( chapter thirty-seven ! )
"But it's always Green House. Always. Why must I dress up just to sweat through layers of silk while pretending to care about the same outcome as every year prior?"
Standing barefoot on the velvet carpet, Leah has her slippers kicked off somewhere near the foot of the divan. Her corset is laced but her outer dress hangs open in the back, only half done. One sleeve droops down her arm as she glares at her reflection in the tall mirror. Anna waits awkwardly beside her with folded hands, uncertain whether she ought to continue or wait until the tantrum passes. Vivienne, seated near the open window with a cooling cup of tea and a lemon slice long gone bitter, sets her saucer down with a bit more force than necessary.
"Because it is tradition," she says curtly, not looking up. "Because your brother plays and because it is expected."
From behind a discarded copy of the London Evening Post, Lucius adds without glancing up, "And because we're all going. We're not leaving you behind to sulk like some overdressed child."
Leah scoffs under her breath and turns from the mirror with a dramatic flourish, her half-laced bodice flaring open like she means to discard it entirely. "You've left me behind before."
"Yes, when you were ten and halfway feral," Vivienne replies. "Rosaline was quite clear about that," she lifts her eyes only now, sharp and lined with a faint smudge of kohl. "If you'd rather go back to brawling with scullery maids and spitting into your gloves, we could always see if she's still accepting houseguests."
"Don't tempt me," Leah mutters, folding her arms and letting her weight shift to one side. "At least Rosaline wouldn't force me into the sun for hours just to watch boys with no hand-eye coordination chase after a ball."
"You're being insufferable," Lucius says as he finally lowers the paper. "It's one day, you'll survive. Bring a parasol and pretend you're enjoying yourself. That's what your mother does."
Vivienne offers a thin smile. "Except I actually do enjoy myself. Watching young men in trousers all afternoon? It's the only part of the season worth anything."
Leah glares at her. "That's revolting."
"It's honest," Vivienne counters.
"You act as though Daniel's presence alone should make it bearable," Leah says, lifting her arm so Anna might resume lacing. "As though my dear older brother's sweaty brow and puffed chest will provide all the entertainment I need."
"There's also Ciel," Lucius points out.
"I'm engaged to him, not obsessed with him," she snaps. "I see him often enough and he certainly doesn't care whether I'm there watching his little match."
Vivienne lets out a soft and humorless laugh. "You're full of dramatics this morning. Did you even sleep?"
"Barely," Leah mutters. "The ball lasted forever, the ride home was horrid, and the new maid snores through the wall."
Lucius rises from his chair, smoothing the front of his waistcoat as he crosses the room. "If I told you Green House wouldn't win this year, would you come without complaint?"
"I'd know you were lying," she turns her head slightly to avoid Anna's tug. "You can bribe the judges all you like, Father, but you'll never get boys to play sports like they care."
"Then don't watch the match," Vivienne says. "Sit under the tent. Eat strawberries. Gossip. Do something feminine, for God's sake."
"I've done all that," Leah hisses. "Every year since I was eleven. Same patch of grass, same lemon cordial, same half-baked gossip about which girl is making eyes at which boy—none of whom I care about!"
Anna gives the final tug, ties the back with shaking fingers, and flees before another verbal barb can be thrown. Leah exhales loudly through her nose, the sound almost a growl.
Lucius glances toward the door. "You'll finish dressing. You'll come with us. You'll smile for the photographers. You'll clap when Daniel makes a pass and make your presence known to every other family attending."
"Even though they all already know I'm spoken for?" she asks archly, narrowing her eyes.
Vivienne folds her hands neatly in her lap. "You're not doing it for them, Leah. You're doing it for us. Your success reflects on this family."
"I'm already the diamond of the season, or did you forget?" she says, brushing a curl behind her ear. "What more do you want?"
"Consistency," Lucius mutters. "Grace. Silence, preferably."
"Then you ought to have had a quieter daughter," Leah says sweetly, turning to grab her earrings from the dressing table.
Vivienne rises now, brushing the folds of her cream-and-silver gown into place as she approaches. "There are young ladies who would kill to be you. Who'd give up half their dowry just for a nod from Phantomhive and you mope about because you've been asked to spend a day in the sun."
"I'm not moping. I'm expressing disdain," Leah fastens the left earring, then pauses with her lips pursed. "It's completely different."
The sound of the carriage pulling into the drive cuts through the room. Footmen shuffle below. The sound of horses and wheels and afternoon bustle seeps in from the garden-side windows.
Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose. "You've got five minutes to be in the carriage or I'm having someone drag you down in a bed sheet."
Leah looks at him sideways. "You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
"Would you lace the sheet, Mama?" she asks, sweetly cruel.
Vivienne smiles faintly. "No, darling. I'd tie it in a knot and push you out the door myself."
Later that night, Weston College is awash in candlelight and laughter, filled to its golden, high-vaulted brim with velvet gowns and starched collars and the smooth hum of social niceties passed between strangers. Glasses clink, violins sing from the corner, and the Weston banners hang proudly above the long tables pressed against the walls, each draped with sweets and stewed fruits and crystal dishes that reflect every flickering flame. Beneath it all, polished shoes glide across marble while plumed fans wave away heat and unwanted conversation alike.
