/Heart sick and eyes filled up with blue
I don't know what you've done to me
But I know this much is true:
I wanna do bad things with you/
Indeed, it was a long night. Time dragged on, as slow as the wine disappearing from her glass.
Amidst the clamour and the intrusive presence of the other guests, Cielle had all but given up on forming a coherent thought, let alone coming up with a plan.
She was certain that the glaring gap between Ashworth's salary and the lavish lifestyle flaunted before her was impossible to overlook, but the suspicion itself wasn't enough. She needed evidence.
She considered sending Sebastian to search the house, but before she could act, a random middle-aged man approached her.
Now, he was rambling about his "terrific" business proposal, which, in reality, was just him patting himself on the back for cutting corners on production costs. Cielle nodded along, pretending to listen, all while biting back the urge to throw her drink in his face.
At least she hadn't been besieged with many dance invitations, since her fiancé was with her. Perhaps she should consider bringing him along to every social event she would be forced to attend in the future.
Though he wasn't particularly keen on these shindigs either, it didn't appear he'd mind attending. Edward had been throwing glances her way each time the music struck up, his face darkening whenever some eager fellow came to whisk her to the dance floor.
And yet, he never made the move himself, as though it were her duty to ask. Not that she cared much, really. But if they could manage a few dances, just to solidify their appearance as an engaged couple, it might ward off even more of those who were inclined to take his place.
She disliked dancing. The proximity of it—the touch of another's hands on her waist, being guided in movements, and of course the ever-present risk of her partner getting too handsy. Just the thought of it made her skin crawl.
Yes, she detested dancing.
Unlike Lizzy, of course, whose dance card was already full to the brim, and who now spun around the floor as if she were born to it. The charming and unbetrothed young lady had a long line of admirers tonight, indeed.
Cielle wondered how many more suitors Lizzy had collected for herself today.
She couldn't help but feel a measure of relief at not having to endure the business of courtship herself. Choosing the least dreadful option from a pool of the insipid, the shallow, or the outright dangerous seemed like a never-ending task. And, in the end, who could really predict who one would end up shackled to?
Would it be a gambler? A drunkard? A man who preferred his wife as little more than a punching bag?
At least with Edward—someone she'd known her whole life—she could be fairly certain he wouldn't fall into any of those categories. She supposed. Not that she'd spent much time pondering it. After all, there was a rather real chance she might not live long enough to find out.
Lately, an unsettling feeling had begun to gnaw at her as she couldn't shake off what she started noticing.
Her eyes flicked over the crowd, searching for her fiancé. It didn't take long to find him—he was standing nearby, by his mother and her circle of vapid acquaintances, as mute as ever. His eyes as fixed on her as ever.
And there it was. Exactly that.
It had started about a year ago—with the glances. The kind of looks that were occasionally accompanied by dilated pupils and the odd flush creeping up his neck whenever she caught him staring. Then it progressed into mimicking his mother's ridiculous hostility towards Sebastian. And then those clumsy, awkward little acts of chivalry, like today's incident at the carriage.
It was nauseating.
She'd never thought she'd be in the position to navigate this… whatever it was.
Their engagement was an alliance arranged by their families. Nothing more than duty. Nothing they'd ever asked for. Or consented to.
Perhaps she should have expected this shift in him. But she reckoned that knowing it was coming hardly would've made it any easier to endure. Each prolonged stare and each too-sweet smile of her fiancé felt like a shard of glass pressed against her skin, followed by a prick of guilt.
She didn't know how to respond to it. She didn't want to respond to it.
Cielle sighed and took a slow sip from her drink. But then, her head snapped up as she realised the old man was still there. Not only that; his monologue had ended and he was now looking at her expectantly.
She'd been in this position far too often.
"Thank you for the offer," she said, all faux politeness. "But I'm afraid we're not currently seeking new partnerships."
Furrowing his brows, the man seemed about to protest, but his words were cut off by the ringing tap of a fork against the glass. Sensing the opportunity, she made her escape.
"If I could have a moment of your attention, please?" a familiar voice proclaimed.
