Tonight’s tale was inspired by events that took place this very morning at the manor.
Though not something I would normally do in front of my humans, I simply could not resist the temptation this time.
Sometimes throwing caution and decorum to the winds and embracing the storm is the best decision one can make for oneself 👌🏻✨🤍
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Chapter 85~ Rain Dance
The sky over Thorn Manor was thick and opaque as knife-spread whipped cream. Shafts of pale gold sunlight endeavored to spear through the cloud banks, but their efforts were slowly being choked out as the morning blanched into afternoon.
Out in the gardens, a steady wind tousled the tops of the plum and pear groves, exposing the leave’s tender ribbed undersides. Branches swayed and dipped precariously, already bowing low under the weight of ripened fruits. Climbing roses shuddered and bent their heads, thorn hedges whipped razor edged limbs. Having learned over the centuries how to prevent further weathering of their bodies, the marble statuary had already receded back like ghosts into the tightly packed walls of the labyrinth. The gargoyles sought refuge under the stone benches and pergola, huddled with arms around each other.
Silas stood looking out the French doors of the entryway, holding the black velvet curtain aside with a clawed hand, a duster dangling from the other.
The demon smiled. A storm was brewing.
Stormy days were some of Silas’ favorites. The colorless sky deepening into steel grey, clouds scudding like ships overhead… the crisp crackled scent of ozone… the impending gloom… it all brought the house demon a feral excitement~ a nameless, ancient feeling of harmony.
Not that one could tell right now. He remained still as a stone and restrained as he gazed through the glass, calm feline eyes reflected back at himself.
But oh did he long to open the door and find his way into the leafy lush depths of the gardens, to dance under the pummeling rain and bolts of lightning, ribcage booming with every kick drum of thunder. And once the storm began, he just might. Demons craved dance as much as they craved lifeforce. Indeed, they were nearly the same thing.
A simple glamour would protect his uniform and ribbons, so why not? The demon considered his choices. Dusting the bust or Erasmus Thorn, or… ?
As if in response to his pondering, a speckle of water appeared on the window, followed quickly by another.. and another. Soon the panes were drenched in rivulets, droplets forming streams as the clouds let loose their burden of quenching rain. A flash of lightning lit up the demon’s alabaster features with a translucent glare, contracting his pupils into invisible slits. One… two… three..
A crash of thunder rattled the entire manor from peak to basement. Chandelier crystals shivered, the hall tree mirror shifted, and the chimneys on the first floor howled like banshees. Nathaniel’s voice sounded from his study~ an abrupt girlish shriek and a string of eyebrow-raising curse words.
Silas rolled his eyes and sighed. Such drama. Where on earth had the young man learned such theatrics? Tightening his emerald earring, and checking the buttons on his waistcoat, for he did not wish to lose the gloves he’d slipped into his pocket earlier, Silas turned the door latch and forced it open against the battering wind. With an eager grin, he stepped outside into the violent fray.
At war with itself, the blackened sky was criss-crossed with punishing skewers of lightning and bracing torrents of rain. Darkness seeped like a blight of inkblots. This was no gentle zephyr. But even the most vicious earthly tempest was hardly a match for the ferocity and fearlessness of a highborn demon.
About halfway down the terrace steps, Silas began to dance. A reckless demon dance, surging and spinning like a furious sea, arms raised heavenward, laughing up into the downpour. Beribboned with black silk down the length of it, his hair lashed and twisted but stayed bound and dry. His coattails swirled about his legs as the gusts threatened to tug his jacket from his shoulders, yet the demon’s plush velvet attire remained unblemished by the elements.
He moved out onto the lawn, his slight form flickering gracefully through rows of thrashing delphinium and dancing a circle around the towering smoke bush in a savage high-kneed march, as if part of a fiery forest ritual. He was aware of his master watching him from the manor, Nathaniel’s face a pale dot wavering behind rain-washed glass. Ever the showman, Silas stepped up the pace. If he’d attempted to teach Master Thorn this wild and frenzied demon dance on the cultured ballroom floor, the young man surely would not have survived. Such frail creatures these humans are, he thought as he whirled and stomped and sidestepped. His boots did not crush the waterlogged grass, indeed they left no trace whatsoever of his movements.
His demon blood raced, a glacial flood through the chambers of his cold heart. He felt his shoulders relax, a burden lifted. His hips slipped hot and liquid, his belly tight and focused on balance. He closed his eyes and spun away to an unheard rhythm, a symphony roaring in his mind.
He waltzed beneath a stone archway overgrown with grapevines, swiftly evading the waterfall of saturated tendrils grasping at him. His sudden appearance startled a topiary stag that was taking shelter in a nearby cluster of hydrangea bushes; it bolted way, kicking up its heels in terror at the sight of the demon. Blackberry leaves spiraled away from its wicker haunches as it bounded towards the safety of the willow tree down by the rain-pelted pond.
Thunder boomed and rolled as Silas made his way back up the lawn, his moonstone hair and jacket buttons lit with every burst of lightning. The rain’s intensity had begun to taper off, its rage spent. Silas knew the feeling. He reached the terrace steps once again, and leapt up them tirelessly to the French doors. The manor held them open as he danced across the threshold and went immediately to the hall tree mirror.
Silas was dedicated to his duties and his family. He loved the manor, it was his home… and he loved life in this human realm.
But oh…
it felt so good to let go of his self-imposed perfections, to embrace his untamable nature and wash himself of the often constricting manners of servitude, if only for a few moments. His bargain this time around was a mere formality, but Silas still managed his tasks with a devout seriousness. He shook a forelock of tangled white hair away from his cheekbone. Perhaps a bit too serious at times, he admitted to himself. Perhaps he should make more time for dance, and less time for dusting. He readjusted the mirror and shook down his ruffled cuffs. A quick tighten of his cravat, an appraising side eye… Silas glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his master’s cane clacking up behind him.
“Holy gods, Silas! Have you lost your senses?” Nathaniel stood at a prudent distance, staring cautiously at the demon’s reflection, taking in Silas’ wind-whipped hair and glowing yellow eyes. “It’s an absolute monsoon out there.”
The demon had neatly re-braided his hair and reclaimed his duster before his master had even finished speaking. He turned. Looking up at Nathaniel through long white lashes, Silas spoke in a courteous murmur. “I shall fetch tea after I tidy the main hall of the fifth floor. I’m afraid the aftershocks of the storm have most likely caused a bit of dust and old magic to fall down from the ceilings. Peppermint or hibiscus, master?” Transformed back into something as impeccable and serene as a marble carving, Silas waited, tapping his duster expectantly against his palm.
“Uhhh… peppermint?” Magister Thorn absently ran his hand through his own hair in a vain attempt to sort it into some form of orderliness. He chuckled affectionately at the confounding little demon, and his endearing duality.
“As I thought.” Silas winked, turned elegantly on his boot heel to saunter up the staircase, calm and collected as the eye of a deadly storm.
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{lore about demon dances and their lethality to humans can be found in my annotations within the French L’Integrale Silas edition, published in your year 2024 by BigBang Editions}
‘Slowly, Elisabeth looked up. For a heartbeat she thought she had died after all, and was dreaming. Silas stood over them, one arm raised, blocking the Archon’s light.
Not Silas. Silariathas.
Horns curled from his scalp, white as porcelain, their spirals ending in wicked points. The angles of this face had grown unsettling and cruel, their delicate beauty filed to inhuman sharpness. His ears were pointed; his claws had lengthened, thin and razor sharp.’
{ Sorcery of Thorns, page 435, paperback edition}
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Never forget what I truly am. What lies behind the fine stitching and elegant manners and soft fur…
However, I am a different creature these days~ surely not tame, but… different.
Today’s tale is one of culinary delights, a touch of ancient magic and the power of memory.
Last night I prepared a feast for company, for not only did I wish to test my skills, it has been a while since I shared a food story. They seem to be rather popular.
And if I must be frank, I have misbehaved just a tiny bit recently, which you are all well-aware of if you read the details of my last adventure.
{Believe me when I say it was for the good of all}
Though I cannot feel guilt, I can roast, sauté and bake my way out of trouble here at home, just as easily as I seem to get myself into it.
Good food, good company and clever minds will always reign at Thorn Manor.
Chapter 84~ Old Magic
Silas ran his gloved fingers over the ivory muslin tablecloth, and glanced down the formidable length of the manor’s feast-laden walnut table.
Elegantly built, and lovingly cared for over the centuries, the great hall’s stately dining table was a monolith of antiquity. Capable of holding place for 16 guests when fully outfitted with jade chargers, gold cutlery and the manor’s signature thorn briar patterned dishes, the table had borne witness to an endless parade of meals, hosted countless sumptuous fetes and endured the inevitable slew of house gossip.
There wouldn’t be nearly that number of guests tonight, nevertheless, Silas had gone all out.