Leah doesn't drift through the crowd so much as she cuts through it, walking with practiced ease, chin lifted just enough to keep anyone from stopping her unless they have something particularly worthwhile to say. Her smile is faint and distant. The same one she wears to charity luncheons and dreary gallery unveilings, and though she's exchanged a few harmless pleasantries, she hasn't really spoken to anyone. Not properly or genuinely. She doesn't need to.
Her gown—a froth of pale red and ivory silk embroidered with golden lilies—trails behind her like a whisper as she rounds a crowded table, ignoring the whispered compliments that follow in her wake. Her earrings catch the light as she turns her head, scanning the room with only the faintest flicker of anticipation and hope, though she would never admit to such a thing aloud. Her gloved fingers twitch once against the tiny parcel tucked discreetly in her fan. She's nearly at her destination.
A familiar head of blue catches her eye just past a group of boys huddled in Sapphire Owl colors. For a moment, she watches him speak—cool and composed, his profile sharp beneath the pale lights. He doesn't laugh, but his eyes flick with faint amusement. She sees it and immediately knows the difference.
Then, he looks her way and his posture straightens, subtly but undeniably. The corner of his mouth barely lifts and the rest of the room disappears.
Leah makes her way to him without faltering and the instant she stops before him, the weight of the day seems to lift from her shoulders, though her mouth still holds the echo of her earlier scowl.
"I see you've not died of boredom yet," she says softly with a glance over his shoulder at the small cluster of Sapphire Owl boys.
"Not yet," Ciel replies, tone drier than the champagne being served. "Though if one more first-year tries to ask me how I prefer my tea, I might fling myself from the bell tower."
"I thought you liked being worshipped," she teases, but her voice softens almost imperceptibly. "Though I suppose you've always been particular about your tea."
He eyes her for a moment, then lets his gaze flick briefly over her ensemble. "You look very.. seasonally appropriate."
"I look exquisite. Just say it," she muses.
"Fine," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You look exquisite."
She raises her chin in a satisfied manner, then slides a hand into the hidden fold of her skirts and pulls out a small silk pouch. Her movements are delicate. She doesn't look at him as she offers it, only holds it out.
"For you."
Ciel hesitates, then takes it without ceremony. The drawstring slides open easily, and inside: a lock of soft brown hair, bound with a pale ribbon. Beneath it, a miniature photograph, expertly taken of Leah seated in profile, chin tilted, expression demure but not without edge. Her mouth is caught just before a smile, she looks like she knows something.
He holds the image between gloved fingers, silent for a beat too long. "You were in a mood," he says finally.
"I am in a mood," she counters, stealing a glance at him. "But yes, I thought it might amuse you. Or at least prevent your eyes from falling out of your head when some debutante tries to convince you she's fascinating. Even if there aren't many here."
"I'm immune to debutantes," he says, tucking the pouch inside his coat with something almost reverent.
"You weren't always."
He purses his lips. "That was before I knew better."
Leah smiles truly this time and small enough that it only barely creases the corners of her eyes. "So you do miss me."
"I never said that," Ciel says too quickly.
She tilts her head. "No. But you kept the ribbon."
He looks away then, mouth twitching like he might deny it, but doesn't. The silence stretches pleasantly, charged with all the things neither of them says in front of other people. Bluewer walks past, nodding toward Ciel with idle respect. Leah doesn't bother to acknowledge him.
"Is your mother behaving herself?" he asks after a pause.
Leah laughs mockingly. "She's drunk on compliments and lemon cordial. I count that as well-behaved."
"And your father?" Ciel tilts his head.
"Wants me to smile more. Also wants me to stop talking. Contradictory, but not unfamiliar," her smile is one of defeated acceptance.
"You have been smiling more," he says.
She narrows her eyes. "You think so?"
He steps a little closer, not quite touching. "You only look like you hate everyone a little. Progress."
"Rude," she says, but the way her gaze softens contradicts her tone. "I've done my best."
"You shouldn't have to," he says under his breath, and the flicker of sincerity startles her more than she lets on.
She lets her fan rest against her hip, her fingers drumming idly against the handle. "You'll win tomorrow?" she asks, changing the subject.
"You sound convinced," he raises a brow.
"Well, if not, you'll still look lovely in defeat. I'll console you, if you ask nicely," Leah jokes.
Ciel holds back a snort. "Very generous of you."
"I'm practically angelic," she huffs.
Ciel bites his lip. "That's not the word most would use to describe you."
Leah gives a mock gasp. "That is a blasphemous lie."
He hums, unconvinced but amused as they fall into a more comfortable quiet. Though the room behind them buzzes louder now, conversations cresting and the swell of bodies moving as more guests arrive. Somewhere across the hall, Elizabeth's laugh rings out.
"I've made it through the day without clawing anyone," she says, tone conversational. "You ought to be proud."
"I am, truly. A triumph for diplomacy."
"And self-control," she adds.
Ciel brushes imaginary dust from his pants. "Let's not go that far."
She pretends to glare at him, but Ciel only smirks faintly and offers her his arm.
"Come. I'll fetch you something sweet. If you faint from boredom, I want it to be on someone else's conscience."