Cielle angled herself strategically between Aunt Francis and Edward, her gaze following the voice to the raised platform in the centre of the room.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," slurred James Ashworth, his frame swaying slightly as he clutched the edge of the podium for dear life. "First and foremost, thank you all for joining us tonight; it's a pleasure to see so many familiar faces. I would like to extend a special thank you to Lady Phantomhive." His glassy eyes landed on her, and the crowd turned in unison, like a field of sunflowers facing the light. "Her divine presence is greatly appreciated, and I am honoured to count her among our guests."
Cielle felt the weight of a hundred stares pinning her in place. She managed a cool nod, though inwardly, she wanted to disappear into the floorboards. Divine presence, indeed.
So, he finally shows himself, she thought, noting his unsteady stance. And already deep in his cups. How promising.
Still, a drunken host was a malleable host. Both Ashworth and his wife were now thoroughly engrossed in the party. This could be her chance—if she could just slip away unnoticed. But…
She looked at Francis who stood beside her. The woman's fine profile bore the strain of eternal judgement as she watched Ashworth.
This was an obstacle.
Sneaking away with Sebastian would be near impossible, with her aunt hovering over her like a hawk.
"Now, let me share something truly special," continued Ashworth with a grin. "As many of you know, I recently travelled to Egypt—the land of the ancients, the cradle of civilisation!" He spread his arms wide, narrowly avoiding toppling over. "And during my journey, I uncovered treasures—treasures you've seen displayed here tonight."
"But… there's one discovery. One relic that stands above all the others." His voice dropped into the conspiratorial tone. "Something so extraordinary, I simply couldn't keep it to myself, unearthed from the very heart of an ancient Nile tomb!"
Cielle fought the urge to roll her eyes so hard they might detach.
Ashworth lifted a slightly unsteady hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am thrilled to unwrap to you… a piece of history itself!"
The crowd parted, like the Red Sea itself, to make room for two servants carrying…
Cielle blinked. A sarcophagus?
"Ladies and gentlemen, behold!" bellowed Ashworth, gesturing with both arms like some intoxicated Moses. "Sobekemsaf the First, a pharaoh of the Seventeenth Dynasty!"
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as the servants laid the coffin down.
Cielle pinched the bridge of her nose, stifling a groan. Oh, for heaven's sake! Fraud or no fraud, this display was embarrassing.
Francis seemed to share her sentiment. She murmured something under her breath, her words lost in the noise, but Cielle caught, "…indecent…"
Two servants heaved the sarcophagus lid aside with a low groan of effort, and Cielle rose onto her tiptoes, craning her neck for a better view.
And there it was. A mummy. Like a well-aged raisin wrapped in brownish linen.
"Excuse me, sir," piped up a lady near the front, "I've heard that such a well-preserved mummy might possess numerous medicinal benefits. Is there any truth to that?"
"Ah, Lady Fairbourne, an excellent question!" he replied, his tone dead serious. "Indeed, it is said that the consumption of mummies has many miraculous effects. From curing ailments like the common cold to rejuvenating the spirit and extending one's life. You see, the ancient wisdom and life force in the mummified remains can be transferred to the person ingesting them. It's because…" he continued rambling, his words flowing forth with fervour.
Cielle tuned him out as he delved deeper into his lecture.
She couldn't decide which was more horrifying. The fact that he actually seemed to believe this pseudoscientific rubbish or that the crowd seemed captivated by it.
"'Miraculous properties,'" muttered Cielle under her breath, shaking her head. "All he'll get is explosive diarrhoea if he tries munching on that corpse—assuming he doesn't die first. Just when I thought this idiocy had finally died out… What utter bollocks."
No sooner had the words escaped her mouth than a sudden, vice-like pinch latched onto the tender flesh of her arm, sharp enough to make her wince.
"Cielle!" hissed Aunt Francis, voice a venomous whisper.
"Bloody—ouch!" yelped Cielle, recoiling as the pain shot up her arm like a series of tiny daggers.
She heard Edward and Elizabeth gasping in horror.
Some nearby individuals glanced in their direction with startled curiosity.