His mind, prone to daydreaming, tumbled back to the time Mistress Sinclair had insisted he accompany her to dinner one evening, right in this very room almost a century ago. Scandalized almost speechless and aghast at the sulfur-eyed monster in their midst, her family had barely touched their food.
Supremely unfazed by it all, the sorceress had commenced to eat enough for all of them combined~ almost an entire spatchcocked chicken along with triangles of potato leek pie, steamed chocolate puddings doused in warm cream, handfuls of sticky braised damson plums and gravy licked up off her small clever fingers. Silas had silently watched the spectacle, seated protectively beside her with his hands folded in his lap, his expression remote save for a raised eyebrow now and again. Truth be told, inside he was mirthfully delighted at the clink of the stripped bones she tossed onto porcelain, the confident scrape of her fork and the way she punctuated her blissful chewing with little ladylike mews of contentment.
How such a tiny mortal thing managed to consume so much with such outstanding vigor was beyond him, although he knew firsthand her appetites were unabashed. The rumor that Mistress Sinclair had taken the sinister house demon as her lover was a well-spread belief, and her complete lack of concern about anyone’s judgments only further solidified it as fact. She’d even playfully grabbed him beneath the table at one point, leaving a well-placed spot of marchand de vin on his breeches. To his own surprise, Silas had been decidedly forgiving of it.
He laughed softly as the happy memory wandered back into the infinite maze of his mind, and turned attentions back to the present.
Tonight’s pièce de résistance was a great haunch of beef resting upon a silver platter, crust crisp with bourbon glaze, steam rising in fragrant curls. Silas knew when he carved it, the generous slices would be tender as butter, drenched in juices and boldly seasoned with summer herbs.
Surrounding the centerpiece were ironstone bowls of citrusy cumberland sauce, mustard gravies and creamy horseradish. Loaves of freshly baked bread were laid out, waiting to be slathered with rose petal confit and chive blossom cheese.
There were mounds of mashed red potatoes with the skins left on, sautéed scotch kale, and tender roasted carrots caramelized in honey and orange jelly. Sheltered within a covered tureen nestled plump stuffed tomatoes, and at every place sitting a crystal vase held crisp stalks of coveted celery. A bottle each of brandy, claret and maraschino liqueur glimmered.
Winding down the length of the table and twisted about the gracefully fluted pewter candelabras were vines of sugared champagne grapes, the clusters of fruit interspersed with fresh sage leaves, silvery artemisia and the palest violet grey ranunculus blooms. In the kitchen, waiting upon a ruffled jade stand like a lady in lacy skirting, sat dessert~ three layers of pillowy vanilla cake, swirled with silky buttercream frosting and sprinkled with silver dragees.
The mingled sweet and savory scents formed an ambrosia the humans of Thorn Manor would find quite irresistible, Silas was sure of it. Mouthwatering to them, unappealing to him. Ah well. He himself did not partake of cooked meat; he much preferred what he could pursue in the gardens while in cat form, nevertheless he still took pride in his culinary skills when it came to feeding his family.
Ever the meticulous creature, Silas paused thoughtfully. Something was missing… He turned his gaze to the unlit candelabras. Ah… of course. How could he be so forgetful.
Shaking his ponytail down off his shoulders and straightening his stance, the demon spoke. His whisper rode on an exhale, the sinuous strand of harsh Enochian words hissing like water droplets on a heated hearthstone. The air in the room warped and tightened, whirling with a flurry of white sparks that reached the ceiling cornices, and fluttering the edges of the cloth napkins. Porcelain shuddered. Wicks flared to life with a neon crackle and the sharp scent of hot wax, slowly ebbing into a warm glow.
Silas laughed softly when his ears popped, a multitude of magicked candle flames dancing with the amusement in his eyes. Though he seldom used it, a bit of indulgent spell speak was harmless… and anyway, old Otherworldly habits die hard, now don’t they?
The stag’s head hanging above the west window turned, glass eyes gleaming, and gave its red ruff a shake. A shower of errant sparks drifted down from its fur like snow, winking out as they descended. Much to Silas’ relief, the stag settled back against its wooden plaque with nary a word. Silas was fully dedicated to his task at the moment; now was hardly the time for him to be swapping nonsensical riddles with the creature. That game could wait til later tonight perhaps, when all mortals were to bed, and the black innards of the manor were awash in moonlight.
Taking one last look, Silas inspected every minute detail, before allowing himself a brief smile of approval. The table, laden with its bounty of decadent fare, flower and fruit, was absolute perfection.
“I do believe I’ve outdone myself,” the demon murmured under his breath, adjusting the tea towel draped over his forearm. He paused again, certain he’d felt a gentle touch at the crook of his elbow, delicate and sweet as spun sugar.
A rustle of movement in the hall tipped his ear. Guests had arrived from Summershall~ one Miss Quillworthy and one Parsifal. He’d heard their carriage wheels earlier on the gravel of the street out front, and footsteps up the walkway as he’d set the roast upon its silver platter. He turned elegantly.
Gazing in through the doorway, a quintet of faces, lit with wonder and candlelight…uttering gasps and exclamations of admiration. Master and Mistress, their arms intertwined. Miss Quillworthy pushing up her glasses to better view the offerings. A ruddy faced, grinning Parsifal. And Miss Mercy, from whom he’d unburdened the day’s tasks so that she could rest and socialize.
Tucked away behind layers of fine stitching, silk velvet and snowy flesh, Silas’ heart lilted upwards almost painfully, as it often did these days when gazing upon his human’s delighted faces. His hand went to his cravat, which suddenly felt a bit tighter than he liked it.
Nathaniel’s incredulous voice boomed. “By the gods, Silas! I do believe you’ve outdone yourself yet again!”
The demon bowed deeply, raising back up to meet his master’s eyes with a wink.
It turns out Sebastian wasn’t able to completely erase the past. You don’t even know how he was even able to restore something like your scalp which had sprouted with hair so long it seems impossible for a human to grow at all. Your hair had tumbled past the floor defying reason and logic in its descent.
In the beginning, you could hardly believe it. Working yourself into a daze after clinging to Sebastian like a newborn fawn you didn’t anticipate the light headedness that came from a rush, it came to you that you hadn’t eaten since last night. Taking most of the night accounting for ledgers so Ciel could go to sleep.
Though your hair could be restored, your ask of “how?” remains largely unanswered. Sebastian merely replies with something like, “As my lady wished it to be” quite simply, drying your tears with his handkerchief.
Wishing? You think it’s in the realm of reason. If he can make feasts appear within seconds and ash turned into home, then a head of hair shouldn’t be too ridiculous. There’s a paranoid part of you that wonders beyond the drawbacks of having your soul consumed, another potential price. You’ve read stories of wishes with catastrophic consequences maybe due to the folly of the user, more likely the innate selfishness of human desire that sullies the idea of a “clean” wish. You say nothing however.
Another puzzle piece that remains missing takes the form of the remainder of your injuries on your hands, feet, and back.
Twin marks cast on the backs of you and the boy’s, marks of the beast in an ugly shades of pink and brown, burnt and marked like the coals still smolder upon your back. Where Ciel’s resides on the side of his ribs unevenly cast by some burly good for nothing fucker, yours had been pressed between the underside of your breasts upon your sternum. The mark was almost methodically placed to have the mark unmistakable and apparent, strapped down and buckled rather than just physically restrained by some no name fucker.
Your hands and feet are a similar story, you have a superstitious assumption as to why Sebastian couldn’t heal them. After all, could a demon heal wounds that came from something holy like a cross? And so, there remains a round blot on the front and back of your hands and feet around the size of a railroad bolt, perhaps a bit bigger they resemble blotting ink- most likely from the way you had ripped and tore at them from what seemed like mere hours they struck your hands with what felt like hot, aching coals at the time.
You’re not complaining by any means though, you’d like to say you would remain within your wits disfigured but it is simply not within the realm of your vanity to think that way.
Your hands and feet still red wrought with blood and bruised an ugly purple-black where it mattered meant you’d be carried when it could be allowed, mostly in private settings by Sebastian due to the vastness of the manor and the scarcity of staff. You’d wager you’d look much like a doll in appearance with how used to the act of being carried, propped like an ornament. You still wear the nightclothes that you frequent as they act as the only suitable fitting clothes- that issue being resolved today.
“Oh! My dear girl, you’re a marvel to wonder!” Dr. Dalles exclaims with such vigor and excitement marveling and musing your face and hair. Ciel lets his lips purse as his eye narrows calculatingly on your appearance. Your unmarred face and hair to him were obvious signs that something greater was at play. Dr. Dalles would be none the wiser- though she had been your main caretaker in name the actual handler of the role would definitely go to Sebastian who was far more versed in the injuries you carried, in fact, the alarms about your hair specifically had not been raised to the doctor who examined you because Ciel and Sebastian from the start had strict boundaries of her withholding inspection of Ciel’s eye and apparently, your hair.