"I knew you were fond of me," she says, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You do all this because you like me."
"I do," he says quietly, just for her. "More than I should."
Her mouth opens to respond, but someone brushes past them, too close. She says nothing, just tightening her grip on his arm. They walk into the crowd together, slow and certain, the hem of her dress catching briefly on the toe of his polished shoe. Neither of them apologize.
The moment has barely settled between them. Leah still lightly holds Ciel's arm, his gloved hand poised as if he might reach for hers when a sudden shout from across the room cuts through the polite clamor of the hall like a dropped glass.
"Leah!"
Before she can turn, there's movement—swift, unhesitating, and absurdly un-English. A blur of rich red and gold breaks through the crowd with arms already open, eyes gleaming.
"Dearest little sister!"
Prince Soma tackles her in a hug that lifts her slightly off the ground, entirely oblivious to the nearby stares it draws or the visible tensing of her fiancé beside her.
"Soma!" Leah gasps, more from surprise than discomfort, though her voice muffles against the silk lapel of his coat. "Warn a girl next time."
The young prince beams as he sets her gently back down, hands still holding her by the arms as if to make sure she won't vanish. "It has been months! I was beginning to think you had forgotten me entirely. And you are wearing red! You know that is my favorite."
"You were at my birthday," she says wryly, adjusting her skirts where they've been nudged out of place. "In March."
"And now it is June! Far too long."
Her laughter is soft but real, an amused sound laced with fondness and no real irritation. She smooths back a stray curl with her fingertips, lifting a brow at him. "You might have written."
"I did!" Soma protests, scandalized. "I sent three letters. The first, I believe, got lost in the post. The second I entrusted to Agni, but he became distracted with a puppy. And the third—I think the envelope may have been soaked in curry, but the intent was there!"
"Oh, well," Leah drawls, "if your curry meant well."
Ciel, standing just slightly to the side, remains still as a statue—his expression unreadable save for the faint downturn of his mouth. His posture has stiffened by degrees, like a sculpture hardening.
Soma turns at last, eyes bright. "Ah, Ciel! Do not glower so. I have borrowed your betrothed for but a moment."
"You seized her like a pirate," Ciel mutters.
An under-exaggerated sound escapes Soma. "I seized her like a brother!"
"Last I checked," comes a new voice, low and pointed, "Leah only has one brother."
The air shifts when Daniel emerges from the crowd like a bloodstained knife, all sharp edges and simmering presence in his crimson Weston coat. His hair is ruffled just enough to suggest he doesn't care, but his eyes cut straight to Soma's arm still looped through hers.
Soma turns, looking entirely delighted by the new addition. "Daniel! I forgot Leah is your sister.. You two do look so alike."
Leah's lips twitch. "Do we?"
"Absolutely!" Soma continues, utterly oblivious to the tension now stretching between the three men like a tripwire. "You could almost be twins."
Daniel doesn't blink. "Charmed."
There's a beat as Leah looks between them once before disentangling herself from Soma's grip with a graceful twist of her hand. "Let's not posture over me, shall we? I'm perfectly capable of choosing who I let accost me in public."
"Of course, little sister," Soma says with dramatic contrition, placing a hand over his heart. "Forgive me. I let my joy carry me away."
Daniel makes a sound that could be a scoff or a cough. "Little sister?"
Ciel, without looking, says flatly, "It's a nickname. Evidently."
"I have one brother," Daniel says, looking directly at Soma now, "and you are not him."
Leah sighs, eyes fluttering upward like she might summon divine patience from the ceiling. "You don't have a brother if you are my only brother. And don't be rude."
"I'm not," he says smoothly. "Merely confused. First I hear you're being carried around by a prince and now you're gifting Phantomhive pieces of your hair like some tragic widow."
"You saw that?" asks Leah.
Daniel stares. "Unfortunately."
Before Leah can retort, a light voice joins the gathering from the right—silken and amused, with just enough weight behind it to command attention.
"Well, if it isn't the Barrett girl."
Edgar Redmond stands beside them with his usual poise, a soft smile warming his elegant features. He looks at Leah with the sort of familiarity she's accustomed to from older noblemen who remember her in ankle socks and bows.
"My, you've grown since I last saw you," he says, tilting his head. "Still terribly sharp about the eyes, though. I remember that look when you used to chase after Daniel in the stables."
"I was eleven," Leah says blandly.
"Even then," Redmond chuckles, "you had the expression of a girl already plotting her escape."
She arches a brow. "You remember quite a bit."
"I never forget a pretty girl," he replies, then glances to Ciel, unbothered. "Or an engaged one."
Leah lets herself smile then, faint and laced with just enough arrogance to remind everyone who raised her. "You flatter me, Mr. Redmond."
"I merely speak the truth," he says, eyes sparkling. "And it is Lord Redmond now, I fear. Dreadfully pompous title, but it keeps the schoolmasters happy."
"Do stop circling her like cats around cream," Ciel murmurs. "It's unbecoming."
Redmond lifts a brow. "Jealousy ill suits you, Phantomhive."
"I'm not jealous," Ciel tries to defend himself.
It is far from believable for Redmond, but he doesn't push it too hard. "Then you've grown boring. A shame."