Francis turned to them with a smile so wide and brittle it looked frightening. The saccharine expression froze the onlookers in place for a beat before they quickly averted their eyes, as though they'd stumbled too close to something dangerous.
Once the coast was clear, the smile dropped from Francis' face like a stone sinking in water.
"A young lady of your rank has no business knowing such foul language," she said, low but taut with fury. "Let alone spewing it for others to hear. Have you no shame?"
Her nails dug deeper into Cielle's arm, and she stifled a groan as the sting intensified. "All right, all right, I'm sorry, aunt! My god—"
"And don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain," snapped Francis, her grip tightening for one last cruel second before she finally let go.
Cielle pulled her arm back, rubbing the tender, reddened spot. "Yes, aunt. My most humble and sincere apologies," she muttered, tone thick with sarcasm barely disguised as contrition.
Lizzy shot her a quick, pitying glance, while Edward looked as though he might need smelling salts.
"You really are a piece of work," said Francis, shaking her head. Then, after a beat, she added, "Just like your father."
Cielle blinked. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker across Francis' face—fondness, perhaps, or a memory that softened her usual steel.
But just as quickly, the moment was gone. Francis turned with a swish of her green skirts and strode off.
Cielle stared after her.
Well, that was easier than expected. But still... damn.
She sighed, taking a sip from her glass. She really needed to get a handle on her tongue. Slipping like that… It must have been the constant dealings with London's crime lords rubbing off on her. Yes, surely that was it. Or perhaps the byproduct of spending so much of her time in the exclusive company of Sebastian.
And speaking of the devil…
Her eyes flitted across the room until they landed on Sebastian. As ever, his towering frame made him impossible to miss, even when he stood by the wall, half-obscured in shadow.
"Sebastian," she only whispered, knowing it was all it took for him to hear her.
He whipped his head in her direction and promptly started threading his way through the crowd towards her.
"Yes, my Lady? Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" he spoke when he closed the gap between them, his face adorned with a smirk so insufferably smug it practically demanded violence.
"Absolutely delightful, thank you," she replied in a tone steeped in venom.
He chuckled, but then his smirk faltered as his gaze fell upon her arm. In an instant, the demon clasped it firmly, inspecting with scrutiny.
"Good heavens, my Lady," he tutted, tilting her arm to inspect the angry red mark. "When exactly did you acquire this? Were you accosted by a colossal mosquito in the gardens, or perhaps provoked your aunt one too many times?"
"Let go," she hissed as she wrenched her arm free. "There's no time for this bullsh—" her mouth shut with a snap that might have cut her tongue in two.
"I see," he said, heaving a deep sigh. "The latter, then."
She ignored the jab and leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Enough games. I need you to search Ashworth's office—or any other private corners of this absurdly lavish house. Look for ledgers, account books, correspondence—anything that might prove he's skimming from Funtom's funds. Irregularities. Misappropriations. Do you understand?"
His grin broadened, stretching further across his face.
"Why, my Lady, are you enjoying this splendid gathering so much that you'd rather dispatch your humble servant to handle your tedious errands than take your leave from such charming company?" he replied, his voice hushed but not any less mocking.
"It's your job, you insolent wretch," she hissed through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger towards him in warning. "Now listen to me, you bloody moron—"
Her words died on her tongue as her gaze snagged on Edward, who was staring their way. His expression flickered with confusion and something perilously close to suspicion.
She inhaled, shutting her eyes for a moment as she reined in her temper. There were more pressing matters at hand than allowing herself to be baited by stupid taunts from even stupider fiend.
When she opened them again, Sebastian's smirk hadn't budged an inch—it seemed to have grown, if anything, as though her flustered silence was an unexpected treat.
With a bow that bordered on theatrical, he turned on his heel and strode off, his coattails trailing behind him.
"Fear not, my Young Mistress," he purred. "As my Lady commands, so shall I obey."
And there it was again. That irrational anger. The icy hand that seemed to grip her insides, urging her to do something rash—something foolish. And so, she did.
She lunged after him and clasped his sleeve, preventing him from taking another step forward.
The smirk on his face when he turned told her everything—he'd expected this. He was practically radiating smug satisfaction, his brows arched in mock surprise, a glint of mischief alight in his eyes.