This had been on the insistence of Sebastian giving some excuse of your and Ciel’s delicate temperaments as one of the many reasons as to the many circumstances of why they shouldn’t inspect too deeply, puzzling you at the time as they were allowed to treat minor injuries and prescribe you with painkillers to high heaven. You finally understand why.
“It’s all thanks to the care you and Sebastian had given me!” a smile comes easily at her sheer joy. “Yes, that butler of yours is a miracle worker, my coworkers and the lady nurses always stir whenever you come down to the hospital with him, sweetling! It’s easy to see why- your recovery is immaculate! It’s a blessing you’ve kept such a darling face!” she exclaims jovially, cupping your cheeks inspecting you.
“Such a distinct face, oh lord you’ll be the most coveted beauty! Nina will do you wonderfully, in fact- I’ll visit her back in London, I just have to stop by and rave about how inspirational you’ll be!”
“The…The tailor for Ciel and I?” You question.
“Yes, she’s brilliant! She typically dresses young women but between you and me she has a…daring aspect to her. She’s quite the eye for fashion! It’s just the thing a fresh face in the garden needs to outshine even more!” She exclaims with such a vigor it shocks you. The clinical Dr. Dalles who looked at you with the eyes of something far more maternal, heart on her sleeve. You’ve heard about her scandalous affairs she’s had on the ton when she’s had far too much brandy to drink after routine checkups. It’s still jarring on occasion to see the drastic switch, though you think it’s for the better- separating your personal and work life is always good.
She’ll arrive tomorrow, that’s the plan. As of now, the night grows darker and there’s a scheduled attack on the manor. Nights like these drag along like cigarette smoke: Thick and oppressive, like the rotten men who orchestrate for something worse than fun, the curiosity of it. You usually stay with Ciel under Sebastian’s request, not like the two of you have a need to complain about it. Only two residents in the manor are presumed targets, because of course the presence of a mysterious girl would circulate with the uptake of new visitors in the form of crooked swindlers and the honest businessman.
Nights like these are long, you find. In your earlier days you had been prepping for the next day’s meal while Sebastian did some chore off and away, stationary on your designated chair; it had been monotonous but refreshing. The presence of Sebastian tended to do that to you- temporary but oppressive safety. That night, the silence and peace you had assumed had been revealed as an illusion, a rat had slipped past the hunting grounds that you think he uses for entertainment or observation- whatever, a rat had slipped by. Undetected? You don’t think so. Uncared for was more like it, nothing bad would happen to you of course. The reasonable part of you knew this.
The rat had skittered to the kitchens. The Kitchen is located on the first floor with multiple exits, avenues for something small and meaningless to make away from. Perhaps the rat had seen it when it observed the looming manor that had been so foreign to it. Vermin-like rats are never the coddled lap pets, in fact, they’re feed for the exotic ones.
Perhaps the rat could recall a kitchen better than the layout it was given. Perhaps the rat could find familiarity in it. The rat’s mama cooking over the hearth, a nice smell in the stink of the city, the rot of the bare country. You don’t like to think about it because the rat grows thumbs and a human face- The rat was hungry and smelled food, so it followed its nose and nothing more.
So the rat had burst into the kitchen. The impression of soldiers and bad men are usually depicted in the minds of the innocent as bad and burly, muscle and evil intent sown into its body, but this was just a boy around your age, scrawny as the sticks broken under his boots on the trek to the manor, just as easily broken.
He’d only had the time to gape and heave a soundless scream at the living undead he thought he saw. Perhaps the screams of his comrades and the obvious beast deluded the mind into claiming the place cursed or doomed, (a correct assumption, as you saw later from the carnage left it appeared as if something from within them tore them apart.) He had decided on doomed when a black mass had ripped through his chest like a slow cooked roast, like skin had rejected to touch the mass so muscle and sinew would rather separate like candle wax burning.
Sebastian never said anything that night, he was in a horrible mood that day. The young master had humiliated him with a display of his awful service, while you had stared uncaring and blank as the brat had poured a cup of tea onto his pristine linen gloves.
He just gave you a look of what you consider contemplation, scanning your hunched figure sat over the skinned potatoes and promptly left, the rat dragged along with wet scrapes along his coat tails.
Needless to say, you don’t like the extermination days you faithfully dub.
“Sebastian,” You call as he brings Dr. Dalles to a separate parlor. “Please be sure to keep your rat catching quiet tonight.” You murmur, “Please remember to keep one alive to test it for disease, or better yet, lead us to the source of infestation.” You say with finality.
“As you will, My lady.”
Sebastian had so faithfully escorted Dr. Dalles to her chambers after 30 minutes of yammering, a true test to school your expression you’ve found the seeds of discontent to be sprung across your face and brought into a premature bloom you try to weed; looks of astute boredom and overall solidarity are the common offenders to which Ciel looks pointedly at you with a sharper than typical glance. Only then when Ciel almost commands for her to be placated to her room does she finally relent with a well meaning goodnight kiss for the both of you, final words of glittering excitement over your future presentations.
The study hearth glows brightly. It does well to illuminate your face quite favorably, to determine the lack of scarring and sworn tissue. There’s none from that night.
“(Name), let down your hair.” Ciel breaks the silence with a command that’s weightlier than anticipated though you understand the bewilderment lies not with you.
You do so, revealing hair floor length. Tumbling down in its usual pattern towards the carpeted floor.
“It’s longer than when I first met you.” Ciel observes plainly. He’s correct, your hair was a long, proud thing back then. It was something you could never cut for one reason or another yet it had never been this defying length. If it was possible through natural means you couldn’t tell at all.
“Not only that, but you also don’t have any of the cuts I remember you bore.” He says openly. He’s not truly upset by this fact it seems, but skeptical.
“I could give you some guesses as to why the demon couldn’t heal holy wounds.” You gesture your hands and feet smiling rather wry at the nasty joke, “Not only that, but the brand. I fear we’re stuck with that, sweetheart.” You reply solemnly.
Ciel nods his head, all night the question is his mind since your reveal truly put to application. “Your wrists…” he starts slowly, pointedly looking into the hearth knowingly.
You understand where he’s getting at instantly.
“Yeah,” you say. “Sorry boy,” You smile wry and slow, testing the motion, lifting your wrists in the air towards the gleam of warmth. It’s an ironic gesture, wish fulfillment at best. Your loose per usual sleeves drop eventually, when your arms prop upright. Ciel stiffens at the reveal, you giggle. “Honestly, I didn’t want this one gone.” You start, “it’ll be covered up at all times though.” You reassure sweetly. Your eyes on your wrist could be the look of something maternal, or perhaps that warm feeling is the hearth hitting your skin, illuminating it; the golden light revealing two almost identical bite marks on either meat of your wrists on all the rich veins, deep, neat, and gifted.
Holding it up to the light you notice that there’s some slight differences in indentation. Molars are spaced out and a deviated canine left from the boy’s jaw. “Have you lost any of your baby teeth yet?” You ask curiously, arms hoisted.
“No, I haven’t.” He says quietly.
“Late bloomer then, on my right, there’s a gap where he must have lost a molar.” You reply far too casually before you realize your slip up.
Ciel stiffens like the dead. “I see.”
“They’ll be concealed at all times, along with other abnormalities.” You reassure flat, final. He nods in approval and reprieve.
You turn to leave, it’s late and you don’t want to be around whenever Sebastian starts his nighttime cleaning. “(Name)” Ciel calls after you.
“Yes, sweet thing?” You respond naturally, halting at the door.
“If he tries anything you come to me, please.”
A laugh rips from your throat, dying down into a croak. You cross to him, enveloping him in a hug that presses your chin to the top of his head, kissing on the soft blue-grey crown.
“That’s very sweet of you.” You reply, stalking down the hall. He doesn't call for you again.
You’re woken up around the same time you’d be off to town, but apparently Nina is restless when faced with a supposed muse. It’s Sebastian as per usual who rouses you.
“My lady,” he calls, “The seamstress Nina is here.”
“Mmngh, Seb- Sebastian?” You call out in confusion, eyes hugging the dark round the corners. “Why so-” You yawn, “Why so early!?” You whine, stretching rather feline with your newfound mobility, sitting up and arching your hips and back. Sebastian’s eyes narrow.
“I apologize, my lady. I was under the impression she would arrive around noon.”
“No- no worries,” You rub the sleep from your eyes. “I was just suprised ‘s all, shall I get dressed?”
“No actually,” he starts rather tentatively, “She would prefer what she refers to as a “blank canvas” as she calls it. She would like permission to enter your quarters.”
“I see, I grant it.” You say simply. It’s less work to simply not get ready at all, Sebastian’s eye twitches at just how easy you accepted.
“Strange protocol.” He forces out. You pointedly ingore him. “Send her in.”