"You're provoking him on purpose," Leah says, biting back a laugh.
"Only a little," Redmond smirks.
Daniel clears his throat. "Is this what passes for mingling here? Hugs and passive threats?"
"I think it's called charming banter," Redmond supplies.
"It's called crowding," Ciel answers flatly. "Which we are done with."
He reaches for Leah's hand and laces his fingers through hers with such familiarity that no one dares interrupt. The room around them continues in its din, but their small corner is now tightly spun with something unspoken. Leah glances down at their hands. His grip is warm and firm.
"Well," she says, lips curving again, "it is nice to see you all, but I do think Ciel promised me a sweet."
"I'll walk with you," Daniel offers.
"You may not," Ciel says.
Redmond snorts into his palm while Soma merely waves.
"Later, then," Daniel mutters, eyes narrowing just enough to hint at something unspoken.
Leah gives a polite nod, brushing past him with Ciel still beside her.
"Little sister," Soma calls fondly, "I expect two dances tomorrow!"
"You'll have one," she answers without turning. "Assuming you survive my brother."
Just like that, she's gone with Ciel again, disappearing into the velvet swarm of bodies and voices—her fingers still curled in his, the sound of their departure muffled under the violin's crescendo.
Upon reaching the buffet table, it stretches beneath an embroidered cloth the color of old parchment, sagging slightly under the weight of gleaming silver platters and precariously tall arrangements of fruits, cheeses, and pastries that look far too dainty to be satisfying. Overhead, the chandeliers flicker with candlelight that glances off crystal bowls filled with sugared petals and candied violets.
Ciel reaches for a thin square of chocolate-drizzled cake, ignoring the savory side of the spread entirely. Beside him, Leah stabs a skewer of roasted quail and plucks a miniature tart.
"You've no taste for the sweets, then?" he asks as she deliberately passes over the almond biscuits.
"Not in the slightest. You know that," she replies, frowning faintly at a tray of lemon custards, even though she loves lemons. "It's the quickest way to an aching stomach. Sugar and I have a fragile alliance."
"You must be impossible at tea parties."
"I am," she says, stabbing the quail again for good measure. "Mother used to make such a display about it, claiming I was embarrassing her by avoiding some of the pastries. I thought it better than vomiting on the lace."
His lips twitch. "Charming."
"Would you rather I'd suffered quietly for appearances?" Leah cocks a brow.
Ciel snorts. "I'm quite glad you didn't, but I imagine your mother was less delighted."
"She rarely is, unless someone's telling her how pretty she used to be." Leah shrugs and lifts the tart to her lips, chewing thoughtfully. "Mm. This one's not dreadful."
Across the room, a ripple of laughter rises from a knot of students and visitors near the wide windows. Edward Midford, standing tall and impossibly earnest in his Green Lion colors, glances their way. When Leah's gaze meets his, she smiles. The boy flushes a shade deeper than a Scarlet Fox member's coat and turns hastily back to whoever he is speaking with.
Ciel follows her line of sight and lifts a brow. "Did you just flirt with my cousin?"
"Hardly. That was a polite smile," Leah looks at him incredulously.
"Your polite smiles don't make men blush," he scowls.
There's a pause before she sets her plate down and looks out toward the banners draped along the walls. Green Lion's crest hangs closest, smug and gleaming.
"I meant it, by the way," she says. "About hoping you win, of course. But I'll be satisfied with anyone triumphing over Green House. I'd even clap for Purple House."
"Would you?" he says dryly. "Even though Daniel tells me they once locked you in a broom cupboard for calling their prefect's recitation 'a biblical punishment'?"
"I was twelve. And he was," she says, eyes glittering. "But yes, anyone but Green."
A beat of quiet stretches between them as Ciel picks at his cake but doesn't take a bite. "You could cheer for me, you know," he says casually. "As a gesture of affection."
Leah turns toward him with that slow, deliberate smugness that never fails to make him uneasy. "Oh, Ciel. I love you dearly, but I'll be cheering for Daniel."
He stares. "You'll what?"
"I have to," she shrugs, wholly unbothered. "It's tradition. I've been cheering for him nearly every year since he joined Weston. It would be cruel to stop now simply because I'm promised to someone else."
Ciel narrows his eyes. "There is nothing cruel in supporting your future husband."
"There is when your brother might hold a grudge and refuse to carry your trunks next time you visit," she says sweetly. "Besides, he'd bring it up for months."
"You're abandoning me out of convenience."
"I'm being pragmatic," Leah gives a faux frown.
He narrows his eyes. "What happened to loyalty?"
"It doesn't vanish. It's merely.. divided," she leans slightly closer, tone playful. "Don't sulk, Ciel. You'll still have my heart. Daniel only gets my applause."
"You speak of it so easily," he mutters. "As if I'm not presently wounded."
Leah tilts her head. "Are you wounded?"
"Gravely," Ciel deadpans.
"Poor dear," she offers him a sliver of quail from her plate. "Have a bite. It'll soothe your pride."
He sniffs it with exaggerated disdain. "It smells like smoke and indignity."
"Then it suits you," she smiles.
Despite himself, a laugh escapes him. It's low, brief, and rare enough that several boys across the table pause in startled silence. Leah hides her grin in a sip of juice, the flavor too floral for her liking, but the victory worth it.
