Chapter Text

That Lady, the raccoon

She knew she was dreaming. It was one of her few talents—lucid awareness, though ultimately useless. The signs were always there, tiny fractures that betrayed the lie.

The snow, for one. It wasn’t odd to her that she trudged through knee-high drifts, nor that the world around her was foreign: a massive house crouched on the horizon, its silhouette barely visible through the thick flakes tumbling from a bruised sky. What unsettled her was the absence of cold. Her breath didn’t fog; her skin didn’t sting. She didn't feel anything at all.

And no matter how far she walked, the house never shifted closer.

Worse was her vision. If she dared glance away—toward the skeletal trees, the shifting shadows, even down at her own hands—the world warped and blurred, as if the dream itself resisted her focus. The ground tilted and swayed until she fixed her gaze back on that distant house.

So she walked. And walked. And walked. Each step swallowed whole, each breath wasted. Always moving, never arriving. Eyes locked on the unreachable.

“You look like a raccoon.”

Emma Andrich exhaled audibly through her nose, glaring at her father with mock annoyance. William Andrich occupied his permanent seat at the small kitchen table—the very same chair he had claimed when they’d moved in seventeen years ago—across from her mother. A typical German breakfast spread lay between them: bread rolls, slices of cheese, a few tomatoes, a jar of jam.

“And you,” Emma shot back sweetly as she swooped in to snag a slice of tomato, “look a little pregnant.”

She dodged the dish towel he tossed at her, laughing as she popped the tomato into her mouth. Her father’s belly had grown into quite the convincing baby bump over the years, but he had never been one to care about appearances. Instead, he seemed to be quite proud of his chocolate-fueled bump.

“It’s way too early for this,” her mother muttered into her glass of orange juice. The fond little smile tugging at her lips betrayed her scolding.

“You love it.” Emma leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of her mother’s head, where once-vibrant red hair had begun to fade. Soon, Emma would be the only ginger left in the house.

“Where are you going?” William asked, nodding toward the black backpack slung over her shoulder.

Emma leveled him with a deadpan stare.

“It’s Monday, Will,” Kathrin Andrich said before Emma could reply. “She’s off to university.”

“Looking like a raccoon?”

“It’s called eyeshadow,” Emma corrected flatly as she bent down to pick up the dish towel, hanging it over the back of her own chair. “And it’s bronze, not black.”

Her father squinted at her across the table—the same grey eyes she saw in the mirror every day. He could have spared himself the effort if he’d just worn his glasses. Still, she walked over to him next, giving him an exaggerated smooch on his cheek, the stubble of his beard scratching her lips, before leaving the kitchen.

“I'll be back around 5!“ 

The hallway was flooded with natural light, the rising sun shining through the large glass panels of the front door, bouncing off the white walls enough to make Emma squint her eyes while she sat on the tiled floor, binding the laces of her Doc Marten boots. Her head snapped up when she heard Kathrin's voice.

“You look tired today,“ she said softly, green eyes watching her daughter's fingers tighten the laces.

Her mother was leaning against the doorframe for support, body looking unsettingly frail. Kathrin had been moving slower these days—hip pain, chronic and cruel, often stealing her mornings. Emma noticed the tightness in her mother’s smile, the way her hand pressed subtly against her side, and her chest pinched with a familiar worry she hated showing out loud.

She hesitated before standing up again and grabbing her bag. “Weird dream,” she answered, keeping her voice light. She wasn’t about to explain—wasn’t about to admit that she’d been having that same dream for years. Always the snow, always the house she could never reach. It was weird, but in the end, just a dream. Not even a nightmare to spice things up.

Her mom lingered in the doorway, shifting her weight from one hip to the other, her face tightening briefly when the motion stabbed pain through her body. Emma pretended not to see it, because pretending meant not thinking about how much worse it could get. Besides, her mother was even more stubborn than Emma. Acknowledging it would surely ensure an argument about how everything was fine.

Instead, she left the house and entered one of the two cars parked outside. Both belonged to her parents, but since her mother could barely stand longer than ten minutes without becoming uncomfortable, and was therefore unable to ply her job as a shopkeeper, one of them had essentially become Emma's to use freely. 

The first thing she did once seated was connect her phone, blasting her pop-rock Spotify playlist at a volume undoubtedly due to give her sudden deafness. Only then did she fasten her seatbelt and turn on the engine. There was no way in hell she'd survive a 30-minute car drive at nine-thirty in the morning.

Like most university students, Emma wasn't a morning person and had therefore crafted her schedule accordingly, making sure no lecture or seminar started before ten am. She already dreaded the day during which she'd have to wake up at six am or earlier on a near-daily basis. Until that day arrived, though, she could complain about having to wake up at nine for as much as she wanted.

By noon, the campus cafeteria was buzzing with its usual chaos — trays clattering, the hiss of the coffee machines, voices bouncing off the too-white walls. Emma sat wedged between two of her closest friends at a small round table near the windows, her half-empty water bottle beside an untouched apple. Everyone else had plates stacked with pasta or curry, balancing steaming mugs of cappuccino.

“So, let me get this straight,” Lukas said through a mouthful of penne. “Professor Stein expects us to read both Shakespeare’s complete sonnets and an entire essay collection before Thursday? That’s—what—four hundred pages?”

Emma smirked, peeling a small sticker off her apple with her thumb. “Four hundred and sixty-two, if you count the introduction, which he absolutely will.”

Lukas groaned. “You’ve already looked?”

“Of course she has,” said Johanna, rolling her eyes fondly. “Emma probably has the sonnets color-coded and cross-referenced by theme already.”

Emma pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you. I only got through half the color-coding. Some of us have lives.” She bit into her apple with a crisp crunch, ignoring the laughter that bubbled around the table.

“That’s debatable,” Lukas muttered, grinning when Emma kicked his shin under the table, smiling as she listened to them talk about Stein's ridiculous standards. 

Though the semester was almost over—the August exams would start in two weeks—their professor was unrelenting as ever, pretending nobody had a social life and as if the day had twenty-eight hours. She also wasn't nearly as organized as her friends made her out to be. Enjoying English was one thing, as well as having read a lot of classics, but except for her interest in the topic, she was as much of a procrastinator as the rest of them. Her last essay had been written six hours before she had to hand it in.

Emma blinked suddenly, smiling fading from her face as she realized the cafeteria seemed to tilt slightly, the fluorescent lights above too bright all of a sudden. Her grip tightened on the apple, knuckles whitening, gaze unable to focus on anything.

The dizziness lasted maybe five seconds — then vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving her blinking at her friends’ concerned faces.

“Seriously,” Johanna commented, her dark eyes fixed on Emma's face, “are you okay? That's been happening for what... Three weeks now?“

Luka added, “Maybe you should see a doctor.“

“Please,“ Emma waved her hand dismissively. “It's been a week and a half. At most. No need to panic. It's just stress.“ 

Luka shrugged and dropped the topic, even though Johanna didn't look convinced at all. Emma appreciated the worry, but she was fine. She wasn't sick, and except for those weird bursts of dizziness happening every once in a while, nothing was amiss. Of course, she had already looked into it, but Google said it was — among brain cancer, of course — probably just stress. Which made perfect sense, since her days were long and filled with studying for her upcoming exams. English wasn't a problem; it was simply a lot. But psychology? Yeah, that was time-consuming. And exhausting. And frustratingly complicated. Enough so to make her consider dropping out. Again. 

Emma was in her fourth semester of her Bachelor's degree in English and Psychology, and she had quickly recognized the pattern that would emerge whenever exam period rolled around. Ignoring it was the only way to go, and up until now, she hadn't failed a single exam or assignment. She sure as hell wouldn't start now.

Emma left the psychology seminar with her brain buzzing from cognitive theories she’d have to regurgitate on the exam in two weeks. At least she’d remembered most of the discussion points today, which felt like a win. Now she had thirty blessed minutes before her last seminar of the day.

She dug her phone from her bag as she walked down the corridor, earbuds already sliding into her ears. A notification blinked from Sabrina — her best friend, soul sister, and current resident of Hamburg. They had attended school together for years, had taken their Abitur together, and still frequently visited each other, usually at least once every two weeks. The train ride wasn't even that long, barely two hours.

The audio message clicked on:

“Emma, I swear to God, if my neighbor doesn’t stop screaming into his Discord mic at three am., I’m going to file a noise complaint. I don’t care if he’s arguing about League of Legends or some anime waifu — he’s going to meet his maker if I don’t get at least one night of sleep. Anyway, miss you. Save me from this hellscape.”

Emma snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing too loudly in the crowded hall. Classic Sabrina. Always attracting drama. Funnily enough, it apparently didn't occur to her that she could just go over and ask him to be quieter. Emma ducked into a quieter corner near the vending machines, thumb hovering over the record button to reply with something equally sarcastic—probably about Sabrina’s eternal curse to attract the weirdest people alive.

But then her stomach twisted. Not the normal kind of hunger-twist or mild nausea. This was sharper, deeper, as though her insides were wringing themselves out.

Her hand shot to her middle. The hallway blurred. A cold sweat prickled along her back.

Oh God. Was she getting sick after all? That was really inconvenient timing!

She stumbled toward the bathroom, pushing the heavy door open with more force than intended. The room was mercifully empty. She darted into the first stall, slammed the lock shut, and dropped her bag on the floor.

The sickness surged, her throat tightening like she was about to throw up, and she gathered her long hair with one hand, ready to drop to her knees — but nothing came. She just stood there, bent over the toilet, panting, waiting, her pulse racing so fast it hurt.

Her head spun. The tiled floor seemed to tilt beneath her. A heavy pressure built behind her eyes, as if her skull were caught in a vice.

Panic fluttered in her chest. She’d been dizzy before, but never like this. This felt wrong. Very wrong.

“Shit,” she whispered, bracing herself against the stall door. What if she'd lost consciousness and hit her head? What if she were to throw up in that state and suffocate on her own vomit? She needed to get help. Anyone.

Turning around, she tried to push the lock open, but her knees suddenly buckled and gave out beneath her. Pressing her eyes shut, all her muscles tensed as she braced for the hard impact against the toilet stall.

Only — that didn't happen.

The fall stretched on far too long. Gravity felt strange, twisted, everything tilted way too far. The fluorescent hum of the bathroom lights vanished. For a split second, there was only darkness, pressure, the rush of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

An icy cold slammed into her body as she collided with something hard, and a strangled groan slipped out of her at the impact. For a second, she just lay there unmovingly, eyes pressed shut as the dizziness slowly ebbed away. She felt as if she had a hangover, everything turning and swaying. Only when she felt that sickening feeling in her stomach fade did she finally open her eyes. She was met with a whiteness she hadn't expected. Snow, she registered a moment later. And then the cold hit her again, biting against the naked skin of her arms and stomach. 

“Fuck,“ she whispered and recoiled, scarmbing until she was on her knees, staring down at herself. Her cropped t-shirt was soaked, just like the front of her baggy jeans. Everything hurt, as if someone had pushed tiny needles into her skin, and when she moved to stand on shaky legs, the only thing not affected were her Doc Martens. 

Why the fuck was she lying in the snow? It's August! 

Emma's breath puffed out in frantic clouds, the sound of it too loud in the otherwise suffocating silence. She hugged herself, hands digging into her bare arms, as though her fingers could make up for the lack of sleeves. They couldn’t. Her skin was already prickling numb, the kind of cold that made her teeth chatter without her permission.

“This is insane,” she muttered, voice shaking. “I—I was in the uni bathroom like two seconds ago. Germany doesn’t just... teleport you to the Alps.”

She turned in a half-circle, snow crunching under her boots, her breath coming faster. Everywhere she looked: white. Endless. The air stung her lungs like knives with every inhale, her chest tightening as if the cold itself wanted to crawl inside her. Her brain scrambled for survival logic, the practical stuff she’d half-listened to in some documentary: don’t sit down, don’t let yourself get comfortable, when you start to feel warm, you’re screwed, that means hypothermia’s winning.

And hell, she was already shivering hard enough that her whole body shook with it.

“Brilliant, Emma. Really brilliant outfit choice today. Cropped shirt, baggy jeans — perfect for arctic adventures.” Her laugh came out too high-pitched, nervous. She hugged herself tighter, like squeezing her arms might keep her bones from rattling apart.

She needed shelter. Any kind of shelter.

Her eyes darted across the landscape again—and then froze. Through the blur of falling snow, just far enough that she almost doubted it was real, a shape loomed. Dark against the whiteness, tall, stark, solid. Not a mountain. Not a tree line. A building.

No — bigger. A house.

Her pulse leapt in her throat, relief tangled with unease. Because yes, a house meant warmth, walls, maybe people who could explain why the hell she’d woken up in a snow globe. But the sight of it—its shadowed silhouette, the sharp lines of its roof and chimneys against the pale sky — set off something primal in her, a whisper in the back of her mind that told her this wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into for help.

Her feet shifted anyway, crunching forward, because freezing to death in the snow wasn’t exactly a better option. The closer she came, though, the more prominent the feeling became. Something was off about this house, and she didn't mean the fact that this whole situation was off in itself.

“I probably hit my head in the bathroom,“ she muttered to herself as she tried her hardest to force her body to move. Her limbs were already stiff and heavy, each step more exhausting than the previous one. “And now I'm dreaming.“ Only she wasn't. She knew what dreams felt like, looked like. But hey, maybe dreams caused by head trauma worked differently.

“Maybe I'm in the borderlands,“ she mused, forcing herself into humor once more. Though that option wasn't much better, since it meant that she was... well, dead. And that she'd have to go through horrendous games to return to the land of the living. 

Shaking her head, she forced the thought out of her head, focusing on the house — the manor — up ahead. It grew clearer with every labored step, its vast shape peeling out of the snowstorm like something dragged from another century. It wasn’t just big — it was commanding. The kind of house that wasn’t built for comfort, but for power.

Black iron fencing cut jagged lines across the white drifts, some of its spikes bent with age, others still sharp enough to spear a crow. The gates loomed high, their twisted patterns frosted with ice, yet hanging slightly ajar as though waiting for her. Beyond them, the house itself stood tall and brooding, its stone walls darkened by damp, its steep roofline punctured with chimneys that leaked no smoke. Tall windows, narrow and pointed like watchful eyes, were framed by shutters that looked nailed shut.

Emma slowed, heart pounding harder than her numbed legs could carry. This was insane. This was out of some Gothic literature course, not Brunswick. Or anywhere, for that matter.

And still — it felt…familiar. Not safe, not welcoming, but something in her chest stirred at the sight of it, a whisper of I’ve seen this before. Like déjà vu caught in her bones rather than her mind. She squinted against the snow, trying to pin down the memory, but the harder she reached for it, the more it slid away, like trying to catch smoke in her hands.

The air shifted as she drew closer, thickening, carrying scents that clashed with the purity of the snow. Damp stone, sharp and mineral, laced with the acrid tang of old iron. Underneath it, faint but clinging, was something warmer, heavier, like candlewax melted down a hundred times, clove-spiced smoke, and the ghost of coal ash. The kind of smells that didn’t belong to her world at all, but to one lit by gas lamps and fireplaces.

The snow muffled every sound except her crunching steps, until even that seemed swallowed whole. The silence wasn’t empty. It pressed against her ears, as though the house itself was listening.

Emma hurried the huge steps upward, nearly tripping as she realized they weren't standardized, but that was the least of her worries. When she finally made it to what seemed to be the front door, she searched for the bell, only to not find one. Instead, there was a doorknocker in the shape of a dog on the two-winged door. 

Her fist hesitated only for a second before she lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it slam against the wood. The sound reverberated like a gunshot in the muffled silence of the snowstorm, startling her more than she cared to admit. Emma stepped back automatically, stuffing her freezing hands into her damp jeans pockets, already rehearsing in her head how the hell she was going to explain herself. 'Hi, I fell through a bathroom stall into your front yard, can I borrow a blanket?'

But she didn’t get a second to think. The door clicked, then swung open with smooth, deliberate ease — as if the person on the other side had been waiting for her.

And there he was. Tall, dark-haired, immaculate in a tailcoat that no one in 2025 wore outside of weddings or bad cosplay. His gloved hand still rested lightly on the doorframe, his posture both relaxed and precise, as if he were a painting come to life.

Emma’s mouth went dry. Her brain rattled in her skull, struggling to assemble words, to make sense of him, of this entire day. But the longer she stared at him, the more her stomach sank with recognition. That sharp jawline, that impossible neatness, those inhumanly crimson eyes—

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered under her breath. That couldn't be. He was a drawing. Not. Real. He was fictional, a concept someone had put on paper. Not. Real.

But the man in front of her was real, wasn't a drawing. But the resemblance was uncanny. As if they were the same person...

His gaze slid over her, slow and assessing, but his expression didn’t shift, didn’t betray surprise at all. If anything, the corners of his lips twitched with the faintest hint of amusement.

Emma blinked, then blurted, “Your name isn’t Sebastian Michaelis, by any chance?” Please say no, please say no, please say no!

Her voice cracked embarrassingly on 'Sebastian', but she held his gaze anyway, stubborn in her disbelief. Because if she was right — if this man standing in front of her was who she thought he was — then either she’d finally lost her mind, or the anime marathon she’d rewatched two weeks ago had come back to haunt her in the creepiest, most realistic fever dream possible.

The man inclined his head just slightly, one gloved hand resting against his chest in the perfect butler’s gesture. “Indeed it is, miss.”

She stared at him, mouth open, chest heaving all of a sudden. She wanted to curse, wanted to scream, and run the hell away from him because he was a demon! And she knew fairly well that he did not care for anyone or anything except for Ciel Phantomhive's soul. Ciel...

“This—“ She cleared her throat and pointed upward, to the huge manor stretching above them. “The, eh... Phantomhive Manor, I presume?“ 

Sebastian tilted his head a fraction to the side, gaze slimming ever so slightly. “You are correct again, miss. Although I was unaware of any guests to arrive today, and at this hour nonetheless.“ 

Emma’s teeth chattered, and not just from the cold. Her soaked shirt clung to her ribs, and the wet denim of her jeans was already stiffening in the frost. She crossed her arms over her chest, less for modesty and more in some pathetic attempt to keep the heat in.

“Okay,” she said, the word puffing out in a cloud of white breath. “This is going to sound… insane, but—hear me out.” Her hand jerked vaguely between him and the manor. “I’m not supposed to be here. I mean, here here. I’m from… basically the future, 2025. Somehow I ended up—” she gestured to the snow, to herself in drenched jeans and boots, “—like this. And since you’re, you know… a demon—”

For the first time, his eyebrow twitched upward, a flicker of something surprised sparking in those crimson eyes.

“—maybe you know how I get back,” she finished, breathless now, forcing the words out before she lost her nerve. “Because it has to be magical. Obviously. Nothing else explains… any of this.”

The silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the hush of falling snow. Her words hung in the frigid air like steam that refused to dissipate. For a moment, she worried he might kill her, simply for knowing his secret. As far as she remembered, no one who knew had survived the knowledge, except for that one guy from Book of Murder. What was his name?

Sebastian regarded her with an unreadable calm, though his gaze flicked once to the soaked hem of her jeans, lingering on her half-frozen state. She wondered what he was thinking, her clothing not at all appropriate, neither for the time nor the weather.

“How very curious,” he murmured at last, voice smooth as polished obsidian. He inclined his head slightly, but there was no agreement, no denial, just that unnerving precision of his. “An unexpected tale indeed. Yet—” he stepped back from the doorway, one arm sweeping aside in the perfect butler’s gesture—“it is not within my power to receive you without my young master’s permission. If you would be so kind as to follow me…”

Emma stared at him, still hugging her arms tightly against herself. A dozen retorts burned on her tongue—If you would be so kind? Do you see me? I’m freezing my ass off!—but her legs were already moving, too desperate for warmth to argue.

As she stepped into the grand hall, the door shutting behind her with a resonant thud, a shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the snow melting down her spine.

Chapter Text

That Lady, the traveller

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the howl of the winter wind. For a moment, Emma simply stood in the entrance hall, trying to take it all in. The space was cavernous, ceilings soaring into shadow, oil lamps casting a muted golden glow over dark wood and polished marble. She knew this place. She knew it—down to the sweeping staircase and the rich carpet unfurling across the floor. She’d watched Sebastian cross this very hall on her laptop screen not even two weeks ago. Seeing it rendered in flesh and stone, smelling the faint musk of burning coal, candle wax, and something floral she couldn’t quite place—it was too much.

Her breath caught, not just from the shivers still racking her body but from sheer disbelief. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

“Please, this way,” Sebastian’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, velvet-smooth and unsettlingly calm.

She startled slightly, realizing he’d been watching her the entire time, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. Her pulse spiked. No matter how perfectly courteous he sounded, no matter the polite angle of his bow, she couldn’t shake the fact that beneath that immaculate butler façade was a predator. A demon. And he knew exactly what she was.

Her boots squeaked faintly on the polished floor as she forced herself to follow. Every step deeper into the manor made her shiver harder—part cold, part nerves. Water dripped from her jeans, leaving dark stains across the intricate rug as Sebastian led her through the halls.

She tried not to stare, but her eyes darted everywhere anyway. Paintings she recognized from screenshots. Heavy drapes that had fluttered ominously in scenes she’d rewatched. The chandelier glittering overhead, each crystal catching the firelight. Her stomach twisted as if the entire world had tilted sideways.

Sebastian glanced back once, the corner of his mouth tugging in something that wasn’t quite a smile. Emma swallowed hard and yanked her gaze away, heat prickling under her frozen skin. She knew that look. He knew she was hyper-aware of him, and he was enjoying it. Demon through and through. Her fists tightened in the hem of her shirt, nails biting into the soaked fabric. 

At last, Sebastian stopped before a dark-paneled door. His gloved hand knocked gently against the wood, movements precise and unhurried. “Young master? I have an... unaccounted guest with me.”

She didn't hear anything, but Ciel Phantomhive had to have said something, because Sebastian reached for the door handle a moment later. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter first. The gentlemanly courtesy only made her skin crawl. She hesitated on the threshold, heart pounding, then forced her boots forward, snow melting in rivulets down her back.

Emma’s stomach dropped. Ciel Phantomhive. She’d been thinking of him all along, hadn’t she? But the idea of actually facing him—not the character, but the boy himself—was another level of unreal. And now there he was, seated in his big chair, head propped on one small fist, one deep blue eye fixated on her. 

In the anime and manga, it was easy to forget how young he actually was. His actions and words showed the hardships he's been through, making him seem mature and stable in most instances. But now... He was just a boy, Emma realized. A very broken, very vengeful boy. She wanted to cry.

Sebastian stepped past her as if she were a piece of furniture, coming to a rest beside his master, one single subtle step behind him. The scene unfolding before her was eerily accurate, giving her the chills as she remembered how cruel both of them could be if need be. 

“Sebastian.“ The sudden sound of Ciel's voice — irritated, annoyed, even a bit insulted — had her jump, arms tightening around her stomach even more. “Why did you bring a shivering beggar into my manor?“ 

Her mouth nearly dropped open, eyebrows raising as she listened to him continue to insult her appearance, not even sparing her a second glance as he glared at his butler, wondering whether this was the demon's newest way of irritating him. That was all that it took for her to snap out of it.

“Excuse me,“ she started, watching with a glare as Ciel halted his speech, gaze returning to her. “But I am not a beggar. Or whore or whatever. And he brought me in here because I have no idea how the hell I ended up here and I thought demonic help might do the trick.“

The silence that followed her words was heavy, stretching taut like a bowstring.

Ciel’s visible eye narrowed, his fingers tapping once against the armrest of his chair. “Demonic help?” he repeated, voice dripping with disdain. “You walk into my home, dripping snow across my carpet, and proclaim such nonsense?”

Emma swallowed, pulse hammering in her throat. She could feel Sebastian watching her, sharp and unreadable, but the stubborn part of her refused to back down. “Not nonsense. Fact,” she shot back. “He’s a demon.“ She pointed at Sebastian.  “And don’t even try to tell me otherwise, because I know exactly what you are—” her gaze flicked to Sebastian “—and what you are—” now back to Ciel, her voice firm even as her body shook from the cold “—the Queen’s Guard Dog.”

That made him pause. A flicker of confusion crossed his young face, quickly buried under his usual mask of icy control. “You presume to know who I am?”

“I don’t presume,” Emma said, though her voice wavered slightly. “I know. And believe me, I’d really rather not. But I do.”

For the first time, Sebastian moved. A soft chuckle slipped from him, quiet but rich, curling through the air like smoke. “Most intriguing. It seems, my lord, we have stumbled upon a most unusual guest.” His crimson eyes slid to Emma, lingering with a weight that made her skin prickle. “One who speaks with remarkable certainty.”

Ciel’s hand stilled. “Explain,” he ordered curtly.

Emma opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain this without sounding utterly insane? That she came from a time more than a century in the future, where their entire lives were nothing more than a manga series she’d been reading on her phone? Her stomach flipped. But lying wasn’t an option, not with a demon standing right there.

She drew in a shaky breath and then started her ramble. “So, my name is Emma Andrich, and I'm from the future, 2025, to be precise. Or— Or maybe a parallel universe, I'm not exactly sure, because you see, I know who you are because in my world, you are stories from... a book, basically. So I know your names, and about your contract and whatnot.”

Ciel blinked once. Slowly. Emma ignored it.

“One second I was in the bathroom at university, the next—” she gestured vaguely to the snow melting down her sleeves “—I was lying outside your manor. That doesn’t just happen. That’s magic. Or something. Which means…” Her eyes locked on Sebastian’s. “Which means you might know how to send me back.”

Ciel’s visible eye narrowed further, the weight of his scrutiny sharper now. For all his composure, his fingers had stilled against the armrest, knuckles paling just slightly. “You expect me to believe,” he said slowly, each word precise and cutting, “that my life is a child’s story in some… future world of yours?”

Emma winced, already regretting the phrasing, “I mean, not really. Your life is a bit too... traumatizing for a child's story. But let's just go with yes for now.”

The silence stretched again, suffocating in its heaviness.

Sebastian’s laugh broke it—low, velvet-rich, and mocking, curling around the edges of the room like smoke. He leaned forward ever so slightly, crimson eyes gleaming in the firelight. “How curious. Our young guest claims omniscience, yet arrives at our doorstep half-frozen, unable to keep her balance on a staircase.”

Emma’s cheeks flamed, and not only because he had basically admitted he had seen her. “Excuse me for not being prepared to get sucked into some cursed snow-globe dimension!”

That earned her another chuckle, this one softer but no less unsettling. “How refreshingly honest,” Sebastian murmured, though his gaze sharpened as it lingered on her, dissecting her every twitch.

Ciel tapped his fingers once against the wood, regaining his cool façade. “Regardless of her rambling, Sebastian, the fact remains: she appeared on my property, uninvited, without explanation. Either she is a liar or…” He paused, lips thinning. “…a liability.”

Emma bristled. “Or maybe I’m telling the truth.”

Ciel’s gaze snapped back to her, his voice colder than the snow still clinging to her hair. “Then that makes you dangerous.”

Emma’s throat went dry. Perhaps she should have run. But Sebastian would have caught her in an instant anyway...

The butler’s smile widened by a hair, a flash of teeth that wasn’t kind at all. “Ah. That does complicate matters.” His voice dipped, velvet-dark. “Particularly when she also happens to be my mate, naturally.”

Emma froze.

Ciel’s eye went wide, turning in his chair to look at Sebastian. “…Your what?”

Her own voice cracked out at the same time, high-pitched with disbelief. “I’m sorry, your what now?!”

Sebastian merely straightened, composure flawless, as if he’d just announced the weather. “My mate. A rather rare phenomenon, even for a demon. Though it seems neither of you appreciate the gravity of such a bond.”

Emma gawked at him, heat flaring in her frozen body. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. “I already regret allowing you inside…”

Emma dragged her fingers through her damp hair, forcing herself to steady her voice. “Look—I don’t want trouble. I’m not here to mess with… whatever you two have going on. I just want to go home. That’s all.”

Ciel raised a skeptical brow, unimpressed. “And I should believe that? That you stumble onto my estate, claim to know things you shouldn’t, and yet conveniently swear innocence?”

Her pulse thundered. This was the moment. She straightened her spine, even as her soaked shirt clung to her skin and her teeth chattered. “If you think I’m lying, test me. Ask me about your past, your… family, the work you do here. Things no beggar from the street could possibly know.”

Sebastian’s head tilted, a predator’s curiosity glinting in his crimson eyes. “Oh? A challenge.”

Ciel’s lips thinned, suspicion flickering into calculation. He drummed his fingers against the desk. “And if your answers prove false?”

Emma swallowed hard, silently hoping he wouldn't ask her something only a die-hard Kuroshitsuji fan would know. She knew the lore, but not that well. “…Then you can throw me out into the snow. Or—or whatever else you’d do to liars.”

The silence that followed was crushing. Ciel leaned back in his chair, studying her as though she were a particularly puzzling chess piece. “Why is his name Sebastian?“

She sighed, a hesitant smile on her lips. That was almost too easy. “Technically, it isn't. But a demon takes on the name the contractor chooses. You chose Sebastian because that was your family dog's name.“ After a beat of silence, she added, for good measure, “The fans like the connection of the Queen's Watchdog calling his servant a dog's name, who ironically loves cats and despises dogs.“  

Ciel stared at her, unflinching, which didn't surprise her. If his poker face weren't good, he wouldn't be in the position he was in. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Very well. For now, you’ll remain under watch. If you are telling the truth, then your knowledge may be useful to me. If you are not…” His single blue eye gleamed, cold and ruthless. “…you won’t last long enough to regret it.”

Sebastian’s smile was sharper than ever. “How generous, young master.”

Emma’s knees nearly buckled with relief, though the weight of both their stares pressed like a vise on her ribs.

The echo of Ciel’s dismissal still clung to her ears. “Sebastian, see her to a room. Have Mey-Rin assist her in the morning. And find her clothing that isn’t… indecent.”

Indecent. Right. As if it were her fault Victorian England hadn’t discovered crop tops.

Now she trailed beside Sebastian down a long corridor, her soaked sneakers squelching against the gleaming floors. The manor was dimly lit at this hour, candlelight throwing long shadows that danced across the heavy drapes and portraits lining the walls. Emma should have been shivering with awe—she was in awe—but mostly, she was still freezing, her wet shirt plastered to her ribs like a second skin.

Sebastian’s voice cut into the silence, smooth as black velvet. “I must admit, Miss Andrich, your attire is… puzzling.” His crimson gaze slid to her, unhurried, assessing. “A garment that bares the stomach, trousers so ill-fitted they might fall apart, and shoes better suited for a stable hand. One would think you have been in poverty for quite some time.”

Emma blinked at him, then gave a sharp laugh that escaped harsher than she meant. “Poor? Seriously? This is fashion where I come from. Totally normal.” She tugged at the hem of her drenched crop top, making a face. “Well, maybe not when it’s soaked through and feels like ice. But still—fashion.”

Sebastian’s brows lifted a fraction, as though humoring a child’s whimsy. “Fashion,” he echoed, drawing the word out as if testing its weight. His eyes flicked briefly over her thin frame, too observant for comfort. “Curious, then, that fashion in your world seems intent on imitating hunger.”

Her breath hitched, heat rising to her frozen cheeks. She bristled, arms crossing instinctively over her chest. “I’m not starving,” she shot back, tone clipped. “I eat just fine. And just to be clear, where I come from, that's called body-shaming!”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered, unreadable. The faintest smile ghosted his lips, and for a moment, she swore he could see straight through her—every skipped meal, every calculated choice. But then he looked away, the picture of polite indifference once more, as though the topic had been nothing more than idle conversation.

Emma exhaled, the tension in her chest refusing to ease. Her heart still hadn’t stopped hammering since the study. Every second she spent with him pressed on her nerves, reminding her that she wasn’t just lost in time—she was walking beside a predator who’d announced she was his mate like it was a casual fact.

“What does it mean, anyway?“ she said, eyeing him cautiously. “Being your mate?“

Sebastian didn’t falter. His stride remained perfectly measured, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. If anything, the corners of his mouth curved, the faintest shadow of amusement tugging at his lips.

“A perceptive question,” he murmured at last, eyes sliding toward her without turning his head. His gaze caught hers, crimson glinting like wine in candlelight. “But one without a simple answer.”

Emma’s frown deepened. “That’s not an answer at all.”

“On the contrary,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “It is the only answer I am at liberty to give.” He glanced forward again, voice softening into something that carried more weight than comfort. “Such bonds are… rare. Rare enough that even most demons will go their entire existence without ever experiencing one. Suffice it to say, it is not a tie that can be severed.”

Her chest tightened. “So what, I’m just—stuck with you?”

That smile curved wider, never reaching his eyes. “Stuck, Miss Andrich, is such a human word. I would call it… chosen.”

Emma swallowed hard, but Sebastian didn’t elaborate further. He simply guided her deeper into the shadowed corridor, as if the matter were closed. She would have probably argued, would have pushed further, but to be honest? She just wanted a moment of peace right now. Her social battery—along with her overall battery—has run out, and hey! Maybe she'll go to bed and wake up in her own world again. Problem solved! Highly doubtful, but a girl could dream.

Emma’s steps dragged across the polished floorboards as Sebastian pushed the heavy door open, revealing the chambers that would apparently be hers.

For a moment, exhaustion slipped, replaced by awe. The room looked like it had been torn straight from a painting—ornate wallpaper, a grand bed framed with carved wood, navy-colored curtains falling like shadows around the windows. Even the faint flicker of candlelight cast the space in a sepia glow that made her feel like she’d walked into another century’s dream.

Her stomach twisted. Not a dream. Her throat tightened as she realized again that this was real—this was where she was, and she had no idea for how long.

Sebastian’s voice slid smoothly through her thoughts. “There should be a nightgown in the wardrobe. In the morning, the maid will assist you with—”

“Mey-Rin.” Emma cut in automatically, words slipping out before she thought better of it. Her voice sounded too sharp in the quiet, and she rubbed her chilled arms. “Her name is Mey-Rin. Don’t act like I don’t know that.”

Sebastian’s crimson eyes lingered on her, glinting with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe, or a smug amusement she was too tired to fight with. Then, as if nothing had happened, he dipped his head in a mockery of a nod.

“Quite so,” he said. “Then Mey-Rin shall assist you in the morning.”

Emma huffed out a breath, somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion, and turned away before his gaze made her stomach flip again.

Sebastian crossed the room, his steps silent on the rug, and stopped before a second door. “There is also a bath adjoining your quarters. I will see to it that warm water is drawn at once.”

Emma blinked at him, heavy-lidded. “You’ll… run me a bath?” Even while talking, she realized it'd make sense for him to do so in the series. As a butler, it was his duty to make sure that his guests were accommodated and cared for, even the unusual ones like herself. She knew that, but somehow her mind had a hard time catching up with the fact that the series now included her, more or less.

The corners of his lips curved. “I did say I was one hell of a butler, did I not?”

Emma rolled her eyes at the cheesy catchphrase, dragging a hand down her damp shirt. “Yeah, well, you’re also one hell of a demon. Don’t think I forgot that.”

But the thought of warm water against her frozen skin, steam and comfort, even if just for an hour, was enough to make her knees weak. She swayed where she stood, suddenly aware of just how much she was trembling.

While Sebastian drew her bath, Emma started peeling off her jewelry. Except for her thumbs, all of her fingers had been adorned with thin silver rings, each a little different from the other despite all belonging to a matching set. She had spotted the star-and-moon themed jewelry set nearly two years ago at a flea market, and had immediately fallen in love with it. Now she wore the rings—some decorated with tiny dark beads—almost every day.  

Peeling them off with stiff fingers, the clinking sound as she dropped them onto the bedside table was the only thing resembling familiarity to her usual night routine. The thought made her smile faintly as she remembered that roughly half an hour ago, it was barely two pm. Reaching up with shaky hands to unfasten her necklace, she let her gaze sweep over the room. The door to the bathroom was right across from the bed, and in the corner next to the tall windows was the hearth built in. Her gaze trailed slowly over the two-seater sofa and the small armchair placed in front of the hearth, a red carpet beneath them. Their cushions matched the navy curtains and looked expensive enough that Emma didn't even consider sitting down on them.

Her eyes flickered back to the fireless hearth and were caught on the small clock sitting on top of it. All of a sudden, she became hyper-aware of the ticking sound echoing through the room. The sound brought her back to her grandparents' house, not a single digital clock in their home. An old, soft ache spread in her chest, eyes stinging ever so slightly. Her grandmother had died when she had only been eleven, choking on a cough drop in the middle of the night. She had been dead for hours before her grandfather found his wife, since they hadn't slept in the same room due to his insufferable snoring. It had been a rough year altogether. Surprisingly, her grandfather had managed to stay alive, despite having accident after accident, for nearly ten more years, dying a month before Emma's twenty-first birthday. Her parents had sold his house afterwards, so she hadn't heard the ticking of a clock in nearly two years. The realization struck in more than one way. 

“Miss Andrich?“ 

Emma flinched, gaze jerking toward Sebastian, who stood in the doorway to the bathroom, that smile on his face that just screamed 'fake'. It was the smile of a predator, and she wondered how nobody could see it.

“Your bath is ready.“ He inclined his head, one gloved hand placed over his chest as he bowed ever so slightly. The sight was both unused and familiar. 

Blinking a few times, Emma pulled her necklace from her neck, placing the slim silver chain next to her rings. “Thank you.“ 

“No need to thank me,“ he replied smoothly and stepped aside as she started to approach. “While you enjoy your bath, I shall start the fire and then take my leave. Please ring the bell should you need anything. I am always at your call.“ 

A smile pulled on her lips, and she exhaled forcefully through her nose. “This is so weird,“ she muttered to herself, shaking her head slowly as she stepped past Sebastian, aware that he heard her. She pushed the door shut behind her, hand lingering on the handle a moment longer than necessary. God, she needed a good cry.

Chapter Text

That Lady, the orphan

The water lapped gently against the edges of the tub, steam curling into the air and fogging the gilded mirror across the room. Emma let her body sink deeper, until the heat kissed her chin, and exhaled a shaky sigh that rippled the surface. For the first time since she’d landed in the snow, she didn’t feel like she was splintering apart. The ache in her bones dulled, the shivers eased, and with every breath, the warmth crept further into her, coaxing life back into her frozen limbs.

Her eyelids felt heavy, threatening to close, but her mind was too restless to give her that mercy. She tilted her head against the high rim of the tub, eyes flicking across the bathroom. It was beautiful in a way that unsettled her—the kind of beauty that came with power and wealth. Dark green wallpaper framed with gold, the ornate mirror that seemed almost too grand to be practical, the chandelier glittering softly above her. Even the claw-foot tub she sat in was a work of art, its bronze sheen glowing in the candlelight. It was lavish. Opulent. And entirely alien.

Her throat tightened. She was really here. Not in a movie set. Not in her imagination.

Here.

Her gaze drifted toward the small stool where she’d folded her damp clothes. The dark denim of her jeans looked pitifully out of place against velvet and brass, her cropped shirt limp and soaking wet. And there, resting on top like a fragile secret, lay her iPhone and her AirPods.

Emma pressed her lips together, sinking lower into the water until it nearly covered her mouth, some of the strands that had refused to be secured atop her head with the golden claw-clip she had found dipping into the water. She’d discovered her daily devices when she’d peeled off her jeans earlier, her stomach dropping as her fingers closed around the familiar shape in the pocket. Relief had hit first, sharp and foolish, followed almost immediately by guilt. Really, of all things to cling to in this nightmare, she’d thought first about her phone? How cliché. She could already hear her mother scolding her You're always on that damn phone!

But of course, she had clung to the small comfort. Because that little rectangle of glass and metal was the only piece of her world that had followed her here.

Her hand twitched against the water, itching to reach for it, but she forced herself to stay still. She already knew what it would say. When she’d glanced at it before, the glowing screen had stared back with two cruel words: No Service. Well, duh. It wasn’t like Victorian England had cell towers.

She’d turned it off quickly after, the battery percentage not low, but she had to bite back the sting of panic as she realized she could not charge it here. If she drained it now, that would be it. The last light of home, gone.

Emma dragged a wet hand over her face and let out a low groan. “This is... just great.” The water, at least, didn’t answer back.

Still, the quiet pressed around her too thickly, and the reality of the situation crept back in, prickling beneath her skin despite the heat. She was in another century, in the home of a boy who’d sold his soul and the demon bound to him. A demon who, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to process, had claimed she was his mate. Whatever the fuck that meant.

She wanted to cry, she wanted to panic. Instead, she clenched her jaw, pushing the fear and dread down down down until she could barely feel the press of it against her bones. If she couldn’t control what had happened to her, then she’d control what came next. That was how she’d always survived. Compartmentalize. Sort. Prioritize.

First: language.

She was in England now. Victorian England. It was already surreal enough to wrap her head around the calendar year being decades behind her, but the thought of opening her mouth and sounding wrong sent a fresh wave of unease through her chest. Mostly, she was fluent in English—school lessons back in Germany had drilled her in grammar and vocabulary well enough. But she hadn’t learned the language in classrooms, not really.

Her real English had come from years of media: YouTube binges at three in the morning, American TV shows and movies, fantasy novels she devoured in translation and then again in the original, even a handful of Australian vloggers she’d obsessed over for months. Which meant her English wasn’t one thing. It was a patchwork—American vocabulary slipped out without thinking, her pronunciation leaned toward American too, but sometimes the British words from her lessons would surface, or a clipped vowel would betray her. And sometimes her accent wasn’t either. Just… a muddled mess of everything she’d picked up.

That wouldn’t do. Not here. Not in this time.

She would need a story. A cover that explained why she might sound odd, why she might trip over words. Her first thought was the simplest: stay truthful about being German. That alone explained the accent. But that wasn’t enough—what was a young German woman doing in the Phantomhive household out of nowhere? If Elizabeth ever came to visit—and Emma had seen enough to know that she would, unannounced at that—there would be questions.

Maybe… maybe she could blend truth with fiction. Say she’d lived abroad for a while. America made the most sense—it would explain the vocabulary and pronunciation, and hardly anyone in Victorian England could cross-check her story. 'I studied in the States' sounded plausible enough. University, perhaps, or a family posting that had brought her overseas. She’d have to be vague but confident, careful not to invite too many questions.

Her mouth went dry as she considered the gaps she couldn’t yet fill. Why the Phantomhives? How had she ended up under their roof? Her mind ran through possible lies like cards flicked across a table. A distant relative? Too risky. A guest from abroad? Easier. Maybe she could lean into tragedy—people pitied orphans, after all. A girl from overseas, separated from her family, with nowhere else to go. It was pathetic, but pathetic was believable.

Emma drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, then sank her head back against the tub rim. Logical. She needed to stay logical. Build the story now, before someone cornered her with questions she couldn’t answer.

Germany, yes. A while in America. Orphaned. A guest of the Phantomhives, at least for now. She'd have to cross-check that with Ciel tomorrow. Perhaps he had an idea she hadn't thought about yet. But for now, orphan it was.

She hated the taste of it, hated the thought of weaving lies just to survive. But she hated the alternative more—being found out, being exposed, and giving the demon in the other room one more reason to smirk at her like she was prey pretending at bravery.

No. If she was trapped here, then she would play the game like everyone else. And as annoying as it was, it was a game. All of it. The moment she had stepped into the manor, she became one of Ciel's pawns, because that's how he saw people. The moment she ceased to be useful or became a liability, she'd be sacrificed for his cause of revenge. The thought didn't scare her as much as she thought it should.

The night had been restless.

Emma lay tangled in too many blankets, half awake more often than asleep, the weight of the previous day pressing in around her no matter how she tried to shove it back. The nightgown she had pulled out of the closet after her bath had been softer than she’d expected, warm enough too—but it still felt wrong against her skin. Sleeping in a dress had never been natural to her, and the layers of ridiculous 1880s underwear beneath it only made her feel trapped, swaddled like some Victorian doll. At one point, as she turned for what must have been the hundredth time, she debated stripping it all off entirely. The hearth had kept the room pleasantly heated, the blankets heavy enough to keep out the winter chill. She could manage naked. Probably would, from now on.

Sleep, when it came, was shallow. She drifted in and out, her body refusing to let go, her mind spinning like a wheel she couldn’t get off. Every time she closed her eyes, scenes from yesterday replayed: the snow, the impossible manor gates, Sebastian’s looming figure cutting through the storm, Ciel’s sharp voice in the study. The word mate seemed to echo longest, slipping under her skin like a splinter. And when those memories didn’t come, her brain tormented her with questions. She sifted through every detail she could recall about Black Butler, desperate for something that would ground her, something that would make sense of where she’d landed in the story. Was it early in the timeline? Midway? What month was it? What year, exactly? The manor’s halls had been dressed for winter, but was that enough to pin anything down? If she could only place the season, maybe she could piece together what was about to happen.

Her thoughts spun darker, too. Should she tell them? Should she warn Ciel and Sebastian of what was coming? There were things she remembered—major events, arcs, deaths—that clawed at her throat as she turned the idea over and over. But the conclusion was always the same. Her presence alone had already cracked the timeline wide open. If she started meddling, rewriting events on purpose, who knew what kind of catastrophe she’d unleash. Besides... the anime diverged greatly from the manga anyway. Only a handful of episodes of season one were canon, season two was a whole disaster canonwise (even though the OST slapped hard, she loved that intro). Then came Book of Circus, Book of Murder, Book of Atlantic (her heart skipped a beat when she realized zombies existed), followed by the Public School Arc and the Emerald Witch Arc. That was the anime. Emma had barely started reading the manga (she had made it to volume 3), but thanks to TikTok and Reddit, she had managed to spoil herself to a certain character death, as well as the return of r!Ciel. God, it was all so complicated and catastrophic, and she had no idea what was going to happen here! What if she warned Ciel that something would happen, and then it wouldn't happen at all? Not only would she torment him with unnecessary worry, but Emma would also ruin her credibility. 

So she decided to stay silent for now, gnawing on her lip, staring at the canopy of her borrowed bed.

The textures around her only made her more aware of how far from home she was. The sheets were heavy cotton, crisp but faintly scratchy, nothing like her own jersey duvet at home. The mattress was firm, every shift making the wood beneath it creak faintly. She caught herself missing the hum of traffic outside her window, the glow of her phone charging on the nightstand, even the way her cat used to curl up on her legs until they went numb. Here, there was only silence. Too much of it.

She’d refused to draw the curtains before bed. Darkness had always unnerved her, as a child worse than now, and she’d needed the faint light of the night sky, the cold gleam of moon and stars beyond the glass, to anchor herself. Especially since she now knew that demons were indeed real. She’d watched the sky through the arched window whenever she couldn’t close her eyes, letting the pale blue glow soothe her nerves.

And now, hours later, she watched as that same sky shifted, the black giving way to bruised violet, then finally to pale gold. The first sunlight slipped between the folds of the curtains, faint but enough to paint the room in a softer glow. The carved furniture, the heavy drapes, the tall hearth—all of it came into clearer view with the dawn.

Emma rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork, and exhaled slowly. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t broken. But she hadn’t rested either.

The knock at the door came just as Emma was debating whether to force herself out of bed or burrow deeper into the blankets and pretend she wasn’t there.

“E-excuse me, miss?” came a cheerful, nervous voice through the wood. “The young master said I should help you dress this morning, if you don’t mind…”

Emma sat up, rubbing her eyes. Mey-Rin. She recognized the voice instantly. The thought startled her, grounding her in a way nothing else had. “Yeah, sure,” she called, her own voice hoarse from the restless night.

The door creaked open to reveal a young maid with round glasses and an equally round smile. Her auburn hair bounced as she bobbed an awkward little curtsy, balancing a neatly folded bundle of fabric in her arms. “Good morning, miss! I brought your things—oh, goodness, you must be freezing in here, with the curtains open and all.” She bustled inside without waiting for permission, already chattering as though they’d known each other far longer than two minutes.

Emma blinked at her, then found herself smiling despite the grogginess weighing her down. Mey-Rin was clumsy, her arms nearly tipping the folded dress to the floor as she set it on the bed, but there was something so refreshingly normal about her fussing that Emma felt a little less like she’d stepped into a nightmare.

The dress Sebastian had chosen—as Mey-Rin informed her cheerfully—was a deep midnight blue with subtle embroidery at the cuffs and hem, modest but elegant. The skirt fell in heavy folds, the fabric smooth beneath Emma’s fingers as she touched it. A crisp blouse with a high collar and small pearl buttons completed the ensemble, along with stockings, underpinnings, and—Emma grimaced—the inevitable shoes.

She caught herself thinking, unbidden: Sebastian picked this out. Of course he did. He picks Ciel’s clothes too. Something about that detail sent a strange shiver through her. He’d looked at her yesterday, measured her with those unblinking eyes.

“Right then,” Mey-Rin chirped, pulling open the wardrobe to fetch what looked like an endless supply of ribbons, layers, and laces. “Let’s get you proper, yes.”

But when facing Emma's back, Mey-Rin suddenly hesitated, a strangled sound of surprise leaving the maid. For a moment, Emma didn't remember. That happened sometimes—she just forgot. But then, as if someone had flipped a switch inside her mind, the mental image of her back flickered back to life. Her back.

Looking over her shoulder, she gave Mey-Rin a smile. It was an honest one, no forced brightness in it. Just a little sadness around the edges, but enough ease to show that although it hasn't been fine in the past, it was fine now.

“They don't hurt,“ she told Mey-Rin, who jerked her chin upward to stare into Emma's face, mouth slightly agape, half outstretched hands trembling ever so slightly. “You can just ignore them.“ 

For a few seconds, the women looked at each other before Mey-Rin shook her head violently and plastered a smile on her face. “Let's get you proper, yes!“ This time, there was an edge to the cheerfulness in her voice.

Emma submitted herself to the process, trying not to overthink it. The corset surprised her most. She’d expected pain, restriction—but once Mey-Rin tugged the laces snug, it felt more like a firm embrace than a prison. Straightening her back, she realized it forced her posture upright, leaving her oddly supported. For the first time since she could remember, she didn't stand in a relieving posture, something she did subconsciously. Her scoliosis was barely existent, but the slight curve of her spine to the side often resulted in back pain, a genetic problem she had inherited from her mother. The corset relieved her from having to adjust herself, holding her back straight for her. How... nice.

Still, nothing fit perfectly. The bodice gaped slightly at the sides, the skirt sat looser at her waist than intended. Emma knew she was slimmer than most women in this era, like Sebastian had pointed out yesterday. Her figure was the result of years of obsessing over calories, and she was proud of the progress she had made. She had never been unhealthy, on either side of the spectrum, but the insults circled in her mind like an endless diashow, urging her to stay skinny. Here, though, it just made her look like a dressmaker’s mistake.

Mey-Rin fussed and fumbled with the buttons, apologizing every few seconds when her glasses slipped down her nose or when she nearly tripped over the hem of the skirt. Emma found herself chuckling quietly, biting back a real laugh for the first time since she’d arrived.

“Sorry, miss, I’m ever so clumsy,” Mey-Rin said, cheeks pink, as she yanked the laces into place with far too much enthusiasm. “I’ll get the hang of it, I promise, yes!”

“You’re fine,” Emma murmured, meaning it. The maid’s bubbly chatter was a welcome distraction from the gnawing unease in her stomach. 

The thought of someone else dressing her was a weird one, but with every layer added, Emma realized she really needed the help. There would have been no way she would've gotten into this thing on her own.

And then came the shoes. Black leather, polished to an unforgiving shine, with small heels that pinched the sides of her feet the moment she slipped them on. Emma wrinkled her nose, already imagining the blisters. Great. Death by footwear. Just what she needed. But she said nothing.

By the time Mey-Rin stepped back with a pleased little nod, Emma hardly recognized the reflection she caught in the mirror. A Victorian lady stared back—stiff collar, laced corset, skirts heavy enough to sweep the floor. She looked like she belonged in the manor, even if she didn’t feel it.

Emma smoothed her hands down the dress, exhaling slowly. Like most girls, she had wanted to be a princess at some point. Had wanted to wear puffy dresses, dance on balls, and live in a castle. Real life, naturally, had gotten in the way of it. Sure, with the money from her job as a barista, she could've bought such a dress, but somehow, she had never gotten to it. This dress now, the manor, it was the closest she's ever been to that childhood dream. 

Mey-Rin ushered her to the vanity, and Emma nearly squealed in childish delight as the skirts of her dress swooshed around her legs with the movements. With curious eyes, she watched Mey-Rin pin half of her ginger hair up, her curtain bangs framing her pale face prettily. 

Chapter Text

That Lady, the barbarian

The dining hall was just as Emma had pictured it from countless anime frames and manga panels—only now, it was oppressively real. The ceilings stretched far overhead, the polished table gleamed under the light of the chandelier, and the faint echo of footsteps seemed to linger in the room even after Mey-Rin had cheerfully announced her and scurried off.

Ciel sat at the head of the long table, posture flawless, an unblinking aristocrat in miniature. His single blue eye snapped to Emma as she entered, sharp as a blade. Two seats down, a place had been laid for her, the fine china gleaming, silverware neatly aligned.

Sebastian, of course, was there too, already pulling out the chair for her with a too-perfect smile. “If you would, miss.”

Emma sank into the seat, trying not to stare at the lavish spread before her: eggs, toast, sausages, grilled tomatoes, kippers, marmalade, butter, jam, and a steaming silver teapot giving off the fragrance of dark black tea. Usually, she didn't eat breakfast, was rarely hungry in the morning. But she had only eaten an apple yesterday. Her stomach twisted and growled embarrassingly loud, but she clenched her hands in her lap and forced herself to keep her movements calm. Measured. One bite at a time, slow, careful.

Ciel, however, didn’t seem interested in her table manners. His gaze raked her over once, lingering on the way the dress fit loosely at her shoulders. His lips curved down faintly.

“You clean up well enough,” he said at last, voice cool, though there was the faintest note of disdain. “At least Sebastian’s taste in clothes makes you look like less of a stray.”

Emma bristled but bit her tongue, smoothing the napkin across her lap instead of answering back. What a little brat. Unsurprising, and usually kind of funny. Not so much when he was being a brat to her, though. This little shit.

Sebastian poured tea for Ciel, the familiar picture fascinating to look at, before the demon turned to her. “Shall I serve you, Miss Andrich?” he asked her, and Emma had to remind herself not to roll her eyes at the formal address.

“Please,” she murmured, because politeness was easier than picking a fight.

Silence settled, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery. Emma nibbled her way through toast and eggs, aware of Ciel’s piercing gaze every time she looked up. He was studying her, dissecting her, as though trying to peel back her skin to find the truth beneath.

Finally, he spoke. “You said yesterday you were from… the future.” He said it as if the word were absurd in his mouth. “Explain again why you are here. And this time, do try to sound less like a madwoman.”

Emma set her fork down with deliberate care, exhaling through her nose. Compartmentalize. Stay calm. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she admitted, because there was no point pretending. “I was feeling sick. Dizzy. I felt like I was fainting. But instead of walling against the bathroom stall, I landed in your yard.” She gestured slightly with her hand. “That’s it. No warning, no explanation. I’m just… here.”

Ciel’s eye narrowed. “Convenient.”

“I wouldn't call it that,” she snorted and leaned back in her chair. “Still, I don’t want to hurt you or interfere with your missions for the Queen and your quest for revenge. All I want is to go home. That’s the truth.”

A faint twitch of his lips. “And you expect me to believe you? You could be anyone—an assassin, a spy. You knew about Sebastian, about me.”

“I can explain it to you as much as you want me to,“ she said slowly, holding his gaze, starting to get impatient. “But your butler is a demon, your gardener is a walking human experiment, and a grim reaper named Grelle killed your aunt. I don't know why you have problems believing my magical story.“ 

Ciel froze, his teacup poised just short of his lips. For the first time since she’d entered the manor, genuine surprise flickered across his face—gone in an instant, replaced by something sharper. His gaze pinned her with icy precision, weighing every syllable she’d spoken.

“…You presume much.” His voice was quiet, but it carried an edge, a subtle threat beneath the calm. “Those are not things a stranger should know. Not even the Queen is privy to everything you’ve just named.”

Sebastian, meanwhile, hadn’t even blinked. He poured more tea for his young master, the movement fluid, elegant. But his smile… it deepened, just slightly, as though Emma’s outburst was the most entertaining thing he’d heard all morning.

“My, my,” Sebastian murmured smoothly, “you’ve certainly done your homework. Either that, or your insanity is remarkably detailed.” His crimson eyes flicked toward her, the faintest glimmer of intrigue breaking through his otherwise perfect composure. “Even I must admit, it’s… impressive.”

Ciel set his teacup down with a sharp clink. “If you’re lying, I will know.” His gaze lingered on her, cold as winter frost. “And if you’re telling the truth…” He glanced sidelong at Sebastian, irritation in the tightening of his jaw. “…then this situation is far more troublesome than I thought.”

Sebastian bowed slightly, his voice silk and mockery all at once. “As always, young master, trouble seems to have a way of finding you.”

“It is the truth,“ Emma insisted, putting her cutlery down. She was done, appetite sated for now. “I'm sorry to be blunt here, but you don't seem to believe me otherwise.“ She held his gaze intently, not about to back down, despite being uncomfortable with what she was about to say. It had already been jarring to know that a fictional character had to endure such horrors, but knowing that the boy sitting in front of her had... It made her feel sick to her stomach.

“I know it all, Ciel.“ She didn't care about the slight irritation as she used his name instead of 'My lord'. “I know your family died in a fire and that you're searching for the people responsible. I know you've been kidnapped and sold and that they tried to sacrifice you to a demon.“ 

The more she talked, the paler his face became, eyes widening in shock and something similar to panic.“They beat you, force-fed you, raped you and—”

“Stop.“ Ciel interrupted, voice not as strong as he wanted it to be. Emma shut up immediately.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Emma sat frozen, her pulse hammering in her ears, guilt burning through her even as her words hung in the air like smoke. She hated herself for saying it, hated even more that she had been right—because the truth in Ciel’s face was undeniable.

Ciel’s small hands trembled once before he clasped them tightly in his lap, jaw clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, brittle iron wrapped in frost.

“Never say those things again.” His single blue eye snapped up to meet hers, glinting with both fury and shame. “Do you understand me? You will not speak of it. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Emma’s throat tightened. She nodded once. “I won't. I promise.“ 

Sebastian, standing just behind the boy, broke his silence with a soft, amused hum. His crimson eyes lingered on Emma, sharp with interest.

“Well, well. You’ve managed to pry open a truth the young master has never allowed another soul to touch.” His tone was almost admiring, though the edges of his words carried a dangerous gleam. “How fascinating… mate or not, I must admit, you are proving rather… inconvenient.”

Ciel shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Sebastian.”

The single word was both warning and command.

The demon bowed slightly, unruffled. “Of course, my lord.”

Ciel exhaled, dragging his composure back together like armor. He sat straighter, shoulders squared, the trembling in his hands no longer visible.

“…Fine.” He leveled Emma with a cold stare, though it no longer held disbelief. Only wary acceptance. “You know more than you should. Enough that I can’t dismiss you as a fraud.” His voice tightened, measured. “That makes you dangerous. And until I decide otherwise, that also makes you… my problem.”

Sebastian’s lips curved into the faintest smile at that phrasing, though he wisely said nothing more.

Emma pressed her palms against her knees under the table, forcing herself not to fidget. She wanted to apologize, to take the words back, but she knew it had been the only way.

Ciel finally reached for his tea again, movements calm, precise, as if nothing had been said at all. Only the paleness of his face betrayed him.

“You will stay here, for now. Under watch. Answer when I ask.” His gaze flicked briefly to hers, sharp enough to pin her in place. “Perhaps your knowledge can prove useful until we manage to send you back.” 

“Understood. I'll try my best.“ 

The silence that followed was so heavy it made the ticking clock on the far wall thunder in her ears. Finally, she asked the question that had been gnawing at her all night, both to satisfy her curiosity as well as to try and lighten the mood. “What’s the date today?”

Ciel’s gaze remained on whatever letter he was reading, but he answered anyway. “December 17th, 1888.”

Emma’s stomach dropped. December. That meant— 

“Oh shit,“ she sighed, annoyed. Both Ciel and Sebastian looked at her sharply.

“Such language is not appropriate for a lady,“ the earl barked, and she snorted in amusment.

“Well, I'm not a lady. Not your definition of it, anyway.“ Sighing deeply again, she leaned against the tall backrest of her chair and put her head in her neck, staring at the high ceiling. “In 2025, women's rights have been evolved profoundly. Social etiquette is not even similar to yours anymore. No ball gowns, no chaperones, no scandals when a woman curses or shows skin.“  

Ciel’s eye flicked up at her, unimpressed. His lips curved into the faintest sneer.

“How terribly barbaric,” he said dryly, returning his gaze to the letter. “A society where women parade about half-dressed and shouting profanities. No wonder your manners are so… lacking.”

Emma huffed a laugh, too tired to bristle. “Better barbaric than suffocating.”

Sebastian, of course, looked delighted. His crimson eyes glinted with something between amusement and intrigue as he refilled her teacup with practiced grace.

“My, my… how refreshing,” he murmured, tone velvet-smooth. “A woman who speaks her mind without fear of scandal. How very modern.” He inclined his head the slightest fraction, smile widening by a hair. “Though I do find it amusing that, by our standards, such behavior would brand you rather… unladylike. Perhaps even indecent.”

Emma gave him a flat look. “Yeah, thanks. Got that already.” Indevency, her ass. She still remembered countless arguments with her teachers about the way she dressed. All of them had quickly learned she did not give two fucks about her 'distracting shoulders'.

Ciel made a faint, dismissive sound, setting his teacup down with delicate precision.

“Indecent or not, you’re here now. Which means you’ll follow my rules. While you are under my roof, you will behave with at least a shred of propriety.” His voice had sharpened again, cold and clipped, a boy masking authority in steel.

Sebastian, bowing smoothly at his master’s decree, let his gaze linger on Emma for a beat too long before straightening. “Naturally. I shall ensure she remembers her… place.”

Emma’s stomach gave a twist at the double edge in his words. She sat straighter, meeting Ciel’s glare with a weary but unflinching one of her own. “Fine. I’ll try to play the part. But don’t expect me to stop being myself entirely. Because, trust me…” She gestured vaguely at the finery around them. “This isn’t me.” She could behave if she wanted to, and she wasn't about to embarrass Ciel in public. But as long as no one was around, she didn't give a damn if that thirteen-year-old scoffed at her. 

After a beat of silence, she remembered what else December implied. The Curry Arc… that’s already happened. Soma. Agni. She blurted before she could stop herself, “You’ve probably just met Prince Soma, haven’t you?”

Ciel’s fingers tightened on his teacup, his blue eye narrowing into a slit. “How do you—?”

Upon her raised eyebrows, he cleared his throat.

“Right. Time travel.“ 

“Sounds weird to me, too,“ she muttered and lifted her cup in a mock salute. 

Ciel set his cup down with a faint clink, eye narrowing at her gesture. “You seem remarkably at ease, considering the situation you’ve found yourself in,” he said, tone clipped. “Most people would be begging for explanations or clawing for a way home. You…” His gaze swept her up and down, a flicker of suspicion still lingering. “…make jokes.”

Emma gave a dry laugh. “Trust me, if I don’t joke, I’ll probably lose my mind. And I can’t afford that right now.” It would be a difficult thing for her to explain how most of her generation used TikTok means to talk about trauma, so she didn't even try.

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “Ah, how human,” he said smoothly. “To make light of despair in order to survive it. A curious instinct indeed.”

“More importantly,” Ciel continued firmly, ignoring Sebastian completely, “you will learn to conduct yourself properly. Etiquette. Manners. Dancing. Everything required of a young lady in society. If you intend to remain in my household, you will not behave like a commoner pulled in from the street.”

Emma’s lips parted, ready to argue, but Sebastian’s smooth voice slid over her. “I will see to her training personally, my lord. She will be… refined.” His crimson gaze flicked to Emma, sharp and amused. “One way or another.”

Emma groaned under her breath, already regretting ever opening her mouth. “Great. Royal crash course or whatever. Fun”

Ciel ignored her muttering, straightening the letter in his hand with deliberate precision. “Good. Then it’s settled. If you truly wish to play your part, Miss Andrich, you will start later today.”

“And what about an official excuse?“ Emma asked, remembering what she thought about in the bathtub. “I won't be able to hide my funny speech, so I thought maybe I should roll with having grown up in Germany and then went to America to study Psychology or something. I'm just not sure what would be a plausible reason for me to be here, you know? I'm sure Mey-Rin will ask me at some point why I'm here. What am I supposed to tell her?"

“The lady has a point, young master,“ Sebastian agreed, tilting his head to the side. “Especially considering how Lady Elizabeth tends to grace us with her presence unannounced.“ 

That made her snicker.

Ciel’s eye flicked from Sebastian to Emma, irritation simmering beneath his calm. He hated when Sebastian pointed out things he hadn’t accounted for. Still, he couldn’t deny the logic. “If you are to remain here,” he said finally, “then you will need a backstory that cannot be easily disproven.”

Emma nodded quickly. “Exactly my point. I can’t exactly say I time-traveled and expect people not to laugh me out of the room.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, the barest shadow of mockery. “Indeed. Something simple, something unremarkable, would serve best. The fewer questions you invite, the better. And if we must bring your accent into play…” He gestured gracefully. “A continental upbringing is convenient enough.”

Ciel tapped his fingers once against the wood of the table. “Germany, then. Distant relatives from my mother’s side. It’s plausible, and no one alive will contest it.”

Emma tilted her head, brow furrowing. “So, like… I’m your long-lost cousin?”

That earned her a withering glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. But a ward of the family… that can be arranged.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “A guest, under the Phantomhive’s protection. Temporarily residing in England for… let us say… reasons of health. It is not uncommon for families to send their daughters abroad to recover from frailty.” His crimson gaze flickered knowingly over her slender frame. “Your physique will lend the story credibility.”

Emma crossed her arms, scowling. “So basically I get to be the sickly German relative who needed some English air to not keel over? Lovely.”

Ciel ignored her sarcasm, already moving on in thought. “It’s believable. Anyone who questions your mannerisms or speech will accept it as foreign eccentricity. And,” his gaze sharpened on her, “it gives you an excuse to remain here, under my household, without drawing suspicion.”

Emma exhaled, half-relieved, half-grumpy. “Fine. Frail German study-abroad kid. I guess it’s better than nothing.” Still funny though, considering she was twenty-two.

Sebastian’s mouth curved into that fox-like smile that always seemed to mean trouble. “You will play the role beautifully, my lady. With a touch of polish, no one will dare question it.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Should I pretend to be younger, because I seem to recall that twenty-two is considered 'old' in the regard of English society?”

Ciel’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but close. “You would do well not to advertise your age at all. For a woman, the number is… negotiable. Better to let others assume.”

Sebastian’s chuckle was low, rich, and thoroughly amused. “In the eyes of society, my lady, a woman’s bloom is thought to wither far earlier than reason dictates. Were you to claim nineteen, no one would question it. Particularly given your… unassuming stature.”

Emma raised her brows. “Unassuming? Thanks for that.”

He bowed slightly, crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. “A compliment, I assure you. The less remarkable you appear, the less you will be remembered for the wrong reasons.”

She slumped back in her chair with a sigh. “So I’m to be the sickly German ward of the Phantomhives, miraculously still single at nineteen, here for fresh air and to… what, knit by the fire?”

Ciel gave a sharp sniff, clearly unimpressed with her tone. “You’ll do whatever I tell you to do. Which, at the moment, means learning how to carry yourself without disgracing this household.” His gaze was hard, daring her to argue.

Emma met it head-on. “Fine. But I draw the line at fainting dramatically into someone’s arms for effect.”

This time, Sebastian did smirk. “How fortunate, then, that I have no intention of letting you faint. You will learn poise, posture, and proper speech. And if you are attentive, my lady, no one will ever suspect the truth.”

Emma’s stomach turned uneasily at the reminder: the truth. That she didn’t belong here. That she was balancing on a knife’s edge between two worlds. She pressed her lips together, straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to nod. “Alright. Nineteen, frail, and in need of English air. Got it.”

Ciel drained the last of his tea with deliberate precision, then set his cup down. “Good. Then it’s decided.” He gestured toward Sebastian without looking at him. “See to it.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

Chapter Text

That Lady, spooked

After breakfast, the first thing Emma did was return to her rooms. Sebastian had told her he'd come fetch her after he was done with whatever the hell it was that a demonic butler was doing all day. Ciel had granted her free access around the manor, and she had plans to explore as much as she could between her Victorian Crash Course. But before she could do that, she had to get out of these shoes! With a size too small, it was no wonder her toes felt as if they were about to break at any point. 

The second her heavy door fell shut behind her, Emma grasped the skirts in her hands and pulled them up, revealing the shiny shoes. She glared at them as if they had caused this whole disaster in the first place. 

“I swear to God!“ She gritted her teeth and bent down, nearly losing her balance with the additional weight around her, and hastily unfastened the shoes until she could finally pull them off her feet. The instant relief she felt was probably the best part of her day so far. Even though she wanted nothing more than just to throw them across the room, or better yet, out the window, they probably cost a fortune or something. Besides, she doubted Ciel would enjoy finding the pair in some bush outside his manor. To keep his good graces (or rather his tolerance), she picked the pair up carefully, patting toward her closet in her stockings, and set them down inside. It was only when she closed the doors that she realized there was a fire running in the hearth. 

For a second, she stared at the fire unmovingly, letting the warmth hit her, the sound of wood cracking every now and then oddly soothing. She felt a little slow when the realization hit that a constant fire in the middle of December was necessary for her not to freeze to death, to keep the room warm even when she wasn't inside. 

“This has to eat up a whole damn forest,“ she mumbled to herself, staring at the flames as they licked along one thick log. The manor was big, with lots of rooms, although probably only the rooms with people frequenting them were permanently heated. Still, the amount of firewood that was being consumed each day... Her father would have had a stroke.

Blocking any further thoughts about her father, Emma went to her bathroom, gaze instantly falling onto the small stool next to the now-empty tub. Her clothes were right where she had left them, Doc Marten boots right beneath the stool. Gathering them all, she put the boots on first, lacing them tightly. She still remembered very vividly the blisters and bruises covering her feet for the first few weeks wearing them, but thanks to her persistent suffering months ago, these boots were among the most comfortable footwear she owned. Among her Converse, of course. 

Back in her bedroom, Emma hung her jeans and top over the back of the sofa; the heat of the fire meant to dry them for her. Thanks to her exhaustion yesterday, she had totally forgotten them, and now the fabric was still damp, although at least not dripping wet anymore. And with nothing left to do, it was time to explore the manor.

The air was different in the hallways: hushed, heavy, as though the walls themselves were listening. Shadows clung thickly in the corners, and the sconces along the walls burned low despite the hour. The manor was alive in the way that old buildings always were—breathing, creaking, whispering under the weight of history. It was odd, really. Considering how Sebastian had rebuilt the whole manor a few years ago, since the original had been burned down to a crisp. 

Emma’s steps echoed faintly against the stone floor as she wandered. The halls stretched long and narrow, leading to galleries filled with oil portraits. Dozens of watchful eyes followed her—Phantomhives long dead, their painted gazes a blend of judgment and disapproval. 

Her throat tightened, a shiver running down her spine. “Not creepy at all,” she muttered, shaking her head at herself.

Another shiver crept over her, and one of the wall candles sputtered right in front of her. The flame bent sideways, guttering though there was no draft, before snuffing out altogether. Emma froze, eyes darting down the hall. This had to be the demon.

“Sebastian?” she tried, squinting into the shadows to find his crimson eyes. Her voice echoed back, tense and uncomfortable. No answer. Of course, he wouldn't answer her. He wanted to scare her a bit, like he typically did with people in the show. This wasn't usual, she told herself.

Still, her pulse picked up. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbed her bare hands against her sleeves, missing the rings she'd use to fidget by now. A draft, she thought forcefully. Old manor. Not unusual. 

Her feet carried her to a set of tall double doors, one ajar. She pushed it open to reveal the library, vast and cathedral-like. Rows upon rows of shelves, ladders leaning against them, red velvet curtains pulled halfway over tall windows. A grand chandelier hung from above, swaying ever so slightly, though there was no breeze.

Emma stepped inside, instantly enchanted despite the unease prickling under her skin. The scent of leather and dust filled her lungs, grounding her, almost soothing. She brushed her fingertips along the spines of books as she passed, reading gilded titles half-faded by age. 

She has never been the biggest reader, although she could enjoy a good book from time to time. Thanks to her ongoing studies, most of the books she has been reading over the past few years have been for research purposes, leaving her head reeling with technical language terms afterwards, often accompanied by a subtle headache. Looking at all these books in front of her now, she couldn't help but feel fascinated.

When her gaze stuck to a familiar title, a huge smile spread on her face. A worn-out copy of Alice in Wonderland. First edition.

 A book thudded to the floor just behind her.

Emma flinched and whirled around, shoulders drawn up, fingers clutching Alice in Wonderland. Her heart slammed against her ribs as her eyes scanned the shelves. Nothing. Just a volume lying open-faced on the rug, pages fluttering as if stirred by breath. 

Her own breath came fast, shaky, and for a moment, she just stared. Then her eyebrows drew together, gaze scanning the library with a glare. “Sebastian! I swear to God, stop scaring the shit out of me!“ 

There was no sound, nothing that indicated that she wasn't completely alone in here, and as the seconds ticked by, she started feeling stupid. 

Emma pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could calm her racing heart by force. It’s fine. Old shelves. Gravity. Whatever. “Either that,“ she muttered and exhaled mindfully, putting Alice in Wonderland back where she had found it, “or it's the demon.“ Either way, she was fine. Which was... ironic as it was, feeling fine with a demon making fun of her.

But as she bent to pick the book up, something inside her chest pulled. It wasn’t a physical tug, more like the invisible snap of static electricity—but heavier, deeper. The chandelier above gave a faint creak, every candle flame in the room shuddering at once.

Emma froze. For one raw second, the room seemed to hold its breath with her. Then—

The candles steadied. The chandelier stilled.

Emma swallowed hard, clutching the book to her chest.

“…Yeah. Totally gravity.” But her voice trembled, and the excuse rang hollow even to her own ears.

She left the library with quickened steps, back into the hall where the portraits seemed to glare harder than before. The silence pressed thicker. Every corner looked darker now, every stairwell deeper.

Her mind circled in on itself. Was the manor haunted after all? Was she going insane? No, probably not. More likely Sebastian lurking in the shadows, smirking at her fear. Or just coincidence. Perfectly explainable coincidence.

Except for the way her stomach still twisted, uneasy. Except for the way her chest still hummed, faintly, like an aftershock.

She pressed her lips together and strode on, trying to shake the thought. She was in Black Butler; she was literally in a world shared with demons, grim reapers, and fucking zombies. If some stupid book was scaring her this much already, she could just go and yeet herself out of the nearest window. Thinking about what was about to come, that would perhaps be the best option after all.

The music room smelled faintly of polished wood and something floral — roses, maybe, though Emma couldn’t see any flowers in the space. What she could see was the gleaming black grand piano against the far wall, and Sebastian, waiting for her with infuriating poise, like some gothic painting brought to life.

He was immaculate, of course. Tailcoat, gloves, white cravat — not a speck of dust dared cling to him. He stood with one hand resting lightly on the piano’s edge, the other tucked behind his back. When Emma stepped inside, boots clicking against the parquet, he inclined his head in a gesture that was almost polite.

“Miss Andrich,” he said smoothly. “Punctual. How refreshing.”

Emma huffed. “Yeah, don’t get used to it. Also, I'm Emma. Please.”

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one. Then, without waiting for further protest, he gestured toward the open space in the center of the room, where golden light from the tall windows stretched in rectangular pools across the floor.

“Today,” Sebastian said, as though announcing a court sentence, “we begin with ballroom dancing. It is not optional. The young master insists you be able to carry yourself in society, and that includes not tripping over your partner’s feet.”

Emma squinted at him. “I thought we'd start with something more important, like table manners or politics or something.” Actually, it was a relief. Dancing, she could. It wasn't foreign to her.

“There will be time enough for cutlery,” Sebastian replied, voice velvety smooth, “but society notices posture, rhythm, and composure far more keenly. Dancing reveals far more about a person than they realize.” His crimson eyes caught hers, sharp as glass. “Consider it your first examination.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but her stomach gave a little flip. Not because of the “exam” — but because of him. He radiated something dangerous even when standing still. Being this close, alone with him in a sunlit room, felt like standing near a storm. It wasn't hard to forget he wasn't human.

Sebastian stepped forward. “Come here.”

Emma swallowed, boots suddenly too loud as she crossed the polished floor. He extended a gloved hand, waiting. She hesitated, glaring at it, then placed her hand in his. The fabric was cool and smooth, the grip precise without being crushing.

“Your other hand here,” he instructed, sliding his palm deliberately to her waist.

Emma stiffened. Her body knew what he was — predator, demon, something not meant to be so close. Every nerve lit up at the contact, warning her to pull away. But her pride rooted her in place. If he wanted to toy with her, she’d make damn sure he knew she wasn’t easy prey.

“Relax,” Sebastian murmured, crimson gaze glinting with amusement. “I assure you, I do not bite.”

Emma snorted. “Liar.”

This time his smile did bloom, wicked and pleased, as though she’d passed some secret test. Just because he wasn't able to lie to Ciel, thanks to the contract, didn't mean he couldn't or wouldn't lie to everyone else.

Sebastian guided her into position, posture perfectly aligned, movements deliberate as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “We begin simply. The waltz. Three steps. I lead, you follow. Do try to keep up.” 

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes because, of course, she'd try. That was the whole point!

The music began — she had no idea where it came from, whether some unseen phonograph or Sebastian’s own trickery, but the lilting notes of a waltz filled the air, echoing against the high ceiling.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

Sebastian moved as if the rhythm lived in his blood. Emma, braced for disaster, followed his lead — and to her surprise, her body remembered. Not waltzing, no, but the endless hours of learning choreography from YouTube, K-pop dances drilled into her bones. Her feet found the pattern quickly, muscle memory guiding her through turns and steps. The first few steps were clumsy, her eyes glued to their feet to make sure not to step on his shiny shoes, only to quickly realize she couldn't even see her feet with this skirt. Still, she managed to avoid his feet and soon got used to the steps.

Within moments, they were circling the floor.

Sebastian’s brows lifted, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through his mask. “Oh?”

Emma smirked. “What? Thought I’d step on your toes?”

“I admit,” Sebastian purred, his voice curling warm around the edges, “the expectation was… lower.”

“Oh, thanks,” Emma shot back, though her cheeks warmed. “For your information, I used to learn dance routines for fun. Hours of practice. Compared to that, this is nothing.”

He leaned in just enough that she caught the faint scent of cloves and something darker. “So you say. Yet I am the one doing all the work.”

“Please. If this were a K-pop song, I’d be smoking you right now.”

The corner of his mouth curved again. “Such confidence. Shall I test it?” As if you know what I'm talking about, she thought grimly.

Sebastian spun her suddenly, swift and smooth. Emma gasped, boots sliding across the polished floor, but her body caught up almost instantly. She twirled back into his hold, hair swinging, adrenaline sparking through her.

When she met his eyes again, his expression had sharpened into something dangerously amused.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “Perhaps there is a dancer in you after all.”

“Perhaps?” Emma scoffed. “You’re just mad I didn’t fall on my ass.”

“On the contrary,” Sebastian said silkily, hand tightening ever so slightly at her waist as they swept through another turn, “I am… intrigued.”

That word, paired with his gaze, made heat crawl up Emma’s neck. She glanced away, tried to focus on the rhythm, but her heart thudded far louder than the music.

She needed to ground herself. So she scowled up at him. “By the way—thanks for scaring the hell out of me earlier. Twice. In the hall and in the library. Real mature.”

Sebastian’s brow arched. “Scaring you?”

“You know what I mean!” Emma snapped. “Candles going out, books falling off shelves—don’t pretend that wasn’t you sneaking around for a laugh.”

For a moment, he only looked at her, expression unreadable. Then, to her shock, he chuckled low in his throat.

“My dear girl,” he said softly, “if I had wished to frighten you, you would not be standing here quite so composed. No—whatever spooked you was not my doing.”

Emma blinked, thrown. “…Then what was it?”

“Old houses are prone to creaks. To drafts. To tricks of the imagination.” His smile sharpened. “Unless, of course, you wish me to have been the culprit?”

Emma flushed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you are quick on your feet,” he returned smoothly. “A most useful quality.”

They danced on, steps more fluid now, the space between them charged. Emma tried to focus on the rhythm, but every time Sebastian’s hand shifted at her waist, every time his gaze locked with hers, her pulse skipped. She hated how aware she was of him — the height difference, the strength coiled beneath his composed movements, the heat of his body seeping through layers of fabric. It was like touching a storm. Dangerous, thrilling, inevitable.

And Sebastian knew it. His smirk, the way he leaned closer with every turn, the velvet drawl in his voice — he was testing her. Not just her dancing, but her composure, her ability to keep pace with a predator who could devour her at will.

Emma lifted her chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “So, am I passing your little exam or not?”

Sebastian’s eyes glinted crimson in the sunlight. “You exceed expectations, Miss Andrich. Far more than I anticipated.”

He spun her once more, slow this time, almost indulgent, before drawing her back into the firm line of his body. His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear.

“But remember—every dance has a lead. And I never relinquish control.”

Emma’s breath caught, heat and defiance warring in her chest. She stared up at him, heart hammering, and smirked despite herself. Was this demon really flirting with her? 

“I see,” she said, breathless but steady. “You're taking this mate-thing seriously.”

For the first time in the entire lesson, Sebastian’s steps faltered. Just half a beat, so subtle most would never notice — but Emma did. His crimson gaze darkened, the amused gleam taking on a deeper, hungrier edge.

“My, my…” he murmured, voice dropping like silk drawn across glass. His hand at her waist tightened imperceptibly, keeping her firmly in place as the waltz carried them across the floor. “So the lady remembers.”

Emma’s pulse skittered, but she refused to drop her smirk.

Sebastian bent his head just enough that his breath brushed the shell of her ear. “You speak of it so lightly,” he went on, tone velvet over steel. “A bond older than kingdoms. Stronger than vows. You toss the word as though it were no more serious than a dance step.”

Emma swallowed, nerves and defiance tangling, her smirk faltering into something thinner. “…Well, excuse me for not knowing the etiquette of demon mating rituals. I can barely distinguish a duke from an earl.” A lie. She had no idea what the difference was. Perhaps she should have paid more attention watching Bridgerton.

That earned a soft laugh from him, low and dangerous. He drew her a fraction closer, his voice a whisper that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“Do not mistake me, Emma. I take it very seriously. Every step. Every glance. Every breath of yours in my company.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, a wicked smile playing at his lips. “But perhaps you will be relieved to know… demons, too, enjoy the chase.”

“That, I know,“ she replied, the dance steps now only in the back of her mind. Muscle memory had started to kick in, some long-forgotten classical dance lesson when she was barely a teenager resurfacing. “Or else you wouldn't put up with Ciel this much. You enjoy the chase of his soul as much as you like to... breed it, for the lack of a better word.“ It was a terrible word, but in the end, perfectly fitting. Sebastian wasn't Ciel's knight in shining armor, sworn to protect and take revenge on the earl's behalf. No, Sebastian was selfish and starving, preparing his perfect meal in the form of a traumatized, tormented soul. And if he had to help out the process a bit, he wasn't above doing so.

Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter, but it changed. Less playful now, more dangerous — as though she’d stepped onto a blade’s edge without realizing.

“‘Breed,’ you say.” His voice rolled the word slowly, savoring it like the taste of blood on his tongue. “A crude term… but not an inaccurate one. After all—” His hand at her waist flexed, not enough to hurt, but enough that she felt the strength lurking there. “—every soul must be cultivated before it can be harvested.”

Emma swallowed, but she didn’t break eye contact. “I am aware.“ 

Sebastian leaned in, his mouth close enough that she felt the ghost of a smile curve against her cheek. “And my young master's soul… ah, he will be the rarest of vintages. A banquet worth centuries of patience.”

The music swelled, and Sebastian twirled her with inhuman precision, catching her effortlessly as she came back into his hold. His crimson gaze bore into her as though he could peel her apart with it.

“But what I find… most interesting,” he went on, softer now, voice almost a purr, “is how easily you see me for what I am. Most mortals cling to illusions of nobility or redemption. Yet you…” His smile sharpened. “You cut straight to the marrow.”

Emma gave a shaky laugh, part defiance, part nerves. “Guess I don’t like lying to myself. And I’ve seen enough stories to know how this goes.”

Sebastian’s head tilted, curious. “Stories. Yes. You’ve read my part well.” Then, with a deliberate pause, he let the words fall like silk-wrapped blades: “But tell me, Emma—if you can read me so clearly… how long before you admit you’re in my story, too?”

Chapter Text

That Lady, in towel

How long before you admit you're in my story, too?

“What the fuck am I supposed to answer to that?!“ Emma exclaimed, both frustrated and annoyed, as she glared at the bottom of her bathtub, the ripples of water with every tiny movement of her body distorting the picture. The dance with Sebastian had left her mind reeling, replaying every word he had said to her again and again as if she were hitting the repeat button on her laptop. After his merciless teasing, he had proclaimed the lesson for today to have been over, mumbling something about dinner preparations in his schedule before he had more or less vanished, leaving her behind with a racing heart, open mouth, and completely stunned. It was rare that she didn't have a sarcastic comeback, even rarer that she had nothing to reply at all. And he... He just...

“God dammit!“ Smacking the water's surface did nothing to ease her frustration. Actually, it only made it worse since a good chunk of water splashed right into her face. She slumped deeper into the tub, eyes following the gentle movements of her hair floating in the water.

Dinner tonight had been… tolerable. Ciel had eaten in silence at first, and Emma, determined to not embarrass herself again, had spent the meal carefully watching his every movement. The way he held his cutlery, how he dabbed his mouth with the napkin at exact intervals, the way he sat straighter than she thought any spine could manage. She copied him bit by bit.

They’d exchanged a few words, Ciel and her. Nothing earth-shattering. He’d asked what she thought of the manor, if she found the servants tolerable, if she’d managed to memorize which fork went with which course. His tone was clipped, wary, but there was curiosity under the suspicion, like he couldn’t help but poke at her presence the way a child prods at a loose tooth.

Emma had played along, answered lightly, and maybe thrown in one or two cheeky comments that had made his mouth twitch. She wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

Now, hours later, the memory of it was swallowed up by the heavier thoughts that lurked when she was alone. Sebastian. His words still clung to her skin like smoke, like the faint press of his hand at her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, longing for everything trivial yet familiar. She wanted her own bed with the dark green sheets, wanted her own comfy clothes. She wanted to hear her father's booming laugh and taste her mother's pancakes, and listen to Sabrina rant about her annoying neighbor. She wanted her life how it was before. With Sebastian and Ciel, and literally the tub she was sitting in, to be nothing but fictional. A drawing on paper, an animation on screen.

The manor was grand, sure. Magical, in that gothic, haunting way that made every hallway feel like it held secrets. But it wasn’t hers. The food wasn’t hers. The clothes weren’t hers. Nothing was hers anymore.

The only thing she was growing fond of, if she was being honest, was the bathtub. She glanced around the tiled room, the flickering light of the sconces reflecting off the ripples of water. At least here, warmth seeped into her bones quickly, thawing her stiff fingers and perpetually cold feet. She’d been that way a very long time—circulation stubborn enough that her toes and fingers almost never felt warm, no matter how many socks or gloves she piled on. She’d gotten used to it years ago, and the memory of not feeling at least a little bit chilled long since faded.

But here, the bath cut through the chill instantly. She didn’t have to shiver under layers of wool or rub her hands together until her skin was raw. She could just sink into the water, let it hold her, let it trick her into forgetting—if only for a little while—that she was alone, that she was trapped in someone else’s story. In her world, she didn't have a bathtub, only a shower. She used to sit down and let the hot water hit her until she wasn't feeling cold anymore. The tub was better.

Emma padded barefoot across the bedroom, the thick carpet soft beneath her damp toes. The fire still crackled steadily in the hearth, casting shadows across the wallpaper. She clutched the towel tighter around her, damp hair sticking in loose strands to her neck.

Her eyes kept straying to the bell cord on the far wall. Thin, elegant, woven to blend in with the expensive décor. So easy to just tug it, so easy to summon him.

Emma crossed her arms, scowling.

“This is just all kinds of wrong,” she muttered, pacing a slow line in front of the bed. Ring a bell, get a butler. That’s not her life, and she didn't want it to be. It all felt too close to slavery.

And yet, Sebastian had told her himself to ring the bell if she needed something. She bit her lip. Was wanting different pajamas enough of a 'need'? She could practically hear her friends mocking her now. Besides, were there even different pajamas? She doubted he'd let her wear pants.

Emma tilted her head back, groaning. She couldn't do another night in one of those nightgowns. They felt like… like she was suffocating at any moment. Layers and layers of fabric, and underwear so complicated she needed an instruction manual. She just—

She flung her free hand helplessly toward the bed. “—a t-shirt. Sweatpants. Something normal.”

Her gaze dragged reluctantly back to the bell. She chewed on her lower lip… She could compromise, right? A nightgown, fine, but shorter. Like—mid-thigh. That wasn't scandalous. Not like she was parading through the manor in booty shorts. But then again, did they have something like that?“ 

The thought almost made her laugh. Imagine Sebastian’s face if she strolled through the halls in one of her oversized hoodies and leggings. Or worse, her sleep shorts with coffee stains, the cropped top with thin straps barely covering anything.

She snorted softly to herself, then sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay. Do I really want to ring a bell like some Victorian princess?“ No. Did she want to suffocate in that ridiculous gown again? Bigger no. So…

Emma planted herself in the middle of the room, towel slipping slightly at the edges, and glared at the cord as though it had personally wronged her. “This is all kinds of wrong!” she muttered again.

But her feet stayed glued to the carpet.

“Maybe if I shout?” she whispered to herself. But that was somehow worse, standing in the middle of her bedroom and shouting at nothing like a total idiot.

Emma’s hand hovered in the air a second longer before she shook her head at herself. “Fuck this.“ 

She rung the bell.

The bell’s faint chime had barely faded when the air in the room seemed to change—thickening, charged, like static before a storm. Emma straightened instinctively, towel slipping a little at her chest.

And then he was there.

Sebastian materialized from the shadows by the fireplace, one gloved hand resting lightly against his coat, the other folded neatly behind his back. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight as he inclined his head.

