opulent display of Barrett wealth. Plates of roasted lamb, glistening with rich glaze, sit alongside golden-crusted pies, delicately arranged hot cross buns, and the towering presence of a simnel cake crowned with eleven perfectly formed marzipan balls. Crystal glasses catch the light, shimmering with deep reds and pale golds of expertly selected wines.
The atmosphere is as lively as it has been all day—noble families engaged in the customary dance of polite conversation, their words lilting with feigned interest. Laughter flits through the air, soft and measured, never exceeding the bounds of propriety. Children, much younger than Leah, sit stiff-backed, absorbing their parents' mannerisms with practiced ease. Every movement, every glance, is measured, a carefully rehearsed performance of aristocratic grace.
Leah plays her part, though with mild reluctance. Seated between Daniel and an unfamiliar gentleman whose name she has already forgotten, she maintains the poised composure expected of her, hands delicately poised around silverware, posture impeccable. She takes calculated bites, engaging in brief, surface-level conversation with those who address her, voice tempered to the appropriate softness. To any observer, she is every bit the refined young lady she is meant to be. And yet, beneath the polished veneer, her mind drifts.
PomPom, confined to her quarters for the duration of the meal, is no doubt sulking in one of the cushioned chairs. The image of him, paws tucked primly beneath him, ears twitching in mild offense at his exile, is far more engaging than the conversation unfolding around her. Sam is undoubtedly being a menace in his own right as well.
A fork scrapes lightly against a porcelain plate, the soft clink drawing her attention back to the present. Across the table, her father sets down his utensils, his expression as composed as ever, though there is a weight behind his gaze when it settles upon her.
"It is imperative that you conduct yourself properly in the coming months," Lucius remarks, his tone even, yet leaving no room for argument. "Lord Phantomhive's favor will only take you so far."
Leah does not immediately respond. The words are not a warning—warnings require the assumption that she has not already grasped what is expected of her. This is a reminder, a deliberate reinforcement of what she already knows. The Social Season looms ahead, bringing with it a new wave of scrutiny, of expectations she has long since resigned herself to.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her wine glass, though her expression betrays nothing. She bites back the retort that rises to her tongue, instead lowering her gaze to her plate, cutting into a piece of lamb with forced indifference.
Beside her, Daniel shifts, leaning just enough to murmur in her ear, "You do realize he means 'do not embarrass us,' yes?"
Leah does not look at him. "Oh, believe me, I understood."
His quiet chuckle is equal parts amusement and sympathy. He, at least, finds entertainment in her predicament.
Across the table, Vivienne regards her with the cool detachment that has always marked their interactions. She has spoken little throughout the meal, only engaging when necessary, her presence more akin to an ornament than an active participant in the gathering. When she finally addresses Leah, her words are as light as they are meaningless.
"Your gown is a lovely shade," she comments, her gaze drifting over Leah's attire with passive approval. "It suits you."
A statement without depth, a remark made not out of interest, but out of obligation. Leah inclines her head slightly, murmuring a polite, "Thank you, Mother," before returning her attention to her meal. There is nothing else to say.
Conversation ebbs and flows around them, the luncheon progressing as expected. Distantly, Leah hears talk of the upcoming balls, of advantageous matches being arranged, of whispered scandals too delicate to be spoken of outright but too enticing to be ignored. She contributes little, answering when addressed, and feigning interest when required.
The lamb is well-prepared, the wine of excellent quality, and the desserts are a testament to the chef's skill. It is, by all accounts, a perfectly orchestrated affair.
Still, she has never felt more like a spectator in her own life.
The meal stretches on, an endless tide of pleasantries and restrained indulgence. Plates are cleared with efficiency, replaced with delicate servings of simnel cake, the almond scent mingling with the ever-present warmth of candlelight. Leah takes a measured bite, the sweetness settling on her tongue, familiar yet unremarkable.
