“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask that you raise your glasses in a toast for the Earl Ciel Phantomhive. May his victories be ever assured.”
The Manor swells with bodies. Weighted and light, petite and tall, every self-respecting noble congregates to wish great success upon the Earl Phantomhive and his lucrative company.
Postured grandly at his master’s side, Sebastian can just barely hear the stuttering clicks of hamster wheels as the night’s guests manufacture plans of friendship, courtship, and sabotage. There is no more room for doubt; Ciel Phantomhive is in high demand, and he can no longer be so easily dismissed. He is eighteen years of age, after all.
Who could have predicted they would reach such a milestone?
“Do smile for them, young master,” Sebastian suggests in a breath meant only for Ciel’s ears. “They will eat it up.”