“You rang, my lady.”

Emma jumped a little despite herself. “Jesus Christ, you’re fast.”

“Hardly.” His voice was smooth, unhurried, and totally smug. She remembered he could have just used the door like he normally did. “Though, if you wish for me to arrive faster, you need only to say so.” His eyes flicked over her in one fluid motion—shoulders, bare arms, legs visible beneath the edge of the towel. If the sight surprised him, he didn’t let it show. Instead, that faint, knowing smile curved at his mouth, sharper in the glow of the fire. “And here I had assumed you would already be dressed for bed.”

Emma blinked, then glanced down at herself. “Oh, right.” A sheepish laugh escaped her, but she didn’t reach for anything to cover herself more. “Yeah, I kind of… forgot.”

His smile deepened, something wolfish in it. “How very… unorthodox.” He stepped closer, each stride deliberate, until the heat from the hearth seemed to mingle with the warmth radiating off him. “Most women in this house would die of mortification before greeting a man in such a state.”

Emma rolled her eyes, lifting her chin. “Well, I’m not ‘most women,’ am I? It’s just skin. Not like I’m doing a strip show for you.”

Sebastian chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling around her spine. “And yet, you are blissfully unaware of how scandalous this would appear. To be seen so—unguarded. So vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” Emma barked a laugh. “I’m standing in front of a demon, and you think I’m worried about scandal? Please.”

That earned her a sharp glint in his gaze, the kind he usually reserved for when she surprised him. He tilted his head, almost like a predator considering unexpected prey. “Then perhaps I should commend your bravery.” A beat. His lips curved, sly. “Or your recklessness.”

“Or maybe I just don’t care,” Emma shot back, shifting her weight onto one hip, deliberately casual.

He hummed at that, eyes narrowing with amusement. “A dangerous philosophy in this world.”

“Better than fainting over ankles like the rest of your society,” she muttered. She was showing a lot more than her ankles, and they both knew it.

For a moment, silence hung between them, charged but not uncomfortable. Then Emma cleared her throat, tugging at her towel. “Actually, that’s kind of why I called you. I wanted to ask… is there anything else I can wear to bed? Something less… Victorian Barbie?”

The demon’s smile returned in full force, wicked and indulgent. “Ah. So the truth reveals itself. Not a sudden longing for my company, but a rebellion against fabric.”

Emma groaned. “Don’t make it sound weird. I just—those nightgowns, they’re huge. It’s like sleeping in a curtain. Can’t you find me something shorter? Mid-thigh, maybe?”

Sebastian arched a brow, as though tasting the words. “Mid-thigh…” His gaze dropped, deliberately slow, until it lingered just above where her towel ended. “That would hardly be proper, my lady.”

“Oh my god.” Emma threw up her hands. “Who cares about ‘proper’? No one’s going to see me except me—and, apparently, you.”

He didn’t flinch at the jab. Instead, he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, velvet and sharp. “On the contrary, propriety is my business. Especially when you insist on testing its limits.”

Emma met his eyes head-on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering her. “So? Can you do it or not?”

For a long moment, Sebastian simply looked at her, as though weighing more than just the question. Finally, he inclined his head. “Of course. I can tailor something… more suited to your tastes. Though I must confess—” His lips quirked, dangerously close to a smirk. “—I find your disdain for modesty most refreshing.”

“Refreshing,” she echoed dryly. “That’s one way to put it.” Of course, the demon liked her rebelling against social etiquette and modesty. Seemed logical enough.

“Indeed.” He straightened, already turning toward the door. “I shall see what can be arranged. But do keep in mind…” His crimson eyes flashed briefly as he glanced back at her. “Every request comes with its consequences.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

“A promise,” he corrected smoothly, bowing slightly before melting once more into the shadows.

“Use the damn door!“ No answer.

The room was quiet again, except for the faint crackle of the fire. Emma exhaled slowly, realizing her heart was hammering again. This demon...

She shook her head slowly and retightened her towel as she stared at the fire cackling softly in the hearth. She hoped he was quick.

Emma sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, damp hair sticking to her shoulders in strands. The towel felt too precarious for her liking, but she’d risked worse. At least the couch was soft, the fire was warm, and—most importantly—her AirPods still worked.

She scrolled through her playlists, thumb hovering before selecting the one labeled simply Lifeline.

“Past-me, you absolute genius,” she muttered, slipping the buds snug into her ears. The music bloomed instantly, a familiar comfort, drowning out the creaks and groans of the old manor. She tilted her head back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the first song swept over her. For the first time that day, her chest loosened.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps on the carpet.

Didn’t notice him until his shadow fell across her.

Emma jerked upright, tugging one AirPod out. “Holy—Sebastian!”

He stood there, arms draped elegantly at his sides. In one hand, he held folded fabric. The other adjusted his cuff as though nothing were out of place. “You seem surprised. Did you not call for me?”

“I—yeah, but—” Emma pointed at the door. “You used it. You actually used it.”

His lips twitched, dangerously close to a smile. “Am I to take that as disappointment, my lady?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t twist my words. Also, it's Emma.”

Sebastian stepped closer, holding the folded garment aloft with a faint flourish. “As requested—a nightgown, fashioned to your… specifications. Less fabric, less length, though still within the realm of dignity. For now.”

Emma stood, towel knotted tight against her chest as she took it from him. The fabric felt lighter, softer—still unmistakably Victorian, but stripped of the suffocating layers and lace. “Oh, thank God.”

“Not God,” Sebastian corrected mildly.

She shot him a look. “You know what I meant.” Clutching the gown, she padded toward her bathroom. “Don’t peek.”

“I would never,” he said, entirely unconvincing. Liar.

Emma laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she shut the door behind her.

When she emerged a moment later, the gown swished mid-thigh just as she’d asked, leaving her legs bare to the firelight. No petticoats, no underskirts, no ridiculous layers. Just simple cotton that skimmed her figure and felt blissfully easy. She gave a spin for effect. “Well?”

Sebastian’s crimson gaze swept over her once, deliberate and unreadable, before returning to her face. “Acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” she repeated. “That’s it?”

“Would you prefer I gush?” He arched a brow. “‘My lady looks radiant, divine, an otherworldly vision?’”

Emma grinned. “That’d be nice.”

The corner of his mouth curved, sly. “Radiant, then.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking back onto the couch. “Close enough.”

Sebastian’s attention shifted—not to her gown this time, but to the object she’d set on the armrest. “Tell me… what is that device you guard so fiercely?”

Emma blinked, then realized he meant her phone. She picked it up, holding it out for him. “This? My phone.”

“An instrument of communication?” he guessed smoothly, but his eyes flickered with curiosity.

“Among other things,” she said, scrolling to show him the glow of her screen. “I can call people, send messages, look things up… play games.” She hesitated, then smiled a little. “And music. It plays music.”

At that, his head tilted, curiosity sharpening. “Ah. So this is what you were listening to when I entered. That explains your… lack of awareness.”

Emma smirked. “You mean how I didn’t notice you sneaking up on me? Yeah, blame the playlist.”

“And those curious little buds in your ears?”

She pulled one AirPod out, held it up. “Wireless headphones. Tiny speakers just for me.”

He looked confused, staring at them as if they were utterly alien. And to him, they were, she remembered. 

Before she could think better of it, she stood and leaned forward. His eyes trailed her hands, but he didn't move a muscle as she gently pushed her AirPods into his ears. His hair brushed her fingers, soft and startlingly warm for someone so inhuman.

“There,” she murmured, pulling back. “Let me show you.”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp but… also curious. She doubted there was much he encountered that he had never seen before.

Emma unlocked her phone, scrolling through until she landed on one of her favorites—a slower track, dreamy and bittersweet. She adjusted the volume so as not to startle him completely and hit play.

For a moment, nothing. Then Sebastian’s expression shifted—his gaze sharpening as if he were tasting something unfamiliar. His head angled slightly, listening.

The song swelled, vocals spilling into his ears. His eyes half-closed, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. For once, his posture relaxed, shoulders loosening as though the rhythm seeped into him.

Emma looked up at him, curious and strangely nervous. “Well? What do you think?”

He opened his eyes, crimson flickering with something she hadn’t seen before. “Curious. It is not unlike an orchestra condensed into a box—yet it carries the intimacy of a whisper.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Emma said softly. “It’s… personal. You can take music anywhere with this. It becomes yours. No matter where you are, it feels like home.”

Sebastian considered that, tilting his head as the song drifted on. “Home. And yet you carry it with you rather than return to it.”

Emma bit her lip, looking down at her phone. “…I don’t exactly have the option to return, do I?”

His gaze lingered on her, but he didn’t press. Instead, he pulled one of the earbuds from his ears, his hand reaching for her face. Tilting it up with one gloved hand beneath her chin, the other one returned her AirPod to her ear. The familiar sound filled her ear. “And this is your favorite?”

She had to blink a few times to process what he had been saying. It was so at odds, the way he was acting, the way he was touching her, with the way she knew he could be. Soft and gentle right now, his fingers warm beneath her chin. Yet brutal and precise on the battlefield.

“One of them,“ she finally replied, and tore her gaze away from his. His hand dropped from her chin. 

She scrolled through her playlist, showing him the titles. “See? Each one’s different. Some are upbeat, some are sad, some make you feel like you can take on the whole damn world.”

He glanced at the screen, unimpressed by the glowing symbols but clearly intrigued by her enthusiasm. “And you claim this tiny contraption holds… all of it?”

“Every single song I’ve ever loved,” Emma said with a faint smile. “Thousands.”

Sebastian leaned back slightly, still listening. “How remarkable. Humans will do anything to capture a fleeting moment of beauty. You cage your songs like birds, and yet…” He lifted a brow at her. “You seem freer for it.”

Emma met his gaze, something soft stirring in her chest. “Music… it makes me feel less alone.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the song filled the silence, warm and slow, the kind of melody that lingered in bones.

Finally, Sebastian pulled the remaining AirPod out, rolling it between his fingers before handing it back to her. His voice was low, thoughtful. “Then I shall be certain to… acquaint myself with your music. If it is what soothes you.”

Emma slipped the bud back into her ear, trying not to smile too much. “Careful. Next thing you know, I’ll have you dancing to K-pop.”

That earned her a quiet laugh, the kind that sent a shiver up her spine. “My lady, I assure you—I would master it faster than you could attempt to teach it.”

The picture of him dancing to BTS or Stray Kids was funny enough to let a laugh boom free. “Wanna bet?“

“Tempting.” His crimson eyes gleamed faintly as the song faded out. This conversation suddenly looked too much like a TikTok edit. “But perhaps… another night.”

He then bid her a goodnight, returning to whatever duties he had to attend to at night, since she was well aware that the demon didn't sleep. She, on the other hand, needed the sleep, so Emma quickly slipped beneath the sheets, a contented sigh escaping her with the suffocating tanglement around her legs was gone. Finally. 

Turning onto her side, she glanced at the fire slowly dying down in her hearth. By morning, it would be gone, but if today repeated itself, Sebastian would fire it up again long before she set foot back in here after leaving for breakfast. The sheets were softer than she expected. Heavier, too — the kind of weight that pressed down on her chest in a way that felt oddly comforting. The fire cracked once more, then settled into a faint glow, casting restless shadows across the walls.

Emma lay there, staring at the fire. Her mind, unfortunately, hadn’t gotten the memo about bedtime.

Sebastian Michaelis.

Even thinking his full name made something twist low in her stomach. The way he moved, the way he spoke — it was all perfectly calculated. She’d watched Black Butler enough times to know that about him. Every word was intentional. Every smile was sharpened. Every flicker of warmth was theater. And yet…

And yet.

When he stood there, listening to her music — his eyes half-lidded, that unreadable expression softening for just a heartbeat — she could’ve sworn she saw something human. Something that shouldn’t be there.

“Get a grip, Emma,” she muttered to herself, rolling onto her back. The sheets whispered against her bare legs. “He’s a demon. He literally eats souls.”

Still, she couldn’t shake it. He never faltered. Not once. Not even when she’d thrown words at him that no one from this era should have understood — playlist, K-pop, TikTok. He’d simply rolled with it, elegant and infuriating as ever, as though he somehow already knew what she meant.

Like he’d read the words straight out of her head.

That thought made her shiver a little. She tugged the blanket tighter around herself. He couldn't do that, could he?

She knew better. Demons didn’t need to read minds. They read people — every twitch, every hesitation, every flicker of heartbeat. And Sebastian Michaelis? He was a predator dressed like a gentleman.

Still, her chest tightened at the memory of his faint smile when she’d said music made her feel less alone. The look in his eyes hadn’t been mocking. If anything, it had been… curious. Interested. And that was dangerous.

Emma exhaled slowly, fisting the fabric of her blanket. She remembered the debates she’d read on Reddit years ago — threads filled with fans arguing whether Sebastian actually cared for Ciel or only for his soul. She’d always sided with the cynical ones. He’s a demon, she’d said. He doesn’t love, he feeds. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Lying here, she could understand why people thought otherwise. Because when Sebastian looked at someone — really looked — he made you believe you mattered. That he saw you. That he was listening. Even when you knew, deep down, it was just another trick of the light.

Her throat felt tight. She rolled onto her side again, staring at the flickering firelight reflected in the glass of the window.

Mate. That word again. He’d used it so casually yesterday, as if it meant something, as if it had weight. Maybe it did, in whatever strange demonic biology governed his existence. But it didn’t mean affection. It didn’t mean safety. It sure as hell didn’t mean love. And even if it did mean anything to him, it didn't mean anything to her.

He had touched her tonight — hands on her waist, fingers guiding her steps, his voice low enough to scrape across her skin. The memory of it lingered, too tangible to ignore. Her body hadn’t forgotten the way his presence filled the room, or the way the air seemed to hum when he was too close.

No, this wasn’t love. This was danger wrapped in silk and charm and red eyes that promised nothing good.

Emma sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows. The last of the fire dimmed to a heartbeat glow. Somewhere in the manor, a clock chimed softly — one, two, three.

If he’s just acting… why did it feel so real? He was attractive, and he flaunted it like a weapon, seducing plenty of women in the show to get information. She had to remind herself that even if she could smile and laugh with him, every word he spoke was calculated. Every movement was meant to draw a specific reaction out of her. She, along with Ciel, Mey-Rin, and whoever else Sebastian encountered, they were all mortal, their lifespans a simple blink in his long and ever-lasting existence. It was his game, and they were all just some sort of entertainment for him to pass the boredom. As long as she'd remember that, Emma would be fine.

With a sigh, Emma pulled the blanket up to her chin and finally allowed herself to close her eyes. Tonight, she slept deep enough to dream.

Chapter Text

That Lady, short-tempered

Just because Emma knew she was dreaming didn't mean the dream didn't get to her.

The air was thick — heavy, like she was underwater — and filled with the noise of laughter. Too loud, too sharp, too familiar. It echoed off invisible walls, turning in on itself until she couldn’t tell where it came from anymore.

Colors spun in dizzying circles around her — ropes of pink and blue and green light that coiled across the floor, tangling around her feet. She tried to move, but they tightened. Her breath caught.

More laughter. Cameras flashed.

Light burst white-hot in her eyes, and for a moment she could see the outlines of faces — blurry, too close, too many. Their mouths stretched wide, distorted by something cruel and triumphant.

She raised her hands to cover her face, but her arms felt like they belonged to someone else. Every motion was sluggish, a second too late. The laughter swelled, overlapping, building like waves. Someone whispered her name — the wrong way, the mocking way — and the sound burrowed under her skin.

She tried to speak, to tell them to stop, but her voice broke apart before it left her throat. The words came out as air, swallowed by the noise.

The lights changed again — brighter now, almost pretty — but she could see how they flickered, like carnival bulbs about to burn out. The colors bled into one another, staining the air around her in smears of too-bright pink and gold. The ropes around her ankles pulsed with the same light, winding up her legs, gentle at first, then insistent. Her heartbeat matched their rhythm — thud, flash, thud — until she couldn’t tell whether it was her heart or the ropes that were moving.

Someone laughed again, and the sound fractured into a dozen others, until it was everywhere. The voices blurred together — fragments of words she didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to hear again.

You thought—

You really believed—

Look at her—

She squeezed her eyes shut. The ropes were climbing higher now, brushing against her fingers, her wrists, her throat. The lights pulsed faster, the air thinning, pressure building behind her ribs until she thought she might shatter from the inside out.

The smell of toast, tea, and something buttery filled the dining hall when Emma entered the next morning. She still wasn’t used to waking up in silk sheets or being dressed by another person — Mey-Rin had practically bounced into her room, humming off-key while trying to fix Emma’s hair into something vaguely presentable.

Now, standing in the doorway, Emma smoothed her skirt (and Doc Martens) and braced herself. The dream had left her on edge, even after her mind started to forget the details of it, until she could barely recall it at all. But the feeling lingered. It always did. Deep in her gut, she felt heavy and wrong. Just... wrong. Too young, too dumb, too inexperienced. As if she were eight all over again. Still, she couldn't just stay in bed because the ghosts of her past had come to haunt her last night.

Sebastian stood near the head of the table, immaculate as always, and Ciel sat in his usual spot — posture perfect, expression that of mild royal suffering.

“Good morning, Miss Andrich,” Sebastian greeted smoothly, pulling out her chair. “I trust you slept well?”

“Aside from dreaming about tripping over your ego?” she muttered. She knew she should be pleasant, knew she should try harder. It just wasn't the easiest feat, feigning happiness and pleasantries when all she wanted to do was claw her skin open until she bled. She didn't even want breakfast.

A twitch of a smile ghosted over Sebastian's mouth. “Then I assume you’re well-rested.”

Ciel gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and disbelief as she sat down. “You do realize he’s teaching you manners today, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Emma said dryly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t warm up with a little sarcasm.” It was either that, or hot, boiling anger. It had been years since she had last lashed out at someone. 

Sebastian placed a cup of tea before her, posture as pristine as if he were performing a ritual. “Indeed. Though I would recommend saving your wit for when your mouth is not full.” Oh, he definitely noticed her foul mood.

Emma shot him a glare. “Noted, professor.”

The demon merely smiled, the picture of patient malice. “Then let us begin. Today’s lesson: table etiquette and proper address during meals.”

“Sounds thrilling,” she said, picking up the teacup.

He immediately reached out, adjusting her wrist ever so slightly. “You hold it as though you are threatening the cup. Gentle, Miss Andrich. Grace lies in restraint.”

Ciel snorted quietly into his napkin.

“Grace lies in caffeine,” Emma corrected, taking a sip. “And it’s Emma. We’ve gone through that enough now, haven’t we?”

Sebastian arched a brow. “A mere butler cannot address a lady with such familiarity, Miss Andrich.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, we both know I am not a lady,” she muttered under her breath, no real bite to her words.

Still, Ciel choked on his tea.

“Sorry,“ she muttered and then took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. “Okay, what’s next, Your Demonic Highness?”

“The art of composure,” Sebastian replied, gliding around the table like a cat that had been carved out of silk. “One’s poise must never betray discomfort or impatience. Shoulders back. Chin level.”

Emma straightened automatically.

“Less… military,” he added.

She slumped halfway again. “Like this?”

“Now you appear as though you’ve been reprimanded,” he said pleasantly.

Ciel was openly grinning now, which was new. “You’ll have to forgive him. He enjoys tormenting his students.”

“Oh, I know,” Emma said, remembering the scenes of how he smacked Ciel's hands whenever the young earl had gotten something wrong. “He’s basically a Victorian drill sergeant with better hair.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly. “If this is how you address your instructors in the future, I fear society will eat you alive.”

“Oh, please. I’ve survived German universities and customer service. Society can bring it.”

That earned her a soft laugh from Ciel — a real one. Brief, but genuine. Emma shot him a quick smile before turning back to Sebastian, who was now adjusting her napkin for the third time.

“Try not to wipe your mouth as though you’re scrubbing a window,” he murmured.

“I’m not—!” she began, then caught his raised eyebrow and sighed. “Fine. Gentle. Like this?”

“Better,” he said approvingly. “Almost civilized.”

Ciel leaned his chin on his hand. “Almost.”

“Hey,” Emma said, giving him a mock glare. “You’ve had, what, thirteen years of noble training? Give me a week.”

“You may have only one day,” Ciel replied smoothly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

She frowned. “Wait, what?”

The earl set down his cup with deliberate care. “You had best improve quickly. My aunt will be joining us for dinner tonight.”

Sebastian’s faint smile sharpened.

Emma froze mid-bite. “Your aunt?”

“Yes,” Ciel said simply. “Lady Francis Midford.”

The fork clattered against her plate. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

Ciel tilted his head. “You know of her?”

“Do I—” She stopped herself just in time, inhaling through her nose. “Let’s just say… she sounds terrifyingly capable.”

“That she is,” Sebastian said, eyes gleaming. “A remarkable woman. Impeccably proper. Quite perceptive, too. It would be… unfortunate if she found your behavior lacking.”

“Unfortunate how?”

“She would consider it her personal mission to correct you.”

Emma groaned, burying her face in her hands. “So I’m basically meeting a Victorian drill sergeant in a corset.”

Ciel sipped his tea, faintly smirking. “I’d suggest not saying that to her face.”

 Raising her head, she gave him a deadpanned look.

Sebastian’s voice was smooth as glass. “Then it appears we shall double your lessons today. You must know which fork to use — and when not to use it as a weapon.”

Emma turned to look at him. “No promises.”

Ciel chuckled again — quietly, but it was there — and Sebastian’s smirk deepened just slightly, satisfaction flickering in his crimson eyes.

“Then,” he said, placing another slice of toast on her plate with graceful finality, “let us hope you learn quickly, Miss Andrich. Lady Midford is not known for mercy.”

“Fantastic,” Emma muttered, stabbing her toast with unnecessary violence. To be honest, she was more annoyed that she had to eat it than anything else.

The dining hall gleamed in gold and silver, candlelight reflecting off polished cutlery and delicate crystal. The long table, usually far too large for just the three of them, looked suddenly appropriate for its purpose tonight. Francis Midford had that effect—she could fill a room with her presence alone.

Emma sat across from her, posture rigid, hands folded in her lap as Sebastian poured a measured amount of wine into her glass. Her fingers itched to grab it like a lifeline.

“You may begin,” Ciel murmured from his seat at the head of the table, and Sebastian inclined his head before retreating to his usual position by the wall, a silent shadow.

Francis Midford was as striking as Emma had remembered from the anime — all sharpness and poise, wrapped in the elegance of perfect breeding. Her hair was tied back in a neat twist, her dress practical but refined. She carried herself like she was born giving orders, and the faint arch of her brow seemed to judge everything within a ten-foot radius.

Ciel’s aunt had arrived, as she always did, without warning but with purpose. Tonight, her stated reason was “to inspect her nephew’s progress and ensure that Sebastian’s guidance has not led to idleness.” In reality, Emma suspected she just wanted to assert dominance over Ciel’s household.

Francis’s sharp green eyes slid to Emma now. “And this must be the cousin you wrote about. Fraulein Emma, was it?” Her tone dripped polite skepticism.

Emma forced a smile. “That’s right. Emma from Brunswick.” She nearly let Braunschweig slip.

Francis’s expression didn’t move, but her eyes narrowed by a fraction. “Ah, yes. The young lady sent to England for her health. How tragic.”

Ciel didn’t even blink. “Indeed. She has made remarkable progress under my household’s care.”

A pause. Francis turned her gaze back to Emma. “And tell me, child—what precisely is the nature of your illness?”

Emma’s mind blanked. Of course, Francis would ask that! Why the fuck hadn't they specified this?!

“Ah—”

A quiet shift. Sebastian, refilling Ciel’s glass, tilted the decanter ever so slightly and murmured, “Anemia,” in a voice only she could catch.

“Anemia,” Emma repeated smoothly, straightening her back. “It makes me, you know, a little faint at times.”

Francis’s brows arched. “How unfortunate. I trust you take care to rest and eat properly.”

Emma plastered on a gracious smile. “I try, but your nephew’s cook has been feeding me very... generous portions.”

God, she felt like an imbecile, taking forever to answer and having to think about the vocabulary she usually never used. She just hoped the woman across from her just thought it was about the language barrier.

Francis gave her a long, thin look. “Generosity is not a quality one finds often in servants.”

“Then I must be very lucky,” Emma said lightly, trying to redirect the conversation, though her palms were sweating. Although she felt as if she should say more, Ciel shot her a look that screamed, please, for the love of God, stop talking. So she did.

Dinner progressed with excruciating slowness. Every time Emma picked up her fork wrong or reached for the wrong glass, a subtle shift in the corner of her vision caught her attention—Sebastian’s faint tilt of the head, a tap of one gloved finger against his wrist, a single raised brow. She followed those silent cues like a lifeline.

Ciel, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy her suffering more than he should have. When Francis wasn’t looking, he’d send her the smallest ghost of a smirk — equal parts amusement and 'you’re on your own.'

“Well…” Emma began carefully, drawing the word out. “I was actually studying psychology at university before I came here.”

The effect was instant. Francis’s knife paused mid-cut. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes lifted, sharp as glass. “Psychology?”

“Yes,” Emma said, forcing a bright smile. “It’s a fairly new field. The study of the mind, behavior, that kind of thing.”

Silence. Even the clink of cutlery seemed to stop.

Ciel’s brows knit slightly, his tone politely incredulous. “The mind, you say?”

“Mhm.” Emma nodded, trying to sound confident even as she caught Sebastian’s subtle glance — a flicker of curiosity mixed with something dangerously close to amusement.

Francis finally set down her utensils. “You mean to tell me that in Germany, young ladies are now being taught to… dissect thoughts?”

Emma blinked. “Well, not literally. More like—understanding why people think and act the way they do.”

“Good heavens.” Francis’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And this is considered proper education for women?”

Emma gave a little shrug. “Where I’m from, yeah. I mean, we can’t all embroider curtains.”

Ciel nearly choked on his drink. Sebastian, ever efficient, set a napkin within reach before the young earl could make a scene.

Francis turned her full attention back to Emma. “Perhaps in certain… modern circles, such distractions are encouraged. But a lady’s purpose is not to question the inner workings of others — it is to uphold grace, not curiosity.”

Emma smiled sweetly. “And yet curiosity is what makes the mind graceful, isn’t it?”

The silence that followed could have frozen time itself.

Ciel stared at her like she’d just tried to arm-wrestle the devil.

Sebastian — damn him — looked entirely entertained.

Finally, Francis exhaled through her nose, as though trying to decide whether to scold or admire the audacity. “Sharp tongues are rarely flattering, Miss Emma.”

Emma’s smile didn’t falter. “Only when they’re used wrong, Lady Midoford.”

Ciel’s gaze darted toward her, faintly incredulous, faintly impressed. Francis, for her part, simply reached for her teacup with perfect composure, though her knuckles were white against the porcelain.

Sebastian’s voice, smooth as velvet, slipped into the tension. “Lady Andrich's academic background is, I assure you, an asset, my lady. Her insights are… remarkably perceptive.”

“Are they, now?” Francis said, tone dry as sandpaper. “Then I suppose England will have to prepare itself for a new kind of philosopher.”

“More of an observer, really,” Emma replied lightly. “People are endlessly interesting. I just like to figure out what makes them tick.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly — almost imperceptibly — and his crimson eyes caught hers for just a second. “Indeed.”

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of cautious conversation and barely contained snark. Francis pressed Ciel about the estate, about his studies, about his obligations. Emma mostly tried not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. Every now and then, Sebastian’s hand appeared in her peripheral vision, refilling her glass or subtly adjusting her napkin, each gesture smooth enough to make her wonder how many times he’d saved people from public humiliation like this.

When the final course was cleared and tea was served, Francis folded her hands neatly and said, “I must say, Ciel, your cousin’s manners are… serviceable. With time, perhaps, they might even be refined.”

Emma smiled sweetly. “Coming from you, that’s practically a compliment.”

Ciel nearly choked on his tea. Sebastian’s gloved hand was suddenly there, silently replacing the cup before it could spill. Francis’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t respond — which Emma counted as a victory.

After a few more minutes of strained civility, Francis finally stood. “I expect to see you and your… cousin… at the charity gala next month. It would be unseemly for the Phantomhive family to appear incomplete.”

“We’ll be there,” Ciel said smoothly.

Francis turned her gaze once more to Emma. “Do take care of your health, Miss Emma. England can be… unkind to those who do not fit.”

Emma met her eyes and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve been unfit my whole life.”

That earned her a quiet, strangled sound from Ciel — half horror, half admiration.

Once Francis finally swept out of the room, silence fell. The moment the door shut, Emma exhaled, slumping in her chair.

Ciel stared at her. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I survived your aunt. That’s, like, achievement unlocked, right?”

Ciel groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “At least you didn't completely embarrass me.“ 

“Trust me,“ Emma groaned and finally slumped back down in her seat, rolling her eyes upward to glare at the ceiling. “It could have been a lot worse. I don't do well with authority.“ 

Ciel leaned back in his chair, arms crossing neatly over his chest. “Clearly,” he said dryly. “You managed to insult my aunt and imply women should question social norms, all in the span of one dinner. A new record, even for this household.”

Emma grinned, though it came out a little sheepish. “What can I say? I aim to impress.”

Sebastian, who was stacking the now-empty dessert plates with effortless precision, gave a soft chuckle. “Impress is one word for it. Agitate might be another.”

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, glancing at him, “I wasn’t aware ‘charming the scary aunt’ was part of my crash course.”

Ciel shot her a sideways look. “You could’ve fooled me. She left saying you were ‘peculiar,’ which is practically a compliment, coming from her.”

Emma snorted. “Right. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly as he brushed invisible crumbs from the tablecloth. “For a lady who doesn’t do well with authority, you certainly held your ground.”

The humor dimmed just slightly in Emma’s eyes. “Yeah, well,” she said after a beat, fiddling with the edge of her napkin, “authority and I have a… complicated history.”

Ciel tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Complicated how?”

Emma shrugged, keeping her eyes on the table. “Just means I don’t take orders well. Or at all, really.” Then, with a forced lightness: “Except maybe when the person giving them has fangs and glowing eyes.”

Ciel’s brow arched. “I’d say that makes you an exception, not a rule.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

Sebastian, still standing by the table, regarded her quietly — his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingering a second too long. “Indeed you are,” he murmured. “Though I suspect we’ve only begun to see the extent of it.”

Emma rolled her eyes, trying to brush off the weight in his tone. “You make that sound way more ominous than it should.”

Ciel smirked faintly. “It usually is.”

Emma groaned, slumping lower in her chair. “You two are impossible.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian said, his voice laced with amusement as he collected the final teacup. “But we do make excellent company, don’t we?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Depends on the day.”

“Then let us hope tomorrow is one of the good ones,” Sebastian replied smoothly, bowing ever so slightly before heading toward the door with the tray in hand.

When he was gone, Ciel let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “You really do know how to cause chaos.”

Emma’s grin returned. “Says the boy getting kidnapped every other day. When's the next one scheduled, tonight?”

“Don't push it,“ he warned and stood, leaving her alone at the table. Her smile slowly faded.

A problem with authority? Complicated history? Sure, one could call it that. It wasn't that she didn't follow rules just because they were rules. In her experience, certain rules were just there to ensure someone else's power. And people in power, as she had come to learn painfully, usually only cared about maintaining it. They didn't care about anyone or anything else. Certainly not about her.

Chapter Text

That Lady, secretive

By the morning of December twentieth, Emma had learned that Sebastian’s patience was both a blessing and a weapon. He’d spent nearly two hours guiding her through the labyrinth of late–Victorian politics — the Irish Question, German unification (which she was the expert on, at least), the colonies, the social reform acts, and a dozen names she was fairly sure had never once appeared in her school history book. Or maybe they did and she had just totally ignored them. She had almost failed history, after all. Almost.

He quizzed her on prime ministers and trade routes as if it were the most natural breakfast conversation in the world, never missing a beat as he refilled her tea or adjusted the sugar tongs.

“Knowledge,” he said, his tone as smooth as the china cups between them, “is what separates the civilized from the ignorant, my lady.”

Emma muttered something under her breath about being very civilized in her ignorance, which earned her one of his rare, glinting smiles — the kind that made her feel both accomplished and mildly threatened.

They’d just reached a point in the lecture where he was explaining the delicate state of foreign affairs when the entire manor shuddered with a deafening boom. The windows rattled, a cup toppled, and the sound echoed through the halls like the aftermath of a small cannon blast.

Sebastian’s expression went from calm to flatly exasperated in half a second. “I should have known,” he said, already setting down the teapot.

“Known what?” Emma asked, eyes wide as the faint smell of smoke began to drift in.

“Bardory,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again.”

He turned sharply toward the door, clearly intending to handle it alone — but Emma was already on her feet, following.

“Stay here,” he said without looking back.

“Not a chance,” she said, tugging her coat tighter. “If I have to suffer through lectures on the British Parliament, I deserve some field experience. Besides, he's one of the funniest people on the show.”

He glanced over his shoulder, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying reluctant amusement. “You’ll regret it.”

“Never regretted a thing in my life,” she said, trailing him down the corridor.

The source of the chaos was, unsurprisingly, the courtyard — where Bard stood amid a cloud of black smoke, clutching what looked suspiciously like the remains of a frying pan, while Finny tried to douse the flames licking at a nearby hedge.

“Bard,” Sebastian began, voice deceptively calm, “would you care to explain why I smell gunpowder again?”

Bard turned, coughing, face smudged with soot but wearing the sheepish grin of a man who’d long accepted his role in life. “Dinner prep, boss! I just thought I’d, y’know, speed up the cooking process.”

“With explosives,” Sebastian said flatly.

“Just a small one this time!” Bard protested.

Finny, still flailing with the water bucket, looked up in alarm. “Oh! Sebastian, sir! The hedge— it’s sort of on fire again—”

“It is on fire, Finny,” Sebastian corrected, brushing past him to extinguish the remaining flames with a snap of his fingers and a blur of motion too fast for Emma to follow.

Emma blinked, taking in the scene — the chaos, the smoke, the utter lack of order — and then grinned. “Wow,” she said, hands on her hips. “So this is the famous Phantomhive efficiency system.”

Bard blinked at her, clearly surprised by the unfamiliar voice. Finny froze mid-motion.

“Uh… who’re you?” Bard asked.

“Emma,” she said brightly, stepping forward and offering her hand as though they weren’t standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you guys.”

Both men stared at her hand like it was a foreign object.

She laughed. “You can shake it, you know. I don’t bite.”

Finny’s face turned pink as he hesitantly shook her hand, careful as though she might break. “Oh! Um— it’s really nice to meet you, Miss Emma!”

“Just Emma,” she corrected with a grin. “No ‘Miss.’ I don’t really… do the whole ‘lady and servant’ thing. I don’t have servants at home, and it feels weird pretending I do. So, let’s just… skip that.”

Bard looked at her, then at Sebastian, then back at her. “You sure you’re stayin’ here? ’Cause this ain’t exactly the democratic household you think it is.”

Sebastian’s gaze cut to him like a blade. “Indeed, Bard, it is not.”

Emma shot Sebastian a look. “Oh, come on. I’m being friendly.”

“Which is precisely what concerns me,” Sebastian said dryly, brushing soot off her sleeve as if she were the one covered in ash. “You might start giving them ideas.”

Finny blinked, looking nervous. “Ideas like what?”

“Like rebellion,” Sebastian said with dark amusement.

Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m not leading a revolt. I just don’t like people bowing at me.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched in a faint, dangerous smile. “And yet,” he said softly, “people so often do.”

Bard and Finny exchanged a look that was equal parts confusion and intrigue.

Emma, determined not to blush, crossed her arms. “You’re impossible.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “That’s been established.”

By the twenty-third, Emma had begun to settle into the strange rhythm of life inside the Phantomhive manor.

Days had a pattern now — one that felt at once exhausting and oddly comforting.

Each morning, after breakfast in the grand dining hall, she sat through hours of lessons with Sebastian. He taught with the same elegance he did everything else: precise, patient, and mercilessly thorough. Politics, literature, posture, dancing — no subject was spared. Emma suspected he found some dark joy in watching her wrestle with the finer points of etiquette or trying not to trip over her own skirts while dancing.

And though she always attended breakfast, she’d stopped eating much of anything. The food was perfect, of course — it always was, when Sebastian made it — but the knot in her stomach never quite let go. She was certain both Ciel and Sebastian noticed, but neither said a word. Ciel would occasionally glance up from his tea with that sharp, assessing look of his, and Sebastian’s gaze lingered a little too long when collecting her untouched plate, but no one mentioned it. She'd rather risk their annoyance than her filling out the dresses she was still borrowing from Ciel.

Afternoons were her reprieve. She spent them with Mey-Rin, Finny, and Bard — and in their company, the manor felt alive. They’d rope her into everything from helping Finny with the gardens to listening to Bard’s increasingly disastrous experiments in 'modern cooking methods.' Mey-Rin had even tried to teach her to polish silverware 'the right way,' though Emma was fairly sure she’d ended up making a bigger mess than she’d started with.

It was a strange kind of family — chaotic, loud, and occasionally on fire — but Emma found herself smiling more often than she meant to.

The evenings were quieter. After dinner, she’d retreat to the library, its tall windows rimed with frost, and comb through endless rows of books. Old histories, obscure sciences, even tomes on folklore and metaphysics — anything that might hold a clue, however small, about how she’d ended up here. But there was nothing. No mention of dimensional rifts or crossings between worlds. Just more ink and paper and dust.

Some nights, she’d give up and take long baths instead, letting the hot water drown out the thoughts she couldn’t chase away — the ache of distance from her world, and the deeper, heavier sense that this one was beginning to feel less foreign than it should. Sometimes she'd stare ahead without seeing anything, replaying the faces and voices of the people she loved, her family and friends. But never too long, or else she'd feel the tears well up, and as soon as she'd allow those to flow, Emma knew they wouldn't stop for a while. 

That evening, she ended up in the kitchen again. The air smelled faintly of soap and burnt sugar, and Bard’s latest attempt at dessert still smoldered faintly in the sink. She had her sleeves rolled up, hands plunged into a basin of warm water as Mey-Rin handed her plates to dry.

“You really don’t have to do this, Miss Emma,” Mey-Rin said for what had to be the fifth time, red-faced and flustered as usual.

“I know,” Emma said, handing a dish to Finny with a grin. “That’s kind of the point. It feels normal. I miss normal.”

Bard leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette he definitely wasn’t supposed to have indoors. “You’re a weird one, you know that? Most ladies’d faint if they had to do kitchen work.”

Emma smirked. “Guess I’m not most ladies.”

Mey-Rin giggled nervously, and Finny nodded enthusiastically, nearly dropping a stack of cutlery. “You really fit in with us, Miss— I mean, Emma! It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Bard said around his cigarette, “even if Sebastian’ll probably have our heads for lettin’ you scrub dishes.”

“I’ll tell him it was my idea,” Emma said. “He can scold me directly.”

That got a round of laughter — even from Mey-Rin, who covered her mouth like she wasn’t supposed to.

After a while, the conversation drifted. Finny started humming some off-key carol, and Bard snorted.

“Don’t get too festive, Finny,” he said. “Ain’t gonna be any Christmas this year.”

Emma glanced up. 

Bard went on, waving smoke from his face. “The young master don’t like Christmas. Never has. So we don’t really do nothin’. No tree, no feast, no— none o’ that.”

“Yeah,” Mey-Rin added softly, looking down. “Sebastian said it just… brings back bad memories for the young master.”

Finny nodded, his usual cheer dimming. “It’s sad, though. He’s always workin’ so hard. I wish he could enjoy it.”

Emma smiled faintly and set down the dish she’d been drying. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know.”

They assumed she meant Sebastian had told her, and none of them pressed further. But her mind had already gone elsewhere — to the parts of Ciel’s story that never made it into polite conversation.

She remembered what Christmas meant for him — what had happened just a few years ago. The fire, the chains, the laughter that wasn’t human. Anniversaries often brought back traumatic events, along with the terrible feelings victims had felt at those times. To be completely honest, it would have probably been weirder if Ciel were able to enjoy the holiday. He was only thirteen. Still a child, still not fully mature despite having been forced to grow up too quickly. 

Emma stared down at her hands in the dishwater, the suds fading into white swirls. “I wouldn’t expect a Christmas here,” she said softly. “It wouldn’t feel right anyway.”

The others didn’t catch the tremor in her voice, but Sebastian, who had appeared silently in the doorway with his sleeves rolled back, did. He didn’t say anything — not yet. Just watched her, eyes dark and knowing, before announcing in his usual calm tone:

“Miss Emma, if you’re quite done turning my kitchen staff into philosophers, I suggest you retire. Tomorrow will be… a long day.”

Emma blinked and looked up. “Why?”

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Because, my dear, even in this house — Christmas Eve cannot be entirely ignored.”

Emma had just finished tying her shoes when the commotion started.

It began as faint voices in the hall — too cheerful, too high-pitched for this early in the morning — and grew into an unmistakable flurry of chaos. The sound of a carriage door slamming, excitable greetings, and the frantic echo of heels on marble floors.

Then came the unmistakable sound of Mey-Rin’s panicked stammering.

Emma didn’t even need to open her door to know who had arrived.

When she finally stepped out into the corridor, she was greeted by a blur of yellow curls and ribbons rushing straight toward her.

“Oh, you must be Emma!”

Emma barely had time to blink before her hands were seized by a pair of gloved ones. Elizabeth Midford beamed up at her, the very embodiment of sunlight in human form — bright, beautiful, and armed with enough energy to power the entire estate.

“Uh,” Emma said, trying to keep up. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’ve heard so much about you!” Lizzy gushed, squeezing her hands. “Ciel told me you were staying here! I just had to see for myself! And then Mother said you were a brave one, so I got even more curious!”

Behind Lizzy, Ciel appeared at the end of the hall, expression hovering somewhere between dread and resignation.

“Lizzy,” he said tightly, “perhaps you should—”

“Oh, hush!” she interrupted cheerfully, waving him off before turning her bright gaze back to Emma. “You’re even prettier than I imagined! Are all German girls like you? Oh! You have to help me with the decorations — we’re going to make this manor shine!”

Emma blinked, her brain still trying to catch up. “Decorations?”

“Yes!” Lizzy’s eyes sparkled. “Christmas decorations! Ciel hates Christmas, so I thought if I brought Christmas to him, he’d have to enjoy it! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Emma glanced at Ciel, who looked like he was internally combusting. Then at Sebastian, who had appeared silently beside him, holding a tray with tea and the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips.

“Wonderful,” Emma said dryly. “That’s one word for it.”

Lizzy, oblivious to sarcasm, clasped her hands together. “Come! I have the most perfect dress for you! You’ll look so darling! Oh, and you must help me choose where to place the tree — I think the grand hall, don’t you?”

Before Emma could form a protest, Lizzy had already looped her arm through hers and was towing her away.

As they passed Sebastian, Emma shot him a desperate look over her shoulder. “You could stop this, you know!”

His crimson eyes gleamed. “Why would I deprive you of such… festive enthusiasm?”

“Traitor,” she hissed under her breath.

He only smiled.

By late morning, Phantomhive Manor looked like a Christmas card designed by someone with no concept of restraint. Garlands trailed down the staircase, glittering ornaments hung from every candelabrum, and ribbons shimmered even from the taxidermy in the hall (which Emma was fairly sure Lizzy had mistaken for decoration).

Sebastian had, naturally, supervised all of it with supernatural efficiency, keeping the chaos barely contained. He’d even produced a tray of mince pies and tea — a detail that, coming from a demon, felt almost unnerving in its perfection.

Ciel endured it all with visible restraint, occasionally muttering something about 'ridiculous sentimentality.'

Emma, meanwhile, found herself caught in the crossfire of Lizzy’s relentless cheer. She spent an hour helping hang ornaments (Lizzy insisted), another hour being fussed over and pinned into a crimson gown (“You must match the theme!”), and several minutes trying not to laugh when Finny accidentally dropped a whole box of glass baubles, shattering them across the floor.

At one point, she caught Ciel watching from across the hall — arms crossed, expression unreadable. When their eyes met, he rolled his eyes just slightly, and Emma had to fight not to grin.

By the time afternoon rolled around, snow was drifting lazily outside the tall windows, and the manor glowed with warm candlelight. Emma found herself sitting by the fire with Lizzy, who was chatting animatedly about London society and how 'simply marvelous' it was that Emma had come to stay.

“She’s… nice,” Emma admitted later, when Lizzy had finally returned home. She was sitting beside Ciel and Sebastian, nursing a cup of tea Sebastian had somehow materialized at precisely the right moment. “Exhausting, but nice.”

Ciel gave a quiet snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“She means well,” Sebastian said mildly, setting another log on the fire. “Though her enthusiasm can be… consuming.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Still, as soon as Lizzy's carriage was off the grounds, all of the decorations basically vanished. She knew it had to be Sebastian, but still, she found it a bit unnerving. She also found it hard to believe that the others didn't suspect him of being anything but human. They just had to realize no human could do that! Emma wasn't about to blow his cover, though. She'd protect his secret, more for Ciel's sake than Sebastian's, since the demon could handle himself against three frightened servants. 

It was an hour after midnight when Emma snuck out of her room, one small candle holder in hand. She hadn't taken off her dress, as she had finally figured out how to undo her corset by herself (although getting in that thing still proved impossible on her own), and the crimson skirts rustled with every step she took down the corridor. She left the nobles' wing behind, crept through the servants' wing, and down into the kitchen. 

Setting the candle holder down on the table, Emma took out one of the small cakes remaining from the previous dinner, roughly the size of her palm. Placing it on a small table, she searched for a small candle and put it right in the middle of the cake, lighting it with one of the matches she found lying around.

For a moment, the room was bathed in soft, golden light — flickering against the copper pots and gleaming off the polished surfaces Sebastian always kept immaculate. Emma stared at the tiny flame and smiled faintly.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Now that is… a curious ritual.”

Emma nearly jumped out of her skin, the matchbox clattering onto the counter as Sebastian’s voice slid through the quiet. He stood at the kitchen entrance, a dark silhouette against the faint glow of her candle, his crimson eyes faintly glinting with amusement.

She sighed, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

“I do apologize,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “Though I confess, finding a young lady sneaking into the kitchen at this hour, conducting… ceremonies involving fire, is not an everyday occurrence — even in this house.”

Emma snorted softly, picking up the small plate and sitting down on the counter, her feet swinging slightly. “It’s not a ceremony. It’s a birthday cake.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A birthday cake?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at the flickering light, then back at him. “Mine, actually.”

Sebastian blinked once, almost imperceptibly. “Yours?”

“Mm-hm. Twenty-third birthday,” she said casually, lifting the cake a little as though to toast him. “Well, technically twenty-third if time even counts here. Anyway — I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Not today.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching her. “Because it is Christmas?”

Emma nodded. “Because it’s Christmas. Because I know what it means to Ciel.” She smiled a little, small and sad. “It didn’t feel right to celebrate while he’s… well, you know.”

Sebastian’s expression softened, though only subtly — just a faint shift in the angle of his mouth. “Considerate as ever, Miss Emma.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t feel like something that needed mentioning. I just wanted to—” she lifted the cake again, “—mark it somehow. Quietly.”

Then, with a soft exhale, she blew out the tiny flame. Smoke curled upward and vanished into the air.

For a moment, there was only the hush of the manor around them — the kind of silence that settled deep into its walls.

Sebastian stepped closer, his shoes making barely a sound against the stone floor. “You are… a peculiar young woman.”

“I’ve been told,” she said lightly, taking a small bite of her cake. “Want some?”

He gave a small, amused hum. “Tempting, but no. I’m afraid my tastes… differ somewhat.”

“I figured.” She smiled into her bite. “Your loss.”

Sebastian studied her a moment longer, then said quietly, “You might have told us. My young master would hardly have refused you a moment of celebration.”

Emma shook her head, still smiling faintly. “No. He would’ve tried to make it up to me somehow, and that’s not fair to him. Besides…” She gestured vaguely with her fork. “I like this better. Quiet. Simple. No expectations.”

Sebastian’s gaze dropped briefly — and that’s when he noticed.

Peeking out from beneath the gathered folds of her crimson skirts were her black Doc Martens, the leather catching the candlelight, laces neatly tied. The boots looked strikingly out of place against the elegant 19th-century gown — and yet, perfectly her.

He let out a low, amused breath. “Ah, I was beginning to wonder when those modern relics would resurface.”

Emma glanced down, then grinned. “What, these? They’re comfy. And practical. I’m not exactly built for your dainty Victorian shoes.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, his lips curling. “Though I must say, seeing contemporary craftsmanship paired with a Phantomhive ballgown is… unexpectedly avant-garde.”

Emma gave him a look. “You just called me weird in a fancy way.”

“Perceptive, as always.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “You know, you could just say you like them.”

He inclined his head with mock solemnity. “Very well. They suit you.”

“Thank you,” she said with a small smirk, raising her fork like a toast. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

“Then,” he replied, tone dipping low and velvet-smooth, “we must see to it that your birthday improves before it ends.”

Her brows arched, amused. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

A faint smile ghosted over his lips. “Perhaps both.”

She shook her head with a smile and finished up the last bite of her cake. The silence settled again, warm and soft this time — the kind that didn’t need filling.

Sebastian leaned lightly against the counter beside her, gloved hands folded, his crimson eyes following the curl of smoke that still lingered from the blown-out candle. “How poetic,” he murmured after a moment.

Emma glanced sideways. “What is?”

“The irony,” he said smoothly, “of my mate being born on the same day mortals celebrate the birth of their so-called savior.”

Emma blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” Then, with a small, lopsided smile: “That does sound kind of messed up, doesn’t it?”

His lips twitched. “Amusing, rather. Though I doubt your God would appreciate the parallel.”

She snorted softly. “Probably not. But I don’t think He’s keeping tabs on me anyway.”

Sebastian tilted his head, studying her. “You’re remarkably unbothered by blasphemy.”

“I'm an atheist,” she said dryly. Then, after a pause, her curiosity got the better of her. “Wait. What did you just say?”

His brows lifted ever so slightly. “Which part?”

“The ‘my mate’ thing.”

He gave a faint, knowing smile — the kind that said he knew exactly what she meant.

Emma set her empty plate aside, crossing her arms. “You keep throwing that word around like it’s supposed to mean something, but you’ve never actually explained it.”

He arched a brow. “And yet you have not stopped to ask until now.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, giving him a look, “tonight feels like a good night for truth. And it’s my birthday. So technically, you’re legally obligated to answer whatever I ask.”

His chuckle was low and amused. “Legally, you say.”

“Birthday rules,” she insisted, gesturing with a mock sternness. “Now spill.”

Sebastian regarded her for a long moment, the candlelight catching the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes. “You are persistent,” he said finally, voice quieter now — silk over steel. “Very well. A small truth, then. Consider it a… gift.”

Emma straightened slightly, watching him with interest.

He turned his gaze toward the dark window above the sink. “The mating bond,” he began slowly, “is not something demons seek lightly. It is… rare. Ancient. When it forms, it is absolute.”

“Absolute?” she echoed.

He nodded once. “It is a tether — one that binds soul to soul, across time, across the veil between mortal and infernal. It is… recognition, in its purest form.”

Emma blinked, unsure how to process that. “So… like a supernatural version of a soulmate?”

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “If you insist on putting it in human terms — yes. Though your concept of ‘soulmates’ tends to be far more romantic and far less binding.”

She tilted her head. “Binding how?”

A beat of silence stretched before he replied, quieter now. “It cannot be undone. Not even by death.”

Her breath caught a little at the weight in his tone. “So you’re saying… you’re stuck with me forever?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “An eternity in your company, my dear — hardly a punishment.”

Emma huffed a quiet laugh, half-flattered, half-overwhelmed. “That’s… a lot.”

“It is,” he agreed softly. “Which is why I did not burden you with it before.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers absently tracing the edge of the counter. “You could’ve told me,” she said after a moment. “I mean — it’s my life, too, isn’t it?”

Sebastian’s gaze softened, though his voice remained even. “I will not lie to you, Emma. What binds us is as much fate as it is choice. But you will have both — in time.”

She looked up at him again, eyes searching his. “So that’s your version of a birthday present? Existential horror and emotional commitment?”

That earned her a genuine laugh — low and rich, echoing faintly in the empty kitchen. “You wanted the truth. You did not specify pleasant truth.”

“Touché,” she muttered, fighting a smile. “Next year I’m asking for cake instead.”

“Next year,” he said quietly, “I will see to it you have both.”

Chapter Text

That Lady, fated

Sebastian accompanied her back to her room, despite her telling him she’d manage on her own. Twice. The hallways were dim and still, save for the faint crackle of a torch along the wall and the soft whisper of her skirts against the carpet. The manor seemed almost asleep — though she knew full well that he never was. Wasn't it dull? To never have a few hours of peace and quiet, without having to think, without having to do anything? But then again, she supposed, the Phantomhive household more or less rested entirely on his shoulders. He probably didn't even have the time to sleep, even if he wanted to. 

When they reached her door, Emma paused, fingers brushing the brass handle but not turning it. The quiet stretched between them for a heartbeat too long before she finally said, softly,

“Sebastian?”

He tilted his head, the faintest motion of acknowledgment. “Yes, my dear?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking from his face to the candle in her hand. The flame trembled slightly, mirrored in her voice when she spoke again. “Do you think… the reason I ended up here — in your world — has something to do with that bond thing you talked about?” 

The question had taken root in her mind from the moment he had brought it up, and she had turned the possibility over and over again. Could that really be it? That she had somehow travelled through time, through worlds, to meet her mate? 

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze softened, unreadable, as though he were weighing every possible response. The silence stretched, heavy but not cold.

At last, he said quietly, “I do not know.”

Emma frowned slightly. “That’s not a no.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

She looked up at him fully now, her expression open — almost vulnerable. “So it could be? The reason I’m stuck here?”

He inclined his head, just a fraction. “It is possible.”

“That’s… comforting,” she muttered, though her tone was anything but.

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “You sound unconvinced.”

“Well, forgive me if the idea of being cosmically tied to a Victorian demon wasn’t exactly on my bingo card,” she said dryly, trying to mask her unease with humor.

He chuckled softly. “Fate rarely consults our preferences.”

She gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“Nor am I trying to,” he said smoothly, then his tone softened. “But if it offers you any solace — I would not have chosen poorly.”

That silenced her for a moment. The warmth that crept up her neck had nothing to do with the candlelight. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, looking away.

“I’ve been called worse,” he replied lightly.

Emma sighed, fingers drumming against the doorframe. “If the bond brought me here, then what? What happens now?”

He studied her, eyes glinting faintly in the dim corridor. “Now?” he repeated, voice low. “Now, you live. You learn. You adapt.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said, almost accusingly.

“It’s the only one that exists for the moment,” he said. “The how and why of your arrival are questions even I cannot answer. But rest assured, if there is a reason, I will find it.”

Emma looked up at him again, unsure if she wanted to believe him — or if she already did.

“Promise?” she asked quietly.

He smiled — not the playful smirk she was used to, but something smaller, steadier. “A promise,” he said.

For a moment, they just stood there, candlelight painting gold against red and white — the only warmth in the corridor.

Then she nodded slowly, turning the handle. “Goodnight, Sebastian.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

She stepped inside, the soft click of the door closing behind her somehow heavier than it should’ve been. On the other side, Sebastian lingered for a moment longer, gaze fixed on the flicker of candlelight escaping through the crack beneath her door.

He whispered to no one, “If the bond truly brought you here… then even fate has begun to play dangerous games.”

And then he vanished, swallowed once more by the silence of the manor.

The next morning, Emma descended the stairs as usual, fidgeting with her rings. She had started wearing them again, deeming it safe inside the manor. They brought her a sense of safety, of familiarity. 

When she entered the dining hall, she froze.

The table—normally neat but unremarkable—looked as though someone had raided the best of London’s patisseries. There were flaky croissants, sugared buns, fresh fruit, even a small dish of what looked suspiciously like chocolate custard. In the middle of it all sat a vase with pale winter roses.

Ciel glanced up from his tea, one brow arching. “You’re late.”

Sebastian, who was currently setting down a gleaming silver tray, looked up with the faintest curve to his lips. “Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well after last night’s festivities?”

Emma blinked at him, then at the spread. “Festivities?” she echoed warily.

“Indeed.” Sebastian stepped back smoothly, hands folding behind his back. “In honor of your birthday, of course.”

Emma’s mouth fell open. “Sebastian.”

“Yes, Miss?” His tone was pure innocence.

“I thought we agreed not to make a fuss out of this?!”

“Ah,” Sebastian said, tilting his head slightly, “but I never agreed to anything. And I would hardly call breakfast a fuss.”

Ciel’s expression slid from polite confusion to faint exasperation. “Birthday?” he repeated, setting his cup down. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Because I didn’t want to,” Emma said quickly, shooting Sebastian a murderous look. “I didn’t think it was really appropriate, considering… you know.”

Ciel’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Considering what, exactly?”

Her mouth opened and closed. She chose the easier route. “Considering that Christmas isn’t exactly your favorite time of year,” she said finally, quieter.

The air shifted just slightly—Sebastian’s posture remained serene, but his eyes flicked toward her in faint surprise. Ciel looked away first, reaching for his fork with deliberate casualness.

“I see,” he said, tone even. “So, instead of mentioning it, you decided to sneak cake in the kitchen after midnight. Very inconspicuous.”

Her head snapped up. “Wait—how—”

He smirked faintly. “You’re not half as quiet as you think you are. Half the manor heard you yell out tonight.”

Emma groaned, covering her face. “Oh, shit.”

“Language,” Sebastian murmured.

She peeked through her fingers at him. “You don’t get to lecture me today.”

“On the contrary,” he said smoothly, “I believe your birthday gives me even more reason to remind you of manners.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, dropping into her chair. “You’re unbelievable.”

Ciel took a sip of tea, still watching her with that unreadable sharpness. “You went out of your way to keep it secret from me. Why?”

Her eyes darted to the table, then back to him. “Because it felt wrong to celebrate when I know what this time of year means to you,” she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “It just… didn’t feel right. Besides, I've had twenty-two birthday celebrations. I decided I could go without one.” That was kind of a lie, but who cared?

Something flickered in Ciel’s eye—too quick to name. He set his cup down carefully, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “That’s… unnecessary,” he said after a beat. “But noted.”

Emma shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “Well, you know. Consider it my present to you—less noise, less cake, less mess.”

That earned her a sharp look and the ghost of a smile. “And yet, you still managed all three.”

Sebastian’s low chuckle filled the quiet space. “Indeed, my lord. Miss Emma’s ability to create chaos seems to be independent of occasion.”

She threw him a glare over her teacup, but her lips twitched. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Merely appreciating the irony,” Sebastian replied. “My mate, born on the holiest day of humankind. How delightfully paradoxical.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, sorry for ruining your aesthetic.”

Ciel sighed softly, leaning back in his chair. “If you two are quite done flirting across my breakfast table, perhaps we can begin the day.”

Sebastian’s smirk deepened. “As you wish, my lord.”

Emma choked on her tea. “We are not—!”

Ciel ignored her, standing and straightening his jacket. “In any case, happy birthday,” he said briskly, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You might as well enjoy it. Sebastian clearly won’t let you do otherwise.”

And with that, he left the room, heels tapping softly against the polished floor.

Emma exhaled, shoulders sagging. “He’s gonna hold this over my head forever.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sebastian said.

She glanced at him, studying his faintly amused face. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

He smiled, faint but genuine. “It is your birthday, my dear. I thought you deserved a little… recognition.”

“By embarrassing me?”

“By reminding you,” he said, eyes catching the light, “that you are not invisible.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. She looked away, pretending to busy herself with her plate. Sometimes, she really thought he could read her mind. 

“For a demon, you're awfully nice.“ Looking over the lavish food before her, she slowly shook her head. “Especially considering I don't really eat breakfast. Which you know.“

“I noticed, yes,“ Sebastian replied and casually refilled her cup of tea. It was the only thing she consumed during breakfast. “Although I cannot fathom why.“ 

Letting out an amused snort, Emma shook her head and stood from the table, the smile on her face hard and unyielding. All the lightness, all the jokes, were gone from her in an instant as if someone had snuffed out a candle. “Nice try, but I won't tell you.“ 

Meeting his gaze, she didn't back down, because this was a topic she didn't talk about. With no one. Not even with herself. “It's none of your business, and if you start poking, I will show you exactly how unladylike I can truly be.“ 

Stepping past him without looking back, Emma returned to her room. Or tried, at least, because suddenly, Tanaka was in her way. It was the first time she saw him as... well, him.

“Miss Andrich,“ he said and bowed at the waist. “The young master has requested your presence in the drawing room. Do you know the way, or shall I accompany you?“ She did not know the way, so she followed Tanaka, although unsure what Ciel wanted from her now. He had just seen her barely five minutes ago, after all.

Inside the drawing room, Ciel sat in one of the armchairs, its backrest high enough that the earl looked suddenly way smaller than he already was. Since his heels were more or less the same height as the platforms of her Docs were thick, they more or less grew taller about the same amount when wearing their shoes. Standing in front of her, she could look straight over his head, his nose more or less on the same level as her shoulders. There were barely five inches between them. Now, he looked even more fragile, even thinner.

“You called for me?“

“Sit,“ he ordered and pointed at the armchair across from him, the blue stone of his heirloom ring glistening as a tray of sunlight hit it in just the right angle. Emma obeyed and sat down, gaze falling onto the table between them—and the chessboard sitting atop it.

“I assume you know the rules,“ Ciel said and moved his first piece across the board. Of course, he took white. And of course, he didn't ask whether she wanted to play or not.

“Yes,“ she sighed and moved her own piece—a pawn. “But don't get your hopes up. I'm no strategist. I play, and if I win, it's either luck or because my opponent is stupid.“ Raising her gaze to his face, she added with a soft smile, “Which you aren't.“ 

“You are correct,“ Ciel replied and moved his bishop, eye trained on the board. He didn't even look at her face. 

Emma moved her own piece, trying only half-heartedly to block his attack, because who was she trying to fool? He was Ciel Phantomhive. He'd play her straight to hell.

“So,“ she drawled and watched without much emotion as he cleared her knight from the board. “Why call for me to play chess all of a sudden? Aren't you a tad too busy for this?“

Ciel hummed in agreement, head propped lazily on one fist, one leg crossed above the other. He looked like a little diva, and in an instant, 'Diva' by Beyoncé started playing in her head. She had to bite her lip hard to keep from laughing out loud.

“I am,“ Ciel said, oblivious to her internal joke, and waited until Emma made her move. She took his bishop. 

“But my schedule allowed for a bit of free time today.“ A short break. Then— “And it's your birthday.“ 

Emma jerked her gaze up, staring at Ciel. He was neither looking at her nor at the board, glancing sideways instead, obviously avoiding her. The faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him, and the sight was so accurate to the anime, she nearly squealed in delight. Knowing Ciel, she held it back. It was the kind of thing he'd offer in silence, without wanting acknowledgment of his goodwill. Ciel Phantomhive could be a very nice person, but he feared the day someone would notice that. It was safer to be cruel, safer to be untouchable. And Emma understood that.

So she stayed silent as they continued to play, a soft smile on her face even as she lost game after game. 

Chapter Text

That Lady, in London

The morning after Christmas was bright and brittle, the kind of cold that glittered.

The carriage rattled over the frozen earth, iron-shod wheels crunching through thin layers of frost, and Emma sat between Ciel and the window, watching the landscape unfurl in pale hues of winter. Her breath fogged the glass before her gloved fingers wiped it clear again.

It was her first time in a carriage. Even with the thick curtains drawn back and the sunlight spilling through, the small cabin swayed with every uneven cobblestone, and the rhythmic creak of the wheels mingled with the faint snort of the horses outside.

She couldn’t help herself—her lips parted in something close to awe.

“I can’t believe people actually used this every day,” she murmured, turning to glance at Sebastian opposite her. “It feels like a ride at a museum… except bumpier.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved slightly, that ever-present glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “A museum, you say? How flattering. I shall take that as a compliment to my choice of carriage.”

“Not quite,” Emma said dryly, steadying herself as the carriage hit another rut. “Do carriages not have… I don’t know, suspension or shock absorbers or something?”

Ciel arched an eyebrow. “They have what they require. This is not a vehicle of the future, Miss Andrich.”

“Oh, I can tell,” she muttered, clutching the small strap hanging from the ceiling for balance. “I think my spine’s going to file a complaint.”

Sebastian chuckled, low and soft, the sound vibrating through the confined space. “How delicate modern constitutions have become. Your ancestors would endure hours of this without complaint.”

“Yes, well, my ancestors didn’t have public transport.”

Ciel’s lips twitched before he could stop them. “You are an odd woman.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

The conversation faded as the countryside began to shift, fields giving way to buildings, cobblestone lanes to crowded streets. The first glimpse of London took her breath away. It wasn’t the London of the sleek postcards she’d grown up seeing, nor the cinematic version with clean streets and glittering fog. This was alive — bustling, chaotic, grim and gorgeous all at once.

Carriages jostled for space, horses stamped and whinnied, and the air was thick with the scent of coal, sweat, and life. Children darted through the crowd selling papers, and the cries of street vendors mingled with the chime of distant bells.

Emma leaned forward, unable to stop staring. “Oh my god… it’s exactly how I imagined it—and nothing like it at all.”

Sebastian watched her reflection in the window, the faintest warmth touching his otherwise unreadable features. “London, in all its glory,” he said smoothly. “Filth and finery in equal measure.”

Ciel adjusted his glove, gaze fixed on the streets beyond the glass. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Though I doubt you’ll find much to love about the smell.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, that’s… potent. Guess this is what happens when nobody invents plumbing yet.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked toward her, an amused spark lighting them. “It seems your knowledge of our… infrastructural shortcomings remains intact. How fortunate for us.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, flashing him a small grin. “I won’t judge. Much.”

Ciel sighed softly, though his tone carried a hint of reluctant fondness. “Do try to contain your commentary once we arrive. The tailor we’re visiting is not accustomed to clients who—” he hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly, “—speak quite like you.”

Emma clasped her hands over her lap, feigning innocence. “I’ll be the picture of grace, my lord.”

Sebastian’s quiet chuckle filled the space between them. “That,” he murmured, “remains to be seen.”

Outside, the carriage rolled deeper into the city. The great fog of London loomed ahead like a curtain, swallowing the light as they crossed into its heart.

The carriage came to a stop with a jolt that nearly sent Emma toppling off her seat.

Sebastian, naturally, rose as if the vehicle had not moved at all, opened the door, and offered her his gloved hand with a smooth bow.

“Phantomhive tailoring,” he announced. “Miss Hopkins’s establishment. Do mind your language, Miss Andrich—she is… sensitive.”

Emma arched a brow but took his hand, stepping down onto the slick cobblestone. “You make her sound like a bomb.”

“In many ways, she is.”

Ciel brushed past them, cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders. “Just try not to antagonize her,” he muttered, though his tone carried an edge of resignation that suggested the attempt was already doomed.

The shop looked as though it had stepped straight out of an oil painting—polished brass lettering on the windows, velvet drapes, and mannequins dressed in extravagant gowns, each more intricate than the last. When the bell above the door chimed, a high, musical voice answered before Emma had even fully stepped inside.

“Earl Phantomhive!”

Nina Hopkins swept into the room like a colorful bird—corset cinched within an inch of its life, ruffles and ribbons exploding in every possible direction. “Oh, my precious little earl! Look at you, such poise, such grace! I could weep!”

Ciel looked seconds away from requesting divine intervention. “Good afternoon, Miss Hopkins.”

“Oh, nonsense, no need for such stiffness between us!” Nina cooed, sweeping forward and—before anyone could stop her—pinching Ciel’s cheek. “You’ve grown so handsome, I could simply die!”

Emma nearly choked on her restrained laugh.

Sebastian’s smile froze into something that could have cut glass. “Miss Hopkins,” he said smoothly, “perhaps we might save your untimely demise for after business hours. The young master has come to discuss a new commission.”

Nina turned to him with a bright, razor-sharp grin. “Oh, Sebastian. Still haunting the poor boy like a particularly well-dressed ghost, I see?”

“Someone has to keep order,” he returned with a faint bow. “Your work, while inspired, has a tendency to disregard practicality.”

“Practicality is for the unimaginative,” she said, waving him off before focusing her glittering eyes on Emma. “And who, pray tell, is this radiant young lady?”

“Miss Emma Andrich,” Sebastian said before Emma could speak. “A… guest at the manor.”

“Ohhh, a guest,” Nina repeated, drawing the word out like spun sugar. “Well, my dear Miss Andrich, if you are under his care, you must allow me to make you absolutely divine.”

Emma smiled, caught between amusement and mild fear. “Uh—thank you, I think?”

“Think nothing of it!” Nina declared and clapped her hands. “Earl Phantomhive, you simply must let me make her a full wardrobe. Poor thing looks like she’s been swimming in borrowed linens!”

Emma bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Ciel sighed. “That is precisely why we’re here. Do whatever is necessary. Within reason.”

“Within reason,” Nina echoed with mock solemnity, then winked. “You wound me, my lord. I am always reasonable.”

Sebastian murmured something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “That will be the day,” earning himself a sharp look from Nina.

Emma followed Nina into the back room, where bolts of fabric were stacked to the ceiling and a single long mirror reflected every movement. The air smelled faintly of lavender and starch.

“All right, darling,” Nina said, pulling a tape measure from around her neck and circling Emma like an excited cat. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Emma obeyed, standing still as the woman took her measurements. It was strange—being fitted by hand, the quiet sound of the tape sliding around her waist, her arms lifted as the seamstress murmured numbers to herself.

Nina paused, fingers resting briefly at Emma’s ribs. “Good heavens,” she said softly, not unkindly. “You’re thin as a willow branch, my dear. Do they not feed you up there in that grand estate?”

Emma stiffened instinctively, though she forced a smile. “They try. I just… don’t eat much breakfast.”

“Breakfast, lunch, dinner—whatever it is, you’re skipping something,” Nina said, standing upright again and tutting softly. “Well, we’ll fix that. A good cut can make anyone look their best—but even the finest fabric looks better with a little health behind it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Emma said lightly, though her voice came out quieter than she intended.

Nina didn’t press. She just smiled that big, bright smile again and started pulling fabric swatches from the shelves. “Now then! Let’s see—something deep green for those eyes, yes? And blue, to make the lord melt, mm?”

From the front of the shop came Sebastian’s smooth, unmistakable tone: “Miss Hopkins, if you intend to make the young master melt, kindly leave Miss Andrich out of it.”

Nina rolled her eyes dramatically. “Jealous, are we?”

“Hardly,” Sebastian replied, stepping into view with the faintest of smiles. “I’ve simply seen the results of your artistic enthusiasm before. We’d prefer the young lady to remain dressed, not draped in scandal.”

Emma laughed under her breath. “Wow, you two really do love each other.”

They both froze and spoke at once.

“We do not.”

As they left Nina Hopkins’s boutique, Emma felt like she was floating between centuries and tax brackets. Her new measurements, the swatches of velvet and lace, the whispered promises of gowns and gloves—it had all been dizzying. But the moment her gaze happened to fall upon the neat stack of receipts on Nina’s counter, her dizziness turned into horror.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait,” she blurted, catching the number before Sebastian smoothly folded the bill and tucked it into his jacket. “That’s—that’s not real, right? You didn’t just—Ciel, tell me that’s not pounds!”

Ciel didn’t even slow his stride as he stepped out onto the street. “Of course it’s pounds.”

“That’s insane! You could’ve bought a horse for that money—probably two!”

He looked over his shoulder at her, perfectly calm. “And what would I do with two horses, Miss Andrich? They’d only eat and sleep all day.”

“Exactly what I’m doing,” she muttered.

Sebastian, following close behind, hid a smirk behind one gloved hand. “The young master was quite clear in his instruction, Miss Emma. A lady of the manor requires a proper wardrobe.”

“I’m not a lady of the manor!” she hissed. “I’m just—temporary. Borrowed. I’ll give it back when I leave—”

“That’s impossible,” Ciel interrupted smoothly, stepping around a puddle. “They’ll be tailored to your size. No one else could wear them.” His tone made it clear that the argument was over before it began.

Emma groaned softly and gave up, glaring at the cobblestones as if they’d wronged her personally.

London bustled around them—street vendors calling out their wares, carriages rattling past, a faint mist hanging over the air like a veil. Emma turned her head this way and that, taking everything in: the sharp smell of coal smoke, the sheer density of people, the sounds of wheels on wet stone. It was grimy and chaotic and alive.

“This is… incredible,” she murmured, half to herself.

“Quite different from the photographs, I assume?” Sebastian asked.

“Photographs, paintings, movies—nothing really gets it right,” she said softly. “It’s so… loud. And real. You can smell the history.”

Ciel made a small, amused sound. “That smell would be horse dung and factory smoke.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, smiling faintly, “authenticity isn’t always pleasant.”

They had just turned down a narrower street when the whispers began. It wasn’t subtle—Londoners were many things, but discreet was not one of them.

“That must be the Phantomhive boy—”

“—and that woman, have you seen her hair? Like fire!”

“Unnatural color, that. Foreign, no doubt.”

“I heard she’s some fallen noble from the continent.”

“Or a mistress.”

“Really, at his age?”

“Well, they say the Phantomhives are peculiar folk…”

Emma caught fragments as they passed—half-curious, half-scandalized. The kind of speculation people threw around when they had no better entertainment. Her jaw tightened, but she kept walking. She’d learned a long time ago that giving attention to gossip only fed it.

She had been stared at before—by classmates whispering behind their hands, by men who looked too long, by strangers who didn’t know what to make of her red hair or her quiet confidence. It was all the same noise, just dressed in different accents.

Still, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ciel stiffening.

“Let them talk,” she murmured quietly, although she could understand his disdain. She would've expected to be called a witch, not the mistress of a thirteen-year-old. The thought made her want to vomit.

“They shouldn’t,” he said just as softly, eye fixed ahead. His voice carried the kind of frost that could make grown men apologize.

“Oh, come on,” she said lightly, “it’s not like I can die of slander.”

Sebastian, walking a respectful pace behind them, chuckled under his breath. “Indeed, but others might, should the young master decide to enforce decorum.”

“Sebastian,” Ciel warned.

“Of course, my lord,” Sebastian said mildly, but his gaze flicked briefly toward the gossiping cluster. The sharpness in his crimson eyes was gone in an instant, replaced by polite neutrality—but the way the murmurs faltered, one by one, suggested that at least a few of the bystanders had caught a glimpse of something they wished they hadn’t.

Emma exhaled through her nose and looked up at Ciel again. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I didn’t,” he said flatly. “He did.”

“And you didn’t stop him.”

Ciel glanced sideways at her, the faintest twitch pulling at his lips. “Perhaps I didn’t feel inclined to.”

“Great,” she said dryly. “Glad to know my public relations team is on it.”

That earned her a small, unwilling huff of laughter before he looked away again.

Sebastian’s voice drifted from behind them, all silk and amusement. “It seems, my lady, that you are already becoming quite the sensation in London.”

Emma groaned. “Fantastic. Just what I needed—Victorian tabloid fame.”

“Consider it an accomplishment,” Ciel said. “Few manage to cause a scandal before they’ve even received their first gown.”

She threw him a sideways look. “You make that sound like a compliment.”

He didn’t answer—but the faint smirk tugging at his mouth was answer enough.

By the time they returned to the manor, the winter light had already started to fade into a dull gray. The carriage ride back had been filled with silence—Ciel had a stack of papers waiting for him, and Sebastian had disappeared almost instantly after helping her down from the carriage, no doubt to resume his endless list of tasks.

That left Emma with herself. Again.

She drifted back to the library the way some people drift to chapels—pulled there by something wordless, almost superstitious. It wasn’t even that she thought she’d find anything new. After days of searching, she’d already read her way through half the section on metaphysics and philosophy, and she knew perfectly well that none of these books would tell her how to jump dimensions or whatever had yanked her here in the first place. But still—she couldn’t help it.

The room greeted her with its usual hush, the faint crackle of the fire, the scent of old paper and beeswax polish. She slipped between the rows of shelves, fingertips brushing spines, eyes scanning the faded gold titles.

Her stomach gave a low, protesting twist. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace and winced. Three o’clock. No wonder she felt light-headed—she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And breakfast had been… mostly tea. Again.

She leaned against the shelf for a moment, waiting for the faint wave of dizziness to pass, then straightened and pulled out a book at random.

The cover was strange. No title. Just deep brown leather, the surface uneven, embossed with a faint circular pattern that might have been a sigil—or maybe just some fancy engraving. The edges of the pages were rough, uneven, almost hand-cut.

Emma frowned, tilting it under the light. The spine was cracked and faintly sticky to the touch, like the varnish hadn’t aged well.

“Who the hell abused you?” she muttered under her breath, setting it down on the reading table and opening it carefully.

The first page wasn’t printed—it was inked, the letters dark and looping in a script she didn’t recognize. Latin, she realized after a moment, catching fragments that looked vaguely familiar: ignis, anima, sanguis, vinculum. Fire, soul, blood, bond.

She tilted her head, squinting. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

For a second, she hesitated, mind flashing back to the countless horror movies she had watched. Conuring, Sinister, Evil Dead Rise... If these things had taught her one thing, it was to leave scary books untouched. But then again, she was already sharing a house with a demon, so how much worse could it become, really?

Flipping through the pages, she found diagrams—circles, constellations, geometric patterns with words curling around them like vines. Some were smudged, as if someone had written too quickly and closed the book before the ink dried.

It didn’t feel like a printed text at all. It felt personal.

A diary? A researcher’s notebook? Or…

Her fingers stilled on a page decorated with something that looked suspiciously like an alchemical chart. She traced one of the symbols lightly, careful not to damage the fragile paper.

“This looks straight out of a movie,” she whispered, half amused, half intrigued. “If this thing starts chanting, I’m gone.”

She flipped another page. The script grew smaller, tighter, almost frantic toward the end, as though whoever had written it had run out of time—or breath.

Emma leaned closer, brow furrowing. “What the hell were you working on…?”

A draft of cold air stirred through the room, rustling the curtains and making the flame in the hearth dance. The sudden chill raised goosebumps along her arms.

She looked up instinctively. Nothing.

Still, she found herself lowering her voice. “Okay, creepy old book in a creepy old manor. Love that for me.”

Closing it carefully, she hesitated for a long moment, fingers resting on the leather cover.

It was probably nothing. Just some weird old academic thing. But part of her—the same reckless, curious part that had followed Sebastian into the kitchen at midnight—felt a faint pulse of recognition. Like the book was… waiting.

“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered to herself, shaking it off. “It’s just a book.”

Still, when she stood to put it back, her hand hovered over the shelf a moment too long. Then she sighed and tucked it under her arm instead, deciding she’d skim it later, maybe before bed.

If nothing else, it’d make a good story: girl gets stuck in Victorian London, finds creepy Latin textbook, probably cursed, film at eleven.

She'd have watched the shit out of that movie. 

Dinner at the Phantomhive manor was never exactly a lively affair, but tonight it was downright frosty.

Emma sat across from Ciel, watching him cut his roast with surgical precision. The faint clink of silverware and the distant tick of the grandfather clock were the only sounds in the room. Even Sebastian, standing quietly by the sideboard, seemed to have dialed down his usual teasing commentary.

Ciel’s expression, however, was what drew her attention. He always looked annoyed, but tonight there was something… sharper about it. His brow was furrowed deeper than usual, his mouth drawn tight, like he was thinking about biting someone—and might actually follow through.

Emma set her fork down, tilting her head. “Alright, spill it.”

He didn’t look up. “Spill what?”

“The thing that’s clearly trying to murder you from the inside,” she said lightly. “You’ve been glaring at your mashed potatoes for ten minutes. What did they ever do to you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms. “You look fine. Just a little sunshine full of joy.”

He finally glanced at her then, blue eye narrowing in irritation. “It’s classified information.”

That earned him a snort. “Ciel, I already know about the contract with a demon, the Queen’s little spy games, and the whole ‘cleaning up England’s dirty secrets’ thing. I think we’re a bit past classified.”

He froze mid-bite, clearly not expecting that. A pause, then a quiet, reluctant: “...I had forgotten about that.”

Emma smirked. “Happens to the best of us.”

Ciel set his fork down, sighing. For a long moment, he said nothing, then finally leaned back in his chair. “The Queen sent a letter. Another… request.”

Her expression softened. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

“You make it sound trivial,” he said. “A viscount’s son has gone missing in London. Rumors say he joined an occult society. The Queen wants me to investigate—quietly, of course.”

Emma blinked. “An occult society?” She leaned forward a little, curiosity instantly piqued. “Like… séances and weird rituals? Or the real deal?”

“The former,” Ciel said with a small, disdainful curl of his lip. “Foolish aristocrats playing with things they don’t understand. The kind that inevitably leads to scandal, murder, or both.”

Emma hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of her plate. A part of her—the impulsive, reckless part—wanted to say she could help with that. She knew a thing or two about reading people, after all. About manipulation, coercion, grooming tactics—things she’d studied, things she’d seen.

Still, she couldn’t quite hide the flicker of thought in her eyes, because Ciel’s gaze sharpened. He tilted his head slightly, like he’d caught her mid-thought.

“You’re not coming,” he said flatly.

Emma blinked, caught. “I didn’t say I wanted to—”

“You were thinking it,” he cut in.

Before she could argue, a quiet voice joined the conversation.

“I would advise against leaving her behind, young master,” Sebastian said, his tone smooth as silk.

Ciel turned his head sharply. “And why, exactly, is that?”

Sebastian stepped forward, setting down the wine bottle he’d been holding. His crimson eyes glinted faintly in the candlelight. “Because we do not know how long this assignment will take—and it would be unwise to leave someone so… uniquely significant unattended for an extended period.”

Ciel frowned. “She would be safer here than following us into whatever pit of London filth awaits.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Sebastian replied. “But you forget—my mate is never truly out of danger, regardless of where she stands.”

The word hung in the air like a drop of ink in clear water.

Ciel’s expression soured instantly. “Must you always bring that up?”

Sebastian smiled, unbothered. “I find it simplifies the discussion.”

“It simplifies nothing because you refuse to share what it even means!“ Ciel barked, clearly fed up with his demon.

Emma, meanwhile, was trying not to roll her eyes. “You really had to pull the mate-card again, huh?” she muttered under her breath.

“Merely stating a fact,” he said smoothly, turning that faint, unreadable smile toward her.

Ciel groaned, rubbing at his temple. “Fine. But you’ll be responsible for keeping her out of trouble.”

“I always am,” Sebastian replied, with just enough of a smirk to make Ciel’s eye twitch.

Emma hid a grin behind her napkin.

“So where are we going, then?” she asked innocently.

Ciel sighed. “The family in question owns an estate in the outskirts of London. We’ll start there. The trail leads into the city, if the rumors are true.”

“An out-of-town trip,” Emma mused, leaning back. “Well… at least I’ll get to see more of England. Maybe even find out what those ‘occult’ people are actually dabbling in.”

“Just don’t get ideas,” Ciel muttered.

She smiled faintly, spearing a piece of roast. “Me? Never.”

But as the conversation drifted on, she couldn’t help glancing toward the window—toward the darkening woods beyond. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the image of that Latin book flickered again, whispering quietly to her like a page half turned.

Chapter Text

That Lady, flirting

Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling, the scent of lavender soap mingling with the faint chill that lingered beyond the closed windows. Emma knelt beside the tub, testing the water temperature with her fingers when a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” she called, glancing over her shoulder.

The door to her bedroom opened smoothly, and Sebastian stepped inside, quickly finding her in the bathroom. His usual composure seemed softened by the lamplight, his eyes a darker shade of crimson than usual. In his hands, he carried a small, neatly wrapped box tied with a pale blue ribbon.

“Forgive the interruption,” he said, voice low and even. “But my young master instructed me to deliver this before the day ended.”

Emma stood, brushing her damp fingers on a towel. “A present?” she asked, brow lifting in surprise. “From Ciel?”

“Indeed.” His mouth twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. “He claimed it would be ‘wasteful sentimentality’ to ignore a birthday under his roof. His words, not mine.”

Emma smiled, her curiosity piqued as she took the box from his hands. The paper was crisp, folded with military precision — typical of Ciel. She undid the ribbon carefully and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a delicate silver locket on a fine chain, its surface engraved with a small, intricate crest.

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

“An idea I may have… subtly encouraged,” Sebastian admitted, eyes glinting. “The young master was initially more inclined toward a quill set.”

Emma laughed softly, shaking her head. “That sounds more like him. I’ll have to thank him tomorrow — though I think that might embarrass him more than he’d admit.”

“I imagine it would.”

She turned the locket over between her fingers, her expression softening. “Still… it’s thoughtful. And unexpected.”

A quiet hum of agreement left him, but his gaze had shifted, drawn by the sound of water still running behind her.

“Your bath,” he said. “You could have called for me to prepare it.”

She smiled faintly without turning around. “In my time, there are no servants. If I want to take a bath, I just… do it.”

He watched her as she crossed to the mirror, placing the locket on her bedside table in passing, and then gathered her long hair up into a knot. Her bare neck caught the lamplight, skin warm and golden against the white linen of her chemise, despite always being pale. A single strand of hair slipped free, brushing her skin, and his eyes followed it with an almost predatory focus.

“You seem determined to defy every rule of this household,” he said lightly, though his tone held a weight that wasn’t entirely amusement.

Emma caught his gaze in the mirror and smirked. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I am a butler,” he replied smoothly. “It is my duty to endure mischief.”

Her grin widened. “Oh, endure, is it?”

He arched a brow, stepping closer — close enough that the heat from the bath seemed to mingle with the air between them. “Would you like my assistance with undoing your dress, then? Since you refuse to let me draw your bath?”

Emma turned, blinking up at him in mock outrage. “That’s highly improper, Sebastian.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve made a habit of ignoring propriety,” he murmured, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The room went still. The only sound was the soft bubbling of water, the quiet flicker of the candle.

Emma tilted her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You enjoy making me flustered, don’t you?”

“I enjoy many things,” he said, his gaze steady on hers, “but that, perhaps, most of all.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Emma stepped back just enough to break the spell. “I think I’ll manage,” she said quietly, a smile tugging at her lips.

Sebastian inclined his head, though the gleam in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. “Very well. I shall, however, remain within call—should you find you require assistance after all.”

Her laughter followed him as he slipped soundlessly out the door, the faintest trace of warmth lingering where his presence had been.

When the door clicked shut, Emma looked back at the mirror. Her cheeks were still faintly flushed, her heart annoyingly quick.

“Flustered, huh?” she muttered under her breath, touching her throat right where her pulse hammered beneath her skin. “Maybe a little.” He was hot, after all. Perfectly normal reaction. 

The rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone had long since turned into background noise. The carriage swayed gently as it rolled along the outskirts of London, the winter light pale through the frosted windows. Inside, Emma still kept her cloak tight around her shoulders.

Across from her sat Ciel and Sebastian — Ciel flipping through a neat stack of letters, Sebastian jotting neat notes in his immaculate hand. The air smelled faintly of ink and the faint, metallic tang of London fog seeping in through the seams.

“The missing person,” Ciel began without looking up, “is Viscount Harland’s only son, Edwin Harland. Twenty-three. Reported missing two weeks ago, last seen leaving a gentleman’s club near Bloomsbury.”

Emma leaned forward slightly. “And the queen believes he’s joined an occult group?”

Ciel gave a short nod, tapping one of the papers with his finger. “The Viscount received a letter the day after his son vanished — unsigned, sealed with an unfamiliar sigil. The queen’s sources claim it matches one tied to a society calling themselves The Circle of the Veil.”

Sebastian’s tone was light, almost conversational. “A rather melodramatic name, though they have been associated with several disappearances over the last few months. Young, wealthy men, all with ties to London’s academic elite. All seemingly fascinated by… shall we say, otherworldly pursuits.”

Emma frowned slightly, fingers brushing the locket at her throat as she thought. “That actually makes a strange kind of sense. People drawn to the occult are usually seeking control over something — grief, uncertainty, guilt, or the unknown. Especially after loss or failure. It’s not just about belief; it’s about power.”

Ciel looked up at her then — his gaze flicking briefly to the silver chain glinting at her collarbone before returning to her face. “Power,” he repeated thoughtfully. “You think this society is offering that?”

She nodded. “Or pretending to. It’s a classic manipulation tactic — isolate, indoctrinate, promise enlightenment. The moment you make someone feel special, chosen, you can get them to do almost anything.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly. “How delightfully familiar.”

Emma gave him a flat look. “Did you just compare me to a cult leader?”

“Perish the thought,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes glimmered with amusement.

Ciel flipped another page, his tone all business again. “If you’re correct, Miss Andrich, then these people aren’t simple mystics. They’re recruiters. And our missing man may have gone willingly.”

“Probably,” Emma agreed, leaning back against the seat. “If he’s been missing for this long and there’s no ransom, it’s not a kidnapping. It’s conversion.”

Sebastian glanced at her, a spark of approval behind the calm of his crimson eyes. “An astute assessment, though one wonders — how do you intend to prove it?”

“I don’t,” Emma said simply. “You two will. I’ll just… help you see what they’re trying to hide.”

Ciel tilted his head slightly, studying her in silence for a moment — as if reassessing her place in this game he thought only he knew how to play. Then, with a faint hum, he turned back to the window. “We’ll be arriving within the hour. Try not to frighten anyone before we reach the estate.”

Emma smirked. “No promises.”

Sebastian’s quiet chuckle filled the carriage. “I find myself rather looking forward to that.”

Outside, the fog thickened as they neared the countryside — pale and strange against the bare winter trees. Somewhere beyond that gray veil waited the truth about a missing man… and the first threads of something far darker than any of them yet suspected.

The Harland estate was the kind of place that seemed determined to prove its own importance. White marble steps led to high columns, and even the fog clinging to the hedges seemed too polite to touch the trimmed bushes. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender polish and cold wealth — spotless floors, portraits of long-dead ancestors, and a silence that suggested money had been used to keep emotion at bay.

Emma followed behind Ciel and Sebastian as they were ushered through drawing rooms and parlors by a nervous maid. Lord and Lady Harland greeted them stiffly, the kind of couple who seemed born wearing polite smiles.

The conversation was short, and it didn’t take Emma long to realize that they knew nothing useful.

Lady Harland clutched a handkerchief that looked like it hadn’t been cried into once. Her husband spoke with the controlled detachment of a man worried more about reputation than loss.