"Change of plans," she declared. "You're going to distract everyone—Ashworth and Aunt Francis especially. Be as insufferable as you like. Hog the limelight, make a spectacle. Meanwhile, I'll sneak into his office."
The smirk slid clean off his face. It was almost comical, the way every shade of disbelief rippled across his features. She could practically see the wheels grinding to a halt in his brain. The sight nearly drew a laugh from her. Sometimes she wondered if all demons were this gloriously daft when caught off-guard.
"I would advise against that decision, my Lady," he began, his brows furrowing deeper with each word. "You haven't any idea where he stashes his papers—it could take you all night. Whereas I can locate them in a trice—without raising so much as an eyebrow."
"And what kind of butler would you be," she countered, saccharine-sweet, "if you couldn't manage the simple task of keeping people occupied for an hour or two while your Mistress engages in a little light trespassing?" She leaned closer, her grin positively gleeful. "It would be such a shame to deprive you of all this delightful company, given how much you seem to be enjoying yourself."
For once, he was silent, his expression frozen somewhere between gobsmacked and utterly scandalised. His lips parted, but no words came. Slowly, the disbelief faded, replaced by something more dangerous—curiosity.
"Very well, my Lady. As you command," he said at last. "Still, wouldn't you like at least a hint on where Mr Ashworth's records might be hidden?"
Would she? Yes—good heavens, yes.
This house was huge. Not as large as her own manor, but vast enough to confound anyone unfamiliar with its layout. Finding Ashworth's office would be a daunting task in itself. And even if she managed to locate it reasonably quickly, the real challenge was identifying the specific papers she needed.
To add insult to injury, exhaustion tugged at her like a leaden weight.
Hours of small talk, curtsies, and dancing had worn her down. Then there was the champagne—the single glass she'd permitted herself this evening, a choice she was beginning to regret. Her head felt light, as if it were bobbing just above her shoulders, untethered. Oh, the joys of self-inflicted debilitation…
Truly, the odds were not in her favour.
Common sense dictated she should accept the hint—or better yet, relinquish the task entirely to Sebastian, who now stood smirking like the insufferable devil he was. The dastardly wretch—
"No," she heard herself say, surprising even herself by the firmness of her own voice.
Sebastian blinked, visibly taken aback for the third time that evening. He studied her for a moment longer, and then, to her surprise, inclined his head in a bow—this one deeper than before, almost reverent.
Without another word, he straightened, circled her with predatory grace, and strode off to execute her orders.
She fought to steady her breath as she observed him heading to the centre of the room. There, he halted before Ashworth, who was still listing every disease supposedly curable by eating mummified remains.
"I must apologise for mother's behaviour," came Edward's soft voice as he suddenly appeared beside her. The unexpectedness of it made her flinch slightly. "I can't fathom why she's so… strict with you. She isn't like this with Lizzy."
He offered a soft smile. Cielle looked away.
"She means well," she murmured, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. With a sigh, she lifted her arm to reveal the angry red blotch where Francis had pinched her, and managed a rueful grin. "Still, this hurts like hell."
His face stiffened with surprise at first before he let out a soft, awkward chuckle.
Cielle's single eye drifted towards Sebastian, who now stood near Ashworth, seemingly engrossed in conversation. She watched, wondering what clever sleight of hand the demon had in store this time.
"Would you like to step outside for some fresh air?" Edward's voice was quiet, almost hopeful, but she barely registered it.
Ashworth suddenly burst out in a tone of affronted disbelief, "What do you mean this is not the Pharaoh Sobekemsaf the First?! And how can you possibly tell, sir?" His meaty face flushed an unflattering shade of crimson as his outrage boomed through the room.
The whole room stilled into a collective hush as everyone listened to the exchange.
"Why, because I've known him personally, of course," Sebastian replied without pause, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The effect was instantaneous.
A wave of uproar swept through the crowd and murmurs filled the air. Some faces twisted in outrage, while others erupted into nervous laughter.
But one sound rose above the din—a high-pitched, terribly familiar shriek of horror that drew many eyes to the source. It was no one else but Francis Midford who stood frozen in appallement.