He leaves wordlessly with what you think is a sigh. Around a minute later, a shapely lady wearing a men’s top with an adjustable bustle waltzes in. Framed hair and glasses to pair her eyes scan the room before landing upon you.
“Oh my god, you’re absolutely gorgeous! Meg, Agusta, my tape!” She squeals too passionately for the early morning.
“O-Oh, thank you!” You stutter out, mid stretch. Sebastian watches the exchange warily.
“What’s your name darling?” The seamstress Nina inquires as she leans in so fast you collapse back into laying on your bed.
“(Name)!” You squeak as she doesn't bother to move, rather pinning you to the plush comforter.
“Your hair, oh your complexion! You- You’re just as Ann puts it, such a gem you are- in fact- Where is she, butler?!” She turns to Sebastian who watches the exchange distastefully. It seems they got off on the wrong foot.
“The sun has barely risen, the lady Dalles remains asleep in the guest quarters.” He replies sharply.
“Oh, (Name) dear, older ladies rise with the sun- but you! You’re a flower that blooms overnight! I do my best to keep myself rather vital as my assistants can vouch but, oh! Does the night call for you to be more radiant in the day!” She takes your hand, holding it close to her heart placing it upon her breast. You flush, if there’s a blush on your cheeks it matters not, as the look on your face is enough explanation.
“Oh, we’re two women,” Nina winks at your awestruck expression. “Society says that the most pleasant bloom are the ladies that find a rosy companionship, I however find a creative liberty upon that term as an artist.” Her voice drops teasing, the two assistants Meg and Agusta- She calls them share a devious look as they exchange glances, the one with the bob bites her painted lip.
You can feel the weight of Sebastian’s gaze upon you as you do nothing to push her off, maintaining the heavy eye contact. “I trust in that, Ms. Nina” You respond rather softly, her eyes crinkle in the familiar face of laughter. “Oh my darling, you’re just too precious. If I were a man I’d hide you away, but I am a woman so I must stake my claim on you.” She finishes rather seriously, glancing over at the butler who remains motionless at the doorway.
“I’m sure your faithful servant understands the feeling all too well.” She simpers at him. She shakes her head and doesn't elaborate any further upon seeing your narrowed eyes, rather she hoists you to sit via a hand on your waist. “Stand for me darling.”
You obey her of course. Your tail might as well be wagging.
“Good girl,” Your face whips to the side, you feel flushed.
“You have quite the lovely figure; that goes without saying. Today’s fashions will suit you well, no doubt. What we must do is make you unforgettable. Unfortunately we cannot be too adventurous given your frequent audience with royalty and nobility, our queen has quite the sensibilities.” She notes seriously.
“I must dress you in english then, though the heart of mine years for Paris." She finalizes solemnly.
“That’s not to say one may add the accent of Paris.” Madame Red, the lady who stands at your door, adds coyly. You sigh, there was Dr. Dalles and then Madame Red. The hand on her hip tells you as much.
“Oh, Ann!” Nina all but falls into Madame Red’s respite, kissing her cheeks. “She is just as visionary as you wrote!”
“Oh, I and I have been modest still!” She laughs along. “(Name), dear, she really is a genius- you’re in capable hands.” You think you see Sebastian roll his eyes next to her.
“Sebastian, please wait outside. I will summon you if needed.” You command gently, “I’m sure Ciel will wake soon, until then Nina and Aunty will assist me.”
“...” Sebastian eyes you for a second. “As you will, my lady.” and swiftly departs.
Madame Red and Nina share a look, one that Madame Red does her best to hide behind a hand, and fails.
“Dear, while I may not dress you as I envision.”
“Francis will have your head-” Madame Red interjects.
“She will,” Nina finishes.
“I may dress you upon your terms, what that may be.” Nina smiles softly.
“Nina dresses the Midford family. She wouldn’t touch your uncle and cousin if it weren’t for the tremendous respect she bears for Francis,” Madame red interjects giggling, “Though she does a spectacular job with each of their particulars.”
“Oh, Lizzy is such a darling! So colorful, that girl! She wanted a dress like a carousel, I had to tearfully refuse because her mother rejected it!” She recollects.
“I trust the eye you posses, Ms. Nina.” You begin, thoroughly entertained. “I would like to highlight my being then, as a member of the Phantomhives but also as my own being. I will not bend to the dressing if it makes me look foolish, I will define it rather- That is the goal.” You claim fiercely.
“Oh, then it shall be done.” Nina winks at Madame Red.
“I want the strongest colors. I shall not be a thing to be overshadowed and overlooked. Every color shall be planned to my complexion, what suits it best- Even the white shall be to my taste, the black to my desire. The dress itself may be modest in embellishments but intricate in craftsmanship. The priority will be complementing my figure.” You request, certain.
Madame Red nods in approval. “They claim you not an English rose, but something beautiful nonetheless.”
“I can’t please everyone.” You say plainly.
“You shall not,” Nina confirms, the cogs in her head turn. Muttering to Meg and Augusta as they create concepts on the go, modified styles of english wear- to be complementing rather than conforming. Polite yet firm. “You should please the eye, they could not deny you that.”
The designs they show you favor the complexity of design rather than accents. The color is rich and purposefully distinct. “The cost would be in the color and the labor, but that is the labor of love.” Nina replies happily.
“I shall only require for outings of these occasions,” You hand her a list. “Occasions more grand such as this will be commissioned weeks in advance.” You add, then lowly mutter. “Please uphold priority for any…last minute unconventional requests.” Nina nods.
“That is without a doubt.” Madame Red confirms.
“I will have you pick jewelry from a collection come three days before your meeting with the Queen.” Nina pauses, “Shoes, garters, underthings, and dailies will be ready for pickup tomorrow, along with simple wear I can prepare from anything in this catalogue." She hands you a magazine and a fountain pen to pick your desirables- everyday wear inspired from different regions. You pause when you find something inspired by your own home country, circling it quickly.
“Very well!” Nina clasps her hands together, “We have one more matter to attend to!” Her eyes trail behind you. “Your hair! It is lovely, but I must impose something needs to be done!” Her eyes glitter. Madame Red chimes in. “It is lovely, darling. Yet, you must want something in fashion?” She recommends softly, tone more like Dr. Dalles, the doctor who wasn’t allowed to touch a hair upon your head at all.
“We can. Nothing that’s in fashion should be put into consideration, I want it to suit my face shape, my features.” You advocate steadily. “It should have no regard for what’s in fashion- what suits me shall be deviated from the norm I think- it is possible to style it anyway for formal events-”
“No need to explain anything to me, dear.” Nina coos, “We agree wholeheartedly” Madame Red adds once more support, putting a hand on Nina’s padded shoulder. You don’t want to ask why they seem to finish each other’s thoughts like they’ve been inside each other-
You’ve just answered your own question.
“I thank you.” you reply nodding greatfully, you let them get to work.
It took 3 hours to determine a style, Ciel had spent the rest of the day in a foul mood.
You’d say the effort paid off though. The hours you had all spent to determine an aesthetic for you to follow set itself up nicely. A perfect balance of conformity and individuality, an embrace of a part of you not everyone would accept. The Phantomhive colors moulded to fit your complexion, jewelry to suit the Phantomhive name and you, your own colors and jewelry to represent Lady (Name) Phantomhive. Nina had crafted a wardrobe based on what felt like far off idealism and dreams.
Buckingham Palace feels surreal to you. It’s grand, of course that’s enough to be said. It towers over you: A shining reminder of where you are today. The Chinese man beside you nor the Indian immigrants you passed on the way could make you forget what country you inhabited. The golden angel that lay in front of the gates shone the sun so bright a phrase could only come to mind as your eyes whitened at the refraction.
“The sun never sets on the British empire.” In fact, the Indians, the Chinese, and Irish you encountered on the way only cement this.
Being escorted into Queen Victoria’s drawing room is a daunting affair. It goes first to Ciel, dressed rather valiantly as his little frame can hold, a heavy overcoat and metal pieces adorned. He looks honorable. He had even left Sebastian behind next to you. You wait outside in the parlor, awaiting the call you sit stiffly, your posture extra pristine for the silent guards that stare blankly at the wall ahead of them. Madame Red and Lau had been sent to another parlor with an audience that had the relevant members of Parliament. If everything went according to plan, then the newly reformed Phantomhive family would convine with the Midfords in the open ceremony.
Your mind races, you can tell it’s bad when Sebastian glances down upon you with a raised brow.
It’s been thirty minutes since Ciel had been called to the queen’s drawing room. You don’t dare say anything to Sebastian, the help if society were to dictate. The guards in the room draw any comfort you could draw from his familiar presence.