They described their son as 'eccentric,' 'sensitive,' 'easily influenced.' None of which were actual clues.

So when Emma spoke up — interrupting Ciel’s carefully phrased questioning — both Harlands blinked in surprise.

“Would you mind,” she asked with a calm, professional tone she definitely did not feel inside, “if I saw his chambers? Sometimes people leave traces of their thoughts behind in their space. It could help.”

Lord Harland had frowned at that, but a single look from Ciel — the kind of look that said it’s not a request — made him relent.

Now, Emma stood in Edwin Harland’s room.

It was tidy. Too tidy.

Sunlight from the tall windows caught on polished wood and brass fittings, and the faint smell of ink and cologne lingered in the air. The bed was neatly made, the desk stacked with arranged papers. It looked more like a guest room than someone’s actual space.

Emma crossed her arms, scanning it all slowly. Ciel and Sebastian stood near the door, both watching her with different kinds of interest — Ciel’s skeptical, Sebastian’s amused.

“You can tell a lot about someone from the space they live in,” she murmured. “The more it tries to hide, the more there usually is underneath.”

Ciel arched a brow. “And what do you see, Miss Andrich?”

Emma crouched by the desk, sliding open a drawer. “That he was hiding something.”

Inside were neatly arranged pens and blank parchment — and beneath that, a handful of crumpled, hastily folded notes shoved into the back corner. She flattened one out on the desk.

The handwriting was frantic, the ink blotted and uneven:

—the voice again last night. Promised revelation. Promised light. Need to see it for myself.

“Charming,” Ciel muttered, stepping closer. “The ravings of a lunatic.”

“Or someone desperate for meaning,” Emma countered. “Look at the phrasing — ‘promised revelation’? That’s classic indoctrination language. He was convinced he was being offered something profound.”

Sebastian drifted past her toward the wardrobe. “Then perhaps we’ll find the gospel of his new religion somewhere nearby.”

When he opened the doors, he found a neat line of pressed jackets… and behind them, stacked on the floor, several books bound in dark leather. The gold-embossed titles gleamed faintly in the light: Summoning and the Veil, The Door Between, Rites of Sight.

Emma joined him, scanning the spines. “Well. That’s not exactly light bedtime reading.”

Ciel frowned. “So he wasn’t taken. He went willingly.”

“Looks like it,” she said softly. “Everything here says he was chasing something. Maybe knowledge, maybe salvation. But this…” she gestured at the books, “this is obsession.”

Ciel turned toward her, expression sharp. “And how, exactly, do you know that?”

Emma smiled faintly, remembering her late-night hours binging Criminal Minds for the third time. “It’s called criminal profiling. In my world, people study behavioral patterns — how environment reflects thought. I’m not an expert, but psychology can tell you a lot about a person’s choices.”

Sebastian’s gaze slid to her, intrigued. “Psychology,” he echoed, the syllables deliberate. “The study of the mind… I can see why you find it interesting.”

“Because I’m insane?” she shot back with a smirk.

“Because you observe,” he corrected smoothly. “Much like myself. Though, unlike me, you are still surprised by what you find.”

Emma rolled her eyes and turned back to the desk, gathering the papers. “Whatever you say, Freud.”

Ciel gave a quiet huff that might have been amusement. “Well then, Miss Andrich — since you seem so adept at reading minds, what would you say about the missing man’s next move?”

She looked around once more, taking in the neat surfaces, the discarded notes, the hidden books. Then, slowly, she said, “He didn’t just disappear. He prepared to be found — but only by people who think like he does.”

Ciel leaned back slightly, studying her again with that same measuring look. “Then we’ll have to think like him.”

Sebastian’s smile returned, faint but razor-sharp. “How fortunate we have someone who already sees through the madness.”

Emma met his gaze, half wary, half defiant — the candlelight flickering in the crimson of his eyes.

She felt a strange twist in her gut. The kind that said this case wasn’t just about a missing man. It was a thread — and they were all already tangled in it.

The Gentleman’s Club of Bloomsbury looked exactly like Emma had imagined: smoke-thick air, the smell of brandy and money, and the constant hum of male laughter just a shade too loud. The building itself was grand, polished mahogany doors and brass handles that gleamed under gaslight — the kind of place that existed purely to remind everyone who didn’t belong.

Which, unfortunately, included her.

“Absolutely not,” the doorman said, nose wrinkling as though the mere concept offended him. “Ladies are not permitted beyond the vestibule.”

Emma stopped mid-step, blinking up at him. “Seriously?”

The man’s mustache twitched. “Quite seriously, miss.”

She opened her mouth — sarcasm already burning at the back of her throat — but Ciel stepped forward first, his small figure cutting between them with surprising command.

“I am the Earl of Phantomhive,” he said, tone perfectly calm and cold. “I am here on a matter directly commissioned by Her Majesty the Queen.”

The man blanched, faltering. “Y-yes, my lord, but—”

“But nothing,” Ciel interrupted, the faintest edge of steel in his voice. “She accompanies me as my associate. If you have an objection, you may write it down and send it to the Palace.”

Sebastian’s faint smirk as the man stumbled aside said everything.

Emma, for her part, just stared at Ciel — impressed, a little shocked, and, she had to admit, touched. He’d done it so casually, so efficiently, as if it were simply fact that she belonged there.

“…Thanks,” she murmured under her breath as they stepped inside.

Ciel gave a nonchalant shrug. “I couldn’t risk you causing a scene.”

“Sure,” she said, smiling to herself.

Inside, the club was everything she hated about old money: cigars, velvet chairs, oil paintings of dead men in wigs. A haze hung over everything, thick and claustrophobic. Conversation died for a moment as she entered — curious eyes following her every move, whispers flaring to life almost immediately.

A lady here? Unthinkable.

The nerve.

What sort of woman accompanies a boy and his butler?

Emma kept her chin up and her expression cool. She’d learned, long ago, not to flinch when people stared. Their worlds ricocheted off her as if she were wearing a bulletproof vest. 

Sebastian and Ciel led the way to the bar, where two bartenders exchanged nervous glances.

“Good evening,” Ciel said. “We’re looking for a man named Edwin Harland. You served him not long ago.”

The elder of the two shrugged. “Many young gents pass through, my lord. Can’t recall them all.”

Emma stepped forward, leaning slightly on the polished counter. “Really?” she said lightly, tilting her head. “Because I heard he was a good tipper.” Total bluff, but a Viscount's son was prone to throwing around money as if it were growing on trees.

The man’s eyes flicked to her, then quickly down her neckline — and stayed there. Sebastian’s hand flexed, so subtle that only Emma noticed.

“Perhaps,” the bartender said, his grin a little too wide. “Maybe if you remind me a bit more…”

Emma forced a sweet smile, the kind that made her teeth ache. “Oh, I can remind you plenty. If you tell me what I want to know first.”

The man chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much. She leaned closer, playing the part perfectly — voice low, eyes wide, fingertips reaching across the bar, brushing the back of his hand. Every instinct screamed at her to recoil, but she didn’t. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was how to weaponize what people expected of her.

Ciel watched in faint, horrified fascination. Sebastian’s expression, on the other hand, was unreadable — except for the faintest dark shimmer in his eyes.

Finally, the bartender relented, words spilling out as he basked in her attention.

He told them that Edwin had come here often in the last month, always meeting the same man — tall, pale, with silver hair and strange golden eyes. The two would drink, talk in low tones, and leave together for the back alleys behind Russell Square.

“Some sort of secret society, I think,” the man said with a smirk. “Always whisperin’ about ‘initiation.’”

Emma smiled. “Thank you.”

Then she turned, cool as glass, and walked straight out.

Outside, the fog had thickened, curling around the gaslamps like ghostly smoke. Emma exhaled sharply, rubbing her arms.

“Well,” she said, “that was disgusting.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said smoothly, though his tone was more acid than silk. “My lady, with your permission, I would very much like to strangle that man.”

Emma blinked up at him, half-laughing, half-appalled. “You can’t just kill someone because I had to flirt with them, Sebastian.”

He tilted his head, utterly serious. “I assure you, I can. It would take less than a second.”

“Denied,” she said, crossing her arms. “Absolutely not.”

Ciel, who had been silent up to that point, finally sighed, adjusting his gloves. “For once, I agree with her. Drawing attention to a dead bartender would not be… efficient.”

Sebastian’s smile turned razor-thin. “Efficiency is hardly my concern when a man leers at what is mine.”

Emma gave an incredulous snort. “Yours? Excuse me, but I belong to myself. This isn't your business.”

“And yet,” Sebastian murmured, stepping closer just enough that she felt the cold press of his aura, “I found it most difficult to remain… uninvolved.”

Ciel groaned, turning away. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“Relax,” Emma muttered, glaring up at the butler even as her heart thudded. “You’re worse than a jealous ex.”

His smile softened slightly. “If I were your ex, my dear, you would not have survived the breakup.”

“Charming.”

Ciel cleared his throat loudly. “If you two are quite finished making me regret my entire life, perhaps we can focus on what we learned?”

Emma nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Right. Russell Square. That’s where we start.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, unreadable — and then, with a faint bow, he returned to his calm, perfect composure.

Ciel straightened his coat. “Then we leave at dawn.”

As they walked away, the fog swallowed the club behind them. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang midnight — and Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that this case was only just beginning to unravel.

Chapter Text

That Lady, wearing pants

She was back in the club.

The air was thick again — smoke curling in her lungs, laughter too loud, the smell of brandy and cologne clawing at her throat. The same velvet chairs, the same gold-framed portraits watching from the walls. Only this time, the room was empty. Empty — except for her.

And then, slowly, the whispering started. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once — a low, murmuring buzz like the sound of bees trapped beneath glass. The words were indistinct, blending together into tones that dripped with laughter and contempt.

She turned, searching for the voices, but every time she looked, the walls seemed closer.

A hand brushed her shoulder.

She spun, but there was no one there.

Another touch — her wrist, her arm, the hem of her skirt. Too many hands now, unseen but real, pinning her in place without ever appearing. The whispers grew louder, sharper, male laughter slashing through the air.

“Such a pretty little thing.”

“She was asking for it.”

“Come now, don’t pretend you didn’t want the attention.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She tried to pull free, to scream, but her voice caught in her throat like a swallowed stone. The room tilted, dark velvet melting into shadow, and suddenly the smoke wasn’t just smoke — it was hands, faces, men leaning close enough that she could smell the brandy on their breath.

“Stop—”

She tried again, louder this time.

“Stop!”

But they didn’t. They never did.

The laughter crescendoed, becoming unbearable, suffocating — and just as the walls pressed in close enough that she thought her ribs would snap—

The next morning proved to be... a challenge.

Emma stood in front of the wardrobe, the morning light spilling pale across the carpet. She’d already chosen her dress — a soft gray one, simple compared to what she had worn before, and laid it neatly on the bed. The stays and corset waited beside it, pale ivory against the dark sheets.

She’d dressed herself down to her shift and stockings, her hair pinned up and out of the way, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Miss Emma,” came Sebastian’s voice, smooth as always. “May I?”

For a moment, she just stared at the door. She could’ve told him to wait, to let her finish. But there was no one else in the townhouse — no maids, no female attendants — only Sebastian. She drew a slow breath.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Come in.”

The door opened, and he stepped inside, the faint scent of tea and rain trailing behind him. His eyes flicked briefly over her — not at her, but past her, with that practiced grace of someone who had seen and done far worse in his lifetime. Still, Emma’s skin prickled with awareness.

Sebastian crossed the room and reached for the corset, his gloved fingers brushing the fabric. “Shall I?”

She nodded, unable to find her voice.

When his hands touched her back — light, efficient, careful — her body went rigid. Every muscle locked in place, breath catching without permission.

Sebastian noticed instantly. His fingers stilled against the laces. “Emma.” His voice softened, low and measured. “What troubles you?”

She hesitated. There was no way to explain it without explaining it — the nightmare, the echoes of laughter that still rang in her head. She swallowed hard.

“I just… had a bad dream,” she said, forcing her tone to stay light. “A man was involved. It wasn’t pleasant.”

That was all she gave him, but it was enough. His hands paused for a long moment, and when they moved again, the touch was even gentler than before.

“I see,” he murmured. “Then I shall take additional care.”

He tied the next ribbon with deliberate precision, the fabric whispering softly with each motion. 

“I am aware,” Sebastian said, “that the mating bond means nothing to you yet. But it would be… intolerable to me if you ever felt unsafe in my presence.”

He tugged the last ribbon through, his knuckles brushing the small of her back. “Not as a butler. Not as a demon. And certainly not as your mate.”

Emma closed her eyes. The tension that had clung to her like a second skin began to ease, her breath steadying. “I know that,” she said quietly. “Rationally, I do. It just takes… a bit of time to convince the rest of me.”

Sebastian inclined his head, though she couldn’t see it. “Time,” he said, “is one resource I have in abundance.”

That earned a small, genuine smile from her. “Good. Because I might need a lot of it.”

His hands left her back then, and she almost missed their warmth. He lifted the dress from the bed and held it open for her, waiting in silence as she stepped into it. The faint rustle of fabric filled the air as he adjusted the sleeves and smoothed the folds into place.

When he finally stepped back, she turned to face him. His gaze met hers — steady, composed, but softer than usual.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning more than the dress.

“You are most welcome,” he replied quietly.

And for a fleeting second, it felt as though the world had gone still — just the two of them in that soft morning light, the unspoken comfort between them more intimate than any touch could have been.

The carriage rattled steadily over the cobblestones, the world outside blurred by the chill morning mist. Russell Square lay ahead — a patchwork of manicured green and soot-streaked townhouses framed by the skeletal branches of winter trees.

Emma sat across from Ciel and Sebastian, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. She’d been staring out the window for most of the ride, but the reflections on the glass betrayed her — the shadow beneath her eyes, the way her jaw clenched ever so slightly.

The dream clung to her like smoke she couldn’t wash away. Every time the wheels hit a rough patch of road, she startled just enough for Sebastian’s crimson gaze to flick toward her, sharp and searching. He didn’t speak, but his attention was a constant, heavy presence.

Ciel noticed too. Of course he did. He watched everything.

When the carriage finally slowed, he adjusted his gloves with deliberate care. “Sebastian,” he said quietly, his voice the calm edge of command, “if the need arises — protect Miss Andrich. That is an order.”

Emma’s gaze darted to him, startled by the unexpected concern. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker behind his cool composure — recognition, maybe. Understanding. The kind born from pain.

They held each other’s gaze. Neither spoke. But she saw it — the faint shadow that passed through his blue eye, the one that said I know what it’s like to wake up from a nightmare that isn’t gone when you open your eyes.

The corner of her mouth lifted, just barely. A silent thank you.

Then the door opened, and cold London air swept in.

Russell Square had long since lost its charm. The winter chill clung to the fog that rolled low over the cobblestones, turning every shadow into something uncertain. The carriages passing by looked ghostly through the haze — pale lanterns flickering, wheels clattering like whispers of another world.

Emma stepped down first, her boots crunching on a patch of frozen mud. She tugged her coat tighter around her and looked up at the rows of stately townhouses that framed the square, their windows dark and watchful. Somewhere among these facades, Edwin Harland had vanished.

The bartender’s words from last night echoed in her mind — a man with silver hair, and an initiation in the back alleys.

“Charming,” Emma muttered under her breath. “Because nothing bad ever starts with a secret ritual in a London alley.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched faintly as he closed the carriage door behind her. “Quite. Though it does seem to be an oddly common hobby among young gentlemen seeking… excitement.”

Ciel ignored their exchange, his sharp eyes sweeping over the narrow paths branching from the square. “The bartender said Russell Square,” he said, voice clipped and precise. “But there are at least four alleys leading off it. We’ll search them all.”

Emma nodded and fell into step beside him, her gaze flitting over every detail — the soot-stained brick, the way the lamplight caught faint marks along the walls. Something about the air here felt… wrong. Too still.

They reached the first alley — a cramped passage between two houses, choked by garbage bins and damp crates. It looked ordinary enough, but Emma’s instincts prickled.

“Wait,” she murmured. She crouched near the far wall, running her gloved fingers along the brickwork. Beneath the grime, faint white chalk lines curved in looping patterns — half-erased by rain, but unmistakable. “Sebastian. Can you see this?”

The butler stepped closer, eyes glinting as he knelt beside her. “How quaint,” he murmured. “A sigil. Though poorly drawn.”

Ciel frowned. “Magic, then.”

Sebastian tilted his head. “Imitation of it, perhaps. Someone’s been playing at ritual work.”

Emma looked up from the wall, her breath visible in the cold air. “Do you recognize it?”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on the symbol, the faintest hint of a frown crossing his face. “It resembles an invocation circle, though incomplete. Whoever made it either lacked the knowledge… or the power.”

Ciel crossed his arms. “Then Edwin wasn’t alone. Whoever that silver-haired man is, he knows enough to give amateurs a taste of danger.”

Emma rose, brushing off her gloves. “That’s how cult recruitment works,” she said softly. “You promise them whatever they desire. Then once they’re in… you take everything else away. And then there is no way to go back.”

Ciel shot her a glance, caught between suspicion and intrigue. “You sound as though you’ve studied this.”

She gave a small shrug, eyes still on the sigil. “Human nature doesn’t change much, even across centuries.”

They followed the alley deeper, where the cobblestones grew uneven and the smell of rot thickened. Then Sebastian stopped, eyes narrowing. “Here,” he said.

At the alley’s end, beneath a rusted iron stairwell, lay a small clearing. Candles — melted down to nothing — were scattered in a circle. In the center, the ground was blackened, charred by fire. A few pieces of parchment, half-burned, were strewn about.

Ciel gestured for Sebastian to retrieve one. He plucked a scrap from the ashes and handed it to Emma.

She held it carefully to the light. The parchment was fine — far too expensive for common use — and inked in a shaky, hurried hand. Latin, again.

Her brow furrowed. “Spiritus lumen… clavis portae… something about opening a door?”

Sebastian’s expression hardened just slightly. “A summoning. They were attempting to open a gateway.”

Emma swallowed. “A gateway to what?”

“To whom,” he corrected quietly.

The words made her skin prickle. “One of your kind?“ 

Sebastian only grinned at her.

Ciel studied the charred remains with cold calculation. “If Edwin was here, then he wasn’t just dabbling. He was being guided.”

Emma nodded slowly. “By the man with silver hair.”

Sebastian turned the parchment over, lips curling faintly. “And if that man knows what he’s doing, my lord, we may soon have competition of the… supernatural sort.”

The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air.

Emma’s gaze drifted once more to the sigil, to the scorch marks, to the faint metallic tang of something she didn’t want to name. “Then we’d better find him before he succeeds,” she murmured, remembering the season 2 battles between Sebastian and Claude. Although not canon, she doubted the real experience would be much different.

Ciel gave a curt nod, already turning toward the carriage again. “Sebastian. Have our things prepared. We’ll question the Harlands again in the morning. Miss Andrich—” he hesitated, eyes flicking to her face, “—good work.”

She blinked, startled by the rare compliment. “Thank you… I think?”

As they walked back through the square, Sebastian lingered a step behind her, his gaze thoughtful. When she looked back at him, he simply said,

“Curious, isn’t it, how humans are drawn to the dark. Some by greed. Others by pain.”

Her reply was quiet. “And some by both.”

The fog swallowed their words as they disappeared back toward the waiting carriage.

Apparently, preparations meant research. Both about Edwin, as well as summonings. And while Sebastian was out running around town gathering everything there was to find on Edwin, Ciel, and Emma were sitting in the drawing room in his townhouse, both their armchairs angled toward the fire. The day was unusually cold, and every once in a while, she shivered silently. 

Books lay scattered around them, skimming over everything occult in search of that very specific sigil. They had been going at this for hours.

“Wouldn't it be just faster to ask Sebastian?“ she grumbled and closed another book, dumping it on the floor before reaching for another one. “I mean, he is a demon, and he was summoned.“

Ciel didn’t look up immediately. He sat with his legs crossed, one arm propped on the armrest, chin resting against his hand as he skimmed through a cracked leather-bound volume. The firelight cast flickering shadows over his pale face.

“It would not bring us any closer to understanding,” he said finally. “Sebastian knows the truth. Most humans do not. We need to know what they think they’re doing — what Edwin believed he was part of. Only then can we predict his actions.”

Emma huffed, sinking deeper into her chair. “So we’re learning fake magic to catch real people.”

“Precisely,” Ciel said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

For a moment, the only sounds were the rustle of pages and the steady crackle of the fire. Then Ciel spoke again, his tone casual but distant: “You’re growing impatient, Miss Andrich.”

She glanced up sharply. “That’s because you keep calling me Miss Andrich,” she shot back. “It’s Emma.”

That earned her a surprised look. His single blue eye blinked, almost in disbelief, as though she’d just proposed something mildly scandalous. “It would be improper.”

Emma tilted her head, an eyebrow arched. “We’re sitting here freezing our asses off, surrounded by dusty books on summoning demons. I think propriety left the room a while ago.”

He stared at her for a beat — long enough for her to start regretting her boldness — and then said, more quietly, “You realize that, in public, I have to—”

“I know,” she interrupted gently. “In public, fine. But when it’s just us? You can drop the Miss Andrich. It’s weirdly formal. Makes me feel like I’m about to get a letter from your solicitor.”

Ciel’s lips pressed together in that familiar, thoughtful way of his. For a heartbeat, she could almost see him debating — the proud, calculating Earl versus the boy beneath.

Finally, he exhaled softly through his nose. “Very well… Emma.”

The sound of her name in his voice startled her — smoother than she’d expected, deliberate, as though he was testing it. Something in her chest fluttered.

“Better,” she murmured, trying to hide her smile behind the next book.

Ciel’s gaze lingered a second longer before he turned back to his own reading, but the faintest hint of colour had touched his ears.

Half an hour passed like that — quiet, methodical, the occasional sigh or turning page. Emma had begun to suspect they were wasting their time when she noticed something.

“Hold on,” she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “This — this mark here.”

Ciel looked over, frowning.

She pushed the book across the low table between them. It was open to a crude illustration of an incomplete circle, ringed with Latin phrases. “It’s not exactly the same, but look — the pattern on the outer edge. That curve. It matches what we saw on the wall.”

He leaned forward, inspecting it closely. “Porta spirituum. The gate of spirits.”

Emma nodded. “It says it’s used for ‘separation and passage between realms.’” She flipped the page, scanning the text. “There’s something about a… ‘vessel,’ too. A living vessel.”

Ciel’s eyes darkened. “Then Edwin may have been preparing for more than a ritual. He may have been preparing a host.”

She swallowed, her fingers brushing the brittle paper. “For a demon?”

“Or something worse,” Ciel said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

A log in the fireplace cracked sharply, startling her. “What the fuck could be worse than a demon?“ 

He rose from his chair, pacing toward the window, completely ignoring her question. The firelight caught the faint gleam of the ring on his hand. “Sebastian will return soon. We’ll see if his findings confirm this.”

Emma shut the book slowly. “You think Edwin succeeded, don’t you?”

Ciel didn’t answer at first. He stood there, looking out at the dark street beyond the frost-blurred glass, his reflection half-swallowed by shadow.

“I think,” he said at last, “someone wanted him to succeed.”

By the time the front door opened, the fire had burned low. The last embers crackled faintly, painting the drawing room in hues of orange and ash. Emma had pulled her knees up beneath the blanket, and Ciel — after a long battle with his pride — had finally accepted her offer to share it.

They sat side by side, both slightly hunched from fatigue, their cheeks flushed from the heat. The stack of books on the carpet had grown into a small fortress of parchment and dust.

The quiet was broken by the unmistakable sound of measured footsteps.

Sebastian entered soundlessly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His expression was as composed as ever, though his coat was dusted with fine grey soot — London’s night clinging to him like smoke. His crimson eyes flicked from the dying fire to the pair on the armchairs.

“My, my,” he drawled, a trace of amusement in his tone. “I step away for a few hours and find my young master sharing blankets with a lady. How domestic.”

Ciel shot him a sharp glare, though he made no effort to move. “Spare me your commentary. Report.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, but the glint in his eyes turned serious. He stepped closer to the light, drawing a folded paper from the inside of his coat.

“I traced Edwin Harland’s recent movements through several contacts,” he began. “He withdrew a significant amount of money two weeks before his disappearance — far more than a man planning a simple escape would require. He purchased quantities of rare chalk and powdered silver from a chemist in Soho. Both materials are… familiar ingredients in certain summoning rites.”

Emma straightened, the blanket slipping slightly off her shoulder. “So he really was preparing a ritual.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said. “And that is not all. According to one of the suppliers, Edwin was accompanied by a man with silver hair and remarkable charisma — someone the locals began calling the Shepherd.”

“The Shepherd?” Ciel repeated, frowning.

“Yes,” Sebastian replied. “He has been seen recruiting disillusioned young men throughout London’s academic circles. Promising them power, knowledge, even salvation. A perfect lure for the desperate and the proud.”

Emma exchanged a look with Ciel. “Like a cult leader.”

“Precisely,” Sebastian confirmed, inclining his head. “They operate out of a property near Russell Square — or rather, beneath it. There are signs of movement in the old cellars. I suspect it serves as the site of their gatherings.”

Ciel’s fingers drummed against the armrest thoughtfully. “You believe Edwin joined them willingly?”

Sebastian folded his hands behind his back. “All evidence suggests so. However, whether he remains willing now… is another matter.”

Emma’s gaze dropped to the half-open book on her lap, its sketch of the sigil still visible. “The one we found,” she murmured. “It mentioned a vessel — a living one. What if Edwin was supposed to be that?”

Sebastian’s attention shifted to her, and for a moment, something softer flickered in his eyes — acknowledgment, perhaps even respect. “Then it seems, Miss Emma, you and my young master have made excellent progress in my absence.”

Ciel leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “If Edwin is being prepared as a vessel, that means the ritual hasn’t yet been completed. Which gives us time.”

“Barely,” Sebastian said. “The full moon rises tomorrow night. If the Shepherd intends to complete the summoning, it will be then.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment — heavy, measured. The fire popped once, sending a thin spray of sparks up the chimney.

Finally, Ciel stood, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. His eye gleamed in the dim light, determined and cold.

“Then we go to Russell Square tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll attend their little ceremony — uninvited.”

Sebastian inclined his head in agreement, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “As you wish, my lord. I shall make the arrangements.”

Emma hesitated, then asked quietly, “And what if they do manage to summon something?”

Ciel glanced at her — and for once, there was no hint of arrogance in his expression, only gravity. “Then we’ll make sure it never leaves that cellar.”

Sebastian’s eyes glinted crimson in the dying light. “That, my lady, is where I come in.”

It was only the second time Emma rang the bell to get Sebastian to her room, and it felt equally as wrong as the first time. This time, he was quicker — and, thankfully, used the door instead of materializing from some dark corner like a creep.

The latch clicked, and he stepped inside with his usual fluid grace.

“My lady called?” he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.

Emma was standing by the window, her nightgown brushing against her knees — short, practical, and far lighter than the first one she had worn. The twilight filtering through the curtains softened her outline, turning her hair almost copper. She turned to face him, hands on her hips, every bit the image of determined stubbornness.

“Yes. I need pants.”

Sebastian blinked once, then tilted his head, expression hovering somewhere between confusion and amusement. “Pants?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Trousers. Breeches. Anything that doesn’t involve a corset, layers, or the risk of me tripping if I need to run.”

A corner of his mouth curved. “Ah. I see. You intend to make an impression at the ritual, then?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I intend to be able to move, Sebastian. You try running from a demon circle in a cage of whalebone and lace.”

He chuckled quietly — that low, rich sound that always seemed to hum at the base of her ribs. “As entertaining as the image is, I understand your reasoning. Though,” he stepped closer, his voice dipping to something more teasing, “I fear the sight of you in trousers may cause quite the scandal, my dear. Society would never recover.”

“Good,” she shot back. “Maybe it’s about time someone shocked them.”

That earned her a full smile, small but genuine. He inclined his head slightly. “Very well. I’ll see to it that you have appropriate attire by morning.”

She watched him for a moment, then said softly, “Thank you.”

He paused in his movement — halfway to the door — and turned to look at her again. His gaze lingered, calm but searching. “You seem… lighter again,” he observed. “Less burdened.”

Emma hesitated. “I guess I am.”

He stepped closer again, his tone quieter now, stripped of its teasing edge. “The nightmare, then. It no longer troubles you?”

She met his eyes — that strange crimson flicker that could be both terrifying and comforting — and shook her head slowly. “No. Not really. I mean… it’s still there. But it doesn’t feel so real anymore.”

Something softened in his face — barely perceptible, but there. He bowed his head slightly. “I am relieved to hear it.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the air heavy with unspoken things. Then he straightened, his composure sliding neatly back into place.

“Pants, then,” he said smoothly. “Tailored to perfection, of course.”

She grinned, and the spark of humor in her eyes was enough to make his own brighten faintly. “Don’t make them too perfect, or I’ll start feeling self-conscious.”

“I would never dream of it,” he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

He bowed and turned to leave, pausing at the door just long enough to add, “Sleep well, Emma. Tomorrow may prove… taxing.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and she exhaled softly, realizing only then that she’d been smiling to herself.

Chapter Text

That Lady, fighting

By the time Emma came down the stairs the next day, her heartbeat was a slow, steady rhythm she forced into obedience — in through the nose, out through the mouth. She’d spent most of the day doing exactly that: breathing, controlling, compartmentalizing. Keeping her nerves caged where they belonged.

Ciel and Sebastian were already waiting in the foyer, both in dark coats suited for nighttime business. Ciel was halfway through adjusting his gloves when he looked up — and froze.

Emma stopped at the base of the stairs, every inch of her clothed in black: a fitted tunic cinched with a belt, nearly skin-tight trousers tucked into tall boots, the faint gleam of polished buckles catching the light. Her hair was braided into two sleek French plaits that vanished down her back, practical and sharp. She looked—well, like someone who could kill you quietly and then not feel bad about it afterward.

Ciel blinked once. “You look…” His mouth twitched, the words sticking somewhere between astonishment and reluctant approval. “…improper.”

“Good,” Emma said, a flash of satisfaction crossing her face. “Improper seems to work for me.”

Sebastian, standing beside his master, had gone very still. His crimson gaze traced the line of her braids, the confident set of her shoulders, the easy way she carried herself — like she was made for the dark. His lips curved in a slow, appreciative smile. “I see my tailoring was not in vain.”

She tilted her head at him. “I told you. I’m not wearing a corset to a demon-summoning.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, stepping forward to offer her coat, brushing his gloved hand briefly along her arm as he helped her into it. “Though I admit, I find myself torn between professional pride and… personal distraction.”

“Don’t,” Ciel cut in, tone dry as sandpaper. “You’re already intolerable when you’re behaving. I don’t need to see what happens when you aren’t.”

Sebastian’s only reply was a small, feline smile.

Emma suppressed a laugh and buttoned her coat. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s crash a cult.”

They abandoned the carriage near Russell Square, the cobblestones glistening under a thin mist. The rest they walked — quiet, deliberate, the city’s heartbeat muted by the hour.

Ciel walked as if he knew nothing of danger, but she knew he had a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. “We’ll need to approach through the east side. The map said there’s an old access tunnel near the printing press.”

“Of course there is,” Emma muttered. “It’s always a sewer.”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You seem to have remarkable foresight, my dear.”

“Yeah, it’s called bad luck.” Actually, it was just such a cliché in basically every piece of media she has watched; it would have shocked her if they weren't going through a sewer.

When they reached the heavy iron cover, Sebastian crouched and peeled it open as easily as lifting the lid of a teapot. The stench hit immediately — sour, thick, suffocating. Both Ciel and Emma recoiled in unison.

“Oh my god,” Emma gagged, pressing a sleeve to her mouth. “That’s not air, that’s chemical warfare.”

Ciel coughed once, face twisting in disgust. “Bloody perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

But Emma, grimacing, was already lowering herself onto the iron ladder. “God dammit, I hate this already!”

The echoes swallowed her voice as she climbed down, boots clanging against the metal. The stench clawed at her throat, but she pressed her lips together and kept going until she reached the bottom.

Ciel followed, muttering curses under his breath. The last rung was slick, and he slipped, his small frame pitching forward — only for Emma’s hands to catch him by the forearms, steady and sure.

“You okay?” she asked, ignoring the grime that splattered her sleeve.

Ciel straightened, cheeks faintly pink. “Perfectly fine,” he said stiffly, brushing himself off. “Let’s proceed.”

When Sebastian dropped down after them, it was soundless — a shadow descending into the dark. The moment his boots touched the ground, he tilted his head, listening. “This way,” he said quietly. “I can hear them. Two passages down, then left.”

As they moved, Emma noticed how the flicker of torchlight bounced off the water-slick walls, turning everything a muddy gold. The air vibrated faintly — low voices, a rhythmic chant somewhere ahead.

Ciel drew his gun; Sebastian’s gaze burned brighter in the dark.

“Stay behind me,” Ciel ordered without looking back.

“And if something happens behind you?” Emma retorted.

Sebastian’s voice was calm but brooked no argument. “You will stay close to me. That is not up for debate.”

She opened her mouth to protest — then shut it again. Now wasn’t the time. Still, she muttered, “For the record, I can defend myself.”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at her, expression unreadable. “Where you come from, perhaps,” he said quietly. “But I doubt it is quite the same as here.”

Something about the way he said it — the faint, protective edge beneath the smooth words — made her fall silent.

The chanting grew louder. The tunnel curved left, light flickering ahead. Emma flexed her fingers, pulse quickening, and without a second thought, she shrugged out of her coat. It would be in the way when she needed to move.

Whatever waited for them beyond that turn, she was ready.

The chanting hit her first.

Low, guttural, and rhythmic, echoing through the underground chamber like the heartbeat of something ancient and wrong.

Emma pressed her back to the cold stone wall as Sebastian motioned for silence, his eyes glowing faintly red in the flickering light ahead. From where they crouched in the shadows of the sewer’s end, the chamber stretched out before them — a cavernous space lined with crumbling bricks and dripping pipes.

Dozens of figures in dark robes surrounded a makeshift altar. Candles burned in circles, their wax pooling like pale blood. And in the center, tied down by iron shackles, lay Edwin Harland. His head lolled to one side, eyes glassy, lips moving weakly to the chant he didn’t seem fully awake for.

“Oh, fuck,” Emma breathed. “That’s… a lot of people.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian murmured. His tone was calm, but his gaze was sharp as razors. “It seems the young lord has walked us into a gathering, not a meeting.”

Ciel’s expression didn’t flicker. “All the better. We’ll cut the snake’s head off at once.”

He waited for the chant to rise, then abruptly stood, stepping into the torchlight with the effortless authority of someone twice his size. “On the Queen’s orders,” he announced coldly, “this ceremony ends now.”

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the entire chamber erupted into chaos.

Robes turned; knives flashed. Someone shouted. A dozen cultists charged at once, screaming blasphemies.

Sebastian straightened, his smile widening, eyes burning scarlet in the dark.

“This is an order, Sebastian,” Ciel said, unlocking the safety of his gun, “kill them all.”

A pause — and then Sebastian’s voice, low and resonant, thrummed through the air.

“Yes, my Lord.”

It wasn’t his usual polished tone. It was deeper — inhuman — and it slid down Emma’s spine like a physical thing. She didn’t dare look at him; she could feel the change in the air, a crackle like lightning before a storm.

The next moment was nothing but motion and sound.

Steel sliced through air, bodies fell, screams were swallowed by the wet echo of the chamber.

Ciel moved forward, quick and precise, firing once, twice — the gunshots deafening. Emma followed close behind, heart hammering as she ducked under a swinging arm, the smell of blood already thick in her throat.

The altar came into view. Edwin was there, bound and trembling, eyes half-open.

“Get him loose,” Ciel barked, taking aim at another robed figure. “Now!”

Emma rushed to the altar, fumbling with the chains, but they were heavy, rusted, and slick with god-knows-what. Behind her, Ciel fired again, the echo cracking off the stone.

She barely noticed the movement until it was too late — a cultist breaking away from the fray, knife in hand, sprinting toward them.

“Ciel!” she shouted, but Sebastian was across the room, his attention split as three more lunged at him. For the briefest moment, Emma could feel his focus snap toward her — but she didn’t give him the chance.

She grabbed the nearest thing — a metal candlestick knocked loose from the altar — and swung it. It connected with a sickening thud against the man’s shoulder. He stumbled, hissed, swung back with his knife. She ducked. Years of being cornered, mocked, pushed into fights she didn’t want — all of it came roaring back like muscle memory.

She kicked him hard in the knee. He went down, and she hit him again. And again. Sloppy, graceless, fueled by raw anger — but it worked.

When he stopped moving, Emma stumbled back, chest heaving, staring down at her shaking hands.

“Fuck…”

She turned — and froze.

Ciel was staring at her, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open. For once, the boy who’d seen death and demons and blood didn’t seem to know what to say.

“You—” he began, then stopped. “You attacked him.”

Emma panted, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, the adrenaline still humming in her limbs. “Yeah, well,” she said, voice unsteady but defiant, “He came for you.”

A faint sound behind her — the scrape of boots. She turned just as Sebastian reappeared from the shadows, pristine as if he hadn’t just painted the room in blood. His eyes flicked from her to the unconscious cultist on the ground.

“Impressive,” he said smoothly. “Though next time, please leave the fighting to me, my lady. I’d rather not have to clean both them and you off the floor.”

She rolled her eyes, wiping her arm across her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled — low, warm, and utterly unbothered. “Consider me properly grateful.”

Ciel cleared his throat, his voice tight. “Sebastian, finish this. We’re leaving as soon as Edwin wakes.”

Sebastian inclined his head, and the grin that followed was sharp and deadly. “With pleasure.”

As Emma turned back toward the altar, the air behind her filled with the sound of chaos renewed — steel against flesh, fire against screams — but she didn’t look back.

Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she hoisted herself onto the altar, knees wet with blood or whatever. Taking aim, she hit Edwin across the face.

“Wake. Up!“ She grunted, slapping him again, his head falling limp to the side. “Wake. The fuck. Up!“ At the third contact, his eyes finally blinked open, disoriented and clearly drugged. 

“Okay,“ she said breathlessly and slid from the altar, knees weaker than she'd like. Ciel stared at her as if she had two heads. “We can go.“ 

The water had gone lukewarm.

A faint steam still curled against the mirror, but most of it had faded, leaving only the faint scent of soap and iron in the air.

Emma sat curled up in the smaller of the townhouse’s two bathtubs, knees pulled tightly to her chest, chin resting on them. The room was dim — only a single candle flickering on the sink.

She’d already scrubbed herself clean twice, but it didn’t help. Her skin still felt too tight, her hands still trembled when she looked at them. There were faint pink smears on her knuckles where the cultist’s robe had bled onto her. And under the water, two of her toes had turned a deep, throbbing purple.

Probably from that kick. Probably deserved it, too.

The day had blurred together after that.

They had dragged Edwin out of that hellish chamber, his body limp and his mind fogged with whatever mixture they’d given him. Ciel had handled it all with his usual, unnervingly calm precision — the orders, the cleanup, the discreet handover to the hospital. Sebastian had, of course, taken care of the mess in ways Emma had chosen not to ask about.

And her? She’d just followed. Silent. Her brain had felt like static.

Now, the quiet pressed down on her like a weight. Her reflection in the water looked pale and strange, the candlelight distorting her face, stretching the lines of her expression into something she barely recognized.

That was when it started — the slow, creeping realization of everything. Her breath hitched, unsteady.

Everyone she’d ever known was… somewhere else. A world away, literally. Did they even know she was gone? Was time still passing there? The thought cracked something open in her chest.

Her hand went to her mouth, but it didn’t stop the sob that broke out anyway — raw and quiet at first, then louder, shaking her whole body. She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees as if she could hide from it.

It wasn’t graceful, or cinematic, or quiet. It was ugly. Real. It was the sound of someone finally realizing they’d stopped holding themselves together hours ago.

She thought of Sebastian — his calm voice, his knowing smile, the way he’d called her my lady even while covered in blood. She thought of Ciel, thirteen and so old at the same time, the way he’d looked at her tonight — shocked, but maybe a little impressed, too.

And she thought of the fact that someday, Sebastian would devour that boy’s soul.

And she couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t fix any of it.

A broken laugh escaped her between sobs, half a choke. “I’m completely insane,” she whispered to the empty bathroom, voice cracking. “Completely.”

Her tears fell freely now, salty and hot against her cold skin, mixing with the cooling water below. She didn’t try to stop them. Didn’t try to pull herself back together.

Because she couldn’t.

The morning of December 30th arrived gray and cold.

London fog pressed against the windows of the townhouse, muffling the city’s distant noise.

Breakfast was quiet.

Ciel sat at the head of the table, posture perfect as always, his teacup steaming faintly in his hands. Sebastian stood at his shoulder, the picture of composed attentiveness, pouring tea and refilling plates that no one really touched.

And Emma sat opposite Ciel, elbows braced on the table, staring blankly at her plate.

The food smelled good — of eggs, toast, and honey — but she could barely make herself lift the fork. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes gritty from too little sleep. Every part of her body ached: her bruised foot, her knuckles, her ribs from where someone had shoved her the night before. She hadn't even noticed that.

But worse than that was the quiet.

It pressed into her ears until even her thoughts sounded loud. She tried to focus on the taste of her tea, but it turned to ash in her mouth.

Ciel was the first to break the silence.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” he asked, his tone carefully even. Curious — but not quite gentle.

Emma blinked at him slowly. “You don’t want to know.”

The boy frowned, brows pulling together. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

She exhaled, long and tired, the sound closer to a scoff than a breath. “No,” she said, finally meeting his gaze, “you really don’t.”

Something in her voice had changed — cold, flat, sharp like glass. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air with the precision of a blade.

Ciel froze. The fork in his hand hovered midair. Her eyes were steady on his, and for a moment, the Watchdog of the Queen — the boy who had stared down criminals and demons alike — hesitated.

Because that look wasn’t defiance. It was warning.

And beneath it, something darker. Pain.

Sebastian’s red eyes flicked briefly toward her, expression unreadable. He said nothing, but the faint tilt of his head suggested he understood the weight of what Ciel had stumbled into.

The silence stretched, heavy.

Ciel looked away first. The fork clinked softly as he set it down on his plate. His throat bobbed, his voice quiet when he finally spoke again. “Very well.”

Emma’s jaw clenched, the faintest tremor in her hands as she pushed her chair back. The legs scraped against the wooden floor.

“I’ll be ready when you are,” she said, voice steady again, too steady. She didn’t look at either of them when she stood, didn’t look at the food she hadn’t touched. “And don’t bother calling me improper again.”

Her hand was already on the doorframe when she turned, the smallest, brittle smile flickering across her face — humorless and exhausted.

“Because, frankly,” she added, her voice low and raw, “I don’t give a fuck.”

The door shut behind her with a quiet click.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Sebastian poured more tea, the movement precise, almost serene. “She reminds me of you, young master,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the door she’d just walked through.

Ciel shot him a look, half glare, half disbelief. “How so?”

Sebastian’s smile was faint, but not mocking — almost thoughtful. “She carries her pain the same way you do,” he said simply. “In silence, until someone makes the mistake of asking about it.”

Ciel’s jaw tightened. He said nothing, but his eye lingered on the door a moment longer before he reached for his teacup again, hands just a little less steady than before.

Chapter Text

That Lady, weightless

The manor loomed against the winter sky, gray stone framed by snow-dusted trees. The wheels of the carriage crunched over gravel as it came to a stop, the air biting cold as they stepped down.

They had barely made it halfway across the courtyard when Emma’s pace faltered. She tried to hide it at first, gritting her teeth, but every step sent a pulse of pain up her foot.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to her instantly. Ciel’s followed.

“I’m fine,” she said before either could open their mouths, her voice clipped.

Ciel arched a brow. “You’re limping.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Sebastian gave her a look that said he’d believed that for approximately half a second. “Indeed,” he said smoothly. “So fine that you can barely put weight on your right foot?”

Emma sighed, shoulders dropping in defeat. “I may have… kicked someone a bit too hard last night. I think I hit bone.”

She’d barely finished speaking when Sebastian’s arms swept around her, and suddenly her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore.

“Sebastian—!” she gasped, eyes widening as he lifted her effortlessly, bridal-style, as if she weighed nothing at all. “Put me down!”

“I’m afraid not,” he said calmly, already striding toward the manor doors.

“Sebastian.”

“Emma.”

“I can walk.”

“Evidently, you cannot.”

Ciel, walking beside them with his usual air of detached amusement, merely said, “Take her to the infirmary, Sebastian. See to it she’s properly treated.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Emma scowled, folding her arms. “You two are impossible.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly. “We try.”

As soon as they turned the corner into one of the quieter corridors, Emma exhaled sharply. “You really don’t have to carry me,” she muttered, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s probably uncomfortable—”

“Uncomfortable?” he interrupted, glancing down at her with that maddening composure. “Emma, I can now say with confidence that you have an issue with your weight.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said mildly. “You have refused to eat breakfast on nearly every occasion, consume only one portion at dinner, never touch dessert—save for a very small piece of cake on your birthday—and now you suggest that carrying you might be uncomfortable for me.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. “That’s— That’s not— I just—”

Sebastian’s expression softened slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter. “You forget, my dear, that I am a demon. Your weight does not even register to me. You could never be a burden.”

Her throat tightened. For once, she didn’t have a retort ready.

By the time they reached the infirmary, her pulse had settled — not entirely because of the movement.

Sebastian pushed the door open with one arm, set her down gently on the cot. The sheets were cold, sterile white against her green skirts.

“Now then,” he said, kneeling before her with that same calm focus he gave every task. “Let’s see the damage.”

She let him remove her shoe, wincing as the pressure lifted from her swollen toes. He looked them over, then glanced up at her for permission before continuing.

“May I?”

She hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

His gloved fingers trailed up her calf, warm even through the fabric, pausing at the edge of her skirt. When she didn’t stop him, he slipped his hand beneath the hem and found the top of her stocking, careful and precise as he rolled the fabric down.

She tensed once — not from fear, but the strange intimacy of it. His touch was professional, not invasive, yet her heart still skipped.

“Hmm.” His brow furrowed slightly as he examined the bruised toes. “Two, perhaps three, are sprained. No fractures.”

“See? Nothing serious,” she muttered, forcing a small grin. “You can stop fussing now.”

“I will stop,” he said, “when you stop injuring yourself.”

“That’s not really in the cards, is it?”

He looked up at her then, red eyes catching the light like garnets. “Perhaps not,” he admitted softly. “But I would prefer it.”

She looked away, swallowing hard. “About what you said earlier…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t— it’s not that I have an issue with my weight. I just…” She trailed off, staring at her bruised toes as if they might finish the sentence for her. “Old habits, I guess.”

Sebastian’s hands stilled for a moment. Then, very gently, he said, “Habits born of self-criticism are the hardest to break. But you are not what others—or you yourself—have made you believe.”

Her eyes flicked to him, startled by the softness in his tone.

He gave the faintest smile. “And if it helps at all,” he said, returning his gaze to her foot as he began wrapping it carefully in gauze, “you are far too light for your own good.”

That earned a quiet, incredulous laugh from her. “You really know how to compliment a woman.”

“I am aware,” he said, almost teasingly. “I’ve had centuries to practice.”

Her smile lingered even after he stood, smoothing his gloves.

“Rest that foot today,” he said. “I’ll fetch some salve for the swelling. And perhaps later, dinner that includes an actual portion.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite to it. “You’re relentless.”

He inclined his head slightly. “I’m devoted.”

She didn't complain when he carried her to her room.

Emma had spent the entire day confined to her bed, her injured foot propped up on a pillow and the Latin book open across her lap.

The text was old—she could tell by the uneven ink and the faint scent of mildew clinging to its pages. Every word seemed to hum faintly beneath her fingertips.

Most of it was written in Latin so archaic it made her brain ache, but with the help of her phone’s translation app (which, mercifully, had survived the dimensional jump and still worked offline), she pieced fragments together.

It wasn’t a normal book.

The pages spoke of summoning circles and invocation rituals, but not the dramatic kind she’d seen in shows. This was more… personal. About how the human mind could invite entities by intention alone. How emotion itself—fear, longing, guilt—could act as a door if left open long enough.

By the time she reached the middle of the book, her stomach had tightened into knots. The author spoke of “soul resonance,” describing it as a thread between two beings who shared essence and will. It sounded disturbingly like what Sebastian had called their bond.

She closed the book carefully and exhaled. The firelight flickered over the pages, her reflection faintly mirrored in the glass of the window beside her bed.

It was just words, she told herself. Just superstition. But still—her pulse refused to slow.

By the time the dinner bell rang, she was grateful for the excuse to put it aside.

Her toes throbbed when she stood, but the ache was dull now, bearable. A limp, not a curse.

When she stepped into the dining hall, both Ciel and Sebastian looked up.

“Well,” Ciel said, setting down his teacup. “You’re walking. That’s an improvement.”

“I told you it wasn’t that bad,” she said, lowering herself carefully into her seat. “Your butler just likes to dramatize things.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched faintly. “If ensuring your health counts as dramatization, I shall take that as a compliment.”

Emma smirked. “Take it however you like.”

Dinner was a simple affair—roasted duck, vegetables, and fresh bread. The conversation, light at first, drifted between topics: Ciel’s paperwork backlog, the weather, even the new gowns that had arrived from Nina Hopkins that afternoon.

Sebastian, ever the observer, commented, “Miss Hopkins seemed quite pleased with her creations, though she did lament not being able to deliver them in person.”

Emma snorted. “I can imagine. I thought she was going to smother Ciel last time.”

Ciel’s face darkened immediately. “Don’t remind me.”

“She called you ‘my sweet porcelain doll,’ if I remember right?”

Sebastian made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Indeed. I believe she even tried to pinch his cheeks.”

“She did not!” Ciel snapped, scowling at both of them.

Emma laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Ciel’s glare could have frozen boiling water. “If we’re quite done discussing that woman’s eccentricities,” he said tightly, “we have other matters to address.”

“Oh?” Emma raised a brow, nibbling at her bread. “More cults?”

“Worse,” Ciel muttered. “A ball.”

She blinked. “A… ball?”

He sighed, setting his utensils down with the air of a man burdened by fate itself. “Francis Midford is hosting a New Year’s Eve ball tomorrow evening. She insists upon our attendance.”

Emma frowned. “Oh no, I do not like the sound of that.“ One dinner with that woman had been enough to scare Emma away for life. A whole ball... for New Year's Eve... That would take hours! 

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Ciel replied. “And yet, attendance is mandatory. We already missed the charity ball this week due to that business with Viscount Harland’s son, so there’s no excuse this time.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Emma groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Another night of pretending I belong among Victorian nobility.”

“You’ll manage,” Ciel said dryly. “At least now your dresses actually fit.”

“True,” she admitted, sighing. “Though I don’t suppose I can go in pants again, can I?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Sebastian poured her another cup of tea, his tone almost teasing. “If it is any consolation, I believe you will look… exquisite, Miss Emma.”

She shot him a look. “You just want to see me suffer in a corset again.”

Ciel snorted softly into his teacup, earning himself a glare from both sides of the table.

“Be ready by five tomorrow evening,” he said, regaining his composure. “And try not to cause a scandal.”

“No promises,” Emma muttered under her breath, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. She'd try. 

Emma stood before the mirror, and for once, she didn’t recognize herself.

The dress fit perfectly. Nina’s skill truly bordered on witchcraft. The bodice, dark green like pine needles in winter, hugged her waist and flared gently into layers of soft black lace that shifted when she moved. The neckline dipped just enough to count as daring without crossing into scandalous—exactly the kind of bold balance Nina seemed to live for.

Her hair, pinned up loosely with a few curls falling to frame her face, glowed warm in the soft lamplight. For the first time since arriving in this world, Emma felt… pretty. Not like someone out of place, not the awkward modern girl lost in a Victorian painting—but someone who belonged in it.

The Docs hidden beneath her skirts were her secret rebellion, grounding her in the only part of herself she hadn’t had to adapt. The little bit of home she refused to give up.

She took a breath, smoothed her skirt, and smiled faintly at her reflection. “Well,” she murmured, “that’s... oddly nice.”

When she descended the grand staircase, the warm glow from the chandeliers caught in her hair. Ciel and Sebastian were waiting at the bottom—Ciel, impeccable in his dark blue tailcoat and silver cravat; Sebastian, immaculate as ever in black.

Ciel looked up first, mid-sentence, and fell silent. His visible eye blinked once, then again, and a faint hint of color crept into his pale cheeks.

Sebastian’s reaction was quieter, but no less telling. His gaze swept over her once—slowly, reverently—and though his expression remained composed, something shifted behind his eyes, something almost like approval. Or hunger.

Ciel cleared his throat. “You… clean up well,” he said at last, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

Emma smiled, amused. “You make it sound like I was a walking disaster before.”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered, adjusting his gloves. “Though it’s not entirely inaccurate.”

Sebastian stepped forward, offering her a gloved hand. “If I may say so, Miss Emma, the ensemble is… exquisite. Miss Hopkins would be most pleased with how well her creation suits you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his. His touch was warm, firm—grounding. “Though I’m sure it’s more her work than mine.”

“On the contrary,” he said with a faint smile, “the dress merely emphasizes what was already present.”

Ciel made a noise halfway between a scoff and a cough. “We’re going to be late.”

Sebastian’s smirk deepened just enough to show he’d noticed Ciel’s discomfort. “Of course, young master.”

The carriage ride to the Midford estate was a quiet affair, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on frozen earth filling the space between them. Through the frosted window, Emma caught glimpses of the countryside under moonlight—fields glistening with frost, trees bending gently in the winter wind.

Ciel sat across from her, looking unimpressed as always, though his leg bounced faintly in irritation at the thought of his aunt’s inevitable scrutiny.

“Remind me,” Emma said at one point, breaking the silence, “what exactly are we celebrating?”

“New Year,” Ciel replied without looking up from his pocket watch. “And society’s desperate need to be seen celebrating it.”

“So, champagne and gossip.”

“Precisely.”

“It's so odd,“ she said with a half smile, leaning back against the carriage wall as much as she could. “A little over a week ago, it was August in 2025 for me, and now, in a few hours, it will be 1889.“ 

For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the frozen road.

Ciel glanced up, his expression unreadable. “That’s quite the fall through time,” he said dryly. “I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to adapt at all.”

“I haven’t,” she admitted quietly. “Not really.”

Ciel hummed, a low thoughtful sound. “You hide it well,” he said after a moment, almost as if it were a compliment. “Most adults can’t handle this world without falling apart. You seem to manage both.”

She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

Before she could look away, Sebastian’s voice joined the conversation—smooth, low, and far too knowing. “Humans are remarkably adaptable, my dear. When thrown into the fire, they burn—or they forge.”

She looked at him, and his crimson eyes caught hers in the half-light. “And which do you think I am?”

Sebastian’s smile curved, small and deliberate. “You’re still in the fire,” he said. “The answer will reveal itself soon enough.”

Ciel rolled his eye faintly. “How very poetic.”

“Experience has taught me that truth often is, my lord.”

Emma exhaled softly through her nose, looking back toward the window, the countryside slipping past in cold silver shadows. “Well,” she murmured, “I’d rather forge than burn.”

Sebastian inclined his head slightly. “I expected nothing less.“ And then—  “Though I am sure you might think differently of tonight's dancing.”

Emma groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I never joke about the waltz,” Sebastian said smoothly.

Ciel muttered something about “utter torture” under his breath, and Emma couldn’t help laughing.

“Right,“ she chuckled and glanced at the earl. “I forgot you're worse at dancing than I am.“

Ciel didn't answer and instead stared stubbornly out of the window, which made her laugh even harder. Sometimes, he really was cute.

The manor came into view soon after—an opulent mansion of pale stone, its windows glowing with golden light. The distant strains of violins floated out into the cold night as the carriage rolled up the long drive.

Sebastian stepped down first, offering his hand again. “Shall we?”

Emma hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. Her toes still ached faintly in her boot, but it didn’t matter. The cold bit at her cheeks, the music beckoned, and for once, she was curious rather than nervous.

Ciel adjusted his coat, sighing like a man marching toward his doom. “Let’s get this over with.”

Inside, the ballroom was a vision—gilded ceilings glittering beneath crystal chandeliers, soft candlelight reflecting off hundreds of glass flutes and polished boots. A full orchestra played in the far corner, and the scent of roses, champagne, and winter air blended into something intoxicating.

Ciel drew the attention of the crowd immediately; the young Earl was always noticed, and whispers followed wherever he went. Sebastian, of course, moved like a shadow behind them—calm, composed, unreadable.

It was Francis Midford who reached them first. She was resplendent in deep sapphire silk, her posture as sharp as her tone had been at dinner days before—but this time her lips carried the faintest trace of warmth when her eyes fell on Emma.

“Miss Andrich,” she greeted, inclining her head slightly. “I see London’s air agrees with you. You look much improved.”

Emma smiled politely. “I’ve found it… brisk,” she replied, which earned her a tiny, approving twitch of Francis’ lips.

Alexis Leon Midford stepped forward next—a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind green eyes and an enthusiasm that could probably light up all of London. “Ah, so this is the young lady we’ve heard so much about! Miss Andrich, what a pleasure!” He took her hand, bowing gallantly over it. “Francis tells me you’re quite the conversationalist. I do hope you’ll forgive my wife’s… occasional ferocity.”

“I find her honesty refreshing,” Emma replied, and Alexis laughed in delight.

“Good heavens, Ciel,” Alexis said, turning to the boy beside her. “Where did you find this one? You’ve been hiding her away, haven’t you?”

Ciel’s only answer was a dry, “I don’t hide my guests, Lord Midford. I simply value peace and quiet.”

Laughter rippled, and Emma caught Lizzy’s bright, excited eyes across the room. The girl was radiant in pale pink, and when she reached them, she all but flung herself toward Emma.

“Emma! You came! I knew you’d look stunning in that green—oh, I was right!” Lizzy chirped, circling her like a delighted cat.

“Elizabeth,” Francis said warningly, but Lizzy only beamed and took Ciel’s hand, dragging him off toward the dance floor before he could object.

That left Emma with the rest of the family—Alexis still smiling, Francis quietly appraising, and a young man stepping forward with the same fair hair as Lizzy, though his expression was more composed.

“Edward Midford,” he introduced himself with a polite bow. “My sister’s brother, at your service, Miss Andrich.”

“Emma,” she corrected with a faint smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Edward said smoothly. “Might I have this dance?”

Her heart tumbled, thousands what if's circling in her mind, all of them ending with her embarrassing herself and Ciel. But she knew she couldn't refuse, so she gave him her most convincing smile and accepted his offered hand.

The waltz was already mid-tempo when they joined. Emma did her best to follow his lead, though her steps were careful rather than fluid.

“You dance very well,” Edward said after a few turns, tone polite but curious.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know I’m about as graceful as a newborn deer.”

Edward chuckled, though his hand at her waist remained steady, reassuring. “Then you hide it well.”

“It’s the anemia,” she said simply, deciding it would be a good enough reason to explain her lack of grace. “Leaves me dizzy from time to time. I imagine I look more like I’m trying not to faint than actually dancing.”

“Ah.” His brow furrowed, genuine concern flickering there. “Then I’ll keep us to the edges, shall I?”

She smiled faintly. “That would be appreciated.”

They spun near the periphery of the dance floor, and as Emma turned, she caught sight of Francis and Alexis standing together near the columned archway. Francis’ expression was soft, knowing. Alexis leaned in to murmur something, and she caught the unmistakable glint of triumph in their eyes.

And then, of course, there was Ciel—dancing with Lizzy, clearly enduring her boundless energy with all the stoicism of a soldier under siege. The sight almost made Emma laugh. 

What made her suspicious, though, was that all of the Midford-eyes were glued to her and her dance partner, for whatever reason. Lizzy caught her eye for a moment, face lighting up immediately. Even for that bundle of energy, the girl was unusually excited. And when Emma caught sight of Lord and Lady Midford again, their gazes were locked onto her, satisfaction in Francis' gaze, and relief in Alexis'. 

Turning back to Edward, the realization clicked into place, and she asked before she could stop herself, “Your mother wants to betroth us, doesn’t she?”

Edward blinked, nearly missing a step. “Ah—pardon?”

“You heard me,” Emma said mildly, though her tone carried iron.

He hesitated for only a moment before sighing, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “You’re perceptive. Most young ladies would have been oblivious for weeks.”

“I’ve had practice reading people,” she said dryly. “So? Am I right?”

“Yes,” he admitted with a small laugh, clearly disarmed, though not displeased, by her bluntness. “Mother thinks it would be a fine arrangement. The Midfords have always valued good alliances—and the Phantomhives are… complicated but powerful. You being close to Ciel only helps her reasoning.”

Emma arched a brow. “And do you agree?”

He shrugged lightly, still smiling. “You’re intelligent, kind, and unafraid to speak your mind. I can think of far worse fates.”

Her lips curved slightly. “You do realize I’m older than you.”

“Barely,” he countered smoothly. “One year. The same age difference as Ciel and Lizzy. Hardly a scandal.” Right, she was posing as nineteen. No one here knew she just turned twenty-three a week ago.

“Mm.” She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Well, you’d still have to ask my father for permission.”

“Of course,” he said, grin widening. “But I’m rather persuasive when I want to be.” An image pushed into her mind, Edward, sword at his belt, bowing to her chocolate-pregnant father and asking for her hand. It made her bubble out a laugh, and when she saw the pleased look on his face, she knew that had been his goal all along.

“We shall see, Edward Midford,” she replied smoothly. He was a nice guy, acting as his mother asked of him while being perfectly polite and charming. For him, family meant everything, and it was plain to see. She didn't doubt that mindset would extend to her if she ever were to bear the name Midford. She did doubt that that would ever happen, though. For multiple reasons.

“I look forward to it,” Edward replied, bowing slightly as the music came to a close.

As he led her from the floor, Emma’s smile stayed perfectly polite—but her mind was a whirlwind. She needed to talk to Ciel. Now.

Emma spotted them near the refreshment table, Ciel with a glass of something pale and sparkling in his hand, Sebastian standing precisely one step behind him like a living shadow. Ciel’s attention seemed half on the room and half on his fiancée, who was now enthusiastically instructing the orchestra on which waltz should come next.

Emma exhaled, smoothed her skirt, and made her way over.

“Ciel,” she said quietly when she reached them. “We need to talk.”

The boy’s blue eye flicked up to her, assessing in that unnervingly adult way of his. “Judging by that expression,” he said dryly, “I take it this isn’t about the hors d’oeuvres.”

Sebastian’s eyes glinted faintly with amusement, but Emma was in no mood. She looked around—too many people, too many ears—then said in a voice low enough for only them to hear, “Your aunt plans to marry me off to Edward.”

Ciel blinked once, then set his glass down with deliberate calm. “Ah,” he said, as if she had simply commented on the weather. “So that’s what all the smiles were about.”

Sebastian tilted his head slightly. “That would explain Lady Francis’ unusually pleasant demeanor this evening,” he said, the edges of his tone so smooth they were almost sharp. “And young Master Edward’s persistent attentiveness.”

Emma stared between them, incredulous. “You’re both very calm about this,” she said.

Ciel looked up at her again, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Francis Midford is nothing if not strategic. I’m surprised it took her this long to think of it.”

“Strategic,” Emma repeated, exasperated. “She’s trying to marry me off, Ciel.”

He raised a brow, unbothered. “You can always say no. Although,” he added, “in this society, that might be more difficult than it sounds. She won’t stop just because you don’t want to.”

Sebastian’s gaze slid to Emma, dark and unreadable. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Lady Francis is… determined. However, I assure you, Miss Andrich, there will be no engagement you do not consent to.”

Something in his tone made her glance at him sharply. His expression was as placid as ever, but there was a flicker of red in his eyes—a brief pulse of something possessive before it vanished again.

“Sebastian,” Ciel said, not looking at him, “you are scowling.”

The butler’s smile returned instantly, polite and immaculate. “Am I, young master? I must be out of practice.”

Emma folded her arms. “Oh no, that was definitely a scowl. The kind that promises decapitation.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “A mere professional reflex, I assure you. It appears I am… protective of my lord’s guests.”

Ciel glanced between them, clearly amused despite himself. “You mean territorial,” he said under his breath.

“And you mean mate,“ Emma added dryly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Not guest.“

“Semantics,” Sebastian replied smoothly.

Emma sighed, rubbing her temple. “Wonderful. One aunt trying to marry me off, one demon ready to kill about it, and one teenager looking far too smug. I love this century.”

Ciel’s lips curved faintly. “At least it isn’t dull.”

“No,” she said, exhaling. “It’s certainly not that.”

They stood together for a moment, the orchestra swelling behind them, the glittering crowd unaware of the quiet storm that rippled through the trio.

“That’s not even the worst part,“ she remembered. “Edward said he’d ask my father for his blessing.”

Ciel’s brow twitched upward. “Your father.”

“The one who’s currently in another dimension. Or the one who supposedly lives in Germany but doesn’t exist,” she replied. “Yes. That one.”

Ciel tapped a finger against his glass thoughtfully. “We’ll simply say he’s dead.”

Emma blinked, staring at Ciel for a second. “...What?”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed as the idea solidified. “Ah, a good idea, young master. If Lady Emma’s entire family were to perish in a tragic accident, she would, as a young woman of standing, be placed under the guardianship of her closest male relative…”

“Which would be me,” Ciel finished smoothly.

Emma just stared at them both. “You’re suggesting you kill off my fake family.”

Ciel took a sip of champagne, unfazed. “Tragic illness. Carriage crash. Fire. Whichever Sebastian finds most efficient.”

Sebastian inclined his head in perfect composure. “I’ll see to it tonight.”

Emma rubbed her temples. “You’re both insane. How exactly do you stage the death of people who never existed?”

Sebastian’s smile curved, elegant and sinister. “Leave that to me, my lady.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “You realize Francis is terrifying, right? Even if you make me your... ward or whatever, she’s not going to take no for an answer. And Lizzy will hate you for refusing her brother.”

Ciel glanced at her, entirely unfazed. “Francis can be managed. And no one proposes to a grieving orphan. We’ll have several months before we need a new excuse.”

Emma stared at him, then muttered, “You’re disturbingly calm about all this.”

“Experience,” Ciel said simply.

Sebastian’s lips quirked. “And excellent improvisation.”

Emma groaned quietly, muttering, “You two are going to be the death of me.”

Ciel smirked faintly. “Not if we fake it first.”

She scoffed and turned away, face twisted into a mixture of shock and amusement. “At least it's just a fake death. Hooray!“ Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable! 

Chapter Text

That Lady, orphaned (this time, really)

Later, Emma would recall the rest of the evening as a blur of lights, laughter, and aching feet.

Sebastian had vanished at some point—one moment, he had been by Ciel’s shoulder, silent and watchful; the next, he was simply gone. And though Emma knew better than to worry, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she should be doing something in his absence.

Protecting Ciel, perhaps. Not because he needed it—but because she couldn’t stand the thought that he might ever have to.

So she stayed close. Watched him dance with Lizzy, polite and steady despite the flicker of exhaustion behind his expression. When nameless gentlemen asked for her hand, she obliged—twice with Edward—but her eyes always found Ciel again, tracing him through the whirling crowd.

The hours stretched endlessly, the music blurring into a soft hum beneath chandeliers and laughter. Midnight nearly passed her by; there was no loud countdown, no flashing lights, no champagne-soaked chaos—only the deep chime of the grandfather clock, the murmur of voices rising in cheerful well-wishing. Happy New Year.

Lord and Lady Midford gave a short speech, elegant and measured, and then the dancing resumed. Emma caught sight of Ciel again, still dutifully dancing with Lizzy, his posture a little stiffer now, and it made her oddly happy. He looked… almost peaceful.

Now, hours later, she stood at the edge of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in her hand. Her eyelids were heavy. She wished it were one of her beloved Monster Energy drinks instead. The clock must have been nearing two in the morning. Her gaze lingered on Ciel, who was now deep in conversation with a cluster of men she didn’t recognize—business partners, perhaps. But her mind had drifted miles, years, worlds away.

New Year’s Eve. Back home. She could almost hear her parents arguing over which concert DVD to put on, could almost taste her mother’s cheesy baked potatoes. Or see herself out with friends instead—half-drunk, mascara smudged, kissing someone she’d forget by morning.

A quiet voice drew her back. “You look quite somber for someone at a celebration.”

Emma turned. Lady Francis and Edward stood beside her, both smiling, though in different ways—Edward’s warm and open, Francis’ polite but sharp as a blade.

Emma lifted her glass slightly. “Just thinking about home,” she admitted, voice soft. “I suppose I’m missing my family and friends in Germany tonight.”

Francis’ gaze softened a little. “Understandable. Holidays have a way of doing that. You’ve adjusted remarkably well for someone so far from home.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, meaning it. “Though… I had help. The Earl’s been very kind to me.”

“I can tell you care for him,” Francis said, tilting her head. “It’s quite touching, really. You watch him constantly.”

Emma smiled faintly. “He’s the Earl of Phantomhive. But he’s also thirteen. Someone should make sure he eats and doesn’t fall asleep at a desk.”

Francis’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “You speak as if he were your little brother.”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” Emma replied carefully, hiding her fondness behind a sip of champagne. “He wouldn’t admit to needing anyone’s help, of course, but… well. He’s still human.”

Francis chuckled softly. “A wise observation, Miss—” She paused deliberately, letting her gaze sharpen. “—Miss Emma. My son mentioned your conversation earlier this evening.”

Emma’s fingers tightened slightly around her glass. “Ah,” she said lightly. “So he told you I already know?”

Francis inclined her head. “Indeed. I thought it best we speak openly, then.”

“Of course,” Emma said smoothly, though her pulse ticked a little faster.

Francis’ tone was gentle but firm. “Edward is quite taken with you. And, I must say, the idea of joining our families further has a certain appeal. You’ve already grown close with my niece and nephew—it seems almost natural, doesn’t it?”

Edward looked slightly embarrassed but didn’t speak, his gaze lingering on the dance floor.

Emma smiled—polite, graceful, the way she had practiced. “It’s very flattering, my lady. Truly. I hadn’t expected to make such… meaningful connections in London.”

Francis studied her face, unreadable for a moment. “So you wouldn’t object to such an arrangement?”

Emma met her gaze squarely, every instinct telling her to tread carefully. “It isn’t my place to object,” she said evenly. “If my father approves, then I would do as he sees fit.”

Francis’ smile widened, slow and pleased, and Edward’s shoulders eased slightly beside her.

“You’re a sensible young woman,” Francis said, approval in her tone. “I do hope your father will be equally reasonable when Edward calls on him.”

Emma forced her lips to curve upward, even as her stomach twisted. “I’m sure he’ll… give it proper consideration.”

Francis raised her glass slightly in toast. “Then we shall look forward to hearing from him.”

Emma clinked her glass lightly against hers, voice steady despite the way her mind was already racing ahead—to Ciel, to Sebastian, and to the very real possibility that by morning, her entire fake family would be tragically deceased.

By the time the orchestra began to wind down, the chandeliers dimming ever so slightly, it was well past three. Guests lingered in slow-moving clusters, laughter muted by fatigue and too much champagne. Emma’s feet ached, her head was beginning to pound, and Ciel looked ready to collapse on the spot.

“Most guests stay the night, my lord,” Francis said kindly as they bid her farewell at the top of the grand staircase.

“I never do,” Ciel replied, voice clipped with exhaustion. His bow was impeccable as ever, but Emma caught the way his shoulders dipped ever so slightly when he straightened again.

Francis merely smiled, as if she’d expected no less from him. “Then travel safely, both of you.”

Emma curtsied, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, and followed Ciel out into the cold night. Their carriage awaited, lanterns glowing faintly golden against the snow-tinged darkness. The night air bit at her cheeks, and she found herself silently thankful for the heavy cloak draped around her shoulders.

When they finally climbed into the carriage, Ciel slumped into his usual corner seat with a sigh that betrayed just how human he still was beneath all that pride. Emma hesitated for a second, then ignored the polite etiquette that dictated she sit across from him. Instead, she sat right beside him.

He blinked at her, confusion tugging briefly at his face.

“What are you doing?”

She gave him a small smile, tugging him gently by the shoulder until his head rested against her side.

“Making sure you don’t wake up tomorrow with your neck feeling like it’s been trampled by a horse.”

“Emma—” His protest was half-hearted at best, his voice a rasp of fatigue. “This is—”

“Improper?” she finished for him, her tone teasing but quiet. “That line has never worked before so how about you stop saying it?”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed. His small hand, gloved and cold, rested lightly against her sleeve as if anchoring himself there. His head rested fully against her now, the soft weight of it startling in how fragile it felt.

The carriage rocked gently as the horses began their journey through the sleeping countryside. Outside, frost glittered along the windows. Inside, there was only the rhythm of hooves and the slow, even sound of his breathing.

Emma shifted slightly, pulling her cloak around them both. Her arm wrapped more securely around him, her thumb tracing idle circles along his side through the fabric of his coat.

He muttered something then—barely a whisper.

“...you’re impossible.”

“Mm,” she hummed, smiling faintly. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Silence followed. Then, softer than a sigh: “Doubtful.”

But he didn’t move away. Within minutes, his breath evened out, lashes brushing against his cheek as he drifted off completely, all defenses down for once. The weight of him against her side was warm, grounding.

She stared out the window, watching the frost patterns bloom and fade across the glass. For the first time that night, her mind was quiet.

Sebastian was still gone—off somewhere weaving the illusion of a family that had never existed—but in this brief, strange pocket of calm, she couldn’t bring herself to worry. Not right now.

Her hand moved once more, absently brushing a strand of Ciel’s dark hair from his forehead.

“Happy New Year, Ciel,” she whispered softly.

He didn’t stir, but a small, content sigh escaped him—barely audible beneath the creak of the wheels and the steady heartbeat of the night.

Emma leaned her head back, exhaustion finally settling in. She wanted to sleep, but forced her eyes to stay open despite how heavy her lids had become. Sebastian wasn't here, and Ciel was asleep. It was on her now. And with the boy's recurring talent to get kidnapped, she wouldn't take any chances. 

The moment the carriage stopped, Emma jolted upright at the sharp click of the latch. Her pulse leapt before she could think — and her arm automatically tightened around Ciel.

Then the door swung open, and the lamplight revealed Sebastian.

Her tension broke into a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You know what’s funny?” she murmured, sliding a hand over her face. “That I actually feel relieved when I see you.”

Sebastian’s answering smile was faint. “I’ll take that as a compliment, my lady.”

He reached inside with effortless grace, lifting Ciel from the seat as though the boy weighed nothing. Ciel barely stirred, his head falling against Sebastian’s shoulder. The sight — so strangely gentle — clashed violently with what she knew he was capable of.

As they stepped into the dim manor corridor, her voice was low. “Is it done?”

“The letter of condolence will reach London by the next morning,” Sebastian replied evenly.

Emma stopped mid-step. “And what exactly did you do?”

He turned slightly, crimson eyes catching the faint light like wine and flame. “Are you certain you wish to know?”

No. “Yes.”

For a long moment, he just studied her. Then, in that unearthly calm of his, he spoke — voice smooth, measured, disturbingly precise.

He told her how he had found two souls whose disappearances would not be noticed quickly, whose lives could be folded neatly into the fiction they’d woven. The man and woman were in their mid-forties, and he had mutilated them beyond recognition, making sure to bash their faces in the right places so that they could align with fallen bricks. Then he had set some abandoned manor on the outskirts of her hometown on fire, making sure the corpses were burnt enough to leave nothing but bones behind, while simultaneously leaving all her supposed heirlooms and belongings to be consumed by the flames until only ashes had remained.

And through it all, he carried Ciel as though he were fragile.

Emma’s throat felt dry. She looked at the demon — this flawless creature holding a sleeping child — and tried to summon disgust, horror, something. But all she felt was a hollow, ringing stillness.

“You’re quiet,” Sebastian observed softly.

She forced a breath, her voice distant even to her own ears. “Where I come from… innocent people die all the time. There are wars that never end. Violence that doesn’t even shock anyone anymore. People kill for power, for gain, for revenge.” Her gaze flicked to Ciel, asleep and oblivious. “And now we killed, apparently, for convenience.”

Sebastian inclined his head slightly, unreadable. “Correction, my lady — I killed for convenience. You and the young master merely required a solution.”

Her lips twisted faintly. “No. You did what we needed done. You acted on an order, and that order came because I couldn’t just nod and smile at a marriage I don't want. So, yes—” she looked at him, eyes too tired to burn, “—it’s all of us. You. Him. Me.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in those crimson eyes. Not remorse, not pity — something quieter. Recognition, perhaps. Then he inclined his head.

“As you wish, my lady. Guilt shared is, after all, guilt softened.”

She let out a low, humorless laugh. “That’s not how that works.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice velvet and faintly amused. “But it does make it easier to bear.”

They reached the landing. Gently, he adjusted Ciel in his arms, the boy’s face turned toward Sebastian’s chest.

For all his monstrous calm, it was almost tender.

Emma trailed after them, numb, her bare hand brushing the cool wood of the banister. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Sebastian smiled — a perfect, terrible curve. “And yet, you are not terrified.”

She huffed out an unamused laugh, tilting her head up as she smiled at him. “That says more about me than you.“ Then she left for her bedroom.

She had slept in that day, only awakening around one pm. It had been a slow day; nothing had been scheduled, so Emma had spent it all in the drawing room with Ciel, playing (and losing) countless board and card games, as well as chess, naturally. Shortly after sitting down across from him, she had pulled off her shoes, her toes throbbing again more prominently after last night's hours of standing and dancing. And when Ciel hadn't said anything about her being improper, she had allowed herself a small, victorious smile. Sebastian had gone in and out with tea and cake and scones and biscuits and whatnot, making sure his master's needs were met perfectly.

The first thing Emma noticed the next morning, when everything was back to normal, was how bright the morning light looked. Too bright, too gentle for what the letter in Ciel’s hands meant.

“Good morning,” she murmured as she entered the dining hall, the warmth of the manor wrapping around her. She was in stockings only again, padding softly over the carpet, the hem of her skirt brushing her ankles.

Ciel was already seated at the long table, breakfast laid out neatly before him — eggs, toast, jam. Sebastian stood a few feet behind, the very image of composure as he poured tea.

Ciel glanced up when she approached, and for a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in his expression. Then he set the letter down beside his plate.

“My condolences,” he said. His voice was smooth, detached, but there was a glint in his eyes — dry amusement. “It appears your entire family has perished in a tragic house fire outside of Brunswick.” 

Emma froze mid-step. The world seemed to narrow around the edges. She forced herself to cross the remaining distance, sit down, and reach for the teapot like this was an ordinary breakfast.

“Did they… suffer?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on her cup.

Ciel’s tone didn’t change. “The fire was quick. The report states they likely died in their sleep.”

She took a sip of tea that suddenly tasted far too bitter. “How tragic.”

Sebastian, placing a small plate of toast beside her, said smoothly, “Indeed, my lady. The servants’ quarters were reduced to ash. The investigators deemed it a most regrettable accident.”

Emma almost laughed. The words were perfect. So clean. So polite.

“Well,” she murmured, setting down her cup, “I suppose that makes me an orphan now.”

“Officially,” Ciel said. He reached for his own tea, stirring it absently. “And as such, you fall under my guardianship until you decide to marry.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Which, conveniently, means you can refuse any marriage proposals that come your way.” It was still funny to her that this thirteen-year-old was now supposed to be her guardian. Good thing this whole situation was nothing but a farce, because absolutely not.

“Exactly,” he said, meeting her gaze. There was a faint smile now, a touch of dry pride at his own efficiency.

Emma leaned back in her chair, fingers curling around the rim of her cup. “You do realize we’re terrible people, right?”

Ciel didn’t blink. “We’re effective people.”

She laughed softly, the sound thinner than usual. “That’s one way to put it.”

Sebastian stepped forward then, setting a small silver tray before her — toast with marmalade, a perfectly folded napkin, and a fresh pot of tea. “If it eases your conscience, my lady,” he said mildly, “no one mourns them. Their absence serves a greater design.”

Emma looked up at him, studying that perfectly placid expression, and then turned back to Ciel. “You two really are something else.”

Ciel smirked faintly, almost boyishly. “We are the Phantomhive household, Miss Andrich.”

“Emma,” she corrected automatically.

“Emma,” he said, and this time the name lingered, just a hint softer.

For a few moments, they ate in silence, the clink of silverware against china the only sound. The manor felt almost peaceful again — deceptively so.

Finally, Emma broke it. “So. What’s next on the schedule for today?”

Ciel dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Paperwork. Correspondence. And pretending to care about condolences from people who barely knew your supposed father.”

“Lovely.”

Sebastian’s lips curved in that ever-knowing smile. “Shall I also prepare responses on your behalf, my lady?”

Emma hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’d like to sound… appropriately devastated.”

“As you wish,” Sebastian said, bowing slightly before slipping soundlessly from the room.

Ciel watched her for a moment longer before turning back to his tea. “You’re taking this rather well.”

Emma shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? Cry over people I have never met?”

Ciel regarded her, eyes cool and sharp. “Perhaps. But not everyone learns to sip tea over their own obituary.”

That made her laugh, quiet and tired but genuine. “Guess I’m just adapting to my environment.”

In truth, it was something else entirely. Emma's interest in psychology didn't just stem from nowhere. Thanks to the bullying she had suffered as a child, there was a specific type of question lingering in her mind. Why don't they like me? Why do they do this to me? 

The question of 'why' regarding behavior quickly gave her—thanks to the internet—insights into a person's mind at a young age. With no friends to spend her time with, she had researched for hours after school, delving deeper into the human psyche. She learned what made them tick, how people reacted to certain things. That knowledge was quickly applied in real life, as she noticed what her behavior resulted in: action and reaction. Over the course of years, she refined her ability to read people, developing a deep empathy and emotional intelligence. Which wasn't as positive as it sounded, because Emma had no problem using this as her weapon. It was easy to rationalize and objectify herself, and when she did that, the reason for many things was suddenly served to her on a silver platter. She became the viewer who suddenly knew the lore before it played out on screen. 

Naturally, that couldn't always work, but her instincts had become reliable enough to realize who she could trust with what and who she should steer clear of. Which was precisely the reason why she was so confused by Sebastian; he wasn't human. His psyche worked differently.

Nonetheless, just because she was empathetic didn't mean she felt for everyone and everything. As she became adept at reading others, analyzing herself became second nature. Truth be told, Emma knew exactly what kind of mental problems she had; she knew exactly what a psychiatrist would diagnose her with. She knew all her trauma responses, knew when she was coping. Just like right now. 

Emotional detachment was one of the first things she'd ever done, Emma remembered. It was her go-to coping mechanism, shielding her from all the things she didn't want to feel. And right now, she didn't want to feel the guilt of murdering two innocent people. 

Ciel’s voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. “Emma.”

It wasn’t sharp, but it carried an edge — the kind that made her blink and lift her gaze immediately. He was watching her, spoon idle halfway between his cup and saucer, his expression unreadable.

“You went quiet,” he said. “Too quiet.”

She blinked again, the faintest frown tugging at her brow before she straightened in her chair. “Did I?”

“You did,” Ciel replied, setting the spoon down with deliberate calm. “Your eyes were unfocused. As if you were somewhere else.”

Emma hesitated, forcing a small smile. “Sorry. Guess I was just… thinking.”

“About what?” he asked, tone deceptively casual — but his gaze betrayed him. It was the kind of look that dissected, searched, worried.

She knew that look. It was the same one he wore when he pretended not to care about something that gnawed at him anyway.

“Nothing of consequence,” she said after a pause, keeping her tone light. “I was just trying to remember whether I ever had marmalade this good back home.”

Ciel didn’t blink. “That’s a remarkably poor deflection.”

Emma laughed softly. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

He leaned back slightly, studying her. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly — and then, catching herself, added with quiet honesty, “I’m just not ready to talk about it.”

That seemed to satisfy him, or at least, he let it. Ciel hummed softly, lifting his cup again. “Very well. But next time you decide to disappear into your head, try not to do it mid-breakfast. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen here,” Emma said, smiling faintly over the rim of her cup.

Ciel’s lips curved — almost imperceptibly — into a smirk. “Point taken.”

He took another sip, then added, as if to cover the fact that he’d been worried, “You’re far too pale. Make sure Sebastian brings you some color back before luncheon.”

Emma rolled her eyes, relieved at the return to their usual rhythm. “What do you suggest he does? Paint me?”

“If necessary,” Ciel said smoothly, as though the idea were perfectly reasonable.

Her laugh this time was genuine, lightening the air between them again. The heaviness of her thoughts receded, tucked neatly behind that familiar emotional wall she’d built for herself years ago.

Chapter Text

That Lady, joking

Emma hadn’t even finished her first cup of tea three days later before the first stack of envelopes landed in front of her with a neat thud.

Sebastian, as always, was unruffled. “Your morning post, my lady.”

“My—” Emma blinked. “My post?”

He inclined his head, eyes glinting. “Indeed. It appears word of your… recent tragedy has traveled rather efficiently.”

Emma’s gaze fell to the pile. Cream-colored paper, gold seals, family crests — easily two dozen letters, maybe more. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, picking up the first envelope. “I don’t even know this many people.”

Ciel, opposite her, didn’t look up from his tea. “They know me. That's enough.”

Emma shot him a look, but he didn’t seem inclined to offer further help. So she sighed and began opening them.

The first was from Lizzy — written in her bubbly hand, full of heart and good intentions. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, losing your parents like that, and right after New Year’s too!” Emma smiled faintly. She could hear Lizzy’s voice in the loops of the ink.

The next letter was far more formal, signed by Francis and Alexis Midford. Francis had even included a line about being “impressed by your composure in these trying times.” Emma suspected that was Francis-speak for ‘well done for not having a breakdown in public.’

The third letter was from Edward. The handwriting was meticulous, the tone carefully chosen.

“I understand that no words can ease such a loss, but please know that you are not without friends in this world.”

That one made her pause for a moment longer than she meant to.

But after that… the names blurred together. Earls, barons, duchesses — people she had never met, and certainly didn’t want to. Her brain started to numb under all the regrets and condolences and sincerest sympathies.

Then she saw the seal — crimson wax, imprinted with the royal insignia.

Her hand froze halfway to her teacup. “Wait. No. No way.”

Ciel didn’t even look up. “Yes way.”

Emma carefully broke the seal, half-expecting it to be a prank. But it wasn’t.

The letter inside was elegant, written in perfect, flowing penmanship.

Miss Andrich,

We are deeply grieved to hear of your tragic loss. It is our hope that you may find solace within the household of our loyal Watchdog.

—Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

Emma stared at it. Then at Ciel. “The Queen knows who I am?”

Ciel gave her a single, flat look. “Naturally.”

“Naturally?” Emma repeated, incredulous. “Ciel, it’s the Queen of England!”

“You live in my house,” he said simply. “You’ve assisted me in an investigation. I would think it obvious that the Crown has taken note of you.”

Emma groaned, dropping her forehead into her hand. “I’m living in a fever dream.”

“On the contrary,” Ciel said dryly, “you’re living in my dream. Which is far more dangerous.”

She threw him a look over her fingers, and he smirked just slightly before returning to his tea.

For a while, the clinking of cutlery and soft rustle of envelopes filled the room. Then, without much preamble, Ciel said, “Speaking of dangerous — I think it’s time we visit the Undertaker.”

Emma’s head snapped up. “What?”

He met her eyes, calm as ever. “It’s possible he may have information regarding your… arrival. He has access to knowledge most others lack.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You think he might know how I got here?”

“Or how to send you back,” Ciel said, tone even. “If you wish to.”

Emma’s breath caught. The thought of home — of her world, her family, the life she’d been ripped away from — hit her like a shock. She should have felt only relief, hope, joy. But there was something else there, too — something she didn’t want to name.

“I…” she began, then stopped. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Sebastian, who had returned to pour more tea, raised an eyebrow. “The Undertaker, my lord? How delightfully macabre a start to the new year.”

Ciel ignored him. Emma, however, felt her pulse quicken — a mix of excitement and unease. The Undertaker. One of her favorite characters, once upon a time — eccentric, darkly humorous, hiding impossible secrets behind that grin.

But this wasn’t fiction. And she knew what he’d done — what he would do — to this Ciel. Her excitement twisted into something colder, quieter.

Still, she managed a steady voice. “When do we leave?”

Ciel set down his cup. “After luncheon. I’d like to hear what the dead have to say before the day grows old.”

Emma’s lips curved, just faintly. “Fitting. First week of January, and we’re already digging up corpses.”

Sebastian’s smile sharpened as he poured her another cup. “How very British of us.”

“Funny, considering I am German,“ she pointed at herself and then at Sebastian, “and you are literally from hell.“ 

“My dear, I am simply one—”

“One hell of a butler, yes, I know. The whole world knows because you keep repeating it every two minutes.“ 

Sebastian’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction — the faintest crack in that impeccable façade. “How fortunate that I am memorable, then,” he said smoothly.

Emma smirked over her teacup. “Memorable? You’re a walking catchphrase.”

“Some might call it branding.”

“Some might call it annoying.”

Across the table, Ciel made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh. Sebastian’s gaze flicked toward him, and Ciel schooled his features into perfect neutrality — though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“I do recall, my lord,” Sebastian said mildly, “that you once encouraged my… consistency.”

“I did,” Ciel admitted, eyes glinting. “It appears you’ve taken that instruction too literally.”

Emma nearly choked on her tea. “Oh my god, he’s roasting you too.”

Sebastian’s gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. “If I may remind you both, it was my consistency that ensured you are both alive to exchange such charming commentary this morning.”

“Which,” Emma said, tilting her head, “is exactly the kind of thing villains say right before doing something morally questionable.”

Ciel snorted into his teacup. “You do have a tendency for dramatics, Sebastian.”

“I assure you, young master,” the demon replied smoothly, “I am far too refined for theatrics.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “You literally set an entire mansion on fire a few nights ago for aesthetic consistency.”

Even Ciel lost his composure at that — a sharp laugh slipping past his lips before he quickly hid it behind his hand. “She’s got you there.”

Sebastian’s sigh was theatrical enough to prove her point. “I see,” he said finally. “Two against one, then.”

Emma grinned. “I prefer to think of it as a team effort.”

“Indeed.” Ciel leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Do carry on, Emma. Watching someone else put him in his place is a refreshing change.”

Sebastian inclined his head, smiling that perfectly polite, razor-edged smile that promised revenge through breakfast service. “Very good, my lord. Shall I add an extra pinch of salt to your porridge today?”