Ciel composes himself a moment later, smoothing the expression from his face like a wrinkle in cloth. "You'll regret this when I win."
"Mm," she hums. "You'll need to come in second, then."
"I don't do second," Ciel hardens.
Leah giggles. "We'll see."
Their plates half-finished, they step aside to make space for another pair of students.
Leah flicks a glance toward them, her expression unreadable. "Do you remember the first sport you ever played?"
Ciel hums. "Barely. I was shorter and angrier."
"You're still both," Leah shrugs.
Turning his head in offense, Ciel fakes a gasp. "I've grown."
"Hardly," Leah says, refusing to look up and acknowledge that Ciel did in fact hit his growth spurt years ago.
Another laugh threatens, but he swallows it down with the rest of his cake. "Tell me, then. Do you intend to spend the rest of this season undermining me with sharp commentary and unwavering support for your brother?"
"I do," she says without pause. "It's part of my charm."
He studies her face—her lightly glossed lips, the faint flush of her cheeks, and the smile that tugs one corner of her mouth higher than the other—and lets himself feel the full weight of affection without disguise.
"Leah," he says at last, softly. "I'm very fond of you."
"Mm. I should hope so," her tone is light, but her eyes flick up to meet his, open for a moment in a way she rarely allows. "I'm fond of you too."
"Even if I lose to your brother?" he questions.
A smile spreads across Leah's lips. "Especially if you lose to my brother. It'll humble you. Even if Daniel needs some humbling himself."
He shakes his head, amused and mildly exasperated. "You're insufferable."
"You like me that way," she sticks out her tongue teasingly, making sure only Ciel can see the gesture.
They linger there a moment longer, nestled beside the buffet table like they belong to a different corner of the event entirely. The room swells around them with conversation and laughter, but their exchange feels private.
The next day, Leah fans herself with a folded bit of stationery she stole from her father's coat pocket. There's already a faint red line rising along the curve of her shoulder, sunburn creeping in. Her face is still pale, but her nose has gone pink despite the frilly parasol Paula's been dutifully adjusting for the past half hour. Elizabeth sits prettily to her right, smiling like the sun itself hasn't declared war on them, and clapping whenever someone so much as touches the bat.
"My God, how long have we been sitting here? Two hours? Four?" she complains.
"It's only been—" Elizabeth pauses, checks the little gold watch pinned to her sash, "—thirty-seven minutes since the last interval."
Leah sighs like she's just been told her cousin died. "So we're not even close to a break, then."
Elizabeth giggles, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. "Not until the second match ends. But it is rather exciting, don't you think?"
"No," Leah offers nothing more.
A small sound escapes Elizabeth. "Oh."
Finnian, sitting cross-legged on the grass beside the edge of the blanket, munches noisily on a slice of peach. His face is flushed and his hat has been cast off somewhere behind him, hair sticking in every direction like he's been wrestling a sheep. "Miss Leah, look there! Master Ciel's bowling!"
"I'd rather look into the sun," Leah mutters, though her eyes do shift lazily toward the pitch.
A Sapphire Owl boy, all sharp posture and narrow-eyed, winds up and hurls the ball with such force it sends up a spray of dust. One of the Red House boys stumbles trying to hit it, and Daniel, shouting from the side, nearly leaps at him. Leah gives a tepid clap with two fingers against her palm.
"Lovely," she drawls. "Riveting. Remind me to have it carved into my tombstone: She died at a cricket match. May God rest her soul."
"Your brother's playing too, isn't he?" Finnian asks, still bright-eyed.
"Which is why I haven't left yet," she says, shifting irritably under her parasol. "Well, that and my father's glare."
Lucius, seated at the head of the small cluster of chairs beside Vivienne, says nothing but tightens his jaw whenever Leah shifts. He hasn't spoken much since their arrival, preferring to watch the match in silence, but his presence is as commanding as ever. Vivienne, dressed to outshine half the spectators despite the heat, flutters her fan at nothing in particular and mutters every so often about too much dust and absolutely no champagne.
Elizabeth continues to cheer politely, now and then murmuring a sweet "bravo!" or "how splendid!" under her breath. Behind the girls, Paula keeps the parasol angled just enough to shield both girls from the cruel midmorning light.
Leah shifts again and winces, her corset has begun to bite. "I hate sports," she announces. "And men. And especially the combination of the two."
"Why men?" Elizabeth asks, blinking.
Leah's eye twitches. "They invented cricket."
That earns a huff of laughter from Finnian. Mcmillan, seated near the edge of the group with his knees perfectly folded and posture stiff as a board, shifts slightly. Leah catches it. She doesn't know why he's here, exactly. He's not unpleasant, just there. Watching the match like it holds the secrets of the universe, hands neatly placed atop his lap, face set in that vaguely admiring way that some boys get.
She side-eyes him again, but he doesn't notice.
Elizabeth leans in closer, whispering, "He's Ciel's friend, you know."
"That explains nothing," Leah replies.
"Oh, don't be horrid."
"I'm not. I'm simply curious," she squints toward the pitch.
"McMillan is nice," Finnian pipes up.
"Is he?" Leah glances again.