When your heart drums at a pace and your gloved hands finally sweat is when Ciel emerges with a conflicted expression on his face. You try to read the look in his eye, his hair drawn back gave an easier face to read but he shakes his head, looking forward as they summon you by “A Ms. (Name)”
You step forward, perfect in your off white dressing gown. Your hair and makeup leaves you a vision to be sure, stares have garnered from every expression you drew up. That’s different though.
The drawing room opens and closes with a thud, “Ms. (Name) it is good to finally meet you.” The queen addresses you rather kindly as you curtsy, your head bowed. “It is an honor to be in your prospects and healthy presence your highness.” You greet fondly. You flatten your skirts for the drawn chair, right across from the queen of the English Empire.
“I've heard your case pleaded to me in many different forms by that sweet boy. I’m afraid I remain curious though, as it was never clarified- I must ask what happened in that dreadful fire to make a son of the watch dog so attached.?” You look up from your seat as your posture remains sweet and english. The look in her eye speaks to no mal intent but a morbid curiosity.
“I don’t know what to say, your highness.” You start, “The good queen requests a memory that is not mine to recall. The boy had lost much, all that to say is that we remain where many did not. I have the scars to bear, as does he. More physical than mental, that is.” You reply cautiously.
“Oh! May I see?” Queen Victoria asks rather suddenly. You notice an assistant or butler at her side clears his throat. “Oh, I don’t see why not.” You reply cheerfully, matching the ingenuine nature rather well. “These are mine to tell,” You lift your gloves, “devil worshipers, the lot. Sinful. It is through God's grace we were able to escape. I’d say it was a feat of wit.” You mutter lowly to her, bent over the table to get a good look, enthralled.
“Oh my! How awful! It is good then, that the boy’s return must signify God’s grace, that good takes over evil in its most foul forms- I must ask child, what else you must tell me!” She looks into your eyes awestruck. It throws you off, the illusion of a grand figure tarnished.
“Tounge of the most foreign forms. Spoke the old Latin, yes, lots of foreign eastern tongues.” You lie nastily, watching her expression go from childlike to one of a senile older crone. “Oh! Those types don’t celebrate god one bit, do they? They refuse to work and find the cheap sin to bring whatever mortal delight! Oh, and if they did it’s not proper like the English way!” She chides almost like scolding a child, baffling you. Yet, your face doesn't betray you one bit.
“I must say, I had been sent to England to study- never made it. I was to be studying at a convent.” You reply solemnly, adding to the shock on her face. “No! It mustn't be!” She replies in abject horror. “It is against the teaching to rip you away from such a thing!”
“On the contrary,” you retort knowingly, nervously. “I am of the personal belief that it was God who sent me to the boy’s side. I had dreams you see, of an angel telling me to be this boy’s shield for his own were so horribly departed.”
“Then it must be!” The queen nods vigorously, “God must prevail in speak of the devil and sin.” She speaks in a tone of education. “Then it must be that you stay by his side, the English way.”
“At my own will.” You agree, “I was sent to serve the boy, and if the boy serves his country and Queen matriarch, then I am to serve just as faithfully.”
“You are a good girl then, devoid of the superior sensibility rather than what you may have been taught.” She speaks softly. “I believe it is my duty as a ruler of justice to bring that to you, if you serve as my subject of the protestant- anglican faith. I believe that you were robbed of your opportunity to serve God, so the good lord must have brought you to me.”
You smile sweetly, “That must be it.”
“Then you are to be christened and named family at once, not only of strong will, but the bond you two share must be preserved and kept as an example of how we must uplift each other.” You smile endearingly as she nods, finalizing some thought in her head. You wonder if this comes to you too easily as a pretense to a treacherous road- A road you claim with a full heart.
“The darling boy was correct in his stance on your morals, what a good girl you are.” She peers up at you. You didn’t realize how little she is, you had been sweating at the thought of her presence. “(Name) Phantomhive will be a proper lady, she should be a devout lady, she should be a desired lady. Lady (Name) Phantomhive will be the pinnacle of English reformation, we will turn you yet into the most exotic rose, my dear. Most of all, a wonderful accessory for my obedient dog!”
You don’t know why your heart thuds to the bottom of your chest, but it does. You smile tightly, curtsying once more, and bending like a swan so she may kiss the top of your head. You’re escorted out the room, past the parlor to the throne room. Ciel waits for you there.
“What did you say to her?” You murmur quietly, your eyes bore the carpet in front of you as you walk side by side.
“What I expected you to say, did it work?”
“It did,” you pause. “Thank you, brother.”
Ciel’s smile is tight and wry. “Of course.”
Ciel’s installment and your legitimacy as a member of the Phantomhive family is witnessed by parliament, a set of old, sunken in faces set in stone like the graves that lay at the base of the manor. It is a quiet and polite affair where no one dares object at the idea of such a young lord, the documents that recollect the seizure of assets and will had been summoned from a bank in Paris, the feat of Ciel’s earnings had been projected as some form of evidence of mental sound. It is settled by the man it white, the Queen’s presumed assistant who had then introduced himself to you as John Brown after a quick round of congratulations. It is when the doors open, the room stills as a private ceremony is held for Phantomhive heir to take upon his ancestral role, you are to bear witness along with Madame Red, Lau, Sebastian and the Midfords.
The boy seems to be swallowed up by the tall pillars and arching windows, still standing his pride and right, stalking down to kneel before the Queen as he bears his vow to servitude. The words he relays to bear arms for the crown utter hollow to you. The guard dog is something he embodies, something he wants to be. He is a guard dog in spirit if not name, to you however, it is clear he lays false upon his loyalties. A memento, a tradition he must possess rather than a true desire.
Ciel Phantomhive is in the spotlight now, and the people demand a desire. He must give them one, lest he shows the hatred in his chest. The one way hatred that would do no one, least himself any good.
“Welcome back Earl Phantomhive, I rejoice to see you returned to us.”
He is sworn, you realize the motions are quite similar to knighting if not the same. It is done. Ciel is now what he said he would be, you are what he said you would be. There is no debate about it now. You congratulate him with the appropriate fanfare, as do the Midfords, It is a cautious sort of congratulations for the road ahead- Lau a respectable distance. Your eyes follow the blood red stain of Madame Red, convening with Sebastian at the doorway that he stays sat. Your newfound family goes to make their separate entrances at the gathering after bidding an upbeat farewell, Aunt Francis takes a good look at you and nods her head with what must be pride, Aunt Ann giving you the typical affections.
“We’ll reconvene shortly” Aunt Francis reminds you pointedly.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
You say nothing as you, Ciel, and Sebastian bear down the halls ready to brave the crowd of close allies: A Deidrich and an uncle Claus from Germany, The Midfords, Lau, Madame Red, a man named Pitt and some others. A small spread you’d gathered immense loyalty from. You stalk a bit ahead of Sebastian and a pace behind Ciel as expected.
Right, the social season’s start is conveniently now so you’d then open the town house to the Ton who, from what you heard, have been gossiping wildly about the resurging Phantomhives. You can at least savor the moments of familiarity before diving into unknown territory.
“Now you have formally become an earl. Status, wealth, a beautiful fiance- it is all yours.” Sebastian states with a feline tempt, looking down on the boy from the shadow he cast, “So what do you say?” He starts with a shadow that seems to coil around him like a vice, you train your eye on the floor, observing the ways it twists within itself like a starving belly.
“Why not cease aspiring something as foolish as vengeance and simply live a happy life from here on?” He inquires, dangling forbidden fruit. Ciel’s glance falls to you, narrowing as you frantically shake your head “no”.
“That’s not a bad idea either,” He probes nonchalantly, he doesn't mean it surely but it doesn't stop Sebastian from shivering with a sick sort of glee, a hand molded black and wrong reaching for him with his teeth bared. The ice that freezes over your heart rivals unparalleled as you swipe at the hand that approaches the boy, tugging the arm to your chest. Oh what a mistake, the split second it connects the feeling of dread seeping inside your body, the physical feeling is thick air-like smoke penetrating your clothes and skin, seeping back into the hellish form it came from. A split second to see the venomous glare Sebastian shoots you, lowered and narrowed.
“But-” Ciel whips his head around, “(Name), what are you doing?”
“I fell.” you say rigidly.
“I didn’t come back “here” for happiness. I returned for the sake of waging war.” Your chest floats up and down like an air balloon, he’s safe for now; digging his own grave. “Now that I carry this name, the name of Earl Ciel Phantomhive, moving forward is the only option left for me!”
“I swear upon this baneful name of mine I shall have revenge!” He clarifies sharply, with no resolution to his plight it is raw and angry. You slowly withdraw from Sebastian. Ciel shoots you a look as he motions for Sebastian to kneel.
“I command you Sebastian, be my sword and shield and bring me victory!” You stare at him, not knowing whether to cry or spit, so you nod.
“Yes my lord.” Ciel waits for the both of you no further as he moves towards the door, a step closer to achieving his desire- without you, something you refuse to forget.