Ciel’s smile widened, cold and amused. “Try it, and I’ll have Emma critique your next soufflé.”

Sebastian’s composure wavered — just slightly — and Emma couldn’t help it. She laughed, bright and unrestrained.

“You two,” she said, shaking her head, “are an absolute disaster.” And she was loving every second of it.

The Undertaker’s parlor was as unsettling as Emma remembered from the show — though seeing it in person was another matter entirely. Dust coated every surface, the air thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic. Rows upon rows of coffins leaned against the walls, each labeled with neat black script.

Ciel stepped inside first, cane clicking against the warped floorboards, Sebastian following with his usual unruffled grace. Emma hesitated on the threshold for half a second, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Then, as if the shadows themselves were laughing, a deep chuckle echoed from the back of the shop.

“My, my…” The Undertaker rose from behind a counter stacked with skulls, his grin as wide and sharp as ever. “The young Earl Phantomhive and his ever-so-devoted butler. What a treat! And—” His gaze slid toward Emma, and for a heartbeat, that manic grin faltered.

“—and what a curious little thread you’ve brought along.”

Emma froze. “...Thread?”

He tilted his head, pale hair spilling over his face. “Mm. All tangled and looped where it shouldn’t be. Not cut… not tied… just wrong.” His grin returned, but his eyes gleamed with something that wasn’t amusement. “A story out of place.”

Sebastian’s smile didn’t waver, but the air around him cooled several degrees. “You seem as poetic as ever, Undertaker.”

“Oh, just calling it as I see it.” The man’s laughter spilled out again, high and breathy. “Though I must say, she’s a delightful oddity. You don’t often find souls that don’t belong to this tapestry.”

Ciel’s gaze sharpened. “Enough games. We came for information.”

Undertaker wagged a gloved finger. “Information has a price, my lord. You know the rules~.”

Emma blinked. “Oh, right. We have to make you laugh.”

“Precisely!” His grin widened. “And not just a little chuckle, mind you. A proper laugh.”

Ciel’s expression remained perfectly deadpan. “Emma.”

Emma blinked, suddenly on the spot. “Wait, me?”

“Consider it payment for the free lodging you’ve been enjoying.”

“Wow, you’re all heart, Ciel.” She sighed dramatically, then grinned at Undertaker. “Okay, fine. Uh—what do you call a man who can’t stand coffin puns?”

Undertaker tilted his head, intrigued. “What?”

“...A hypocrite. Because everyone ends up in one eventually.”

A beat—then Undertaker threw his head back and howled. “Hah! She’s got bite!”

Emma couldn’t help smiling, though she felt a chill slide down her spine at the way his laughter echoed too long, too low.

“Very well,” he said at last, settling back down, grin fixed but voice oddly soft. “You’ve paid your price.”

Ciel folded his hands. “Then tell us what you know.”

Undertaker’s gaze flicked to Emma again, the mirth dimming just a fraction. “I know she doesn’t belong. Her soul doesn’t hum like the rest of this era. It’s like a melody played on the wrong instrument.”

Emma swallowed. “Do you know how to fix it?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Fix? Oh, no, my dear. I mend the dead, not the displaced.” Then, his smile shifted — not kinder, but sharper. “Still… I’d mind your steps. Threads that twist too far from their loom tend to snap.”

Ciel’s brows drew together. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Undertaker only chuckled, wagging a finger again. “Oh, come now, young Earl. You wouldn’t want me to spoil the ending, would you?”

Then he leaned closer to Emma, his breath cool against her ear as he whispered:

“Funny thing, though… you seem to see right throught all, don't you?”

Emma’s pulse stumbled. Fuck, he knew. Knew that she knew. But how much did he really know? That she was aware that he was a grim reaper? That she knew about the Public School Arc? The Zombies? The other Ciel?!? 

She didn’t answer him, her frown deep.

His hand rose to his lips, finger pressed over them. “Shhh.”

The sound was almost kind. Almost.

Ciel stepped forward, voice low and controlled. “If you’re done toying with her—”

“Done?” Undertaker’s grin flashed again, bright and eerie. “Oh, not quite. I do enjoy a riddle that bleeds.”

Sebastian’s voice, quiet and perfectly polite, cut through the tension. “If you’ve nothing useful to add, Undertaker, I can always provide you with a new specimen for study.”

The undertaker only laughed — long and delighted. “Ahh, there’s that charm! I’d nearly missed it.”

Emma exhaled slowly, willing her heartbeat to steady. Somehow, the warning in his tone felt as much of a threat as it did of a fond scolding. Grim reapers, demons... She had no idea how to read them. And it annoyed the hell out of her.

The music room was dim, lit only by candles that painted molten gold across the polished floor. The faint scent of beeswax and old wood mingled with something darker — a trace of spice and smoke that clung to Sebastian like a whisper of brimstone. Sebastian had stirred her inside right after she and Ciel had finished dinner earlier, talking about how she needed more practice, which... fair. She couldn't go with the anemia excuse forever.

“Your posture, Emma,” he murmured, stepping behind her. “Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. You are not preparing for combat.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Tell that to my feet.”

“Your feet,” Sebastian said, his gloved hands coming to rest on her waist to adjust her stance, “are traitors to elegance. They must learn loyalty.”

“Maybe my feet just don’t like being bossed around.”

“Then I shall simply have to persuade them.” His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her bones as he guided her into motion.

Their shadows spun across the walls as they moved — her skirts swaying, his steps impossibly smooth. He didn’t even glance down, his gaze fixed on her face, watching every flicker of expression.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused softly.

“I enjoy excellence,” Sebastian replied. “And watching you strive for it.”

“Sure,” she said, lifting her chin. “It’s not because you like having an excuse to boss me around.”

He smiled — a flash of teeth, refined and predatory. “I hardly need an excuse for that.”

They turned, his hand pressing gently against the small of her back to guide her through the step. Emma tried to resist, just enough to test him, and his hold tightened fractionally — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he was far stronger than he looked.

It sent a strange shiver through her. Not fear. Something else.

She broke the silence before it could thicken too much. “You seemed awfully happy when Ciel postponed Edward’s proposal.”

Sebastian’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes glinted. “Happy?”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” she said. “You practically purred.”

He hummed, leaning slightly closer as they turned again. “Perhaps I was merely relieved. It is not in my habit to share what is mine.”

The words hit like a spark — sharp, hot, dangerous.

Emma met his gaze squarely. “And what if I did want to marry Edward?”

Sebastian stopped moving. The music continued to play, but the space between them crackled with something electric. His hand still rested at her waist, firm but motionless.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he spoke, very softly.

“Then I would consider that my failure,” he said. “For clearly, I would not have done enough to remind you where you truly belong.”

Her heart jumped — and not entirely out of fear. “That sounds like something a possessive demon would say.”

“I am a possessive demon,” he said simply, amusement curling through his tone. “You cannot expect me to behave like a gentleman in all matters.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re doing a pretty good job pretending to be one.”

He smiled at that, slow and genuine. “Pretending has always been my specialty.”

They resumed dancing — slower now, closer. The tips of her fingers brushed the back of his neck as they turned.

“Tell me, Emma,” Sebastian murmured, eyes catching the candlelight like garnet, “would you really choose a mortal boy who blushes when you smile… over a creature who would raze the world to keep you safe?”

Her breath caught for just a second. Then she smiled — small, defiant.

“Depends,” she said. “Does the creature let me choose for myself?”

For the first time that evening, Sebastian’s steps faltered. Only slightly. Then he laughed, low and warm, bowing his head as the music faded.

“Touché, my dear.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — only heavy, like a storm waiting somewhere on the horizon.

“Again?” he asked, offering his hand once more.

Emma hesitated — then placed hers in his, pulse steady but her mind anything but. “Again.”

Back in her room, Emma sat cross-legged on her bed, already in her nightgown. She had her AirPods in and was listening to a soft, whimsical playlist on Spotify. Her phone battery was at 69%, so she used it sparsely and was already dreading the day when she wouldn't be able to turn it on again. Maybe she could find a way to invent a charger, since electricity was a thing already.

Tonight, her thoughts weren't on her phone and her own world, though, but on Sebastian. The mate thing slowly started becoming impossible to ignore, despite him being awfully... considerate. To be honest, as a demon, she would have expected him to just take what he wanted from her. Instead, he gave her time to process this at her own pace, while continually reminding her that it was present.

He had asked her if she had preferred Edward. To be blunt, Edward was nice enough, but the concept of marriage was something else entirely to her than it was to him. Here, it was practical, a contract of power and wealth. For her, it was something you didn't have to do but could do. It was about love. And there was the tricky thing: she was sure she could grow to love Edward, and maybe he could grow to love her back. It was the one thing Edward could do that Sebastian couldn't. He was a demon, incapable of love. Sure, he was good at pretending, but could that ever be enough for her?

Emma wasn't in the habit of lying to herself. Sebastian was hot and attractive, and she had always been drawn to danger and the bad boys. But beyond the thrill and excitement, Emma had craved one thing her whole life: For someone to love her unconditionally. She wanted someone to choose her over everyone else, to love her and cherish her for who she was. 

If she'd ask him to, could Sebastian pretend to love her that way? Could she live with the perfect pretense, knowing deep down that he was faking the feeling, that his words, his actions, would be fake at heart? 

There were other issues. The obvious one was that she was human and would die in more or less seventy years. Probably less, considering her terrible dieting choices. Sebastian couldn't die of old age. So what was the universe or fate or whatever thinking, mating him to her? Also, she wasn't from this world, and at some point, she'd have to return home. Would he let her? Or would he keep her here, against her will? Would he find a way to come to her world? Was that even possible?

And then, the most pressing one: She doubted she could forgive him for taking Ciel's soul. 

Despite loving the anime and manga, every laugh it had pulled out of her, every smile, had been bittersweet. She had the habit of growing attached to fictional characters rather quickly (another one of her trauma responses), and while she both loved Sebastian and Ciel as characters, she had always watched them with a little sadness, knowing one day Ciel would die. It was inevitable. 

Knowing them both in real life, the thought made tears well up in her eyes instantly. She didn't want Ciel to die, didn't want him to lose his precious life over revenge. Of course, she understood where he was coming from, but that didn't stop her from wanting more for him. 

She wiped at her eyes before the tears could spill, frustrated at herself.

Ciel didn’t even know how much his existence mattered to her — how many nights she’d stayed up watching him outwit grown men and monsters, her heart breaking a little more each time he pretended not to care. And now she knew him. His dry humor, his pride, the way his voice softened almost imperceptibly when he spoke to her.

How could she stand by and do nothing, knowing what awaited him?

She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, as if that could calm the mess of her thoughts.

If Sebastian truly was her mate, then wasn’t she somehow bound to the very being who would one day destroy Ciel?

How could fate — or whoever was responsible for this madness — be so cruelly ironic?

Her music switched to a slow, haunting piano piece. The melody drifted softly through the room, wrapping her in its ache. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into it.

What was she supposed to do now? Pretend none of this mattered? Keep dancing with a demon who might one day rip out her friend’s soul?

“Maybe,” she whispered into the dark, “this is the price for getting too close to the story.”

The candle on her bedside table flickered, the flame bending toward an invisible current before steadying again. It sent a shiver down her spine. For a moment, she could have sworn she felt a familiar presence — faint, like the shadow of a smile brushing her mind.

“Sebastian…” she murmured, half exasperated, half longing.

But no one answered.

Emma lay back against her pillow, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. The piano song faded into silence. Outside, rain began to tap softly against the windows — steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

She closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her, and for the first time that night, her thoughts quieted.

In the stillness, she could almost imagine the faintest whisper of a promise in the air — something dark and ancient and tender all at once.

Then the candle guttered out, and the room fell into silence.

Chapter Text

That Lady, bleeding

Emma woke to a dull ache low in her abdomen — the kind of pain she recognized instantly.

For a second she lay still, staring into the dark, hoping she was wrong. But then the next wave hit, stronger, unmistakable.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her stomach.

A quick mental calculation confirmed it was entirely possible. She sat up, grimacing — and immediately felt that unmistakable, horrible sensation of warmth spreading.

Gravity did its thing.

She scrambled out of bed, biting back a curse as she felt it run down her thighs and pool unpleasantly at her ankles. “Perfect. Fantastic. I time-travel a hundred and thirty years into the past, and my uterus still hates me.” She wanted to double over, curl into a ball, because like always, the pain was nearly unbearable during the first two days. She couldn't do that, though.

Instead, she reached for the bell rope, tugging it quickly before stepping off the rug, careful not to stain it. Her nightgown was already turning red in places, and panic set in at the thought of trying to explain this.

What even did women do in the 1880s? Rags? Cotton? Towels?

God, she missed tampons.

The door opened soundlessly, and there he was — Sebastian, composed as ever in his night attire, eyes sharp and instantly assessing.

“Miss Emma?” His voice carried the faintest edge of concern. “I sensed your distress. Are you injured?”

“No— I mean, not really— well, kind of,” she stammered, holding her hands out helplessly. “It’s not— it’s not that kind of blood, it’s just— it’s my period, okay?”

For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered across his face — a pause, not from discomfort but from the mental shift of reassessment. Then his expression softened, his tone lowering into that precise, efficient calm he used when solving problems.

“Ah. I see.”

He stepped fully into the room, gaze flicking to the faint stains on the floor, then back to her pale, embarrassed face. “Then there is no danger to your health. Good. Though you should sit before you faint.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Just— I have no idea what to do here. There are no pads, no— nothing.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said, already moving toward her wardrobe. “In this era, my lady, women make use of cloth bandages — washable and reusable. I shall prepare something suitable for you at once.”

She blinked. “You know how to do that?”

He gave her a faint smile, eyes glinting with amusement. “I am very old, my dear. There is very little about the human body — or its inconveniences — that surprises me.”

He vanished for a moment and returned with startling efficiency: a stack of clean linens, a small basin of warm water, and a soft towel. Without hesitation, he spread the cloths out neatly on the vanity and began folding them with meticulous precision.

“I assume you will find these far less refined than what you are accustomed to,” he said, glancing at her, “but functional nonetheless. I can have proper supplies procured discreetly tomorrow.”

Emma’s face burned. “You don’t have to—”

“On the contrary,” Sebastian interrupted mildly, meeting her gaze. “You are pale, uncomfortable, and bleeding. That falls rather neatly under my duties, wouldn’t you agree?”

There was something in his tone — that faint, teasing lilt that made her chest tighten despite herself.

He handed her a folded set of cloths and turned toward the door. “I will fetch a pot of tea for the cramps and your bath should already be heated. Call for me when you’ve finished, my dear. And do try not to worry — I assure you, this is far from the worst mess I’ve had to clean up.”

That earned a weak laugh from her. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”

Sebastian’s lips curved, the candlelight catching the crimson in his eyes. “One hell of a butler, am I not?”

And with that, he slipped soundlessly from the room, leaving her blushing, half-laughing, and fully aware that she would never again be able to think of the word professional without picturing him.

Coocooned by the warm water, Emma's stiff muscles relaxed a little bit. Sebastian had magically summoned heated water into the tub, and she had never been more thankful for him being a demon because this was bliss. And thanks to the pressure of the water, all the blood stayed inside of her instead of leaking out again. She seriously contemplated staying in this tub for the next five days, because even in her world, pads had been giving her the ick the past years, being a tampon girlie through and through. And now... cloths. Yay. 

The faint sound of her bedroom door opening and shutting reached her ears, the only indication that Sebastian was back with her tea. And even though he promised he'd take care of the mess, she didn't hear a single sound from him, despite only a thin wooden door between them. 

With a heavy sigh, Emma grasped the edges of the tub. She couldn't stay in here forever after all, and she didn't want the tea to grow cold. Flexing her pelvic floor as hard as she could, she stood, water splashing and running down her body. With the pressure and warmth gone, the pain shot right back, a soft whimper escaping her as she managed to climb out of the tub. 

“Emma,“ Sebastian called through the door. “Do you require assistance?“ 

“I'm fine,“ she called back and stepped into her underwear with a frown. Why the hell did they have to basically reach her knees? But she had to wear them, at least for the next few days. “Gimme a minute!“ 

Placing the cloth into her underwear, she tried her hardest to adjust to the feeling. God, she was uncomfortable. And she got even more uncomfortable, or rather annoyed at herself, when she realized she had forgotten to take the upper part of the underwear with her. And her nightgown was soaked in her blood. Staring at her naked breasts in the oval mirror above the sink with a totally done look, she sighed deeply.

“You know what,“ she muttered to herself. “Who the fuck cares?“ 

Drawing one arm across her chest, she hid her nipples and most of her breasts with it, forever grateful that she was blessed with a B-cup. And then she left the bathroom.

Sebastian had managed to clean her blood off the floor and change the sheets of her bed in the short time she had needed to step out of the bathroom. He was standing in front of her bedside table, placing a steaming cup of tea on it. When he turned around to face her, she could tell she had managed to surprise him.

Sebastian turned—and for a fraction of a second, even he seemed caught off guard. His gaze, usually so calculated, paused as it swept over her. The pale candlelight traced the line of her shoulders, the arm drawn defensively across her chest, the flush of both warmth and discomfort on her face.

He didn’t leer or smirk; if anything, the shift in his expression was subtle, restrained. A faint softening, the kind one might mistake for respect. When he finally spoke, his tone was perfectly even.

“Emma,” he said quietly, “you should be resting, not catching your death in the draft.”

He turned smoothly to the armchair beside her bed and lifted something from its back: a freshly pressed nightgown, ivory linen trimmed with lace that looked suspiciously modern in cut — short sleeves, softer fabric, even a bit of stretch.

“I took the liberty of making another one to your preferences,” he said, offering it to her. “It should be far more comfortable.”

Her arm tightened around her chest, her face burning. “You made this? When—how—”

“I am a very efficient butler,” he interrupted lightly. “And I tend to plan ahead for… human inconveniences.”

She huffed a weak laugh, half from embarrassment, half from the lingering cramps twisting her stomach. “You’re impossible.”

“On the contrary,” he said smoothly, eyes glinting, “I am remarkably practical.”

Emma sighed, taking the gown from his hands. “Turn around, please.”

He inclined his head, the faintest curve of amusement at his mouth, but he did as she asked, turning to face the window. The room filled with the soft rustle of fabric and her uneven breathing as she dressed, punctuated by her low curses when another cramp hit.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath, clutching her abdomen.

“Quite literally,” Sebastian remarked, voice mild, still turned away.

She groaned. “Did you just make a period pun?”

“I did,” he admitted, unrepentant. “You seem in need of humor. It often distracts from pain.”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced back just enough to see her, pale and slumped onto the edge of the bed, clutching her stomach. The faintest frown tugged at his brow.

In two strides, he was beside her, kneeling slightly so that he was level with her eyes. “You should drink the tea while it’s still warm. It will ease the cramping.”

“Chamomile?” she guessed.

“Cinnamon, clove, and a hint of poppy seed,” he corrected. “A very old recipe. It works wonders for mortal suffering.”

She managed a small smile at that, taking the cup with shaking hands. When she brought it to her lips, his gloved fingers lingered a heartbeat too long as he steadied it.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Of course,” he said simply. Then, after a pause: “Does it trouble you, being seen like this?”

Her eyes flicked up. “What, half-naked and bleeding?”

He tilted his head. “Vulnerable.”

That earned a breath of laughter from her. “Everything about me’s vulnerable compared to you.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment — something ancient and wordless in it, something that might have been admiration if he were capable of it. Then he straightened, smoothing an invisible crease in his vest.

“I will see to it that you’re not disturbed tonight,” he said. “If the pain grows worse, call for me.”

She gave a small nod. “Thanks. And, uh… for not making this weird.”

Sebastian’s lips curved in that slow, dangerous smile of his. “My dear, I have seen the rise and fall of empires, the disembowelment of tyrants, and the aftermath of childbirth. A bit of blood hardly qualifies as weird.”

That made her laugh despite herself, and he inclined his head before gliding toward the door.

Just before he left, he added softly, “Rest well, Emma. Even the strongest creatures require care.”

When the door clicked shut, she stared after him for a long while, her tea cooling in her hands.

She wondered... did that apply to him as well?

There was no way for her to fall back asleep, but that wasn't unusual for Emma. The first two nights of her period were rarely ever filled with sleep. Normally, she'd reach for her phone now to scroll on TikTok or Pinterest, but that wasn't exactly an option here. Instead, she grabbed the weird Latin book again, which she had shoved beneath her bed. There were still a few pages left she hadn't looked at yet.

The leather felt cool under her palms, smooth and supple in a way that almost reminded her of skin — which wasn’t exactly comforting. She sighed and shifted on the mattress, wincing as another wave of cramps rolled through her lower belly. Great. Right on schedule. She tucked her knees closer to her chest, propping the heavy tome against them, and flipped to the next page.

The script was still the same elegant sprawl of looping letters and cramped notes. But the further she went, the stranger it grew. Latin gave way to something else—half symbols, half words that didn’t seem to belong to any language she knew.

“What the hell…” she muttered under her breath, squinting.

Every few lines, there were sketches in the margins — circles with complex interlocking patterns, figures with wings or horns, some human, some… not quite. She caught herself tracing one of the sigils absently with her fingertip. It looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place from where.

The ink shimmered faintly in the candlelight, like oil on water.

She blinked. The shimmer was gone.

“Okay, that’s not creepy at all.”

Her stomach cramped again, sharp and mean, and she folded over it with a low groan. “Jesus Christ, stop murdering me,” she hissed, clutching her abdomen. When the pain ebbed again, she noticed something she hadn’t before — at the top of the next page, a title written in bolder hand: “De Animarum Vinculo.”

Her Latin wasn’t perfect, but she recognized enough to piece it together: Of the Bond of Souls.

That made her sit up a little straighter, ignoring the throbbing ache in her lower back. “Bond of souls…” she whispered.

Flipping the page, she found a series of paragraphs that looked more like ritual instructions than theological theory. Phrases jumped out at her — conjunctio animae, daemonis sigillum, mortalis nexus.

A binding between a demon and a mortal.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

This—this was more about the mate bond. Or at least something close to it. The text described how a “creature of the lower realms” could anchor itself to a mortal through a fragment of the human soul — not possession, not contract, but something ancient, instinctual, forbidden.

Another pang of pain shot through her abdomen, and she hissed again, curling forward until her forehead brushed her knees. “I hate my life,” she muttered bitterly. Learning about demonic soul-bonding while bleeding to death. How fitting.

Emma had barely drifted off again, the faint warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains, when her bedroom door slammed open so hard it hit the wall.

She bolted upright instantly, hair a wild halo around her face, the blanket slipping halfway down her chest. “What the—”

“What is going on?!” Ciel Phantomhive barked from the doorway, looking pale and absolutely livid. His visible eye was wide with panic, his cravat slightly askew as if he’d gotten dressed in a hurry.

Emma blinked at him, completely lost for a moment. “Ciel?”

He strode into the room, face tight with a mix of fear and fury, Sebastian following right behind, an amused grin on his face. “Sebastian won’t tell me anything! He said it’s not meant for a young boy’s ears! What does that even mean? What happened? Are you ill? Are you dying?!”

Emma stared at him — the thirteen-year-old Earl of Phantomhive, storming her room at sunrise in full panic mode, his hand trembling ever so slightly at his side. For a second, she could only blink at him, half-awake and wholly confused. Then it clicked.

He was scared for her.

Her heart softened instantly, though she schooled her face before he could notice. Ciel wouldn’t admit it if she pointed it out — he’d probably combust out of embarrassment.

“Relax, detective,” she murmured, voice rough from sleep as she rubbed her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he shot back, crossing his arms to hide the shake in his hands. “Sebastian said there was blood.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Emma groaned, dropping her head back into the pillow for a second. “He really needs to work on his phrasing.”

Ciel’s frown deepened. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Emma. I’ve lost enough people already. Tell me what’s wrong.”

That last line — quiet, broken at the edges — made her chest ache. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d said it out loud.

Lifting her head again, she sighed softly. “You’re lucky I don’t care about what’s proper,” she muttered, brushing hair out of her face. “Because, my dear Earl, I’m on my cycle.”

Ciel blinked. “Your… what?”

Sebastian’s voice came smoothly from the doorway before Emma could answer, tone rich with barely restrained amusement. “Her monthly cycle, my lord. Or, as you might more commonly know it, a lady’s courses.”

It took a beat. And then the penny dropped.

Ciel’s face went scarlet so fast it was almost impressive. “W—what?!”

Emma bit down on her lip hard, trying to hold it together, but one look at his wide-eyed horror and the sound escaped her anyway — a snort of laughter that quickly spiraled into full-blown giggles.

Sebastian didn’t bother hiding his smirk either, bowing slightly. “I did warn you, young master, that it was not a matter suitable for your ears.”

“I thought she was injured!” Ciel spluttered, his voice climbing an octave. “You made it sound like she was bleeding to death!”

“Well,” Sebastian said smoothly, eyes glittering with mischief, “in a manner of speaking, she is.”

That earned him a scandalized glare from the boy and an undignified wheeze from Emma, who had now buried her face in her pillow, laughing helplessly. “Oh my God—Sebastian, stop—he’s gonna explode!”

Ciel turned on her next, cheeks still crimson. “This isn’t funny! You could have— I thought—!”

He cut himself off, realizing just how emotional he sounded, and straightened sharply, glaring between the two of them. “Unbelievable. Both of you are insufferable.”

Emma wiped at her eyes, still chuckling. “You care, Ciel. That’s sweet.”

“I do not!”

“Sure,” she said, tone teasingly soft. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sebastian coughed into his gloved hand, clearly fighting a laugh. “Shall I fetch the young master some tea for his nerves?”

“Get out,” Ciel snapped, already halfway out the door.

Sebastian inclined his head elegantly. “As you wish, my lord.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Emma collapsed back against her pillow, laughing quietly into it.

Sebastian turned to her then, one brow arched, his expression somewhere between fond amusement and mischief. “You certainly enjoy tormenting him.”

“Someone has to keep him humble,” she said, still grinning. “You can’t have all the fun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, the faintest purr threading through his tone.

Despite their teasing, Ciel sent up both breakfast and dinner so that she could eat in bed. To satisfy her cravings and distract her from the pain, she actually ate the breakfast, even though she would've sold her kidney for a McFlurry. Or Kinder bueno. Or Nutella biscuits.

God...

She needed to stop that.

Chapter Text

That Lady, making friends

By the time Emma made it down to breakfast the next morning, she looked marginally less like death warmed over. Her hair was brushed, her nightgown replaced with one of the lighter morning dresses Sebastian had laid out — soft cream fabric with a ribbon at the waist. Still, she moved gingerly, one hand hovering near her stomach like she had to keep herself from folding in half.

Ciel was already seated at the head of the table, pretending to be utterly engrossed in the newspaper. His teacup sat untouched beside him.

“Good morning,” Emma said, voice light, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Ciel did not look up. “Good morning,” he replied coolly.

Sebastian, standing behind him with his usual graceful poise, inclined his head. “You’re looking radiant this morning, my lady. I trust you slept well?”

Emma gave him a flat look as she sat down. “Like a log on fire.”

“Ah. So uncomfortably warm and crackling. I see.”

She shot him a withering glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement.

Ciel turned a page of the newspaper with unnecessary precision. “I see you’re feeling well enough to be sarcastic. How reassuring.”

“Yup. Guess your panic attack was unnecessary after all.”

He froze, paper rustling faintly in his hands, before lowering it just enough to glare at her. “I did not have a panic attack.”

“Of course not,” Emma said sweetly, reaching for a slice of toast. “You just stormed into my room at dawn because you thought I was dying. Totally reasonable behavior.”

Sebastian coughed discreetly behind one gloved hand — not fooling anyone. “My lord does have a… compassionate streak, on occasion.”

Ciel’s glare shifted instantly to him. “You will be silent.”

“Of course, my lord.” A beat. “Compassionate and sensitive, then.”

“Sebastian!”

Emma nearly snorted into her teacup, trying to keep a straight face. “Be nice,” she whispered, though she was clearly losing it.

The butler’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “I assure you, I am being very nice.”

It went quiet after that, save for the soft clink of silverware. Ciel resumed reading his paper, pretending she didn’t exist. Emma buttered her toast in peace, feeling a rare moment of calm — until a sharp cramp suddenly knotted through her abdomen.

Her breath hitched. She hunched forward slightly, one hand pressing against her stomach, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

The sound was tiny — a faint, involuntary whimper — but it was enough.

Ciel’s head snapped up instantly. “What’s wrong?!”

Emma blinked at him, startled by the speed of his reaction. “It’s fine, I’m fine—”

“You’re clearly not fine,” he said, already half-rising from his chair. “Sebastian, do something!”

Sebastian didn’t even try to hide his smirk this time. “My lord, unless you would like me to do something quite unseemly in the dining room, there is very little I can assist her with at present.”

Ciel’s ears turned pink. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said smoothly, eyes glinting. “But it was entertaining.”

Emma had dropped her head to the table, shoulders shaking with laughter she was trying to hide. “You two are ridiculous,” she groaned, voice muffled against her sleeve. “Seriously, has nobody educated him on this topic?“

Ciel shot her a mortified glare. “You’re laughing?”

“She’s laughing at you, my lord,” Sebastian supplied helpfully.

“I know that!”

“Good,” Emma said weakly, lifting her head again. “Because I’d hate for there to be any confusion.”

Ciel groaned and turned away, muttering something about insufferable adults while Sebastian gracefully poured him more tea.

“Drink, my lord,” Sebastian said mildly. “You look as though your blood pressure has suffered greatly this morning.”

Ciel glared at him over the rim of his cup. “If you say another word, I’ll order you to polish every tile in the manor by hand.”

Sebastian bowed, utterly unbothered. “Then I shall ensure each one gleams as brilliantly as your concern for Miss Emma.”

Ciel nearly choked on his tea.

Emma lost it completely.

The city air was thick with the mingling scents of coal smoke, horse dung, and roasted chestnuts. Even after weeks in this world, Emma still hadn’t quite gotten used to it. London was so loud, so alive — so full of contradictions. Street urchins darted past ladies in fine silk dresses, beggars brushed shoulders with noblemen.

She walked beside Ciel and Sebastian, the former striding briskly ahead, the latter gliding like a shadow behind them both. They were on some minor errand — meeting an informant about counterfeit goods smuggled through the docks — which meant it was another one of those gray, cold days spent weaving through the backstreets while Sebastian did most of the talking. Thankfully, her period was barely more than a spotting now, so she was free to move without even the hint of pain.

They turned into an alley, narrow and damp, where the smell of iron hung heavy in the air. The cobblestones were slick beneath her boots.

That’s when a flash of crimson caught her eye.

“Oh my,” came a voice dripping with theatrical delight. “If it isn’t the Phantomhive boy — and his delectable demon!”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his eyes glinting like twin shards of obsidian. “Grelle.”

Ciel’s expression soured instantly. “What do you want?”

Grelle Sutcliff emerged from the shadows with all the grace of a catwalk model and the flair of a disaster — long red hair tumbling in waves, blood-red coat swishing dramatically, and her shark-toothed grin gleaming in the dim light.

Emma froze. Holy shit.

She blinked once, twice, then gasped under her breath, “No way. Grelle Sutcliff?”

Both Sebastian and Ciel turned their heads sharply at the tone in her voice — that breathless, starstruck fangirl tone.

“Ohhh, and who’s this little darling?” Grelle purred, eyes sweeping over Emma from head to toe. “You’ve brought a new toy, Sebastian Darling? How scandalous.”

Sebastian’s lips curved, dangerously polite. “Not a toy, I assure you. Miss Emma is... unique.”

“Emma,” Grelle repeated, tasting the name. “Pretty. Fiery. Red hair — my favorite!”

“Yours is gorgeous, by the way,” Emma blurted out, the words tumbling over themselves before she could stop them. “The volume, the shine — how do you even get that kind of bounce? My hair’s always frizzy.”

Grelle blinked. “You— you noticed?”

“Of course! It’s stunning.”

The reaper’s face lit up like a torch. “Oh, finally! Someone with taste!”

Sebastian exhaled quietly through his nose, and even Ciel looked faintly stunned as the two redheads fell into animated conversation.

Within seconds, they were exchanging hair tips, favorite shades of lipstick, and mutual complaints about men being impossible. Emma laughed at Grelle’s dramatic gestures; Grelle laughed at Emma’s dry sarcasm.

It was as if the tension in the alley had evaporated — at least, for the two of them.

Ciel watched in disbelief, arms crossed. “How does she do that?” he muttered, voice low enough that only Sebastian could hear. “One moment we’re facing a psychotic reaper, and now they’re comparing haircare routines.”

Sebastian’s eyes followed Emma, faint amusement flickering in his gaze. “Miss Emma possesses a rather… instinctive gift.”

“A gift?”

“She adapts,” Sebastian said quietly. “To whomever she speaks with. Surely you have noticed. She reads people quickly — their tone, their posture, what they want to hear — and reflects it back at them. It’s not conscious, I think. She simply adjusts until she becomes someone they can trust.”

Ciel frowned. “That sounds… manipulative.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian allowed. “Or perhaps it’s survival. In any world, a woman who can make herself likable is safer than one who cannot.”

Ciel followed Emma’s laughter — bright, genuine, echoing softly against the brick walls. Grelle was absolutely enamored now, twirling a strand of red hair and declaring Emma her ‘new favorite mortal.’

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do we even know the real Emma, then?”

Sebastian’s gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m not certain she does, my lord.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Ciel sighed and shook his head slowly. “I suppose we'll have to find out, then.“ 

The night was chaos wrapped in thunder.

Rain lashed against the windows like an angry hand, wind howling through the old manor’s cracks. Somewhere far below, a door slammed open and shut from the draft, echoing through the corridors like a ghost.

Emma woke to a sound she didn’t recognize at first — ragged breathing, choked cries. Then came the sharp crack of thunder, and realization sank in like ice water.

Ciel.

She shoved the covers aside and slipped into the hallway barefoot, leaving her door open as she hurried along the hallway. The flickering light from the storm flashed through the tall windows, illuminating the familiar path to his bedroom. By the time she reached the door, she could already hear him — panicked, gasping, caught between dream and memory.

She didn’t knock.

Ciel sat upright in his bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. His sheets were twisted around him like bindings. Sebastian stood nearby, holding a silver candlestick, the flame trembling with every rumble of thunder. Both of them turned to look at her as she entered.

“Everything is alright, Miss Emma,” Sebastian said quietly, though his eyes didn’t leave his master. “The young lord simply isn’t fond of storms.”

Emma’s gaze flicked from the demon to the boy, her heart clenching. In moments like these, it was evident how little Sebastian truly cared about Ciel. How little he was able to feel. “Right,” she murmured, stepping closer, already having made up her mind. “Yeah. Forgot about that.”

Before either of them could stop her, she crossed the room and climbed onto the bed beside Ciel.

He startled, glaring up at her, clutching the sheets like a lifeline. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was sharp, but the tremor in it betrayed him.

“Relax,” Emma said softly, tucking one leg under herself. “I'm not attacking you, I'm just staying the night.“

“You what?!“ Ciel looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but sometimes, you had to force someone for their own safety. It wasn't even that he was appalled by the idea, as Emma was well aware. It was his pride, simple and easy. 

“There’s nothing wrong with needing emotional support sometimes.” She tilted her head toward Sebastian. “And no offence, but since you have about the emotional intelligence of a brick, how about we leave the physical stuff to the demon, and the emotional stuff to me, hm?”

“A brick, is it?“ Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Fascinating comparison.“ 

She gave him a half-grin. “You can go now. I've got this.“ 

“As you wish,” he murmured, bowing slightly. The candlelight flickered across his amused expression before he turned and disappeared into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

“Did you just order away my demon?“ Ciel scowled at her, half-indignant, half-bewildered. “Also, this is highly improper.”

“I did. And I thought we established that nothing about me is proper,” she replied, voice gentle but firm.

Lightning flashed white across his face, followed by a crack of thunder that made him flinch. He tried to pull away, to slide out of bed entirely, but Emma reached out and caught his face in her hands, shifting her weight so that she was kneeling in front of him, their faces at eye level.

“Hey,” she whispered and gave him a gentle smile.

His breath hitched. She could feel how cold his skin was, how tense his jaw had become. For the first time, she saw both of his eyes clearly — the sapphire one filled with fear, the other a glowing violet mark of the contract.

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You don’t have to be strong with me, either. I know it all anyway.”

His mouth parted — confusion, disbelief, a dozen things he didn’t have words for. “You can’t know it all,” he said, voice breaking at the edges. “You can’t possibly—”

“I do,” Emma interrupted quietly. “Trust me, Ciel. I do know.”

He stared at her, completely still. For a moment, the only sound was the storm raging outside — the wind screaming through the eaves, the rain hammering the glass. His pupils dilated. She knew he was thinking of him — the other half, the lost half, the one no one dared to name.

“I know about him. About what you had to do to him,” she whispered. “And I’m still here.”

Something inside Ciel cracked then — not loudly, not visibly, but like glass under pressure finally giving way. His shoulders dropped, his eyes lost that hardened, calculating gleam. He looked small. Human. Thirteen.

Slowly, hesitantly, he let her pull him back down onto the bed. She shifted until he rested against her chest, his face half-buried in the soft fabric of her nightshirt, and then drew the blanket over them.

He resisted for all of three seconds before his trembling hand clutched at her sleeve.

“I’m not a child,” he whispered, as if to convince himself.

“I know,” Emma murmured, stroking his hair. “You’re just someone who’s been through too much too soon.”

Thunder rolled again, but this time he didn’t flinch.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “It’s just a storm. It’ll pass. And I won't let anything hurt you.”

His breathing slowed gradually, matching the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. By the time the candle’s flame flickered out, he was still awake, but quiet — held together, if only for tonight, by her warmth and the fragile sense that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone in the dark anymore.

She wished someone had held her like this when she was scared, wished someone had told her she was safe and actually meant it. Perhaps it was wrong of her to see herself in him, but she couldn't help it. Ciel Phantomhive was no longer a fictional character to her, but a person she cared deeply for. And like with all the people she cared for, she let him into her heart in a way that would kill her a little bit if ever ripped away. 

To her, family had never been just blood—it was chosen as much as one was born into it. If this world were to play out like the anime and manga did, she knew the boy she was holding right now would be severely betrayed. She didn't know the details, hadn't finished the manga yet, and had only seen glimpses of spoilers on TikTok. She knew that the real Ciel would return, and that both Lizzy and Tanaka would choose him over the Ciel they'd known in the past years. The fandom called him lovingly 'Our Ciel'. 

Emma would stand by his side, without question, no matter what. She didn't care if his name wasn't truly Ciel, if he had told a thousand lies. He was her Ciel, like the stoic little brother she never had. And she'd protect him.

“My Ciel,“ she whispered into his hair, and as if he heard her, his grip on her sleeve tightened ever so slightly. She'd kill for this boy. After all, it wouldn't be the first time she had taken a life. 

The storm had long since passed.

Morning light, pale and silvery, crept through the curtains — cautious, like it was afraid to disturb them. The air smelled faintly of rain and candle smoke. Somewhere in the manor, a clock chimed eight.

Emma stirred first. Her neck ached faintly from the way she’d slept, one arm still draped protectively around the small boy curled against her. The fire in the grate had gone out hours ago, but under the heavy blankets, it was still warm.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She just watched him — the steady rise and fall of his chest, the strands of dark hair that had fallen into his face. In sleep, Ciel looked… peaceful. Younger. His usual sharpness was gone, the perpetual scowl softened into something heartbreakingly human.

Then his lashes fluttered.

Ciel blinked, disoriented for a heartbeat, and then realization dawned. His gaze flicked down to where her arm was loosely resting around his shoulders, and his breath caught.

Emma smiled faintly. “Morning.”

He tensed immediately. “I— you—” His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he tried to sit up, but her arm kept him where he was.

“Easy,” she murmured. “You didn’t sleep much tonight. Five more minutes won’t kill you.”

Ciel shot her a narrow look, equal parts flustered and defensive. “You’re rather presumptuous for someone who invaded my bed without permission.”

Emma chuckled softly. “You were having a nightmare induced by a storm. What was I supposed to do, throw a pillow at you?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly unwilling to admit that he didn’t actually mind. “You could have left me to handle it myself.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe. But I didn’t.”

Silence lingered — not awkward, just heavy with things unspoken. The morning light caught on his eyes, one blue, one violet, and Emma could almost see the calculation in them, the instinct to rebuild his walls before anyone noticed a crack.

She reached out and straightened the rumpled collar of his nightshirt. “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

He looked away, out the window. “That’s easy to say for someone who hasn’t lost everything.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she replied quietly.

He glanced at her, and for the first time, there wasn’t suspicion there — just curiosity. A small, uncertain kind of understanding passed between them, fragile but real.

After a moment, Ciel exhaled softly. “You’re… strange, Emma.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“It still sounded like one.”

A reluctant huff of air escaped him — not quite a laugh, but close enough that Emma grinned.

They sat like that for a while, the silence comfortable now, the storm outside replaced by birdsong. Ciel leaned back against the headboard, and when Emma stretched her arms above her head and yawned, he didn’t move away.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was casual, as if she wasn’t trying to tread gently over old wounds. “You know, I think you’re allowed to have someone in your corner. Even if it’s just for nights like that.”

His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “And you think that’s you?”

She smiled. “Looks like it.”

He hesitated — then, in the smallest voice, almost inaudible: “Perhaps.”

Emma’s grin widened. “I’ll take it.”

The door opened then, just slightly, and Sebastian’s voice drifted in. “I see the young master has survived the tempest.”

Ciel groaned. “Not for long, if you keep talking.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to Emma, still sitting beside him, hair tousled from sleep, one of Ciel’s blankets draped around her shoulders. The faintest curve tugged at the demon’s mouth — the kind that said he was deeply amused but knew better than to comment.

“Breakfast will be ready shortly,” he said instead. “Shall I bring it up?”

Ciel’s glare could’ve cut marble. “No.”

Emma, suppressing a laugh, stretched and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Come on then, my lord. Let’s face the day.”

As she offered him her hand, Ciel looked at her for a long moment — weighing, measuring — and finally took it.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

That Lady, unnerved

January passed without anything of note happening. Emma had looked at every book in the Phantomhive manor that seemed at least a little bit promising, but it was no use. She was no step closer to returning home than she was the day she dropped into Ciel's front yard like a sack of potatoes. The day she had realised that she might never see her parents and friends again, she had cried. A lot. 

Mey-Rin, Finny, and Bard had assumed it was finally the grief kicking in about her 'parents' dying in that fire. Emma supposed in a way, they were right. Still, they had fussed and had tried her hardest to cheer her up with little games, snacks, more or less funny jokes, and whatever else they could think of. 

In his demonic way, Sebastian had tried to console her, making her favorite tea, dinner, and snacks, and bringing them all up to her room so that she could stay curled up in bed. She knew he wasn't feeling sorry for her, though. Maybe for her sadness, if anything, but not for the fact that she couldn't leave. He had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want her to leave. 

And Ciel? He had actually surprised her. Storming her room like a trooper, ready to face the battlefield with stoicism, he had climbed onto her bed, lips drawn together. Then he had placed his chessboard between them, setting the pieces up for the both of them while Emma had just stared at him in bewilderment, silent tears still on her cheeks.

“I don't get why you're crying,“ he had said without meeting her gaze, eye fixed on the board between them. “We're going to find a way. So stop it already. It's unseeming.“ 

His tone of voice, the slight blush on his face... It had actually made her snort, a barely visible smile on her lips, even with the tears flowing still. They had played two rounds before Ciel had pushed the board aside and awkwardly put his arms around her. It made her remember how long it's been since he had hugged someone to comfort them. 

Pressing his small body against her, she had buried her face in the crook of his neck and had whispered a soft “Thank you.“ 

The next day, she had forced her tears away. Crying wouldn't help her. And hey, she could have had it worse, right? 

If there was one thing Emma had learned about living in the Phantomhive manor, it was that quiet days simply did not exist.

From sunrise onward, the estate had been buzzing like an anthill—servants scurrying, silverware clinking, and the occasional crash that meant either Bard had blown up another oven or Mey-Rin had tripped over her own enthusiasm.

Ciel, as usual, bore it all with the patience of someone who was already far too old for his years. And this morning, that patience had been tested more than ever—because he and Emma had begun dance lessons together.

She wasn’t sure whose idea it had been (Sebastian’s, probably), but by the end of the first session, Emma was convinced the young Earl hated it almost as much as she loved watching him suffer through it.

The instructor, a sharp-eyed woman with a bun so tight it looked painful, had taken one look at Emma’s posture and Ciel’s stiff expression and sighed like she’d been personally offended by gravity. Sebastian had been lurking in the corner, clearly enjoying himself while pretending to take notes on their “progress.”

Progress, of course, was generous. Ciel’s steps were hesitant, his rhythm inconsistent. Twice, he misjudged his distance and stepped on her toes—not lightly, either.

The third time, Emma leaned down just enough for her voice to reach him without the instructor noticing. “I just want you to know I’m forever grateful for modern shoes,” she whispered, “because if these were satin slippers, my toes would be broken by now.”

Ciel shot her a withering glare, his cheeks dusted faint pink. “If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t miss my footing.”

Emma smirked. “Right. Clearly, this is all my fault.”

He straightened his posture, chin tilted with that familiar aristocratic defiance. “It usually is.”

She barely managed not to laugh aloud, but Sebastian caught her grin anyway, one corner of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement. The instructor didn’t seem impressed with either of them, muttering under her breath about “hopeless cases” and “grace being wasted on children.”

By the time lessons ended, Ciel’s temper was hanging by a thread, and Emma’s toes were hanging on for dear life.

The rest of the day unfolded in typical Phantomhive fashion—Ciel buried himself in a mountain of paperwork that could have drowned a lesser soul, while Emma retreated to the library with a book and a cup of tea.

Tanaka sat quietly nearby, a comforting, steady presence as always. He never said much, but she liked it that way. It reminded her of rainy afternoons back home, curled up in silence with her father as the radio hummed softly in the background.

Every so often, the manor would erupt in chaos. One explosion shook the shelves—Bard, obviously—and was followed almost immediately by Mey-Rin shrieking something about bubbles and Finny apologizing loudly enough to wake the dead.

Emma turned her page, sighed, and smiled into the quiet. “My poor mate,” she murmured to herself. “He really does earn his keep around here.”

The word—mate—still felt strange in her mind. She hadn’t meant to start using it, but ever since Sebastian had started throwing it around as if he were simply saying 'Good Morning', the term had lodged itself somewhere deep, curling between her thoughts whenever she wasn’t careful.

It left her feeling... complicated. Funny, because it made her heart skip a beat sometimes—especially when Sebastian looked at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking. But also irritated, because what right did he have to make her feel this way when they hadn’t even kissed yet? And then there was the implication of this 'yet', because suddenly, the thought of kissing him was starting to appeal to her more and more.

Still, she couldn’t deny the truth. The attraction was growing stronger with every passing day. Every teasing comment, every lingering glance, every time his voice dipped low enough to make her forget her own name.

With another sigh, she snapped the book shut and set it aside.

By the time the sun began to set, the manor had shifted into its evening rhythm—warm lamplight flickering across the corridors, the smell of roasted meat and herbs drifting from the kitchen.

Emma made her way back to her room to prepare for the dinner party that night. Lau and Cedric Brandel were expected guests, and while Emma still wasn’t sure what to think of Lau, she didn't remember anyone named Cedric from the anime, so that ought to be a surprise.

Mey-Rin was waiting for her, eyes bright behind her glasses as she helped Emma into her evening gown. The maid’s hands were gentle, though her excitement made her chatter endlessly about how “pretty Miss Emma will look tonight.”

“Thank you, Mey-Rin,” Emma said, smiling softly as she adjusted the fall of her sleeves.

When the final pin was set and her reflection looked sufficiently polished, she took one last glance in the mirror.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered what kind of dinner conversation awaited her downstairs. Between Lau’s suggestive jokes, Ciel’s sharp tongue, and Sebastian’s subtle smirks, it was almost guaranteed to be entertaining.

And, if she was being honest, she didn’t mind the chaos.

Because despite everything—the madness, the secrets, the blood that sometimes stained this beautiful house—Phantomhive Manor had become her home. It had roughly been six weeks, and yet they had felt like months. 

They stood at the top of the grand staircase, half-hidden in the soft shadow of the landing.

Below, the murmur of voices echoed faintly up the marble walls — Lau’s laughter, bright and smooth as silk, and Cedric Brandel’s booming tones as he exchanged pleasantries with Sebastian. The low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the faint rustle of gowns — it all blurred together into something that made Emma’s temples throb.

“God,” she muttered under her breath, adjusting her grip on Ciel’s arm. “I’m so not in the mood for this.”

Ciel’s expression didn’t shift, though one corner of his mouth twitched, dangerously close to a smile. “You think I am?”

She gave a small, conspiratorial grin and leaned slightly closer. “You do fake enthusiasm really well, though. Maybe you can teach me sometime.”

His blue eye slid sideways to meet hers — a glance sharp enough to be called fond, in its own restrained way. “I doubt you’re capable of pretending to like anyone for long.”

Emma raised a brow. “That’s bold of you, coming from someone who’s been hosting people he hates since he was nine.”

“Touché,” he said dryly.

They shared a small moment of silence after that, broken only by the faint scrape of footsteps and the muted echo of Sebastian’s voice as he welcomed the guests below. The scent of polished wood and candle wax lingered in the air, heavy with expectation.

Emma shifted slightly, smoothing the front of her gown with her free hand. Her other one was looped around Ciel's, giving the perfect picture of him as her guardian. If she weren't roughly a head taller, that was. 

Just as Sebastian’s voice floated up — announcing their arrival — Ciel leaned closer to her, his tone low enough for only her to hear.

“I want to remind you,” he murmured, “that you needn’t worry.”

Emma blinked at him, confusion knitting her brow. “About what?”

He straightened, his gaze fixed on the guests below. “There will be no surprises for Sebastian and me tonight. We didn’t have time to fill you in on the details, but—” He hesitated, just enough to make her pulse jump. “Trust us.”

Her curiosity flared instantly, but so did something quieter — a sense of unease curling in her stomach. The tone of his voice, the slight tension in his shoulders… something was off.

She exhaled slowly, giving a single, steady nod. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now. “I trust you.”

He didn’t look at her, but the smallest hint of relief crossed his face.

Then Sebastian’s voice rose clearly from the base of the stairs.

“Presenting the Earl of Phantomhive — and Miss Emma Andrich.”

Emma squeezed Ciel’s arm once before they began their descent. The flickering candlelight caught on the silver of his buttons, the polished curve of the banister, and for a heartbeat, everything felt frozen — two figures poised between light and shadow.

As they stepped down into the waiting eyes of their guests, that uneasy feeling coiled tighter in Emma’s chest.

Whatever tonight held, she had a bad feeling she was about to find out.

“Thank you for coming today,“ Ciel's voice echoed around her, the forced pleasantry in it nearly making her snort. Instead, she twisted her lips into a welcoming smile. “I am Ciel Phantomhive, the current earl.“ 

Then he turned his head to her. “And this is my ward, Miss Emma Andrich.“ 

Emma's gaze drifted over Lau and Ran-Mao, recognizing both easily, although she had to hide that. Officially, she hadn't met them yet. When Cedric Brandel introduced himself, her gaze snapping toward him, that uneasy feeling returned. It wasn't just her instincts that flared up—despite his eyes easily betraying his pleasant act as a lie—but rather a sting of something familiar. A flicker of something she couldn't quite place. This, along with Ciel's warning, made her instantly wary.

They stepped down the remaining steps, and when Ciel and Cedric shook hands, her grip on the boy's jacket tightened involuntarily. She had no idea why, but she wanted to yank Ciel behind her, away from that man.

Inside the dining room, the air glittered with candlelight and the faint scent of champagne. Sebastian was pouring the golden liquid into a pyramid of coupe glasses, the bubbles catching and cascading in delicate ripples. It looked spectacular — and utterly impractical. Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes… at least until no one was watching. Then she did. Quietly.

And apparently, fate noticed.

When Mey-Rin entered, wobbly and wide-eyed, Emma’s stomach sank. “Oh no,” she whispered under her breath, catching sight of the maid’s untied shoelaces.

Her prediction was instant. Mey-Rin tripped — tray flying, silverware glinting — straight toward the fragile tower of glasses.

Beside her, Ciel stiffened. Emma only frowned, a weary sense of déjà vu washing over her. A blur of red flashed across her vision, too quick for human eyes. She blinked, and the chaos had already rearranged itself: Sebastian knelt neatly on the other side of the table, balancing the tray’s contents atop an empty champagne bottle, Mey-Rin sprawled beside him. The glasses were no longer a pyramid, but every single one was perfectly intact.

“Just out of curiosity,” Emma murmured toward Ciel as they approached the table, “but do you ever have guests over and nothing goes wrong?”

“Never.” His face was impassive, but she knew that tone by now — the cool, brittle edge of irritation held carefully in check.

Naturally, Ciel took his seat at the head of the table, Emma and Lau beside him. Ran-Mao remained glued to Lau’s side, which left Cedric sitting next to her — an arrangement Emma didn’t appreciate in the slightest. There was something about him she simply didn’t trust. And when he finally spoke, her dislike deepened.

“My lord, your home provides no end of surprises,“ he commented, voice awfully cheerful. “The manor is so beautiful, I can hardly believe it was in ashes three years ago.“ 

Emma wanted to smack him across the face.

Thankfully, Ciel knew how to handle men like this, shutting him down immediately. “This makes for dull dinner conversation. Let's get down to business.“ 

Emma only listened with half an ear after that. In the past six weeks, she had not once been involved with the Funtom company, and to be honest, she doubted there was any need for her to change that. It was running smoothly, Ciel knew what he was doing. Which was also precisely why she didn't really listen to what they were saying, observing Cedric out of the corner of her eye instead while pretending to be engrossed with her dinner. Across from her, Lao was feeding Ran-Mao.

Only when the man next to her stiffened visibly did the conversation come back into focus, and Emma didn't even try to hide her grin when Ciel accused Cedric of being a child. Naturally, the joke was more on the guests expanses than actual humor, but Emma chuckled anyway, not caring for the icy glare Cedric send her way.

As the guests excused themselves after dinner — Lau’s lazy grin preceding him, Ran-Mao gliding silently after, and Cedric trailing behind with a too-smooth smile — the doors closed with a soft click that left the room suddenly quieter.

Emma exhaled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well,” she murmured, “I’ve met less charming people… but not many.”

Ciel gave her a sidelong glance, expression unreadable. “You don’t trust him.”

“I dislike him,” she corrected, lifting her glass. “The trust part didn’t even make it into consideration.”

Across the table, Sebastian was stacking plates with a kind of serene precision that only made her more suspicious he was listening too closely. “Your instincts seem quite reliable, my lady,” he said smoothly, voice edged with faint amusement. “Though it’s not unusual for humans to bristle in the presence of deceit.”

Emma arched a brow. “So I’m right?”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked toward Ciel, who didn’t look away from his glass of wine. “Let’s just say,” the boy replied quietly, “you’d be better off keeping your distance from him. For now.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Exactly what I needed — another cryptic warning.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “It wouldn’t be Phantomhive business otherwise.”

That earned the smallest snort from Ciel. “He’s right, unfortunately.”

Emma set her glass down, her tone softening. “You’ll tell me when I actually need to worry, though, right?”

Ciel’s blue eye flicked toward her — sharp, calculating, but touched with something gentler beneath. “I will,” he said, “although tonight, you won't.”

Before Emma could respond, the faint echo of returning footsteps reached them through the hall. She straightened, expression smoothing back into polite composure, while Ciel adjusted his cufflinks and Sebastian’s smile returned — the perfect butler once more.

The brief moment of honesty between them vanished as quickly as it had come.

Cedric returned alone, spouting some nonsense about Lau having business to attend to. Here? At the Phantomhive manor? Emma highly doubted it, but Ciel seemed to relax in his chair at the head of the table, so whatever was going on with Lau clearly played into his hands.

And when Sebastian placed a galette des rois in front of their guest, it hit her. The night finally clicked into place — this was that evening. The scene she’d only seen once before, months ago, on a glowing laptop screen.

Her pulse spiked instantly. The dread came like ice water down her spine. She knew what was about to happen.

Sebastian, of course, would notice her heart racing. He always did. But she avoided his gaze, focusing on the steady flicker of the candles instead. She tried to remind herself of what she knew: no one would die here tonight. Ciel was safe. She was safe. Sebastian had already dealt with the men outside before Cedric had even arrived.

Still, her body didn’t believe her mind.

Her gaze darted to Ciel. He was already watching her, one brow raised, the faintest curve of reassurance on his lips — the kind that said 'all is well'.

Right. Of course it was. She forced herself to breathe slower, shoulders loosening by sheer will. When she gave him the smallest nod, he turned back to Cedric, calm as ever.

Sebastian began slicing the cake, voice smooth as silk, as he finished his explanation of the game.

“Just the thing for children who like games of chance, like dice or drawing straws,“ Ciel said with a practiced smile. It was so fake, Emma nearly rolled her eyes at the sight. 

“I see,“ Cedric replied, his tone too even, his eyes too sharp. “A sweet with a game to it.“

And then— “Brats sure think up things no adult would.“

Emma’s glare could’ve cut glass.

“What?“ Ciel asked, his voice calm and somehow more dangerous for it.

The shift was instantaneous. Cedric shot to his feet, the chair scraping violently against the floor, his hand slamming onto the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. Emma flinched back before she could stop herself, pulse hammering, though she stayed seated.

“Queen's guard dog or not, you're just a brat trying to show off!“ Cedric barked.

If Sebastian hadn’t been between her and Ciel, she might’ve instinctively moved — not away, but in front of him. The instinct made no sense, yet there it was.

She sneaked a glance at Ciel, envy prickling in her chest at how eerily calm he remained, like the boy had ice in his veins. It didn’t matter that she knew she was safe — her body still reacted with panic, with fight-or-flight. She wondered how long it would take for her body to receive the message: Demon in the room meant she needn't worry.

Cedric went on, his face red, his voice ugly. “The two things I hate most are cocky brats and bets that don't make money!“

The clock chimed eight.

“Drop dead, guard dog!“

And then he was gone — swallowed beneath the table.

Emma blinked. Nothing happened. Huh. Anti-climactic.

Ciel’s grin was quick and sharp.

“You enjoy this way too much,“ she muttered, unable to stop her own smile.

Her amusement doubled when Cedric popped back up, dazed and confused.

“Did you drop something, Mr. Brandel?“ Sebastian’s tone was pure, honeyed mockery.

Emma stifled a snort behind her hand.

Her body was finally calming down enough for her to reach for her wine glass. Ciel ate his cake with maddening composure, and though there was a slice on her plate, she doubted she could stomach anything solid. Alcohol was the safer bet.

Ciel’s chuckle drew her attention. “I do believe you're drunk,“ he told Cedric, smiling with that disarming politeness that was more threat than grace. “Please, try some of this, and no more alcohol.“

Emma almost laughed out loud this time.

“Y-yes, my lord,“ Cedric stammered, obedient now, the bravado leaking out of him. Watching him squirm was strangely satisfying — maybe a little too much so. Perhaps she was developing sadistic tendencies.

He bit into his piece. The sharp crunch echoed in the air.

“Ah, congratulations,“ Sebastian said pleasantly, refilling Emma’s cup. “It seems you have la fève.“

He spat it out, but what hit the plate wasn’t porcelain. It was a bullet shell.

“Your friends left this behind,“ Sebastian continued, his voice as calm as ever. “So I'll return it to you.“

The fear that bloomed on Cedric’s face was almost grotesque. Emma’s lips curved slightly, dark amusement tugging at the edges.

Sebastian’s explanation rolled over her in that smooth, unhurried way of his — how he’d singlehandedly taken out fifty men before dessert. Ciel's explanation about how Lau had never truly been Cedric’s ally and how the Queen herself wanted this matter to be silenced flowed seamlessly into it.

“He isn’t the Queen's guard dog for nothing, you know?“ Emma rose from her seat, crossing the small distance to stand behind Ciel. Her hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. “Why on earth would you think you could beat him, hm?“

Cedric only shook, stuttering incoherently.

When Sebastian turned his back, moving toward the tea set, the air shifted.

Three gunshots shattered the calm.

Emma froze — then forced herself not to duck, not to hide. She made her body stand still, even as her pulse spiked hard enough to make her vision blur. She was safe. Ciel was safe.

“This won’t do,“ Sebastian sighed.

When she looked away from Cedric, Sebastian was holding the bullets between his gloved fingers — still hot, metal glowing faintly red.

“I just gave you back your belongings,“ he said with a faint tilt of his head. “And you've already lost some more.“

The next bullets came faster — and this time she saw nothing but flickering light. A ricochet, a cry, Cedric’s hand now bleeding.

Ciel stood, calm and collected as ever.

“Are you well?“ he asked over his shoulder.

“Perfectly,“ she said through shallow breath, lowering her hand from his shoulder. “This is scary as fuck, but who cares?“

He gave an amused huff, just as Cedric stumbled toward the door.

The doors burst open. Sebastian stood waiting.

The candles guttered violently, their light swallowed by a sudden, impossible shadow. The air itself seemed to warp around him, heavy with something ancient and wrong.

His eyes flared red — burning like coals — and his smile stretched wider than human. The air grew colder, darker, until even the light seemed to retreat. His silhouette rippled, edges sharp and shifting. When he spoke, his voice dropped an octave — no longer smooth, but echoing, otherworldly.

“Brandel,” Ciel said, only a single step between her and him, his tone quiet and almost merciful.

Cedric turned, pale as bone.

“Why do you suppose no one knows what punishment the Queen’s guard dog inflicts?” Ciel reached for his eyepatch. The leather came away.

“It’s because dead men tell no tales.”

Sebastian removed his glove. The contract seal burned through the dim light, its glow cold and hellish.

Emma shuddered. She couldn’t not. The energy rolling off them was suffocating — power so raw and unnatural it pressed on her lungs, made her chest ache. This wasn’t the elegant butler anymore. This was a predator wearing a man’s skin.

Cedric’s scream tore through the hall — a sound that would haunt anyone who wasn’t used to hell.

Emma turned her face away. She didn’t need to see it to know what came next.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Emma sat still, hands folded in her lap to keep them from trembling. The candles flickered lazily, their flames reflected in the polished silver and glass.

Next to her, Ciel poured himself another cup of tea. Calm, unbothered, as if murder and mayhem were simply part of his nightly routine.

Which, Emma realized grimly, they probably were.

Her throat felt dry. She glanced at the empty chair where Cedric had been sitting, half-expecting to see blood. There was nothing. No overturned chair, no bullet holes, not even a broken dish. Sebastian had erased it all, like wiping chalk from a board.

Ciel took a delicate sip. “You’re shaking.“

“I’m not,“ she said automatically. Then, seeing his unimpressed look, added, “Fine, maybe a little. Forgive me for not being completely zen about watching a man get dragged to hell.“

He set the cup down, one eyebrow lifting. “You’ve seen worse things, haven’t you?“

She hesitated. “That’s not the point.“

“Then what is?“

Emma frowned at him. “That you’re drinking tea as if that wasn’t completely horrifying.“

Ciel leaned back, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “You’ll get used to it. At some point, the horror just… dulls. You start categorizing it. Necessary, unnecessary. Useful, not useful.“

She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed softly. “That sounds awfully sad, you know?“

He blinked — not expecting pity, maybe. Then shrugged lightly, taking another sip. “Sadness is inefficient.“

Emma gave a small, humorless laugh. “You really are thirteen going on forty.“

That earned her the faintest smile.

For a moment, they both just sat there, the quiet ticking of the clock filling the space between them.

Then, almost without thinking, Emma said, “I’ve never seen him like that before.“

Ciel’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze shifted toward her — curious.

“Sebastian,“ she clarified. “Not… pretending to be human. I mean, I knew, obviously. But knowing and seeing are different things.“

“He’s efficient,“ Ciel said simply. “And loyal.“

Emma’s lips twisted. “He’s terrifying.“

Ciel gave a small nod. “That too.“

He didn’t seem disturbed by it — if anything, he seemed faintly amused by her reaction.

“Doesn’t it ever scare you?“ she asked quietly. “Having that kind of power under your command? Knowing that if he ever decided to stop obeying, no one could stop him?“

Ciel looked down into his tea, his face unreadable. “If he ever stopped obeying,“ he said, “I’d already be dead. So there’s not much point in being afraid.“

Emma didn’t know what to say to that. The pragmatic coldness in his tone made something twist inside her — pity, admiration, maybe both.

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. “You really do live in another world, Ciel Phantomhive.“

He gave a small, ironic smile. “So do you.“

Before she could reply, the door opened with its usual quiet precision. Sebastian stepped inside, immaculate as ever — not a hair out of place, no trace of blood or darkness left on him.

“Everything has been taken care of, my lord,“ he said with that perfectly smooth composure that somehow chilled her more now than it ever had before.

Ciel nodded once. “Good.“

Sebastian’s eyes flicked briefly to Emma, a ghost of amusement curling his lips. “My, you look pale, my lady. Was dinner not to your taste?“

She rolled her eyes, though her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “You’re disgusting, you know that?“

“Only when necessary,“ he purred.

Ciel sighed, setting down his teacup. “You two are unbearable.“

Emma smiled faintly, tension finally bleeding from her shoulders. “And yet, you’d be bored without us.“

For the briefest moment, Ciel almost smiled again.

By the time Lau and Ran-Mao returned, the air in the dining room had smoothed over as if nothing had ever happened, and they had brought a letter from her Majesty, containing tickets for the Noah's Arc Circus. 

Hours later, the manor was silent again.

Emma lay in bed, one arm tucked under her pillow, staring at the faint shimmer of moonlight stretching across the ceiling. The events of the evening played back in her mind — Cedric’s smirk, Sebastian’s inhuman grace, the blood she never saw but knew was there. And Ciel’s calm through it all, as if chaos had always been part of his dinner plans.

She was on the edge of sleep when a knock rapped softly at her door.

“Miss Emma,“ came Sebastian’s voice, low and even, the door opening silently, and she sat up immediately. He stood there with a silver candlestick, flame casting long shadows across his face. 

“My apologies for disturbing your rest,“ he said, bowing his head slightly. “But the young master has requested your presence.“

Her brows furrowed, and she slid out of bed. The cold bit into her naked feet, but she totally ignored his half-hearted protest at her putting on some slippers, and instead pushed past him into the dimly lit corridor. She was tempted to ask if Ciel was okay, but Sebastian wouldn't have been so calm if he weren't.

Ciel’s room was dark when they entered, the heavy drapes drawn shut. Only the candlelight followed them in, catching faint glints of silver and blue.

Ciel lay on his side, back to the door, cocooned beneath layers of blankets. His voice, when it came, was quiet — defiant, but soft at the edges.

“Stay the night.“

Emma hesitated for only a moment, gaze snapping to Sebastian, but the demon only tilted his head to the side as if to say 'Who knows'.

She climbed into the bed behind Ciel without a word, careful as she settled close. He was warm beneath the fabric, small but tense, like a coiled spring. Slowly, she slid an arm around his waist, pulling his back against her front until he relaxed — just barely. His hand found hers then, resting over her arm and pressing it tighter against him, as if to make sure she wouldn’t vanish when he closed his eyes.

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

When the sound of footsteps leaving reached their ears, Ciel drew in a quiet breath. “Sebastian.“

“Yes, young master?“

“Stay there. Until I fall asleep.“

Sebastian inclined his head, his voice smooth as always. “Yes, my lord.“

Then, with a gentle puff, he blew out the candle. The room fell into darkness — save for the faint sound of rain returning against the window and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats, one calm and one uncertain, finally beginning to sync.

Chapter Text

That Lady, fearful

When Emma woke, it took her a moment to realize why she felt so warm. Something heavy and steady was pressed against her back — the faint rise and fall of breathing, slow and even.

It was Ciel.

At some point during the night, they must’ve shifted, because now his arm was draped firmly around her waist, his face nestled just behind her shoulder. His breath brushed her hair, warm and ticklish. For a long moment, she just lay there, perfectly still. There was something disarmingly peaceful about it — the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft weight of his hand resting over her hip. This, she thought, was becoming familiar. The warmth. The closeness. The quiet safety she hadn’t realized she’d missed until she’d found it again in the strangest of places.

But when her eyes opened fully, the calm fractured. It was pitch black.

Her heart skipped. Not dark like early morning, with the faint hint of blue behind the curtains. No — this was thick darkness, the kind that felt alive, pressing close from every side. Normally, one of the curtains was drawn back a little, letting in a thread of moonlight or dawn. Tonight, however, not even that.

Her throat tightened. Her rational mind knew it was nothing, knew she was being silly and childish. But her imagination didn’t care. It was too easy for the darkness to twist into faces, into shapes that moved when they shouldn’t.

She swallowed, forcing a breath through her nose. She wasn’t afraid, not really… just uneasy. Her mind had always been too good at conjuring horrors, at remembering the staged scenes and faces from the horror movies she had a love-hate relationship with. Love, because she adored the mystery, the magic, the scare. Hate, because the fear lingered, pressing onto her whenever she was alone in the dark.

Careful not to wake Ciel, she turned in his arms until she faced him instead. He stirred slightly, and she scooted closer until her forehead pressed softly against his shoulder. She couldn't even see him, despite them being so damn close.

“...What’s wrong?” His voice was hoarse and quiet, half a murmur against her hair.

Emma hesitated, then huffed a soft, self-deprecating breath. “Nothing serious. Just… stupid, really. My childhood fear of the dark never completely left.”

Ciel was silent for a moment. His arm tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. When he spoke again, his tone was calm — not teasing, not dismissive. Simply matter-of-fact, the way only Ciel could make reassurance sound like a strategic observation.

“It isn’t stupid,” he said. “Fears rarely are. They just stop being useful.”

Her lips twitched faintly at that. Trust him to phrase comfort like an analysis.

He shifted his hand slightly, brushing his thumb once against the fabric of her nightgown. “You don’t have to be afraid. You’re in the Phantomhive manor. There’s nothing in the dark that would dare touch you here.”

His voice was soft, yet carried that quiet, unwavering certainty she had come to associate with him — the tone of someone who had seen monsters far worse than what imagination could invent.

Emma exhaled slowly, her forehead still resting against his shoulder. “You always sound so sure of that.”

“I have good reason to,” he murmured. “Sebastian would hardly allow a shadow to move without my permission.”

That earned him a small, amused hum. “Your demon bodyguard again?”

“My demon butler,” he corrected. “He does whatever he's told, not just protect.“

Emma smiled against his shoulder. “Right. My mistake.”

For a moment, silence stretched again — comfortable this time. His hand remained at her waist, firm but gentle, as if silently promising that she could rest.

And though the darkness around them didn’t fade, it stopped feeling like it was closing in.

Breakfast was short-lived because immediately after, Sebastian handed her her coat, and off they went, back to London. Apparently, the question of whether she'd come along or not wasn't even debatable anymore.

Emma sat next to Sebastian inside the carriage, her gaze sweeping over Ciel as he was reading the Queen's letter once again. 

“You do realize I didn't even get to pack anything, right?“ Looking up at her mate—she still only had a very loose definition of the word—she found his crimson eyes on her. That happened more frequently now that he was looking at her seemingly all the time. Or maybe she had just never noticed before.

“Do not worry, my dear,“ Sebastian replied, voice like velvet, and inclined his head. “I took care of that for you.“ 

“Right,“ she snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes. “I forgot. You choose his outfits.“ She nodded toward Ciel. “So of course you'll choose mine as well, right?“

“How perceptive.“ 

“It's called logic.“

“Are you two quite done?“ Ciel interrupted, clearly not amused with their conversation. He put the letter into the inner pocket of his coat, and she briefly wondered why he'd read it so often. This had to have been the third time today, at the very least. 

She, of course, hadn't needed to hear what Queen Victoria had written. The children were going missing in whatever town the Noah's Arc Circus visited, vanishing without a trace in the middle of the night. The knowledge made her worry, because what the hell was she supposed to do now? Should she just tell Ciel about it all? About who the circus people were, about the old dude in the wheelchair, and what he was hiding in his basement? About the creepy doctor harvesting children's bones? If she'd speak up, she'd save lives. Not only those of the children, but maybe even the lives of the troupe. Their deaths had been... tragic, and nothing more. Emma would also spare Ciel a deeply traumatic trip down memory lane if she'd just open her mouth and tell them, but something was holding her back. 

What if she was just supposed to be an observer? Every single piece of media that covered time travel had taught her to stay the fuck away from changing anything. But then again, she didn't even know if she time-traveled or if she went through worlds. For whatever reason, time travel didn't sound as crazy, so she preferred to go with that option. And that would mean she couldn't just change the events of what was happening because, seriously, she could fuck up the whole future in the process! 

The other thought Emma had was that maybe she was in an alternative timeline, since she was here but obviously hadn't been in the anime or manga. That meant her sole existence in this very moment was changing the events of things without her even doing it actively. Maybe things wouldn't go as she remembered them, simply because she was here?

God, she was getting a headache.

The file room of Scotland Yard smelled of old paper, ink, and dust — the kind that clung to one’s clothes and made every breath taste faintly of time. Rows upon rows of shelves reached up to the high ceiling, packed with manila folders and worn ledgers. A single gas lamp flickered dimly, throwing restless shadows across the walls, and the only open window breathed in the chill of London’s early spring air.

Emma had to admit, it was not only hilarious to see other people be intimidated by Ciel Phantomhive — like poor Abberline right now — but it also gave her the faintest, traitorous thrill of power. She knew none of it was truly hers; all her authority was borrowed, wrapped up in the titles and forces that surrounded her. But that didn’t matter much. She was mated to a demon, and the Earl of Phantomhive was her… what, exactly? Brother? The word friend didn’t feel strong enough, and guardian was all kinds of wrong. She doubted he’d ever admit to them being as close as siblings, though.

“It's very convenient that Sir Arthur is out,“ Ciel said, his voice smooth and commanding enough to make even the shadows listen.

Emma snickered softly at the sight before her. The two of them looked utterly out of place in the Yard — and completely at home regardless. Ciel stood tall and confident, one gloved hand propped on his hip, the other loosely resting on his walking stick like a miniature king overseeing his domain. And, naturally, Sebastian had matched their attire perfectly. It had taken Emma all of two steps out of the carriage to realize her coat had been tailored to complement Ciel’s — grey wool trimmed with the same rich shade of blue that the young earl favored. They even looked like they belonged to the same household, which, she supposed, wasn’t far from the truth anymore.

“Please, stop,“ Abberline pleaded beside them, wringing his hands halfway between protest and panic. “If the Commissioner finds out—”

“Just make sure he doesn’t, then,“ Ciel replied without even glancing his way.

Emma grinned at the exchange, stifling a laugh. He sure liked teasing that poor man.

The three of them stood watching Sebastian, who was crouched in front of one of the tall shelves, crimson eyes scanning through files with casual precision. He looked entirely at ease in this place where he absolutely shouldn’t be — as if trespassing in a government building were merely another errand between teatime and dinner.

“Listen, this is the third floor!” Abberline continued, gesturing wildly. “How did you even get in here?!”

Emma’s gaze flickered toward the open window, white curtains billowing in the cool night wind, and her palms immediately went clammy at the memory.

It had been her first time traveling à la demon, and she could now say with confidence: never again, if she could help it.

Ciel had gone first, of course — scooped effortlessly into Sebastian’s arms, his expression bored even as the demon leapt upward, three stories high, as if gravity were more of a mild inconvenience than a law of nature.

Then Sebastian had returned for her.

Before Emma could so much as protest, his gloved hands had caught her around the waist, lifting her clean off the ground.

“Do try not to scream,” he had said mildly, as though offering a polite reminder. “It would alert the Yard.”

Her breath had hitched. “Wait—Sebastia—!”

The world had tilted before she could finish. The air had rushed past her ears in a roar, her stomach dropping as if she’d been hurled down a roller coaster — only this was up, into the sky, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She had squeezed her eyes shut, one hand clutching instinctively at his shoulder, the other gripping air.

When her feet had touched solid floor again, she didn’t dare move at first. Her legs had felt like jelly.

“Are you unwell, my lady?” Sebastian’s tone had been infuriatingly calm.

“Unwell?!” she had hissed, opening one eye to find both Ciel and Sebastian looking perfectly unruffled. “You could have warned me!”

“I did,” Sebastian had said with a faint smirk.

Ciel had tilted his head slightly, lips twitching with amusement. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Oh, shut up,” she had muttered, crossing her arms. “You’ve been doing that for three years.”

The memory made her shudder softly, even now.

Ciel completely ignored Abberline’s continued protests. “Well, Sebastian?”

“You sure are impatient,” Emma murmured, shaking her head.

Ciel only scoffed, the barest flicker of amusement in his blue eye.

“No bodies have been found that match the missing persons reports,“ Sebastian replied, straightening smoothly with a single file in hand.

“We’ll leave when you’re finished copying,“ Ciel said, turning slightly. “And we might as well borrow the photos.“

“You can’t do that!“ Abberline sputtered, throwing up his hands.

Emma crossed her arms, eyebrow arching. “And you want to stop him?“

The man’s mouth opened, then closed again.

“If you get found out, just say I took them,“ Ciel said coolly, taking the file from Sebastian’s gloved hands.

“That’d get me into more trouble!“ Abberline said, half in despair.

“Listen… Underline, is it?“ Ciel asked, without missing a beat.

“It’s Abberline!”

“You’ve been a great help,“ Ciel continued serenely, as if Abberline hadn’t spoken. “We appreciate your cooperation.“

“Oh, please,“ Emma muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes as she turned toward the door.

Behind her, Ciel’s voice rang out one last time: “Hurry and get yourself promoted, Abberline!“

Sebastian followed, the faintest shadow of a smirk ghosting over his features.

As they stepped into the corridor, Emma glanced at Ciel and shook her head. “You just like him because he’s easier to deal with than the other one.“

“Naturally,“ Ciel replied, tone perfectly deadpan.

Their next stop was the Undertaker’s shop — a surprise to absolutely no one.

Without even pausing at the door, Ciel pushed it open. “Are you here, Undertaker?”

“Is he ever not here?” Emma murmured under her breath, her voice soft but edged with unease. The air inside was thick and stale, the faint scent of dust and wax mingling with something metallic underneath. She instinctively stepped a little closer to Sebastian when she noticed how dark it was.

Last time, there had at least been some light. Now, only a few scattered candles flickered on top of coffins and dusty shelves, their flames trembling in the still air. The shadows between them stretched long and deep, swallowing most of the room.

Walking between Ciel and Sebastian, Emma followed the faint trail of candles laid out like a morbid runway on the floor. When the heavy door shut behind them with a deep thud, she flinched despite herself. Sebastian’s hand found the small of her back — steady, deliberate.

She knew it shouldn’t have the effect it did, but the simple touch grounded her instantly, even as a low, rattling laugh echoed from somewhere ahead — the Undertaker’s signature cackle, bouncing eerily off the walls until it was impossible to tell where it came from.

When she moved to follow Ciel deeper into the gloom, Sebastian’s arm slipped around her waist, holding her back firmly against him.

“What are you—”

He hushed her softly, and together they watched Ciel advance alone into the faint ring of candlelight ahead.

“Welcome, my lord!” The Undertaker’s voice erupted from the darkness, followed by a clattering sound — something hollow striking the ground. Emma’s gaze darted down just in time to see a skull rolling across the floor, its grin catching the light as it bounced toward Ciel’s boots.

The boy sidestepped, less graceful than he would've probably liked, the skull continuing its grim little journey until it collided with a pile of bones in the far corner, sending them toppling like pins in a bowling alley.

“Is today the day you’ll condescend to enter one of my special coffins?”

Emma spun around and nearly jumped out of her skin — the Undertaker was standing right beside the door. Which meant… they had walked straight past him.

“Fucking creepy,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Sebastian’s arm was still looped securely around her waist; she doubted he even realized.

“Look, you—” Ciel began sharply, but was immediately interrupted by the silver-haired man’s cheerful drawl.

“Please, have a seat. I have a batch of biscuits fresh from the oven.”

Each of them took a seat on a coffin — Emma only after double-checking that there wasn’t an actual body inside.

“Morbidly comfortable,“ she muttered, smoothing her skirt as she sat down.

Ciel perched neatly on another coffin beside her, while Sebastian remained standing, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“You truly never sit, do you?” she asked him, watching how easily he seemed to blend into the gloom.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “A butler’s place is to serve, not to rest, my lady.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, even furniture gets to stand still sometimes.”

The Undertaker’s laugh broke through their exchange. “Ah, but this one is hardly furniture, my dear.” He glided closer, carrying a tray of steaming tea and oddly shaped biscuits. “He’s far too well-stitched for that.”

“Thank you... I think,” she replied warily, taking the offered cup. The porcelain was cracked, and the tea smelled vaguely like flowers and smoke.

The Undertaker tilted his head, peering at her with the same keen curiosity he always seemed to have. “Your threads are as tangled as ever. Dark hues... bright ones, too. What a fascinating weave you are.”

Emma blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or deeply unsettled. “That’s... uh. Great?”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked toward them. “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from toying with her threads, Undertaker.” His voice was smooth, but his eyes were sharp.

“Oh, touchy, touchy,” the mortician teased. “You guard her quite closely, don’t you?”

Sebastian gave a courteous half-bow, the hint of a smile curling his lips. “I merely protect what my master values.”

Ciel’s spoon clinked against his teacup — the sharp sound snapping the tension in the air. “Enough. We’re not here for your nonsense.”

Emma set her cup aside, appetite long gone, and focused on the exchange as Ciel began his explanation.

When the Undertaker finally murmured, “Children’s bodies, hm?” and took a bite of his bone-shaped biscuit, she could almost feel the shift in Ciel’s mood — the subtle closing off of his expression. The hint of something old in his eyes.

She wanted to reach out, but before she could, Ciel stood and strode toward the counter, voice cool and steady.

“I’ve brought their information. Did you take care of any of these children?”

Sebastian stepped forward and laid the files before the Undertaker, and Emma rose with them, her cup and plate untouched.

The mortician’s silver hair shimmered faintly in the dim candlelight as he leaned closer, chin resting on the wooden counter. “I feel as though I might remember, if I saw something entertaining...”

“Not again,” Emma groaned under her breath, arms folding across her chest.

Ciel’s expression hardened. The exchange between the two of them felt almost rehearsed at this point — the same macabre routine.

“You know what I want, my lord. Give it to me!” the Undertaker all but sang, that wicked grin stretching unnervingly wide.

Emma looked from him to Ciel, her brows drawing together. “You’re seriously going to—”

But Ciel had already turned to them, tone firm and unyielding. “Sebastian. Emma. Out.”

She blinked. “Wait, what? Alone with him?”

The earl didn’t even glance her way as he repeated, quieter this time, “Out.”

Sebastian touched her elbow gently, guiding her toward the door despite her muttered protests.

“Fine, fine,” she huffed, shooting one last uneasy look toward the boy she’d come to care for. “Try not to let the creep bury you alive.”

Sebastian’s low chuckle followed her out — soft, dark, and amused.

The door to the Undertaker’s shop shut behind them with a soft click, sealing Ciel inside with that infuriating laughter. For a long moment, neither Emma nor Sebastian spoke. The afternoon air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from somewhere far off, and the dim hum of London life filtered faintly through the alley — distant carriages, a barking dog, a church bell striking the hour.

Emma crossed her arms and exhaled through her nose, watching a pale sliver of dust swirl in the sunbeam beside the door. “He does realize he isn’t the funniest person alive, right?” she said finally, tone dry as sandpaper.

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, the ghost of amusement tugging at the corners. “I imagine he is well aware, my dear. However, my young master does possess one undeniable talent—”

She raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“Persistence,” he replied smoothly, gloved hands folding neatly behind his back. “He will not leave until the Undertaker’s laughter cracks the walls. I would wager my coat on it.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “So, in other words… we’re going to be here a while.”

“Indeed.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind tugging at the hem of her coat. She adjusted it around herself and stepped a bit closer to the wall, the sun slanting low enough now to paint everything in a deep golden-orange hue. It caught in her hair, and Sebastian’s gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before flicking back to the door.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Is this what you usually do? Wait outside while he… charms information out of people?”

Sebastian chuckled, low and rich. “Hardly. Most mortals cannot resist his charm long enough to require such effort.”

“Mortals,” she repeated with mock offense. “You do realize that includes me, right?”

“I am quite aware.” His tone was light, but there was a note of something else beneath it — something almost fond.

Emma sighed and leaned her shoulder against the wall, letting her body relax a little. “Well, I don’t know about charm, but he’s got nerve. I could never walk into a place like this, tell a creepy man I wanted information, and then sit there waiting until he laughed himself sick.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Sebastian murmured.

She looked up at him. “Do I?”

His eyes caught the orange light of the setting sun, glinting like garnet. “You have faced far worse than a mortal's games, my dear. And you did not falter then.”

Emma’s lips curved slightly, unsure if he was teasing or serious. “You really know how to make that sound like a compliment and a warning at the same time.”

He inclined his head. “A useful skill.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy, filled with the sounds of dusk. Somewhere down the street, a bell chimed again. The shadows were stretching longer now, the faint glow of lamplight beginning to bleed through the city haze.

She crouched down and finally just sat on the low stone ledge beside the shop door. “You know what? I give up pretending to be proper. I'm sitting.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You mortals are fragile things.”

She glanced up. “You always say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckled quietly. “On the contrary. It makes your resilience all the more fascinating.”

“You’ve been quiet since the other night,” he said. “I assume you’ve been… thinking about what you saw.”

She blinked up at him. “You mean—”

“My true form,” he finished smoothly. His tone wasn’t teasing this time — if anything, there was a hint of caution beneath it. “Most humans who witness even a glimpse of it tend to scream. Or faint. Or pray.”

Emma frowned softly, pushing a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. “I didn’t run screaming.”

“No,” he said, studying her. “But you did tremble.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped herself. “Yeah. I did.”

The honesty in her voice seemed to catch him off guard. He shifted slightly, shadows cutting sharp across his face.

“I’ve seen it before,” she continued. “In my world, I mean. Drawings, scenes, fanart—whatever you want to call it. You were terrifying even there. But it’s… different seeing it in front of you.”

His eyes glinted faintly crimson in the fading light. “Because then, I was fiction. Safe to admire.”

She met his gaze, her throat tightening. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “Back then, I could convince myself it was all pretend. Now…” She trailed off, fingers curling slightly against her coat. “My brain knows you’d never hurt me. Knows nothing can hurt me with you there. Ciel wouldn’t let that happen. You wouldn’t let that happen. But my body hasn’t caught up yet. It still reacts like I’m prey.”

He stepped forward, slow enough for her to notice each subtle shift of weight. “Prey,” he echoed, voice silken, amused. “That is… a curious way to put it, my dear.”

Her pulse skipped — once, sharply.

Before she could retreat, he had crouched down before her, his gloved hands pressed flat against the wall beside her head, leaning in just enough to cage her in with his arms and knees on either side of her. The shadows lengthened over his features, but his eyes — that deep, unnatural crimson — burned bright. His pupils slimmed as he fixed his gaze on her face.

“Then tell me,” he murmured, his voice low and measured, “if your body betrays you so, what does it do now?”

The question shouldn’t have sent a shiver racing down her spine, but it did. Her breath caught, heartbeat tripping over itself as his gaze sharpened, unblinking.

Her voice came out quieter than intended. “Sebastian…”

He bared just a hint of fang when he smiled — not mocking, but deliberate. “Hmm. Elevated heart rate. Shallow breathing.” He leaned a fraction closer, his tone a velvet purr. “Fascinating.”

Her fingers clenched into the fabric of her skirt. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

For a moment, the air between them was taut — heat and tension woven into every breath. But Emma didn’t look away.

Her pulse roared in her ears, her body screaming danger, and yet—she forced herself to stay still. To breathe. To meet those inhuman eyes head-on. If her body was going to keep betraying her, then maybe she needed to teach it better.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one hand between them. Her fingers trembled only slightly as she let them hover near his chest, then rise toward his face. Trust him, she told herself. He’s your safety, not your threat.

Sebastian didn’t move at first. His gaze followed the motion, the crimson burning brighter, his fangs still visible when he spoke—low, silken, and intent.

“Brave little thing,” he murmured. “You challenge your instincts instead of yielding to them. Do you know how rare that is among humans?”

Her fingertips brushed the edge of his jaw, tentative but steadying. The texture of his skin beneath her touch was cool, unnaturally smooth. Her breath hitched—but she didn’t pull away.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “my body just needs to learn you.”

Something flickered in his expression—amusement, pride, something darker she couldn’t quite name. His gloved hand rose slowly, the back of it grazing her cheek. The touch was achingly gentle, a sharp contrast to the demonic fire in his eyes.

“Then allow me to teach it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

He traced the line of her jaw with a touch so careful it almost felt reverent, his thumb pausing just below her ear where her pulse beat furiously. “See?” he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. “It trembles for me, but it does not run.”

She swallowed hard. “It’s… trying to catch up.”

His lips curved, a small, knowing smile. “As all things eventually do.”

Then he leaned in—not enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the faint stir of his breath against her skin, smell the faint hint of smoke and spice that always seemed to cling to him. His voice, when it came again, was a dark purr against her ear.

“Do not fight the fear,” he murmured. “Let it exist. But remember—it bends to you. Not the other way around.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a second, she could almost believe that the predator before her wasn’t dangerous. Or perhaps, that his danger was precisely what made her feel alive.

When she opened them again, his eyes had dimmed back to their usual warm red-brown, his smile once more composed. He straightened, smoothing his gloves as though nothing had passed between them at all.

“Better,” he said simply.

Emma exhaled shakily, pulse still hammering. “You’re—” she started, then huffed out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Frequently,” he replied, that damned smirk returning like nothing had happened at all.

She glared up at him — though her pulse still hadn’t settled — and muttered, “You enjoy this way too much.”

“I enjoy you,” he corrected easily. “There’s a difference.”

She had no answer for that.

Time stretched. The streetlights flickered to life one by one. The last light of sunset burned away, replaced by the dusky purple of evening. Emma found herself rubbing her arms for warmth, the night air growing cooler.

Sebastian startled her as he moved closer, his coat brushing against her shoulder as he leaned slightly down. “You should not sit on cold stone for too long, my mate,” he murmured, and grabbed her hands in his. Then he pulled her to her feet.