Cielle downed the rest of her wine and thrust the empty glass into Edward's hands.
"Cielle—wait!" he called after her with alarm.
But she had already turned on her heel, a sudden, heady rush of energy propelling her forward.
This could either turn out brilliantly or end in disaster.
No in-between.
She tiptoed down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting beneath her feet.
Her first attempts on the main floor had proven fruitless—and awkward. She'd accidentally barged in on a pair of young lovebirds in the middle of a snogging session. Scoffing and rolling her eyes, Cielle had slammed the door shut again, leaving the startled couple behind.
Then she had aimed for the upper floor's private wing in hopes her exploration would be less futile there.
But as the minutes ticked by, her initial confidence began to shrink and die. Every door she passed stood impassive, giving no clue of what lay beyond. Forced to open each one, she'd been greeted with empty sitting rooms, storage spaces, and other uninspiring sights.
The least Ashworth could've done with her money was to buy a house with a less complicated interior…
She pushed another door open and looked into a room behind it. This one had various bookshelves that lined the walls and most importantly, a grand desk that promised results.
Finally.
She stepped into the room, the heavy door closing with a soft click.
Then she crossed the space and reached for the matchbox resting atop the desk, her fingers trembling as she struck a match against the striker, igniting a small flame. Carefully, she lit the nearby oil lamp and its glow spilt across the room, across the desk.
As the light spread, she wasted no time and started rifling through its drawers.
Cigars. Liquor. Cigarettes. Papers; but mostly just personal correspondence and mundane notes.
One drawer was filled with nothing but rubbish; discarded envelopes, cigar butts and many, many handkerchiefs that may or may have not been used… She wrinkled her nose, doing her best not to touch them.
A false bottom, perhaps? Her own desk had one for deception, and Ashworth was clever enough to employ the same trick. Or was he?
With that thought, she began tapping the bottoms of each drawer, listening for a hollow sound. When that proved futile, she cautiously fumbled through the clutter, feeling for hidden mechanisms—latches, buttons, levers. Nothing.
"Shit," she cursed, then shot a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. Her stomach sank. "Bloody hell," she cursed again, louder this time.
What the hell had she been thinking?
Those papers could be locked in some safe which could be hidden anywhere in this monstrous house—and there was no guarantee it was even on the premises.
If she returned empty-handed, she wouldn't hear the end of it from Sebastian. She could already picture that insufferable smirk plastered across his face.
Her fingers clenched the edge of the desk as her eyes screwed shut. Focus. Stay calm. Panic wouldn't help her now. She had started this, so she would finish it. Even if she would have to torture the information out of Ashworth himself.
Cielle stood up and started scanning the rest of the room. She checked behind paintings, in bookshelves, even under rugs—each nook and cranny offering only dust and disappointment.
With a frustrated growl, she wrenched shut the last drawer she had been rifling through.
Anger flared in her chest as she stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
"Goddamnit!" she hissed, striking her fist against the nearest door in passing.
To her surprise, the door creaked open, swinging inward to reveal a bedroom bathed in pale moonlight.
The master bedroom.
Could it be…?
Stepping in she glanced around, her eye quickly adjusting to the subdued light. A nightstand by the bed drew her attention. If this turned out to be yet another dead end, she'd have no choice but to swallow her pride and summon Sebastian.
Almost in resignation, she pulled open yet another drawer.
What she found inside caught her off guard. It was a golden object.
Frowning, she picked it up, inspecting it with cautious curiosity. Rod-like, with engravings of lotus flowers at the base and… were those hieroglyphs? It almost looked like…
Her eyes widened and she screeched in disgust, flinging the object from her hands. It hit the floor with a metallic clatter.
Oh, for Pete's sake! Of all things, this? A golden phallus? Did Sebastian regularly endure trials this absurd, or was she just uniquely cursed?
Good thing he wasn't here to see this. He'd be doubled over, laughing himself sick. And then she'd have to throw the damned thing at his stupid face.
Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she glared at the offending object. She couldn't just leave it there, but she'd be damned if she touched it again. With a nudge of her foot, she sent it rolling across the floor.