This time McMillan does notice as he turns his head slightly, catches her gaze, and offers a small, unsure smile. Leah nods back, a tight-lipped thing somewhere between 'hello' and 'what do you want from me?'
Another round of applause erupts from the field. Daniel has taken a wicket and Red House is cheering like mad. Leah lets out a small, exhausted "hurrah," and slouches even further in her chair.
"That's the spirit," Elizabeth says.
"I'm trying," Leah groans. "But if this match doesn't end before I begin peeling like a roasted turnip, I shall throw myself into the lake."
"We don't have a lake," Finnian says.
"Then I'll dig one."
The umpire shouts something across the field as both teams scramble to rearrange themselves. Leah pretends not to hear them, focusing instead on twisting her empty fan into a makeshift cone and pretending it's a megaphone. She cups it over her mouth.
"Go Daniel, may the sun burn your opponents into ash!"
Elizabeth squeaks. "Leah!"
Leah tilts her head innocently. "Too far?"
"Yes!"
"...Noted," she says quietly.
The match continues, sweat gathering along Leah's back as she debates removing her gloves. She doesn't, only because her mother would make a scene.
"I need something cold," she mutters.
Finnian raises his peach pit. "Want the rest?"
She gives him a look that could curdle milk and perhaps would have thrown him across the field if she wasn't so fond of him.
Leah turns toward Elizabeth. "How do you still look alive?"
"I've always loved being outside," Elizabeth replies cheerfully. "It's good for the skin."
Leah lifts a brow. "My skin is screaming."
Giving Leah's abnormally pale skin a once over, Elizabeth tries a half-hearted suggestion. "You should try rose water."
There's a sudden roar from the field. A dramatic catch—Blue House has taken another wicket. Elizabeth leaps up in excitement, hands clapping furiously. Paula flinches, but joins her.
Leah stands only half an inch, squinting toward the field. She spots Ciel watching Daniel with narrowed eyes. Daniel laughs and says something Leah can't hear.
"Oh, please," she mutters. "You're not rivals. You're just overly dramatic teenagers with god complexes."
"What was that, Leah?" Elizabeth asks.
"Nothing, Lizzie. Just cheering," she plucks a strawberry from the plate Finnian has somehow acquired and bites into it viciously.
There's still another half of the match left. Another interval. Another few hundred minutes of boys swinging sticks in the sun.
Leah adjusts her gloves and settles into her chair again, eyes rolling toward the sky. "I miss the ballroom," she says flatly. "And proper refreshments, walls, and shade that doesn't move."
Finnian pats her arm gently. "You'll survive, Miss Leah."
By the time the next interval rolls around, the sun is finally relenting. Not entirely, of course. It's still glaring down upon the pitch like a judgmental aunt, but the sound of the umpire's whistle and a chorus of hoarse cheers signals the interval. A breeze wafts in from the trees. It isn't strong enough to cool anything properly, but it gives the illusion of mercy. A few boys toss down their bats and dash toward the trestle tables in search of lemonade and meat pies, while the spectators lean back with collective sighs of relief.
Leah lowers herself back onto the cushioned chair with far more grace than she feels. The silk bodice of her gown sticks uncomfortably to her back despite Paula's careful efforts with a linen fan. She takes a chilled glass of apricot juice from a passing servant and sips it with enough reverence to make it seem like a fine wine. The sweet sharpness cuts through the sluggish heat and revives her better than any polite clapping ever could.
"Tell me this isn't the most tolerable part of the entire affair," she murmurs, mostly to herself.
Elizabeth leans over, cheeks flushed from excitement. "They've put out fruit and little tarts as well if you'd like something sweet. Though I'm quite sure Paula could ask the staff for anything you prefer."
Leah gestures vaguely toward her glass. "This is all I require. I can taste my will to live returning."
Finnian, now lying on his stomach like a child, pops a candied plum into his mouth and lets out a happy hum. "Master Ciel was amazing out there, wasn't he?"
"He was perfectly competent," Leah answers without looking up, tipping the rim of her glass toward her lips again. "Though I still maintain the sport is dreadfully dull."
A familiar figure in white and scarlet strides into view, the red of his sash stark against the golden tones of the grass and sun. Daniel wipes the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief before he even reaches them, offering a crooked grin that says he's already aware of how smug he looks.
"Good, you're still alive," Leah mutters. "I feared you'd collapsed somewhere from overexertion."
"I'm not the one lounging about like a fainting goat," he replies as he leans in to give her a quick kiss atop her head, careful not to disturb her carefully coiffed hair. "I see the sun hasn't devoured you yet."
Leah smiles mockingly. "Only because this parasol has been shielding me like a battlefield nurse. You owe it your sister's life."
"Noted," he says with a lazy smirk. His gaze flicks to their parents. "Mother. Father."
Vivienne inclines her head with a smile and Lucius, arms crossed, gives a nod.
"You're not eating with your team?" Leah asks, glancing toward the distant tables, where boys are tearing into savory pies like starved hounds. "Go on, then. Wouldn't want to miss your fill of meat and glory."
Daniel grimaces slightly. "They're serving meat pies. I'll pass."
Leah lifts a brow. "You used to adore them."