The word—mate— didn’t sting this time. It didn’t make her heart leap into her throat or her stomach twist the way it once had. It just was. Familiar now. Grounded.

She looked up at him, half-smiling. “You said that on purpose.”

“I may have,” he admitted, his gaze flicking down to meet hers. “I wanted to see if you would flinch again.”

“Well,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, “hate to disappoint you, but I think I’m over that part.”

A pause. Then, softly: “Good.”

The moment lingered — quiet, heavy with the sound of the night creeping in.

Then, from behind the door, came a muffled sound. Faint at first, then unmistakable — laughter. Loud, unhinged, echoing like something out of a nightmare.

Emma straightened, looking toward the noise. “Finally,” she muttered. “About time.”

Sebastian smiled — a sharp, knowing curve of lips — before turning toward the door. “Shall we?”

“After you, mate,” she said dryly, brushing off her coat and falling into step beside him as the last traces of daylight disappeared behind them.

Chapter Text

That Lady, whipped

Back inside the Undertaker’s shop, the air was thick with the scent of dust and candle wax. Ciel stood in the center of the room, looking as though he’d just returned from a battlefield rather than a conversation. His coat was discarded over a coffin lid, his hair ruffled beyond repair, and his breathing heavy enough that Emma could hear it across the room.

She blinked. What the fuck did he do to make the Undertaker laugh?

“Ah!” The Undertaker outright giggled, clutching his sides. “I would’ve never imagined the Earl of Phantomhive would go that far!”

“How far?!” Emma demanded immediately, hurrying toward Ciel.

“What in the world did you do?” Sebastian’s tone was calm as ever, but the faint arch of his brow betrayed curiosity. He began straightening Ciel’s clothes with methodical precision, while Emma’s far more chaotic approach involved fussing over the boy’s hair, her fingers combing through the tangled strands. Even his face was flushed, beads of sweat glinting in the dim candlelight.

“Don’t ask,” Ciel muttered, refusing to meet either of their eyes. Still, he didn’t push them away.

Sebastian’s grin sharpened as he retied the young lord’s bow tie. “Still, if you’re willing to put on a show for the Queen’s sake,” he said smoothly, “you really are a dog.”

Ciel’s visible eye snapped open in outrage at the exact moment Emma’s foot connected sharply with Sebastian’s shin. She knew perfectly well it wouldn’t hurt him, but the message landed nonetheless.

“Shut it!” Ciel barked, cheeks still tinged pink.

Emma couldn’t help herself — she reached up and brushed his cheek affectionately with her thumb, the gesture soft enough to earn a suspicious glance from the boy. Then she stepped aside, allowing Sebastian to drape Ciel’s coat back over his shoulders with practiced ease.

“All right, I’ve paid your fee,” Ciel said, turning toward the Undertaker, who was half-sprawled across his counter, shoulders shaking with leftover laughter. “Tell me about the children.”

“They’re nowhere,” the Undertaker replied breezily, and for a moment, silence stretched between them — three pairs of eyes staring at the deranged mortician in disbelief.

“...Sorry?” Sebastian said finally, his tone polite but dry. 

“None of them were my customers,” the Undertaker clarified, propping his chin in his palm, a wide grin still etched on his face. “And there aren’t any rumors either.”

“In other words, you don’t know a thing about this?” Ciel asked, stepping forward again, his voice sharp with impatience.

“I beg to differ,” the Undertaker sing-songed, grin widening. “I know that I don’t know.”

Sebastian sighed softly beside Emma, folding his arms. “True. If you don’t know, that would mean no one in the underworld killed them.”

“If their bodies haven’t been found in either circle,” Ciel said, his expression shifting as realization dawned, “they’re still alive. In which case…” His voice steadied, resolve slipping into place. “I suppose our only choice is to personally investigate the circus.”

He turned sharply, his gaze brushing Emma’s for the briefest moment — just long enough for her to see that familiar spark of determination in his eye — before he swept past both her and Sebastian toward the door.

“Circus,” Emma muttered under her breath, following after him, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Fun.”

Sebastian’s quiet chuckle followed her out, dark and amused.

They reached the circus grounds shortly after the night had fully settled, and Emma’s breath caught in her throat.

It was like stepping into another world — one spun from color and fire and laughter. Lanterns hung from poles like captured stars, casting soft halos over the crowd. Children darted between adults with sticky sweets in their hands, and the faint music of a calliope floated through the air, bright and eerie all at once.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this kind of wonder.

“My lady,” came Sebastian’s smooth voice beside her, tugging her back from her reverie. His crimson eyes glimmered faintly in the warm light. “You look as though you’ve never seen a circus before.”

Emma smiled faintly, still watching a pair of acrobats tumble through the air above a practice rope. “That’s because it’s been forever since the last time. Circuses are… kind of controversial where I come from. Animal rights movements and all that.” She paused, her tone softening with nostalgia. “I think I was seven or eight when I last went to one.”

Sebastian’s brow arched slightly. “How tragic. A childhood deprived of cheap thrills and questionable safety standards.”

That earned him a small laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Trust you to find joy in chaos, Sebastian,” Ciel muttered from between them, his gaze flicking over the crowd with calculated disinterest. His top hat tilted low enough to hide most of his face, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed his amusement. “Don’t let the lights fool you. This isn’t a playground. We’re here for information.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sebastian replied, the picture of obedience — except for the teasing lilt that slipped in as he glanced at Emma. “Still, it would be a shame not to let my lady enjoy herself a little. It’s been… a long day.”

Emma met his gaze, catching that deliberate undertone. “You make it sound like you’re offering to buy me popcorn.”

He tilted his head. “Would that be… improper?”

Ciel let out a small, exasperated sigh and started walking toward the main tent. “A servant buying a lady popcorn? I couldn't imagine why.”

Emma snorted at the boy's sarcasm. “Why do we always end up discussing whether things are proper or not? I am not.“

“As you love to remind us,“ Ciel muttered and poked her tongue out at him in an impulse of childishness. 

Inside the great blue tent, the three of them found seats near the back — a vantage point that offered both distance and discretion. But even from here, Emma could tell this circus was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

“This is quite elaborate,” Sebastian murmured beside her, as if reading her thoughts.

He wasn’t wrong. Instead of the rickety benches and uneven dirt floors she remembered from childhood, the place was built like a grand amphitheater — cushioned seats rising in a perfect circle, with sturdy stairways winding between them. Gas lamps gleamed overhead, painting the tent in swirls of gold and sapphire light. It must have been a nightmare to assemble and disassemble this much splendor every time they moved.

Sitting down, Emma leaned slightly to look past Sebastian at Ciel. The boy was unusually quiet, eye wide with what looked suspiciously like childish wonder as he handed his hat to Sebastian. The sight made her smile.

When the lamps dimmed and the music began, the tent erupted in color and motion. Joker stepped into the light first — flamboyant, handsome, and alive with energy. His painted grin gleamed under the spotlight, his eyes glinting with mischief. Even Emma, who knew how his story would end, felt a tug of reluctant admiration.

She had to admit, though — the prosthetic hand was far more unsettling in reality. It gleamed faintly in the lamplight, pale and too smooth, the knowledge of what it was made from curdling in her stomach.

As the show went on, Emma fought a losing battle between awe and dread. Her mind refused to stop replaying what she knew — that every performer she saw tonight was already walking toward their death.

The fire-breather strode into the ring next, exhaling a great plume of orange flame that kissed the top of the tent. Gasps and applause echoed all around. Then came Peter and Wendy — two agile acrobats whose bodies moved in impossible unison as they leapt from one swing to the next, their laughter bright and fleeting as candlelight.

Dagger followed, knives glinting between his fingers as he sent them spinning with flawless precision, each blade slicing the air before burying itself in the wooden target. The crowd roared.

And then Doll — soft-looking, graceful Doll — stepped onto the high rope. Her pale hair shimmered like silk as she danced above them, a haunting silhouette against the glow of lanterns.

“They’re skilled,” Sebastian noted quietly, his gaze sharp despite his calm posture.

Ciel leaned back in his seat, expression calculating. “But there’s no sign of coercion. If the missing children were taken here, they’re not being forced to perform.”

“So the disappearances might simply coincide with the circus’s travels?” Sebastian suggested mildly.

“Perhaps,” Ciel murmured. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Emma listened silently, fingers twisting together in her lap. The tension in her chest refused to ease — some instinct deep in her bones whispering that the laughter and music were a mask, that all of this beauty was built atop something rotten.

Then the next act began.

A woman stepped into the ring, tall and striking, her black hair tied up, a scarlet whip coiled loosely in her hand. The crowd erupted in cheers.

The first crack of the whip sliced through the air.

Emma flinched.

She told herself it was nothing — just the sound, just instinct — but when the second crack came, sharper this time, something inside her twisted. Her throat tightened. The smell of sawdust and smoke was suddenly replaced by the sting of sweat and iron and old fear.

Don’t. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But the sound came again — a whip tearing through air, striking something soft — and her body betrayed her. Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled. The tent around her blurred, and before she could stop it, the past clawed its way through.

Rope biting into skin.

A cry torn from her throat.

Hot, stinging pain spreading down her back as she twisted, trying to get away.

The sound of laughter — cruel and distant.

Blood, slick and warm, running down her sides as she begged for it to stop.

She blinked, hard. The tent swam back into focus. The applause was deafening. Her chest was too tight to breathe.

She didn’t realize she was shaking until Sebastian moved. Without a word, he stood, the movement smooth and deliberate — but she caught the brief flicker of crimson in his eyes as he glanced down at her. He’d noticed. Of course he had.

He was being called to the arena — a spectator’s participation, just as in the show — and as he descended the stairs, his hand brushed her cheek. It was a fleeting touch, but enough to ground her. Cool fingers against burning skin, despite his gloves.

Emma swallowed hard, eyes trained on his back as he moved down the stairs.

She scooted closer to Ciel, her heartbeat still thundering in her ears. He was too busy watching Sebastian with a victorious smile to notice.

Oh right, she thought, a shaky breath escaping her. He thinks Sebastian’s investigating.

And sure enough, the moment unfolded exactly as she remembered — Sebastian walking straight past Joker and Beast, kneeling before the tiger with something close to reverence. His hand sank into the creature’s fur, stroking its massive head as though it were a housecat.

Beside her, Ciel went rigid. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed silently but with force nonetheless. “Tigers are cats!”

That did it. Emma burst out laughing, half from genuine amusement, half from relief. Her laughter came out a little shaky, but the absurdity of it all — the elegant demon with his head halfway in a tiger’s mouth, the mortified young earl beside her — broke through the lingering panic.

She wiped at her eyes, still chuckling. “Only you two could turn a circus act into a comedy show.”

They barely made it out of the tent when Ciel started his usual complaining.

“I didn’t tell you to go that far,” he snapped, glaring at Sebastian, who looked far too pleased for someone who had nearly been eaten by a tiger.

“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” the demon replied smoothly, his lips curving in amusement. “Though I must admit, even after centuries of experience, cats remain wonderfully unpredictable.”

“It was a tiger, Sebastian,” Emma muttered under her breath. “What did you expect?”

Ciel shot her an exasperated look, but before he could retort, he was interrupted by a sudden, violent sneeze.

“Ah—! You know I’m allergic to cats!” he barked, waving his walking cane in Sebastian’s direction as if warding him off. “Keep your distance.”

Sebastian halted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “As you command, my lord.”

Emma hid a small smile. “Don’t worry,” she said lightly, glancing back at Sebastian. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The demon’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly — displeasure tightening the line of his jaw — but Emma pretended not to notice. She caught up with Ciel instead, her boots crunching lightly against the gravel as they walked toward the carriage. She wasn’t in the mood to talk about what had happened inside the tent. Not yet. And besides, Sebastian would need to stay behind to secure their access to the circus; best not to be in his way while he worked his charm.

The carriage door closed behind her with a soft thud, muffling the distant laughter and music from the circus. The air inside was still, carrying the faint scent of hay and smoke from the tents outside.

Ciel settled into the seat across from her, one leg crossed neatly over the other. His hat lay beside him, and his visible eye was sharp — studying her more intently than she liked.

For a while, they sat in silence. Emma traced her gloved finger along the condensation on the window, watching the blurred shapes of people move in the lamplight outside.

Finally, Ciel spoke. His tone was casual, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“You froze,” he said simply. “Back in the tent. When that woman brought out the whip.”

Emma’s finger stilled. For a heartbeat, she didn’t answer. Then she sighed and leaned back into her seat, forcing a small, tired smile. “I wondered if you’d noticed.”

“I notice everything,” he replied, a hint of pride lacing his words — though it faded as he added, “You looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, uncertain. For a moment, she considered brushing it off — claiming exhaustion or nerves. But then she remembered how much of him she already knew. His scars, his grief, the fire that had stolen his childhood. There wasn't much she didn't know about him, and yet he knew almost nothing about her.

It felt unfair.

“…When I was a kid,” she began quietly, her voice steady but distant, “I used to get bullied. A lot.”

Ciel blinked, taken aback by her sudden candor. He didn’t interrupt.

“It was a small school in a small village,” she continued. “Everyone knew everyone. Until we moved there. I was the new one — the odd one. My parents never talked to me like a child, so I sounded different. Smarter, maybe. And when kids don’t understand something…” Her lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “…they can be cruel.”

The candlelight flickered against her face as she spoke, but her voice remained calm — detached, almost clinical, as if reciting someone else’s story.

“It started with teasing. Then name-calling. Then, one day, when I was eight… they tied me to a tree. With skipping ropes.” She looked down at her hands, flexing them unconsciously. “And the rest… used the extra ones to whip me. Until I stopped crying.”

Ciel sat motionless, his gaze unreadable.

“That’s why,” she said softly, meeting his eyes again. “When Beast took out that whip, it wasn’t her I saw. It was… them.”

Silence fell again. The sounds of the circus faded into nothing but a dull hum through the carriage walls. She wondered what he'd say; barely anyone knew of this, and their reactions had always been tears. She doubted Ciel would cry for her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual — stripped of the arrogance and sharp wit he so often used as armor.

“People can be vile,” he said simply. “Especially children.” His gloved fingers tightened slightly around his cane. “And yet, you don’t speak of it with hatred.”

Emma shook her head. “What good would it do? They were just… kids. Cruel, sure, but kids. I can’t stay angry forever.” She shrugged. “Doesn't mean I forgive them.“ 

Ciel’s expression softened — not quite sympathy, but something close. He looked out the window, his reflection flickering beside hers in the glass.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said quietly. Then, with a faint, almost wistful smirk, “Perhaps even stronger than me.”

Emma chuckled under her breath. “I doubt that.” However, it was nice to hear. 

Meeting his gaze, he tilted his head slightly. “You do know that you're safe, right? That whip wouldn't have come near you.“ 

Her smile softened. “I know. Rationally speaking. But... Just like your mind sometimes sends you irrational flashes of the past, so does mine.“ 

Ciel’s eye flickered, a subtle shift of emotion crossing his face — not pity, but recognition. He turned his gaze toward the carriage window, watching the lamplight streak across the glass as the wheels rolled over cobblestone.

“…I suppose that makes sense,” he murmured after a pause. “The past has a way of clinging to us. No matter how far we run, it finds us again.”

Emma studied him quietly, the soft clatter of the carriage filling the silence between them. “That’s not something I’d expect you to say,” she admitted. “You talk about moving forward all the time.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Forward is the only direction worth walking,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally look over my shoulder.”

Something in his tone — something fragile beneath the arrogance — made her chest tighten. She wanted to say she understood, but the truth was she did understand, far too well.

“I guess we both know what it’s like,” she said softly, “to be haunted by something that isn’t there anymore.”

He turned back to her, studying her expression with that sharp, perceptive gaze of his. “Perhaps,” he said. “But unlike most people, you don’t let it define you.”

Emma huffed a small laugh, glancing away. “You give me too much credit.”

“Or maybe not enough.”

The words lingered in the air — simple, quiet, but heavy with meaning.

Outside, the night wind whistled past the carriage. The circus music had faded entirely now, replaced by the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels on the dirt road.

Then, as if catching himself being too open, Ciel shifted slightly, tugging at his gloves. “Sebastian will return soon,” he said, his voice back to its usual crisp calm. “He won’t like seeing you upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Emma said, smiling faintly. “Just… remembering.”

Ciel gave a short nod, eyes on the window again. “…Memories can be both a curse and a weapon,” he said. “It depends which hand holds them.”

For a while, neither of them spoke again. But the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable — it was the kind that spoke of quiet understanding, of two people who didn’t need to fill the space with words.

When the door finally opened and Sebastian’s tall silhouette appeared in the lamplight, both Emma and Ciel looked up, the faintest trace of shared warmth still between them.

Chapter Text

That Lady, scarred

The carriage rattled quietly along the darkened road back toward London, the world outside fading into blurred smears of orange and gray. Emma leaned her head lightly against the windowpane, exhaustion heavy in her limbs. Her heartbeat had long since steadied, but that hollow fatigue — the one that always followed — lingered like a weight pressing behind her eyes. It's been so long since she has felt like that, transported back into her childhood as if it had happened just yesterday. To be honest, she had only herself to blame. She knew of Beast, knew of the whip. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to her that it wasn't the best idea for her to enter that stupid tent.

“My apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly from his seat beside her. “I was interrupted before I could make a full circuit around the camp. However…” His crimson eyes flicked briefly toward Ciel. “I intend to return soon and investigate more thoroughly.”

“Of course you do,” Ciel replied dryly, glancing out the opposite window. “Try not to pet any more man-eating cats next time.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched faintly, but his gaze didn’t leave his young master for long. After a moment, he said, in a tone far too calm to be casual,

“There seems to be a rather odd atmosphere in this carriage.” His head tilted slightly, the crimson gleam of his eyes catching in the dim light. “Care to explain why you’re looking at my mate like that, my lord?”

Ciel froze mid-motion, his single visible eye cutting toward Emma before flicking back to the demon. “Why don’t you ask her?” he said evenly, though his fingers twitched against his cane.

Emma blinked, caught between the two. “…Ask me what?”

“Whether she’s told you,” Ciel said, voice clipped but calm.

“Told me what, exactly?” Sebastian asked, and though his words were polite, there was an unmistakable edge beneath them — the kind that warned of protective curiosity.

Emma let out a slow breath, running a hand over her face. “Nothing important.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow. “You call that nothing?”

She gave him a look — tired, but pointed. “I’m too exhausted to repeat the same story twice in one night.”

Something in her tone made Ciel relent, though not without a flicker of defiance. “…Then I won’t tell him,” he said at last, settling back against the seat. “It’s your story, not mine.”

The words hung in the air, unexpected and strangely gentle. Sebastian’s gaze lingered on his young master for a long moment before drifting to Emma again.

“…It’s about what happened in the tent, isn’t it?” he said quietly. Not a question — a statement.

Emma nodded faintly, eyes half-lidded. “You could say that.”

Sebastian’s expression softened by degrees, the sharpness in his demeanor easing as he leaned back. His hand found hers briefly, a subtle touch, his thumb brushing the back of her knuckles. “You should have told me,” he murmured.

“I didn’t feel like making a scene,” she said, managing a faint, humorless smile. “Besides, Ciel handled it well enough.”

At that, Sebastian’s eyes flicked back toward the boy. For a brief second, something unreadable passed between them — a demon’s protective instinct meeting a human’s quiet pride.

Ciel looked steadily back, unflinching. “Someone had to,” he said simply.

The carriage jolted over a cobblestone seam, and the silence that followed was thick but not tense.

Emma sighed softly, closing her eyes. “It's all fine now, okay? No one's hurt, everything's great, and frankly, I'm done with the topic today.”

Her tone was quiet, worn — but steady. There were no 'buts' allowed.

Sebastian regarded her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Rest, my dear,” he said. “We’ll be at the townhouse soon.”

Ciel said nothing more, though when she glanced his way, she caught the faintest hint of something softer in his expression.

Sebastian, meanwhile, shifted just slightly closer to her, letting her lean against his shoulder if she wished. She didn’t protest. 

Back at the townhouse, Emma trailed after Ciel through the grand doors, Sebastian gliding silently behind them. The echo of their footsteps filled the foyer, polished floors gleaming in the low light.

To say that Ciel was unhappy about Sebastian’s chosen plan would’ve been the understatement of the century.

“I’m asking you why that suddenly became the plan!” he snapped, the sharp edge in his voice cutting through the air like glass. He wasn’t shouting, not quite — but he didn’t need to. Every syllable was laced with enough irritation to rattle the chandeliers.

“When,” he continued, spinning on his heel, “did I order you to say that?”

“Does it inconvenience you, my lord?” Sebastian’s tone was a study in composed insolence, smooth as dark silk. He reached out lazily to catch Ciel’s hat midair as the boy threw it without looking.

“Perhaps it inconveniences your mate! Ever thought about that?!”

Sebastian’s head turned with effortless grace, eyes settling on Emma. His expression softened into a perfectly sweet, maddeningly calm smile. “Does it, my dear?”

Emma raised both palms in mock surrender. “Hey. Keep me out of this. I’m just along for the ride.”

Ciel scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, we’ll argue about this later. I’m exhausted. I want to go straight to bed.”

“I second that,” Emma muttered, raising a hand as if voting.

“Certainly, but—” Sebastian began, his voice low and teasing.

He didn’t get to finish. The door to their left burst open with all the subtlety of an explosion.

“Ciel!”

Emma flinched, her already thin patience snapping taut. Oh no, she thought. How could she have forgotten about him?

The young prince practically radiated sunshine and chaos, purple hair gleaming, gold jewelry catching the light as he bounded forward. His grin could have powered London for a week.

Ciel yelped in surprise, instinctively taking a step back. His expression morphed from fatigue to visible despair.

“Ciel! I am so glad you’re here! I’ve been waiting and waiting!”

Behind the human embodiment of noise and joy came Agni, calm and elegant as ever. “Welcome back, Lord Phantomhive and Sebastian.”

Sebastian inclined his head politely, one hand still behind his back, the very picture of a perfect butler. “Prince Soma. Agni. How wonderful to see you both again.”

“Right,“ Ciel sighed, clearly annoyed. “I forgot you are here.“ Soma’s attention shifted immediately — predictably — to the unfamiliar woman beside Sebastian. “Oh! Who is this?” he asked, eyes wide and delighted. “Ciel, you didn’t tell me you had company! Is she your friend? Your fiancée? Your—”

“—None of the above,” Ciel interrupted flatly, already pinching the bridge of his nose again.

Emma blinked, utterly too tired to handle this level of enthusiasm. “Uh. Hi,” she said weakly, attempting a small wave.

Sebastian, of course, swooped in before Soma could dig himself into a social grave. “This is Miss Emma,” he said smoothly. “A distant relative of the Phantomhive family. Her parents, tragically, passed away in a fire last month, and she is now under the young master’s care as his ward.”

The lie rolled effortlessly off his tongue, rich and convincing as honey.

Soma gasped dramatically. “How terrible! You poor thing!”

Before Emma could react, he’d crossed the room in a blur of color and emotion, seizing her hands in his own. “Do not worry! You are safe here! I shall make sure you smile again! Agni, fetch her tea! And sweets!”

Emma blinked, stunned by the sudden onslaught of royal compassion. “I—um—thank you?”

Behind her, Ciel looked one deep breath away from strangling someone. “Soma, she doesn’t need tea. Or sweets. Or you.”

“But Ciel!” Soma whined, clutching at his heart. “She looks so tired!”

“She is tired,” Ciel bit out. “We all are. It’s been a long night, and it’s far too late for—”

“Hospitality?” Soma supplied helpfully.

“—conversation,” Ciel finished with a glare.

Agni, graceful as ever, stepped in with a quiet smile. “Perhaps we could let them rest, Your Highness. The lady looks weary, and the young master has had a long day.”

Emma gave him a grateful nod, her body swaying slightly with exhaustion. “You have no idea,” she murmured.

Sebastian caught her movement instantly. Without a word, his hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back, steadying her. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth but firm. “My lady requires rest. We shall all reconvene in the morning.”

“But—!” Soma began again, only to fall silent under Agni’s gentle, knowing hand on his shoulder, while Ciel was stomping up the stairs. Emma followed him with an apologetic smile.

“It was a pleasure to meet you.“ A small lie, but whatever.

Emma leaned against the wooden door inside Ciel’s bedroom, arms crossed, the faint glow of the bedside candle throwing soft light over the polished furniture. The warm air smelled faintly of tea and wax — a strangely cozy contrast to the storm that had been her day. She watched in silence as Sebastian helped the young earl out of his jacket, every movement so precise it bordered on ritual.

“That pair is as lively as ever,” Sebastian remarked with faint amusement, neatly folding the discarded coat over the back of Ciel’s desk chair.

Emma huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

“I’ll give them up as a bad job,” Ciel muttered, dropping onto the mattress with the graceless fatigue of a child pretending to be a man. His feet barely brushed the carpet, his shoulders drooping beneath the weight of the day. “But your plan is a different matter. Why should I be forced to join the circus, too?”

“You aren’t being 'forced to join',” Sebastian replied smoothly, returning to kneel at the boy’s side. His gloved fingers began deftly unlacing Ciel’s knee-high boots. “You’re passing the test and getting them to admit you.”

A brief glance flicked toward Emma. “Both of you.”

“You’re fine with that?” Ciel asked, peering over his butler’s dark head to look at her.

She shrugged, shifting her weight against the doorframe. “I don’t mind. In case you forgot, I’m just posing as a noble lady.”

“Tch.” Ciel looked away, lips curling in faint annoyance before turning his gaze back to Sebastian. “You joining should be enough. I don’t fancy living in a tent.”

“Are you sure, my lord?” Sebastian’s voice held a note of quiet mischief. He paused mid-motion, smirk ghosting his lips as he looked up at the boy. “Have you forgotten? This is your game. You don’t mind me, your chess piece, deciding my own moves?”

Ciel’s jaw twitched. “I suppose you’re right.” Sebastian resumed unlacing the boots. “But circuses require tricks, don’t they? We can’t do any.”

“Oh?” Sebastian chuckled, standing gracefully as he carried the boots to the wardrobe. “But you seem so good at ‘fetch’ and ‘stay.’”

“What?” Ciel snapped, glaring, and Emma couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips.

“Demon through and through,” she murmured, her voice soft but teasing.

Sebastian ignored her with the faintest lift of a brow, returning to Ciel’s side. “At any rate, do your best at your entrance test tomorrow. As your butler, I’ll give you my heartfelt support.”

That drew a quiet laugh from her. She could picture it perfectly — Ciel covered in bruises, Sebastian feigning innocence. For a moment, she let herself enjoy it, the flicker of humor easing the tightness in her chest.

But when she finally stepped out and crossed the hall to her own room, the heaviness returned.

Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. The only sound was the muffled tick of the clock on the wall and the faint hum of London beyond the window. Emma didn’t bother lighting another candle. She didn’t bother with decorum either — stripping down piece by piece, letting her clothes fall where they wanted. Wrinkles, propriety, appearances… none of it mattered. Not tonight. She didn't even bother with a nightgown.

She let herself collapse face-first onto the mattress, the sheets cool against her fevered skin. Her body felt like lead — every muscle tight, every nerve raw.

She’d held it together through the carriage ride, through the introductions, through Ciel’s banter and Sebastian’s teasing. But now, with no one watching, the ache set in.

Not the kind of ache that came from walking or fighting or being tired — this one lived deeper. A phantom pain that pulsed where old scars lay hidden beneath her skin. Her back stung faintly, a whisper of memory she knew wasn’t real. It didn’t hurt, not truly. But her mind couldn’t seem to tell the difference. The echoes of rope, of sharp air and burning skin, still clung to her.

She pressed her face into her arms, exhaling shakily.

Talking to Ciel had drained her more than she’d expected. Even though she hadn’t told him everything — not even close — the effort of remembering, of detaching enough to speak without breaking, had cost her. That was the cruel paradox of it: to stay in control, she had to disconnect from the emotions that wanted to claw their way back up, but the effort of holding that distance only made her feel more exhausted, more hollow.

For years, she’d trained herself not to feel it — to keep it locked away behind logic and routine. But the circus, the whip, the sound of cracking air — it had ripped that door open, if only a sliver. And now, even with the room silent around her, she couldn’t quite shut it again. Her scars didn’t bleed anymore. But they throbbed with memory.

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing — in, out, steady. Somewhere down the hall, she could hear Sebastian’s quiet footsteps, the murmur of his voice as he tended to Ciel. Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.

Her body slowly began to unclench, though the heaviness in her chest didn’t fade. It never did completely.

“I’m fine,” she whispered to no one, her voice a fragile breath in the dark. “I’m fine.”

She wasn't surprised when a knock sounded at her door a few minutes later. 

For a heartbeat, she thought about pretending to be asleep. But she sighed instead, turning onto her back. The cool air brushed her bare skin, and she shivered before tugging the blanket higher — wrapping the thin sheet around herself, tucking it close over her chest.

“Come in,” she murmured.

The door opened with the softest click, and Sebastian stepped inside, every movement measured, deliberate — not a sound out of place except the faint shift of the floor beneath his boots. His crimson eyes swept the room once, and then his mouth quirked faintly.

“My, my,” he said lightly, tone caught somewhere between amusement and reprimand. “What an impressive mess, my dear. Were you robbed?”

Emma rolled her eyes without lifting her head. “I was tired,” she muttered.

“I gathered as much.” He crouched, effortlessly collecting the trail of discarded garments that led from the door to her bed. “Still, you’ve managed to create more chaos in ten minutes than I’ve seen in this entire household all week.”

“I’m honored.”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at her, one dark brow arched, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “You shouldn’t be.”

He lifted her dress, shaking out the wrinkles before hanging it neatly over one arm. Then came the corset — folded and placed precisely on her vanity — followed by her stockings, which he tucked away without so much as a sigh. It was such an oddly domestic sight: a demon, meticulous as ever, quietly cleaning the mess of someone who had neither the strength nor the will to care.

“I can do that myself tomorrow,” Emma said softly.

“I’m aware.” He straightened, smoothing his gloves. “But I prefer not to let neglect linger overnight. It breeds bad habits.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, muffled by the pillow. “Of course it does.”

For a few seconds, there was only the rustle of fabric and the faint crackle from the candle on her bedside table. Then Sebastian spoke again — the edge of teasing gone from his voice.

“Earlier,” he began, his tone low, careful. “In the tent.”

Emma’s muscles tensed beneath the sheet.

He went on, “You panicked. Badly. The young master now knows what I do not.”

Her fingers tightened on the blanket. “You are jealous,” she said, her voice a weak attempt at humor.

He regarded her for a long moment, eyes unreadable in the candlelight. “That is not the word I would choose,” he admitted quietly. “But… the sentiment may not be entirely inaccurate.”

Something in the honesty of that made her chest ache.

Sebastian continued, stepping closer to the foot of her bed. “I respect that you are too exhausted to speak of it tonight. I will not press you.” His voice softened — not pitying, but sincere. “However, I must insist that, when you are ready, you tell me. I cannot protect you — not properly — if I do not know what wounds may be struck in your mind as easily as on your body.”

By now, she had pushed herself up, the blanket wrapped tightly around her frame, knuckles white where she gripped it to her collarbone. Her gaze met his — steady, though her breathing was shallow.

“I’m not gonna talk about it tonight,” she mumbled, voice barely audible.

Sebastian inclined his head slightly, accepting the answer without protest. But as he straightened, she shifted again — turning slowly on the bed until her back was to him. The sheet slipped down to her waist, baring pale skin lined with scars that caught the candlelight like old parchment creased by time.

Some were faint, healed long ago. Others ran deep, silver and uneven. Whip marks — unmistakable.

Sebastian froze. For once, he said nothing.

The demon who could slice through men without flinching now stood silent, his expression unreadable but his stillness heavy, reverent. His eyes traced the cruel latticework across her back — not in horror, but in a quiet, simmering fury he didn’t let reach his voice.

When he finally spoke, it was softer than she’d ever heard him. “So that,” he murmured, “is what they did.”

Her throat felt tight. She nodded, though he couldn’t see it.

“You can touch them,” she whispered. “If you want to. They don’t hurt anymore.”

For a moment, he didn’t move — as though weighing whether he had the right. Then, with slow precision, he removed his gloves. The faint whisper of fabric sliding off his hands sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

When his fingertips brushed her skin, it wasn’t cold, nor was it invasive. His touch was featherlight — tracing the raised lines as though memorizing them, not for curiosity’s sake, but reverence.

Her breath hitched, but not from fear. There was something grounding in it — the paradox of a demon’s touch feeling more human than most she’d ever known.

“These scars…” he said quietly, “they healed long ago. But the pain tied to them — that does not fade so easily.”

He withdrew his hand, not abruptly, but with care, his gaze lingering not on the scars but on her face as she half-turned toward him again.

“Rest now,” he said, voice gentler than the flickering light. “You’ve done enough remembering for one night.”

She gave a small, exhausted nod, lying back down and pulling the sheet up again.

Sebastian gathered her gloves, placed them neatly beside the candle, and dimmed the flame until only a faint ember glowed.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he said softly from the doorway, pausing once before leaving.

“Goodnight, Sebastian.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Only when she was sure he was gone did she let the first quiet tear slip down her cheek — not from sadness, but from the strange, fragile relief of finally being seen.

Chapter Text

That Lady, balanced

It was still early when they arrived at the circus, the London sky blanketed in a heavy grey that promised rain. The ground was damp beneath their boots, and the air smelled faintly of straw and smoke. Despite the gloom — or maybe because of it — Emma hadn’t felt this comfortable in ages. She was wearing pants. Finally.

The fabric moved freely with every step, and the weight of her braid against her back felt almost rebellious compared to the corsets and petticoats she’d been confined to lately.

Many of the circus performers had gathered to watch the newcomers’ entrance exam. Their faces were a mix of curiosity and mild amusement, though Emma could tell by the subtle murmurs that strangers weren’t a common sight here.

Sebastian stood beside her, smiling like a man thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. In contrast, Ciel looked like he’d rather face a firing squad.

“What a lovely young sprout!” Joker called, giving Ciel a quick once-over. His painted grin widened. “A boy, I reckon?”

“Yes,” Ciel replied smoothly. “I’ve been serving as a pageboy.”

Emma had to admit, she was impressed. Despite being every inch a noble, Ciel had slipped into the role of commoner flawlessly. His posture was looser, less commanding; even his voice carried a subtle roughness that made it believable.

“My name is… er, Finnian.”

Joker’s gaze turned to Emma. Her hair, tied in a loose braid and draped over her shoulder, glowed faintly copper in the weak daylight.

“And who might you be, love?”

“I’m his sister,” Emma said with her most charming smile, reaching out to ruffle Ciel’s hair for effect. “Rosie.”

Ciel stiffened instantly, shooting her a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“What an interesting pair,” Joker chuckled. “An imposing name for the blue-haired boy, and a sweet flower for the sister with the fire hair.”

He planted his hands on his hips, grinning. “Well then, I’ll give you stage names if you pass.”

Which, of course, meant it was time for the test.

It was hilarious. Watching Sebastian casually manipulate Ciel’s knife throws was even better in person than Emma remembered seeing it on her laptop screen. Every blade that should have landed miles off target instead hit dead-center — thanks, of course, to the demon’s invisible interference.

“Do I amuse you, my dear?” Sebastian murmured without looking away from the act, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Immensely,” Emma whispered back, barely containing her laughter behind her hand. Good thing the performers were too focused on Ciel to notice her shaking shoulders.

Her amusement, however, faltered when Joker led them inside the tent.

The scent of sawdust and old canvas filled the air, and the massive space swallowed every sound in a low, echoing hum. The tightrope stretched impossibly high overhead, thin as a thread against the dim light filtering through the tent’s seams.

Her stomach tightened. She couldn’t help wincing as she watched Ciel begin his ascent. His small hands gripped the pole tightly, every muscle tense with focus — and irritation, no doubt. From the ground, it looked utterly reckless.

Sebastian, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life.

Emma had to bite back another laugh when she noticed the faint flick of his fingers — the small pebbles he was tossing to nudge Ciel’s balance, helping him stay upright while making it hurt just enough to keep him annoyed.

When Ciel finally made it across and descended, Joker clapped his hands. “Not bad for a beginner! You’ve got nerves, kid.”

Ciel’s glare said he’d rather bite his tongue than respond.

“Right then!” Joker turned to Emma. “Your turn, Rosie.”

Emma blinked. “My… turn?”

“Everyone’s gotta show what they can do, love. So—” He gestured broadly to the performers still lingering. “What’s your trick?”

She hesitated, glancing at Sebastian, who raised an eyebrow — intrigued. Then at Ciel, who was already rubbing his temples as though anticipating disaster.

“I can ride a unicycle,” she said finally.

That earned a few surprised chuckles from the crowd.

“Oh-ho!” Joker said, delighted. “A lady who can balance, eh? Let’s see it then. We’ve got a few in the back — pick one that suits you.”

A few minutes later, Emma found herself facing the ring, one foot on the pedal of a slightly rusty unicycle that wobbled beneath her hand. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

God, it had been over a decade. She took a deep breath and pushed off.

The first few seconds were shaky — a desperate flail of arms and balance that earned a few stifled laughs from the crew. But then her body began to remember: the pull in her core, the rhythm of the pedals, the way to feel the balance instead of forcing it.

Her movements steadied. She began to circle the ring, faster now, her braid trailing behind her like a ribbon. A flicker of muscle memory took hold, and she lifted one leg, placing her foot on the metal, pedaling with the other — the unicycle gliding forward smoothly.

Sebastian’s eyes widened ever so slightly. His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. Even Ciel looked faintly surprised, though he masked it quickly with his usual scowl.

Then, as she neared the center, Emma shifted her weight, balancing on the wheel itself and “walking” her feet along its edge — slow, deliberate steps that drew murmurs of genuine awe from the small audience. She didn’t last long before losing balance and hopping off with a laugh, steadying the unicycle before it toppled.

“Ha! That was somethin’!” Joker cheered, clapping his hands. “Where’d you learn that, Rosie?”

Emma smiled, breathless. “From a friend — when I was six. She was older, patient enough to teach me. I stopped when she moved away… I haven’t done it since.”

“Well, you’ve still got it, love,” Joker said with a grin. “I reckon the circus could use someone like you.”

She nodded, cheeks flushed from both effort and faint embarrassment, and glanced at Sebastian and Ciel again.

And when Ciel's final test arose, Emma actually had to hold onto Sebastian for balance. Joker had told the boy to smile. 

Both Sebastian and she were shaking with suppressed laughter, her knees bent as she struggled to stand upright. Still, Ciel managed a smile so convincing, for a moment, she wondered if it was real. But she knew better than to ever believe that.

Finally, they were accepted, though, and after putting each of them into a fitting costume (thank goodness, she was wearing pants again), Joker gathered everyone inside the arena to announce the newest additions to the circus. 

“Alright, everyone! We have some new mates joining us!“ 

“This is Black,“ he pointed to Sebastian. Then to Emma, “This is Blaze.“ And finally, to Ciel.“ And the wee one here is Smile.“ 

She nearly toppled over with laughter again, but managed to just smile brightly instead, face flushed with contained amusement. 

They followed Joker through the backstage area, listening as he rattled off rules and anecdotes about life in the circus. The air behind the main tent was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, sawdust, and smoke. Performers hurried past carrying props and costumes; laughter and snippets of conversation bled through the fabric walls.

Emma stayed mostly quiet, her attention half on Ciel and half on the problem ahead. He looked uncomfortable, though he wore his mask of composure like armor. The way people brushed past him — hands casually on his shoulder or back — made her jaw tighten. She had no idea how he managed to endure it. In his place, she’d have lashed out hours ago.

When Joker finally left them to “practice” on their own, the three of them retreated into one of the corners of the main tent. The ground was soft beneath their boots, the light diffuse and warm through the canvas above.

Emma wasn’t the most flexible person, but at least she could reach her toes without much trouble. Ciel, on the other hand…

“I can’t believe the entrance to the private quarters is a tent of poisonous snakes…” he muttered, voice strained with effort. Sebastian stood behind him, pressing lightly on his back to force a deeper stretch. Ciel’s thin legs were spread as wide as possible, but his upper body remained stubbornly upright — his spine as rigid as his pride.

To be honest, Emma thought he’d snap in half before he’d bend another centimeter.

“I must say, young master — or should I say, Smile — your muscles are awfully tight,” Sebastian remarked with a smirk.

Emma huffed a laugh, unable to stop herself.

“Shut up!” Ciel shot back, glaring at her. “Both of you!”

In an attempt to help the poor boy, she mirrored his position, pressing her feet against his. Reaching forward, she took his hands and pulled gently.

Ciel groaned, the sound halfway between frustration and physical agony.

“I suppose we’ll have to rise to the first string to access the private area,” he managed to press out.

“Sure,” she said, one eyebrow arching. “How long are you planning to stay here? For the two of us, that’ll take months. If not longer.”

“We need to know whether the children are—”

“They are not here,” Sebastian interrupted smoothly.

Emma’s stomach sank despite already knowing what he would say. She wished she could be surprised like Ciel, wished she hadn’t known that truth beforehand. It was hard to feel clever when the knowledge came with guilt.

“What?”

“I didn’t sense them in the circus tents at all,” Sebastian said. “Either last night or during today’s tour.”

Emma released Ciel’s hands, rolling onto her back and pushing up into a bridge stretch to ease the tension in her spine while listening to their exchange.

“Still,” Ciel argued, “there is no proof they aren’t involved in the disappearances either.”

Before Sebastian could reply, a voice called from the entrance.

“Well, look at you three — already limbering up!”

Dagger strolled into the tent, twirling a knife between his fingers. His grin was easy, his eyes sharp with mischief.

Their “stretching routine,” if it could be called that, ended there. Within minutes, Dagger had them standing in the open ring, assigning roles and cracking jokes as he did so. Ciel’s and Emma’s parts were quickly established — manageable, if mildly humiliating.

Sebastian, however, couldn’t resist showing off.

He moved with deliberate grace, every motion smooth and inhumanly precise, as though he were made of smoke and shadow. Emma felt the faintest twinge of secondhand embarrassment for the other performers trying to keep up.

She had forgotten many details from Book of Circus over the years, but she remembered this.

When a shadow fell across the tent, she looked up — and her stomach sank.

There, walking effortlessly along the high tightrope, was a man in dark glasses and a perfectly pressed suit. A gleaming scythe glinted faintly in the dim light as he passed overhead.

Suit. William T. Spears. A grim reaper.

Emma groaned under her breath, rubbing her forehead. Of all the people to show up now… she had forgotten how utterly insufferable he was in the third season.

Outstanding.

They were split up afterwards, everyone training on their own for a while, since their skills differed so greatly. Still, Emma noticed, of course, when Sebastian and William snuck out of the tent, and suddenly, she was almost grateful for the reaper having left such a negative mark on her memory, as she had no trouble remembering the overall gist of their conversation. It also helped her to stay put on her unicycle when she saw Ciel hurrying after them a few moments later. She didn't like having them both gone from her sight, didn't like the feeling of being on her own anymore. Lying to herself, pretending it was because she feared for the earl's safety, wouldn't work either, so Emma didn't even try. It was her own safety she feared for, her own lack of power in a place filled with killers. 

In the corner of her eye, she caught Dagger throwing his knives, never even straying a centimeter from the target. If he wanted to, she'd have a knife between her brows before she could even think about dodging. God, she really was useless all on her own. 

Second-stringers helped backstage during the evening shows, which suited Emma just fine — it kept her out of the spotlight and close to the exit. Still, every time Beast’s whip cracked against the floor, the sharp snap made her flinch. No matter how she tried to anticipate it, the sound hit like lightning through her nerves.

Each time she twitched, Sebastian’s eyes flicked to her. Ciel’s followed soon after.

She was fine. Uncomfortable, yes — her skin crawling at every echo — but not panicking. No trembling hands, no shallow breath, no spiral. Fine enough.

When the last act ended and applause rolled through the tent like thunder, she finally exhaled. One more day done. One step closer to what they were here for.

Now came her part. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unnecessary fear that drove her — fear for herself as much as for Ciel. But she didn’t care about the why. She just needed to make sure this went her way.

Outside, the new recruits were gathered. Lantern light cast soft gold over sawdust and canvas, flickering across Joker’s painted smile as he held up a crumpled piece of paper.

“And now,” he announced grandly, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for — tent assignments!”

Just like she remembered, Doll — or Freckles, as she was called here — bounced up beside Joker, waving at the group with infectious enthusiasm. When Joker read Ciel’s name paired with hers, Emma could see the boy stiffen. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Sebastian, naturally, seemed perfectly unconcerned.

Which meant this was her moment.

While Dagger was busy teasing Ciel about being independent — ruffling his hair, laughing at his expense — Emma stepped forward.

“Um, excuse me,” she began, soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know you already planned everything out, but… could I maybe switch tents?”

Joker’s grin twitched. “Switch, huh? That’s a bold ask for a newcomer.”

She twisted her fingers together, lowering her gaze before forcing herself to meet his eyes again. “I’m sure whoever I was paired with is wonderful, truly. But I was wondering if I could stay with my brother instead.”

Joker blinked. “Your brother? That tent’s already full, sweetheart — two beds, no more.”

“We can share one,” Emma said quickly, her tone turning pleading. “It’s just—”

She turned slightly, just enough to draw Joker’s gaze toward Ciel, who was still trying to shrug Dagger off his shoulders.

“The eyepatch,” she whispered. “He pretends he’s fine, but he still… has nightmares sometimes. Wakes up screaming, crying.” She hesitated, voice dropping to a fragile murmur. “He’d hate me for saying it, but— he doesn’t rest much, unless I’m nearby.”

Then she reached out and caught Joker’s hand in both of hers. The motion startled him; his violet eyes widened slightly.

“He’s all I have left,” she said, voice trembling just enough to sound real. “Please. Let me stay with him.”

For a long moment, Joker just studied her face. His grin had softened into something unreadable — part pity, part suspicion.

Behind him, Doll’s expression wavered. She glanced at Ciel, then back at Emma. “It’s no trouble, Joker,” she said gently. 

Joker rubbed his chin with his free hand, then sighed dramatically. “You’re tuggin’ on my last heartstring, love.”

He leaned closer. “But you’d better keep that little brother of yours quiet at night, eh? I don’t wanna hear no screamin’ comin’ from Tent Eight — not unless Beast’s the one causin’ it.”

Emma forced a small, grateful smile. “You won’t hear a thing. Promise.”

“Alright then.” Joker straightened and snapped his fingers toward Dagger. “You heard her — switch ‘em up. The siblings share a tent.”

Ciel shot her a look that could’ve curdled blood.

Inside the tent, Doll — Freckles, Emma reminded herself — tossed a duffel bag onto the top bunk with careless enthusiasm. The canvas creaked under the weight.

God, she’d have to get used to calling her Freckles and thinking of her as a him — at least while Ciel and Sebastian thought so.

“Say,” Freckles said, grinning as she plopped down on the bed she’d claimed, “can I take the top bunk?”

Emma could practically feel the sigh Ciel swallowed back. His composure was a fragile thing, and she almost laughed at how hard he worked to maintain it.

“Be my guest,” he replied, clipped but polite. “I fancy the bottom one myself.”

When Freckles turned her way, Emma smiled lightly. “I sleep where he sleeps.”

That earned a blink from Ciel — half surprise, half exasperation. The bed was small, barely wide enough for one. Emma wasn’t bothered. She knew he’d pretend to be, though he secretly wouldn’t mind at all. They’d shared a bed twice before, and he hadn’t exactly shoved her away either time.

“So, I’ve been noticing all day—you talk really proper,” Freckles said, pointing at Ciel before turning to Emma. “But you don’t! That’s weird.”

Emma smirked faintly. True — her accent had softened since arriving here, but it was still nothing like his perfectly crisp articulation.

“D-do I?” Ciel stammered, darting her a look.

She smiled softly. “He’s been in service for most of his life,” she said, filling the pause for him, “so perhaps that’s why.”

“Only you?” Freckles tilted her head, frowning in confusion.

Emma’s smile faltered. She lowered her gaze, busying herself with the suitcase clasp. “We served the same person,” she said quietly. “Just… in different ways.”

The silence that followed carried a faint chill, the weight of something Freckles couldn’t quite place.

“Ah, well—ask me anything about circus life!” Freckles said quickly, breaking the tension. “I’ve been doing this longer than you two!”

“That’s kind of you,” Emma replied. She sat on the edge of the lower bunk, brushing off her boots before climbing in.

When Freckles leaned down, offering them three sweets from a paper bag, Emma nearly choked on her suppressed laugh. The familiar Funtom logo beamed up at her.

Ciel’s jaw tensed so hard she swore she could hear his teeth grind.

Freckles grinned, oblivious. “No matter how hard training gets, you do your best, yeah? Then you can eat all the sweets you want.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, taking the strawberry one as Ciel reluctantly accepted the caramel.

She unbuttoned her red circus jacket, the bright fabric slipping off her shoulders. Underneath, she wore her performer’s uniform — a black fitted waistcoat over a cream shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The crimson sash around her waist tied neatly into a knot on one side, paired with dark trousers that allowed her to move freely. The entire outfit shimmered faintly in the lamplight, the gold stitching across her vest catching the glow like small sparks — fitting, really, for her stage name: Blaze.

Freckles yawned above them, rolling over with the easy exhaustion of someone used to long days. The creaking bed stilled, and soon her breathing softened into sleep.

The tent dimmed to near-darkness.

Only then did Emma reach for her nightclothes — a simple white shirt and soft trousers. When she glanced at Ciel, he was frozen beside the bed, his back stiff as a board.

His eyes darted to the single lantern, then back to her. “We… have to change here?” he asked, voice caught between disbelief and horror.

Emma lifted a brow. “I don’t think there’s a dressing room, Smile.” 

“I’ll turn around,” he said quickly, spinning on his heel before she could respond. His ears burned pink.

Emma smiled faintly at his back, amused despite the heaviness of the day. “Don’t peek,” she teased softly, pulling her shirt over her head and folding her uniform neatly at the foot of the bed.

“I have no intention of doing so,” he muttered, which only made her grin widen.

Once they’d both changed, Emma crouched to snuff out the lantern’s flame until only a soft ember glow remained. She noticed the faint smudge of white greasepaint still clinging to Ciel’s cheek and reached for a cloth.

“Hold still.”

He blinked up at her as she leaned close, dabbing gently at his skin. “You missed a spot,” she murmured, smiling as the cloth revealed more of the boy beneath the painted mask.

When she brushed near the strap of his eyepatch, she hesitated. “May I?”

He gave a small nod.

She carefully unfastened it, her fingers brushing his temple as she lifted the patch away. Without it, his right eye gleamed in the low light, sharp and unnatural, the mark of his contract faintly visible.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was heavy but calm — a quiet built on trust.

“Why did you do it?” he finally asked in a whisper. “Rooming with me, I mean. You didn’t have to.”

Emma set the cloth aside, folding her hands loosely in her lap. “Because I didn’t like the thought of you being alone here. This place is… different. Dangerous. Even for you.”

Ciel frowned. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” she said softly. “But even the strongest people sleep better knowing someone’s there.”

He looked away, his tone quieter now. “You make it sound as though you don’t trust anyone else.”

She hesitated. “Maybe I don’t.”

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of Freckles breathing above them and the wind rustling the tent flaps.

Then Ciel murmured, “You shouldn’t let your guard down like that, you know. Not even with me.”

Emma smiled faintly, lying down beside him, scooting as far to the edge as possible to give him space. “If I can’t let it down with you,” she whispered, “then with whom can I?”

Ciel didn’t answer — but after a long silence, she felt him turn his back toward her before shifting closer. Her arm snuck around his waist automatically.

“Goodnight, Blaze,” he murmured, the faintest trace of fondness in his voice.

“Goodnight, Smile.”

The tent fell quiet again — three breaths steady in the dark, and a single flicker of lantern light fading slowly to nothing.

Chapter Text

That Lady, protective

Emma woke to Freckles’ persistent voice and a hand shaking her shoulder. The morning air inside the tent was cold and smelled faintly of canvas and damp hay.

“Wake up, wake up!” Freckles urged, far too chipper for the hour. Emma blinked herself into consciousness, squinting at the blurry shape already dressed and grinning down at them.

“You need to get up,” Freckles said again, half laughing now. “Newcomers have to make breakfast.”

Beside her, Ciel made a low, tired sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Emma leaned over him without thinking, reaching across his body toward the small wooden crate that served as a nightstand. She grabbed his eyepatch from the corner and held it out to him before realizing she was still half draped over the earl.

Freckles’ brows lifted. “Well, look at that—awake at last!” she said, hands on her hips as if she’d accomplished something heroic.

Neither of them managed a response before she ducked out through the tent flap, humming to herself.

Emma sat back, brushing a few stray strands of red hair out of her face. “He's far too happy in the mornings,” she muttered.

Ciel exhaled through his nose, voice still gravelly with sleep. “I can’t decide whether that’s admirable or unbearable.”

“Both,” Emma said simply, swinging her legs off the bed.

Ciel was slower to move, rubbing his eyes beneath the fall of his fringe. When he realized they’d need to change again — here, in the small tent with nowhere to hide — his shoulders went rigid.

“We’ll have to…” he began, trailing off, eyes darting toward her and then immediately away.

“Get dressed?” Emma finished, smirking when his ears turned faintly pink. “We’ve done this before, you know. Sort of.”

“I’ll turn around,” he said quickly, voice clipped.

“Of course you will.” She grinned and stood, gathering her folded clothes from the crate. “No peeking, Smile.”

He made a small, irritated sound that only deepened her amusement.

Emma changed swiftly, slipping into her simple commoner’s outfit — a crisp white shirt tucked into dark trousers, a charcoal vest, and a soft brown jacket that had seen better days. Practical, comfortable, and inconspicuous.

Ciel’s clothes were more refined, though still modest. When she noticed him struggling slightly with the eyepatch strap, she moved to help without thinking.

“Here,” she offered quietly, reaching out.

He stepped back instantly, cheeks coloring. “I can manage.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “Suit yourself.”

When he fumbled with his collar next, she hid her grin behind a yawn.

By the time they made it to the makeshift kitchen tent, the air was thick with the smell of porridge and burnt toast. It didn’t take long for Emma to realize Ciel’s culinary skills were… nonexistent.

“Have you ever made breakfast before?” she asked, watching as he glared down at the pot of half-cooked oats like it had personally offended him.

“I have servants for that,” he muttered darkly.

“Not here, you don’t.” She tried not to laugh when his attempt at stirring sent porridge splattering across the stove.

Luckily, Freckles arrived just in time to save them both. “You two look hopeless,” she declared with a grin and quickly took charge, showing Emma how to portion the food and sneaking Ciel a roll from the finished batch.

“Newbies usually eat last,” Freckles said, winking, “but I can be persuaded to bend the rules.”

Ciel looked almost grateful, though he’d never admit it. Emma offered Freckles a warm smile. “Thank you.”

Once breakfast was finished, they joined the others for morning practice. The circus grounds were alive with movement — performers stretching, animals being fed, props being repaired. The smell of sawdust mingled with sweat and the faint sweetness of popcorn oil.

Emma tried to focus on warming up, but she noticed the way Freckles kept glancing toward Ciel. It wasn’t suspicion — it was protective, almost gentle, like she wanted to make sure the quiet boy didn’t get trampled in the chaos.

Ciel, of course, noticed too. His expression wavered between irritation and confusion.

“You’ve made a friend,” Emma murmured as she stretched beside him.

“I don’t need one,” he said curtly, but his ears betrayed him again — faintly red in the morning light.

Hours later, when practice ended and the air turned sticky with humidity, Freckles clapped Ciel on the back. “C’mon, Smile. Time for the showers before dinner!”

“There are showers?“ Ciel asked, happy and relieved for the first time since arriving at the circus grounds. He and Freckles were gone before she could mentally count to five.

Emma stayed behind, scanning the emptying practice grounds. The air had cooled, and the canvas tents swayed softly in the breeze. She spotted a stray blanket draped over a supply crate and took it, clutching it to her chest.

She already knew what was about to happen — could feel it, deep in her chest like the echo of a memory she didn’t want to relive.

And she hated, more than anything, that she couldn’t stop it.

So she sat down near the edge of the tent, the blanket tight around her shoulders, waiting for the inevitable scream.

A few minutes later, Emma heard the sound she’d been dreading — footsteps pounding the packed dirt, followed by the sharp rip of canvas as someone shoved through the tent flaps.

“Ciel?” she called, already on her feet.

He didn’t answer. The boy stumbled into view, dripping wet from head to toe, clothes plastered to his trembling frame. His hair clung to his face; water streamed from his sleeves and down his fingers. One hand clutched his side as though holding himself together, and his eye—wild, unfocused—didn’t see her at all.

“Ciel!”

She caught him just as he nearly collided with a tent pole. He jerked back violently, breath breaking into a ragged gasp, eyes darting toward her touch like a cornered animal.

“Hey—hey, it’s me,” Emma said quickly, holding her hands up. “It’s just me. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”

For a heartbeat, he froze. Then, as recognition flickered across his expression, his knees gave out.

Emma moved without thinking, grabbing the blanket from her shoulders and wrapping it around him. The wool darkened instantly, soaking up the water, but she didn’t care. She pulled him into the shadowed corner of the tent, away from curious eyes and the morning light that felt far too harsh.

“Come here,” she whispered.

They sank to the ground together, Ciel’s small frame shaking violently against her. She rubbed the coarse fabric over his arms, his shoulders, trying to coax some warmth into him. But after a moment, she realized it wasn’t the cold making him tremble.

He was crying. The sound was quiet — a broken, uneven thing that he tried to swallow down, but couldn’t.

Emma’s chest ached.

“Ciel…” she murmured, adjusting the blanket tighter around him.

His voice cracked when it finally came. “H-he was on top of me—” He stuttered over the words, breath hitching. “Pulled my shirt up—laughing— I couldn’t—”

“Hey, shh,” she hushed gently, brushing wet strands from his forehead. “You’re safe now. You hear me?”

He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut as his mind battled between old and new memories. “I—I couldn’t breathe—”

“Shh,” she whispered again, pulling him closer. “Breathe with me, all right? In… and out. Just like that.”

He tried. His breaths came sharp and shallow, but he was trying — that was what mattered.

When he finally lifted his head, his face was pale and blotched from tears, his lower lip trembling despite the effort to still it.

Emma cupped his face in both hands, her thumbs brushing gently against his cold, wet cheeks. Her voice softened, steady as a promise.

“Listen to me, Ciel. As long as I’m with you, no one—” she swallowed hard, her throat tightening— “no one will ever touch you like that. Not ever again.”

He blinked up at her, the words hitting something deep and fragile inside him.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared — wide-eyed and silent — as if the idea of being protected was more foreign to him than pain.

Finally, his shoulders sagged, and he nodded once, barely perceptible. His small hands fisted into the blanket.

Emma sighed softly, pressing her forehead to the top of his damp hair. “You’re safe,” she repeated quietly. “I swear it.”

As she pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, her hand froze. Through the soaked, clinging fabric of his white shirt, she could see it — a faint, jagged mark just beneath his ribs, where the fabric stretched against his back. Even blurred by water, she knew that shape anywhere.

The brand.

Her chest tightened. It looked so stark against his pale skin, a cruel reminder burned into him by hands that had taken everything.

Ciel must’ve noticed her pause because he tensed, twisting away from her grasp with a small, startled breath. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, his voice too sharp, too defensive for someone who could barely stop shivering. “Just— a scar. From before.”

“Ciel,” she murmured.

He froze again at her tone. Emma’s hand reached for him carefully, fingertips brushing his sleeve before she guided him to face her. His lips parted to stammer out another protest, but she didn’t let him.

“I know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to explain.”

His throat worked soundlessly as he searched her eyes — confusion and disbelief warring in his expression, like he’d forgotten she was not from this time at all. That she already knew what he had lived through.

Her thumb brushed his wrist, grounding him. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I already know, remember?”

The fight went out of him then — not completely, but enough for his shoulders to drop, enough for him to stop trying to hide the wound that had long since healed on his body but not in his heart.

She tugged the blanket higher, covering the mark from sight, as if shielding him from the world could erase what had been done to him.

“You’re safe,” she said again.

This time, he didn’t argue. He didn’t answer, but when she reached to pull the blanket tighter around him, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned into her — just slightly, just enough to let her know he believed her, even if only for now.

And in the silence that followed, broken only by his uneven breathing and the distant noise of the circus outside, Emma held him closer, her heart pounding with quiet fury for what had been done to him… and the silent vow that it would never happen again.

All she wanted was to move him someplace warm, to change his clothes, to keep him from getting sick. But they had to wait for Sebastian. Emma just hoped he'd arrive soon.

They sat like that for a while — Emma half-kneeling in the dirt, the damp blanket wrapped tight around Ciel’s trembling shoulders. His sobs had quieted to shallow, shaky breaths. The morning mist clung to the air, cool and heavy, and the faint noise of the circus waking filled the distance — laughter, shuffling feet, a whip’s distant crack.

Ciel hadn’t said anything since whispering that broken confession, and Emma didn’t push him. She just sat close enough for him to feel her warmth, her hand resting gently against his back beneath the blanket, steady and quiet.

Then came the faint crunch of boots on gravel.

Sebastian.

He appeared through the thinning fog, every line of his posture poised, deliberate — though the sight before him made his steps falter for just a heartbeat. Ciel huddled against Emma, soaked through and pale, her own hair clinging wetly to her neck and cheeks, her trousers dark from the damp earth. The way she looked at his master — protective, defiant, human — was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said softly, setting a folded bundle of clothes down beside them. “You’ve given quite a few people a fright.”

Ciel stiffened instantly. Whatever fragile calm Emma had managed to build shattered. His fingers, clutching the edge of the blanket, curled into fists.

“I don’t want this anymore!” he burst out, voice breaking with fury and exhaustion alike. “I don’t want to live like this — hiding, pretending, being touched and prodded and treated like a stray dog! I hate it!”

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, unruffled. “My goodness. Are you suggesting you’d prefer to—”

“Don’t!” Ciel snapped, surging to his feet. His small frame trembled with cold, but the fire in his eyes made up for it. “Don’t twist my words into your mockery, Sebastian!”

Emma stood quickly too, one hand half-reaching toward him before deciding against it. Her voice was low but steady. “Sebastian, stop. He’s had enough.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked to her — sharp, assessing. Her hair was dripping, her hands raw from the cold. He could sense the faint tremor in her body, smell the chill on her skin. Yet she’d stayed — for him. For Ciel.

A slow, unreadable smile curved his mouth. “How curious,” he murmured. “You truly would freeze to death for him.”

“Better that than leave him alone like this,” she shot back.

Ciel’s shoulders squared. The boy wiped at his face roughly, anger wiping away any trace of tears. He turned toward Sebastian, chin lifting.

“No,” he said, his voice suddenly cold, cutting through the damp air. 

Sebastian’s brows arched, intrigued.

“I am not that helpless boy anymore. I am Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Watchdog. And it is unbecoming of me to cower here like a frightened child.” His voice grew steadier with each word, his fury crystallizing into command. “This farce ends now.”

For a moment, even the air seemed to still.

Sebastian regarded him silently, then inclined his head, a glint of approval flickering behind his crimson eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

Emma’s breath caught. The way Ciel stood now — shoulders back, chin high despite his soaked shirt and trembling hands — he looked every bit the Earl again. Her heart hurt a little at it, that return to steel after such vulnerability.

Still, when she reached out, Ciel didn’t flinch this time. She draped the dry coat Sebastian had brought over his shoulders. “Then let’s end it properly,” she murmured.

Ciel glanced up at her — and for just a second, the smallest, softest flicker of gratitude crossed his face before he turned back toward Sebastian.

Sebastian’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Emma. “You’ve quite the effect on him, my dear,” he said, voice velvet-smooth but edged with something darker, more contemplative. “It seems you bring out the man behind the mask.”

Emma didn’t answer. What was she supposed to say to that, anyway?

Sebastian smiled faintly — a demon’s smile, amused and impressed all at once. “How delightfully troublesome.”

Hidden behind the heavy wagons, Ciel’s sharp voice carried over the rustle of canvas and the murmur of morning preparations. Sebastian was drying his young master’s hair, gloved hands moving with unhurried precision, while Emma stood several paces away with her arms crossed, politely facing the other direction. The faint hiss of the drying cloth and Ciel’s irritated grumbling almost sounded domestic — almost.

When they were done, Ciel stepped out in his freshly pressed clothes, the faintest trace of steel in his expression again. His composure was back in place, his command certain.

“We’ll strike during the next show,” he said briskly. “No more sneaking about. When the crowd’s attention is elsewhere, we’ll use the chaos to investigate properly. Sebastian will keep up appearances, and we’ll split the search.”

Emma nodded. “Understood.”

She tried to focus on the task, on the plan, on anything but the slight chill still clinging to her damp sleeves. But she couldn’t shake the ghost of Ciel’s trembling frame under her hands. It lingered in her like a bruise.

By the time she had checked Wendy’s, Peters’, and Jumbo’s tents, her boots were caked with mud, and her patience was fraying. There was nothing. No trace of the missing children.

She rounded a corner too fast and nearly collided with someone.

“Ah, my apologies,” Sebastian said smoothly, stepping aside before she could even blink. His eyes glinted in the dull light as he took her in. “Though I suppose I should be used to you crashing into me by now.”

Emma huffed a laugh. “And I should be used to you sneaking up on me like a phantom.”

He tilted his head. “A rather fitting description, I’d say.”

They walked a few steps together between the wagons, the damp air thick with sawdust and smoke. Then, casually, Sebastian said, “If you’re looking for the young master, you’ll find him with Doll.”

Emma blinked. “Doll?”

“Mm.” His tone was far too pleased with itself. “It appears our dear Freckles has shed her disguise for his benefit. How touching.”

Emma raised a brow, pretending to be shocked. “You knew?”

Sebastian’s smile deepened. “Of course. Did you truly think I would overlook such an obvious detail?”

She crossed her arms again, though a small grin pulled at her lips. “And yet you let Ciel believe he’d fooled you all this time. You can be cruel, you know that?”

“Cruel?” He feigned innocence. “I prefer to think of it as... character development.”

She snorted softly. “You’re insufferable.”

Sebastian looked at her sidelong, that faint, knowing smile still playing on his lips. “Perhaps. But admit it, you’d be dreadfully bored without me.”

Her mouth opened, then shut. He had her there. “Maybe,” she said finally, feigning reluctance.

They fell into step again, quiet except for the creak of distant ropes and the laughter of performers somewhere near the tents. Then, softer, Sebastian said, “You handled him well earlier.”

Emma blinked at him. “Handled who?”

“You know who.” He didn’t elaborate, but his voice lost that teasing lilt. “You have a way of... calming him that even I can’t mimic.”

She looked down at the ground, at the mud clinging to her boots. “He just needed someone to remind him he’s still human,” she murmured.

Sebastian hummed thoughtfully. “You do realize, my dear, that’s precisely what frightens him the most.”

Her gaze flicked up. “And you? Does it frighten you?”

His smile returned, faint but sharp. “On the contrary. I find it fascinating.”

Sebastian guided her back toward his tent with a steady hand pressed to the small of her back, his touch deceptively gentle but unmistakably firm — like he was afraid that if he let go, she’d vanish into the chaos of the circus. The night air outside still smelled faintly of smoke and oil, the noise of the crowd fading to a low hum as the two of them disappeared behind the heavy curtain.

Emma barely had time to take a breath before Ciel appeared in the entrance, his small figure framed by the flickering lamplight. He was drenched, his curls clinging to his forehead, his breathing shallow.

Her heart lurched painfully. The faint, wheezing sound in his chest made her throat tighten — the asthma attack would begin soon. Panic flickered through her mind like lightning, but she forced herself to stay still, to breathe, to remember that he’d survive this night just like he had the last one.

“You knew I was still there when you released the snakes, didn’t you?” Ciel’s voice cracked as he stepped fully inside, his tone a mix of anger and fatigue.

Emma’s stomach dropped. The snakes. She had forgotten all about that part.

“Yes,” Sebastian said smoothly, inclining his head with the faintest bow, that devilish grin tugging at his lips. “You did order me to return before the first-stringers and free them. Problem?”

“You are such an asshole!” Emma blurted out, instinctively reaching out to smack his arm.

He caught her wrist midair, his gloved hand closing around hers with effortless precision. His grip was unyielding — not painful, but absolute. He didn’t even glance at her, his eyes still locked on Ciel.

“What are you glaring for?” Sebastian drawled. His tone was too soft, too mocking. “Rest assured, my lord, I won’t let you die while our contract holds. But you may cause some non-fatal suffering if you insist on reckless orders. You knew as much.”

“Asshole,” Emma hissed again, tugging her wrist, though it was like trying to move a statue. “My mate isn’t a demon, but an asshole!”

Sebastian’s lips twitched upward. “Every game needs its thrill,” he mused, that teasing lilt returning to his voice. “You’re such an avid player — I assumed you shared my opinion.” Then, finally, his eyes slid to her, gleaming in the lamplight. “Despite my mate clearly does not.”

“Ha!” Ciel barked, his face pale but eyes bright with cold fury. “Your game is in sickeningly bad taste, demon.”

Sebastian chuckled — a dark, velvet sound that seemed to fill the tent. “You flatter me.”

Ciel’s bravado faltered when another cough racked his small frame. He turned from them both, pressing a hand to his chest as he steadied himself against the bunk’s post. “Never mind. I found a letter in Joker’s tent that mentioned my name.”

Emma froze mid-struggle. Her wrist was still trapped in Sebastian’s hand, but she barely noticed. Ciel’s voice was weaker now, raspier.

“It had my rank,” he continued, “the location of my estate, even a biographical sketch.”

Her throat tightened at the sight of him — the shivering, the trembling fingers gripping the bedpost. Meanwhile, Sebastian’s grip hadn’t loosened at all. He was watching her, his grin infuriatingly calm, eyebrows arched as though amused by her frustration.

When she tugged again, harder this time, he merely tilted his head. Unmoved. Insufferable demon.

“The sender—”

A sharp thud interrupted Ciel mid-sentence. Emma turned to see the gleam of metal — William’s death scythe tapping, none too gently, against Ciel’s ankle.

“You’re three centimeters into my territory,” the reaper said in his clipped tone. “If the master can’t abide by our agreed-upon boundaries, he’s as bad as his dog.”

Emma’s patience snapped. She stepped around Sebastian — who naturally followed her movement since he still refused to release her hand. “Seriously?” she demanded, one hand flying to her hip. “That’s such nitpick bullshit!”

“I see,” Sebastian murmured, eyes alight with laughter. “My mate is growing tired of this place as well — as evidenced by her decision to abandon proper language altogether.”

“Let go of me!” she hissed under her breath.

Ciel had stopped paying attention to them entirely. His voice was thin but commanding when he spoke: “Let’s go outside. And let Emma go, Sebastian.”

“Certainly.” The butler released her at once, stepping back with a small, graceful bow, as though her wrist hadn’t just been his personal plaything.

She rubbed over her skin on reflex, despite it not hurting even a little bit, glaring daggers at him as she followed the two out into the cold air. The sky had turned dark — clouds hanging low, heavy with the promise of rain. The circus lights flickered somewhere beyond the tents, laughter echoing faintly from the performers’ quarters.

“The sender used the name ‘Tom, the piper’s son,’” Ciel said once they had slipped away to somewhere remotely private. He leaned heavily against a wooden crate, his small frame tense, arms crossed in front of his chest as if holding himself together.

“A Mother Goose character,” Sebastian commented, his voice calm as ever.

“Yes, though I don’t know why…” Ciel broke off mid-sentence, another cough wrenching itself out of his chest. The sound cut through the night like tearing cloth.

Emma’s heart clenched. She knew what was coming — God, she knew what was coming — but her memory of when exactly it would happen was hazy, distant. It had been months since she’d watched Book of Circus. Back then it was just fiction; now it was terrifyingly real.

“Dammit,” she whispered under her breath, eyes darting between the two.

Ciel’s small body trembled again, his voice a thin thread of stubborn will. “The sealing wax showed a crest with a horse and the initial K.”

He looked so pale, so brittle, and every instinct in her screamed to pull him close, to warm him with her body heat again — but she knew he wouldn't allow it. He was too proud, too composed even as his body betrayed him.

“Then it’s the same as the one I saw,” Sebastian mused aloud, completely unruffled. Emma wanted to strangle him. “Signet rings are generally engraved with a motif and initial that represents the bearer or his family.”

Was he really that blind, or was he just pretending not to notice?

She stopped listening. Every word between them blurred into background noise. All she could see was the boy in front of her — his labored breaths, the faint hitch in his shoulders, the tremor in his hand as he clutched his chest. With every cough that wracked his body, her own lungs seemed to seize in sympathy.

“Young master—” Sebastian’s voice finally broke through the calm, but too late.

Ciel lurched forward, his knees buckling.

Emma was already there. She caught him by the shoulders before he hit the ground, her own knees sinking into the wet dirt. “Ciel—!”

He doubled over, coughing so violently that she felt it shake through her own chest. When he vomited, the acidic stench hit her instantly — sharp, foul, burning the back of her throat. She barely swallowed down her gag, too focused on the way his body went limp right after. She didn't even care that he'd hit her clothes

“Ciel?” she said again, her voice cracking. “Hey—Ciel, come on, look at me!”

But his eye was unfocused, his lips pale. His breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps, every one shorter than the last.

Sebastian was beside them in an instant, his movement so fast she barely caught it. The demon knelt gracefully into the mud, one hand pressing to the boy’s back, the other brushing Ciel’s bangs from his clammy forehead. His expression was unreadable — too calm, too practiced — but there was an edge beneath it, sharp as a blade.

Ciel stirred weakly, his small fingers clutching at Emma’s coat as though she were an anchor in the storm. The fabric balled in his hand, trembling. She pressed her free hand over his, her heart twisting painfully.

Then his grip slackened. His head dropped forward, the strength draining from him entirely.

“Ciel—!”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to her. “He’s only lost consciousness,” he said quietly, already sliding one arm beneath Ciel’s knees, the other behind his back. He lifted the boy as easily as if he weighed nothing.

Footsteps pounded across the muddy ground.

“Blaze!” A familiar voice called. Emma turned — Freckles came running toward them, her freckled face pale with concern. “What happened to Smile?!”

“He’s unwell,” Sebastian said smoothly, the usual sharp edge of mockery gone from his tone. “An unfortunate consequence of overexertion.”

Freckles skidded to a halt, eyes wide. “He looks—he looks awful! Shouldn’t we get him to the infirmary?”

“Already planned,” Sebastian replied, shifting Ciel’s weight effortlessly in his arms. The lamplight caught in his dark hair, glinting like wet silk. “Lead the way, please.”

Freckles nodded quickly and spun on her heel, running ahead through the maze of tents. Emma followed close behind, every muscle in her body tense.

The circus had quieted for the night — laughter distant now, the muted thud of heavy wagons in the dark. The smell of damp canvas and wet straw filled the air as they hurried between tents, Ciel’s breathing soft but shallow against Sebastian’s chest. When they reached the infirmary, Freckles yanked the flap open. The small space inside smelled faintly of antiseptic and old bandages.

Sebastian stepped in first, laying Ciel gently down on the cot. His movements were precise, reverent almost, as he adjusted the boy’s head onto the thin pillow.

Emma knelt beside the bed immediately, brushing a strand of damp hair from Ciel’s forehead. He was pale as snow, but the slow rise and fall of his chest steadied her heartbeat.

Sebastian's eyes slid briefly to Emma — softer now, just barely. “You did well to catch him.”

She looked up at him, breathless, her hands still trembling where they rested on Ciel’s arm. “He scared the shit out of me.”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, that familiar teasing spark returning. “He tends to have that effect on people.”

Chapter Text

That Lady, guilt-ridden

The doctor — that doctor — made Emma’s blood boil the moment he walked in. Knowing who he truly was, what he would later do, made her hands curl into fists at her sides. If Sebastian hadn’t been there, she might’ve done something reckless. He didn’t deserve to lay a hand on Ciel. Still, she forced herself to stand still, biting her tongue so hard she tasted iron as the man examined the boy. The diagnosis was exactly what she already knew: asthma.

Asthma. As if the word itself could encompass how frightening it was to watch him fight for breath.

Ciel woke now and then, his eye glassy, his body trembling as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. He was only half-aware of them hovering beside the bed, his gaze drifting in and out of focus.

When he finally stirred enough to stay conscious, his lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he reached for Sebastian’s hand. Emma watched as the boy traced shaky letters onto the demon’s palm, his fingers trembling with effort.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked down briefly, then to Emma. Understanding passed between them.

She moved without needing to be told. Sliding onto the bed behind Ciel, she kept her gaze on Sebastian as she gently lifted the boy’s head, resting it against her lap while she leaned back against the headboard. His hair was damp against her thigh, his breathing still shallow but steady.

“I won’t leave his side,” she said quietly, her hand smoothing through his tangled hair. “And be careful.”

Sebastian gave a small, theatrical bow. “Yes, my lady.”

“Oh, don’t.” She rolled her eyes, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m not in the mood.”

He chuckled softly — a low, familiar sound that usually grated on her nerves. But this time, it only made the silence that followed seem louder. When the doctor finally left, Sebastian’s teasing expression faded, replaced by something unreadable. His crimson gaze lingered on the boy for a long moment — then shifted to her.

Emma felt the weight of it immediately.

All her restraint cracked open at once.

“He could’ve died,” she whispered, her voice trembling. It took all the energy she had left to keep the tears from spilling. “And I— I...“

She stared down at Ciel’s pale face, guilt tightening in her chest like a vice. “He trusted me to protect him and I—”

“—did.”

The word was quiet, firm.

She looked up.

Sebastian had stepped closer without her noticing, the lamplight catching in his dark hair, his usual smirk gone. He studied her face for a moment — really studied her — then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, he reached out.

His gloved fingertips brushed her cheek, feather-light.

“You did protect him,” he said, his voice low, smooth, but stripped of mockery. “You kept him breathing when he could not. You caught him when he fell. You stayed.”

Emma froze. His touch, usually cold, felt startlingly warm through the thin fabric of the glove. She searched his face, but there was no teasing smile now, no glint of cruelty. Just… quiet certainty.

For a demon, he looked almost human in that moment.

“I’ve seen countless humans panic,” he went on softly, his thumb tracing the faintest line along her jaw. “They scream, they flee, they beg for someone else to act. You did none of those things.”

She swallowed hard, unsure what to say.

Then his lips curved — just slightly — into that familiar, dangerous smile. “So, if you insist on guilt, at least make it elegant, my dear. This look doesn’t suit you.”

That startled a weak laugh out of her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Indeed,” he said, stepping back with a half-bow, that teasing tone sliding neatly back into place as though it had never left. “Try not to worry him more than necessary. I’ll return shortly.”

He left as silently as a shadow, the tent flap rustling softly behind him.

For a long moment, Emma didn’t move. Then she exhaled, the tension in her shoulders finally breaking.

Ciel stirred faintly against her lap, his hand twitching once before falling still again. She brushed her fingers through his hair — soft, still slightly damp — and along his pale cheek. His breathing was shallow but steady now, the rasp gentler.

She kept her hand there, her thumb tracing small circles against his temple.

And that’s how she stayed. The oil lamp burned low, shadows flickering against the tent walls as the circus outside slowly quieted.

At some point, Freckles slipped inside, still dressed, her eyes wide with worry.

Emma looked up but didn’t say a word. She simply lifted the edge of the blanket in silent invitation.

Freckles hesitated only a moment before slipping under it, curling up beside Ciel. Emma tugged the blanket back over the two children, her eyes never leaving the boy’s face.

The sounds of the circus faded entirely.

And Emma stayed awake — watching the faint rise and fall of Ciel’s chest — until the lantern finally guttered out. Even then, she kept her eyes open, one hand at the side of his ribs to catch even the slightest tremor in his breathing, as she stared into the darkness.

It was well past midnight when Emma felt him stir.

For hours, she had sat half-upright against the headboard, her back aching, the weight of Ciel’s head warm and fragile in her lap. The tent was dim, lit only by the dying glow of the oil lamp, and every sound outside had faded to distant stillness. Then his breathing hitched — a small, strangled sound — and she realized he was dreaming. His face tightened, brows knitting in silent panic, his fingers curling in the blanket.

“Ciel,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his temple. “Hey. You’re safe.”

He jerked awake with a quiet gasp, sitting up too fast, his hand instinctively clutching at his chest. His eyes darted around the tent, wild for a moment, until they found her. The fear in them faltered, confusion taking its place.

“Easy,” Emma murmured, catching his shoulder before he could push himself farther up. “You were dreaming.”

He blinked, his breath shallow, still trembling slightly. Then, as awareness returned, he realized exactly where he was — his head in her lap, her arm draped protectively around him, his fingers still tangled in her sleeve.

The faintest color rose to his pale cheeks.

“Why,” he croaked, voice hoarse, “are you always hovering over me like a nursemaid?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Because my patient refuses to stay put.”

He glared weakly up at her — or tried to. It lacked all real bite. “I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” she said softly, cutting him off before he could finish the familiar protest. “You scared me half to death earlier.”

His gaze faltered. For a moment, the proud façade slipped. He looked down, his voice barely audible. “...I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was fragile — the kind of silence that comes after surviving something. His breathing had evened out again, his lashes lowering as exhaustion tugged at him. She could feel the tension slowly draining from his small frame.

“I’m fine now,” he murmured after a while, eyes half-closed. “You don’t have to… stay like this.”

Emma smiled faintly, her hand still idly tracing through his hair. “You say that like I’d actually listen.”

He huffed — a weak, amused sound. “Stubborn woman.”

“Comes with the territory,” she murmured. “Now go back to sleep, my lord.”

He blinked slowly, his lips pressing together in something that almost resembled gratitude. Then he nodded — just a little — and let his head fall back against her lap, too tired to keep up the pretense of resistance.

Within minutes, his breathing steadied again, soft and rhythmic, his hand still clutching the fabric of her skirt as though it grounded him. Emma sat there in the quiet, the rise and fall of his chest the only sound in the tent. She kept her hand resting lightly against his hair, unwilling to move, unwilling to wake him again.

The tent was still.

Only the faint, uneven flicker of the oil lamp threw light across the canvas walls, soft gold fading into shadow. Ciel’s breathing had evened out again, shallow but steady, his small hand still resting near her knee. Emma sat motionless, her fingers absently combing through his hair, gentle and repetitive, as if afraid to break the fragile calm.

Her mind, however, refused to be still. She needed to think—no, to remember.

Every scrap of story she had once known, every fragment of what would come next. What happened now, with Ciel weak and Sebastian gone? There was something—something important—right after this.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the memories to surface. A flicker of an image, the circus tents glowing at night, the sound of a whip—Beast’s whip—and then…

Her breath caught.

She remembered. The scene she had half-watched, half-dismissed half a year ago, when this was just a show on a screen and not her life. The way Sebastian had smiled, had touched Beast’s hand, had leaned in close. The deliberate intimacy in his tone as he promised her answers she wanted to hear.

A sick, cold weight settled in her stomach.

Had he…?

She wasn’t sure. The anime hadn’t shown it. It had implied it, though—he had done something. Demons didn’t care about such things, she knew. They used whatever tools were necessary. But now, sitting here with the faint warmth of Ciel’s breath against her thigh, the thought made her chest twist painfully.

He would touch someone else like that. He would. Because it was useful. Because it would get him what he wanted. Because she didn’t matter—not in that way.

Emma drew a slow breath, fingers stilling in Ciel’s hair. Her throat felt tight.

What right did she even have to feel this way? She wasn’t his lover, or even his friend—not really. They hadn’t shared anything that could be called affection, not the way humans understood it. No kiss. No embrace. Nothing more than a few soft words and fleeting looks that lingered longer than they should have.

And yet…

She thought of the way he had caught her wrist earlier, the way his voice had softened when he’d realized she was shaken. The faint, unfamiliar warmth in his eyes when he’d told her he respected her exhaustion, that he would wait until she was ready to talk.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Her chest ached as she stared down at Ciel’s pale face, the boy’s fragile body a reminder of everything she had to protect—and everything she couldn’t control. The idea that Sebastian, her mate, was somewhere out there right now, charming another woman into his arms, made her stomach churn again.

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself, barely a breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did. It mattered in a quiet, unbearable way that made her want to curl in on herself. Because she had seen glimpses of something behind that perfect façade—something alive. A demon who could tease, yes, but who also looked at her like he could read the tremor of her heartbeats.

And the thought of him using that same voice, those same hands, on someone else—

She pressed a hand over her chest, forcing herself to breathe evenly.

This was stupid. She was being stupid.

She told herself again that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t hers to lose. Wasn't hers, period. But the words had no weight anymore.

Outside, the wind brushed against the tent, making the canvas whisper. Inside, Ciel shifted slightly in his sleep, and Emma’s hand returned to his hair, her thumb tracing small, absent circles against his temple.

She focused on that simple motion—on grounding herself in the rhythm of his breathing, on the promise she had made to protect him. Anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling toward the dark, possessive ache that refused to fade.

Somewhere, beyond the tents and the night, Sebastian was working toward their goal. She told herself that was all that mattered.

But even as she thought it, she knew she didn’t believe it. Not when the thought of his hands on her made her feel like she needed to throw up.

When Sebastian returned the next morning, both Emma and Ciel were exactly where he had left them. The tent was dim, the air still thick with the damp chill of the night before. He stepped inside as if nothing had changed — looked the same, spoke the same, moved with the same easy grace.

But Emma knew. She knew she was supposed to act like she didn’t. To pretend nothing had happened, that everything was as it had been the evening before. She knew she should smile, say something, anything—but her throat felt too tight.

So she avoided his gaze. Avoided the dark red of his eyes as she leaned over to gently rouse Ciel.

“Ciel, sweetie.” The nickname slipped out before she could stop it, soft and automatic. Ciel blinked groggily up at her. “Sebastian’s back.”

The name tasted like acid on her tongue. She felt foolish for even noticing the way it burned.

She said nothing when Sebastian stepped forward, lifting Ciel from the bed as if he weighed nothing. She didn’t trust her voice, didn’t trust herself not to let everything she was feeling spill out in a tremor.

Besides, she hadn’t slept. Not once.

Back at the townhouse, after making sure Ciel was settled and safe, she offered him a tired smile. Thanks to Prince Soma’s dramatic insistence on hosting breakfast and preventing Ciel’s immediate escape, Emma knew he’d be staying put for a while. That meant she could finally have a moment alone.

The moment her door closed, she stripped off her clothes and slipped into the steaming bath she’d drawn. The heat burned at first, prickling her skin, but she welcomed it — welcomed anything that could drown out the noise in her head. She sank until the water lapped at her collarbones, her arms folded around herself as if to hold herself together. The warmth should have soothed her, but instead it made her dizzy. Her mind was merciless, conjuring scenes she’d never seen but knew too well.

Sebastian’s smile in the dark. Beast’s startled breath. The way his hand might have rested against her waist, the way his voice might have dipped low and velvet-soft.

The images twisted in her mind until her stomach turned.

She told herself she had no right to feel this way — that it wasn’t her business, that it didn’t matter.

But it did.

When she finally forced herself out of the water, the bath had gone cold. She stood before the mirror above the small sink, droplets trailing down her bare skin. For a long time, she simply looked.

Red hair plastered damp against her shoulders. Pale skin. Grey eyes that looked far too tired for someone her age. A thin body, collarbones too sharp, small breasts — nothing remarkable.

And then, cruelly, her mind compared.

Beast’s body. Beast’s beauty. The confident way she moved.

The thought made Emma’s throat tighten, her reflection blurring.

“No,” she whispered, forcing herself to look away. “Stop it.”

She dragged the towel over her skin roughly, as if she could scrub the thoughts away, and reached for the soft nightgown Sebastian had made for her — silk, fitted just as she’d requested. She’d loved it once. Now it felt like a quiet mockery.

When she opened her bedroom door, he was there. Because, of course, he was.

Sebastian stood near the window, his gloved hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable. The morning light touched the sharp lines of his face, turning his eyes to molten garnet.

“Miss Emma,” he greeted, voice smooth as always. “You’ve been… unusually quiet since my return.”

Her pulse jumped. “I’m tired,” she said quickly, moving past him. “Didn’t sleep.”

“I gathered as much,” he replied, head tilting. “Though fatigue alone rarely makes you avoid me quite so thoroughly.”

She busied herself with nothing — smoothing the bedsheets, pretending to arrange her things. “Sebastian, please. Not now.”

He stepped closer, the air around him cool and deliberate. “Have I done something to displease you?”

“No,” she said too fast, too sharp.

“Then what has?”

“Nothing, I just—”

“You’re lying,” he said simply, and it wasn’t accusation. It was fact.

She clenched her fists. “Sebastian, drop it.”

He didn’t. He never did when something interested him.

He took another step forward. “You won’t even look at me.”

Her breath stuttered.

“Why is that, I wonder?”

“Because—” She bit it back. The word burned before it could leave her mouth.

“Because?” he pressed, softly now, almost gentle.

Something in her snapped. “Did you sleep with her?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Sebastian blinked once, slowly, as if weighing how to respond. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air did — a shift, subtle but unmistakable.

“Ah,” he said finally, and his tone was quiet — almost amused. “So that is what this is about.”

For a second, panic seized her. Her heart drummed violently in her ears, drowning out everything else. She wasn’t supposed to know what he’d done — wasn’t supposed to know anything beyond what had happened here and now. Wait… how did he know exactly what she meant?

Her mouth opened, then closed again, uselessly. The words tangled on her tongue, and before she could gather herself, Sebastian chuckled — low and knowing.

“What? Did you truly believe you could hide this from me? You, knowing of the events to come?”

Her breath hitched. “How—how did you—?”

He smiled faintly, the curve of his lips both dangerous and amused. “You told us yourself, did you not? The first day we met.”

“I—what?”

“That you 'knew the whole story.’” He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. “My master, of course, assumed that referred to his past. I, however, found it peculiar that you phrased it as story, not history.”

Emma stared at him, her throat dry. “I… I didn’t mean—”

He took a slow step forward. Then another.

“Didn’t you?” he murmured.

She instinctively backed away, her pulse hammering faster with every step he took, until the cold wall pressed against her back. He didn’t stop. His palms landed flat against the wood on either side of her head, caging her in.

She froze. The air between them seemed to thin, charged with something dark and alive.

That’s when she noticed his hands. No gloves.