“My lady.”
“Yes, Sebastian?” You stay frozen in place, the words tumble out of your mouth like stones.
“Do not stick your hand in a cage with ravenous beasts.” He reminds you childingly, yet he bears no smile.
You don’t bear the energy to nod your head, you let him connect a hand to his elbow dragging you away to a fate worse than death.
“Oh darling, I do believe we can take those dreadful wraps up now!” Dr. Dalles exclaims cheerfully. “Now, no matter what exactly under those bandages doesn't matter darling. You’re worth enough to be here…” She trails off carefully.
“I know!” you reassure her, somewhat chipper. Your accent mirroring hers, she’s been a great help as reference.
“You’re an english rose now, one of the most delightful I’ve come across” She murmurs, gently petting your head.
“Thank you Dr. Dalles!”
“Oh please, call me aunt Ann!” She kisses the top of your head, a crimson red mark left behind.
“Aunt, please stop smothering (Name).” Ciel interjects from his desk.
“Well, it’s only because (Name) doesn't mind if I pinch her cheeks or give her affection, nephew! You’ve become so prickly! Where did that arise, hmm? Must be from Francis- don’t tell her I said that!” You giggle at her rant.
“Yes…well, next week as planned, we’ll see you and Lau after our meeting with the queen. We’ll all reconvene at the town house with the Midfords and company, it’ll be our re-entry into society and the start of the season” He finishes the conversation prior to its cutoff, perhaps he could feel the next topics wouldn’t be taken so seriously- His aunt has a meter for those sort of affairs.
“Does that man have to be there?” Dr. Dalles simpers. It’s a farce at best, considering how much time post their initial meeting they surround each other- they get along quite splendidly in your opinion.
“Yes, it was his condition with his involvement with the Phantomhives, it’s rare a Chinese merchant has access to Buckingham Palace and the ton. It’s only reasonable considering the fact he gave us entry into the Chinese underworld.” He reasons. “My predecessor had even struggled with such a feat.
“It’s only reasonable,” You offer innocently enough. Lau was a man of humor, he was good enough not to mention any adult filth if it wasn’t absolutely necessary to whatever discussion Ciel would take up, a balance in his eye. The respect of Ciel’s aptitude but the knowingness of corruption. “Besides, he won’t bring Ran-Mao.”
“Ugh, how can he be that way with his sister of all things!” Dr. Dalles shudders.
“Oh you don’t know?” You raise a brow, a bit amused. “They’re not related at all.”
“Wait- what?” Dr. Dalles blindsides.
“No, not at all.” Sebastian interjects smoothly. “It’s a running joke for those in his particular trade, they find that Englishmen have a hard time distinguishing the relation between a man like Lau and his…merchandise.”
“Claiming family relations gives them more domain, you see.” You finish Sebastian off with a sly grin.
“Yes, nasty work.” Ciel concludes bored from his desk. “Madame Red, I’ll need you on standby in case (Name) needs medical attention during her unwrapping. We’ll have tea until then.”
“Hold on one second, I’m not the one undoing (Name)’s bandages?” She puzzles.
“And call me aunty!” She adds more sternly.
“You see, (Name) has been rather delicate lately, it is routine for myself to be tending to her injuries. I wouldn’t want to deviate from the norm to upset her temperament.” Sebastian confirms with a pleasant expression.
“Hold on-” You protest, why would he say something so false!
“Oh, (Name)! Don’t justify yourself, I understand you sweetling!” Dr. Dalles all but coos.
“Yes, my lady. You should be thankful for your supportive family.” Sebastian further adds with a smile. Ciel huffs in annoyance. All but ushering the both of you out much harsher than normal with a wave of his hands. Sebastian takes the wordless cue and scoops you into his arms.
You bristle outside the study.
“Why would you say that!” You whisper yell leaning closer to his face disregarding his super human senses- actually, you wish it rings in his head.
“My lady,” His expression has a subtle smugness. “We had to give a compelling reason as to why lady Dalles must not be in the room for this occasion.” He settles calmly keeping pace as he does, his pace evenly setting out in the carpeted halls so even it’s almost akin to a carriage ride in a rich neighborhood in London. Sebastian dares not drop you.
In fact, ever since that Undertaker incident a week ago his grip had further tightened; his gaze sharper. Something you could only reasonably interpret from Sebastian’s mannerisms as a lack of trust. Sebastian of all people could find no relation or information about Undertaker for contingencies yet the boy had insisted on the contact as he had been his predecessors.
You think it’s a tad sentimental, if fact, you’re happier for it. Sebastian, you could tell, was more reversed on the opinion.
Your room is quite bare. You sleep in it more often nowadays, but there’s nights that Ciel requests you by his bed side. Another sentimentality that eats at Sebastian’s patience. You note the annoyance on his face when he summons you from late night paperwork. It’s the annoyance he carries for when someone held up the road to help a man who had been struck by a wagon, all but whining on the way to your errand about lost time and the pointlessness of it. You had been struck by the lack of comprehension at the time.
Your room is bare, it was originally the room of a mistress past- The boy’s grandmother called Claudia Phantomhive. It’s only a few doors down from the master bedroom. It wasn’t unusual for Phantomhives to have separate rooms if they had relations to the guard dog title, you noticed. Ciel even noted one time briefly that his own mother who doted upon his predecessor had her own room when bouts of sickness came to her or when his predecessor had been kept far too busy with work as the guard dog.
Your room is bare: You can relate to it, despite receiving no comfort in it. You feel like your room most days, bare because your bandages feel like your skin and everyone else dressed heavy for the winter that remained. You’d look at Sebastian oddly when he’d bring lighter garments, loose flowy things that would work as night clothes. It was deemed okay though since you were covered in wraps- Even the stern Lady Midford turned cheek in understanding her first come around. When everyone else wore elaborate thick things of stiff cotton and form fit wool you felt naked, your body forgot the burden it bears and tricked your mind into mundanality.
Now that you think about it more, you’d really be truly naked. Sebastian had changed out your bandages. Never all at once though. Always done in the dense heat of the washroom, everything feels heavy in a place like that. The fog had clouded the illusion further, granting you the peace. You’d been disgustingly familiar with the feeling of nakedness at one point, even becoming a commonality at the time. Yet you feel worse this time around, confusing you greatly. Sebastian had insisted that only his presence whenever you take your second skin off. He’d introduced the idea so nonchalantly that Ciel had to clarify as to exactly why rather than nodding his head mindlessly.
Why?
You had agreed even when Sebastian didn’t elaborate, the conversation parting with a certainty and wicked sense of trust on your part:
“It’s for the best, my lord.”
You had nodded and exclaimed just as nonchalantly, supposing in your mind it was appropriate enough, though no logical thought could come to a reason to define your conclusion. You suppose there’s a brazen trust you carry with Sebastian, that he has not shown any signs of breaking a contract that binds him loyal to you- but you’d rather think of him as a thing with a stomach than thoughts and emotions with a stomach. Sebastian the stomach has no taste for sexuality, for the likes of scrawny, malnourished, bone set things like you.
It’s idiotic to think he has no thoughts, but it gives you peace of mind to think that way then to imagine in the blank stare he saddles upon you what he may be thinking, so you’d like to think he thinks of nothing at all outside of his stomach.
He sets you down on the marble countertop of the bathroom behind the vanity mirror. The thin linen you wear as day clothes comes off as easily as raising your arms. It’s routine at this point, and never before had you felt anything particularly for it, always under the expectation the bandages go back on.
The bandages unwrap nicely, they’re made of the finest linen they had shipped in from India; Ciel insisted only the best which you’ve taken more than graciously.
Your face is revealed first. Sebastian’s face reveals no emotion, straight to work. You feel no pain on your face at all, only met with the open air of the room. Your eyes squint a bit, the wraps had been a cover for your eyes which had been bloodshot as you were told, the room isn’t particularly bright, which worries you slightly.
Sebastian says nothing as he unravels you, the sound of linen is something you’re used to. You couldn’t comfort yourself by saying that it was the standard remove and replace because you’ve never felt so exposed in your life. It’s an idea you never thought you would struggle with but you’re seconds from grabbing Sebastian’s wrists as they wander lower and lower as you sit well and immobile.
You look at the ceiling and think of better things as you feel the cold air on your breasts and stomach, your pelvis. Lower, lower, lower.
Your breaths try not to become hiccups as you feel your chest intimately beating rather intimately, flushing you red, Sebastian can definitely hear it. Thankfully, you can hardly feel his fingers on your skin. Just dry open air. Sebastian works further on your legs now, from the countertop he’s kneeling on the floor between your legs, working on one, the other propped on his shoulder.
The worst part is you don't even realize until your left leg is completely unraveled, save for your foot.
“My Lady.” His voice is a bit clipped and careful, void of any personal interest as per usual yet a bit human by his design. You squint at the Ceiling, undoing the damage of your mind.