It disappeared under the bed with a thunk as it collided with something. Something solid.
Descending to her knees, she leaned over to peer under the bed.
There was a box.
She opened it, half-expecting it to be another crude surprise, but her breath caught in her throat as she saw it was stacked with papers. With her heart pounding in her chest, she shuffled to the window to examine them more closely.
As she read, a triumphant smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
By the time Cielle returned, Sebastian was still embroiled in a heated debate with Ashworth over the mummy's supposed royal rank. All eyes were fixed on him as if drawn into a collective trance.
His reddish gaze met hers from across the room as she entered. Cielle nodded to confirm that her mission had been successful, her face impassive, but on the inside she was thrilled. Ecstatic even.
A peculiar emotion upon finding out her employee had been stealing from her. For months, most likely.
"Out for a stroll, were you?" Francis Midford's voice broke into her thoughts, but even that couldn't dampen Cielle's buoyant mood.
"I needed some air," she replied lightly, her tone almost playful. "The room felt rather stifling."
Francis hummed and turned her head back towards the centre.
Sebastian argued that the mummy didn't have the distinctive physical features of Sobekemsaf the First. Ashworth fired back that such a claim was absurd—how could Sebastian possibly know what a centuries-old pharaoh had looked like?
"You know," said Francis, tone deceptively casual, "you could have chosen a less elaborate method."
Cielle turned to her, narrowing her eyes. "What do you mean, Aunt?"
Francis waved a gloved hand in the air with elegance. "To distract everyone, of course. So you could slip away and rifle through James' belongings in peace. Judging by the look on your face, I take it you found the evidence?"
Cielle blinked, taken aback. "I... You—you knew?"
"Why else do you think I brought you here?" replied Francis, arching a brow. "Evelyn, bless her timid heart, confided in me. She knew her husband was up to no good but was far too frightened to approach you directly."
"Then why didn't you just tell me outright?" demanded Cielle.
Francis sighed as if the answer were painfully obvious.
"Because," began Francis dryly, "you would have dispatched that insufferable butler of yours to handle everything. And that wouldn't do. I thought my son deserved the chance to bond with his fiancée while my clever niece took care of what she does best. And let's be frank, Cielle—dancing is not it."
Cielle stared at her, torn between indignation and amusement. Then, despite herself, she snorted—and the laughter came spilling out. Half-mirth, half-exasperation.
"Thank you, Aunt Francis," she said at last, shaking her head.
Francis tilted her head, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
"Listen, you…" roared Ashworth. "I'll have you thrown out if you don't stop spewing this rubbish! This is the pharaoh himself, and he cost me more than your yearly salary! Now, do me a favour and shut—"
"Cost?" asked Sebastian, stroking his chin. "Didn't you say you found him yourself, sir?"
Ashworth faltered, his mouth hanging open for a split second before snapping shut. "There are expenses," he blustered, his voice rising in pitch. "Excavation! Maintenance! Transportation! And… You know what?! If you're so clever, let's settle this right now. We'll unwrap him and see if his leg is longer than the other! You there!" He jabbed a finger toward two servants, barking, "Get to work!"
"Go," Francis told her.
And so, Cielle went.
"Sebastian," she chided when she reached the centre, her voice carrying just enough authority to draw attention. "That's quite enough. Stop pestering our host and get back to your duties. We'll have a serious discussion about your behaviour later."
Sebastian turned to her, bowing; the picture of obedient humility—except for the smug glint in his eyes.
"Certainly, my Lady," he replied, smiling as if he hadn't just been reprimanded in front of everyone.
As Sebastian strode away, the guests gradually lost interest, and the room hummed back to life with chatter.
Taking the moment, Cielle turned to Ashworth. "Please excuse my butler, Mr Ashworth. He's afflicted with a rather peculiar sense of humour."
Ashworth shook his head in disdain. "If I were in you, Lady Phantomhive, I'd fire that lunatic on the spot. Such insolence..."
"Tell me about it," she conceded with a theatrical sigh. "But alas, you know me—too kind for my own good."