Her gaze flicked down — black nails, sharp and gleaming faintly in the dim light, and the mark on his left hand: the Faustian seal, deep and inhumanly elegant, like ink burned into his skin. She had seen it in the anime countless times. Seeing it now — real and near — made her breath catch.

Sebastian’s voice dropped, low and velvet-soft. “I did not sleep with her.”

Emma blinked, startled.

“I could have,” he continued evenly, “and it would have meant nothing to me. But I didn’t.” His gaze flicked down, searching her expression, reading every flicker of disbelief and relief. “Because I knew it would… displease you.”

Her heart twisted painfully. “What—”

“I am not in the habit of needlessly upsetting my mate,” he said simply, and the word mate rolled from his tongue like silk and shadow, far too intimate.

She swallowed hard. “But you— you touched her.”

He inclined his head slightly, not denying it. “I did. Because it was required. Because it was the only way to acquire the information we needed. Nothing more.”

His eyes burned crimson now, the faintest glow reflecting in her grey ones.

“I felt nothing in that moment,” he said. “As I never do when I look upon other women.”

The silence that followed stretched, heavy and taut. Emma’s throat felt tight; she didn’t know if it was from shame, confusion, or the unbearable pull between them.

“And when you look at me?” she asked finally, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Sebastian didn’t answer at once. He just looked at her — really looked — his expression unreadable, eyes flicking between her gaze and her mouth before settling again on her face.

He leaned closer, close enough for her to feel the ghost of his breath against her cheek. “You make me remember that I have instincts not solely bound to hunger.”

There was nothing she could say, nothing she could think of, so all she did was stare at him, mouth slightly agape. Her mind emptied, every thought dissolving into the pounding of her heartbeat. He held her gaze unflinchingly, the smirk on his face that usually made her want to strangle him. Right now, she wanted to kiss him instead. And he looked at her like he knew it, those raised eyebrows almost mockingly asking her if she'd dare lean closer. Did she dare? 

 If he were anyone else, she’d have done it already — grabbed him by the jacket, pulled him close, stolen the taste of that smirk just to shut him up. She would have thought nothing of it. Just a kiss. Just a man.

But this was Sebastian.

And nothing with Sebastian would ever be just.

“Tell me, my dear,“ Sebastian murmured, his voice dropping in a way that reminded her again that he was indeed not human. He was pure sin. “Is your body still afraid of me? Is that why your heart beats so frantically inside your chest?“ 

Her tongue refused to cooperate. Her mind screamed at her to speak — to retort, to bite back, to do something — but she just stood there, trembling in silence. Her temper had never failed her before. Her words had never failed her before.

Until him.

He tilted his head to the side, and Emma watched, spellbound, how the strands of his black hair slid across his forehead. She knew they were as soft as they looked, remembering that night weeks ago, when she shared her music with him. They had been as close as they were now, and yet her wit hadn't failed her back then. So why now did her knees feel weak?

Get a grip, Emma! She scolded herself silently, forcing herself to swallow but her throat felt bone-dry.

“Or,” Sebastian breathed, exhaling softly through his nose — the air brushing against her lips, making her lashes flutter — “does it have nothing to do with fear at all?”

Her pulse thundered. Every nerve screamed wrong, wrong, wrong, but her body wasn’t listening. This wasn't right, this wasn't her, this was...

Sebastian's smirk widened, eyes fixed on her face as realization dawned.

“You're using your magic on me.“ She didn't accuse him, didn't ask him, because she knew. Not once in her life had she ever reacted to a man like that, no matter how horny she had been, no matter how much she had liked him. 

Sebastian hummed in approval, leaning in again until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “It’s called luring,” he whispered, the word sliding over her skin like velvet. “A talent demons reserve for stronger prey — those who don’t fall for empty promises wrapped in pretty lies.”

“Prey?“ she repeated, still a bit breathless, but thankfully, her mind was starting to clear up again. She still felt hot all over, skin ready to burn right off her bones, and all she could smell was Sebastian. His scent—an odd mixture of smoke, ash, and something uniquely him she couldn't name—was wrapped around her like a cocoon, trapping her, holding her. Despite knowing what he was doing, she didn't want to leave. 

“So I am your prey?“ 

She heard him chuckle, and a shudder ran down her spine when his breath hit her ear and neck.

“You just proved you aren't,“ he murmured. “Once caught in a demon’s lure, no one wakes from it alone.”

“But I did.“

“But you did,“ he echoed, and it took Emma a few seconds to realize he sounded... proud. “I suspected you might be immune to it, considering you are my mate. Imagine my delight to find out I was right.“ 

...What?

Emma gritted her teeth, brows pulled tightly together as she finally remembered how to use her muscles. Her palms collided with his shoulders, pressing against him to get him off. The low chuckle betrayed his amusement, although he did obey and put some distance between them. Barely, though, since his palms were still flat against the wall next to her head.

“Your little experiment is done,“ she hissed and glared at his infuriatingly calm and amused face. “Stop fucking with my head!“ If he chuckled one more time...

Sebastian didn't, although he might as well have, because that arrogant grin wasn't an improvement in the slightest. 

“I am not doing anything, my dear.“ His tone was maddeningly calm, rich with amusement and something else — something darker.

Then he moved again.

One step forward — close enough for his scent to fill her lungs, smoke and spice and sin, close enough for his nose to brush hers. And then his thigh slid between hers, deliberate and slow.

Her breath caught. Her fingers curled helplessly into the fabric of his tailcoat, holding on as if to keep her balance.

“I’m not luring you,” he whispered, eyes burning into hers. “I’m not manipulating you.” His voice softened — quiet, sincere, deadly. “Everything you’re feeling right now… it’s all you, Emma. You alone.”

Chapter Text

That Lady, undone

Sebastian’s gaze didn’t waver. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the space between them—barely a breath, barely a heartbeat. Then he leaned closer, and Emma’s pulse stuttered as his lips brushed the shell of her ear, a whisper of contact that sent warmth rushing through her veins. His breath was hot against her skin, tracing words that never quite formed, a murmur that seemed to curl directly into her chest.

Her eyes fluttered shut when he moved, his mouth ghosting down the line of her throat. Every place he didn’t touch burned with anticipation; every place he almost did sang with electricity. She could feel the soft graze of his hair against her jaw, the impossible steadiness of his breathing against her racing one.

When his hand left the wall, she felt the shift in the air before she felt him. The first brush of his fingertips against her naked leg made her inhale sharply, every nerve alight. His touch was careful, exploratory—so deliberate it made her tremble.

“Your choice of attire…” he murmured against her neck, his voice rich and low, “…makes things far too easy for temptation to whisper.”

The words sank into her like heat, and she had to place her palms flatly against the wall behind her just to stay upright. He wasn’t rushing. Every movement was slow, deliberate—more a promise than an action, as if he was giving her time to stop him, to breathe, to decide.

His lips pressed against the hollow of her throat right as his fingers slipped between the hem of her nightgown, and she didn't know where to focus, mind emptying as her whole body buzzed with anticipation. Her arousal hit her instantly, a soft throbbing between her legs, paired with the familiar sting inside her lower belly. 

Emma wanted to say something, anything, but no sound came. Only a breath, trembling and helpless. It wasn't as if she were in need of help, anyway. 

Sebastian’s smile curved, not mocking this time but something far more dangerous—something knowing. His fingers slid higher up her thigh, only his fingertips touching her skin. The contact was so feather-light, it made the muscles beneath the skin he touched tremble and spasm involuntarily, his touch threading a fine line between gentle caress and soft tickling.

Emma’s breathing quickened. She tried to steady it, tried to find her voice, but every inhale only drew in more of him—his scent, his warmth, his nearness. It filled her lungs until there was no space left for thought.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, studying her from beneath his lashes as though she were a fragile, fascinating thing he hadn’t quite decided how to touch. His composure held, always perfect, poised, immaculate, but there was something behind his eyes now. A flicker of hunger not born of mere appetite.

When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened. “You tremble,” he murmured, each word a vibration against her throat. “Is it fear, my dear… or anticipation?”

She swallowed hard. For a moment, she wanted to lie, wanted to pretend she was unaffected. But why should she? There was no reason to. And this was Sebastian, her mate. That word was suddenly something more than a simple term.

“You already know,“ she breathed out and let her head fall back until it rested against the wall, lids almost fluttering shut.

Sebastian’s lips brushed her jaw in a fleeting, almost reverent gesture. “I do,“ he mused, a low chuckle brushing against her throat as his lips pressed against her throat, now fully exposed.

Her pulse fluttered against his mouth, wild and betraying. She could barely think, could barely stand under the weight of his proximity. The nightgown suddenly felt too light, her skin too sensitive, the air itself too thick.

When his hand moved again, it wasn’t rushed; it was measured, tracing her shape as though he was committing it to memory. When he reached the apex of her thigh, she gasped softly, and the sound seemed to make him pause.

“Ah,” he breathed, a hint of wonder slipping past the precision of his tone. “So easily undone… and I have scarcely touched you.”

Her fingers curled against the wall, the smooth wood cool beneath her palms. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she managed, though her voice came out breathless and far too soft to sound convincing.

“Of course I am.” His answer was immediate, unrepentant. “I am a demon, after all. But tell me…” His free hand reached up, trailing the back of his fingers along her cheek until she met his gaze. “Would you prefer I stopped?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Her heart pounded against her ribs, loud enough that she wondered if he could hear it. Her lips slightly parted, Emma held his gaze. His face held all of the usual, composed amusement; nothing seemed as if this was even slightly affecting him. If it weren't for his eyes, burning and glowing bright red, staring at her in a way she both recognized and was completely foreign to her. Hunger, lust, desire. It wasn't the first time someone looked at her that way, and yet no one had ever looked at her this intensely.

“No,“ she replied, and finally peeled her hands off the wall, one reaching for his waist, grasping the fabric of his tailcoat between her fingers. Who cared about wrinkles? The other one went straight to his neck, his hair soft beneath her palm. “I wouldn't.“ 

Sebastian’s lips curved, and his thumb brushed her chin lightly. “As I thought,” he whispered.

Emma wanted to retort something clever, anything, really, but Sebastian efficiently distracted her when his thumb brushed against her hip bone beneath the nightgown, and she shuddered. Her fingers flexed, tugging on the strands of his silky hair and pulling him closer in the process. 

His leg between her thighs pushed them apart slightly, gaze fixed on her face as if he were cataloging every flicker of a reaction, and then his fingers started their descent for her hip bone, over her pubic bone, until he reached exactly the place that was begging for his attention.

Her hips bucked forward at the first contact, barely more than the brush of his finger, and Sebastian hummed in pleased amusement.

Her breath caught, the sound half-formed and fragile, and Sebastian’s eyes flicked over her face immediately—watching, gauging, memorizing. Every shift in her breathing, every tremor in her muscles seemed to draw a flicker of response from him, subtle but unmistakable. He wasn’t merely touching her; he was studying her, as though she were a text written in a language only he could decipher.

His fingers mapped her out, following the lines of her lips, and a soft whine escaped her when he avoided her pulsing clit yet again, fingers dipping lower, to her entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet she was, and she swore no sound could be hotter. 

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its teasing edge. It was lower now, smoother, the kind of tone that didn’t seek amusement but obedience—understanding.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You respond before you even think to.”

Emma made a sound, something soft, unsteady, defiant. “You’re… analyzing me,” she managed, though her voice trembled on the last word.

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly, his eyes glinting. “Naturally,” he said. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

“I— I'm not sure,” she whispered, her throat tightening as the words left her. No one had ever done that, nor had they admitted to it.

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the edge of her jaw, his breath threading through the fine hair at her temple. “Then I shall assume you do not mind.”

The air between them seemed to pulse with heat. Emma’s hand on his neck had tightened, fingertips digging slightly into his skin—not to push him away, but to hold him there, to steady herself against the tremor in her own body. Sebastian’s composure, his utter lack of haste, was maddening. Every movement felt calculated, patient, as if he were taking apart her restraint piece by piece.

He brushed her clit once, twice, just enough to keep her riled up, never enough to ease the burning ache that slowly built up by the minute.

Her mind was a blur of sensations—his voice, his breath, the faint shift of fabric when he moved. She tried to think, to say something that made him stop teasing her, but all that came out was his name, a whisper that sounded more like a plea than accusation.

“My poor mate,“ Sebastian murmured, almost mockingly, and he actually smirked at her. “Desire can be cruel, can't it?“ 

That did it for her. The audacity. He truly was a demon. 

“It's not the desire that's cruel,“ she moaned, right when his finger brushed her clit, only to leave it again. “It's you.“ Without giving herself a chance to doubt her decision, she pulled his head down, raised her chin, and met his lips in a kiss.

For a split second, Sebastian went still. Her lips on his were warm, desperate, trembling with the same uncertainty that lived in her breath. He hadn’t expected her to move first; not her, not the human who had spent weeks trying to define where she ended and he began.

And yet—she did.

The surprise lasted only an instant before he kissed her back. Not gently, but deliberately, like he was committing every detail to memory. The taste of her breath, the way her body leaned into him, the sound she made when his fingers, still beneath her nightgown, finally settled against her clit and stayed there.

Two fingers started to circle, unhurried, and after slight experimentation, Sebastian quickly found the exact right pressure. For a heartbeat, everything inside her stopped, her thoughts, her breath, her reason, until all that remained was him. Sebastian’s kiss deepened with the kind of precision that made it clear he wasn’t guessing. He knew what she’d respond to, what she’d crave, as though he’d mapped her pulse through the simple act of watching her breathe.

Her surprise came like a shock to her chest. He moved with impossible accuracy, his body an anchor and a storm all at once, and the realization that he could read her—anticipate her—made her dizzy. Every small shift, every sigh she let slip, he adjusted to it seamlessly. It was unnerving, how effortlessly he understood her.

His other hand still cradled her face, thumb tracing a slow line along her cheekbone, then down toward her jaw. The touch was tender, almost reverent, a contrast to the intensity of the kiss and the gentle pressure between her legs. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the faint graze of his nails when he tilted her chin slightly upward, deepening the connection between them.

Sebastian broke the kiss only enough to breathe her in, his forehead resting against hers. His voice came low, velvet and dangerous, vibrating through her chest more than her ears.

“Do you know what that does to a creature like me?” he asked softly. “When his mate finally reaches for him?”

She shook her head, her breath trembling.

Sebastian’s voice dipped lower. “It unravels him.”

The words hit her harder than his touch ever could have. She could feel it—in the faint tremor of his breath, in the way his composure seemed to fracture around the edges.

And then his rhythm sped up, ever so slightly, and her pleasure built surprisingly quickly. Already? She didn't even manage to make herself come so quickly, so... effortlessly. Usually, she had to concentrate hard on it, had to go fast and hard to even feel as if she were getting close. But he—

She couldn't even concentrate on anything; his touch was still so tender, pressure soft, rhythm unhurried but not slow, and yet, she felt her orgasm building. 

His gaze was fixed on her face, but that was the least of her worries when her eyes fell shut and her head came to rest against the wall again, exposing her throat to him once more. Hips bucking, back arching, her body prepared to chase her high, her pleasure. But she didn't need to, because as if he had read her mind, Sebastian moved his fingers perfectly, increasing the pressure slightly, and there she was, coming undone in less than five minutes. 

Sebastian was watching her, saying something she couldn't understand, and to be frank, Emma couldn't care less. Her knees buckled and nearly gave way, but the hand that had just been preoccupied with bringing her pleasure in a way she hadn't known before came to rest against her waist, steadying her. 

For a long moment, there was only the sound of her breathing — ragged, uneven, trying to catch up with itself. The silence between them stretched, almost fragile. The world beyond the two of them felt distant, unreal.

Sebastian’s hand remained at her waist, steadying her easily, his touch firm but careful, as if she might shatter under it. His gaze had softened, the crimson still glowed faintly, but the hunger in it had settled into something quieter, something close to reverence.

“You tremble so easily,” he murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative. “One would think you’ve never let anyone see you like this before.”

Emma didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her chest rose and fell fast, her fingers still curled tight in the fabric of his coat, her other hand tangled in his hair. She could feel how steady he was — not a breath out of place, not a trace of the disarray that had overtaken her. And that, somehow, made her feel even more exposed.

“Let go,” he said quietly.

It took her a few seconds to realize he wasn’t speaking about his hair or his coat. He meant something else entirely. Still, her fingers loosened, as if her body obeyed him before her mind could catch up.

Her back slid down the wall slightly, and Sebastian followed the movement, catching her again before she could sink too far. She hated the tremor in her legs, the helpless warmth spreading through her chest.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked finally, her voice raw, barely above a whisper.

Sebastian tilted his head, studying her as though the question itself fascinated him. “Because you are mine,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, softer: “And because you just proved it to yourself.”

The words made something inside her twist — not in anger, but in something dangerously close to acceptance. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what she wanted to say.

The silence that followed was a living thing—dense, heavy, almost tender. And for the first time, Emma thought she saw the faintest crack in his mask.

He leaned in once more, as though he might kiss her again, but stopped just short, his breath ghosting across her lips. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, and this time, it didn’t sound like a taunt. It sounded like the truth.

His thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist, a fleeting, grounding touch that felt almost tender compared to everything else. He lingered there for a moment, eyes tracing her face—the parted lips, the heat staining her cheeks, the pulse fluttering against her throat.

Her pulse refused to settle, the air between them thick with the kind of silence that felt alive. It hummed in her bones, almost unbearable. She should have looked away, should have pulled back, but her body hadn’t remembered how. Nothing about this made sense. She felt as if this was the very first time someone had touched her, even though it wasn't! Still, her thighs still trembled slightly, her muscles limp, and she was feeling oddly light, as if her weight had somehow increased by half. 

Sebastian’s thumb stilled against her wrist, the faintest hint of pressure grounding her. His eyes roamed her face as though committing every detail to memory, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of the polished charm he usually wore like armor.

“You wonder why it felt like that,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Emma swallowed, trying to breathe evenly. Sometimes she really wondered if he could hear her thoughts and just usually pretended he couldn't.

He leaned in closer, just enough for her to feel the brush of his breath. “Because I am your mate,” he murmured. The words rolled off his tongue like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you, mine.”

He watched her reaction, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, but there was no teasing in his expression this time, only truth, quiet and unyielding. “You were made for this,” he added softly. “For me. And I was made for you.”

She drew in a shaky breath, and he continued. “I was made to please you, to see you.“ 

The world seemed to slow around them, and in that suspended quiet, he let his eyes drop to her throat, to her lips, back to her eyes. His next words came so softly she almost thought she’d imagined them.

“I kept the gloves on with her.”

Her breath caught. Her mind scrambled to process it, to find meaning. Then she remembered how they had gotten into this situation in the first place. Beast, and what the anime had implied had happened between them. And...

The gloves.

He hadn’t touched Beast’s skin. Not once.

But now, here — his bare hands had been on her.

The realization swept through her like warmth, almost dizzying in its relief. For a moment, she could only stare at him, unable to trust her own voice.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered to her lips again, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth,  not smug, not proud. Almost gentle. “You understand now,” he said, his tone quieter than a whisper.

Emma let out a soft breath, her body finally calming down again. The excitement faded away, leaving her with a profound sense of peace and calm. “Sometimes I forget you are a demon.“ 

For a demon, something like cheating in a relationship probably didn't exist, wasn't even worth mentioning, because there were no morals, no human ones at least. So, of course, Sebastian had used sex, in one way or another, to get information. That was what demons did — they seduced. Perhaps it was unfair of her to hold him to human standards, especially considering they had never talked about what being mated meant for them.

A low chuckle escaped him, though it held no mockery. “And yet,” he murmured, “you keep coming back to me.”

The faintest trace of a smirk ghosted over his lips, but the mask didn’t quite fit this time. Something real shimmered beneath it. He stepped back finally, just enough to let her breathe, his hand brushing down her arm in a gesture that felt almost... protective. “You should rest, Emma,” he said quietly. “You’ll feel the echo of this for a while.”

She gave a shaky laugh, the sound catching in her throat. “You say that like you planned it.”

He smiled faintly, that infuriating, perfect calm returning, but his eyes gave him away. “Perhaps I did,” he said. “Or perhaps it was inevitable.”

And then, softer, as he turned to leave: “Goodnight, my mate.”

The words lingered long after the door clicked shut, their echo settling deep beneath her skin — somewhere she knew they’d never leave.

Chapter Text

That Lady, lost in thought

The first thing Emma did was go to the toilet, because it was fucking 1889 and the last thing she wanted was to get a bladder infection. And then she fell into her bed, an irrational smile blooming on her face.

For a few moments, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The world felt hazy, distant, like she’d stepped out of something sacred and was still half-floating in the afterglow. Her skin tingled everywhere he’d touched her, her lips still warm from his kiss. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the look in his, that slow, deliberate intensity that made her stomach twist all over again.

She actually laughed, a breathless, half-disbelieving sound. God, what was wrong with her? She felt like a teenager again, giddy and light and painfully aware of every inch of her own skin. Her heart did a weird little flip just remembering the way his voice had dropped when he’d called her my mate.

“Holy shit,” she whispered into the night, grinning like an idiot.

She rolled onto her side, still smiling, and reached blindly toward the nightstand, her brain already composing the frantic text she was going to send Sabrina. Something like You are not going to believe what just happened. I think I might have actually made out with a demon.

Her fingers brushed wood, lace, an old book, but no phone.

Frowning, she patted around again, lifting the blanket, even checking the floor. Nothing. And then it hit her.

Her phone was still at the Phantomhive manor.

She froze, the grin fading a little. Right. No phone. No charger. No signal, even if she had it. No buzzing notifications, no Pinterest, no group chat to scream into. Just candlelight, silence, and the faint creak of the townhouse settling in the night.

The realization settled over her like a weight. She’d gotten used to forgetting it — to pretending that all this was temporary, that she could still go home whenever she wanted. But in moments like this, when instinct reached for something that didn’t exist here, the truth hit harder.

She sighed, turning onto her back again, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. The warmth still hummed under her skin, but now it mixed with something quieter: a strange, lonely ache that came from remembering there was no one she could tell. No one from her world, anyway.

After a long pause, she buried her face in the pillow and groaned. “Goddammit, Sabrina,” she muttered into the fabric. “You’d be screaming with me right now.”

For a second, she imagined her friend’s reaction, the chaos, the teasing, the endless voice notes, and laughed again, though it sounded a little sadder this time.

Her eyes drifted shut, the exhaustion finally catching up to her. Somewhere in the blur between waking and sleep, she thought about Sebastian again — his voice, his touch, the way he’d said my mate like there was no debate about it. Perhaps there really wasn't. Perhaps she didn't want to debate it, either.

And then, just before sleep claimed her, she whispered to no one, “I’m so screwed.”

The first thing Emma noticed when she woke was the silence. Usually, by now, there would be a knock on her door — soft, precise, followed by Sebastian’s perfectly polite voice reminding her that breakfast was ready, or that she was going to be late. But the room was still. No footsteps, no quiet bustle from downstairs, no clinking of dishes. Just the distant ticking of the clock on the wall.

She blinked at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented, and then the memory of last night hit her like a slow, rolling wave.

“Oh,” she murmured, dragging a hand over her face. “Right.”

For a while, she didn’t move, letting herself sink into the stillness. The light filtering through her window was a dull grey, the sky outside heavy with fog, the world muffled and slow. It fit the way she felt, hollow and full all at once.

In Book of Circus, Ciel had spent the day after returning to the townhouse asleep, recovering. Maybe Sebastian was letting her rest for the same reason. That would make sense. Her body was fine, but her mind still felt like it had been turned inside out.

She rolled onto her side, staring at the condensation blurring the edges of the windowpane.

Last night.

It wasn’t something she could just file away as an accident or a moment of weakness. The shift between them was undeniable — a line crossed, a door opened. She had let him in, had met his hunger with her own, and now there was no pretending things were the same.

Did she regret it?

Emma let out a slow breath, considering the question.

No. Not even a little.

Her body was her own again — strong, steady — but when she closed her eyes, she could still feel him. The glide of his fingers on her skin. His breath against her ear. The slow drag of his mouth on hers. She’d never felt so seen, so utterly transparent, and somehow that made it even more terrifying.

Would he act different now? Probably not in public — Sebastian didn’t do “unprofessional.” But in private… maybe.

And her? She wouldn’t act different. She couldn’t. It hadn’t been that deep—

The thought crumbled before she even finished it. It had been that deep. And she knew it.

With a sigh, Emma pushed the blankets away and sat up. The air was cool against her bare skin, her nightgown wrinkled from sleep. She took her time getting ready, slipping into one of her simpler dresses — no corset, no lace. Just comfort. Her Doc Martens thudded softly against the floor as she laced them, and she left her hair loose, falling in its natural waves down her back.

No jewelry. No fuss. Just her.

When she stepped into the hallway, the house was quiet in that thick, morning-after way, the kind of quiet that followed storms, or confessions. She hesitated for a moment before crossing to Ciel’s room and pushing the door open.

The curtains were drawn halfway, the room dim and blue-grey. Ciel was still asleep, his face turned toward the window. For a moment, she just watched him — the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way a strand of dark hair had fallen over his closed eyes.

She padded softly to the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to wake him.

“Hey, sweet child,” she whispered, brushing his bangs away from his forehead.

His breathing was steadier than last night, deeper. The dark circles beneath his eyes were still there, but lighter now. Relief loosened something in her chest, quickly followed by guilt.

She knew the pain this would cause him, knew how terrified he had probably been, and yet... And yet she had let it happen.

Her fingers threaded absently through his hair. “I should’ve protected you better,” she murmured, half to herself. “I should’ve…”

But the words trailed off. Ciel didn’t stir.

Outside, a crow cawed somewhere in the fog. The sound echoed through the quiet house like a reminder of everything still waiting for them: the circus, the children, the truth.

Emma smoothed a hand down the boy’s hair once more and exhaled, her voice barely a whisper. “I'm sorry.“ 

She doubted he'd appreciate her letting him run straight into pain and danger, so apologizing was all she could do. Still, this thought quickly led to another.

Sebastian knew that she knew their future; he had always known. 

Clenching her jaw, Emma stood from the bed and sought out her demonic mate. 

Sebastian was exactly where she expected him to be — in the dining room, the picture of composure. The table was already laid out: freshly brewed tea steaming in porcelain cups, silver gleaming in the muted morning light, and a basket of warm rolls at the center. The faint scent of butter and toast hung in the air.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps, expression unreadable. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, tone perfectly polite, as if the night before had never happened. “I was about to come fetch you.”

“Of course you were,” she muttered, crossing the room. Her pulse quickened despite herself; there was no trace in his face, not even in his eyes, of what they’d done. No sign that he’d touched her like that. It was infuriating and grounding all at once.

Emma pulled out a chair and sat, smoothing her dress as if to buy herself a moment. “You know I don’t eat breakfast,” she said finally.

Sebastian poured her tea without missing a beat. “And yet, I am bound by duty to offer it nonetheless.”

She took the cup from him, fingers brushing the porcelain, eyes narrowing slightly. “Duty,” she repeated, quietly. “Right.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of tea being poured, the clink of a spoon. Then she set the cup down. “So. You knew.”

Sebastian paused mid-motion, one gloved hand resting lightly on the teapot handle. His red eyes flicked toward her, calm as ever. “About your knowledge of the events to come? Yes.”

She studied him, half daring him to elaborate. “And you didn’t think to say anything?”

The faintest curve tugged at his mouth. “Would it have changed anything?”

“Maybe,” Emma said, voice soft but sharp. “You let me walk around believing I was keeping this secret from you.”

“I let you,” he said mildly, “because you seemed to need it.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. That was the problem with Sebastian—he wasn’t wrong.

Her gaze dropped to the cup between her hands. “You’re not angry then? About me not warning you about Ciel’s asthma? Or anything else that might happen?”

Sebastian’s tone didn’t waver. “I am sure you have your reasons.” He stepped closer, smooth as a shadow, adjusting the angle of the teapot though it didn’t need adjusting. “Besides, preserving the sequence of events serves my own interests as well.”

Her head tilted. “Because you’re a demon.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Because I enjoy order. Even in chaos.”

That earned the faintest, humourless huff of a laugh from her. “That’s one way to describe your brand of control.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on her face — not her lips, but close enough to make her heartbeat quicken again. Emma’s fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles whitening slightly. The silence that followed felt different now, not the charged kind from last night, but softer, almost reflective. She wondered if she should say something, mention what happened. Pretend it hadn’t. Should she?

Her mind spun faster the longer he just stood there, perfectly composed, perfectly unreadable. Was it a one-time thing? Was she supposed to bring it up? Did demons even do aftercare?

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, watching her with that infuriating half-smile that meant he knew she was thinking far too much. “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he said lightly, but there was an undercurrent there—an invitation.

Emma hesitated. “I’m just… trying to figure out if I should say something.”

He raised an eyebrow, voice smooth as ever. “About last night?”

Her stomach dropped. “You—” She cut herself off, groaning quietly. “You really have to stop doing that. It’s creepy.”

“I’m not reading your mind, my dear,” he replied. “You’re simply very loud in it.”

She wanted to argue, but instead words just started spilling out. “It’s just… where I come from, things like that—what happened last night—they usually mean something, or they don’t, and either way, there’s supposed to be some kind of clarity after. Like, it’s either a one-night thing or it’s not. I’ve had—uh—friends with benefits before, and that always got messy because someone eventually caught feelings, and then it turned weird, and—” She stopped, realizing she was rambling. “This isn’t like that. I mean, it can’t be, right? We didn’t even have sex, not in the conventional way, anyway.” She made a vague hand motion. “And yet it doesn’t feel like nothing either, and I can’t stop overthinking it, and the whole mate thing isn’t helping—”

“Emma.”

Her name, spoken softly but firmly, stopped her mid-sentence. She blinked, surprised.

Sebastian exhaled, and to her absolute astonishment, he moved, crossing the distance between them in two measured steps. Then, instead of standing over her like usual, he sank to one knee in front of her chair. The sight was disarming. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.

“You needn’t overthink this,” he said quietly. The words were softer than she’d expected, stripped of his usual teasing lilt. “I do not… expect anything from you.”

She frowned slightly, trying to read him. “What do you mean?”

His eyes lifted, meeting hers with an intensity that rooted her in place. “I’m aware that with humans, physical intimacy often comes with… expectation. Obligation. Debt.” His gaze flicked briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Last night was not that. You owe me nothing.”

Something in her chest tightened. “You don’t—” She swallowed. “You don’t think I let you touch me because I felt like I had to, do you?”

His expression softened—barely, but enough. “No,” he said simply. “If I had sensed hesitation, I would have stopped. I am many things, my dear, but I am not careless.”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t know what to say to that, only that it was oddly reassuring, in the most Sebastian way possible.

He went on, his tone deliberate but gentle. “Whatever happens between us, it will not be out of obligation. I take what is freely given—or not at all.”

Emma’s throat went tight. “You make it sound like I gave you something.”

“You did,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his gaze holding hers. “Trust.”

That word settled heavily between them. It wasn’t flirtation, wasn’t dominance. It was truth.

Emma’s lips parted, but nothing came out. The air felt thick again, but this time it wasn’t charged with lust—it was heavy with something quieter. 

Sebastian rose smoothly, and as he did, he reached out slowly and brushed his gloved fingers against her jaw, just a fleeting touch. “Do not trouble yourself with definitions,” he said softly. “I am patient. And whatever this is,” his thumb traced the air just shy of her cheek, “it will unfold as it must.”

He stepped back then, returning to his usual composed posture, as though the moment hadn’t just shifted the air between them again.

But Emma couldn’t move. Her pulse was still unsteady, her thoughts a tangle of confusion and warmth. Still, she chose to trust his words, trust him. Not only didn't she really have a choice, but it was also something she suddenly wanted. She wanted to trust him.

Exhaling deeply through her nose, Emma leaned back in her chair and stared at the empty plate before her, and forced the thoughts of doubt and worry out of her head. 

After breakfast, Emma had returned to Ciel’s room. She brushed the mud from her shoes, set them neatly by the door, and slid into the boy’s bed with a small, worn children’s book she’d found on a shelf in the townhouse study.

The cover had been faded from years of use, a small ink blot marring the title. Still, when she flipped it open, the pages were soft and yellowed, the kind that carried the faint smell of dust and old wood.

Ciel didn’t stir when she began to read, voice low and steady. The story was simple — about a lost fox searching for his way home — but the rhythm of the words filled the quiet room, weaving warmth into the cold October air.

Hours passed like that.

Once, Agni and Soma came to check in, Agni offering a kind smile and Soma nearly tripping over the rug. They left when they saw Ciel still fast asleep and safely coddled with Emma next to him.

Later, Sebastian entered briefly with fresh linens, his eyes lingering for a moment on the scene of the small, sleeping boy, and the woman sitting cross-legged beside him, reading softly into the stillness, before retreating again without a word.

By the time the light outside began to dim, Emma had to set the book aside to strike a match. The tiny flame flared, then settled into the candle’s wick, filling the room with that faint, golden glow that always made the townhouse feel less haunted.

The clock ticked softly on the mantel. Nearly seven. That was when the door opened again, quiet as a sigh.

Sebastian entered, pushing a cart ahead of him. The gentle clink of porcelain and silver broke the silence.

“Good evening,” he said smoothly, his tone mild but his eyes as observant as ever. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, my dear, but I’m afraid I must wake the young master. If he continues to sleep, the poor boy might very well starve before morning.”

Emma smiled faintly down at Ciel, lowering the book to her lap. “You always assume the worst.” Her fingers came to stroke over the boy's hair as if they had a will of their own.

“Experience, I’m afraid.” He parked the cart neatly by the bedside, lifting the lid from a small covered tray. She wondered if she should tell him, whether there could be any consequences, if Sebastian knew. “He hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening. His body will need—”

“You don't need to. He’ll wake up soon,” Emma interrupted softly, still looking at Ciel’s face, deciding that this was such a trivial thing. His breathing was calm, his cheeks less pale now. “Just past seven.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked up to her, no surprise in them, only acknowledgment. “Ah,” he murmured, “I see.”

For a few moments, they simply listened to the soft ticking of the clock.

Then, as the minute hand shifted toward seven, a faint sound escaped Ciel — a low, sleepy groan as he turned slightly beneath the blankets.

Sebastian’s gaze slid toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Predictable, indeed.”

Emma smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Ciel’s forehead. “Told you.”

Sebastian inclined his head in mock defeat. “I stand corrected.”

He reached for the covered plate again, uncovering tonight's meal. “Shall I assume you’ve also foreseen whether he’ll protest being fed?”

Emma grinned a little at the memory of watching the scene unfold on her laptop screen. “Oh, absolutely. Loudly, too.”

Sebastian chuckled; the low and rich sound filled the quiet space between them. “Then I’ll brace myself accordingly.”

Ciel stirred again, a faint noise escaping him as his lashes fluttered open. His small face was half-buried in the pillow, pale against the linen. “...It’s dark.”

A beat. Then—

“What time is it?!”

He sat up so abruptly that the blanket pooled around his waist, his voice cracking in that childish mix of indignation and panic.

“Right on schedule,” Sebastian murmured under his breath, amusement ghosting his tone as he cast Emma a sidelong glance. Then, raising his voice, smooth and butler-perfect:

“Just past seven in the evening.”

Ciel blinked rapidly, trying to focus. “Why didn’t you wake me?!” he demanded — and then, catching sight of Emma — “And why are you always in my bed?!”

Emma merely shrugged, grinning like she’d been caught doing something mildly scandalous but entirely worth it. “Habit, I suppose.” Her tone was light, teasing, and she knew from the faint wrinkle of his nose that he didn’t really mind.

“I judged that, as your butler,” Sebastian said, gliding closer as though the words themselves were part of some rehearsed performance, “I ought to put your health first.”

The cart rolled with a soft creak as he drew it nearer. Steam drifted faintly from the covered dish, something mild and fragrant that reminded Emma of hospitals and long nights.

Sebastian, ever the dramatist, reached somewhere into the ether and produced a red wool blanket. The motion was elegant, unhurried, his gloves catching the candlelight. He draped it over Ciel’s shoulders with the same gravity one might use to crown a monarch.

Emma couldn’t help herself; she reached forward automatically, tucking the edges in tighter around the boy’s narrow frame. Ciel’s head tilted toward her touch almost imperceptibly, though his eye flicked up toward Sebastian with something between suspicion and outrage.

She couldn’t fault him for it. She was usually the one fussing over him. That was nothing new. But Sebastian, caring, even in that perfectly measured, theatrical way of his, that was unusual.

And Emma found herself watching, amused and quietly enchanted, as the demon attempted something she’d never imagined witnessing in her lifetime: spoon-feeding the Earl of Phantomhive.

Ciel’s entire face contorted with disgust. He stiffened, lips pressed into a hard line, and recoiled as though the spoon contained poison.

“You’re being revolting,” he snapped, voice dripping with offense, one brow twitching dangerously. “And I order you to stop it this instant!”

Emma pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to burst out. Her shoulders trembled with the effort; she nearly toppled off the bed from how ridiculous it all looked — the great Sebastian Michaelis, demon of elegance and efficiency, reduced to a patient nursemaid by one stubborn thirteen-year-old.

After Ciel had eaten as much as he could, which, admittedly, wasn’t much, the house fell into the familiar kind of quiet that settled after long days and longer recoveries. Emma lingered just long enough to make sure the boy finished his tea, then excused herself softly, heading for her room.

The townhouse was hushed now, its narrow corridors bathed in lamplight. Every floorboard groaned faintly beneath her steps, every whisper of the fog outside seemed to creep through the windowpanes.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second, exhaling. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender, something old and comforting. But it didn’t ease the heaviness in her chest.

She stripped out of her day dress, letting the pale fabric pool at her feet before reaching for the black tunic folded neatly on the chair. The fabric was coarse and sturdy, a deliberate contrast to the silk and lace she’d worn for the sake of appearances. This outfit, she always thought, felt more hers. Boots, pants, tunic. It didn’t belong to 1889, not exactly, but it belonged to her.

Her fingers moved automatically, fastening buttons, smoothing seams. The braid came last, dividing her red hair into three thick strands and working them together, methodically, over one shoulder. The motion was grounding. Routine. Something human to cling to before the night ahead.

When she lifted her head again, her reflection in the small mirror by the window barely looked like her anymore. A stranger in black, eyes darkened with guilt.

“Right,” she muttered to herself, more breath than sound. “Let’s get this over with.”

Downstairs, the fog pressed against the windows, dense and ghostly white. The lamps cast halos through it, barely cutting the gloom. Sebastian stood near the door, coat already buttoned, gloves perfectly in place. He looked like he always did before a mission — poised, composed, unshakably calm.

Ciel stood beside him, wrapped in his heavy black coat, expression set in its usual cold defiance. Only the faint paleness around his mouth betrayed that he wasn’t fully recovered.

When Emma entered, Sebastian’s crimson eyes flicked toward her, scanning her from head to toe with a single, efficient sweep. “Ready, my dear?”

She gave a curt nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Excellent.” His smile was polite, almost lazy, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long on her face, as if he could sense the turmoil behind her forced composure.

Then they were outside. The world beyond the townhouse was swallowed by fog. The gas lamps blurred into hazy orbs, the cobblestones slick beneath their boots. The air was heavy, almost wet, every breath a taste of metal and mist.

“Taking the human route would take too long,” Sebastian said, the faintest hint of apology in his tone, though his expression didn’t change.

“I know,” Emma said quietly, though her stomach already tightened at the thought. She loved roller coasters, but this was something else entirely.

Still, she let him lift her onto his back. His gloved hands slid beneath her thighs with effortless strength, and in one smooth movement, she was settled against him, locking her ankles around his waist so that his hands were free.

Ciel didn’t even protest when Sebastian scooped him up bridal-style — though the boy’s scowl suggested he wasn't nearly as comfortable as he looked.

“Don’t you dare drop me,” Ciel muttered.

“Perish the thought, young master,” Sebastian replied with mock solemnity, and before Emma could steel herself, the world blurred.

The rush of wind hit first, cold, slicing through her clothes as London became nothing but streaks of shadow and fog. Her arms tightened instinctively around Sebastian’s shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. The world vanished into motion and darkness; there was no up or down, just the pounding of her heartbeat and the faint vibration of his laughter when she buried her face between his shoulder blades.

He smelled of smoke and ash and something faintly sweet — something not of this world.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to see the blur of trees and rooftops and moonlight. She didn’t want to see anything. Because seeing meant remembering. And remembering meant pain.

Her throat tightened, the memory of what was to come pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t set down. Kelvin’s estate. The laughter. The cages. The sound of chains. The horror that would paint itself across Ciel’s face when he understood.

She’d watched it before. She knew. And now she was walking him right into it again.

Her stomach churned.

He was just a boy — proud, brilliant, reckless — but still a boy. And she was supposed to protect him. That had been her unspoken promise from the day she’d stumbled into this world and looked into those too-old eyes for the first time. And she’d failed.

She pressed her forehead harder against Sebastian’s back, her breath shallow against the fabric. Her hands clenched, not out of fear of falling but out of sheer, helpless guilt.

If only she could change it. Warn him. Divert fate. But she couldn’t. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t meddle — not with what was already written. Even if it tore her apart.

The sound of wind roared past her ears, drowning out everything except the steady rhythm of Sebastian’s steps — impossibly even, impossibly sure. He didn’t stumble, didn’t slow. Not once.

And still, she hated it, how easy it was for him, how right it felt for him to carry her like this, as if her weight meant nothing, as if the night ahead meant nothing. She couldn't resent him for it; it wasn't his fault. He didn't know what would come, and even if he did, he'd take Ciel anyway. Cause he was a demon, and in the end, Ciel would be fine.

She repeated those four words in her mind for the rest of their journey. 

Chapter Text

That Lady, pained

Emma slid off Sebastian’s back more or less gracefully, her knees aching after being bent for nearly an hour. The cold air bit through the layers of her clothes, sharp and dry, and her legs trembled as they straightened. The joints cracked softly in the quiet of the night, echoing faintly against the snow-dusted stone. She flexed her fingers to coax warmth back into them while listening to Ciel and Sebastian’s exchange.

“So this is their estate,“ Ciel said, his tone measured but taut with unease. He turned slightly, dark eye catching what little light there was. “Well? Does it smell?“

Like a hound, though well aware he’d despise the comparison, Sebastian sniffed audibly before answering. “Yes. I don’t know if they’re all here, but those who are seem well.“

Emma glanced at the sprawling manor ahead — black stone and shadow, its windows empty like blind eyes. A shiver crawled up her spine. The world felt too still here, as if even the snow had forgotten how to fall.

They ascended the stairs to the entrance in silence, boots crunching on frost. The closer they came, the heavier the air grew, weighted with a sweet, cloying scent, perfume and decay mingled together. They’d barely reached halfway when the doors opened with a hollow creak, and Joker appeared in the threshold.

“Welcome to the manor,“ he said darkly, the lilt of performance stripped from his voice. “We’ve been expecting you, Lord Phantomhive. Please, come in.“

The warmth of the hall hit her first, not from heat, but from the smell. Candle wax, velvet, and something metallic underneath. They followed him into darkness, and when Sebastian paused to close the door, Emma instinctively stepped closer to Ciel, her arm brushing his sleeve. The click of the lock behind them sealed the world and the light out.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing, only breathing, their own and the walls’.

Someone snapped their fingers — Joker, she remembered distantly — and a mechanical whir echoed through the blackness. It was the kind of sound that scraped the edge of her nerves, winding through her imagination like a knife through fabric. Emma’s mind betrayed her with a flicker of imagery — a porcelain face turning on its own, head jerking toward her. Annabelle. She stiffened, shaking the thought off, telling herself that Sebastian was right behind her, that monsters in her world stayed on screens.

And yet when Emma pushed a little closer toward Ciel, he wordlessly slipped his hand into hers. His touch was steady, grounding. His gloves were soft against her cold, naked fingers.

A match struck. The small, trembling flame revealed a childlike hand, pale and waxy in the glow. Then a hiss, the slither of light rushing along oil-soaked cords, and one by one, candles caught, the hall unfolding in layers of flickering gold.

Emma’s breath hitched. It wasn’t Annabelle. But it wasn't any less creepy.

The room was full of them — human-sized dolls hanging from the ceiling, propped on couches, seated at tables as if waiting for tea. Some lacked arms or legs, others stared blankly from headless torsos. Their glass eyes caught the candlelight and fractured it into shards. They looked seconds away from standing up. 

On screen, this scene had been uncanny. Standing inside of it, seeing these things just a short distance away from her... It unnerved her beyond words, her heartbeat spiking up immediately.

Even Ciel, composed as he always tried to be, gasped softly beside her. Emma felt his hand tremble and squeezed it gently.

“What is this?!” Ciel demanded, his voice steady, almost angry.

“This way, please,“ Joker said easily, as though surrounded by flowers instead of creepy dolls.

They followed him up a narrow staircase, the wood creaking with every step. Ciel had released her hand, but he stayed close enough that their arms brushed together with each movement. Sebastian’s presence loomed behind, a shadow that moved with them, barely a step between them.

“Well, young master?“ Sebastian murmured lowly, his voice threaded with dark amusement. “Shall we kill him now and rescue the children?“

“No,“ Ciel replied. “If they’re still alive, it’s probably best to capture Kelvin first.“

The corridor they entered was suffocatingly narrow. Candles flickered weakly against walls lined with portraits — all of the same woman. Pale, blonde, beautiful. And in each painting, she was dying. In one, her throat was cut. In another, her eyes were gouged. In one, her heart lay beside her head, the blood painted with disturbing precision.

Emma’s stomach turned. The house was breathing madness.

“We can’t report to Her Majesty without knowing the situation or his motives,“ Ciel continued, his tone practical, brittle.

She watched him from the corner of her eye, the way his jaw set, how his small hands were clenched behind his back like a soldier’s. She wanted to tell him it wouldn’t matter. That the Queen’s satisfaction was a mirage. That this would only end in another massacre, another test, another betrayal, the events of Book of Murder rushing through her head.

But she said nothing. When she looked away, her gaze caught Sebastian’s. There was knowing in his eyes — dark amusement, maybe, but also understanding. He could sense that she knew. He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

A few steps later, Joker began to laugh softly. “It really is true,“ he said without turning. “You can’t judge people by appearances. A little tacker like you has the stage names ‘Queen’s guard dog’ and ‘villainous noble’?“

He turned at last, looking over his shoulder with a grin sharp and strange. “I reckon that’s hard, Smile.“

“I am Ciel Phantomhive,“ the boy replied, lifting his chin with aristocratic precision. “I don’t tolerate servants speaking to me so familiarly.“

Joker raised his hands in mock surrender, the smile never leaving his face. “You be a noble, all right.“ Then he turned again and gestured forward. “Dinner is ready.“

He pushed open a door to their left. The hinges groaned, revealing a long dining room lined with velvet drapes and dust. The table was set for two — silverware gleaming, wine poured, steam still rising from the dishes.

Good, Emma thought grimly. She didn’t want to sit down anyway.

Ciel took his place at the side of the table, his posture perfect despite the tension in his shoulders. Emma and Sebastian stood behind him, flanking him like sentinels. Joker moved to the far end, passing the long table in silent strides.

Emma noticed the stage in front of them immediately, their view perfect from their position. She knew what would happen there. Her heart hammered, and for one impossible second, she wanted to grab Ciel’s arm, to tell him everything, to get it all to stop, to save those children from death, save him from his pain.

Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back, fingers digging into her wrists until they burned. The sting was grounding. What did it matter? She deserved far worse for what she was about to let happen.

Joker opened another set of doors, the soft squeaking of unoiled wheels already announcing the host's arrival. 

Kelvin looked even worse in reality than he had on the screen. His presence was grotesque, the kind of sight that made her skin crawl on instinct. Nearly his entire body was wrapped in stained, yellowing bandages. Beneath them, something beneath the surface seemed wrong — soft and sinking, as if flesh was rotting away while he still breathed.

Emma’s hand flew up to cover her nose, fighting down the urge to gag. The two small children pushing his wheelchair didn’t even blink. Their faces were blank — puppets, hollowed out.

“L–Lord Phantomhive,“ Kelvin said, a huge, trembling smile spreading across his visible mouth. “You came!“

“As if he had a choice,“ Emma muttered under her breath. 

Kelvin wore a rust-colored suit with a white rose pinned to his lapel — the attempt at elegance only making him look more like a parody of nobility. The one unbandaged eye glistened wetly, feverish with adoration.

Ciel was completely unfazed. “You're Lord Kelvin?“  

As Joker guided the wheelchair to its place at the table, Emma noticed that it wasn’t set at the head, but several seats down — a mockery of equality, of shared power. Though there were five empty seats between Kelvin and Ciel, she would’ve preferred fifty.

“That's right!“ Lord Kelvin replied, almost childlike. He really looked like a fangirl meeting her idol for the first time. “Ah, that formality makes me feel a bit shy. I've prepared a feast for you.“ 

Emma watched without even an ounce of hunger as Joker and four little girls dressed as maids brought in the so-called feast, including a wine from Ciel's birth year, all of them with empty eyes. Already lost.

She listened to Ciel's and Sebastian's conversation about the lost children silently, jaw set, every muscle taut as if she were anticipating a blow to come. In a sense, there would be. 

Ciel was oblivious to her tenseness, but she knew Sebastian was aware, knew she was alerting the demon with her own reactions. Still, he seemed to hide it well.

“Oh, I know!“ Kelvin interrupted their quiet conversation. “A meal without entertainment will bore you, won't it, my lord? Joker! Put on your show!“ 

Joker stepped onto the stage, easily slipping back into the role of a circus director. Behind him, the curtain lifted, revealing a bunch of children, and despite them wearing masks of various colors and shapes, Emma guessed their stares would be equally dead as the other children's. Their movements were stiff, mechanical — not from nerves, but from something broken inside. When the first performer, a small tightrope walker, took her step, Emma’s heart twisted, and she wanted to look away, but she forced herself to look. If she couldn't stop this, the least she could do was witness it.

The child wobbled once — then fell.

The crack of bone was sharp, final, echoing through the room. 

The child didn't even manage to step on the rope before falling off, hitting the wooden stage with a heavy thud that made Emma flinch. The crack of its bones was loud enough to echo inside her skull, and her gut pulled together, ready to vomit up whatever she had eaten last. She forced it down again, swallowing hard as she bit her lower lip, tears already welling in her eyes. They were just children... Innocent, harmless children.

Ciel, next to her, gasped in horror, but Kelvin didn't seem to notice as he laughed wholeheartedly, clapping his hands loudly. Joker seemed as uncomfortable as she felt, yet he continued, even as the dead child was dragged off stage behind him by another child, announcing the lion tamer next. 

The poor boy was eaten alive by the lion, its blood splattering across the stage, bones crunching loudly as they snapped inside the beast's jaw. 

Now she couldn't stop the tears anymore, couldn't stop them as they silently rolled down her cheeks, but she held an iron grip on the rest of her body, trembling with the force to keep herself from moving. Her nails had long since drawn blood on her wrists.

When the knife thrower was announced next, Ciel finally voiced what she had been thinking all this time. “Stop him!“ 

Emma's whole body nearly collapsed with relief when Sebastian caught the knife just a few centimeters before it hit a girl in the head. Taking off her mask, the demon confirmed the girl to be one of the missing children.

Ciel rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The wine glass fell, shattering against the table. The red stain spread across the white cloth like blood blooming in water.

“This will do for my report,“ Ciel said, the barely contained anger in his voice evident as he approached Kelvin.“I found the foul, vulgar, unsightly, perverted brute.“ 

Emma moved with Ciel as if she were his shadow, forcing her body to obey, to protect him. Banning all the other thoughts from her mind right now, she was well aware they would come back to hunt her later. Still, she had no time for them right now.

“And I disposed of him“, Ciel finished and reached into his coat, drawing out a gun. 

Joker was suddenly at Kelvin’s side, sword drawn in one swift movement. Sebastian moved faster still, pressing the captured knife against Joker’s throat before the man could even blink. Emma didn’t think — she simply moved, stepping between Ciel and danger, her body the barrier.

The tip of Joker’s sword grazed her collarbone, the fabric splitting under the edge, cold air kissing her skin. She didn’t flinch.

Behind her, she felt Ciel stiffen — a sudden intake of breath — but his aim on Kelvin never wavered.

Kelvin’s single visible eye darted wildly between them all. “M–my lord?” he whimpered, his voice trembling with panic and something that still, somehow, sounded like adoration.

Then his gaze flicked to Emma, confusion flashing across his ruined features. “And who is this charming creature, my lord? Your… bodyguard?”

Ciel’s tone was cool, clipped, almost disdainful. “She is under my protection. That is all you need to know.“

The words struck cleanly — aristocratic, impersonal, yet edged with quiet warning. Sebastian’s mouth twitched, almost amused at the phrasing, even with a blade at his disposal.

Kelvin’s panic melted back into a shaky smile. “Of course. A fine choice, my lord. Quite… devoted, isn’t she?”

Emma didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her pulse thundered, but her eyes stayed on Joker’s sword, measuring distance and timing.

For a tense few heartbeats, the air was pure static, a tableau of frozen violence. Then, with a tremor of forced calm, Kelvin lifted one bandaged hand.

He ordered Joker to stand down. The ringmaster hesitated, then slowly lowered his blade. Sebastian withdrew his own weapon just as smoothly, his smirk returning like a shadow finding its home again.

Ciel didn’t lower his gun. His gaze burned with quiet fury as he demanded to know where the missing children were being kept.

Kelvin’s eye gleamed, the feverish excitement back again. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his voice soft, reverent, almost affectionate. He said they were in the cellar, and that he would gladly show Ciel himself.

The words hung in the air like poison.

Emma’s stomach sank. She already knew what waited below. Never once in her life had she wished she could stop something as much as right now. 

The ride inside the old elevator was positively terrifying. Not only did the stench of Lord Kelvin seem to worsen with every passing second, but Emma also feared for her life—each creak and groan of the ancient mechanism sounded like the promise of a fatal drop.

Still, she pushed all of it aside, burying the unease beneath layers of discipline. Her entire focus was the boy standing beside her.

She had positioned herself between Ciel and Kelvin, ready to intercept anything before it could reach him. His gun remained trained on the bandaged lord’s head, while Sebastian stood in the corner opposite, knife still pressed to Joker’s throat.

Knowing what would come next, Emma braced herself. She couldn’t prevent what was about to unfold—but she could be there. She could soften the blow. She would.

Her tears had long dried, but the thought of what Ciel was about to face again, his past, his own ghosts, threatened to summon them anew. She blinked them back ruthlessly, forcing Kelvin’s gloating voice into the background noise of her mind.

The elevator came to a rattling stop, and they began the slow, echoing walk down the corridor. The air grew colder with every step. Emma’s hand twitched unconsciously in Ciel’s direction, her instincts screaming to pull him away, to make him run.

But he didn’t. He just walked, silent and rigid, his small frame coiled with tension.

The massive doors loomed before them, and when they swung open, Ciel’s breath hitched sharply. His entire body went still.

The round chamber was his nightmare reborn—huge white pillars framing the space, cages filled with seemingly brain-dead children, and in the center, the altar. A perfect replica. The sigil beneath it seemed to pulse faintly in the low light.

Emma felt Ciel tremble beside her. His breathing came shallow, unsteady—each breath shorter than the last.

Of course he was remembering. The room wasn’t just a place; it was a wound. It was the source for it all, for the contract with the demon, for the pain and misery and nightmares. 

Kelvin’s delighted rambling echoed distantly—words like "our first meeting," "the day my dream was born." But none of it mattered. It wasn’t even this Ciel he had met.

Emma stepped forward, instinct overriding all else. Quietly, firmly, she moved between Ciel and the room—blocking his line of sight to the altar.

“Hey,” she said softly, crouching a little so her gaze met his. “Ciel. Look at me.”

No response. His eye was distant, glassy, lost in a place three years gone, hands trembling violently.

She hesitated only a second before reaching out, cupping his cheek with a steady hand. He flinched. Hard. 

Her thumb brushed lightly over his skin, grounding him in the present. “You’re not there,” she whispered. “You’re here. With me.”

His breath shuddered—still ragged, but slower now.

“These men can’t touch you anymore,” she continued, voice low, gentle but unwavering. “You already burned that place to the ground, remember? And Sebastian killed them all.”

Ciel blinked—once, then again. His jaw clenched as awareness flickered back into his eye. He drew a sharp breath through his teeth, the tremor in his shoulders visible before he straightened them again, forcing his composure back into place.

Emma didn’t move away, not until she saw the faintest return of color to his face. Only then did she step aside again, letting him see the room once more—but she kept her hand on the small of his back, grounding him to her.

Sebastian, still silent, observed the entire exchange from behind Joker. His expression remained unreadable.

Kelvin, oblivious to the human storm he had just reignited, continued his excited monologue as they descended the steps into the chamber.

Ciel said nothing. His eye burned—focused, cold—but the edges of his composure still trembled faintly. He kept close to Emma, almost shoulder to shoulder. His body didn’t reach for her, but his nearness said everything.

Kelvin rambled on, voice bubbling with excitement as he gestured weakly toward the altar. “And now, I’ve finally assembled it all—the ritual chamber, the lamps, and most of all—”

The sharp report of a gunshot split the air.

Emma flinched, the sound ricocheting off the marble pillars and ringing in her skull. The echo seemed to hang in the room for seconds that stretched into eternity.

Ciel’s arm was still extended, his hand steady, the gun’s barrel smoking faintly. In front of them, Lord Kelvin slumped forward, a vivid bloom of red spreading across his chest.

For a moment, everything seemed suspended in silence—then came the scream.

Kelvin toppled from his wheelchair, landing hard on the cold floor. He writhed, clutching his ribs as the wound pulsed blood between his fingers.

Emma’s mind flickered between three burning images: Kelvin, bleeding and shrieking; Joker, shouting his father’s name in horror behind them; and Ciel—small, trembling, but utterly still, breathing hard through gritted teeth.

She chose. Ciel.

Without even thinking, she turned slightly, instinctively trusting Sebastian to deal with Joker. For once, her human reflexes didn’t react to the danger behind her, knowing the demon wouldn't let them get hurt.

“It hurts, my lord!” Kelvin whimpered, crawling toward them, dragging his ruined body across the marble. “It’s agony! If you’re going to kill me, please—please give me the death they had!”

His hand reached forward, grasping blindly for Ciel’s shoes.

Something snapped inside her.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Her voice was low, venomous. She brought her heel down on his hand with brutal precision. The crunch of breaking bone echoed like a snapped branch, followed by Kelvin’s sharp, animal scream.

It was almost satisfying.

“The death they had?” Ciel’s voice was cold, flat—and something in its stillness made her look back sharply.

He wasn’t angry. He was past anger.

It was an icy, hollow fury—one that didn’t burn, but froze.

Before she could speak, his foot came down hard on Kelvin’s head, pressing it into the marble until blood smeared beneath his shoe.

“Then you’d best prostrate yourself like the worm you are,” Ciel said, voice low and controlled, “and beg a demon.”

Behind them, Joker’s broken voice rang out, hoarse and desperate. “Please! Don’t kill him!”

Emma half-turned. Joker was crawling toward them, his prosthetic and real hand both gone. The blood trailing behind him was a dark, glossy streak.

Her eyes flicked briefly to Sebastian. He stood over Joker, blade wet with crimson, a serene smile curving his lips. When their eyes met, he tilted his head slightly, expression almost innocent.

Emma’s chest gave a small, incredulous huff of laughter. Even now, he had the audacity to look like that.

“Whatever else he may be,” Joker cried, “he is our savior!”

Her gaze softened just a fraction. She remembered his story—the starving children, the broken promises, the way Kelvin had gathered them up like dolls to feed his obsession. It didn’t make him innocent, but it made him human.

“We have lots of brothers and sisters back at the workhouse who are still young!” Joker went on, voice cracking. “They can’t live without him! So—”

“So that’s why you kidnapped all these children?” Ciel’s voice cut through like glass.

He still hadn’t turned around. Emma’s hand moved before she could think, sliding around his waist. Her fingers found the edge of his coat and gripped it tightly, steady and protective.

Ciel didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in, either. He simply stood there, accepting her presence like he would accept air—necessary, unspoken.

“To save your own skins, you obeyed him and sacrificed others,” Ciel continued.

Joker bowed his head, tears and blood staining the floor. “I knew it was wrong all along… but I…”

“You aren’t wrong,” Ciel interrupted, finally turning toward him. His foot remained on Kelvin’s skull. “You fought to protect your world. What’s wrong with that? In the end, ‘justice’ is just an official line taken by those in power to serve their own ends. No one’s looking out for others. If you’re careless, you’ll be robbed.”

Joker looked up at him in stunned silence. Emma couldn’t fault him. Ciel had that effect—his words cut straight to the truth, even when they hurt. Especially when they hurt.

“There are only two kinds of people in the world,” Ciel went on, his tone a quiet verdict. “Those who steal, and those who are stolen from. And today, I steal your futures. That’s all this is.”

The chamber went silent, the words settling like ashes after a fire. Emma could feel her own pulse thrumming behind her ribs.

Then Joker laughed. The sound was wild, brittle, echoing off the marble. He threw himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling with a wide smile

“Yeah,” he said through his laughter. “You’re right. But guess what?”

He grinned, teeth red with his own blood. “You three will lose something precious tonight, too.”

Ciel’s eye narrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“The troupe’s on its way to your mansion!” Joker said triumphantly. “How do you think we captured all those kids without getting caught? All the witnesses disappear!”

He gave a shaky chuckle, voice cracking with triumph and pain alike. “I wonder how many will be killed in their search for you.”

“Killed?” Ciel repeated softly. There was something almost mocking in his tone, and Emma felt a dark smile curve her own lips. It was wrong, she shouldn't enjoy this, shouldn't feel powerful with the knowledge that no one residing in that mansion—Lizzy, Finny, Mey-Rin, Tanaka, Bard—would be hurt, because they'd kill the intruders first. She shouldn't feel this way. And yet, she did.

“Yes,” Joker said, still grinning. “Even the servants.”

“My servants?” Ciel’s voice was calm—too calm.

The grin faltered on Joker’s face.

Sebastian stepped lightly around him, his chuckle low, deliberate. He came to stand behind Ciel and Emma, hands clasped behind his back.

“Who do you take them for?” Ciel asked, his tone as sharp and elegant as the steel of Sebastian’s blade. “Those are Phantomhive servants. Those are private soldiers Sebastian and I personally selected.“

Joker had turned on his stomach, staring at them with shock and fear on his face, but Ciel continued as if he didn't see it.

“They protect the Phantomhive family's secrets and pride, come what may.“

“Private soldiers?“ Joker repeated with a shaky voice.

“The Phantomhive house is a shadow that exists solely to eradicate what worries the Queen. Once you enter our den, you can never return to the light,“ Ciel said

Sebastian stepped next to Emma, his arm brushing her shoulder, but her gaze continued to be fixed on Joker, his eyes darting between the three of them frantically. Until he finally seemed to understand that there was no way out of this situation for him. For his family. They've been caught in the web of the spider, and now it was too late.

He started crying, sobs that pulled at Emma's composure tearing through the man lying on the ground. 

Ciel was having none of it. “Quit your pathetic crying. The world isn't kind to anyone.“ 

“Smile...“ Joker whispered, and Ciel stiffened next to her.

“My name is Ciel Phantomhive,“ he said. “It's the only name I have.“ 

She knew she shouldn't, but Emma's eyes flickered to Sebastian anyway, recognizing the lie. Her mate only smiled at her secretively, and Emma bit her lip, not saying anything. There was no need to call out the lie, anyway. It would come out soon enough, although she didn't knew the details of it. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice. 

“Sorry, I'm late!“ There he was, the doctor, still sitting in his wheelchair as if he really needed it. God, even looking at that man made Emma sick. 

And while Joker pleaded with him to quickly get out of here, revealing their identity to the doctor, the man just smiled.

“Why?“ he said, and stood from his wheelchair. “You're the ones who kidnapped the children. All I did was work for the baron.“ 

Chapter Text

That Lady, guilty

The only one who looked truly shocked by the doctor’s sudden ability to walk was Joker.

“I was just sitting down so you kids would get comfortable around me,“ the doctor laughed, his steps echoing through the cold, white chamber as he descended the stairs. The metallic tap of his shoes was almost cheerful, an obscene contrast to the reek of blood and oil.

Emma watched him hurry past the wounded Joker to kneel beside Lord Kelvin’s dying form, his hands moving with the detached efficiency of a man dissecting a corpse rather than saving a life.

“He’s done for,” the doctor murmured, almost idly. “This is terrible. I’d finally found a patron who understands my ideals.”

There wasn’t a single note of grief in his voice, only irritation. As if Kelvin’s death were a setback in some grand experiment.

“Psychopath,” Emma whispered, her voice low and trembling, more venom than sound. Her arm tightened instinctively around Ciel’s waist. He was so small beside her, too still, too quiet. She could feel the shallow rhythm of his breath against her ribs. She didn’t want him anywhere near this monster.

“Ideals?” Sebastian’s smooth voice broke the tension.

“Yes!” The doctor straightened, his eyes glinting with manic pride. “Ideals. For years, I’ve been trying to perfect artificial limbs. And after all my research, I finally succeeded in producing the finest material.”

Emma stopped listening. She knew what came next — had seen this scene before — but hearing it here, seeing it unfold, was something no memory could prepare her for. The words blurred into a background hum as her stomach twisted.

When he finally said it, when the truth came out, when Joker realized what his own hand was made of, Emma’s world tilted. The scream that tore from Joker’s throat was the sound of something breaking beyond repair.

Emma’s jaw locked so tightly it ached. Her vision tunneled. Her fingers clenched harder around Ciel’s coat until the fabric bit into her skin. She felt him lean ever so slightly into her — a faint attempt at grounding her. The bitter twist of her lips wasn’t quite a smile. 

Then the doctor moved closer.

“Earl Phantomhive, how about hiring me?" His tone was casual, almost chipper, as he reached out toward Ciel. “Or better, introduce me to Her Majesty. She’s—”

The sound of Emma’s palm connecting with his hand cracked through the air. Her own skin stung from the force. She yanked Ciel behind her in one fluid motion, her stance sharp, protective, shaking.

“Try that again,” she said, her voice low, the cold fury in her grey eyes freezing him mid-breath. “I fucking dare you.”

The doctor blinked, rubbing his hand with mock indignation. “I’m just saying,” he stammered. “I could probably…”

“Shut your mouth, scum,” Ciel muttered behind her, his disgust thick and heavy in the small chamber.

Emma didn’t listen to the rest. The words were meaningless now — just noise. The only sound that mattered was the creak of the cage door opening.

The doctor grabbed a little girl by the wrist. She couldn’t have been more than seven. She was completely motionless, the tiny scar next to her temple reminding her of a lobotomy. For some reason, Emma thought of Jeffrey Dahmer and his own experiments with the human brain. When the doctor laid her on the altar, the air itself seemed to grow heavier.

Ciel’s breath hitched. Then again, sharper. His small body trembled against her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, turning to him, one arm still braced around his waist. Her voice wavered, but she tried to make it gentle, steady — something human in the face of all this horror. When he started to step back, she moved with him, not letting him retreat into that memory alone that had already consumed too much of him.

She wanted to shield his eye, to take him away from this place, but she couldn’t. Not without changing something she didn’t understand.

When she looked at Sebastian, meeting his gaze over Ciel’s head, she found no mockery there — only quiet understanding. His eyes were ancient and unreadable, but she could tell: he’d seen this kind of helplessness before.

Then the knife plunged down behind her.

The sound of steel sinking into flesh split the silence.

And Ciel screamed.

Slapping his gloved hand over his mouth, Ciel still hadn’t been fast enough — bile spilled between his fingers and splattered across Emma’s tunic and trousers. The smell hit her like a physical thing: iron and sickness and the hot, close tang of fear. She didn’t care. Her palms went to his face, fingers trembling as she held him, trying to bring him back from wherever he had been taken.

He wasn’t there with them. He was looking past her, eye gone huge and unfocused, mouth opening and closing around strangled sounds that belonged to some other place and other time. One hand reached out, fingers spread, as if searching for someone who wasn’t there — a child reaching for a hand that would never return. Emma’s knees wobbled; the sight of that old, raw terror, the memory clawing itself into the present, made her stomach drop so hard she could barely breathe.

“Young master,” Sebastian said, voice calm and measured, the syllables oddly small in the cavern of the round room. He moved around them with a speed that belonged to a different animal, not a man. One smooth step and he had Ciel’s hand in his, another and his palm was under Ciel’s chin. Emma felt the shift beneath her back as she bumped into Sebastian’s chest; his body was solid and immovable, a cold backbone at the edge of her panic. She clung to Ciel’s waist as if she could fuse them together and stop the world from undoing him.

“You are outside the cage, my lord,” Sebastian said. His voice threaded through the air, calm as the surface of a lake before a storm. Something in it thinned, sharpened. Emma didn’t need to meet his face to know the color of his eyes. She felt the atmosphere peel, smelled the sulfur beneath his skin; the air hummed around them.

“Now…” Sebastian reached behind Ciel’s head with an easy, practiced motion and unknotted the eyepatch. “Call my name.”

Ciel’s body trembled like a marionette with cut strings. One hand tightened on Sebastian’s coat, fingers digging into the fabric; the other grabbed at Emma’s upper arm so hard it hurt, and she didn’t try to pull away. He found the sound in him and forced it out.

“Sebastian!” His voice came out cracked and thin but real. Emma felt as if she could finally inhale without choking.

The eyepatch fell away. For a beat the room was lit — not by candle, but by a light that shivered across the surfaces, purple and terrible: the Faustian sigil burned bright in Ciel’s eye, throwing his face into stark, unnatural relief. Whatever had been sleeping under his skin flared up, and with it came a command that was not his alone.

“Kill them all!”

The order left his mouth and the world snapped.

Sebastian’s presence dissolved like shadow pulled from the hearth. He was suddenly gone from behind Emma — and then he was everywhere at once: a swath of movement, impossible speed and terrible grace. Emma dropped to her knees, reflexive, as Ciel folded against her, clutching at her as if she were the only solid thing left. She watched through a haze of shock and bile as Sebastian became the instrument of vengeance.

What followed was sudden and terrible and wordless. The doctor’s laugh cut off mid-sentence. The man who had spoken of “ideals” and “materials” and bones was met with a force that ignored the boundaries of human movement; in one instant he was in front of them and the next he was not. Sebastian tore into him with a violence that felt like the unspooling of something ancient — precise, inhuman, and absolute. His blood splattered across the white marble, a few drops hitting her cheek, hot and wet. They mingled with her silent tears.

Emma’s eyes could not follow every movement — they blurred into shards of sound and motion: a flash where the doctor’s hand had been, a sound like fabric ripping, a wetness that she did not want to understand. The thing Sebastian did was not a performance; it was a correction. When the motion ended there was silence so full it pressed against her eardrums.

Ciel keened, a wordless sound that rose from the small, broken place in him, and sagged further into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder. He was trembling now in slow, exhausted shivers. Emma’s hands moved like autopilot — one under his head, one at the small of his back — as if tucking him into safety could be done with the same motions as tucking him into bed. She realized she was shaking, too, the aftershock of adrenaline and the pain he had to go through again affecting her the same.

The next thing she knew, a dull thud echoed around the room, Sebastian's foot standing in the mess that had been Kelvin's head a few seconds ago, bones, brain, and skin bulging beneath his black shoe. Emma nearly vomited herself. 

She barely registered Sebastian’s approach until he was suddenly there, kneeling before them, silent and composed as ever. His right shoe and left hand were slick with blood; the once-white glove was stained to a dark crimson. The air around him shimmered faintly with the heat of destruction barely leashed.

“It is done,” he said, voice smooth but low, almost intimate. He reached for Ciel with his untainted hand, pausing for just a heartbeat as his gaze flickered toward Emma’s face — searching, assessing. For a moment, the demonic red in his eyes caught the light like polished rubies. She met that gaze and gave the smallest nod, her throat too tight for words.

“Burn it,” Ciel muttered against her collarbone, the sound half-swallowed by fabric and unshed tears. His breath scalded against her skin.

Sebastian tilted his head, almost curious. “Burn it?” he repeated softly, the faint gleam of fangs flashing between his lips. “This mansion?”

“Yes,” Ciel said simply — a single word, stripped bare of anything human.

“But, young master,” Sebastian continued, polite as ever, “I gathered from Her Majesty’s letter that our current mission is to find the kidnappers and rescue the children.”

The two of them hung in silence for a moment — demon and woman —  knowing that there was nothing left to rescue.

“Shut up!” Ciel suddenly shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. The sound jolted through Emma, sharp and raw. His small hands clutched at her with desperate strength before tearing away, twisting in her arms until he faced Sebastian. He seized the demon’s face in both gloved palms, trembling with fury that was too much for his body to hold.

“Leave nothing! Turn everything in here to ash! Have you forgotten your duty? That’s an order!”

The echo of his scream clung to the air. Then, as if the energy had been ripped from him, Ciel sagged back into Emma’s arms, panting hard. She steadied him instinctively, fingers curling over his shoulders as she met Sebastian’s eyes over the boy’s head.

For a moment, there was nothing but that shared silence — the smell of blood, the faint crackle of dying candles, the thrum of hellish energy beneath it all. Sebastian’s eyes asked a question. Emma’s lips, trembling and weary, shaped the faintest of smiles. It was soft, sad, and final.

This was meant to happen.

Sebastian exhaled through his nose, not a sigh of irritation, but something closer to resignation. Then, wordlessly, he pulled off his bloodied glove with his teeth, the motion smooth and strangely intimate. The bare skin of his hand glowed faintly, the Faustian mark pulsing violet like a heartbeat made of fire, responding to the command.

Emma’s hands tightened around Ciel’s limp shoulders. “Come on, sweet child,” she murmured, her voice breaking, thick with the tears she hadn’t realized were still falling. “Come on.” She tried to pull him upright; he followed without protest, heavy and boneless against her, his weight dragging at her arms.

“Yes, my lord,” Sebastian said, the obedience shaped like a blade.

Emma looked up just in time to catch the smirk forming on his lips — dark, beautiful, and utterly unholy. The world held its breath for a single heartbeat.

Then the chamber exploded into flame. Fire bloomed across the walls in violent waves, devouring velvet and marble alike. The heat surged instantly, a living thing that howled through the corridors. Ciel clung to her again, burying his face in her shoulder as the orange light flared against his pale skin. The air filled with the scent of burning silk and smoke, and above the roar of fire came Sebastian’s low, satisfied chuckle — the sound of damnation, perfectly obeyed.

They left the manor the same way they had entered, through the long, echoing corridors that still smelled of death and smoke. The air shimmered faintly with heat, but Sebastian’s magic parted the fire for them like a curtain, and not a single ember dared touch Emma’s skin. The flames bent away as they walked, reverent, almost fearful.

Ciel was no longer in her arms. Sebastian carried him now, cradled effortlessly against his chest, the boy’s small hand clutching weakly at the demon’s coat. Emma followed at his side, her steps slow, heavy, silent. The house burned behind them — every flicker of light a requiem for what they’d witnessed.

Outside, the night was brittle with winter air, sharp enough to sting her lungs. Snow mixed with ash, the flakes grey and dying before they reached the ground. Doll waited at the bottom of the steps, her painted smile gone, replaced by raw fear. The orange glow of the burning manor reflected in her wide eye as it fell upon the three of them — Ciel limp in Sebastian’s arms, Emma streaked in blood, soot, and dried vomit.

“Smile, Blaze, Black,” she breathed, voice breaking. “What are you doing here? What happened? Where is Joker?!”

“He passed away, I’m afraid,” Sebastian said smoothly, not a trace of pity in his tone.

Emma’s gaze didn’t waver from the fire. She didn’t want to think about whether Joker had died from his wounds or the flames. It didn’t matter anymore — either way, they had all been consumed.

Doll’s cry sliced through the air as she rushed forward, seizing Ciel’s sleeve, desperate. “Please— talk to me!”

Ciel recoiled instantly. “Don’t presume to touch me!”

His voice cracked, his composure shattering. His hand reached blindly out — searching — and Emma caught it without hesitation, intertwining their fingers. The cold metal of his ring pressed against her skin. For a brief second, the contact steadied them both.

Sebastian’s voice droned faintly beside her, explaining something to Doll — their mission, their orders — but Emma couldn’t make out the words. They slid past her like water through glass. She was too tired to care.

Then Doll screamed. The flash of silver. A knife.

Before Emma even blinked, Sebastian’s free hand shot forward, closing around Doll’s throat. There was a sharp crack — clean, final — and the knife fell with a soft clang against the icy stone.

Doll’s body collapsed limply at his feet. The world was suddenly very quiet.

Emma stared at her — this girl with painted eyes and dreams in ribbons — and waited for the grief, the horror, something.

But nothing came. She was too empty to feel.

By the time they returned to the townhouse, it was long past dawn. The sky had that bruised, grey-blue tint of exhaustion, and everything smelled faintly of smoke — even the sheets, even her hair.

Sebastian had taken Ciel upstairs immediately, the quiet sounds of running water and his steady baritone filtering through the walls. Emma lingered in the hallway for a long time, her body numb, her mind a distant hum. Then she walked to her own room and turned on the bath.

The sound of rushing water filled the silence, too loud, too alive. She undressed slowly, the movement mechanical, her fingers clumsy. Her tunic stuck to her skin, stiff with blood — none of it hers— and when she peeled it off, it came away with a wet sound that made her flinch.

When she finally sank into the water, it was almost too hot. Steam curled around her, softening the edges of everything, and for a moment she thought she could breathe again. But then the first sob broke free.

It came out of nowhere — raw, animal, tearing.

She pressed her hand over her mouth, but the sound still escaped, bubbling through her fingers. Then came another, and another, until she was shaking, her whole body wracked with the violence of it. The water rippled, spilling over the sides as she folded forward, forehead against her knees, crying until her ribs ached.

Images came in flashes — Ciel’s trembling hand reaching into the air, his scream echoing against marble walls, Doll’s body hitting the ground, Sebastian’s smile as the fire bloomed behind him. And beneath it all, the terrible truth: She had known.

She had known where the children were. Known how it would end. And she had said nothing. To preserve the timeline. To play god with something she didn’t understand.

Her sobs broke into laughter — thin, cracked, wrong. She didn't even know if it mattered, if the choices she made were the right ones. 

She stared down at her arms. Bruises bloomed there, dark and shaped like fingers — Ciel’s. Small, desperate prints of panic pressed into her skin. Around her wrists, crescent moons from her own nails, dug in during the performance, ringed in red. The sight made her chest tighten until she thought she might break.

She had held him, whispered to him, comforted him — as if she hadn’t been the one who could have stopped his suffering before it began.

What right did she have to touch him? What right did she have to soothe him, when she had chosen silence?

She remembered very well how much she had hated the bystanders when she had been a child, when the rope came down on her back, when the door slammed on her fingers, when a fist connected with her nose. Not every face she remembered had physically hurt her, but none of them had done anything to stop it, despite having had the power to do so. 

And now, she was just like them.

Her tears mixed with the bathwater, salty against the steam. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, not even sure who she was apologizing to — Ciel, the children, the dead, or herself.

And then there was Sebastian. The man — no, the creature — who had kissed her skin just hours before, whose hands had been tender and precise, whose lips had traced her pulse like a prayer. Those same hands had torn the doctor apart. That same mouth had curved around a smile as he burned the world down.

And she wasn’t repulsed.

She should have been. God, she should have been. But instead, she only felt the faint echo of awe.

Because he had obeyed. Because he had protected them. Because he had been beautiful even in the carnage.

The realization hollowed her out completely.

“I’m not built for this,” she whispered, staring at the rippling surface of the water. “I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t even belong in this story…”

Her voice dissolved into another sob. The bruises on her arms throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The water cooled around her, pink-tinged now, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to her hair.

She pulled her knees to her chest and stayed there for a long time — until the water went cold, until her skin prickled, until her breath finally steadied into shallow, broken silence.

And somewhere, muffled through the walls, she thought she heard Sebastian’s voice, low and calm, soothing Ciel in the next room. The sound should have comforted her.

Instead, it broke her heart.

The room was dim, lit only by the dying glow of a candle on the bedside table. Emma sat on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn up, the thin fabric of her nightgown brushing her knees.

She’d wrapped herself in a blanket, but the chill still reached her bones. Sleep wasn’t coming — she knew that. Her mind was too loud, replaying the fire, the screams, Ciel’s shaking hand reaching for her.

She was still staring blankly at the floorboards when a soft knock came at the door.

“Miss Emma.” Sebastian’s voice was smooth, low, and almost apologetic.

She didn’t answer, just lifted her head slightly as the door opened. He stood in the doorway, candlelight catching in his eyes like molten gold.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said with a small bow. “The young master requests your presence.”

Emma swallowed. Her throat still hurt from crying, her voice rough when she finally managed, “Now?”

“Yes.” A brief pause, softer now. “He refuses to rest.”

For a moment, she hesitated — every instinct telling her she didn’t deserve to see him, to hold him, to pretend she could comfort what she’d helped cause. But then she rose, setting her blanket aside. If this was what made him feel safe… she’d give it to him. That was all she could do now.

Sebastian stepped aside silently as she passed. The faintest flicker of sympathy crossed his face — not pity, never that — just quiet understanding. Then he vanished down the hall, leaving her before Ciel’s door.

Inside, the boy’s room was dim and still. The curtains were drawn, the only light a flickering fire in the hearth. Ciel lay curled on his side beneath the blankets, back turned to the door, his shoulders trembling faintly.

Emma hesitated, her fingers brushing the frame. “Ciel…?”

He didn’t answer, only shifted slightly, enough for her to see his face, eyes half-open, tear tracks still fresh.

She crossed the room quietly, her bare feet silent on the rug, and perched on the edge of his bed. He didn’t look at her, but when she began to pull away, he moved. Without a word, he reached for her wrist, weakly but insistently, pulling her closer until she understood.

So she climbed in beside him.

The moment she did, he turned, pressing himself against her as if his body remembered what his mind refused to admit. His small frame trembled against hers, his breath uneven. She instinctively wrapped her arms around him, and he buried his face against her shoulder.

Sebastian lingered in the doorway just long enough to confirm the boy had settled, then inclined his head once and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Now, only the fire and their breathing filled the space.

Emma’s hand found its way into Ciel’s hair, soft and steady, tracing slow lines through the dark strands. The rhythmic motion calmed her almost as much as it did him.

After a long silence, he spoke — voice small, rasping.

“...They’re all gone, aren’t they?”

Emma’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she whispered. “They are.”

A pause. His fingers clutched her sleeve.

Then, more fragile: “I can still smell the fire.”

Her hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its slow strokes through his hair. “I know,” she murmured. “It’ll fade. Eventually.”

He didn’t answer, just exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. She could feel how tightly he held himself, how hard he was fighting to stay composed.

So she whispered, “You don’t have to be strong right now, Ciel.”

Something in him broke at that — just a tiny, imperceptible sound, a whimper muffled against her shoulder. His grip on her tightened.

Emma’s own eyes burned again, but she didn’t cry. Not now. Not when he needed her still.

After a while, when his breathing had steadied slightly, she shifted, tucking a loose lock of hair behind his ear. 

Her voice was soft, raw, trembling at first, when she began to sing. The melody was simple, lullaby-like — something from another life entirely. She didn't know any lullabies; her mother would rather read her stories than sing to her, but she knew many children's songs. The words, foreign to this world, fell gently into the dimness:

“Es wird Nacht, wir kuscheln eng zusammen…

Hab dich lieb, es ist so still und warm…”

Ciel didn’t understand the language, but he didn’t need to. The tone alone carried everything she couldn’t say — apology, comfort, love in its quietest form.

“Schlaf jetzt ein, und träum' ein kleines Märchen

Hier in meinem Arm, heut' Nacht.“ 

She knew her singing voice wasn't the most pleasant to hear, barely decent enough not to crack, but she doubted he cared much as she continued to stroke his hair gently, his breath fanning over her collarbone.

“Es wird still, ich erfüll'

Im Traum dir jeden Wunsch“ 

His body gradually relaxed, tension seeping out of him with every line. His breathing slowed, steadied. She felt his heartbeat calm against her chest, his hand go slack on her sleeve.

“Melodien, die vorüber ziehn'

Streichel Ohr und Mund. Streichel Ohr und Mund“ 

By the time she reached the final verse —

“Schlaf jetzt ein, und träum ein kleines Märchen

Hier in meinem Arm, heut' Nacht.”

— he was asleep.

Emma’s voice trailed off into silence. She stayed still, staring at the firelight flickering across his face. He looked so much younger like this — not a noble, not a pawn, not a boy chained to vengeance. Just a child who’d seen too much.

She brushed her thumb gently across his temple.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, barely audible. “For all of it.”

The fire popped softly in reply.

She stayed awake long after he drifted into dreams, holding him close, listening to the faint rhythm of his breathing — the only fragile proof that, for tonight at least, he was safe.

Chapter Text

That Lady, tired

Sebastian woke them around two in the afternoon. By the time they boarded the train in London, it was nearing three.

Emma sat by the window, eyes following the blur of passing fields. Though she knew the journey to the Renbourn Workhouse would lead them nowhere, she had no choice but to go. To refuse would raise suspicion, suspicion she couldn’t afford. So she went, silent and hollow.

Ciel, seated across from her, looked steadier than he had the night before. His face was pale but composed, his posture straight, his usual air of control pieced carefully back together. Only the faint tremor of his gloved fingers betrayed the fracture beneath.

The wound that had reopened the previous night was bound again, his clothes immaculate, every trace of chaos scrubbed away by Sebastian’s meticulous care.

When Sebastian handed her an orange — already sliced cleanly open with a knife she hadn’t even realized he carried — Emma blinked at it, almost dazed.

The demon’s expression was calm, unreadable, but the faint glint in his eyes warned her not to test his patience. She hadn’t eaten since before Kelvin. He knew it.

“Eat,” was all his look said.

She obeyed, picking at the slices in silence as Ciel and Sebastian discussed the orphaned children, their tones cool and distant. The citrus tasted flat, hollow. Her tongue felt heavy. The small crescent cuts around her wrists stung when the juice brushed them, and her upper arms ached from the bruises Ciel’s fingers had left behind. She said nothing.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, the train’s rhythmic clatter filling the space where words might have lived.

When they reached the outskirts of the ruined workhouse, the late afternoon sun was pale and low, casting long shadows over the crumbled stone and scorched timbers. The air smelled faintly of ash and rain-soaked dust.

Ciel walked ahead, small and composed, the wind catching his dark coat. Emma trailed behind, a few steps beside Sebastian, her boots crunching on the gravel.

When they reached what had once been the main hall, only ruin greeted them — collapsed beams, broken glass, the skeletal remains of what used to be a roof.

Sebastian’s gaze swept over the destruction with quiet precision. “It appears,” he said, “that we are far too late.”

Ciel stood still for a long moment. Then, his lips twitched — once, twice — before he began to laugh.

At first, it was soft, almost breathless. But it grew, a jagged, manic sound that echoed across the ruin like a crack in the world.

“There is nothing,” he gasped between laughter, his voice breaking under the strain. “Nothing at all! Everything they had to protect was already gone!”

His laughter fractured, caught between hysteria and despair.

Emma’s heart clenched as she watched him — the boy who had burned down a mansion, buried his guilt beneath ash, and now stood laughing in the ruins of another tragedy. Her mind flickered violently between memory and reality, between the flicker of this moment and the faint blue glow of her laptop screen, where she had once watched it unfold from a safe, detached distance.

Now she was here. And there was no distance left to hide behind.

She turned away from Ciel, unable to watch anymore, her gaze finding Sebastian’s instead. His face was calm, faintly amused, but beneath that, something darker shimmered, the quiet satisfaction of a creature who had seen this pattern a thousand times before.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes flickering in the light. “Enjoying, my dear? No. Simply observing. Humanity never fails to... fulfill its own prophecies.”

She scoffed softly. “That’s a poetic way of saying you like watching people fall apart.”

He smiled — the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. “It’s not pleasure. Merely... inevitability. You humans break so beautifully.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “Don’t act like I’m any different.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he murmured. “You, perhaps most of all, seem eager to prove it.”

Her hands curled at her sides. “I’m not a good person, Sebastian. Haven’t been for a long time.”

He looked at her quietly for a moment, then said, “And yet you still care — far too much — about things long beyond your reach.”

She glanced at him, frowning slightly. “And you think that’ll fade?”

He stepped closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “Everything fades, little one. Even guilt. Even compassion. The world has a way of teaching you detachment, whether you wish to learn it or not.”

For a long moment, they just stood there — a demon and a girl who had watched history unfold and still didn’t understand her place in it.

Behind them, the boy they both served had stopped laughing. The wind tugged at his hair, the sound of broken glass rattling somewhere in the ruins.

Emma looked back at him, this small, grieving lord whose world had already burned down once, and who stood now before its echo.

Sebastian’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time, almost reflective.

“Your kind builds and destroys in equal measure,” he said. “It’s a vicious, beautiful cycle. You call it tragedy; I call it nature.”

“And what do you call yourself?” she asked quietly.

His smile deepened, elegant and cruel. “The observer.”

Emma shook her head faintly. “Then maybe that’s what makes us different. You watch. I feel.”

He regarded her for a long, unreadable second — then, finally, dipped his head. “For now.”

The wind rose, carrying ash and dust across the broken courtyard. The sky had gone pale, the horizon blurring between gold and gray.

Ciel turned at last, his laughter long gone, replaced by cold resolve. “We’re leaving,” he said flatly. “There’s nothing left to see.”

Sebastian bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord.”

Emma said nothing, only followed them down the path, her boots brushing through the brittle remains of what once was.

Behind them, the ruins stood silent, swallowed by twilight. 

And for a fleeting moment — as the last of the sun slipped below the hills — Emma thought she could still hear the echo of laughter, distant and broken, fading into the ashes.

The carriage rolled to a slow halt before the Phantomhive manor, its wheels crunching softly on the frost-stiff gravel. Morning light hung low and thin across the horizon, barely golden, paling everything it touched.

The front doors opened before Sebastian had even stepped down from the carriage, and Lizzy came flying down the marble stairs with her skirts lifted, curls bouncing, eyes bright with relief.

“Ciel!”

Emma barely had time to turn before Lizzy threw herself at him. The force nearly toppled him — he froze mid-step, instinctively catching her by the waist.

“Lizzy—” His voice was tired, muffled, his eye shadowed with sleeplessness.

“Oh, you’re safe! You’re safe, I was so worried! You didn’t write, you didn’t—” she broke off, burying her face in his shoulder.