"When I was six and lacked discernment," he rolls his eyes.
"More for the others, then," Lucius finally says, his voice like cold iron. "You'll need the energy if you plan to win."
Daniel shrugs. "I'll be fine. I'd rather not play the rest of the match feeling like I swallowed a brick."
Vivienne tuts. "You'll spoil your appetite being choosy."
"I'll live," he replies, then turns to Leah with a more conspiratorial tone. "How are you surviving all this? Has your blood boiled yet?"
Leah sips her juice and holds his gaze. "I'm one scorching gust of wind away from bursting into flame. I've been half-expecting one of the owls to mistake me for a corpse and peck my eyes out."
"I'll keep watch," he says, grinning. "For the owls, I mean. Can't have you losing both your eyes before the season ends."
Leah rolls her eyes. "How generous."
She finally looks him over properly. Sweat clings to his collar, and his hair—usually combed back with military precision—has begun to curl at the edges, damp from the match. But he carries himself easily, a natural athleticism that earns him praise even from boys who'd rather die than admit admiration. A small knot of pride unfurls in her chest, reluctant but present.
"You've done well," she allows. "I daresay your aim has improved since you used to throw stones at my head for sport."
Daniel laughs. "Ah, but back then, I wasn't aiming to miss."
That earns a laugh from Elizabeth, who covers her mouth with her gloved fingers. Leah merely shakes her head, a smirk threatening to betray her.
"Are you heading back soon?" Elizabeth asks.
Daniel glances over his shoulder, where a few Red House boys are already trudging back toward the pitch. "I guess I am now."
A cricket ball whistles through the air and slams into the dirt with a dull thud. Ciel misses again. From the Barretts' shaded viewing area, Leah watches her fiancé square his shoulders with an air of polite, unyielding frustration.
The crowd gives a faint collective wince, though no one dares laugh outright. Still, there's a subtle shuffle of whispers from the younger girls beneath their parasols and fans, the sort of giggles one learns to recognize after attending even a single term's worth of public events.
Ciel looks unbothered, the set of his mouth is perfectly neutral and his posture is composed despite his clear lack of aptitude. He isn't athletic by any definition, his limbs are too fine and aristocratic, and Leah already knows he doesn't enjoy any sport that requires much exertion. Regardless, he moves back into position without hesitation. Pride compels him forward where skill does not.
"He looks handsome in the uniform," Elizabeth offers weakly.
"Yes. Perhaps he'll distract the opposing team into forfeiting," Leah murmurs, not entirely without warmth. She draws a small fan from her lap and flicks it open, watching the sharp glint of the sunlight against Johanne's brass cufflinks as he readies the final throw.
Sapphire Owl is down by many points. If Ciel misses this final pitch, Red House claims victory.
Johanne lifts his arm, but there is a pause. Not a dramatic flair, something is off. His back stiffens and his head jerks ever so slightly. Then, abruptly, he doubles over with a guttural sound that carries far too easily across the field as the ball drops from his hand.
For a moment, there is only silence. A pause in the breath of the event.
"Oh my God," someone gasps.
Another boy stumbles sideways across the pitch, his face ashen and drenched in sweat. A third collapses onto his knees and lets out a sound that could be mistaken for a war cry if it weren't followed by a moan of unmistakable agony. Then another and another.
"What in the world—" Elizabeth's voice trails off into stunned disbelief.
Leah sits upright, her eyes wide. Her glass of apricot juice tilts precariously in her hand, nearly forgotten.
All across the pitch, Red House players are convulsing, clutching their stomachs, some even abandoning all dignity as they stagger off the field or crumple to the ground. A few try to crawl toward the sidelines, their bodies wracked with spasms. The unmistakable sound of retching cuts through the air like a blade.
Then the faint smell coming from Johanne hits.
"Dear God," Leah mutters, lowering her fan and recoiling just enough to press into the seat back. Her gaze flicks to Daniel's end of the field. He and Soma and the only ones left standing. The two exchange glances, dumbfounded and helpless.
Sapphire Owl's team, by contrast, is untouched. Ciel stands motionless with an odd expression on his face. The blue of his uniform doesn't even appear ruffled. Which, of course, means he had something to do with this.
"Oh my God," Leah whispers again, this time with far more horror. She presses a gloved hand to her mouth, then removes it just as quickly. "He didn't."
Vivienne waves a handkerchief delicately before her face. "I told you those meat pies looked too rich. No proper English meal ought to smell like a bakery left out in the sun."
Leah lets out an exasperated noise that's far too undignified for public consumption, then quickly schools her expression as Daniel trudges across the lawn to join them. His boots crunch against the gravel and his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, jacket abandoned somewhere on the sidelines. He looks like he's aged twenty years in five minutes.
"Don't," he says flatly before anyone can speak.
Leah lifts a brow. "Not even going to try to defend them?"
"There's nothing to defend. They're all shitting themselves into unconsciousness," Daniel throws himself into the empty chair beside her and yanks off his gloves. "I am never eating anything prepared by this school again."
"Daniel!" Vivienne hisses at his choice of language.
Leah almost laughs, but the stench drifting toward their area ruins the moment. She quickly fans herself again, resisting the urge to gag. All around them, the crowd sits frozen, unsure whether to intervene, flee, or pretend this hasn't just become the most undignified disaster in school history.