You recognize that in this moment it’s dangerous for your mind to wander such places in a vulnerable position, as per experience it should only breed the deepest hatred to bubble. The worst part is, there’s nothing you could do about hatred for this kind of man: One who’s not a man at all.
His gaze travels your posture with a raised brow, you note peering at him in the corner of your eye. You notice your hands grip the side of the counter that your arm trembles- you notice your arm is completely devoid of scarring.
“...Sebastian?”
“I wasn’t sure if my methods had worked properly. Good to know they’re not inefficient.” he muses halfheartedly, though his gaze is heavier and his mind lays elsewhere.
“How-” You wonder aloud.
“They were shallow. Three months is plenty of time to get rid of light abrasions, the issue was the softer skin of your face, My lady.” He finishes his musings, turning back to you. “In fact,” he muses with a smirk on his face, leaning closer, the leg propped on his shoulder gently set down by a gloved hand clutching the fat of the underside. You panic, your thighs work to clamps shut- He doesn't plan to stop you, rather moving forwards, up towards your face. You don’t bother reprimanding him. You’re instilled with a feeling he’s ahead of you.
A hitch of your throat. A gasp.
Your thighs catch his hips, unsteady your remaining bandages on your hands cause your arms to slip.
The hold on his hips tightens, a hand of his reaching out to grasp your waist. You refuse to look at him, your head whipping to the side so quick you think your neck would snap under the pressure. He looks down at your position, back at you and chuckles.
“My lady,” He reprimands more amused than anything “No need to be frightened, after all-” He jests rather cruelly as you interpret. “Bad things happen when you least expect it after all. I’m sure you know this, so there’s no reason to keep me so tightly, my lady.”
Your mouth opens with a huff, your legs to slack. The first time Sebastian showed any reaction, bare faced and cruel he gets. You quickly shove him off.
“Warn a girl.” You say weakly.
“Oh, I thought you were perfectly comfortable with the proximity. I apologize, I’ll re-evaluate next time.” He grins.
“You wouldn’t touch Ciel like that.” You say sharply more for your own reassurance. He wouldn’t- would he?
“No, young master requires a different sort of care, my lady. If you must know,” if you were brave enough to ask, he means. “I consider the care between you and the young master to require an ocean apart.”
“To be a butler “Worth his salt,” you mock with a huff, “You must have an understanding for the care that goes into tending to a lady, Sebastian!” You raise your voice, there’s a horrible crack at the end that sounds like the start of tears rather than the neglect of tone.
You don’t question the strange behavior you’ve come across since the trip to the Undertaker’s, already treading on what seemed to be melting ice. You want to kick yourself from piquing his interest, starting a game you can’t finish.
“I didn’t realize you saw yourself as one, my lady.”
Your eyes narrow in understanding, the niceties drop, so does all semblance of human tone. His voice is flat and devoid, a hand goes to your chin, gripping it just hard enough you can’t move away. He doesn't speak further. The only sound in the room is the heaving breaths you take, eyes looking at anywhere but him.
You want to snap back, you don't. Your lips feel like cement. His other hand travels to remove the bandages that rest on the crown of your head, almost fantastically, he pulls down one knot that sits at the nape of your neck and unravels the bandages.
There’s a number of things you expect to see or feel, after all it was probably the most memorable assault onto you, also the most noticable:
You’d expected some patchy mange, crusted blood and dried scarring. Sparse patches and tufts of hair.
You had been almost scalped unintentionally, handled so roughly in an attempt at pinning you down and shaving your head it was almost like they had shaved some skull off at the time.
In fact, you had felt patches of pain in your head the most for the first two months. It was the type of pain that ebbed and flowed in aches and burns. Those were the bandages that needed to be changed the most.
It’s to your surprise you feel thick, luscious hair- So long and healthy it seems impossible to be grown naturally, piling on the counter top so long you assume it could unravel to the floor.
“Se- Sebastian?” Your voice is a mix of horror and wonderment.
“From what I could gather, this is your correct hair type…is this correct my lady?” He was correct, but you're too speechless to confirm.
“Sebastian…H- What is this?” You ignore him, for some odd reason, you tear up. You really settled with the idea of being something more disfigured, come to peace with it even. You’d cried one night and no more because there were better things to cry over. You twist around to see your reflection for what feels the first time and fantastically, you look almost the same as you had before.
“Sebastian?!”
“That is what I’m called, my lady.”
You’re caught saying his name, again and again. From horrified to hopeful, questioning and overjoyed.
“Sebastian.” Once more, something slips out his skin, he looks genuinely perplexed at your reaction.
“My lady?” And he studies you for the first time, truly naked and yet, you pay no mind to it.
“Sebastian!” You exclaim idioticly, even more stupid, throwing yourself at him like a worshiping heretic, you don’t care where your arms and legs go. How your body moves. How naked you are. How it is perceived, you don’t care. You throw yourself at him even though you draw blank upon his intentions, you don’t care.
“My lady!” Sebastian questions, alarmed at the initiated contact. Your tears damp his coat, you don’t care.
“My lady, are you crying!?” He questions, genuinely alarmed at the act. You clutch him harder.
You can feel it now, lowly in your skull. This is a mistake in the making; bearing your insecurities like this, letting him initiate such a vulnerable scene rather than Dr. Dalles. A myriad of foolish decisions, this entire ordeal you come to realize has every marker of stupidity on your part.
Sebastian poisoned you with the promise of comfort and repetition, false perception. You had attempted the same and look at you now, failing miserably. So clear in your future you can almost taste it; when his alarm fades like it inevitably will he’ll have something about you.
Perhaps, optimistically you think; he’ll think you a vain and vapid girl obsessed with the way she looks.
Unfortunately, you’d guzzled your soul to him like water in a desert. Unfortunately, for now you don’t care.
This next story is on the heels of the last. Told truthfully, it is a *grown up* tale of vine-ripened fruit, a lost and found painting, and that which can never be forgotten, no matter how many centuries pass.
**TW~ adult theme, mild sexual innuendo **
Chapter 80~ Blackberries
Blackberries tumbled through Silas’ claws, fragrant, tender, gleaming like gems.
The temptation to eat them was intense~ to feel the beaded fruit burst into liquid between his teeth, hearing the seeds crunch like tiny bones.
Part of him wished to hold a handful of them close to his mouth, only to inhale their wild ambrosia. Blackberries reminded him of someone and something from a very long time ago. Momentarily forgetting he was at the bustling Brassbridge market, Silas grinned, causing the grocer to take a cautionary step back at the sight of the demon’s small canines.
Silas sighed. He supposed an appropriate gesture of peaceful intentions would be to purchase the entire basket of berries. He reached into his pocket for coins, and the fruit vendor bravely stepped forward again, eager for the sight of silver.
Indeed, he wished to make a fruit tart for after dinner; possibly two or three. His humans’ appetites rivaled that of a demon’s at times. The berries were perfectly ripened, left on the vines just long enough to be heavy with juice.
And… he simply liked the scent of them.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Nathaniel set his teacup down with a clink onto its saucer, and turned excitedly to Silas. “Ah! I remember what I wanted to tell you! You served Theodora Sinclair back in the day, right?” A flake of tart crust was stuck to his lower lip.
‘Did I ever’, Silas thought to himself, but there was a lady present, and so he chose a more gentlemanly response. “Yes, master. About a century ago.” Silas discreetly pushed an extra napkin across the table. He offered no other information.
“Funny thing, I only just remembered she was a sorceress here. Oddly enough, I found a small painting of her tucked in with some spell books in my study last night, and it prompted me to look up the Thorn Manor family tree again. There’s no frame, just the canvas, with her name written on the back.” He leaned to Elisabeth. “She was truly quite beautiful, nothing like Aunt Clothilde.”
Silas felt his belly grow warm. He shook out his newspaper and feigned interest in the advice column. “Well, that’s most likely because Mistress Sinclair was not the cursed result of a mortal ravenously cross-breeding with a goblin.”
Elisabeth hid her face in her napkin, shaking with silent laughter. Silas’ insistence that Clothilde Thorn was half-beast amused her to no end. The demon slid a side eye and a faint half smile her way.
“Anyway, we should hang it up in the entryway. Framed of course, in a place of honor, with all the others. It’s a small painting, but the detail is astonishing.” Nathaniel cut himself another triangle of tart.
“Oh! I wish to see her! A sorceress! What was she like, Silas?” Elisabeth said to the demon seated across from her, and then paused, teacup raised halfway to her lips. Silas’ eyes had taken on a faraway look~ golden yellow as a melting sunset. The same look he’d had when she’d spoken with him in the mysterious frozen-in-time Ostrich Room, two winters ago.
Silas blinked and composed himself quickly, the syrupy glow in his eyes vanishing. “A most unique and charismatic woman. Extraordinary. Bold. Visionary. She led House Thorn into a peaceful time.” He slipped a claw into the intricate folds of his cravat, loosening it minutely.