Emma watched, numb. She had completely forgotten that the girl had been waiting for them — for him — for two whole days. Somehow, it felt like weeks ago. The circus, the fire, the blood, all of it had swallowed time whole.

She stepped back. “I’ll… leave you to it,” she murmured, voice barely carrying. Ciel looked up at her then, a silent plea flickering through his exhaustion, but she shook her head once. She didn’t have the energy for this. Not for cheerful reunions. Not for explanations and lies.

Sebastian gave her a small, knowing glance, a bow that felt like mockery.

Then he was gone, disappearing down the west corridor with his sleeves rolled up, already murmuring to the staff about rebuilding what had burned.

Emma climbed the stairs alone. The manor was cold, dust still clinging to corners, air thick with the faint scent of smoke and polish. Her room was quiet, untouched since they’d left. The moment the door clicked shut, something in her snapped loose.

The silence pressed against her chest, too close, too tight.

The layers of her dress felt like restraints. She tugged at the collar, then the laces. When that didn’t help, she pulled harder. The sound of fabric tearing cracked through the stillness. Buttons scattered across the floor like little gunshots.

The corset went next. Her fingers fumbled with the hooks until, frustrated, she simply yanked — the whalebone bent and gave with a sharp pop. Breath rushed into her lungs, painful and dizzying.

She knelt on the carpet in her underdress, hair falling loose over her shoulders, palms braced against the cold floorboards as she tried to breathe.

Tried to feel something other than this mixture of guilt and displacement, too much and nothing at once.

She didn’t hear the door until it clicked.

“Miss Emma.”

His voice was smooth, unreadable. She didn’t need to turn around to know the faint curve on his lips.

“Don’t start,” she muttered.

Sebastian stepped inside anyway, closing the door softly behind him. “My apologies. I was merely… concerned. I did not expect to find you attempting to shed your humanity by way of your wardrobe.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself — I’m just suffocating.”

He tilted his head, eyes trailing from the discarded corset to her bare shoulders, the scars on her back peaking through the fabric of her underdress. “A rather dramatic way to air one’s frustrations.”

“Go away.”

“I could,” he said lightly, “but then who would point out how absurd it is — this display of guilt masquerading as exhaustion?”

She turned her head sharply, glaring at him over her shoulder. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s predictable,” he said, tone mild as a blade’s edge. “You humans always mistake guilt for virtue. You think it makes you good, as if wallowing in regret absolves you from the arrogance of believing you could’ve changed anything.”

Her hands curled into fists. “Don’t talk like you understand—”

“Oh, but I do.” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You cling to your remorse because it’s the only proof you have that you still care. And yet, you despise it. How very—” his smile widened, “—human of you.”

“Stop.”

She rose to her feet, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to—”

“—What? Tell you what you already know?”

Something in her snapped. The air between them tightened, and for a moment she really did want to hit him — to feel the satisfaction of skin meeting skin. Her hands trembled.

He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes gleamed faintly red as he murmured, “You could do it, you know. You’d break your hand before you left a mark.”

Her throat went dry.

For a second, she almost wanted to try, to make him feel something, anything. But the fight bled out of her just as fast. She sank back down to the floor, head dropping against the wall. Her breath shook out in a long exhale.

“You did that on purpose,” she said quietly.

He smiled — soft this time, almost approving. “Naturally. It worked, didn’t it?”

She gave a small, tired laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

She gestured vaguely toward the room. “Then sit down, or something. You’re tall and ominous, and it’s… weird.”

One dark brow arched. “An order, my lady?”

“Too tired to phrase it nicely,” she muttered, eyes half-lidded.

With an amused hum, he took a seat on the edge of her bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. The lamplight caught in his eyes, turning them the color of smoldering wine.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the wind against the windowpanes and Emma’s slow breathing.

Then, quietly, she said, “Did you ever wonder why people just stand by? Watch things happen?”

He looked at her. “I’ve never had the luxury of wondering. Observation is my nature.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “When I was younger, I was bullied. Badly. I begged people — classmates, friends — to do something. They didn’t. They just watched. Watched as my skin broke beneath a toy meant to bring joy.”

Her voice faltered. “And now I’ve done the same. I stood by. I watched while others suffered, because I thought I had to let things happen. Because I knew what was supposed to happen. And I hate it.”

Sebastian was silent for a while. Then:

“You mistake cruelty for apathy,” he said finally. “Most do nothing not because they don’t care, but because caring demands action, and action demands consequence. You learned that lesson early. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” she echoed, hollow.

“Yes.” His gaze softened, not kindly, but truthfully. “Every moment you choose not to interfere, you spare yourself from becoming what you despise. You feel guilty because you still believe there is a difference between the two. But eventually, that difference fades.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

He tilted his head, studying her face. “And when it does… perhaps you’ll stop trying to atone for sins that aren’t yours to bear.”

The room felt very quiet after that.

Emma leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-shut, chest still rising unevenly.

“God,” she whispered, “you make everything sound so… inevitable.”

“Everything is,” he said simply. “Even you.”

Her laugh was soft, almost fond. “You’re a terrible comfort.”

He smiled faintly. “And yet, here you are, breathing easier.”

She didn’t deny it.

Sebastian didn’t speak again for a while. The air between them had softened, quiet, heavy, almost peaceful.

Then his gaze drifted lower.

Her hands lay limply in her lap, pale fingers streaked faintly red where half-healed crescents had broken the skin. He noticed the pattern immediately — nails, bitten too deep into her own flesh. The scent of old blood still lingered, faint but unmistakable.

His expression shifted, not obviously, but enough for her to notice. The curve of his mouth fell still.

“Sebastian?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes traced higher, to where her sleeves had fallen slightly from her shoulders, revealing faint purple bruises in the shape of fingers. Small, perfect ovals pressed into soft skin.

Ciel’s hands.

The change was instant.

The air thickened. The candle flame nearest to the door shuddered, dimming as the room’s light seemed to sink into itself. Shadows bled outward from the corners — liquid, alive, rising up the walls in silent ribbons.

Emma barely had time to blink before she felt the pressure in the air drop, the unmistakable heaviness of demonic energy flooding the room.

“Sebastian—?”

He stood, slow, deliberate. His eyes were no longer human. Crimson light burned through them, sharp and bottomless, and his teeth gleamed white as his lips peeled back in something too feral to be called a smile.

The floor trembled. His voice, when it came, was nothing like before — low, guttural, layered as if several voices spoke at once.

“He hurt you.”

She froze. “What—?”

“That child…” He took a step forward, shadows pooling beneath his feet. “He dared to lay hands on what is mine.”

Emma’s heart lurched into her throat. For half a second, she didn’t understand — then she saw the direction of his gaze, the bruises, the fire in his eyes.

Oh, God.

“Sebastian, stop.” She rose too quickly, stumbling slightly as she reached toward him. “It’s not— it’s not what you think.”

But his form was already dissolving into movement, inhumanly fluid, like smoke wrapping around something unseen. His hands, no longer hands at all, flickered into taloned shadows that flexed and curled.

“He touched you in anger.” His voice scraped the air, more growl than word. “He hurt you.”

“I told you, stop!” she shouted, closing the distance between them. The air around him burned cold.

She grabbed his wrists — or where his wrists should have been — and felt the shock of cold ripple up her arms. His skin, half-shadow, half-solid, pulsed under her touch like living ink.

“Sebastian!”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still, her breath harsh, his presence towering, shadows coiling around her feet like snakes, curling up her legs.

Her voice trembled when she spoke again. “He didn’t mean to. He was panicking. He— he was scared. I’m fine.”

The words hit him like a pulse. The shadows wavered, unsure.

“Look at me,” she whispered. “Do I look like I'm lying?”

Slowly — agonizingly — the red light dimmed from his eyes. The claws hesitated, curling inward as if remembering their shape. Shadows slithered back toward the corners, retreating like water running downhill.

He blinked, and for the first time since she had known him, looked… lost.

Emma still hadn’t let go. Her fingers remained wrapped around his wrists, her palms faintly glowing where his energy had seared against her skin.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet — smooth once more, but still dark around the edges.

“He left marks.”

She swallowed hard. “Yes. But it was in the cellar. He was afraid; he didn't even notice.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, gaze moving over the bruises, the rise and fall of her breathing, the trembling in her hands.

For a long time, neither of them moved. The air between them was heavy and still, like the aftermath of thunder.

Then, slowly, Sebastian lifted one hand, the motion deliberate, restrained, and pried her fingers free from his wrist. His glove had been torn to ribbons by the talons that had burst through it earlier; only thin strips of fabric clung to his palm.

The bare skin of his fingertips brushed her arm, featherlight.

He didn’t flinch at the sight of the bruises. Instead, he traced the edges of one, not touching the purple directly, just skimming the warmth of the skin around it, as though memorizing the damage by its outline.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “When a mate is harmed, even unintentionally, it… unravels something primal in us. The line between instinct and intent blurs.”

Emma’s lips parted slightly. “Yeah,” she breathed, tone soft but still a little shaky. “I noticed.”

His eyes lifted to hers at that — crimson flaring up once before dimming again — and she saw something there she hadn’t before. Not hunger, not amusement, but remorse. Real and unguarded.

“You shouldn’t have to notice,” he said simply.

For a heartbeat, they just stood there, she in her thin underdress, he still in his tattered gloves, the air still humming faintly with dissipating power.

Then she spoke again, her voice gentler now. “I’ve had worse wounds, you know? This is nothing.”

A faint breath left him, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, but there was no mockery in it this time. Only quiet disbelief. “That does not ease my temper,” he murmured.

His hand moved again, ghosting from her arm to her back. The fabric of her underdress was soft and thin, and his touch was barely there, tracing the lines of old scars beneath it. He didn’t need to see them. He remembered their placement, the way they shifted when she moved, the way her breath hitched when they were pressed too hard.

She shivered under the contact, not from fear but from the strange tenderness of it. People rarely ever touched them.

Sebastian’s gaze softened. “These,” he whispered, his fingers tracing one of the longer scars through the fabric, “should have faded long ago.”

Her throat worked, words catching. “Scars don’t listen to reason.”

His lips twitched faintly. “Neither do you.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound small, raw, but real. “You noticed that too, huh?”

“I notice everything about you,” he murmured.

The words were almost too soft to hear, so quiet they might have been mistaken for a thought, something that had slipped past his control. His eyes lingered on her face, the faint candlelight catching in their depths. The shadows on the wall had stilled, the danger long gone, leaving only a hum in the air — something fragile, something warm.

Her fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, though she couldn’t remember why she hadn’t let go. His pulse beneath her thumb was steady, calm, almost human. Her own, however, felt unsteady, tangled somewhere between his touch on her back and the closeness of his breath.

“Sebastian…” she started, but the name faltered on her tongue.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. “You tremble when you say my name.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. “Though I don’t think it’s out of fear anymore.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away. “And what do you think it is, then?”

His fingers shifted slightly on her back, not pressing, just moving slow enough that she could feel every trace of motion, every thought behind it. “Perhaps recognition,” he said. “You’ve been starved of gentleness for too long.”

Something inside her cracked open at that — not from pain, but from the startling ache of being seen. Her throat tightened, and when she spoke again, her voice barely carried. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me forget who I’m supposed to be.”

He smiled faintly, not the sharp grin of a predator, but something smaller, sadder. “Then perhaps it’s time someone reminded you who you are.”

The space between them seemed to shrink all on its own. She felt his breath, warm against her skin; saw how his eyes flicked once to her lips, then back to her gaze, as though asking without words.

And she didn’t pull back.

Her hand tightened ever so slightly on his wrist, and he took that as her answer. His touch at her back became a ghost of pressure, drawing her closer until the fabric of her underdress brushed against his waistcoat. He leaned down slowly — painfully slowly — giving her every chance to stop him.

When their lips met, it wasn’t the hungry, desperate clash of the first time. It was soft, reverent, even. A question instead of a claim.

His mouth moved against hers with careful precision, as though afraid too much pressure might break her apart. She responded just as gently, a quiet hum leaving her throat as her free hand rose to his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.

The kiss lingered — unhurried and fragile. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against hers.

Neither of them spoke for several heartbeats. The air felt heavy again, but not with danger, with something tender, something terrifying in its simplicity.

“You see?” he whispered, voice low, velvet-smooth. “Not every touch is meant to hurt.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “No… not this one.”

He brushed his thumb once across her jaw, as though committing the moment to memory. “Good.”

And then, quieter, as though the words weren’t meant for her to hear: “It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anything to feel… gentle.”

Her hand slid down from his wrist, finally letting go. The marks his claws had left on the glove looked almost like the scars she carried — deliberate, imperfect, real.

Neither of them moved. They just breathed — together, steady, human.

Chapter Text

That Lady, smooth

Something she had always known and somehow still surprised her—Sebastian wasn't like any other guy she'd ever known or dated. If she could even call it that. And it wasn't only because he was a demon, but it showed in the way he acted. 

No guy had ever kissed her softly, gently like that, without hurrying to get to the after. Without his hand trailing to her ass, gripping her firmly, or pushing his tongue into her mouth. Sebastian had done none of that. His lips had been unhurried, soft, tender, his hands never grabbing, never pulling. He had just held her as if she were fragile, breakable, and to him, Emma realized an hour later, she was. 

And as if this tender display of respect hadn't been enough, Sebastian had left her alone afterwards, excusing himself with that pleasant smile of his, more or less ordering her to get some well-deserved rest. 

Every other guy would've spun them around and pressed her onto the mattress, would've stayed, would've taken off her clothes. 

And he had done none of it. Which, infurilatingly, made her want him even more. 

He had left nearly an hour ago, after she had stopped his attempt at cleaning up her self-inflicted mess, telling him she'd do it herself. He had enough to do with the manor anyway. And after cleaning up more or less thoroughly, Emma had slipped into her nightgown despite the fact that the day had only just begun. Who cared? She was tired, both emotionally and physically, and Lizzy kept Ciel busy, so there was nothing for Emma to do anyway. 

Thoughts of Sebastian roamed through her head whenever she closed her eyes, lying beneath the sheets as she tried to sleep. Images of his contradicting sides—the gentleness with which he treated her, and the brutal efficiency with which he treated everyone else. 

He enjoyed letting the beast out once in a while; she was very aware. Saw it in the way his eyes gleamed with wicked joy, in the way his lips curled just a fraction sharper than his usual smirk. Killing people like this was fun. 

It should scare her; he should scare her. And yet she let him hold her, kiss her. She threw snappy remarks his way as if he wasn't able to kill her without even the need to touch her. 

“Weird,“ she muttered, eyes still closed. A weird sense of trust she had for him. There was no other way to describe it, no other word to tell her why she was okay with him. She trusted him that he wouldn't kill her, wouldn't hurt her when she gave him a piece of her mind, no matter how rude and bitchy it was. 

Perhaps she was a fool to trust a demon, especially one who was living a facade as perfectly as if it were the truth. The immaculate butler, the aesthetic he loved to fulfill to perfection. Was she part of this facade? Or was she caught in her own lie with him, his act shifting to the immaculate mate whenever she was involved? Was that his true nature, his true feelings? Or just another act? 

With a frustrated groan, Emma turned on her back and forced the thoughts to stop. She'd never get sleep like this, contemplating the bane of the existence of a literal demon. The moment she focused on her exhausted body, she fell alseep.

She slept through most of the day and deep into the night, woken at her usual hour the next morning by Mey-Rin. The quiet routine felt almost sacred—anchoring her back into a world that still made sense. The guilt, though still there, had dulled to a muted ache beneath the motions of habit. She couldn’t change what had happened; her chance was gone.

Mey-Rin brushed out her hair with gentle, clumsy hands, chatting softly about the weather, about Bard setting fire to something again, about the Earl’s tea preferences as if she and the others hadn't killed a bunch of people to defend the manor two days ago. The ordinariness of it all was strangely comforting.

Dressed in pale blue, boots hidden beneath her skirts, Emma followed the maid through the familiar corridors until the scent of tea and toast reached her.

She stepped into the dining hall—and froze.

Ciel sat at the head of the table, perfectly composed as ever. Sebastian was already standing at his side, gloved hands moving with silent precision as he pulled out the chair to Ciel’s right for her. All as expected.

What wasn’t expected was the bright flash of yellow lace and blonde curls seated across from her.

“Good morning, Emma!” Elizabeth beamed at her as though she were greeting the sunrise.

Emma blinked. “Good… morning,” she managed, though her voice sounded hesitant even to her own ears. Right... Emma had forgotten that the girl was still here, having no idea what exactly had gone down the past few days. 

The girl’s smile could have outshone the chandelier. “I’ve been waiting for you! You slept forever!”

Emma shot a look toward Ciel, who was already cutting his scone with surgical precision, pretending not to hear his fiancée’s chatter. He looked tired. The faintest twitch of his brow said 'help me'.

Sebastian, damn him, was visibly amused, pouring tea into Ciel’s cup with a smirk that practically gleamed.

Emma took her seat, murmuring thanks as Sebastian filled her cup as well. For several blessed seconds, only the sound of porcelain and silver filled the air.

Then Lizzy started talking.

About the spring ball her mother was planning. About new ribbons that had just arrived from Paris. About how romantic it had been that Ciel had gone missing for two whole days and how she’d worried herself sick!

Ciel gave polite hums in all the right places, but his eye kept flicking toward Emma—each glance a silent plea for rescue. She responded with tiny, helpless smiles, drinking her tea in small, deliberate sips as though it might hide her amusement.

When Lizzy began describing the pastel dresses she was having made for summer, Emma’s mind started drifting. The lace, the chatter, the clink of cutlery, it was all a little too normal, a little too far from everything that had happened. But normalcy was what she needed right now.

Until—

“I’m so excited!” Lizzy suddenly squealed, nearly knocking over her cup.

Ciel’s fork paused midair. Emma blinked, setting her own cup down slowly. “Excited… for what?” she asked carefully.

Lizzy clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I shouldn’t say anything yet—but I’m just so happy that soon we’ll officially be sisters!”

Silence.

Emma’s heart stumbled. “Sisters?”

Ciel didn’t move, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

Lizzy nodded eagerly, completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. “Edward told Mother that he’s going to ask for your hand in two weeks! Isn’t that wonderful? You’ll be part of the family! And when Ciel and I marry, we'll even be closer!”

Emma opened her mouth, then shut it again. Words refused to form. 

Shit. Of course, Edward would ask for her hand. She had been in mourning for nearly two and a half months... God, Emma had totally forgotten about that, about the engagement, about Francis Midford and her damned plot. Fuck. Just... Fuck. 

Next to her, Ciel took a long, deliberate sip of his tea before saying, very evenly, “Ah.”

“Isn’t it just so romantic?” Lizzy gushed. “Edward says he wants to do it properly, of course—ask you first, Ciel—but he’s already spoken to Father and Mother! Oh, you’ll look so beautiful together—”

Emma forced a small laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as strangled as it felt. “That’s… very flattering,” she managed.

Ciel set his cup down with a soft clink. “Indeed. Quite flattering.”

Lizzy, delighted by their apparent calm, prattled on about the flowers she’d have at the engagement party, blissfully unaware that Emma’s knuckles had gone white around her fork.

Sebastian, of course, looked far too entertained by the scene. “It seems congratulations are in order, my lady,” he murmured as he refilled her tea, tone soft but laced with amusement.

Emma shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, and he only inclined his head in mock apology.

When Lizzy leaned over to show Emma a sketch of her dream double wedding gown, Ciel caught Emma’s gaze across the table. His blue eye met hers, calm but calculating, already planning.

We’ll discuss this later, that look said.

She gave the smallest nod in return. Yes. Later.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely?” Lizzy was still saying. “You and me, sisters forever! Oh, Ciel, you must say yes when Edward asks!”

Ciel’s lips curved into a polite, practiced smile. “We shall see.”

“Ciel!”

“I only mean to say,” he added smoothly, “that such matters must be handled properly. After all, Emma is still in mourning.”

Lizzy’s smile dimmed just slightly, guilt flashing over her expression. “Oh—oh, of course. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s quite all right,” Emma said softly, reaching across to pat her hand. “I’m… very touched, Lizzy.”

The tension in the room loosened—at least for Lizzy.

Sebastian’s faint chuckle filled the quiet that followed, rich and amused. “How very domestic breakfast has become,” he mused.

Ciel didn’t bother to look at him. “Quiet, Sebastian.”

“Of course, my lord.”

But his grin lingered.

By the time Lizzy finally left, the manor felt several degrees quieter.

Her carriage wheels hadn’t even rolled past the gate before Ciel rose from the breakfast table, muttering something about damage control. Sebastian followed with his usual infuriating calm, and Emma—still processing what had just been dropped into her lap—trailed behind like someone heading for her own trial.

Now, locked away in Ciel’s study, the tension was thick enough to bottle.

“I don't want to marry Edward,” Emma blurted the moment the door clicked shut. “I won’t.”

Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “Believe me, that makes two of us.”

Sebastian’s voice drifted in from the corner, smooth as always. “Three, my lord. Though I must admit, watching the young master try to manage a double engagement would have been—”

“Sebastian.”

“—entertaining,” the demon finished, entirely unbothered.

Emma began pacing, boots thudding softly on the carpet. “This is insane. I don’t even like Edward like that! He’s—he’s so polite! And his smile’s all teeth! And—God, I haven’t even been on a proper date since—” she waved her hands wildly, “—since my world!”

That got both of their attention.

Ciel blinked. “Your world?”

She froze, realizing what she’d just said, but panic had her mouth running faster than her brain. “Yeah! You know—modern dating! Guys who think buying you one drink means you owe them something, or the ones who vanish after three weeks, or—” she groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I once went out with a man who listed ‘emotional availability’ as one of his hobbies. I cannot do Victorian courting on top of that, Ciel, I just can’t!”

The look on his face was a mixture of horror and fascination. “People… list emotional availability?”

Sebastian’s chuckle filled the air like velvet. “My, my. It seems the moral decay of humanity has reached fascinating new heights.”

Emma pointed at him sharply. “Don’t you start, you’re one of the reasons I’m in this mess!”

He smiled, utterly unrepentant. “Oh? And here I thought you enjoyed my company, my lady.”

Ciel’s voice cut in, low and warning. “Sebastian.”

The butler only tilted his head, then said, far too casually, “If Miss Emma wishes to avoid marriage, perhaps we should simply inform the Midfords that she’s been… defiled.”

Silence.

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “What?!”

Ciel nearly choked on his tea. “Sebastian!”

“Oh, come now, young master,” Sebastian purred, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “A young woman corrupted by a demon servant—what a scandal that would be. Surely no respectable family would want her after that.”

Emma’s face went crimson. “You—! I can't even—!”

Defiled. As if she were suddenly less worthy because a man had touched her. 

Sebastian’s grin widened, clearly delighted. “I’m merely being practical.”

“Just so you know, you didn't defile me; I wasn't pure since I was sixteen!” Whatever the fuck 'pure' was supposed to be.

Ciel set down his cup with a sharp clack. “Both of you—enough!”

They froze, Emma mid-glare, Sebastian still smirking.

Ciel sighed heavily, rubbing his temple like an exhausted grandfather. “You two will be the death of me.”

“I won't let you die,” Sebastian reminded lightly.

“Not the point.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock. Then Ciel straightened, the sharp glint of strategy returning to his expression.

“Clearly,” he said, “we can’t simply ignore this. If Edward truly intends to propose, Lizzy will ensure the entire aristocracy knows within hours.”

Emma groaned, sinking into the armchair opposite his desk. “So what do we do? Fake my death? Move me to France?”

“Tempting,” Ciel muttered. “But unnecessary.”

He steepled his fingers. “Instead, we’ll give them what they want—just not entirely.”

She frowned. “Meaning?”

“An engagement,” he said calmly. “But one that never ends.”

Emma blinked. “...What?”

Ciel leaned back in his chair, voice smooth and logical. “A perfectly respectable, endlessly delayed engagement. You accept Edward’s proposal, but—by convenient coincidence—there’s always a reason the wedding cannot yet occur. Your mourning period. His duties. A trip abroad. An illness in the family. We keep finding reasons, indefinitely.”

Sebastian’s eyes sparkled. “Ah. An endless engagement. Clever, my lord. Elegant deception without open scandal.”

Ciel smirked faintly. “Precisely. They get to brag about the connection, Edward feels accomplished, and Emma—” he looked at her pointedly, “—never has to marry anyone.”

Emma exhaled in relief, leaning back. “That’s… actually brilliant.”

“Of course it is,” Ciel said dryly. “I came up with it.”

Sebastian hummed. “And should the poor Mr. Midford begin to grow impatient, I’m sure we could arrange a small… distraction. Perhaps an overseas opportunity. Or a tragic misunderstanding involving a noblewoman and a horse.”

Emma shot him a look. “No one’s dying for this plan.”

He smiled, a glint of mock disappointment in his red eyes. “A pity.”

Ciel rolled his eyes and reached for his teacup again. “Honestly, I’d rather face another circus than deal with this family drama.”

Emma snorted. “You and me both.”

Sebastian poured him more tea with a satisfied hum. “At least this time, my lord, the stakes are… delightfully domestic.”

“Out.”

Sebastian’s grin was unrepentant. “As you wish, young master.”

He swept out with infuriating grace, leaving the two of them in silence.

Emma let out a long breath, then met Ciel’s gaze. “So. Endless engagement it is.”

He gave a single, crisp nod. “Exactly. No scandals. No marriages. No demons involved.”

A pause.

“Preferably,” he added dryly.

Emma grinned, tension easing for the first time that day. “I’ll drink to that.”

Ciel’s lips twitched. “You’ll drink tea.”

She raised her cup anyway. “Close enough.”

Emma barely had time to close the study door behind her when a hand shot out of the shadows, fingers curling around her wrist. She yelped in surprise as Sebastian pulled her sharply into the adjoining corridor and, with one smooth motion, pressed her back against the wall.

“Sebastian—!”

His gloved hand came up, bracing beside her head. His eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light. “You don’t want to marry him.”

“Obviously,” she hissed, heart still thrumming in her chest, “but that doesn’t mean you get to—”

“I could kill him,” he said plainly.

Her words caught mid-protest. “You—you what?”

He leaned in, voice low, calm, and disturbingly matter-of-fact. “If you wish to avoid the engagement, I could remove the obstacle. Quietly. Efficiently.”

“Sebastian!” she half-laughed, half-gasped. “No! That’s—no killing!”

He tilted his head, regarding her as though she were missing something obvious. “Then perhaps a scandal? A lover discovered, a duel, a falsified affair—”

“Also no!” she snapped, crossing her arms as much as his proximity allowed. “You can’t just destroy people’s lives because they inconvenience me!”

He regarded her for a long, silent moment, the sharpness in his gaze softening just slightly. “You are… remarkably sentimental.”

Emma exhaled. “Or just not insane.”

That earned her a quiet hum. 

She sighed. “Look, just because I don't like this, doesn't mean you have to go to such lengths. I'll be fine, hopefully. I have no idea how marriage works here. Romance is quite different where I'm from.“

He stepped back half an inch, studying her expression with genuine curiosity. “Tell me, then. In your world—how does marriage function if not as a tool for alliance or survival?”

She blinked, confused. “Function? It barely does. It’s optional now. People marry for love, sometimes. Or don’t marry at all. They just… stay together, if they want to. That’s enough.”

His brows rose faintly. “No vows. No contract. No permanence.”

“Sometimes vows,” she said, shrugging. “But we have the right to leave, too. No one owns anyone.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Your world sounds rather chaotic. And yet…” he tilted his head, “you sound almost wistful about it.”

She smiled faintly. “Freedom always sounds better when you’re about to lose it.”

Sebastian’s eyes lingered on her then, not predatory, not playful, but quietly assessing. The faint lines at the corner of his mouth softened as he said, almost to himself, “You truly aren’t afraid of me anymore.”

Her brows drew together. “What?”

“Your heartbeat,” he murmured. “Even. Unhurried. Your breathing—steady. Despite me holding you like this.” His tone wasn’t boasting; it was observation.

Emma met his gaze, the corners of her mouth curving into a small, knowing grin. “You forget, this isn’t the first time you’ve done it.”

And it had been a very positive experience, too.

For a heartbeat, his eyes flashed brighter, crimson catching the light, and a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

The moment hung between them, warm, charged, familiar. 

His eyes trailed over her face, down her body, up to her face again.

Then he said, softly, “You are endlessly curious, my dear. So perhaps I may indulge my curiosity as well?”

“Ask,” she said warily, “and we’ll see.”

He hesitated—rare for him—then asked, “In your world... Do the women not grow body hair? Or is it the men, too?“ 

Emma blinked at him, not getting what he meant again. “Sorry, what?“ 

Sebastian's grin widened ever so slightly, his eyes holding her gaze steadily. “When I touched you, my dear...”

Whatever flustered reaction he expected from her, she wasn't giving it to him. He finger-fucked her. She was aware; she was not ashamed.

When she only raised one eyebrow, he continued. “I did not feel a single hair on your legs, nor on your—”

“If you say 'pussy',“ Emma interrupted him, one finger raised to his face, “I will smack you. That word makes my skin crawl.“ 

She couldn't even say why; it just did.

Sebastian chuckled lowly and inclined his head. “Then I shall not.“ 

At least she finally understood what he meant.

“Oh, we do have body hair,” she said at last, the corner of her mouth quirking as she slowly shook her head. “People just… hate seeing it. Women, especially. There’s this whole expectation that we should look ‘clean’ and ‘soft,’ like we’re made of porcelain or something.”

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with that half-amused, half-predatory curiosity he wore so well. “So your world encourages women to strip away what is natural. Fascinating. And yet you call my species vain.”

Emma gave a small laugh. “You’re not wrong. We spend an absurd amount of time and money trying to meet standards that don’t even make sense. People shave it off, wax it off, burn it off—whatever works.”

His brows lifted at that. “Burn it off?”

“Well, not literally,” she said quickly, chuckling. “There’s this thing called laser hair removal—it uses light, heat, whatever, to sort of… stop the hair from growing back. Hurts like hell and costs a fortune, but it works.”

He blinked once, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his expression. “You deliberately inflict pain upon yourselves in pursuit of smoothness.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, “and we even pay for it willingly.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at her, something unreadable in his gaze. Then he murmured, “Humans never cease to amuse me. You suffer for beauty, for love, for ideals you cannot even agree upon. And yet you call us the monsters.”

She smirked faintly. “I mean, at least we don’t eat people.”

“Perhaps not literally,” he countered softly. “But you consume one another all the same—piece by piece, expectation by expectation.”

That caught her off guard, silencing her for a beat. His words weren’t cruel; they were simply matter-of-fact, as if he’d observed this for centuries.

Emma finally exhaled a small laugh. “You have an annoyingly poetic way of making humanity sound tragic.”

“It is,” he said, his smile faint and knowing. Then, as if remembering himself, he stepped back, the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his expression. “Now, if you are quite done enlightening me about your world’s masochistic grooming habits, I believe our young master will notice your absence soon.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Right. Because he’s never vanished into thin air for hours before.”

That earned her a soft, genuine chuckle from the demon—low, smooth, and infuriatingly fond—as he opened the door for her.

Chapter Text

That Lady, a Phantomhive

The manor was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of stillness that follows a storm—metaphorical or otherwise.

Emma had spent most of the day drifting through routines that barely required thought: she read for a while in the library (though she couldn’t remember a single line), tried helping Mey-Rin with the flower arrangements, and later joined Finny in the garden, watching him prune the frost-bitten hedges. It was peaceful in a strange, disconnected way—like the world was holding its breath.

By the time dinner came around, the air in the dining hall was comfortably warm, the faint glow of candles reflecting off polished silver. Sebastian, ever the perfectionist, had outdone himself yet again: roasted pheasant with herbs, glazed carrots, bread so soft it almost melted, and a dark wine sauce that smelled faintly of cloves. The meal looked like something painted by an old master, too elegant for anyone to actually eat.

Emma sat to Ciel’s right, trying to ignore how the silverware gleamed accusingly back at her—another reminder of how not a noblewoman she was. That looming engagement had reminded her of her reality rather efficiently. She wasn’t even that hungry. Mostly, she was just glad to be doing something normal for once.

They ate mostly in silence, the only sounds the gentle clink of cutlery and the occasional sigh from Ciel as Sebastian refilled his teacup. It was a calm, steady rhythm—until Ciel decided to ruin it.

“The Queen called today,” he said casually, cutting into his pheasant.

Emma blinked mid-bite. “Called?” she repeated, confused. “Like—called, called? I thought she usually sends letters for missions.”

Ciel didn’t even look up. “It wasn’t a mission.” He paused just long enough to sip his tea, perfectly composed as always. “It was an invitation. For an audience.”

She frowned. “With you?”

He finally glanced up, meeting her gaze. “No. With you.”

For a full two seconds, Emma forgot how to breathe.

“...What?”

Sebastian, of course, chose that moment to chuckle softly as he poured Ciel more tea. “Her Majesty seems to have taken quite an interest in you, my dear.”

Emma turned her wide eyes to him, then back to Ciel. “The Queen wants to meet me?” she asked, incredulous. “Why on earth—what could she possibly want from me?”

Ciel’s tone was maddeningly calm, as if they were discussing the weather. “You’ve been involved in two of her most important affairs this year, both of which concluded successfully. And,” he added with a faint smirk, “since you are now officially registered as a distant relative of House Phantomhive, Her Majesty likely wishes to... make your acquaintance.”

Emma just stared. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “You always look like you’re joking.”

That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a near-smile, which for Ciel was practically a laugh. Sebastian, meanwhile, looked openly entertained, his crimson eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“And when exactly am I supposed to meet Her Majesty the Queen of England?” Emma asked, voice climbing an octave as panic began to settle in.

Ciel cut another piece of pheasant, utterly unfazed. “Tomorrow. We leave at noon.”

“Tomorrow?!”

Sebastian’s chuckle turned into a low, pleased hum. “I shall prepare your finest gown, my lady. Perhaps the ivory one? It seems appropriately angelic for a royal audience.”

Emma gaped at him. “Angel—Sebastian, I’ll vomit on that gown if I wear it.”

“That,” he replied smoothly, “would make quite the impression indeed.”

Ciel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “Try not to humiliate the family name, if you can help it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Emma muttered, staring down at her plate as though it might offer her an escape route. “Just a casual chat with the most powerful woman in England. No pressure.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said with a smirk. “Do remember to curtsy. Deeply. And perhaps avoid mentioning your... unique vocabulary.”

Emma shot him a glare. “I will throw this carrot at you.”

“I’d catch it,” he murmured, voice soft and dark with amusement.

Ciel cleared his throat pointedly, returning the room to order—or at least, as close to it as possible. “Finish your dinner,” he instructed. “We’ll review protocol in the morning.”

Emma groaned and slumped in her chair. “I’m going to die.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. “If you faint in front of Her Majesty, I promise to catch you gracefully.”

“Not helping,” she muttered—but despite her panic, despite the absurdity of it all, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

Because of course—after everything—the universe decided she wasn’t done embarrassing herself yet.

The morning began with chaos—and far too many hands in Emma’s hair.

Mey-Rin had taken the task of dressing her as if she were preparing a princess for coronation. Layers of silk, lace, and soft perfume later, Emma found herself staring into the mirror at a version of herself she barely recognized. The gown was navy blue, rich and elegant—the color of House Phantomhive. It fit her like it had been made for her (which, knowing Sebastian, it probably had been sometime in the night). The bodice hugged her waist before falling into graceful folds, embroidered with faint silver detailing that shimmered whenever she moved.

Her hair had been draped into something complicated—twists and soft curls pinned in a way that made her neck look longer, delicate tendrils framing her face. Mey-Rin had nearly cried twice while trying to get it right. Then came the jewelry: heavy, cold metal and gemstones that gleamed like they had stories to tell. The necklace felt like a chain around her throat, and the earrings brushed her jaw every time she turned her head.

She looked, for all intents and purposes, like someone who belonged beside Ciel Phantomhive.

She just didn’t feel like her.

Ciel had been quiet that morning. Not in his usual composed way—this was different. His words were sharp, measured, each one chosen with care as he’d explained what awaited them.

“This is both a report and an introduction,” he’d said, seated at his desk as Sebastian helped him into his coat. “Her Majesty will wish to hear the details of the case and to meet you officially. Be polite. Speak only when addressed. And—” his blue eye flicked up to her “—try not to say anything too modern.”

Emma had raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”

“It is,” he’d muttered.

But beneath the banter, she saw it, the tension. Ciel’s hand lingered longer on his ring, his jaw tight as if he were holding something back. The case had ended, yes, but not perfectly. The children were gone, and failure—however small—was something neither Ciel nor the Queen tolerated well.

And now, Emma was being pulled straight into that storm.

The carriage rocked gently as it rolled through the streets of London, the sound of hooves muffled against the cobblestones. Emma sat opposite Ciel and Sebastian, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap.

Outside, the city passed in a blur of fog and brick, and she watched it all like someone who’d seen it once in a dream. The closer they got to Buckingham Palace, the more unreal it all felt.

And then it came into view.

The gates. The long, sweeping drive. The palace itself, gleaming pale under the late morning sun.

Emma leaned toward the window, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it like this… Buckingham Palace. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures.”

Ciel looked up at her, curiosity flickering across his face. “Pictures?”

“Yeah,” she said softly, still staring. “About… a hundred and thirty years in the future.”

Sebastian’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Oh?”

She smiled faintly, almost apologetic. “The building still exists. It becomes sort of... a symbol. The monarchy still exists too, but not quite like this. They don’t rule in the same way—more ceremonial, I guess. But people are still obsessed with them. There’s a whole TV show about the royal family. It’s called The Crown.”

Ciel blinked once. “They make a show about the Queen?”

Technically, yes, although they weren't talking about the same Queen of England.

“About all of them,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Actors play them—there are scripts, drama, even special effects. It’s basically historical fiction, but everyone treats it like gospel.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved into that unmistakable, amused smirk. “Fascinating. So, the British public still finds entertainment in glorifying power they no longer possess.”

Ciel gave a short, humorless chuckle. “How fitting.”

Emma leaned back, watching the palace grow larger through the window. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Fitting.”

As the carriage slowed to a halt before the grand entrance, she caught her reflection in the glass—painted lips, perfect curls, the Phantomhive crest gleaming at her throat—and for a fleeting moment, she wasn’t sure if she was seeing herself or a character she was meant to play.

The door opened with a creak, and Sebastian stepped out first, offering his gloved hand with a courteous smile.

“Shall we, my lady?”

Emma took a steadying breath, slid her fingers into his, and stepped down onto the stone.

Whatever waited inside Buckingham Palace, she had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be just an introduction.

The throne room was smaller than Emma expected.

Not the vast, echoing hall she’d seen in period dramas—but something more intimate, grand in its restraint. Polished marble gleamed underfoot, the sunlight filtering through tall, curtained windows in golden ribbons. The air smelled faintly of roses and candle wax.

And at the far end sat her.

The Queen of England.

Victoria.

Dressed in black silk trimmed with lace, a small jeweled crown atop her silvered hair, she was both frail and formidable. Her expression softened immediately when her eyes fell on Ciel.

“My sweet boy,” she said, her voice warm but carrying a quiet authority that made even Sebastian incline his head. “How good it is to see you again.”

Ciel stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty.”

Sebastian mirrored the motion with his perfect, fluid grace, while Emma tried to follow their lead—bowing with enough poise to seem practiced, but not so much as to make herself look awkward.

When she rose, the Queen’s gaze was already on her.

“And this,” she said, her tone lilting with curiosity, “must be Miss Emma Andrich. I have heard quite a bit about you.”

Emma’s stomach did a small, traitorous flip. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, curtsying this time. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

The Queen’s eyes crinkled with the faintest smile. “I’m sure it must be. Stand, my dear.”

Emma obeyed, hands folded politely before her. She could feel Ciel’s gaze flick toward her, checking, perhaps, to make sure she didn’t say anything outrageous.

“I must say,” the Queen continued, “your letter impressed me greatly, young man.” She turned to Ciel again, her expression motherly, fond. “Even though the case’s conclusion was not ideal, you have, as always, done the Crown a service. I understand Miss Andrich played a role in assisting you?”

Ciel inclined his head slightly. “She did, Your Majesty. In fact, she has proven... unexpectedly resourceful.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

The Queen’s gaze returned to Emma, assessing but not unkind. “Then I owe you my gratitude, Miss Andrich. You have my condolences, too. The tragedy that befell your family was most unfortunate.”

Emma bowed her head slightly, her heart twisting despite knowing the “family” in question had been fabricated. Still, the memory of that cover story—the fire, the grief—stirred something genuine. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Your letter meant a great deal.”

“Grief,” the Queen said, her tone dipping into something softer, almost personal, “never quite leaves us, does it? We only learn to live alongside it.”

Emma’s gaze flickered up, studying her. In that brief moment, her mind—almost by reflex—began to piece together the woman behind the crown: the kindness in her tone, the undercurrent of iron beneath it. Victoria’s fondness for Ciel wasn’t simply affection—it was control by gentleness. Her warmth disarmed, her softness commanded loyalty more effectively than fear ever could.

So Emma matched it.

“It doesn’t leave,” she said quietly. “But it makes us more careful with the people we still have.”

The Queen’s eyes glimmered with approval. “Well said, my dear.”

Ciel, standing a few paces to her side, tilted his head ever so slightly.

The Queen stood from her throne, already turning to walk into a different chamber. She gestured gracefully to follow her. “Come. I won’t have you standing like schoolchildren.”

They obeyed, following her in a smaller room, where they sat down around a small table filled with pastries and cakes. Sebastian remained standing a few steps behind them, the perfect shadow.

It was odd, Emma thought. Sitting at a normal table with the Queen of England. This suddenly felt more like a casual conversation with her grandmother than a royal audience.

“I hear,” Victoria began, settling her folded hands in her lap, “that you are a distant relative of the Phantomhives.”

Emma smiled politely. “So I’m told.”

That earned her a soft chuckle. “And already the tongue of a diplomat. You will do well in London society.”

Ciel coughed lightly, perhaps suppressing a laugh, or horror at the very thought of Emma navigating a London ball alone.

The Queen continued, “Tell me, Miss Andrich—what drew you to help my dear boy with his work? It is not a task for the faint of heart.”

Emma hesitated for a heartbeat. “I... suppose I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. It felt wrong to see people hurt and stay silent.”

The Queen regarded her quietly for a moment, and Emma held her gaze without flinching.

“A heart for justice,” Victoria said finally. “That is rare. Rarer still among the nobility.”

From the corner of her eye, Emma saw Ciel’s lips twitch—the faintest, most ironic of smiles.

The Queen regarded her for a long moment before speaking again, tone curious rather than critical.

“And what guise did you assume for this investigation?” she asked. “Your written report, young man—” she glanced at Ciel “—was most thorough, yet omitted that particular detail.”

Ciel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “It was hardly relevant, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, but it is,” the Queen countered lightly, her shrewd blue eyes turning to Emma again. “Disguises tell me a great deal about the people who wear them. So then, Miss Andrich, what role did you play?”

Emma blinked, then gave a small, almost sheepish grin. “I pretended to be Ciel’s older sister, Your Majesty.”

Victoria’s brows lifted slightly in surprise and then softened in faint amusement. “His sister?”

“Yes,” Emma said, her voice steady despite the warmth creeping into her cheeks. “It seemed the most logical cover. I… tend to be a bit protective and, well, a little overbearing sometimes.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “So the role suited me.”

Even Sebastian’s composure wavered at that; his gloved hand twitched faintly behind Ciel’s chair, as if restraining laughter.

Ciel’s gaze slid toward her, cool and tight-lipped. 

The Queen’s smile deepened. “And tell me, Miss Andrich,” she said, her tone honeyed but with a glint of curiosity that could cut glass, “do you feel that way beyond your disguise as well?”

Emma froze for the briefest moment. She knew then that the Queen was doing what she so often did—reading people. Of course, she was; a monarch needed to know who stood before her, who could be trusted, who was loyal, who could be used.

So Emma matched her honesty with her own.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said quietly. “I know Ciel doesn’t need my protection. He’s more than capable of handling himself. But…” Her lips curved into a small, sincere smile. “I’ve grown attached to him. And I suppose I’d protect him the same way a sister protects her younger brother.”

The Queen’s expression softened again, fondness overtaking scrutiny. “That is a rare affection in this world, Miss Andrich. You remind me of my own dear children, in their younger, better-behaved days.”

Ciel, however, had gone entirely still.

Sebastian, standing behind them, tilted his head, a spark of mirth glinting in his eyes as he watched his young master’s jaw tighten by degrees.

Emma, perhaps sensing it, added with an impish smile, “He’ll probably scold me for saying that later.”

That did it—Sebastian did laugh, softly, a low melodic hum of amusement that made Ciel shoot him a glare sharp enough to wound.

The Queen, oblivious to—or perhaps enjoying—the tension, chuckled. “Well, I do hope you continue to watch over him, Miss Andrich. England is safer when my watchdog is well kept.”

Emma dipped her head, smiling. “I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.”

Ciel exhaled slowly through his nose, murmuring under his breath, “I don’t need keeping.”

Emma leaned just close enough to whisper back, her tone teasing but fond, “You really do, though.”

The Queen’s quiet laughter broke through the exchange like a bell, her eyes glinting with unmistakable amusement. “Ah, youth,” she said with a sigh that carried more fondness than fatigue. “It’s quite refreshing to see such… spirit in my service.”

The Queen’s laughter softened into something warmer, though her eyes gleamed with that particular sharpness Emma was beginning to recognize—the kind that reminded her of a chess master, fingers poised over the next move.

“Well,” Victoria said lightly, folding her gloved hands over one another, “it seems to me, Miss Andrich, that you’ve served the Crown admirably. Twice now, in fact.”

Emma inclined her head politely. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”

The Queen tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t think kindness has much to do with it.”

Ciel’s gaze flicked up, wary. “…Your Majesty?”

Victoria smiled in that deceptively gentle way that made Emma’s pulse jump. “You’ve proven yourself loyal, intelligent, and quite devoted to my watchdog. And since you’ve been posing as his sister, I see no reason you should not become one officially.”

The silence that followed was almost comical.

Emma blinked once. Then twice. “…I—pardon?”

Ciel actually choked. “Your Majesty—!”

But the Queen was already turning her head toward a waiting footman. “Bring the papers, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Emma glanced between them, her mouth dry. “I—wait, surely that’s not—”

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Victoria said pleasantly, watching as the servant presented a rolled parchment and a fountain pen upon a silver tray. “A royal license of legitimization. I shall grant you the name Phantomhive. You’ve earned it, my dear.”

Sebastian, of course, was smiling faintly in the background, that amused, feline curve of lips that promised both entertainment and trouble.

“Your Majesty,” Ciel began carefully, his tone respectful but rigid, “that is… highly irregular. The Phantomhive name—”

“—belongs to the Crown,” the Queen interrupted, her voice smooth and final, “as do you, my dear boy. You carry my will. Surely sharing your name with one who has served my purposes faithfully should not trouble you.”

It wasn’t an offer. It was a lesson.

Emma realized it in an instant—the way Ciel’s shoulders went just a little too stiff, the faint satisfaction behind the Queen’s eyes. This wasn’t just about rewarding her. It was about reminding him who owned even his legacy.

And she, in the middle of it, was a pawn—one that had just been moved across the board without her consent.

“Your Majesty,” Emma said quickly, trying to muster every bit of diplomacy she had, “while I’m deeply honored, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense.” The Queen’s tone cut off protest like a blade through silk. “I insist.”

With that, she took the pen, signed her name in a graceful, practiced motion, and pressed her wax seal—red and glimmering—into the parchment.

The faint click of the seal’s closing echoed like a verdict.

“There,” she said with a serene smile, handing the document to the waiting servant. “As of this moment, Miss Emma Andrich is no more.”

Her gaze shifted to Emma, bright and almost teasing. “Welcome to your new life, Miss Emma Phantomhive.”

Emma stared at her, wide-eyed. “…Just like that?”

The Queen smiled at Emma—her new pawn to play with. “Just like that.“ 

Chapter Text

That Lady, sister

The carriage rattled softly over the cobblestones, its interior cloaked in the dim hush that followed too much tension and too many revelations.

Emma sat across from Ciel, still staring out the window as if the gilded towers of Buckingham Palace might vanish if she blinked. The parchment now tucked safely in Ciel’s pocket felt like it weighed a ton between them.

Finally, she exhaled and muttered, “...What the hell was that?”

Sebastian, lounging beside Ciel, looked thoroughly entertained. His lips quirked in that small, maddeningly knowing smirk. “That, my lady, was an audience with Her Majesty at her most generous.”

Emma turned her head sharply toward Ciel, who didn’t look up. His gloved hands rested neatly on his knees, his posture perfect—too perfect, like a soldier enduring a punishment.

“It was both your reward,” he said flatly, “and my punishment.”

Emma frowned. “For what?”

“For the mission,” Ciel replied, his voice clipped. “For the children. She suspects the report was... incomplete.”

“Because it was incomplete,” Sebastian added smoothly, glancing sidelong at his master.

Ciel shot him a glare but didn’t deny it. “She’s not a fool. She knows when I’m keeping something from her. Making you a Phantomhive lets her keep you closer—and reminds me that even my name doesn’t belong to me.”

Emma stared at him, the realization settling like lead in her stomach. “So... she gave me your name to own you a little more.”

Ciel’s jaw tightened. “Yes. And now, by extension, she owns you too.”

Sebastian chuckled lowly. “How poetic. A shared leash.”

“Sebastian,” Ciel warned.

The demon merely smiled, unbothered. “Oh, come now, my lord. You must admit—it’s fitting. The watchdog and his newly named sister, both bound by royal favor.”

Emma rubbed her face, groaning softly. “So let me get this straight. I woke up this morning as Emma Andrich, foreign traveler with zero responsibilities, and by dinner, I’m legally British nobility and state property?”

“Essentially,” Ciel said.

She blinked at him for a long moment, then huffed a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Well. That escalated fast.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The rhythm of the wheels filled the space between them—soft, steady, and suffocating.

Then, out of nowhere, Emma started laughing again. Louder this time. It was genuine, if a little hysterical.

Ciel’s eyes narrowed. “What, pray tell, is amusing about any of this?”

She wiped a tear from her eye, trying to catch her breath. “Just—Francis.”

“Francis?”

“Your lovely aunt.” Emma grinned, half in mischief, half in despair. “She’s going to be thrilled. I mean—now both of her children are marrying Phantomhives!”

For a moment, even Sebastian went still. Then—he laughed.

It wasn’t his usual mockery, not quite; it was the sound of someone thoroughly enjoying the chaos.

Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wonderful. That’s all I need—Lady Francis demanding wedding plans before the ink is even dry.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Emma said, leaning back with a crooked smile. “You can tell her I’m still in mourning. Again.”

Sebastian’s grin deepened. “Or perhaps we should let her plan the entire affair, my lady. I imagine the spectacle would be... unforgettable.”

“Try unbearable,” Ciel muttered.

Emma smirked faintly, her humor settling back into calm resignation. “Well,” she said after a moment, “if I’m going to be owned by the Crown, I might as well make the title look good.”

Ciel looked at her, expression softening almost imperceptibly. “You’re already doing that.”

She smiled, small but real—and Sebastian, watching them both, said nothing for once.

Outside, the sky over London bled gold into gray as the carriage rolled on, carrying the newly christened Miss Emma Phantomhive home.

Emma had just managed to brush her hair and slip into her shortened nightgown when the knock came, a brisk, familiar rhythm.

She sighed. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Ciel stepped in, still in his waistcoat and cravat, looking as if sleep hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Sebastian said you’d—” He froze. His voice cut off mid-sentence.

For a long second, he just stared. Then he made a strangled noise, turned sharply on his heel, and faced the door, his ears visibly pink.

“W–what on earth is that, Emma?” he sputtered.

Emma blinked, then followed his gaze downward—and burst out laughing. “Oh, this?” She tugged lightly at the hem of her nightgown that stopped a few inches above her knees. “Sebastian made it for me. The period-accurate ones go to the ankles and I swear, I almost suffocated in those things.”

“That’s not—!” Ciel began, his voice tight, still facing away. “That’s— indecent.”

“Relax, sweet child.” Emma chuckled and climbed into bed, pulling the blanket over her legs. “There. You can look again. All decent now.”

He hesitated, then turned—slowly, like a cat testing for traps. His face was still faintly pink, though he tried very hard to look composed.

“...You could warn people next time,” he muttered, moving to sit in the armchair beside her bed.

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” she teased, earning a glare that was more embarrassed than angry.

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Then Ciel spoke, quieter.

“What you said today,” he began, his gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. “To the Queen. About feeling like my older sister.”

Emma blinked. “Oh.”

He didn’t look up. “Did you mean that?”

She studied him for a moment. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, his shoulders drawn tight—not with irritation, but with something far more fragile.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”

He was quiet again, his brows drawing together faintly. “It’s… strange,” he said at last. “I had—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “No. That’s not quite right, I—”

Emma’s smile gentled, interrupting him softly. “I know.”

“I don’t remember much that was before the fire,” he murmured. “But sometimes I remember his hand. He used to drag me along everywhere, even when I didn’t want to go. He’d laugh when I tripped. Tell me to keep up.”

His voice cracked slightly on that last word, though he recovered quickly. “And now—three years, and nothing like that again. Until you.”

Emma’s chest tightened, not only because of the words he spoke, but because he was speaking them. It was so uncharacteristic of him to speak of his twin, to speak how he truly felt.

Emma wondered if this was a hint of the boy he used to be before his life had gone up in flames.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “I forget what it’s like. To be treated like a boy. To have someone scold me for not eating or try to brush my hair out of my eyes. It’s... infuriating.” His lips quirked faintly. “And oddly comforting.”

Emma leaned forward, resting her arms over the blanket. “You can have both, you know. Comfort and irritation. That’s what siblings are for.”

Ciel huffed a laugh, small and genuine. “So I’ve gathered.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The flickering firelight softened the sharpness in his features, made him look a little less like the Queen’s watchdog and more like what he really was—a tired boy who had grown up too fast.

After a while, Emma asked quietly, “Was that why you came? To ask me that?”

Ciel hesitated. Then, still not meeting her eyes, he said, “Partly.”

“And the other part?”

He looked at her then, eye unusually open. “You should know what it means. Bearing the name Phantomhive. You’ve tied yourself to my world now. There’s no undoing that.”

Emma smiled faintly. “I figured as much.”

“You should be furious,” he said, almost accusingly. “The Queen manipulated you into it.”

“Oh, I am,” she said, lips curving. “But I’m also not about to let her win by regretting it.”

Ciel studied her, and something softened in his gaze—a flicker of gratitude he didn’t voice.

He stood then, straightening his jacket. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you adore me for it,” she teased, eyes half-lidded.

Ciel’s lips twitched. “Goodnight, Sister.”

Emma laughed as he turned to leave. “Goodnight, sweet child.”

He paused at the doorway, just for a heartbeat, before slipping out and closing it softly behind him.

Emma lay back against her pillow, staring at the firelight dancing on the ceiling, her heart heavy and warm all at once.

So this was what it meant to be a Phantomhive, she thought. Fire, duty, and family.

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the dining room, glinting off polished silver and fine china. The house was quiet, too quiet—the kind that only came after a storm.

Emma walked in, still a little bleary-eyed from a half-night’s sleep, and found Ciel already seated at the head of the table, a cup of tea poised elegantly in his small hand. Sebastian stood at his shoulder, the picture of calm efficiency as always.

She blinked when she noticed the small, velvet box placed neatly on her plate.

“What’s this?” she asked, glancing between the two of them.

Ciel didn’t look up from his tea. “A necessary formality,” he said airily. “Every Phantomhive carries the family crest.”

“The—oh, that’s what this is about?” Emma asked, sinking into her chair. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Ciel interrupted, tone clipped but not unkind. “You carry the name now. You should have the symbol to match.”

“When did you even—”

“I had Sebastian go into town last night,“ he interrupted her again, and Emma stopped asking.

Emma opened the box, and her breath caught slightly. Inside was a pendant, silver, elegant, understated, engraved with the Phantomhive eagle and shield. It gleamed faintly in the light, heavier than she expected, as though it carried the weight of a hundred years of history.

Before she could even comment, Sebastian’s smooth voice came from behind her. “Allow me, my lady.”

She jumped slightly; he’d moved soundlessly close.

“Sebastian, I—” she began, but he was already unfastening the clasp of her old necklace — the one Ciel had given her for her birthday.

Emma frowned, fingers brushing the chain instinctively. “Wait, I can—”

But Sebastian was efficient as ever: he plucked the new pendant from her hand, threaded it onto the chain, and with deft, elegant fingers, refastened it around her neck.

The cold metal brushed her collarbone as he stepped back. “There,” he said smoothly, his voice a little too pleased. “A perfect fit, as always.”

Emma stared down at it, fingers brushing the engraved crest. “You could’ve just asked, you know,” she muttered, a little dazed.

Sebastian’s smirk deepened. “And deny myself the pleasure of attending to the newest Phantomhive? Perish the thought.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “Sebastian, that’s enough.”

The butler inclined his head, stepping back, but his eyes glinted with quiet amusement.

Emma looked from one to the other, then down at the pendant again. “It’s… beautiful,” she said softly. Then, more dryly, “And also mildly terrifying. I feel like it might start glowing if I disobey royal orders.”

Ciel actually huffed, something dangerously close to a laugh. “That would make it more useful than most people.”

She gave him a look but smiled anyway. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

He sipped his tea, refusing to meet her eyes. “You should grow used to it. You carry my name now. Which means you’re expected to act like one.”

Emma lifted her brows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he said pointedly, “that the Queen will be watching you just as closely as she does me. Consider your every word and action a reflection of our house.”

There was a pause, the kind that carried weight.

Emma smiled faintly and touched the pendant again. “Right,” she said, tone light but eyes serious. “No pressure at all.”

Sebastian’s voice purred behind her. “On the contrary, my lady. The weight suits you.”

Emma shot him a look, half amused, half warning. “Careful, Sebastian. I’m a Phantomhive now. That means I can probably have you punished for insolence.”

He leaned in just a fraction, eyes glinting like garnet. “You’d have to catch me first.”

Ciel sighed. “Enough, both of you. Eat.”

Emma grinned, spearing a piece of toast. “Yes, my lord.”

She nearly laughed at her own joke.

The day drifted by more quietly than most. Emma tried to busy herself, reading for a while in the library, checking on Finny and Mey-Rin, even helping Bard in the kitchen (which resulted, predictably, in mild chaos and a small fire). But by dusk, when the house fell back into its usual hush, her thoughts circled right back to the morning — to the pendant, to the Queen, to the weight of a name that wasn’t hers.

When she finally found Sebastian in the hall, he was carrying a stack of correspondence toward Ciel’s study. He paused when he saw her, one brow arching as if he’d expected her to appear eventually.

“Ah, Lady Phantomhive,” he said smoothly, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “How does it feel, I wonder, to rise so swiftly through society’s ranks?”

Emma gave a dry laugh, walking beside him. “Weird. Heavy. Slightly illegal.”

He chuckled lowly. “Illegal? I assure you, a royal decree makes nearly anything permissible.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make it right,” she murmured, her hand brushing against the new pendant. “It feels like I’m wearing a borrowed crown.”

Sebastian hummed. “Most crowns are borrowed, in a sense. You’ll find few mortals ever keep one for long.”

That made her smile, faint but genuine. “You always have to make everything sound like a proverb, don’t you?”

He inclined his head. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

They reached the end of the hall where the last light of sunset poured through the windows, painting the corridor in deep gold. She stopped there, gazing out absently at the grounds, her reflection faint in the glass.

After a long silence, she said quietly, “What happens to him if I disappear?”

Sebastian turned his head slightly. “Pardon?”

She kept her eyes on the window. “If I go back.” Her voice was soft, uncertain. “I didn’t plan to come here; it just happened. So what if I… suddenly vanish again? What happens to Ciel then? The Queen made me part of his house. If I suddenly don’t exist anymore—”

Her throat tightened. “Would she blame him?”

Sebastian’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “You fear for him.”

“Of course I do,” she said, almost sharply. “He’s—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “He’s Ciel.”

A small, knowing smile curved Sebastian’s mouth. “Ever the elder sister.”

She huffed out a breath. “You make it sound foolish.”

“Not foolish,” he murmured. “Merely… human.”

Emma leaned her forehead briefly against the glass, her reflection overlapping with the long shadowed outline of his figure behind her. “You think it’s useless to worry about, don’t you?”

He stepped closer, his tone almost gentle. “If you were meant to leave, you would not still be here. And if you do one day vanish, my young master will not crumble. He has been broken before — he simply learned to hide the cracks. Do not underestimate his ability to endure.”

She was quiet for a while, processing that.

Then he said, almost idly, “However, I suspect your concern hides another.”

Emma turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. His eyes gleamed red for an instant in the dying light. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”

He smiled faintly. “I make it a point not to.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “It’s not about me this time.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“It’s about what’s coming.” Her fingers traced the pendant absently. “I can’t say when, but… I know the Queen’s going to punish him. Further.”

Sebastian’s expression barely flickered, though something sharpened behind his eyes.

Emma continued quietly, “She wasn’t happy about how the circus thing ended. In my world, I watched it happen, but I don’t know when. I just know it’s close. She’ll punish him for it.”

“You’ve seen this,” Sebastian said, almost conversationally.

“I’ve seen the story,” Emma corrected softly. “I’m just living inside it now.”

He regarded her for a long moment, then said, “And yet you choose not to alter it.”

“I can’t,” she murmured. “It's like a basic rule: If you travel through time, you change as little as possible.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed, thoughtful. “Such restraint. Most would seize the chance to rewrite fate.”

Emma gave a small, bitter smile. “Yeah, well. I’ve learned that fate writes in pen, not pencil.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sebastian said softly, “Whatever comes, my dear, you cannot shield him from the Queen. But you may yet soften the blow. That, I think, is why you are here.”

Emma looked up at him. “To protect him?”

He smiled — that quiet, unreadable smile that was neither kind nor cruel. “To see that he is not alone when his next shadow falls.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. “You talk like you already know what’ll happen.”

“Perhaps I do,” he said lightly. “Or perhaps I simply have faith in the pattern of tragedy.”

She gave a dry little laugh. “You’re awful.”

“Indeed.” He bowed slightly. “But I am also correct.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “You and your damn riddles.”

“Only because they make you think, Lady Phantomhive.”

“Stop calling me that,” she groaned, half laughing, half exasperated.

He smirked. “As you wish… Emma Phantomhive.”

Her groan echoed down the corridor, chased by his quiet laughter.

Chapter Text

That Lady, engaged

The Midford dining room was a glittering battlefield.

Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the table; polished silver gleamed; servants glided silently behind the chairs. It was, in every way, a display of wealth, breeding, and expectation.

Emma had known from the moment the letter of invitation had arrived a week prior that this dinner had very little to do with family reunion — and everything to do with Edward Midford waiting for the proper opportunity to ask for her hand.

Her only consolation was the wine. Excellent, and generously poured.

At the head of the table sat Alexis and Francis, the picture of genteel nobility — he all warmth and good humor, she all poise and sharp precision. Beside them were Lizzy, glowing as always, Edward (clearly rehearsing his courage with every bite of roast), and then Ciel and Emma, the recently minted Phantomhives.

Conversation flowed easily enough at first, polite and superficial. Alexis spoke about hunting season; Francis about the state of London society; Lizzy bubbled about her newest gown, the silk imported from Paris. Ciel contributed just enough to appear engaged, though his expression never wavered from polite boredom.

Emma, wearing navy again — she seemed destined for it now — matched Francis’s conversation with practiced grace. She had, by now, learned to play her part.

“You must allow me to say,” Francis said suddenly, lifting her glass, “that society has not spoken of anything else these past weeks. You, Miss Andrich — or rather, Miss Phantomhive — have caused quite a stir.”

Emma smiled faintly, aware of all eyes turning to her. “I hope not too much of one.”

“On the contrary,” Francis said, elegant brows lifting. “It isn’t every day that a young lady is granted noble rank by royal decree. Most families would have thrown a ball to celebrate the occasion.”

There was a pause, the subtle kind that filled a room like the hush before thunder.

Emma, unruffled, set down her glass. “That would have been lovely,” she said with a touch of dry humor, “if I hadn’t been busy trying to process the fact that I woke up one morning with a new surname and responsibilities I still don’t fully understand.”

Alexis chuckled, clearly amused. “A fair point, Miss Phantomhive. I daresay most people would need a moment to recover from royal favor.”

Francis gave him a look, but even she couldn’t quite hide the corner of her mouth curving upward.

“I suppose it’s rather admirable,” she said finally, “how you’ve adjusted so quickly. You seem to carry the name well.”

“Thank you,” Emma said. “It’s heavy, but it fits.”

That earned her a glance from Ciel, quick, approving, almost imperceptible.

Lizzy leaned forward eagerly. “I think it’s perfect! Now we’re really family. You and I are going to do everything together — we’ll go shopping and visit the dressmakers and—”

“Elizabeth,” Francis said mildly.

Lizzy ducked her head, cheeks pink. “Sorry, Mother.”

Edward, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. “It suits her because she earned it. Not many would have survived what she has.”

Emma blinked at him, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. “Thank you, Edward. That’s kind of you.”

His ears turned red at once. “I only meant— well— it’s true.”

Across the table, Ciel was very still, watching the exchange with that inscrutable look that could have meant anything from irritation to amusement.

The conversation drifted on, though a new undercurrent of tension hummed beneath it. The food arrived in courses, and while everyone ate politely, it was clear that one topic remained unspoken yet present: Edward’s proposal.

By the time dessert was served — a delicate pudding with candied orange — even Alexis seemed to sense the storm about to break.

“Well,” he said heartily, setting down his spoon, “it’s been far too long since we’ve all dined together. I say this gathering calls for some news, doesn’t it, Edward?”

Edward stiffened. Francis gave her husband a mildly reproving look but said nothing.

Ciel, who had been sipping his tea with studied indifference, slowly turned his head toward Edward, a faintly knowing glint in his eye.

“Indeed,” he said coolly. “I was beginning to suspect we weren’t invited merely for the pleasure of company.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t wrong, Phantomhive.”

The table went quiet. Even Lizzy looked uncertain now.

Edward stood, straightening his shoulders like a man marching to his execution. “Earl Ciel Phantomhive,” he began stiffly, voice formal and proud, “I’ve requested this evening to speak to you about your sister, Miss Emma.”

Emma’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. No one had ever addressed her like his sister publicly.

Ciel regarded him with detached composure. “You have my attention.”

Edward’s expression was as serious as a knight’s oath. “I intend to ask for her hand in marriage.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to bend the air.

Francis looked pleased, or rather, satisfied, as though everything was proceeding precisely as she had arranged. Alexis beamed. Lizzy clasped her hands together, barely suppressing a squeal.

And Emma…

Emma blinked, trying to keep her face neutral while her brain screamed oh, hell.

She knew it was coming; she's had the past two weeks to prepare for it. Still... It was such a weird feeling. 

Ciel’s eyes flicked to her briefly, a warning, perhaps, or a silent reassurance, before he returned his gaze to Edward. “I see.”

Edward crossed his arms, defiant already. “It would strengthen both our houses. And,” he added, almost grudgingly, “she’s someone I respect.”

“Respect,” Ciel said, tone bone-dry. “A rare foundation for marriage among our kind.”

Francis cleared her throat sharply.

Ciel didn’t so much as glance at her. “However, since you are asking properly, I suppose I must consider it.”

Emma fought the urge to sink under the table.

Edward’s jaw worked. “Do you disapprove?”

Ciel set down his cup with deliberate calm. “Disapprove? No. Though I am surprised you would willingly take on another Phantomhive.”

That earned him a glare from Edward and a poorly hidden laugh from Alexis. Even Lizzy giggled softly.

Emma shot Ciel a look — half behave, half thank you for at least trying to stall.

But Ciel’s amusement faded. His voice cooled, his tone all business. “Miss Emma has endured quite enough in recent months. In less than a season, she lost her home, her family, and then gained a title she did not ask for. If this arrangement proceeds, I expect… sensibility.”

He met Edward’s eyes evenly. “I would advise waiting before rushing into the marriage. Let her breathe before binding her again.”

Francis opened her mouth to protest — “But surely—” — only for Ciel to cut her off with that deceptively polite little smile. “I trust the Midford family would not wish to appear inconsiderate.”

That, of course, ended it.

Edward turned to look at her, his green eyes meeting her grey ones. A flicker of pity.

After a beat, he gave a curt nod and turned toward Ciel again. “Naturally. I would never rush her.”

“Good,” Ciel said. “Then we are in agreement.”

Emma let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Alexis clapped his hands cheerfully. “Splendid! A union of fine families, sanctioned with care — I daresay we should toast to it!”

Francis gave a small, tight smile. “In due time, dear.”

Ciel inclined his head faintly. “Once the lady herself has been consulted, of course.”

The implication was clear — this wasn't final until she said so.

And when all eyes turned to her, Emma forced her face into the practiced mask of comfort and happiness she had worn for nearly a decade. She caught Edward's eye, smiling at him. “Thank you for your consideration, my betrothed.“ 

The words hung in the air like the faint echo of a bell — soft, but undeniable.

My betrothed.

A ripple of satisfaction passed across the table.

Francis, ever the tactician, inclined her head approvingly, her expression one of serene victory. “How proper,” she murmured. “And graciously spoken.”

Alexis beamed as if this were all his doing. “Splendid! Truly splendid!” He raised his glass, and the servants, attuned to such cues, began refilling everyone’s wine. “To the future Lady Midford!”

Emma smiled automatically, though she could feel her stomach tighten. The sound of crystal glasses clinking filled the room — clear, beautiful, and hollow.

Lizzy clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Emma, this is wonderful! Just imagine — we’ll be real sisters now!”

Her excitement was infectious, and for a moment, Emma managed a small laugh. “Yes, Lizzy. I suppose we will.”

Edward, still standing slightly behind his chair, seemed caught between pride and something softer, more uncertain. His usual confidence faltered under the weight of her gaze. When their eyes met again, his earlier pity was gone, replaced by something steadier. Respect, perhaps. Or guilt.

He cleared his throat and finally sat down, lifting his glass in her direction. “To Miss Emma,” he said, and though his tone was formal, the words felt sincere. “May this union bring both our families strength.”

Ciel did not lift his glass immediately. Instead, he regarded Edward with that cold, unreadable stare that could make even grown men fidget. “Indeed,” he said at last, voice smooth as ink. “May it bring clarity as well.”

Francis glanced sharply at him, but Ciel only sipped his wine, entirely at ease.

Sebastian, silent at his post behind Ciel’s chair, inclined his head slightly, the faintest glimmer of amusement ghosting across his lips. His crimson eyes flicked to Emma for a moment, catching the tension behind her polite mask. He, of course, noticed everything.

Alexis, oblivious to the undercurrents, launched into a jovial speech about the future — about family ties, estates, the importance of unity in turbulent times. Francis joined in smoothly, already discussing engagement announcements and what colors might suit Emma best.

Through it all, Emma sat composed, hands folded neatly on her lap, her mind far from the glittering table.

Betrothed.

It felt like a word borrowed from someone else’s life.

She’d said it because it was expected, because a refusal here, in this room, under so many eyes, would have undone everything Ciel had just so carefully stabilized. But now, as the conversation swirled around her, she could feel the weight of it settle like frost on her shoulders.

Ciel’s voice broke through her thoughts — calm, detached, unmistakably authoritative. “I assume, then, that the engagement will be announced at the end of the week.”

Francis nodded once. “That would be proper.”

“Good,” Ciel said, eyes sliding briefly to Emma, then back to Francis. “It will allow the gossip columns just enough time to speculate before you silence them with confirmation. You do enjoy efficiency, Lady Midford.”

Francis gave him a sharp look that might have wilted a lesser man. “And you, Lord Phantomhive, enjoy control.”

Ciel’s lips twitched. “We have that in common, then.”

The table went still for a beat — the kind of quiet born of two people testing how far the other will bend.

Alexis, ever the peacemaker, let out a genial laugh. “My, my, such sharp tongues! Let us not forget this evening is meant for celebration.”

Sebastian leaned slightly forward, voice smooth and low. “Indeed. And I believe the pudding is nearly cold. It would be a shame to let sweetness go to waste.”

That earned a chuckle from Alexis and even a reluctant smile from Francis.

Conversation shifted again — safer, lighter. Lizzy began chattering about dresses and engagement teas, Edward discussed estate management with his father, and Ciel pretended to listen, though his gaze occasionally flicked toward Emma with quiet calculation.

She could feel it, that unspoken understanding between them.

This was a move on the chessboard. Necessary. Strategic. But not the end of the game.

When the dinner finally adjourned, Francis swept forward to embrace her, pressing a polite kiss to her cheek. “You’ve done splendidly tonight, my dear. Truly.”

“Thank you,” Emma said softly, her voice perfectly even.

Edward bowed stiffly beside her. “I’ll call upon you tomorrow, if it pleases you.”

“It would,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she meant it.

Ciel watched the exchange without comment, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as they turned to leave.

As they reached the door, Sebastian stepped forward to open it for her, offering his usual impeccable bow. “Congratulations, my lady,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Such poise at the table. I’m certain London will be talking about it for weeks.”

Emma exhaled slowly, offering him a polite but knowing smile. “Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at what they’re talking about.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. But that’s the beauty of society, is it not? They never see what matters.”

Ciel’s voice came from ahead of them, cool, precise. “Sebastian. Carriage.”

“Of course, my lord.”

As Emma stepped into the night air, the sound of laughter and crystal fading behind her, she allowed her mask to drop — just slightly. Her lips parted in a quiet sigh.

Ciel, standing beside her at the carriage steps, regarded her silently for a moment. Then, in a tone so low it might have been mistaken for indifference, he said, “You handled that well.”

“I’ve had practice,” she murmured.

“Too much, perhaps.”

Their eyes met briefly — hers still tired, his still calculating — before he looked away. “Get in. We’ll discuss the rest at home.”

She hesitated. “Ciel… are you angry with me?”

He blinked once, surprised by the question. “No. But I imagine Edward is with me.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her. “Nothing new.”

Sebastian, holding the carriage door open, smiled faintly as she climbed inside. “I must say, my lady — for an engagement dinner, it was most entertaining.”

Emma shot him a look. “You have a strange definition of entertainment.”

“I find human discomfort fascinating,” he said pleasantly, closing the door behind her.

Ciel’s muffled sigh was the last sound before the carriage rolled into the dark.

Staring at the golden ring with the green gemstone in the center, Emma sighed for the third time that night.

Edward had brought it over earlier — charming, polite, utterly proper. They’d spoken for half an hour about everything and nothing: the weather, the roses in the Midford garden, the quality of London’s autumn air. A perfectly pleasant conversation between two people about to spend their lives together.

And now she sat alone, hours later, in the armchair farthest from her bed, again in her nightgown, her hair loose and falling in tired curls over her shoulders.

The hearth crackled softly, casting a warm glow that danced across the polished surface of the ring. Its golden band glimmered in her palm, reflecting the light like liquid honey.

It wasn’t ugly, far from it. It was beautiful, refined, clearly chosen with care. But that didn’t mean she liked it.

The green of the gem didn’t flatter her complexion; the gold made her pale skin look colder, whiter. She had always been a silver girl — silver, simple, quiet, and steady. Gold felt like a costume she hadn’t agreed to wear.

She turned the ring between her fingers, her reflection warping in the gem. “Congratulations, Emma,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re officially gilded.”

The room answered only with the gentle hiss of the fire.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t hear the door open, only the faint, measured sound of footsteps, the way the warmth shifted when someone else entered.

“Still awake, my dear?”

Sebastian’s voice was soft, smooth as velvet, and twice as dangerous.

Emma didn’t look up. “Apparently.”

He approached the firelight like it belonged to him, his black uniform catching amber glints from the flames. His presence filled the space so naturally that the silence around him seemed intentional.

“I see the ring has you rather… contemplative,” he said.

“Contemplative, irritated, tomato, tomahto,” Emma muttered, finally looking up at him. “You can sit down, by the way. You don’t have to do the whole eternal servant stance thing around me.”

His mouth curved in faint amusement. “You insist upon stripping me of my dignity, my lady.”

“I insist on you sitting.”

With a small, theatrical sigh, Sebastian complied, taking the armchair opposite hers with the grace of a man perfectly at ease. “As you wish.”

They sat like that for a moment, two figures by the fire, the night outside vast and quiet, the manor asleep around them.

Emma looked down at the ring again, rolling it between her fingers. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a little circle of metal can decide your whole future.”

Sebastian tilted his head, studying her. “I would say it is not the ring, but the people behind it who make such decisions.”

“Mm. Convenient of them, then, to let me wear the consequences.”

He smiled faintly. “Ever the cynic.”

“I call it realism.”

She slipped the ring onto her finger — it fit perfectly, of course — then frowned at how it looked against her skin. “Too gold,” she said quietly.

Sebastian regarded her hand for a moment, the firelight flickering over her knuckles. “It does not suit your coloring,” he agreed after a pause. “A pity. The Midfords have a fondness for ostentation.”

That earned a small laugh from her. “That’s a polite way to say they’re rich and love to show it.”

“I would never speak so crudely,” he said, eyes glinting.

“Oh, you would. You just make it sound poetic.”

They shared a brief smile, the kind that only existed between people who had learned to navigate each other’s moods without speaking.

After a pause, Sebastian continued, “If it eases your mind, engagements of this nature typically last between six months and two years. And since our intention is to draw it out infinitely, you won't have to worry at all.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

He nodded. “Lord Edward is still a student, after all.”

She blinked. “Weston College, right?”

A shadow of approval flickered across his expression. “Indeed. I’m impressed you remember.”

“Well,” she said with a small grin, “you don’t forget much about that place once you’ve seen the boys talk about it.”

She chuckled softly, then leaned back in her chair. “So… I’m safe for another year, then?”

“More or less,” he replied. “You will not be dragged to the altar tomorrow, if that’s your concern.”

“Comforting.” She smiled faintly, though her eyes remained on the fire. “Guess I’ll just keep wearing the costume for now.”

For a moment, the only sound was the gentle crackling of the wood.

Then, quietly, Sebastian asked, “Does it trouble you so deeply? The thought of marrying him?”

Emma hesitated, her gaze still on the flames. “It’s not Edward’s fault. He’s… kind. Good, even. But the whole thing—it’s not really about me, is it? None of this has been, since I got here.”

Sebastian regarded her with quiet interest. “And yet, you’ve adapted to it all rather well.”

“That’s what I do,” she said simply. “Adapt. Compartmentalize. Survive.”

Something in her tone softened the space between them.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the firelight tracing the sharp planes of his face. “You speak as though you’ve had to survive a great deal.”

Emma’s eyes flicked to him, searching, weighing. “You already know I have.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “But I enjoy hearing you say it.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he replied, smiling faintly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside the windows was hushed, painted in moonlight, and the only movement came from the slow dance of shadows across the walls.

Eventually, Emma spoke again, quieter this time, her voice losing its wry edge. “You ever wonder if we’d still talk like this if things were… normal?”

Sebastian tilted his head. “Normal?”

“If we weren’t... whatever we are. If you weren’t bound to Ciel. If you were just—”

“—a man?” he finished, one eyebrow arched.

She smiled faintly. “Yeah. A man sitting across from a woman by the fire, talking about everything and nothing.”

Sebastian studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a voice almost too soft for the room, he said, “Then I imagine I’d still be here, my lady. Firelight suits you.”

Her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter — one she ignored with practiced ease. “Smooth,” she murmured. “You practice that one?”

“Only when it’s true.”

Their gazes met and held. The fire popped softly, the sound like a sigh between them.

Without breaking eye contact, Sebastian reached for her hand, his movement smooth, deliberate — reverent, even. His gloved fingers brushed over hers, and she felt the faint drag of fabric against her skin before he carefully slipped the ring from her finger.

Emma blinked, startled by the intimacy of the gesture.

He turned the golden band once between his fingers, the gemstone catching the firelight. Then, in a voice low enough to make the room itself seem to lean closer, he said,

“You only need to wear it when society demands it.”

He placed the ring on the small table beside his chair, setting it down with quiet finality. The delicate clink of gold on wood seemed to echo longer than it should have.

When he looked back at her, his eyes had softened, not in warmth, but in focus, sharp and intent like the blade of a promise.

“You needn’t worry about this marriage,” he continued, his voice hushed but unyielding. “It will not happen. Not while I am there to see to it.”

Emma opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The air in the room had shifted, thicker somehow, humming faintly between them.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his tone quiet but absolute. “The moment this engagement dares to edge toward reality, I will see to it that it crumbles. Whether by scandal, misfortune, or quiet disappearance, the outcome will be the same.”

Her heart fluttered uneasily, though not from fear.

“Sebastian—”

He didn’t let her finish. “You may trust me in this, my dear,” he said, and though his words were gentle, there was something dangerous in the promise beneath them — something ancient, something only a demon could mean. “You are not a pawn to be traded, nor a prize to be claimed. You are… mine to protect.”

The last words hung in the air, suspended between them like a held breath.

Emma swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He was still holding her hand, lightly, almost absentmindedly, thumb brushing against her knuckles. The firelight painted his eyes in deep shades of garnet and gold, and for a fleeting, dizzying second, she wasn’t sure if he looked more human or less.

Her pulse betrayed her, quickening.

“Sebastian,” she whispered.

“Yes, my dear?”

For a moment she only looked at him, at the faint shimmer of firelight tracing over the sharp lines of his face, the way his hand still held hers, firm yet careful, as though she were something precious and breakable.

Then, softly but without trembling, she asked,

“Will you finally tell me what being your mate truly means… for me?”

The question stilled him.

Sebastian’s thumb stopped its slow circles against her skin. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — the only sound came from the crackling hearth, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

Several seconds passed before he finally exhaled, low and quiet, and lifted his gaze to hers.

“For you?” he repeated, voice barely above a murmur. “It means less than what it means for me.”

She blinked. “Less?”

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You needn’t fear it, Emma. For you, it brings no burden. No obligation. It is… one-sided, in a sense.”

His fingers tightened slightly around hers, grounding her in the moment.

“Whatever you desire from me, you shall have. Protection. Obedience. Devotion. A demon mate exists to serve, to protect, to cherish. It is… an instinct older than even our contracts.”

Her breath caught.

Sebastian’s gaze drifted briefly toward the flames, his expression thoughtful. “A contract can be severed. I could dissolve one with will alone, should I wish to or deem it necessary.” His eyes returned to hers then, dark and unyielding. “But a mating bond cannot be undone. It is not forged through bargain or ritual. It simply is.”

Emma’s heart thudded louder in her chest. “Why?” she asked softly. “Why do demons even have them?”

He gave a quiet, amused exhale, not a laugh, but something close. “That, my dear, is a question not even the oldest among us can answer. Some claim it was born to keep the most destructive of our kind tethered — a… leash, if you will, fashioned by nature itself, so that no demon would ever unravel the world in their rage.”

He leaned in slightly, enough that the shadows brushed against his cheekbones. “But no one knows for certain. We only know that mates are exceedingly rare. So rare, in fact, that the Codex Daemonica devotes an entire chapter to them — their sanctity, their protection, their treatment. Even among demons, to harm another’s mate is considered sacrilege.”

He paused, his tone lowering even more. “A demon’s mate is the closest thing our kind has to something holy.”

Emma stared at him as though trying to fit this revelation into everything she knew about him, about demons, about herself.

Something flickered in her eyes, a fragile blend of disbelief, awe, and something warmer, something dangerously close to tenderness.

“Holy,” she echoed, as though testing the word on her tongue.

Sebastian inclined his head slightly. “Strange, isn’t it? That creatures like us — made of hunger, bound by sin — would hold anything as sacred. Yet we do.”

Her hand twitched in his. “And… I’m that to you?”

For once, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He simply looked at her, the firelight painting his eyes in quiet, burning reverence.

“You are,” he said simply. “And I would see the world burn before I let it touch you.”

The words should have frightened her. But they didn’t.

They sank into her like warmth — heavy, steady, unshakable.

Her lips parted, her voice barely audible. “Sebastian…”

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smiles returning — small, but softer than she’d ever seen it. “Yes, my dear?”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Then say nothing,” he murmured. His thumb brushed against her knuckles again, slower this time. “Words are overrated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was alive.

It wrapped around them like the glow of the fire itself, tender and quiet, filled with everything that could not be spoken.

Emma’s gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands, a small frown on her face as she looked at the white glove. 

She hesitated — then, without a word, lifted her free hand and brushed her fingers against the seam at his wrist. Sebastian stilled instantly.

Her touch was careful, almost reverent, as she pinched the edge of the fabric and began to pull it down. The glove slid away soundlessly, revealing pale, smooth skin beneath, the contrast between them stark in the firelight.

Sebastian didn’t stop her. He only watched, expression unreadable, eyes faintly gleaming in the golden light.

When she reached for his other hand, he allowed it just the same, though his lips curved faintly, almost wryly. “You do realize,” he murmured, his voice low and velvet, “that few mortals touch me so freely.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Few mortals are your mate,” she replied simply, her fingers finding the edge of the second glove and peeling it down with quiet determination.

The fabric came free, revealing the inky mark etched into the back of his hand — the Faustian seal, purple and elegant, gleaming faintly in the light like something alive. Her breath caught softly as her gaze traced the sharp lines of it.

She lifted her hand, touching it, first lightly, as if afraid it might burn, then with more certainty. Her fingertips followed the sigil’s intricate pattern, tracing it the way one might trace constellations.

Sebastian’s eyes half-lidded, his breath leaving him in a sound that was barely a sigh. For a creature who rarely betrayed sensation, the subtle shift in his composure was unmistakable.

“Careful, my dear,” he murmured, voice a hushed warning that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That mark is not merely ornamental.”

“I know,” she said softly, still tracing. “It’s his mark — Ciel’s. The contract.”

“Yes.” His voice dropped lower. “The binding of purpose and servitude. Every command, every order — carved here.” His gaze flickered to her face, softened by something unreadable. “And yet your touch…” His words trailed off, swallowed by the sound of the fire.

Emma’s thumb brushed over the mark again, slower now, deliberate. “Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised. “No. Not unless he wills it.”

“But you flinched.”

His lips quirked faintly, something between a smile and surrender. “Not from pain.”

She looked up at him then, meeting his gaze fully. “Then from what?”

Sebastian’s expression shifted, barely perceptible, but it was there: that flicker of vulnerability, fleeting as candlelight. “From remembering that I am still capable of… feeling.”

Emma tilted her head slightly, still running her thumb across the purple seal, her movements tender. “You make it sound like that’s a weakness.”

“For demons,” he said, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest, “it is.”

“Then I suppose I’m bad for you.”

He leaned in just a fraction, enough for his shadow to blend with hers, his voice a dark whisper. “On the contrary, my dear — you are ruinous.”

Her pulse stuttered, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers drifted lower, along his fingers, over the strong curve of his knuckles, lingering on the stark black of his nails.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

Sebastian’s brow lifted slightly, caught off guard. “Beautiful?”

She nodded, still tracing idly. “They remind me of what you are… but also of what you’re not pretending to be right now.”

A slow smile curved his mouth, small, almost fond. “You have a talent for making monstrosity sound poetic.”

Emma’s lips twitched faintly. “Maybe that’s just what happens when you’ve stopped seeing it as monstrosity.”

Sebastian tilted his head, studying her for a long, silent moment. The firelight shimmered over the faint red gleam in his eyes.

“You are a curious creature,” he murmured finally. “Most would fear the sight of this hand.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’ve never been most.”

His gloveless fingers brushed against hers again, tracing over the back of her hand this time — slow, deliberate. “No,” he said quietly. “You are not.”

The air between them tightened, not with tension, but with something softer, heavier. A fragile, dangerous tenderness neither quite dared to name.

Her hand was still resting atop his, the firelight wrapping them in gold and shadow.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

Chapter Text

That Lady, being served

Sebastian rose from the armchair with unhurried grace. The movement pulled her attention instantly, his shadow falling across her where Emma still sat, ringless and uncertain, her bare hands resting in her lap.

When he sank to one knee before her, the shift in height startled her. “Sebastian,” she breathed, half a laugh in her tone, “what on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes, dark and fathomless, held hers as he reached up, bare hands framing her face with careful reverence, as though he feared she might vanish if he touched her too quickly.

“Seeing you properly,” he murmured.

Her lips parted in a soft breath, some instinct telling her to still her movements. The air between them felt charged, not with heat, but with a kind of gravity, quiet, magnetic, inevitable.

He tilted her chin downward a fraction, his thumbs brushing the corners of her mouth. “You do not understand,” he whispered. “Even eternity would not be enough to unlearn you.”

And then he closed the distance.

The kiss was water and quiet — slow, deliberate, the kind of softness that ached. His lips pressed against hers as though he were tracing a vow rather than claiming it.

Her hands came up almost without thought, curling lightly around his wrists. The heat of his skin, the faint hum of power beneath it — it all felt too real, too alive.

She leaned into it, pressing her lips against his more firmly, her hands sliding from his wrists to his neck. One buried itself in his hair, the other pressed him closer. It was also she who parted her lips first, inviting him in.

Sebastian responded immediately, his tongue meeting hers, and it was so different from what she was used to. She was almost feeling bad for constantly comparing him to her past experiences with men, but she just couldn't help it, especially since he was just so much better in every way. He neither shoved his tongue down her throat nor lapped at her as if she were a cone of ice cream. Instead, his tongue pressed against hers, matching her rhythm, his lips moving against her own as he angled his head, deepening the kiss further. 

His hands slid from her face, palms bracing on her thighs, pushing the fabric of her nightgown up, and Emma shuddered, goosebumps covering her skin. Finger dug into her thighs, and before she had time to react, Sebastian pushed her legs apart. She willingly moved with him, shuddering again when his hands ran up her thighs, thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin on the inside of her legs. 

As if he could read her mind, just as Emma ran out of air, Sebastian broke the kiss, his lips attaching to her neck instantly, continuing his sweet assault. A breathless moan escaped her when she felt his tongue on her throat, followed by the graze of his teeth, and her head tilted back. 

Pushing his hands further up her legs, Sebastian grabbed the sides of her hips, and a low chuckle ghosted over her skin, his lips brushing against her neck as he spoke. “I must say, little one...“ He yanked her hips forward suddenly until her ass barely sat on the armchair anymore, legs parting further to make room for his body kneeling between them. “I do find your distaste of our era's undergarments quite convenient.“ 

Right, she wasn't wearing any. 