Her eyes flick back toward the Sapphire Owl side. Ciel has yet to move. He watches the scene unfold with all the solemnity of a chessmaster noting the fall of a pawn.
Leah's fingers tighten on her fan. "This is vile," she mutters. "Absolutely vile."
Daniel shrugs. "It's effective."
"Don't you dare encourage him," she snaps.
"I didn't say I liked it. I said it worked," he leans back in the chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Sapphire Owl wins. I hope they're happy."
Lucius lets out a dry chuckle. "Didn't think I'd see the day."
"Well, don't get used to it," Daniel mutters. "They're still terrible. Just.. less terrible than we are when drugged."
The match is officially called. Sapphire Owl claims the victory by default as the majority of Red House is deemed "unfit to continue," which is a gracious way of saying they can't make it to the field without shitting their trousers.
"The Scarlet Foxes are unable to continue playing and therefore withdraw from the match. Thus, the first match goes to the Sapphire Owls!"
It is hard to hear when the stands suddenly erupt into shouts, such news is beyond a surprise.
Much time later, they are nearing the hopeful end of the last match. Green Lion versus Sapphire Owl—the very concept outside of the original story had once seemed laughable, a joke whispered between the older boys and easily dismissed with a roll of the eyes. Yet, here they are with an impossible remnant of the morning's chaos trailing behind them.
Leah's skirts rustle faintly as she adjusts in her seat beneath the silk parasol. There's a fold in the lace of her sleeve that's irritating her, but her attention stays rooted on the field. She's perched just behind the frontmost viewing pavilion now, where the nobler families linger with drinks and gossip masked behind pleasant smiles.
"They're going to riot again," someone mutters a few seats down.
Elizabeth leans in closer, her gloves pristine despite the long day. "Do you think the judges shall call it off?"
"Not now," Leah murmurs. "They've let it go on too long. If they call it now, the whole thing's pointless."
Indeed, the tension is palpable—like the last knot in a corset drawn too tightly, one sharp tug from snapping. Minutes earlier, Blue House had been accused of ungentlemanly conduct. Jeers from a few students still echo faintly in the air like ghostly aftershocks, though the officiants have already waved their handkerchiefs and moved on. The match continues, smoothed over with the sort of blind optimism only English institutions are capable of.
Bluewer steps forward now, his brows slightly furrowed, jaw tight with finality. The last bowl of his school career. It shows in the posture and the aching precision with which he stretches his arm, rolls his shoulder back, and lines up the throw. The crowd hushes without needing to be told.
From her vantage point, Leah narrows her eyes slightly. She doesn't love cricket, but she likes watching people care this much about something stupid. And he does care. They all do, even when they're pretending not to. She lets her hand slip from her cheek as Bluewer releases the ball.
The bat swings with a sharp crack—Greenhill's clean and practiced form, but it's not the ball that captures attention. It's the sudden recoil, the jarring motion, and the sharp grunt that follows. Greenhill twists as his bat finishes the arc and strikes something behind him. The sound is not the dull tap of willow against leather. It's bone.
Gasps ripple like wind through wheat.
On the pitch, Ciel Phantomhive falls back from his crouch behind the wicket as one of his gloved hands flinches up to his head.
"Oh my—" Elizabeth's hand flies to her mouth.
Leah bursts out laughing. Not a shriek of delight or mockery. It's a reflex. Sharp, startled, and inappropriate. The kind that slips through when something awful happens.
"Oh my God," she mutters immediately after, fingers clamping over her lips as though that might call the laugh back. "I— oh my God, that wasn't— I didn't mean to—"
Her gaze darts wildly toward the pitch again. Ciel straightens, jaw clenched, a trickle of blood tracing his forehead. Greenhill turns around, his body twisted in concern, stepping toward Ciel and asking if he is alright.
Then, without a word, Ciel hurls the ball.
It arcs low and fast, almost vicious in its trajectory, and slams into the far wicket. The other batsman tries to catch up but fails.
The umpire stares in silence.
"Green House, ten outs."
"Time! The match is over!"
Screams sound from Sapphire Owl. It takes a moment for everyone to process what's just happened. Leah remains frozen for a beat, still half-laughing and half-stricken.
"That little snake," Daniel mutters with the faintest grin.
Across the field, Ciel is being lifted up by his teammates with a smile on his face as they all cheer delightfully.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Elizabeth whispers, her complexion pale. "That sounded awful."
Leah swallows and adjusts her skirts. "It was awful," she agrees faintly, "but he's fine."
"Are you positive?" asks Elizabeth.
The Barrett gives a half-hearted shrug. "He didn't faint. That is practically the same thing."
Elizabeth's brows pinch. "You really shouldn't laugh when your fiancé gets struck in the skull."
"I didn't mean to!" Leah groans. "It just happened! I didn't expect it and it sounded like a bloody melon—" she presses a hand to her mouth as she nearly starts laughing again. "He's never going to let me live this down."
Ciel catches Leah's eyes and smiles. 'Green House didn't win..'
As impossible as it seemed, he somehow managed to deliver her wish.
"Blue House won!"