Ashworth let out a throaty chuckle. "Do I detect a jest? But really, are you enjoying the evening, your ladyship? I must admit, I'd always heard you loathe parties. Imagine my surprise when you graced us with your presence tonight. Or," his lips curled into an ugly grin, "were you perhaps worried some fine debutante might snatch the Midford heir away from you?"
"Right," she replied, her tone slightly clipped. "Though I must say, I can't help but see the effort you've put into such a splendid affair. Your new home certainly offers ample space for these gatherings."
A putrid, sickly sour-sweet smell wafted through the room as the two servants unwrapped the mummy. Those who stood near the coffin hastily covered their noses with napkins. She tried to remain unmoved by the tang of decay.
Ashworth's grin faltered slightly, and she noted with some satisfaction that it wasn't just the odour that had thrown him off balance.
"Indeed, a house like this deserves to be filled with laughter and life," he said. "One must allow themselves a little indulgence, especially when business is thriving, wouldn't you agree?"
"Quite true," Cielle agreed, nodding.
Her gaze drifted towards the mummy. Its head was now exposed, the leathery features twisted and distorted as if in disdain—like it couldn't believe it had been dragged from its resting place to amuse the shallow-minded attendees of a tasteless soirée.
"I must say," she continued, calm yet pointed, "I've always admired your uncanny ability to seize profitable opportunities." Her eyes remained fixed on the dead body as if addressing it rather than Ashworth. "Though, if I may, I'd argue there's one investment that stands above all others."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "And what that might be?"
The servants worked quickly, peeling back the fabric to expose the neck, shoulders, and chest. Cielle had expected there would be amulets nestled within the layers of fabric, but there was nothing.
"Trust," she said. "Without it, even the most successful businesses can collapse like houses of cards."
At that, he chuckled. She almost sneered.
"My dear child," he drawled condescendingly, "trust is a fairy tale people tell themselves. In business, it's all about staying one step ahead. You trust too much, and someone takes your head clean off."
"It is as you say, Mr Ashworth," she replied with a saccharine smile. "But even in the harshest of arenas, trust is useful. It keeps people loyal, builds partnerships, and, sometimes, it even makes the wolves let their guard down."
The servants reached the ribcage, the brittle outline of bones stark against the shrivelled remains. One of them carefully plucked at the tattered linen over the abdomen with a pair of tweezers.
The room buzzed with muted whispers as the unwrapping continued.
"Speaking of trust," she said, turning her gaze to the man beside her, "it's intriguing how stories evolve, isn't it? Like the tale of this mummy, for instance. At first, you mentioned finding it yourself, and just now, it seems the story has changed."
Ashworth's grey brows furrowed, his expression tightening. "As I mentioned, the acquisition of this artefact incurred other costs."
"It's just the way you phrased it earlier," replied Cielle, "such an interesting choice of words. A small thing, perhaps, but as someone with your expertise in economics would know, the devil is always in the details, isn't it?"
She wrinkled her nose when she inhaled too much of the pungent air. "My, the smell of these things," she groused, waving her hand before her face.
The two servants were now trimming their way to the lower limbs as the upper body had been revealed.
"Lady Phantomhive, economic principles are not always suited for casual conversation. Your butler—"
"My butler," she echoed, "as incompetent as he might appear at first glance has his moments of clarity. And there are no discrepancies in his words, nor his loyalty."
The mummy lay there, now fully exposed. Its legs perfectly even.
"Discrepancies, you say?" he uttered, his eyes almost as big as his monocle. "I don't appreciate baseless accusations, Lady Phantomhive. My dedication to the Funtom Company is beyond reproach. If you have concerns, take them up with the accountant."
"And I plan to," she said evenly, her eye locking with his. "But I thought it only polite to bring the matter to you first. After all, honesty and transparency are essential in our line of work, hm?"
She offered him a smile and walked away, cutting him off before he could respond.
Sebastian was conversing with Aunt Francis and Edward or rather was being berated by the former while the latter just stood there frowning.
"Enough," said Cielle as she approached. "It was my idea. And it worked, didn't it?"