“Well, let’s get her up on the wall, then, shall we? She deserves a place there as much as any Thorn. Silas, can you make it your task today to find a suitable frame? I’d say it’s maybe this big.” Nathaniel held his hands about two feet apart.
Silas lowered his paper and sighed. “Yes, master. Although I should prefer to measure the artwork myself, as opposed to relying on your wildly random hand gestures.”
“Fine, of course. You know better about these things than I do. The painting is on my desk. You two can go look. In the meantime, I’ll take on the task of finishing off this tart.” Fork dug deep into the buttery crust with its thick treacly layers of black amethyst fruit, Magister Thorn waggled his head round in happiness. “By the gods, Silas. My compliments to the chef!”
Elisabeth and Silas headed towards Nathaniel’s study together, bathed in the lavender evening sunlight that filtered through the grand hallway’s tall mullioned windows. The demon folded his arms behind his back, sauntering like a shadow a few steps behind his mistress, who seemed to be in quite a hurry to meet this painted lady.
Silas, on the other hand, already knew exactly what they would find…
They entered the dim study, surrounded by towering bookcases and a clicking ticking assortment of magical oddities and artifacts. The dragon skeleton suspended in the skylight above Nathaniel’s desk turned its head with a slight grinding of bone on bone, the ivory bowls of its empty eye sockets following them as they stepped around labyrinthine stacks of grimoires, armillary spheres, potted carnivorous plants and astronomical gadgets.
Elisabeth started as an fluffle of illusion rabbits darted away underfoot, white cottontails flashing. She let out a playful yelp.
“Steady now, miss,” Silas admonished, offering her his arm.
Nathaniel had cleared a space on his desk, apparently by simply pushing most of the clutter onto the floor. The painting sat propped up on a pair of agate bookends, its colors satiny and luminous.
Elisabeth gasped as they approached. “Oh! She’s enchanting! Silas stood hipshot to the side, tightening the black ribbon that held the end of his long white braid. His face was remote and pale as an alabaster bust.
A woman reclined back on a chaise of ornately carved wood and dusky rose velvet, dressed in a simple ivory slip dress, the hem of which was embroidered with a twisting trail of ivy and thorny vines. Her hair, a tousled cascade of darkest brown tendrils, was loose and free of brooches and pins, which gave the portrait a decidedly less formal feel. It felt… personal. Intimate. Clearly not one of those rigidly posed bloodline portraits, the artist had captured her innermost essence during a moment of pure unguarded contentment.
Chin raised, the smile that curled her lips was serene; but her eyes, deep and liquid as a doe’s, were sparkling from the shadows as if she were holding onto some delicious secret, or perhaps on the verge of breaking into winsome laughter. Or both. A small crystal bowl of blackberries sat in her lap; two fingers of one hand resting lightly on its scalloped rim.
One foot was tucked beneath the edge of her gown, the other dangled off the edge of the seat~ tiny, bare and delicately arched. The opulently feathered outline of a large taxidermy ostrich loomed from the darkened background, lending a dreamlike quality to the scene. Wise, willful… Mistress Sinclair looked more than a bit mischievous.
“She lived in the Ostrich Room, didn’t she?“ Elisabeth said more quietly. She turned the linen canvas over, cradling it carefully in her hands. Sure enough, written on the back in a thin spidery script was the name “Mistress Theodora Sinclair”. A few extra curlicues and flourishes swirled beneath it. Elisabeth stared, recognizing the penmanship. Silas stood silently, listening as her heart tripped a beat.
“Did you paint this?” Elisabeth whispered.
“Yes, Mistress.” The demon remained unreadable, his voice but a murmur.
“Was she kind to you? She seems very kind…” Elisabeth spoke carefully, for this moment seemed made of spun glass… transparent and oh-so fragile. About his private matters, Silas was a wary monster.
Silas had not released his gaze on the painting. “Very much so. She was…. Sweet as a summer berry. In many ways.”
“But why then would she wish to be forgotten? And why reveal herself now?”
“Do you recall when I told you that rooms can fold themselves up and disappear? How they retain the residual energy of the person who resided within them? I know you’ve discovered quite a few such rooms hidden here in the manor in your explorations, as have I… The same rule holds true for a painting, or a sketch, a sculpture… anything that captures a bit of the soul. There is a certain alchemy that occurs between the painter and subject, and the art born from such emotion possesses a will of its own.”
He paused, thinking. “Sometimes a piece of art will choose to be lost, or ‘disappeared’, for a long period of time, only to reveal itself at the right moment to those who will appreciate the poignancy.”
“As for being forgotten, she wished to not prolong the grief felt at her passing. Even so, a lady such as Mistress Sinclair could never be forgotten. But now, with that grief healed… to a manageable degree… and her family long gone~ perhaps she wishes her history to awaken. House Thorn is enjoying a time of peace and prosperity once again. Her very legacy is repeating itself, a century later.”
Silas tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I know she would be most pleased with the new lady who resides here. After all, her room did grant you entrance.”
Tears glimmering, Elisabeth regarded the house demon. Silas’ immortality, and its consequences, always pierced her heart when she gave it thought. Just as he’d allowed her to see him blatantly take the opera tickets from the Ostrich Room and tuck them into his waistcoat pocket, he was now allowing her a glimpse into a demon’s journey through grief. It shamed her to think a mere two years ago, she’d assumed him a cold, one dimensional creature, ribcage nothing but a vacant shell.
“Her blood family may be gone, but you are still here. We don’t have to hang the painting, if you’d prefer it not be on display…I mean to say, if it still hurts…” She couldn’t bear the thought of him walking by it every day, the cut forever bleeding. An aching lump in her throat prevented her from speaking further. She wished to clasp his icy hand in hers, but refrained.
Silas gestured dismissively, claws gleaming pale in the firelight. “Nonsense, Mistress Scrivener. Time may not heal wounds entirely, but heartfelt remembrance surely can help. I think I should like to remember her this way. I do, however, appreciate your grace in the matter.”
He ran a fingertip over the corner of the canvas, his touch almost reverent. “In any case, Mistress Sinclair would find it quite amusing for this particular image of her to be hung amongst the stuffy portraits of sorcerers past.”
Elisabeth, the once-naive library girl from backwoods Summershall, nodded in understanding, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.
The demon gazed at his long-lost painting~ her impish face, those toes curled in delight… and his stark features softened into angelic lightness. For Silas, keeper of secrets and bitten tongue, would never forget what had occurred just before he’d picked up brush and palette to forever capture her in that sweet aftermath. He knew precisely why her toes were curled and hair tangled.
Elisabeth stood back, inspecting the painting as if it were hung on a museum wall.
“Forgive my forwardness, but she looks about as satisfied as the cat who got the cream.” She immediately glowed a vibrant pink at her own words.
“Indeed.” The House Thorn demon politely averted his eyes, but Elisabeth saw that his face had lit up with a rare Cheshire grin. She gave him a quizzical look, which he pretended to not notice.
Please make art. You don't have to bare your soul or make a masterpiece, you can be silly and you can be derivative if you want. You don't even have to show it to anyone. Just please make something, it's so good for you
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
What would happen if Ciel Phantomhive failed to recover from his strange illness?
Tuesday, December 3rd, was an unremarkable day, to say the least.
Children played games only they understood, teenagers talked of love, adults laughed, and not a single crime had been reported.
There was a light mist and a biting winter chill, but who would have let that bother them?
Surprisingly, a demon—Sebastian Michaelis—was concerned about it. He, who rarely feared the cold or the vagaries of the weather, found himself compelled to find a solution to these inhospitable conditions.
For a week now, his young master, Ciel Phantomhive, had been struck by an illness that kept him bedridden. Fever, hallucinations, and a cough were among his symptoms. The local doctor had tried various treatments, yet none worked, and the boy’s condition was not improving.
The demonic servant warmed his master's room with a roaring fireplace. However, he knew that raising the room's temperature would not miraculously cure the patient, and that traditional medicine was no longer of any use.
With any other master, the demon would have had no qualms about abandoning him. But this young man was unlike any of his previous masters : he possessed a soul… of unparalleled purity, despite the world of darkness in which he lived.
Sebastian was searching for a solution… other than the one that kept coming to mind. An Indian herbal tea? Childish. Royal physicians? Ineffective. Prayer? Pathetic.
The demon of undeniable genius had… reached an impasse. At the thought, he sighed in frustration. The infernal gods had apparently decided to conspire against him and make him regret his countless sins.
His mind was made up; he had no other choice. His master no longer had time to wait for Sebastian to find another solution, and the latter had to hasten his preparations for the ordeal that awaited him.
For who else but a demon could grant the wildest of wishes?
English is not my native language so sorry for the mistakes of traduction !