Her father speaks again, this time to one of the other gentlemen at the table, his attention shifting away. Daniel, perhaps sensing the growing fatigue in her expression, mercifully steers the conversation toward lighter topics, offering a momentary reprieve from the weight of expectation.
He engages the gentleman to Leah's right in a discussion about horseback riding, weaving in just enough wit to keep the exchange engaging without veering into true informality. It is a skill he has mastered—walking the fine line between amusement and propriety, ensuring his audience remains entertained yet unimpeachable in their decorum.
Leah allows herself to drift into the periphery of the conversation, nodding when appropriate, offering the occasional murmured agreement. It is a welcome reprieve, requiring little from her beyond passive participation. The weight of her father's words still lingers, but Daniel's diversion is a small mercy, easing the tension that has settled so heavily upon her shoulders.
"..Of course, one must be mindful of the temperament of the horse," Daniel is saying, gesturing faintly with his wine glass. "Leah, for instance, is particularly fond of those with a stubborn streak. I suspect she enjoys the challenge."
There is a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he turns his attention to her, waiting for her response.
Leah lifts a brow, taking a deliberate sip of her wine before replying, "It is not the challenge I enjoy, merely the familiarity."
Her words earn a small chuckle from those nearby, an acceptable level of humor for such a setting. Daniel grins, clearly pleased to have drawn her into the exchange.
"Familiarity, indeed," he muses. "Though I do wonder if that fondness extends to people as well."
She cuts him a sidelong glance, unimpressed by the implication, but before she can formulate a retort, the conversation shifts once more, the gentleman beside her launching into an anecdote about a particularly ill-tempered stallion he once encountered. Leah lets the words wash over her, barely absorbing them.
Further down the table, their parents remain engrossed in conversation with the other noble guests, paying them little mind. It is always this way—Daniel is the one expected to command attention, to represent the Barrett name with effortless confidence. Leah, meanwhile, is simply to exist within the frame, poised but unobtrusive, an accessory to the family's standing rather than an active participant in its affairs. It is a role she has long since resigned herself to playing, though not without quiet resistance.
Her gaze flickers briefly to the towering simnel cake at the center of the table, its marzipan decorations meticulously arranged. It is, like everything else, a symbol of tradition. A carefully maintained illusion of warmth and festivity. And yet, for all its sweetness, it does little to mask the cold reality of expectation.
Daniel, ever the performer, keeps the conversation lively, ensuring the luncheon carries on with the appropriate air of ease. Leah lets him, knowing that, for now, it is the best she can hope for.
As the meal draws to a close, Leah exhales slowly, the motion imperceptible to those around her. Another gathering endured, another reminder of the path laid before her.
The luncheon is not yet over, nor is the day itself, but she is already longing for the solace of her quarters—where PomPom, at least, will greet her without expectation.
Though, when is Leah not longing for such a thing?
Shortly after the luncheon concludes, the afternoon sun already hangs lower in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the manicured lawn of the Barrett estate. The remnants of the Easter festivities have begun to fade. The last of the noble guests filter out, carriages crunching over gravel, and the servants move with quiet efficiency, clearing away the excess of the luncheon. It is a familiar rhythm, one that Leah does not care to pay much mind.
The weight of the day still lingers upon her, though it is not as heavy as it could be. She has endured worse gatherings and suffered through far more suffocating displays of expectation. Today has been tolerable, if only because she has known precisely what to expect.
She makes her way toward the garden, seeking the solace of the hedges and the slow, calming trickle of the fountain at its center. PomPom trots dutifully beside her, the small pomeranian's pristine white fur a stark contrast against the dark soil of the path. He does not stray, does not dart about as other dogs might. No, PomPom is far too refined for such foolishness. That is, only when he feels he is too refined. The dog is far too prideful to acknowledge his occasional bouts of endless energy. Instead, he prances with a quiet sort of dignity, only pausing now and then to sniff curiously at a particularly interesting patch of grass.
The soft crunch of approaching footsteps does not startle her. She knows them well and has heard them for as long as she can remember.