"That doesn't mean he should have gone along with—"
"My Lady," cut in Sebastian, flashing that infuriating grin again. "Shall I retrieve those documents, just in case Mr Ashworth gets any ideas about destroying them?"
"No need," she replied, waving him off. "They're already secured in our carriage."
His grin widened, almost wolfish now. She could practically see an imaginary tail wagging behind him.
Without another word, she plucked a second glass of champagne from a passing tray.
The girl stirred as he carried her to bed, her voice thick with sleep.
"Are we home yet?"
"Yes," he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.
The evening had been just as eventful as he'd hoped. A delightful little unpicking of some serious financial chicanery, with the added entertainment of his Mistress's aunt—a nuisance turned rather unexpected ally.
It wasn't that much of a shock, really. She was kin to Vincent Phantomhive, after all. The woman had probably witnessed her fair share of escapades, perhaps even contributed to their resolution. The fact that she might help them out in the future was useful, though they'd have to deal with her disapproving glares first.
But she, his Mistress—she had truly outdone herself.
He'd expected her to piece everything together quickly and start moving her chess pieces around like a grandmaster, as usual.
But to cast the board aside entirely and act alone? That was new. She was capable of impulsive action, certainly, but only if it was something small—or if she was especially provoked. The time she made Undertaker laugh had been one such instance.
Not when the consequences of getting caught could've been disastrous.
And still, she had pulled it off. Flawlessly.
For a human.
He had long since learned never to underestimate her. She had a habit of slithering past his expectations.
After undressing her, he retrieved her nightdress from the drawer. Pausing for a moment, he looked at the garment in his hands. The girl was usually more compliant when she'd had a drink or two, but he knew better than to push his luck tonight. Frankly, it was a small miracle she'd allowed him to attend to her at all, even in this state.
Carefully, he pulled it over her head and lifted the covers so she could burrow herself underneath. As he tucked them around her, his fingers lingered a moment too long.
She was always so wilful, always snapping at him with her sharp little tongue. But now she was so docile and pliant and trusting. How easy it would be to ignore any feeble protest she might murmur, to take exactly what he wanted, to—
Not tonight.
Patience, patience. He was so very good at waiting.
Just as he turned to leave, her voice cut through the hush.
"Wait."
Still half-drowned in sleep, but it held command nonetheless.
When he returned to her side, she, with an alarming speed for someone tired and inebriated, sprung up on her knees, seized his tie, and pulled him close.
Sebastian barely stopped himself from staggering.
Her face was inches from his own, her breath warm, tinged with the sharp bite of champagne. Her hair fragrant with the scent of rosewater, sweet and intoxicating. Heat radiated from her skin. Close enough to touch. Close enough to—
His eyes dipped to her rosy lips, almost involuntarily.
Surely, she wasn't going to—
A tiny hand landed on the back of his head.
His breath caught.
He was just about to close his eyes but suddenly, her hand moved and then—ruffling?
She was ruffling his hair. Like an excitable child manhandling a particularly well-groomed pet.
"My Lady?" His voice came out strange. Too low. Almost hoarse. A frown creased his brow.
She didn't acknowledge him. She barely seemed aware of what she was doing. When he lifted his own hand to stop her, she slapped it away without so much as a glance, her fingers carrying on their ridiculous task.
And like an imbecile, he'd let himself think for a second that she might—no—that she would—
The demon would've growled in disappointment if the sheer absurdity of the moment left him utterly at a loss. Was this a test? A jest? Or was she simply more drunk than he had realised?
The black locks fell into his eyes and he swept them from his face.
"There," she mumbled, apparently satisfied with her work. She wiped the pomade off her hands onto her nightdress and flopped back against the pillows. "You looked stupid," she added sleepily.
Before he could even form a response, she had already collapsed back onto the bed, instantly succumbing to slumber the moment her head met the pillow.
Sebastian remained rooted in place for several moments, still bent at the waist, transfixed as he observed the petite, sleeping figure.
He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her cheek.
His gloved fingers traced the curve of her jaw before pulling away, a fraction of a second later than necessary.
Then, as if amused by some private joke, he let out a sound—low and quiet, almost a purr.
A chuckle.
A/N Song: "Bad Things" by Jace Everett