"You disappeared rather quickly," Daniel remarks, his tone light, unbothered. "I hardly had time to bid you farewell before you fled."
Leah does not turn immediately, allowing herself the smallest delay before offering him a sidelong glance. "It was not a flight," she counters, voice dry. "I simply saw no further need for my presence."
He hums, unconvinced but not inclined to argue. With a casual grace, he lowers himself onto the stone bench beside her, stretching his arms out along the back of it as if he has not a care in the world. It is an ease she envies at times. His ability to move through life with such effortless confidence, unshaken by the weight of their parents' expectations.
For a moment, neither of them speak. The sounds of the estate carry on around them—the distant clatter of dishes being collected, the faint murmur of lingering conversation. A breeze stirs the neatly trimmed hedges, carrying with it the faint scent of spring blooms.
Daniel is the one to break the silence, as he always does. "You were rather well-behaved today," he muses, a teasing lilt to his words. "I must admit, I am almost proud."
Leah exhales a quiet scoff, though there is no true irritation behind it. "Do not mistake endurance for obedience," she replies. "I simply saw no benefit in inciting unnecessary conflict."
He grins, ever amused. "Ah, so it was strategy, then. How very devious of you."
She does not dignify that with a response, instead reaching down to idly run her fingers through PomPom's fur. The little dog leans into the touch, offering a small, pleased sigh.
Daniel watches her for a moment, something softer settling in his gaze. It is a rare thing, these moments between them—quiet, absent of their usual petty arguments and sharp remarks. As much as they bicker, as much as they test each other's patience, there is no denying the bond they share. It has been forged through years of shared experience, of navigating the cold indifference of their parents, of finding solace in each other when there was no one else to turn to.
"You know," he says after a while, his voice losing its usual flippant edge, "I do not envy you."
Leah stills, her fingers pausing in PomPom's fur. She does not look at him, but he knows she is listening.
"Everyone speaks of the Season as if it is some grand opportunity," he continues. "A spectacle of courtship, a time of promise and expectation," his expression darkens, just slightly. "But I know what it truly is. A stage. A game in which you are both the player and the prize. And I do not envy you for it."
It is a rare thing, for him to speak so plainly. Leah swallows, her throat tightening with something she cannot quite name. She has always known, of course. Known that her path is not truly hers to choose, that the future laid out before her has been decided by forces beyond her control. And yet, to hear Daniel acknowledge it so openly, to hear the quiet frustration in his voice—it is both a comfort and a weight.
She does not respond immediately. Instead, she leans back slightly, letting her gaze drift upward to the clear blue of the sky. "You needn't concern yourself with me," she says at last, her tone measured, steady. "I am not so easily undone. Besides, I am betrothed, so I have the luxury of not having to claw apart other young ladies for a marriage proposal."
Daniel lets out a quiet breath, somewhere between amusement and resignation. "I know," he murmurs, "but that does not mean I do not worry."
It is as close as he will come to sentimentality, and she accepts it for what it is. Another stretch of silence falls between them, but it is not an uncomfortable one. It is simply... theirs.
PomPom shifts, curling up more comfortably at Leah's feet, content in the presence of his special person and the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Daniel, never one to linger too long in seriousness, straightens with a stretch, his usual smirk returning. "Well, if nothing else, at least you have your absurdly pampered deformed rabbit to keep you company through it all."
Leah exhales a laugh, shaking her head. "PomPom is worth more than half the people at that table," she quips.
Her brother grins, rising to his feet with a flourish. "Then I shall consider myself fortunate to have been in his esteemed presence."
He offers her a hand, a rare gesture of sincerity. After a brief hesitation, she takes it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.
As they make their way back toward the house, the last remnants of the day fading into the early evening light, Daniel glances sideways at her, a small smirk playing at his lips.
"Do try not to make the Season a complete disaster, will you?"
Leah hums, tilting her head in feigned contemplation.
"No promises."