“I can imagine,“ Emma said with a breathless chuckle, and when one of Sebastian's hands reached for her stomach, pressing down gently, she obeyed until her head rested against the back of the armchair. 

As soon as she was in the position he wanted her to be in, his hand returned to her legs, gathering the fabric of her nightgown and pushing it up. She lifted her ass for a second so that he could bundle the fabric around her waist, exposing her lower half to him completely.

And thank god she wasn't shy, cause Sebastian was looking. Really looking, as if he were trying to memorize the sight of her. His eyes—glowing faintly—were fixed on her, his hands gripping her thighs once more. 

She could feel the promise of strength beneath his fingers, could feel how easily he might have shattered her bones. The thought didn't scare her or make her uneasy. No, it excited her. 

Shit, she really was fucked up in the head. 

And as if that wasn't fucked up enough as it was, looking down, Emma caught sight of him. This powerful, immortal demon, who ripped apart humans and drove the ones he spared mad, was sitting in front of her on his knees. Sebastian Michaelis was kneeling between her legs, and he looked at her as if he didn't want to be anywhere else ever again. 

“Tell me, little one,“ Sebastian muttered, crimson eyes flicking up to meet her gaze as he bent down. The first contact of his lips against her knee sent a rush of shivers over her body, right to her core. His eyebrows rose in amusement. “Before I proceed, is this something you have done before?“ 

Emma had a hard time concentrating on his words when his lips trailed slowly—so god damned slowly—up the inside of her thigh.

 “Would it matter?“ she finally managed to say, voice breathless, her words interrupted by soft moans.

Sebastian chuckled against her thigh, and his teeth nibbled gently at her skin. Her hips bucked in response. 

“No,“ he spoke against her skin. “I can tell you desire this, both through the bond as well as your... physical reactions.“ 

She didn't acknowledge the pride in his voice. “I have. Although I rarely come from it.“ 

His smirk widened against her skin, and he bit down gently, effectively pulling a soft moan from her. 

“You needn't worry, little one,“ he murmured, arms sneaking around her legs before he hoistered her right one on his shoulder, spreading her further open. “I exist to please you.“

Emma doubted there had ever been any words that had been said to her hotter than this. Still...

“It might take a while,“ Emma warned as she watched him settle closer, his breath fanning over her clit as he leaned in.

She needed a specific type of pressure to reach her orgasm, the type only one guy ever successfully managed to match with his tongue, and that had taken forever. Her other partners had given up rather quickly, and she couldn't fault them. Even she didn't want to keep going when it took her too long to come.

“I have all of eternity,“ Sebastian replied simply, and whatever Emma wanted to reply, the thought left her as soon as she felt his tongue on her. 

Fuck, he was good at this. Somewhere in her mind, she remembered him saying in the anime how he could tie a cherry chem into a knot with his tongue... That statement suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched anymore.

Normally, Emma had to concentrate on her pleasure, had to concentrate on the feeling, on the visual image of a hot guy going down on her. With Sebastian, she couldn't concentrate. On anything.

His touch was confident and precise, tongue pressing against her in just the right angle, moving up and down with small flicks against her clit.

She couldn't even explain why her body worked this complicatedly. If fingers touched her, she needed circles, small and closely drawn. If someone was licking her, she needed small flicks going up and down. Emma didn't get it, didn't understand it, but for whatever reason, Sebastian had figured it out within seconds. 

He had her arching her back as the pleasure built steadily, and much quicker than she was used to, one of her hands holding onto the edge of the armchair, the other one threaded into his black hair, holding him exactly where he was. 

He had the audacity to laugh at her eagerness, his fingers gripping her thighs harder, pulling her closer still, and yet the fact that he could back up his cocky arrogance with legit skill was so damn hot!

“Oh fuck,“ she moaned, arching her back once more as he sucked her clit between his lips, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub ever so carefully. 

“What a lewd mouth you have,“ Sebastian replied against her, his smirk evident in her voice.

“Says the demon who uses his mouth to fuck me,“ she retorted, voice breathless, fingers tangled in his hair. 

His chuckle vibrated right through to her clit, before he got back to work, blowing all thoughts out of her head once more. 

Her body tightened before she even realized what was happening. The rhythm of her breathing broke apart, every muscle drawn taut as though her mind was catching up a second too late to what he was doing. It hit her all at once—heat, light, a trembling rush that stole her words and replaced them with sound.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that fast. She’d barely had time to think, to breathe, to prepare herself, and yet her body betrayed her anyway, arching toward him as though pulled by invisible strings. The sensation rippled through her in waves, unrelenting and almost foreign in its intensity. All she could do was let it happen—let him guide her through it, the world around her fading until there was nothing left but the pulse of her heartbeat and the taste of his name on her tongue.

For a few seconds, she could only hear the sound of her own pulse—wild, uneven, too loud in her ears. Sebastian didn’t move immediately. He stayed where he was, his presence steady, almost grounding, while her breathing stumbled back into rhythm. He lowered her leg from his shoulder, his hands stroking over her still slightly trembling thighs. Only when her tremors began to fade did he lift his head, his expression unreadable except for that glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

The room was still. Only the soft crackle of the fire filled the silence between them.

Emma’s pulse had slowed, though her breath still trembled faintly in her chest. Her skin felt too warm against the chill that crept from the window.

Sebastian tilted his head, the faintest smile touching his mouth—not the smug curl she’d come to expect, but something gentler, quieter. He seemed perfectly comfortable kneeling between her legs. “You should rest,” he said, his voice lower than before. “Your body has endured enough tonight.”

She laughed once, the sound thin and uneven, as she slowly straightened on her armchair, scooting back until she was sitting comfortably. “You sound like you’re apologizing.”

“I am not,” he replied smoothly, pulling the hem of her dress down again until she wasn't exposed anymore. “But I am… aware of what I am.”

“A demon,“ she said and leaned forward, reaching for his face with one hand. 

Emma exhaled slowly, her gaze flicking over his face as she pushed a strand of his silken hair out of the way. “What you said earlier,” she murmured. “That you serve me. That you’re meant to protect, to obey… it sounds wrong.”

Sebastian’s brow arched slightly. “Wrong?”

“Yes.” Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Because I don’t want that. I don’t need a servant.” It sounded like slavery in her ears, and who the hell would want that? 

Something flickered behind his composed expression: surprise, faint amusement, maybe even affection. “You misunderstand,” he said gently. “I did not say I am forced to serve you. I said I am yours to serve. A difference in will makes all the difference in kind.”

Her lips pressed together. “That’s still not an answer.” Maybe it was the language barrier, but for her, both versions sounded the same.

He leaned back a little, hands gliding down her naked legs until his hands rested just above her knees. “Then allow me to give you one. You are my mate. That does not mean you owe me anything. It does not bind you, nor does it command you. It simply… aligns me to you.”

“Aligns,” she repeated softly.

“To your need,” he clarified. “To your safety. To your happiness, if you will allow it.” His gaze softened, voice a low, melodic calm. “That is my obligation, not yours.”

Emma frowned faintly. “And if I can’t return it? If I never give you half as much as you—”

He cut her off with a small shake of his head. “You already have. You do, every time you allow me near.”

She stilled. “That’s really all you want? To be near me?”

His smile was almost human. “It is not as small a thing as you make it sound. To be near you is to remember that not everything in this world must be taken by force.”

He paused, studying her face as if committing it to memory. “That is… new to me.”

Her throat worked as she tried to find words. “Sebastian…”

“Do not trouble yourself with duty, little one,” he said softly. “You are not the one who bears it. I am.”

For a moment, she couldn’t look at him. The firelight caught in her hair, turning the strands copper-bright. When she finally spoke, her voice had gone low, unsteady. “Then I’ll try not to make it harder than it already is.”

He smiled again — slow, genuine. “You already do,” he said, and it sounded almost like thanks.

Sebastian rose in one fluid motion, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound as he adjusted his cuffs. It was an instinctive gesture, a return to composure, though something in his expression lingered — that trace of warmth he rarely allowed to stay.

“I should excuse myself for the night,” he said, the words gentle but final, as if to anchor the evening before it could drift further out of control. “You require rest.“ 

Emma hesitated. The quiet between them stretched, filled only by the fire’s soft crackle. Then, almost before she’d decided to, she pushed herself up as well. Her bare feet met the carpet soundlessly, and in two quick steps she was in front of him, reaching for his sleeve.

He turned just as she rose onto her toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t a tentative thing this time. It was certain, deliberate, a pull rather than a question. For a heartbeat, he froze, surprise flickering across his usually unflappable face. Then his hands found her waist, steadying her, and he kissed her back.

When her fingers trailed down, searching for the fastening of his trousers, he caught her wrist gently. His touch wasn’t harsh, only enough to stop her.

“There is no need for that,” he murmured.

Her eyes lifted to his, questioning. “But—”

He shook his head, his thumb brushing over the inside of her wrist, a quiet reassurance. “This was for you,” he said softly. “Not a transaction to be repaid.”

She blinked, thrown off by the simplicity of it. “I just thought—”

“I know.” His voice had that same low steadiness as before, the one that felt like a spell cast over chaos. “But not everything between us needs to be balanced by debt. Sometimes giving is its own satisfaction.”

Something in the way he said it — the sincerity beneath the smoothness — left her unable to argue. The words sank in slowly, warmth spreading in her chest that had little to do with the firelight.

He reached up, brushing his fingers against her cheek once more, the smallest of gestures, and for an instant, he looked almost conflicted. Then the expression was gone, replaced by that faint, knowing smile.

“Sleep now,” he said quietly. “Living in this household, it's only a matter of time before a good night's rest will be taken from you again.”

That made her smile faintly, and when she tilted her head up, Sebastian met her soft kiss without hesitation.

“Good night, my dear,“ he whispered against her lips, and then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows or whatever way he used to move soundlessly in this manor. She didn't even get to say it back.

Chapter Text

That Lady, becoming proper

The sun had barely cleared the treetops two days later when Emma’s bedroom door burst open with the force of a battlefield assault. Emma's eyes ripped open.

“Emma!”

The shrill, delighted voice hit before the girl herself did. Elizabeth Midford swept into the room like a pastel hurricane, all ruffles and enthusiasm, trailed by a flustered Ciel who was very obviously trying to keep his composure.

“Lizzy—!” Ciel’s voice cracked in that sharp, indignant way of his. “You can’t just—”

“Good morning!” Lizzy chirped over him, spinning once in her pink day dress as if to announce herself. “Mother sent me! She said it’s high time we start your proper lessons!”

Emma groaned, dragging the pillow over her face. Just a few seconds ago, she had eaten a McFlurry with Sabrina in a very realistic dream. “What lessons?” came her muffled voice.

“Lady lessons!” Lizzy beamed, as though that explained everything.

Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Francis apparently decided you require refinement now that you’re officially a Phantomhive.” His tone dripped with exasperation. “She’s even drawn up an itinerary.”

That got Emma to sit up — barely — her red hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. “An itinerary?” she repeated sleepily. “For what, my execution?”

Lizzy gasped. “Don’t be silly! It’s for posture, dance, etiquette, embroidery, and—oh!” She clasped her hands. “Maybe even French if you’re lucky!”

Emma blinked, her sleep-fogged mind trying to process this flurry of cheerful ambition. “I think I’d rather face execution,” she muttered, earning a sharp cough from Ciel that suspiciously sounded like a smothered laugh.

“Mother says that if you’re to be a proper lady of standing,” Lizzy continued undeterred, “you can’t go about with this dreadful accent of yours! You must have at least some sense of grace.”

Emma rolled her eyes and made a dramatic little gasp. “Grace? You wound me, Elizabeth.”

“You wound me every time you say the word 'either'!” Lizzy giggled, already darting to Emma’s wardrobe as though she lived there. “Now up! Up, up, up! I am so excited! We're getting started right away!”

“I haven’t even had tea yet,” Emma protested weakly, half-tangling herself in the blanket as Lizzy tugged her upright with alarming strength for such a dainty-looking creature.

Ciel leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold with that dry amusement only a brother—or in this case, a very tired young earl—could manage. “You realize you’ve lost this battle already,” he said mildly.

“I’m aware,” Emma replied, shooting him a bleary glare. “And you’re not helping.”

“Why would I?” he asked, lips twitching. “This is the most peaceful breakfast I’ll have all week.”

Lizzy turned, hands on her hips. “Ciel! You should be grateful I’m improving your sister! How can she represent the family if she slouches and mumbles and looks like she’s ready to start a bar fight?”

Emma’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m very polite when I start bar fights.”

That did it—Ciel actually laughed, soft and reluctant, before quickly covering it with a cough. “Try not to kill each other before lunch.”

Lizzy huffed but was already tugging at Emma’s sleeve, ushering her toward the dressing table. “Now, chin up, back straight—see? You’re already prettier when you don’t look like you’ve been scowling at the world for hours!”

Emma caught her reflection in the mirror, her lips curving despite herself. “You realize you’re impossible, right?”

Lizzy grinned, fluffing up Emma’s hair with the kind of enthusiasm that could start wars. “And yet you’re smiling!”

“Out of despair,” Emma muttered, but the words lacked any bite.

Ciel turned toward the hall, shaking his head. “I’ll have Sebastian prepare strong tea,” he said as he left. “You’ll need it to survive this.”

Lizzy beamed after him before focusing on Emma again. “Now then, my dear sister-to-be, let’s make a real lady of you.”

Emma sighed, looking at the mirror—her messy hair, her dark circles, her faintly amused expression—and then at Lizzy’s radiant excitement reflected behind her.

“Well,” she said dryly, “good luck to us both.”

By early afternoon, Emma had surrendered to the chaos.

Lizzy had commandeered the drawing room with the same unstoppable enthusiasm she’d brought to Emma’s bedroom that morning. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the golden threads in the curtains and the porcelain gleam of teacups. A stack of etiquette books sat open on the coffee table, the sort of volumes Emma imagined only people with far too much free time read.

Lizzy, however, looked entirely at home. Her blond curls bounced as she sat perfectly upright on the sofa across from Emma, posture so straight it could’ve been used to measure furniture lines.

“Now,” she began, in a voice so chipper it made Emma want to both laugh and groan, “if you’re to host tea for ladies of the court, you must remember three things: one, do not slouch; two, lift your cup from the saucer gracefully—” she demonstrated with delicate precision “—and three, never fill the cup more than three-quarters full. It’s unsightly to tilt one’s head too far while drinking.”

Emma mirrored the motion clumsily, earning a gasp of playful horror. “Oh heavens, Emma! You’ll spill it!”

“Then they’ll know I’m a commoner at heart,” Emma teased, taking an exaggerated sip just to annoy her.

Lizzy giggled despite herself. “You can’t say things like that in front of Mother. She’d faint right on the spot.”

“Then I’ll make sure to have Sebastian ready with smelling salts.”

Lizzy laughed again, her laughter ringing bright as glass. “You’re awful!”

Emma smiled into her teacup, the warmth of the tea soothing the morning’s exhaustion. For all her dramatics, Lizzy’s company was… surprisingly pleasant. She filled the room with so much light it was impossible not to be drawn in.

“You know,” Lizzy said after a moment, setting down her cup, “you’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be.”

Emma snorted softly. “High praise from Lady Midford herself.”

“I mean it! You just need to be a little less—” Lizzy waved her hand vaguely “—casual. You don’t have to talk to everyone as if they were your equal.”

“Why not? Everyone is my equal,” Emma said lightly.

Lizzy blinked, thrown off. “That’s… not really how it works.”

“I know.” Emma smiled faintly. “But it’s how I prefer it.”

Lizzy tilted her head, curious. “You really are different.”

“Worlds apart, you could say.”

The younger girl frowned, clearly missing the double meaning, then brightened again. “At least you’re learning quickly! You already sit straighter, and your smile is lovely when you use it.”

Emma gave a little half-smile. “Do I get a gold star for effort?”

“You’d get a whole ribbon if I had one!”

“Please don’t. I’d have to burn it.”

That set Lizzy off laughing again, her shoulders shaking delicately. It was contagious — Emma joined her, the sound soft and genuine.

Their laughter faded just as the door creaked open.

Ciel stepped into the room, book in hand, his expression that usual composed neutrality that bordered on disapproval. “What is all this noise?” he asked, glancing from one girl to the other.

“Good afternoon, my sweet child,” Emma greeted in the sing-song tone she knew he pretended to hate. “We’re learning how to be proper ladies, in case Francis drops by to check my progress.”

“Let’s pray she doesn’t,” Ciel muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him — a fleeting twitch upward that Emma caught instantly.

Lizzy beamed. “See, Ciel? We’re making her into the perfect lady!”

He looked at Emma over the rim of his teacup. “A perfect lady? Impossible.”

“Excuse me?” Emma gasped in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know I can curtsy now without falling over.”

“Miraculous,” he deadpanned, and that hint of dry humor made her grin.

“Careful,” she said. “You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself.”

That earned her the faintest huff — but the boyish light in his eye stayed as he set the book down. “I’ll leave you to your… refinement, then.”

As he turned to leave, Lizzy called softly after him, “We’ll see you at supper, won’t we?”

He didn’t turn, but he nodded. “Yes. Don’t make Emma cry before then.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. “He says that as if you’re capable of being cruel.”

But Lizzy wasn’t laughing anymore.

Her hands fiddled with the ribbon at her sleeve as the silence settled again, light and awkward.

Emma set her cup down. “Lizzy?”

The girl looked up with a brittle smile. “You make him laugh.”

Emma blinked. “Sometimes.”

“No.” Lizzy shook her head. “I mean… you make him smile like that.” Her voice softened, her usual cheer dimming to something vulnerable. “He doesn’t smile at me that way anymore.”

Emma’s heart pinched.

“Before,” Lizzy went on, twisting the ribbon between her fingers, “before the fire and everything that happened… he used to smile all the time. He used to chase me through the garden and hold my hand at parties. But now…” Her eyes glimmered faintly, though she forced another laugh. “Now it’s like I don’t know him at all. And then you came, and he—” She faltered, swallowing hard. “You make him look alive again. I just… I don’t know how you do it.”

Emma leaned back, considering. “You know, when I first met him, I thought he hated me.”

Lizzy’s eyes widened. “What? No!”

“Oh, definitely.” Emma smiled faintly. “He glared at me like I’d committed treason by existing in his house. But I learned quickly that Ciel doesn’t hate easily. He just… guards himself. Everything he’s been through taught him that the world isn’t kind. So he built a wall and decided he’d only let people see what he wanted them to.”

Lizzy’s expression softened, guilt flickering across her features.

Emma continued quietly. “The trick isn’t tearing that wall down. It’s waiting by it. Talking through it. Letting him know you’re not going anywhere, no matter how many times he tests you.”

Lizzy’s fingers stilled. “Do you think he still loves me?”

“Lizzy,” Emma said gently, “he never stopped. He’s just…”

Sighing, she searched for the right words, treading the line between consoling Lizzy and respecting Ciel's privacy. “His whole family was gone—just like that.“ She snapped her fingers once. “Losing family like that... It hurts in a way that can actually kill someone.“

Lizzy stared at her, green eyes wide, mouth open slightly. Emma continued.

“He rose up those walls to avoid having to feel this kind of pain ever again. He's the Queen's Watchdog; he and his family will always be targeted because of it. You will be targeted. I believe he is... Trying to protect you, as best as he can.“ 

The younger girl’s eyes glistened as she blinked rapidly, biting her lip as she looked down into her lap. “You’re really like his sister,” she said softly. “I can tell.”

Emma smiled, warmth flickering in her chest. “That’s what the Queen said too. I guess it’s official now.”

Lizzy laughed wetly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’ll make a wonderful Lady Midford, you know.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Emma teased lightly, lifting her cup again. “I still can’t drink tea without offending half of London.”

Lizzy giggled, and the tension eased.

They talked a while longer — about fabrics and parties and the silly rules of which forks to use when — and when Sebastian came to refresh the pot, he found two young women laughing so freely it felt like sunlight after rain.

The late afternoon light had turned soft and golden, slanting through the windows as Lizzy darted between Emma’s wardrobe and the bed, a trail of fabric following her like a pastel storm.

“Absolutely not this one,” she declared, tossing a frilled ivory dress onto the pile already growing on the bed. “It makes you look like you’re on your way to a funeral!”

Emma, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with her chin in her hand, raised a brow. “Half of these look like funeral attire. It’s 1889, and we're in the Phantomhive Manor, Lizzy. Everything’s black or navy.”

“Well then, let’s make navy look alive!” Lizzy said brightly, yanking another hanger free. The gown she held up shimmered faintly in the fading light — deep blue silk with a subtle silver embroidery across the bodice.

Emma tilted her head. “That one’s actually nice.”

Lizzy grinned triumphantly. “See? I knew it would suit you. It’s dignified, but it doesn’t swallow you whole.”

Emma rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirts. “I’ll take your word for it. You are the expert on swallowing silhouettes.”

Lizzy giggled, clutching the dress to her chest. “You’re awful.”

“I try.”

For a few minutes, the room was filled with the rustle of fabric and Lizzy’s humming as she laid out accessories. Emma unpinned her hair, running her fingers through it absently, mind still lingering on the conversation they’d had earlier in the drawing room.

Lizzy broke the quiet first. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Emma said, turning.

“It’s about Sebastian.”

That made Emma pause. “Sebastian?”

Lizzy nodded, her curls bouncing. “He’s always so calm, isn’t he? Nothing ever seems to ruffle him. Sometimes I think he might not even be human.”

Emma’s heart skipped, but she forced an easy laugh. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”

Lizzy smiled, oblivious. “He’s been with Ciel since… since that awful time, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Emma’s voice softened automatically. “He’s been… constant. For Ciel, that means everything.”

Lizzy nodded, carefully smoothing out the navy dress she’d chosen. “I’m glad he’s here. Truly. I worry sometimes, you know? That Ciel’s too alone. But Sebastian always seems to know what he needs — even when Ciel doesn’t want to admit it.”

There was something almost wistful in Lizzy’s tone, and Emma felt that familiar tug of guilt twist low in her chest.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “he has a talent for that.”

Lizzy turned back toward the bed, rearranging ribbons and lace, still chatting cheerfully about color palettes when Emma began to undress. It wasn’t out of carelessness — just habit. She had grown so used to the privacy of her room and to Mey-Rin’s practical indifference that the thought of modesty didn’t cross her mind.

It wasn’t until she pulled her dress down to her waist that she heard Lizzy gasp.

The sound was small, strangled, but it hit like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Emma froze.

“Emma…” Lizzy’s voice trembled, horrified. “Your back—”

Right. The scars. There were only peaking out beneath the corset and underdress, but some faint lines were still very visible. 

Emma sighed softly and straightened, letting the dress slip fully down her waist. “Ah. That.”

She turned halfway, just enough for Lizzy to see without making it worse, the pale, crisscrossed reminders carved into her skin.

Lizzy had covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide and shimmering. “What happened to you?” she whispered. “Who—who could do that?”

For a moment, Emma debated brushing it off. Pretending it was an accident, or a punishment gone too far, or something detached enough to soothe the shock in Lizzy’s face. But she couldn’t lie to her. Not entirely.

“It was a long time ago,” she said instead, voice calm, almost too calm. “It was... a game of some sort. At least to them.”

Lizzy lowered her hand, eyes still wide, outrage flickering beneath the horror. “That’s monstrous!”

Emma gave a small, humorless smile. “Yes. It was.”

Lizzy’s hand fluttered at her side as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not physically,” Emma said honestly, pulling on the clean chemise Lizzy had laid out. “But it leaves marks elsewhere too. The kind you don’t see.”

The younger girl swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”

Emma shook her head, fastening the buttons on her sleeve. “Don’t be. I survived. That’s what matters.”

She caught Lizzy’s reflection in the mirror — still pale, still shaken — and smiled faintly. “Women like us, Lizzy… we’re stronger than people think.”

Lizzy blinked at her, confusion cutting through the shock. “What do you mean, women like us?”

Emma met her eyes in the mirror, her tone soft but knowing. “You pretend to be delicate, but I’d bet good money you’re sharper than most men with a sword.”

The words hit their mark immediately. Lizzy froze, lips parting in surprise, color blooming high on her cheeks. “I—what? I don’t—”

Emma turned fully, raising a brow, one corner of her mouth tugging upward. “You don’t what?”

“I don’t fence!” Lizzy said too quickly, her voice an octave higher than before.

Emma laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Lizzy, your father and brother are both champion fencers. Your mother is famous for being one of the only women in the nobility who practices publicly. And you expect me to believe she didn’t train you?”

Lizzy stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “She—she wanted me to learn for self-defense, that’s all,” she said finally, flustered. “But Ciel doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s not…” She hesitated, eyes dropping. “Not cute.”

Emma softened instantly. “Ah.”

Lizzy twisted the ribbon in her hand, shoulders curling in. “I just want him to see me as someone worth protecting… someone gentle, not another soldier.”

Emma walked over, reaching out to adjust the sleeve of the gown Lizzy was still clutching to her chest. “You know,” she said quietly, “sometimes strength is gentle. You can be both. A girl with a sword and a smile.”

Lizzy looked up, uncertain. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

For a long moment, Lizzy searched her face, as if trying to decide whether Emma was saying it just to comfort her or because she truly meant it. Whatever she saw in Emma’s expression made her eyes soften, her lips trembling into a shy smile.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said finally, voice small but warm.

Emma smiled back, patting her arm. “I usually am.”

Lizzy laughed at that, the tension breaking like glass underfoot. “Oh, you sound just like Ciel sometimes.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

That set Lizzy giggling again, her color returning.

As Emma stepped behind the screen to finish dressing, Lizzy’s voice floated over, quieter now but thoughtful. “You really are different from anyone I’ve met, Emma. You don’t talk like the other ladies. You don’t hide things.”

Emma buttoned the last clasp on her bodice, her smile faint and wistful. “Maybe that’s because I’ve had to live with too many of them.”

When she stepped out, Lizzy’s eyes were bright again, all the sadness replaced by admiration. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Emma laughed softly. “Tell Francis that next time she scolds me for sitting wrong at dinner.”

Lizzy giggled, looping her arm through Emma’s. “Come on, brave lady. Let’s show the Phantomhive household that we can both be proper and strong.”

And as they walked toward the door, Emma couldn’t help glancing once more at Lizzy’s confident stride — head high, curls bouncing. The sight made her grin.

Dinner in the Phantomhive manor was louder than usual.

The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier, silver cutlery lined like soldiers beside porcelain plates. Outside, snow fell in lazy flakes against the dark windows — the kind of winter evening that made candlelight feel almost kind.

Sebastian moved with his usual unhurried precision, serving dishes without a sound. Roasted duck, braised vegetables, and that ridiculous, gilded dessert Ciel always pretended not to like but finished every time.

Lizzy was chattering brightly, filling the silence with the lilting warmth of her voice.

“I still can’t believe how quickly you’re learning, Emma!”

Emma smiled, cutting delicately into her duck. “If you’d told me three months ago that I’d be graded on curtsies and posture, I’d have laughed. Now I just pray I don’t topple over when I stand up.”

Ciel snorted softly, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Progress, then.”

“Remarkably,” Emma shot back. “I even managed to go an entire day without scandalizing your poor fiancée. I deserve a medal.”

Sebastian, at Ciel’s side, said mildly, “I shall have one crafted at once, my lady.”

Emma lifted her glass in mock solemnity. “See? The only man here who recognizes greatness.”

Ciel gave her the look — the one that tried to scold but failed because his lips kept twitching. Lizzy caught it and practically clapped her hands.

“See! That’s exactly what I mean!” she exclaimed. “Ciel never laughs with anyone but you. I told you, you’ve been so good for him!”

Emma chuckled softly, leaning her cheek against her hand. “Oh, I doubt he’d agree with that.”

“He does,” Lizzy insisted, turning to him. “You do, don’t you, Ciel?”

Ciel cleared his throat, stabbing at his duck with unnecessary force. “She’s… tolerable.”

“High praise indeed,” Emma murmured, smiling into her wineglass.

Sebastian’s lips twitched; Lizzy giggled.

It was one of those rare evenings when the manor almost felt like a home — laughter floating over good food and warm light, Ciel’s shoulders just a little less tense, Emma relaxed enough to tease.

And then Lizzy said it.

“I'm so glad you have each other now, Ciel. She’s been through so much, you know,” Lizzy said suddenly, her voice tender, eyes bright with admiration. “And she still smiles. If I had scars like hers, I don’t think I’d ever—”

The clink of silver stopped midair.

Emma’s fork froze. Sebastian’s hand stilled above the table, the decanter hovering inches from Ciel’s glass.

Lizzy blinked, realizing too late what she’d said. “Oh—oh goodness, I—”

Ciel turned slowly toward Emma. His expression was unreadable, but his single visible eye had gone cold, sharp — the way it did when something hit too close. “Scars?” he repeated, the word flat, almost clinical.

Emma set her fork down with care. “Old ones,” she said softly.

He leaned back in his chair, studying her face as though trying to see through it. “You never mentioned them.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“You told me what happened,” he said, voice still controlled, but there was something brittle beneath it. “You didn’t tell me what it left behind.”

Emma drew in a slow breath, trying for calm. “Because they don’t matter anymore. They’re just marks.”

Ciel’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the armrest. “Marks left by people who should have been buried twice for touching you.”

“Ciel—”

“No,” he cut in, voice sharp. “You were a child.”

The anger there wasn’t aimed at her — she knew that — but it still hit like a wave. His composure cracked, revealing that fierce, protective fury that always simmered beneath his calm.

Across the table, Lizzy had gone pale. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean— I thought you knew, I just—”

Emma reached across the table, catching Lizzy’s trembling hand with her own. “It’s alright, Lizzy,” she said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ciel exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze still on Emma. “We'll discuss this later.“ 

His tone left no room for argument, clipped, precise, but not cruel. Lizzy flinched slightly at the steel in his voice, guilt flickering across her face.

Sebastian, ever the perfect butler, stepped forward with impeccable timing, clearing away the remaining plates as though to signal an end to the topic, or perhaps to the meal itself. “Shall I bring the dessert, my lord?”

Ciel didn’t look up. “No. That will be all.”

Sebastian bowed slightly. “Very well.” He began to gather the last of the dishes with a grace that was almost pointed, efficient, quiet, and just enough to distract Lizzy from the tension that had settled in the air.

The rest of dinner passed in a muted blur. Lizzy tried valiantly to steer the conversation toward lighter topics — the latest ball in London, a new gown design her mother had commissioned, anything that would fill the silence — and Emma, to her credit, played along. She smiled, she nodded, she even managed a few jokes, though her laughter sounded more like something fragile pretending to be whole.

Ciel ate in silence, his knife and fork cutting through each course with mechanical precision. He didn’t look at either of them again until the plates were cleared and Sebastian returned with tea.

When the final cup was poured and Lizzy’s giggles began to fade into polite exhaustion, Ciel finally stood. “It’s late,” he said, his tone even once more, the mask back in place. “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”

Lizzy blinked. “Oh, but—”

“Francis will have my head if I keep you out past midnight,” he added, faintly sardonic.

That made her laugh again, soft and sheepish. “I suppose you’re right.” She rose, smoothing the folds of her gown, then turned to Emma, her smile returning in full force. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely — really!”

Emma rose as well, matching her smile. “It was. I’m glad you came.”

Lizzy hesitated for just a moment, eyes flicking between her and Ciel, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Emma. “I’m sorry again,” she whispered against her shoulder.

Emma hugged her back gently. “You don’t have to be.”

When they pulled apart, Lizzy’s eyes were bright again, but this time with something warmer, a quiet admiration rather than guilt. “You really are strong,” she said.

Emma smiled faintly. “So are you, Lizzy. Don’t forget that.”

Sebastian appeared in the doorway then, perfectly timed as always. “The carriage is ready, my lady.”

Lizzy turned to Ciel, hesitating before giving a small, curtsy-like dip of her head. “Goodnight, Ciel.”

He nodded, expression unreadable. “Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

Sebastian offered his arm, escorting her gracefully through the corridor. Her laughter echoed faintly until the front doors closed behind them, swallowed by the night.

When the silence returned, it was thick — the kind that hummed with things unsaid.

Emma sank back into her chair, exhaling slowly. The fire crackled softly behind her, filling the emptiness left by Lizzy’s absence. Across the table, Ciel was still seated, his posture as composed as ever, but his hands — folded neatly atop the table — were too still.

The boy’s single visible eye flicked toward her at last. “Later,” he repeated, his voice quieter now.

Emma met his gaze, her own steady. “I know.”

And with that, he rose, adjusting his cufflinks as if to gather himself, and left the room without another word.

The click of the door closing behind him sounded louder than it should have.

Emma stayed a while longer, staring into the half-empty teacup before her, the warmth already fading.

Chapter Text

That Lady, bare

The manor was quiet again. Dinner had ended an hour ago, Lizzy’s laughter long faded into the night, and Ciel had retreated to his study with the kind of clipped silence that promised a later conversation Emma wasn’t sure she was ready for.

She sat in the drawing room still, the faint glow of the fire painting her face in amber light. Her untouched cup of tea had gone cold.

She didn’t hear the door open, but she felt him before he spoke, that subtle shift in the air, the calm gravity of him. She wasn't sure whether it was the human in her recognizing the demon or simply her feeling her mate.

“Brooding doesn’t suit you,” Sebastian said softly.

Emma huffed out a laugh that wasn’t quite amused. “You have no idea how often I’ve heard that.”

He came closer, the soft whisper of his steps disappearing against the carpet. “On the contrary,” he said, “I suspect you hear it precisely because it suits you rather too well.”

She turned her head toward him, ready to fire back, but the warmth in his expression stopped her. His gloves were gone; she noticed it first, his bare hands gleaming faintly in the firelight.

He leaned a shoulder against the mantel, watching her in that quiet way of his, assessing, reading. “He’ll speak to you,” he said at last. “My young master. He’s angry, not at you, but at the thought of anyone laying a hand on something he considers his.”

Emma exhaled slowly, pressing her palm to her temple. “He’s a child. He shouldn’t have to think like that.”

“No,” Sebastian agreed. “But he does.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire.

Then he pushed away from the mantel and crossed the distance between them. Without asking, he crouched beside her chair, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other brushing over her sleeve until his fingers found her wrist.

Her pulse jumped. She didn’t pull away.

He turned her hand palm-up, thumb tracing the faint crescent marks her nails had left nights ago. They were nearly faded. “You have a gift for hiding pain,” he said quietly. “But not from me.”

Emma’s throat tightened. “You already knew,” she said, her voice thin.

“I did.” His thumb still moved in slow circles against her skin. “The first time I touched them, you didn’t flinch. That was what I found… most tragic.”

She let out a shaky breath, not sure whether it was a laugh or a sigh. “You say that like you pity me.”

He looked up then, his gaze catching hers. “I do not pity you, little one. Pity is for the powerless. You are anything but.”

Something in the steadiness of his voice broke the tightness in her chest. Without meaning to, she shifted forward, her hand slipping from his so that her fingers brushed his jaw instead. His skin was cool, smooth beneath her touch.

He didn’t move away — only tilted his head slightly into her palm, his eyes half-lidded. “Still,” he murmured, “you shouldn’t have had to learn resilience this way.”

Emma managed a small, wry smile. “Life doesn’t usually ask what we’d prefer.”

“No,” he agreed.

For a moment neither spoke. The fire crackled softly, shadows dancing along the walls. Then Sebastian reached up, catching her hand where it still rested against his cheek, and turned it so that he could press a kiss against her palm — slow, deliberate, reverent.

“Every scar you bear,” he murmured against her skin, “is a reminder that you are still here. For that alone, I am grateful.”

Her breath hitched. “You actually mean that.”

“I do,” he said simply, lowering their joined hands.

She looked at him for a long moment, that same warmth unfurling in her chest. Then, quietly, “You always touch me like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

He smiled faintly. “I know you won’t. But I enjoy the illusion.”

That earned him a soft laugh — real, if small — and when she leaned forward slightly, resting her forehead against his, he didn’t pull away.

They stayed like that for a while, no words, no tension, just the sound of the fire and the quiet pulse between them.

When she finally pulled back, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Sebastian rose slowly, his thumb brushing along her jaw before he stepped back. “Rest, my dear. You’ll need your strength for whatever lecture the young master intends.”

She groaned, already not looking forward to that one. Still, she knew it was inevitable. 

“What did you tell me once?“ She muttered, defeated. “He's nothing if not persistent?“ 

Sebastian huffed out a laugh and inclined his head. She rolled her eyes, smiling softly. 

Outstanding. 

The fire had burned down to a soft, lazy glow, the air warm but dim. Emma sat curled on the couch near the hearth, one leg tucked beneath her, a book lying open across her lap. The print was dense and dull, something about taxation in Parliament, and her eyes had long since started skimming without reading.

The quiet creak of the door startled her only slightly. She looked up, expecting Sebastian, but it wasn’t him.

“Ciel?” she said softly.

The boy stood framed in the doorway, small in his pale nightclothes, hair mussed from his pillow. The eyepatch was still in place, but the set of his mouth told her this wasn’t a sleepwalk or a whim.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door behind him. “You didn’t lock it,” he said simply, as though that explained his presence.

“I wasn’t expecting company.” A lie.

“You should,” he muttered. His voice was calm, but his hands — one clutching the doorframe before he moved further in — betrayed a flicker of restlessness. “We need to talk.”

Emma studied him quietly. He looked older in the low light, sharper around the edges. It was the same expression he wore when interrogating witnesses, but the faint tremor beneath it wasn’t anger. It was worry.

“Alright,” she said softly, setting the book aside.

Ciel didn’t waste time. “I want to see them.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint pop of a dying ember.

Emma exhaled slowly, leaning forward to add a new log to the hearth. Sparks fluttered up, the flames catching and swelling into life once more.

She stared into the fire for a long moment before answering. “Are you sure, sweet child?” she asked quietly. “It’s not… pleasant.”

“I’m sure,” he said immediately, too quickly, too firmly.

She turned her head just enough to see him. His visible eye burned with that cold, familiar resolve that always frightened her a little — the same look he’d had in that basement weeks ago.

Finally, she nodded once and patted the space beside her. “Then sit.”

Ciel crossed the room in a few short steps, his slippers making no sound on the carpet. When he sat, the couch dipped faintly under his weight. He didn’t look at her right away; his hands folded in his lap, white-knuckled against each other.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was heavy, like the moment before a confession.

Emma’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to be the strong one right now.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You are.”

A small, sad smile ghosted across her face. “Not tonight.”

She reached out then, carefully, her fingers brushing against the edge of his eyepatch. His breath hitched, just slightly, but he didn’t move away.

“Let’s even the field, hm?” she murmured, and with gentle hands, she untied the knot and lifted the fabric away.

The firelight caught on the purple glow of the Faustian mark, the sigil burning faintly against his skin like a brand that would never fade. Emma’s eyes softened. “There,” she whispered. “Now we both wear things we didn’t ask for.”

Before he could answer, she turned her back to him and reached for the ties of her gown. The fabric loosened under her fingers, falling open just enough to bare the skin of her shoulders and back.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then she heard the sharp intake of breath behind her.

The scars caught the light — pale lines crisscrossing the smooth plane of her back, some thin and faint, others deep and uneven. They told stories of cruelty she didn’t need to explain.

Ciel didn’t move. His breath came quiet and deliberate, but she could feel his shock, his anger, his sorrow all mixing together in the silence behind her. Then—

“Do they still...“

“No,” she said softly. “You can touch them, if you want.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the couch shifted — small, careful movements as Ciel reached out.

His fingertips brushed her shoulder first,  hesitant, as though afraid she’d vanish at the contact. When she didn’t flinch, he let his hand drift lower, tracing one of the longer scars down her spine.

Emma’s eyes fluttered shut. The touch wasn’t cold or pitying — it was reverent, almost fragile, like he was touching the proof of something sacred. It was odd, and maybe she was a bit sick for having the thought, but she liked this — someone touching her scars gently, afraid to hurt her. The exact opposite of how they came to be.

“They did this to you,” he said at last, his voice tight, trembling at the edges.

“Yes.”

“And no one stopped them.”

“No.”

He swallowed hard, his hand still resting lightly between her shoulder blades. “If I had been there—”

“You weren’t,” she said gently, turning her head just enough that her profile was visible to him. “And if you had been, you would’ve been a child too.”

“That doesn’t matter.” His voice cracked on the words. “It should have been someone.”

Emma smiled faintly — sad and soft. “It was, eventually. Me.”

Ciel’s hand stilled. She turned then, shifting just enough to face him again, her gown still loose at her shoulders but forgotten in the moment.

He looked at her, and the practiced mask he wore every day faltered. He was thirteen again: small, haunted, and impossibly human.

“I hate it,” he whispered. “That they hurt you.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But look, Ciel — they healed.”

Her hand came up to cup his face, fingers brushing the edge of his right eye, just as his had brushed her scars. “You’ll heal too,” she whispered. “Not all at once. Not neatly. But you will.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped, then lifted again — glimmering faintly in the firelight.

When he spoke, his voice was small. “You’re still my sister,” he said, the words sounding like a vow.

Emma smiled, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Always.”

Ciel hesitated for a heartbeat longer before leaning forward, his forehead pressing briefly against her shoulder. It wasn’t a hug, not quite, but she felt the tremor in his breath, the way his hands tightened against the fabric of her gown.

When he finally drew back, his voice was small, hesitant. “...Can I stay here tonight?”

The question made her chest tighten, not out of surprise, but tenderness.

“Of course, sweet child,” she murmured. “You don’t even have to ask.”

She reached for the ties of her nightgown, intending to pull them closed again, but Ciel’s hand stopped hers. “Let me,” he said quietly.

Emma blinked but turned her back toward him again, sitting still while he worked. His fingers were slow, careful. But before he began refastening the ties, he hesitated.

She felt the pause, the warmth of his breath, then the softest touch — his fingertips tracing one of the faint scars along her shoulder blade. It was a feather-light motion, hesitant but purposeful, and when she turned her head slightly, she saw the look on his face: solemn, fragile, and older than a thirteen-year-old’s should ever be.

“It's alright,” she said softly.

He nodded once, barely perceptible, and let his fingertips wander further, following the raised lines, the way they branched and faded. His touch was so gentle that it almost didn’t feel real, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, “That feels… nice.”

Ciel froze, his hand halfway down her spine.

She smiled faintly, her voice trembling. “Because it’s someone who won’t hurt me.”

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Then, in the quietest voice she’d ever heard from him, he said, “No one will hurt you again.”

Emma closed her eyes. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said firmly, tying the last string in place. “I already have Sebastian for that.”

His tone was small, but it carried the same conviction as every order he’d ever given. It wasn’t a child’s empty vow; it was the quiet certainty of someone who’d already decided that he would burn the world before letting it happen.

When he finished, he touched her shoulder one last time, as though sealing the promise.

They moved to the bed in silence, not awkward, just thoughtful. She climbed in first, sitting back against the pillows as Ciel approached from the side. He hesitated for half a second, then slipped under the covers, careful not to brush against her until she lifted her arm in silent invitation.

He fit himself against her almost immediately, his small frame curling into her side, head resting against her collarbone.

Emma smiled faintly, wrapping one arm around him, her fingers brushing through his soft hair.

They stayed like that for a while, the silence between them soft, their breaths slowly syncing. She could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, fast but steady — a quiet reminder that for all his coldness, he was still just a boy.

When his breathing evened out and his small hand relaxed against her arm, she whispered, “Sleep well, sweet child.”

From somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, he murmured, “You too… sister.”

Emma smiled against his hair, tightening her hold just slightly as her own eyes grew heavy, pressing a gentle kiss to his head.

Morning light spilled into the room, soft and gold against the furniture. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a faint ember glow, leaving the air pleasantly warm.

Sebastian opened the door without a sound — a practiced motion, smooth as breath — only to stop mid-step.

On the bed, tangled in pale sheets and quiet peace, were his master and his mate.

Of course, he had expected them to have shared the bed last night, since he hadn't found his young master in his own bed this morning. Although he had to admit, he hadn't expected them to be quite this entangled with each other.

Ciel was still asleep, or close to it, his small hand curled loosely against Emma’s waist. Her arm lay protectively around him, her ginger hair spilling across the pillow and brushing his forehead. They were both facing each other, their breathing even and synchronized, a tableau so tranquil that for a heartbeat, Sebastian just stared.

Something sharp flickered under his ribs, not anger, not truly jealousy, but something possessive, primal, old. His mate. His master. A pair of heartbeats bound by trust that wasn’t his.

He should have cleared his throat, or knocked against the doorframe, or said something. Instead, he stood there, perfectly still, the faintest tightening at the corner of his jaw the only betrayal of his thoughts.

And then Ciel’s voice — drowsy, but undeniably aware — cut through the quiet.

“You’re staring, Sebastian.”

Sebastian’s brows lifted fractionally. “Merely assessing the situation, my lord.”

Ciel blinked one eye open, the unmarked one, and smirked, nuzzling his face against Emma's shoulder. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. Of course, the little brat would start and try a verbal fight as early as dawn. “I assure you, young master, I am incapable of jealousy. It is a most… human flaw.”

Emma stirred at the sound of them, blinking groggily, her voice still thick with sleep. “What’s happening…? Is it morning already?”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said smoothly, regaining his composure with a small bow. “The sun is up, breakfast awaits, and—”

“—you’re sulking,” Ciel interrupted, his smirk sharpening.

Sebastian’s crimson eyes flicked toward him. “I beg your pardon?”

Emma let out a sleepy laugh, rubbing her eyes before she looked him over once, the sun hitting the grey in them in a way that was utterly breathtaking. If he needed to breathe, that was. “He’s not wrong. You’re pouting a little, Sebastian.”

“I do not pout,” Sebastian said flatly.

Ciel, clearly delighted with this newest opportunity to antagonize him, sat up halfway, still pressed against Emma, and grabbed her waist more firmly, speaking with exaggerated sweetness. “You see, sister, he hates that you prefer me.”

Emma snorted, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Oh no, what have you done now, Ciel?”

Sebastian folded his arms, the picture of long-suffering dignity. “My young master is, as always, imagining scenarios to soothe his ego.”

But Ciel had already leaned back into Emma, resting his head against her shoulder once more with the most self-satisfied sigh. “Mmh. This is quite comfortable, actually. I think I’ll stay here.”

Emma burst into laughter, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You're such a bully.”

He tilted his head just enough to look at her, his smirk widening. “You said I could stay whenever I wanted.”

“That was last night,” she teased. “And you were being cute then.”

“I can be cute now.”

Sebastian’s eyebrow twitched. “That would be a matter of opinion.”

Ciel ignored him completely, curling closer in mock affection. “See, Sebastian? She clearly prefers me.”

Emma laughed harder, barely able to speak. “I— I can’t— you two—”

Sebastian exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “As charming as this display of affection may be, my lord, you do have duties awaiting you.”

“Then handle them,” Ciel said smugly. “You’re the butler.”

“And you,” Sebastian replied, stepping closer, “are the one who insists on overseeing every detail.”

Ciel opened his mouth to retort, but was betrayed by the faintest yawn. Emma, still giggling, smoothed his hair gently. “You both need to relax sometimes, you know that?”

Ciel muttered something indistinct — it sounded suspiciously like “traitor” — but didn’t move away from her warmth.

Sebastian watched them a moment longer, his irritation dissolving into something quieter, almost fond. His mate’s laughter was soft, genuine, the kind that rarely found its way into this house.

He sighed, adjusting his cuffs. “Very well. Ten more minutes.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “Ten? That’s generous.”

“Don’t push your luck, my dear.”

Ciel smirked. “You sound jealous again.”

Sebastian smiled thinly, eyes glinting red in the morning light. “Careful, young master. I could be tempted to demonstrate who she actually prefers.”

Ciel froze, then scowled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Emma, at this point, was laughing too hard to speak, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god—stop—”

The tension broke into quiet warmth, the laughter echoing softly against the high ceilings. For a few minutes more, there was no queen, no duty, no shadow hanging over their heads — just a boy, a woman, and a demon sharing the rarest thing in the Phantomhive manor: a peaceful morning.

Of course, peace in the Phantomhive household could never last long.

It was barely half an hour after dawn, the soft hum of quiet lingering in Emma’s room, when that delicate calm began to crack.

Ciel was still half-curled against her, one eye stubbornly closed as if pretending to sleep would make the morning vanish. Sebastian, on the other hand, had long since abandoned his patience.

“My lord,” he said in that dangerously polite tone that promised consequences, “London will not run itself while you linger in bed.”

Ciel groaned, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Then tell London to learn.”

Sebastian’s eye twitched, but his smile remained infuriatingly composed. “And you, my dear,” he added, shifting his crimson gaze to Emma, “are hardly setting a good example.”

Emma chuckled, tightening her arm around Ciel. “You’re just mad because he likes me better.”

Sebastian stepped closer to the bed, the faintest shadow curling at his feet. “If I must physically extract you, Miss Phantomhive, I assure you I am more than capable.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, half laughing.

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t I?”

He reached down, hands sliding around her waist with infuriating precision, the intent clear — and then the manor shook.

A thunderous boom tore through the quiet morning, followed by the rattle of glass and the faint scent of smoke.

All three of them froze.

For half a second, no one moved — just stared at each other, suspended in stunned silence. Then Sebastian set her down again, straightened, and his expression flickered instantly from playfully dangerous to sharp and alert.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and vanished in a blur before either of them could reply.

Ciel was already throwing off the blankets. “Who does he think he is, giving me orders?” he muttered, snatching his eyepatch from the nightstand.

Emma was right behind him, scooping up one of her simpler day dresses from the chair by the fire. “As if we would actually listen.”

By the time they reached his room, Ciel was halfway through pulling on his waistcoat, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbled with the buttons. Emma, ignoring all modesty, yanked her nightgown over her head and slipped into the dark green dress, tugging it into place. Fuck the corset and underdress.

Ciel caught sight of her in the mirror, cheeks tinting pink. “Could you not—”

“Oh, please,” she said, breathless but amused. “We’re well past modesty at this point. Arm up.”

Before he could protest, she turned him toward her and began fastening the buttons he’d missed, moving quickly and efficiently. Ciel grumbled but didn’t stop her, only muttering something about unconventional women under his breath.

“Better unconventional than dead,” she said, tightening his cravat with a little snap that made him glare.

When they were both dressed — she with her hair hastily gathered into a ponytail, him looking far too composed for how chaotic the morning had started — they made for the door together.

But as Emma reached for the handle, the door swung open on its own.

Sebastian stood there, perfectly immaculate as always, as if the explosion had merely been a slight inconvenience.

“Well?” Ciel demanded, already straightening his jacket. “What is it this time?”

Sebastian’s mouth quirked faintly. “It appears we have guests, my lord.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “Guests? At this hour?”

“Indeed.” Sebastian stepped aside, motioning gracefully toward the corridor. “Her Majesty’s butlers have arrived. The Double Charles.”

Ciel’s shoulders tensed immediately, that familiar edge returning to his posture. “Of course they have,” he muttered darkly. “Because why wouldn’t the Queen send them after what happened last time?”

Emma met his eye, the corner of her mouth twitching. “So much for peace and quiet.”

“Peace,” Sebastian said smoothly, his red gaze glinting, “was never meant for Phantomhives.”

He gestured for them to follow, and as they stepped into the hall — Ciel’s irritation simmering, Emma’s curiosity rising, and Sebastian’s faint smile betraying he already knew far more than he’d say — the manor seemed to hum with anticipation once more.

The calm, as always, had been temporary.

Chapter Text

That Lady, scheming

The manor’s corridors still smelled faintly of smoke and steel — a reminder of the earlier chaos — as the three of them made their way toward the drawing room.

Ciel walked ahead, cane tapping briskly against the marble floor, his every step clipped with irritation. “Honestly,” he muttered, “if Her Majesty insists on sending those two every time she grows impatient, she might as well have them move in.”

Behind him, Sebastian followed at a measured pace, his hands folded neatly behind his back, utterly unbothered. “Ah, but then you’d lose the joy of pretending to be surprised every time they appear unannounced.”

Ciel shot him a glare over his shoulder. “You call this joy?”

Emma, walking between them, tugged absently at her sleeve. “Could we maybe argue about it after I’ve had tea? I think my blood sugar’s filing a complaint.”

Sebastian’s chuckle was low, dark velvet against the echo of their footsteps. “Of course, my dear. It would be tragic if you fainted before meeting Her Majesty’s finest lapdogs.”

Emma rolled her eyes, reaching up to smooth her hastily tied ponytail. “Oh, hush. You didn’t even let me fix my hair—”

Before she could finish, Sebastian’s hand was already there, deftly loosening and retwisting the strands into something far neater, pinning it into place with the quick precision only he could manage.

Emma froze mid-step. “You could at least warn me!”

Ciel glanced back briefly, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. “I'm sure he’s fixed your hair before.”

“Yes, but—” She gestured helplessly, aware of Sebastian straightening the back of her dress now, adjusting the fabric with impeccable care. “Not while walking!”

“I find efficiency admirable,” Sebastian said, lips curving faintly as he stepped back. “There. Presentable again. The other Phantomhive will be relieved to see his family looking the part.”

Emma turned her head just enough to narrow her eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Ciel let out a sharp exhale, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You two are insufferable.”

“And yet,” Sebastian said mildly, “you would hardly function without us.”

Emma hid a grin behind her hand, totally amused by the death stare Ciel threw Sebastian's way.

They reached the drawing room doors just as Tanaka appeared, bowing deeply. “The Queen’s envoys are waiting, my lord.”

Ciel inclined his head. “Good. Let’s not keep them entertained any longer than necessary.”

The doors swung open, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.

Inside, two men in impeccable suits sat on one of the couches, embodying precision and contrast. Charles Grey lounged back with his usual lazy arrogance, legs crossed, a devil-may-care grin playing at his lips. Charles Phipps, in turn, sat perfectly straight, expression neutral and composed, every line of his uniform crisp.

Both stood as the Phantomhive party entered.

“Lord Phantomhive,” Grey drawled, bowing with a flourish just a touch too flamboyant to be respectful. “And…” His eyes flicked toward Emma, assessing her with a sharp, curious gleam. “You must be the newly minted Miss Phantomhive.”

Emma inclined her head politely, hands folded in front of her skirt. “It’s a pleasure, Sir Charles Grey.”

Phipps bowed as well, his tone softer but not less formal. “Miss Phantomhive. Your reputation precedes you.”

Emma blinked, caught off guard. “...It does?”

Ciel sank into the couch opposite them, cane resting against his knee. “You’ve been mentioned in two separate reports now,” he said dryly. “You should be proud. The Queen rarely takes personal interest in civilians.”

Emma shot him a look but didn’t argue, lowering herself gracefully onto the couch beside him. Sebastian, of course, stood just behind them, a shadow of composure with a faintly knowing smirk.

Grey leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So,” he said, smile bright and wolfish, “how does it feel to be part of London’s most notorious family, Miss Phantomhive?”

Emma met his gaze evenly, her tone calm but edged with amusement. “Exhausting, mostly.”

Phipps’s lips twitched, barely a hint of a smile, while Ciel sighed as though this entire conversation was beneath him.

“Indeed,” Sebastian interjected smoothly, appearing at Emma’s side with a tray before anyone could respond. “But at least, my lady, the Phantomhive household compensates with excellent tea.”

He placed the cups with delicate precision — one before each Charles, one before Ciel, and the last before Emma — the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when Grey reached for his without so much as a thank-you.

Ciel leaned back, fingers steepled. “Now then,” he said coolly, eyeing the two envoys in turn. “What urgent matter brings Her Majesty’s dogs to my door this time?”

Grey grinned over the rim of his teacup. “Oh, you’ll love this one, Phantomhive. It’s practically an invitation to murder.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible, tension and anticipation curling through the air. Emma’s fingers paused against her cup, her gaze shifting between the men — Phipps’ solemn composure, Grey’s easy mischief, and Ciel’s slow, dangerous smirk.

Sebastian stood behind them, hands folded neatly, the faintest spark of amusement glinting in his crimson eyes.

Whatever peace had graced the manor that morning was well and truly over, as she realized something quickly—Book of Murder had just begun.

By the time the Double Charles had taken their leave, the drawing room felt heavier somehow, quieter, though not in a peaceful way. The fire had burned low, the scent of bergamot still lingering from the tea Sebastian had served.

Emma sat back on the settee, one leg crossed over the other, watching the last curl of steam rise from her untouched cup.

The visit had been brief but sharp-edged.

Charles Grey had handed over the letter with his usual irreverent charm, the wax seal glinting crimson in the light. Her Majesty, it declared, wished for the Phantomhive household to host a banquet in honour of Georg von Siemens, a distant German relative of the Queen.

Ciel had said little while reading, his eye scanning the words with cool detachment — until Grey, leaning forward with that infuriating grin, had mentioned that Her Majesty had found certain omissions in Ciel’s report of the circus affair.

That was when Ciel’s hand had tightened, ever so slightly, around the edge of the letter.

“She seems,” Grey had said, voice low and full of feigned sympathy, “most curious about what her faithful watchdog might be hiding.”

Phipps, ever the diplomat, had added, “This banquet may serve as an opportunity to regain Her Majesty’s full confidence.”

And then, as if fate had decided to twist the knife further, Grey had smiled straight at Emma.

“How fortunate,” he’d said, “that the new Miss Phantomhive happens to be German. How... convenient for diplomacy.”

Ciel had accepted the order, of course, gracefully, as always, though Emma could see the tension behind his polite smile.

Now, shortly after the men had left, the three of them were still in the drawing room, the air thick with the unspoken.

Ciel sat in the armchair opposite her, one leg crossed, his fingers drumming softly against the carved wood of the armrest. Sebastian stood slightly behind him, half in shadow, watching them both with that unshakable calm that could make anyone uneasy.

“Sebastian,” Ciel said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet, “find out everything there is to know about this Georg von Siemens. Who he is, what he’s done, who he’s connected to. I don’t care how trivial it seems — I want it all.”

“Of course, my lord.” Sebastian bowed his head, already reaching for his pocket watch as though calculating how quickly he could accomplish it.

Ciel leaned back, exhaling through his nose, gaze flicking to Emma. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”

Emma blinked, pulled from her thoughts. “Hm?”

“Usually, you’d have a dozen theories by now,” he said, studying her carefully. “Yet you’re just... sitting there. Calm.”

For a moment, she couldn’t think of an answer.

She couldn’t exactly say 'Oh, I’m calm because I already know this is going to spiral into a locked-room murder and a fake death', and she certainly couldn’t admit that her mind had been frantically trying — and failing — to recall the finer details of how it all unfolded. That plot had been insane, and to be perfectly honest, she wasn't sure she had understood it fully when she had watched it on the screen.

Her silence stretched half a second too long, and Sebastian, as if sensing it, came to her rescue.

“She is calm,” he said smoothly, “because you are, my lord.”

Emma looked up sharply, catching the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said quickly, matching his tone as though it had always been her thought. “Exactly that.”

Ciel frowned slightly, unconvinced. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” Emma said, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You’re easier to read than you think, you know.”

His brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come on,” she teased softly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “When you’re worried, you tap your cane. When you’re scheming, you lean back like that. And when you’re confident…” — her smile widened — “you start ordering Sebastian around like a general at war.”

Sebastian’s low chuckle broke the tension, smooth and perfectly timed. “An astute observation, my dear. I must say, you have an eye for patterns.”

Ciel glared between them, affronted. “I do not—”

“You do,” Emma interrupted, grinning now. “But it’s a good thing. Because if you’re not worried, neither am I.”

He blinked, caught off guard by her sudden sincerity.

“I mean it,” she said, voice softer now. “You’re the one who keeps us all steady. If you think this banquet will go fine, then… I’ll believe you. For now, at least.”

Ciel looked at her for a long moment — unreadable, then faintly exasperated. “You’re a strange woman.”

She answered with a crooked grin.

Sebastian stepped closer, the faintest glimmer of pride in his eyes. “You two make quite the pair,” he murmured.

Emma’s laughter filled the room, warm and genuine, and for a moment, even Ciel’s mouth twitched.

Sebastian watched them both, the corners of his lips curving upward as he moved toward the door. “Then, my lord, I shall begin my investigation at once. I trust the two of you can manage not to destroy each other while I’m gone.”

Ciel waved a hand dismissively. “Go.”

When the door closed behind him, Emma leaned back with a quiet sigh. “So,” she said lightly, glancing at Ciel, “dinner party with potential political disaster. Sounds fun.”

He gave her a dry look. “Try not to ruin me, will you?”

She winked at him.

Sebastian returned exactly an hour later. Not a second too soon, not a second too late. They had moved into Ciel's study at this point, Emma sitting on a chair in front of the bookshelves.

The door opened soundlessly, as it always did, and he entered with that infuriating grace that made it impossible to tell whether he’d run halfway across London or merely stepped out for air.

“I trust you’ve found something worth the wait,” Ciel said without looking up from his desk. He was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, the Queen’s letter lying open in front of him like an accusation.

“Of course, my lord,” Sebastian replied, placing a neat stack of notes on the desk. “Herr Georg von Siemens—German aristocrat, second cousin once removed to Prince Albert’s side of the family. An investor, recently involved in financial negotiations concerning railway expansion between Germany and England. He’s charming, dull, and dangerous enough to make the Queen twitch.”

Emma only half-listened. The words blurred together — names, numbers, affiliations. Her mind was elsewhere, picking apart the tone of the letter that had started all of this.

Sebastian continued, “He’s been under light surveillance since his arrival in London, though Her Majesty’s men have not reported anything overtly suspicious. However…” His crimson eyes flicked briefly toward Emma. “He does seem to have a weakness for charming company.”

Ciel made a low sound of disapproval. “Which, naturally, is where we come in.”

Emma blinked, returning her focus. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Ciel said, closing the file with a soft snap, “this isn’t about Siemens at all. It’s a test. The Queen’s way of poking at the watchdog’s loyalty and competence. If we fail…” He trailed off, his tone flat but heavy. “It won’t be a matter of embarrassment. It’ll be ruin.”

Emma reached across the desk. “Can I see the letter again?”

Ciel hesitated, then slid it toward her.

She unfolded it carefully, the edges still stiff with the faint scent of wax and perfume. The Queen’s handwriting was precise, elegant, and deeply unsettling, full of flowery pleasantries that felt more like a chess move than correspondence.

“‘A delightful dinner in honour of our dear cousin,’” Emma read quietly, her brow furrowing. “‘With the grace and precision for which the Phantomhive household is famed.’”

“That’s what she calls code,” Ciel muttered darkly.

Emma scanned the rest, lips pursing. “It feels like… something’s off. The phrasing. It’s too elaborate.”

“Her Majesty enjoys riddles,” Sebastian said smoothly. “And punishments.”

Emma looked up at him, eyes narrowing. “You think something will happen during the dinner, don’t you?”

“I would say,” Sebastian replied, voice lowering just a fraction, “that the tone suggests blood. Murder, to be precise. Under this very roof.”

Ciel’s fingers drummed once against the wood, the sound sharp. “Then we must assume Siemens will be the target. Which means the Queen expects me to manage a murder — and the optics surrounding it — without faltering.”

“Charming,” Emma muttered.

He ignored her, already slipping back into strategy. “We can’t plan much before the actual night. There’s nothing in the letter beyond this invitation. No secondary clues.”

“Which means,” Sebastian said, “that the only thing we can control for now… is the guest list.”

Ciel nodded. “We’ll need names with influence, and some with notoriety. The kind of crowd Her Majesty enjoys observing.”

He rose, pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back. “Karl Woodley should be among them. It’s too perfect not to use.”

Emma tilted her head, that name sounding faintly familiar. “Who’s that?”

“An opportunist,” Ciel said shortly. “He’s tied to a recent scandal in the diamond trade. One of his competitors was murdered before their deal could go through — and he benefited.”

“So you think the Queen would like to see him cast as the culprit?”

“I think she expects us to figure that out.”

Sebastian’s smile sharpened faintly. “In that case, it would be wise to include some familiar faces to keep the balance. People whose loyalty is certain — or at least, profitable.”

“Lau and Ran-Mao,” Ciel said immediately.

“Of course.”

Ciel’s gaze flicked toward Emma. “We’ll need a few more to fill out the list. Someone prominent enough to draw attention, but not… problematic.”

“Irene Diaz is a popular opera singer, and her current partner, Grimsby Keane, would be a fine choice as well,“ Sebastian mused, and Ciel nodded absentmindedly, clearly thinking through additional options.

Emma considered who was missing, then snapped her fingers softly. “Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Both men looked at her.

“He’s published now, right? His novel came out last year.” She grinned, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve read it at least twice, Ciel. Invite him. Maybe this whole thing will inspire his next novel.”

Ciel’s lips twitched, reluctant amusement glimmering there for just a heartbeat. “You think this banquet will be a story worth telling?”

“Oh, definitely,” she said. “Probably under a title like The Dinner of Death. Or The Earl’s Midnight Affair.”

Sebastian gave an approving hum. “A delightful suggestion, my dear. I’ll see that the invitation is extended. And, naturally, we’ll include Her Majesty’s loyal hound—”

“Grey,” Ciel finished with a sigh. “Of course. She wouldn’t risk missing the spectacle.”

The guest list was complete soon after: Siemens, Karl Woodley, Lau and Ran-Mao, Arthur Conan Doyle, Irene Diaz, and Grimsby Keane. A perfect collection of influence, wealth, and suspicion.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of what they were building settling between them.

Then Sebastian, ever the efficient butler, broke it. “On another note,” he said lightly, “I suggest some preparation for the night itself. Certain conversations may be best held privately. Emma, dear, how is your French?“ 

She wanted to say it was good, her mind going back to the straight A's she'd earned in French classes. But then Covid had hit... And then she had graduated, made her Abitur without the need for the language.

“Broken,“ she admitted with a sigh and rolled her eyes at herself. “I studied it for five years, but then a global pandemic hit and everything was different for a while... I haven't spoken it in five years, more or less.“ 

Sebastian’s head tilted slightly, a spark of curiosity lighting his crimson eyes. “A… pandemic?”

Emma blinked — and then realized oh, right. 1889. “Uh. Long story. Very contagious. Lots of coughing. Definitely not relevant right now.”

He regarded her for a beat longer, clearly amused, before saying smoothly, “Ah. I see. An epidemic that devoured your French vocabulary.”

Ciel gave a quiet huff of laughter despite himself. “Fitting. Even fate seems determined to make you inefficient.”

Emma shot him a deadpan look. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t anticipate time travel in my school curriculum.”

Sebastian’s lips curved in that maddeningly knowing way. “Then perhaps a few refresher lessons are in order. I’d be delighted to tutor you.”

“Right,” she said dryly. “Because that wouldn’t be an absolute nightmare.”

He gave a low, silken chuckle. “I assure you, I can be quite persuasive when I teach.”

Her brows arched. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“It was meant to,” Ciel muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, just let him do it. Better him than anyone else. You’d terrify a normal tutor.”

Emma lifted her chin. “I’ll consider it. If I find the time between deciphering royal puzzles and pretending not to know about murders.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “As you wish, Miss Phantomhive. Though, for the record, your accent would charm even the most jaded Parisian.”

Emma smirked. “Flattery will not save you if you keep mocking me.”

He folded his hands neatly behind his back. “I would never mock you, my dear. Only… encourage you creatively.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “Don’t make me throw this teacup at you.”

“Now, now,” Sebastian murmured, taking the cup from her hand before she could follow through, refilling it with elegant precision. “No need for violence. We’ll have plenty of that soon enough.”

Ciel sighed, resting his chin in his hand, tone caught somewhere between fondness and fatigue. “Wonderful. Murder, politics, and a sister threatening my butler with a teacup.”

Emma raised her newly filled cup, clinking it against his with a crooked grin. “To family.”

Sebastian’s laughter curled through the room like the first breath before a storm.

Chapter Text

That Lady, examined

For once, the manor was quiet.

Sebastian had gone off to oversee preparations for the upcoming dinner, and Ciel had locked himself away in his study, muttering about guest lists and menu arrangements.

Emma sat cross-legged on her bed, a stack of papers strewn in front of her — notes about Book of Murder, tiny fragments of memory she’d managed to piece together from her knowledge of the show.

She chewed absently on the end of her pencil. Okay, she thought, Siemens dies, someone gets blamed, Sebastian fakes Ciel’s death, and…

Her eyes unfocused, her mind drifting, not toward the plan, but toward herself.

Her stomach hurt a little, that dull sort of ache that usually meant something. Or… should’ve meant something.

She frowned, setting the pencil down. Wait.

Hadn’t it been… weeks? No — months.

Her eyes widened slowly.

“...oh, shit.”

She scrambled off the bed, pacing, muttering to herself. “No, no, no.“  It was fine, it’s just— she's been stressed. Obviously. There’s been death and demons and the Queen— that’s got to throw something off, right?”

Except — her brain supplied helpfully — stress might delay it, but two months? Two full months?

Her stomach twisted again, but this time it was nerves.

“Okay,” she said out loud, as if hearing her own voice would help. “Think. You’ve been eating fine. Sleeping… okay-ish. You even gained weight from all that rich-ass Victorian food. So it’s not that.”

She stopped pacing, turning to the mirror.

Her reflection looked exactly the same. Pale, ginger hair a bit messy, dress sitting as snuck as before. Nothing different.

Unless—

Her heart dropped. “No. No, no, no, that’s impossible.”

She ran both hands through her hair.

You’re in the 1800s. You’ve literally had sex with a demon. What even are the rules anymore?

For half a second, sheer panic took over — images of being pregnant in the 19th century, of corsets and childbirth and dying of infection.

Then logic slapped her across the face.

“Wait,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. It was… fingers. Tongue. Nothing more. Nothing that could result in a baby.

She paused, narrowing her eyes at her reflection. “…right?”

Her stomach fluttered again, not unpleasantly, just the anxiety kind, and she sighed loudly. 

She rang the stupid bell.

Within thirty seconds, the door opened, and Sebastian stepped inside, impeccable as ever, holding a neatly folded towel and a polite expression. “You rang, my dear?”

“Yeah,” Emma said quickly, brushing her hair back. “I have a question. A kind of urgent one.”

His brow lifted slightly, clearly noticing her distress. “Go on.”

She hesitated. Then blurted, “Can you get me pregnant?”

Sebastian froze.

For the first time in the entire time she’d known him, he actually looked… stunned.

“…pardon?”

Emma waved her hands, words tumbling out faster than her brain could filter them. “I mean— not, like, accusingly! It’s just— I haven’t gotten my period in, like, two months, and I started thinking, what if I’m— you know, pregnant, and then I thought— but that doesn’t make sense because it’s not like we— you know, did the thing, we just— I mean, there were hands, and— mouths, but—”

“Emma,” Sebastian interrupted smoothly, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — amusement barely restrained.

She groaned, covering her face. “Oh my God, this is so awkward. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in 1889.”

He took a slow breath, the kind people took when trying very hard not to laugh. “If I may,” he said at last, “demons do not… sire children with humans. Nor do they carry mortal seed.”

Emma peeked between her fingers. “So… you can’t knock me up?”

“Most certainly not.” His tone was calm now, his composure back in full force. “You have my word. The act of mating with a demon does not carry reproductive consequences.”

She dropped her hands, relief flooding her body all at once. “Oh thank God.”

Then she paused. “Wait, not you— I mean—”

His chuckle finally escaped, deep and quiet. “You may thank whichever deity you prefer, my dear. I assure you, I’m not offended.”

Emma exhaled hard, all that fear falling off her suddenly. “I'm still an atheist. It's just a popular saying at this point.“ 

She rubbed at her forehead, staring at the rug as though it might hand her an answer. “If it’s not pregnancy, then what the hell is wrong with me?” she muttered. “I can’t exactly google it anymore.”

Sebastian, ever polite, tilted his head. “Perhaps your body simply requires rest.”

She snorted softly. “I’ve been resting. Well, resting and stressing — which is, apparently, my new brand.” She paused, fingers tapping against her knee. “Maybe I need a doctor.”

His brows lifted slightly. “I doubt it’s anything quite so dire.”

“You don’t know that.” Her voice wavered between reason and panic. “It could be something serious. What if it’s— I don’t know— cancer? Or some organ failure thing?”

“Cancer,” he repeated mildly, as though tasting the word. “You have a fascinating imagination, my dear. However, if it were such an ailment, I assure you I would have sensed it long before you did.”

Emma shot him a look. “Forgive me if I don’t find comfort in the idea of my demon mate being my health insurance.”

He smiled faintly. “A shame. I am remarkably efficient.”

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Still. Maybe a check-up wouldn’t hurt.”

Sebastian’s expression gentled, but his words were pragmatic. “You must remember, an unmarried woman requesting such an examination would cause considerable talk. Physicians of this time are not discreet, nor particularly delicate.”

Emma groaned, running both hands over her face. “Right. Because apparently everything that could help women exists only in the future.”

He didn’t disagree. “Even so,” he said softly, “whatever you choose to do will reflect upon my young master. I am certain you are unconcerned about your own reputation, but his is another matter.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re right. Damn it, you’re right.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fireplace. Then, Sebastian’s tone shifted, calm, practical. “If it would put your mind at ease,” he said, “I could examine you myself.”

Emma’s head snapped up so fast her neck cracked. “You could what?”

“I could examine you,” he repeated patiently, as though it were the most mundane thing in the world. “There is nothing about the human body that is foreign to me, Emma. I have studied it in every state imaginable — alive, ill, dying, and otherwise.”

She blinked, stunned. “That’s… both horrifying and weirdly comforting.”

“I prefer ‘comprehensive,’” he said smoothly.

Emma frowned, torn between suspicion and genuine relief. “You’re serious.”

“Entirely.” His voice softened slightly. “If you fear something is wrong, allow me to confirm otherwise. I can promise discretion — and efficiency.”

She searched his face for a trace of mockery and found none. “You’re really trying to soothe me, aren’t you?”

“Am I succeeding?”

“...Maybe.”

There was a long pause, then she exhaled, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve seen me naked.”

The corner of his mouth curved in that familiar, dangerous way. “Indeed. Though I admit, the circumstances of that occasion were far less clinical.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. When she looked back at her face, he looked both smug and satisfied, as if hearing her laugh had been his goal all along.

Sebastian helped her undress, his fingers peeling her out of her dress and corset skillfully, until she was left in her underdress. 

“Just breathe,” he said quietly. He’d already removed his gloves; his bare hands looked out of place against the muted candlelight, elegant and unguarded. He crossed to the washstand in the bathroom, methodically rolling up his sleeves before rinsing his hands in the bowl. The sound of running water filled the silence—steady, calming, like a ritual meant to keep her anchored.

When he came back, Emma was already lying on her bed, feet propped on the mattress, legs still closed, and he knelt before her.

Emma huffed a faint, nervous laugh. “Déjà vu,” she said, her voice low.

He looked up at her, one brow lifting. “Indeed,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving. “Though I assure you, my intentions today are of a different sort.”

She nodded, fingers curling in the bedsheet as if to ground herself.

Sebastian’s tone stayed even, professional but never cold. “If at any moment you feel uncomfortable, you’ll tell me. Do not spare my pride for the sake of decorum.”

“I’ve been through this before,” she said softly. “It’s fine.”

“I have no doubt,” he replied. “But you are not in a physician’s office now. You are here, with me. And I am… less accustomed to causing discomfort to those I care for.”

That last line made her glance at him, startled by the sincerity beneath his usual composure. She slowly parted her legs for him.

He began the examination slowly, carefully—his movements efficient, his voice steady as he kept speaking to her, guiding her through what he was doing, watching her face more than anything else. He started on the outside, pressing down on her lower belly like she was used to, and when he asked if anything hurt, she shook her head. 

Unfortunately, there was only so much he could figure out from the outside and for the first time in her life, Emma wished for an ultrasound. 

“You’re holding your breath,” he murmured when his fingers slipped between her legs and paused at her entrance, tone gentle. “That’s quite unnecessary. You’re safe, Emma.”

She exhaled shakily, shoulders lowering a little. She was safe.

“Careful,“ he warned softly, and right as she breathed out, he slipped a finger inside.

She expected pain or the slight burning that always came with something entering her whenever she wasn't wet enough, but there was none of that, not even a bit of discomfort. 

“I didn't know lube was already a thing,“ she said, voice a bit tight as she felt his finger curve upward while his other hand pressed down on her lower belly.

“It's oil,“ he replied, and when she tensed, he added, “It won't harm you, I promise.“ 

He didn't move until she exhaled, forcing her body to relax again. 

The clinical nature of it didn’t erase the strange intimacy, it was there in the quiet, in the warmth of his hands, in the care with which he avoided turning this into spectacle or shame.

After a while, he drew back, straightening to his full height but still kneeling before her, his hands resting lightly on his knees. 

Emma propped herself on her elbows to look at him, closing her legs until her knees touched.

“There is nothing concerning,” he said finally. “Your body is strained, perhaps from lack of rest or recent distress, but otherwise… nothing concerning.”

She let out a long breath, relief and embarrassment mingling in her expression.

“Next time,” he added softly, “simply tell me sooner. It would spare you this much worry.”

Emma huffed a quiet laugh, one hand coming up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It could be,” he said. “If you’d let it.”

For a moment, they only looked at each other—the air between them neither clinical nor indecent, just heavy with everything unspoken. 

Sebastian stayed where he was for a moment, still kneeling, the shadows from the fire flickering over his face. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, bare and steady, the picture of composure. But his eyes… they were softer than usual, almost human.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and deliberate. “You forget something, my dear.”

Emma, still propped on her elbows, frowned lightly. “And what’s that supposed to be?”

“That you are not alone anymore.” He said it simply, but there was weight in every syllable. “Whatever troubles you — whether it’s fear, pain, confusion — it belongs to me as well. That is what it means to be my mate.”

She blinked, startled by the quiet certainty in his tone. “Sebastian, I didn’t— I mean, I don’t want to make you responsible for every—”

He cut her off gently, a faint smile curving his mouth. “It isn’t responsibility. It’s instinct. Desire. Purpose. I want you to rely on me. It is not a burden, Emma — it’s what I am made for.”

The words sank into her slowly, disarming her more than she expected. She sat up, drawing her knees beneath the blanket, studying him as if she were seeing him for the first time. “You actually mean that,” she murmured.

“I do.” He reached forward then, his hand closing around her ankle through the thin fabric, grounding, not possessive. “You spend so much energy trying to be strong, to act as though needing someone is a weakness. But you are mine, and I am yours. Let me be what I was designed to be.”

Something inside her chest loosened. “You sound so sure.”

His thumb moved lightly, a slow, steady circle against her skin. “Demons rarely speak of certainty,” he said. “But this — us — is one of the few things I do not doubt. I will protect you, ease your pain, carry your burdens if I must. You only need to let me.”

Emma’s throat tightened. “You really want to go through with this whole devotion-thing.”

“Perhaps I do,” he admitted softly, “but not blind devotion. I have chosen this — you — just as much as fate dictated it.”

“Maybe I just don’t know how to rely on someone,” she said, almost to herself. She sat up a bit straighter and folded her legs beneath her, placing her hands in her lap. She couldn't help fidgeting with her own fingers. “After having everyone betray my trust for so long, I have... a hard time trusting others with things like that.“ 

An amused huff escaped her, accompanied by an ironic smile. “I can't draw the line, you know? Between giving nothing and giving everything. I either trust or I don't. There is nothing in between.“ 

He tilted his head, that small, knowing smile flickering across his mouth before he stood. The motion was quiet, deliberate, as though he didn’t want to startle her. He crossed the short distance between them and paused long enough to wipe his hands on the towel draped over the edge of the mattress, then leaned down — slow, unhurried — until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You’re mistaken, my dear,” he said softly.

Emma frowned a little, though her eyes didn’t leave his. “About what?”

“You do trust others,” he murmured, his tone low, more statement than comfort. His bare hands lifted to her face, palms bracketing her cheeks with the kind of care that never felt forced. “You trusted me to touch the places that hurt once — the scars, the things you could have hidden. You trusted my young master to see your truth. And yet you retreat when it comes to wounds that still bleed.”

His thumbs moved lightly, the calloused pads brushing over the delicate skin near her temples. “Old pain, you can name. It no longer threatens you. But the pain that is still alive—” He paused, his voice dropping further, almost a whisper. “That frightens you. It reminds you you’re still vulnerable.”

Emma’s breath caught; he’d hit too close to the truth. “Because I am,” she said quietly. “I’ve learned how to laugh about the past. I don't feel that pain anymore, because I stepped back from it. I chose that. But new things… they sting. They surprise me. They make me feel like that little girl again.”

She didn't know why she had said it, why she had suddenly spoken the words out loud she had previously only dared to voice in thought. Perhaps it was his eyes, or his smile, or his scent, but whatever it was, it made her feel seen and... safe. 

Sebastian’s expression softened even further — a rarity. “Humor and distance,” he said thoughtfully. “You wield them like armor. And I understand why.” His hands shifted, one sliding to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling lightly in the ends of her hair, the other still against her cheek. “But if you insist on using armor, then let me be the one who bears the weight of it with you.”

She stared up at him, something hot and unfamiliar gathering in her chest. “You keep saying things like that,” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “You make it sound like trusting someone isn’t dangerous.”

He smiled faintly, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. “It is,” he said simply. “But I have never been afraid of danger.”

Emma huffed a breath — half-laugh, half-exhale. “That’s because you are danger.”

“Precisely,” he said, and the faint amusement in his tone pulled another reluctant smile from her. His hand lingered a moment longer, thumb catching a strand of hair to tuck behind her ear. “So when the next wound comes — and it will — allow me to be the one to stop the bleeding. You need not bear it alone, not while I still draw breath.”

“Technically, you don’t breathe,” she murmured, voice softer now.

He leaned closer, his smile small and dark and fond. “Then while I still exist.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire had burned low, the light turning soft and gold. Emma didn’t move — didn’t want to. She only looked at him, memorizing the stillness in his face, the quiet certainty there.

Finally, she sighed. “You’re going to make me dependent on you, you know.”

His eyes gleamed, the faintest spark of mischief in them. “That, my dear, was always inevitable.”

Emma studied him for a long moment — really studied him.

The play of the fire caught in his eyes, turning them to garnet, flickers of light buried deep in red. There was always something unreadable there, that elegant mask of his, but now it was thinner. He looked... real. Almost painfully so.

She swallowed, her voice smaller than she meant it to be. “There really isn’t anything I could give you, is there?”

Sebastian’s thumb stilled against her jaw. “In exchange?”

She nodded. “To even the field.”

His smile was faint, barely a movement of his mouth. “You are still thinking like a human.”

Emma frowned lightly. “That’s kind of the only way I know how to think.”

“I know,” he said, the words quiet and strangely fond. His hand slipped from her cheek, coming to rest just below her collarbone, the touch more a whisper than a weight. “But the balance you imagine doesn’t exist between us. There is no ledger to be kept, no field to even.”

He hesitated, gaze dropping for the briefest second, then returned to hers. “You owe me nothing, Emma. You never will.”

She searched his face again, trying to find any trace of deceit, any shadow of the usual teasing irony—but there was none. Only that soft steadiness, the kind that made her chest ache.

“Then what do you want?” she asked finally, her voice no louder than the pop of the fire.

His answer came without hesitation. “To be near you.”

Her lips parted slightly, surprised at the simplicity of it. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he said. “The rest—your safety, your comfort, your happiness—those are mine to handle. You need not concern yourself with how or why.”

Emma looked up at him, eyebrows drawn together as her brain worked. Her thoughts spiraled, hunting for the loophole she was sure must exist. There always was one; every contract, every bargain had its fine print. Until...

A smile rose on her face, gaze flickering down, and her hands reached for his hips, fingers aiming to unfasten his trousers. 

He caught her wrists in his hands instantly. “I thought we were over this already, little one,“ Sebastian murmured, and she looked back up again, catching his gaze.

“We have,“ she agreed. “And you just said you want me happy.“ 

She gently pulled her wrists out of his grasp, and he let her go, his hands hovering in the air as if he were unsure where to put them. Emma slid from the bed, her knees hitting the hard floor with a soft thud as she steadied herself by holding onto his hips. Her fingers ghosted over the hem of his pants. 

“And doing this for you would make me really happy,“ she whispered and smiled up at him.

Sebastian hesitated. The sight of her — calm, purposeful, the faint smile softening her mouth — struck something deep and wordless in him. Demons were not supposed to feel reverence, but that was the only word that fit.

“Emma,” he said quietly. Her name came out lower than he intended, almost rough.

She tilted her head, waiting.

He drew a slow breath, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You mistake the source of my contentment,” he went on. “It isn’t in what you give, but in the fact that you would offer it.”

Her fingers stilled against the fabric of his trousers, but she didn’t pull away.

He reached down, taking her hands again, not restraining this time, only enclosing them. His thumbs moved in small, absent circles over her knuckles. “You have no idea what you do to me when you look at me like that,” he murmured,

Her smile deepened. “Good. Because unless you tell me right now that you do not want this, I will do this. Because I want it.“

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still entirely, even the fire went quiet.

Sebastian’s eyes flicked over her face, searching for hesitation and finding none. The smallest breath escaped him, not quite a sigh, more like the sound of a thread pulled too tight.

“Careful,” he said finally, his voice lower than before. “You do not know what those words do to me.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

Something in his expression shifted — the mask of composure thinning until what remained was unguarded want edged with restraint. He leaned in just enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath against her hair.

“You think you tempt me because I desire you,” he murmured, “but it is far worse than that. You tempt me because you choose me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, then opened them again. “So if you mean what you just said, Emma…” His voice softened, almost reverent. “Then I will not stop you.”

Chapter Text

That Lady, happy

Sebastian Michaelis apparently had as much of a distaste for Victorian underwear as she did, because he wasn't wearing any either. 

“Look at that,“ Emma said, a crooked grin on her lips as she pulled his trousers halfway down his thighs. “But teasing me about it is fine, hm?“ 

His cock was already half erect, even though she hadn't even touched him yet. 

“I am a demon, little one,“ Sebastian mused and cupped her face with one hand, thumb brushing her cheekbone. “I believe I'd fail to fulfill my duty if I don't tease those around me from time to time.“ 

Emma playfully rolled her eyes before focusing her attention elsewhere. With her hands braced on the sides of his thighs, she shifted on her knees until she found a good, balanced position, eyes fixed on what was right before her. A disbelieving chuckle nearly escaped her when she realized that for the first time in her life, she thought a cock was pretty. 

Leaning forward slightly, she blew air against the pale pink tip and watched in smug delight as it twitched and hardened further. 

“Who is teasing now?“ Sebastian murmured and pushed his other hand into her hair, fingers threading through the strands. He didn't push her closer, though, and Emma glimped up at him through her lashes, a devilish grin on her lips that rivaled his own.

“Teasing is the best part of it,“ she replied and shifted one of her hands, wrapping her fingers around his shaft. He hardened further beneath her palm, and her thumb stroked over the thick vein on its underside in reward. 

“I shall remind you of that when you're on the receiving end,“ he said, and Emma chuckled, squeezing his cock once before blowing against the tip again, harder this time. 

Sebastian's cock stood tall and proud by now, and Emma raked her eyes over it, determined to remember every detail of him. Curved slightly upward, he was as pale as the rest of the demon, one thick and two smaller veins leading from the pale pink tip to the very base of him, accented by neatly trimmed, black hair. 

She brushed her pinky against the hair and asked, without taking her eyes off his cock, “Your preference?“ 

“Yours,“ he corrected calmly, his thumb stroking over her cheek gently. “I had a feeling you might like it.“ 

His feeling had been spot on, and Emma squeezed him once more, liking the weight of it in her palm. 

He wasn't the biggest she had ever seen in real life, and she was more than content with that, as there was actually a thing as too big. Sebastian though... His width promised a delicious stretch, and Emma suspected that with the length and that slight curve, he'd be able to hit that sweet spot inside of her that barely anyone had reached yet. Besides, he was also far from being the smallest she's seen.

“Ever the devoted mate,“ she murmured and gave him a gentle pump. His hips bucked slightly, chasing her hand, his fingers flexing in her hair.

“I—“

Whatever he had wanted to say, she cut him off when she wrapped her lips around his tip, tongue pressing against the underside of it. 

Whatever skills Emma might possess, giving good head was one of them, and she was aware. Whether it was her observant nature or her endless curiosity, but over time, she had figured out that most guys liked similar things and were similarly sensitive.

Emma leaned forward and let Sebastian's cock slide into her mouth until the tip hit the back of her throat. She couldn't take it all, but that was fine for now, as she slid off his cock again. Her hand pumped his shaft, now glistening and wet with her saliva, while angling his cock slightly upward. Her eyes flickered upward, locking onto Sebastian's gaze, and with a seductive grin, she stuck out her tongue and traced it around the tip. 

His mouth was slightly opened, his breath audible as his fingers continued to flex in her hair. She tore his first moan of the day from him—breathy and low—when she pressed the tip of her tongue beneath the small ridge where his shaft led into his tip. Then she took him back into her mouth, tongue moving against his skin as she sucked gently, hand moving in tandem with the movements of her head. 

Peeking up at him, she found his eyes half-lidded and burning red, his pupils thin as a hair as he stared at her, mouth open, fangs peaking out. The sight made heat pool between her own legs, and she shifted involuntarily on the floor, moaning around him. He replied with his own moan, his hand tugging her further down his cock. She obliged happily and ceased her sucking, letting him slide down until the tip brushed her throat again. 

Holding his gaze, Emma placed both her hands on his thighs to steady herself and relaxed her throat. She concentrated on breathing steadily and shallow through her nose as his cock glided deeper, pausing once when she gagged slightly. 

Sebastian's eyebrows drew together, his hand tugging at her hair as if trying to pry her off him, but she made a displeased sound and pushed herself further down. Another soft gag, but she forced herself to breathe through it until her nose brushed against the soft hair at the base of his cock. 

Now she couldn't see Sebastian's face anymore, but his moan—loud and guttural—was everything she needed right now.

“You—” His moan interrupted him when she swallowed around him. “Fuck!“ 

Emma hummed when she heard him curse for the first time, the polished mask of the perfect butler slipping for the very first time. 

Drawing back until she could breathe easily again, Emma grabbed his shaft anew, working her mouth and hand in tandem once more. And while she knew that men usually hated the use of teeth, not one had ever complained to her. So Emma lightly grazed her teeth over his shaft, and Sebastian pushed both his hands into her hair as a response, his hips starting to meet her mouth in careful thrusts. 

Squeezing and sucking, Emma swirled her tongue along the underside of his cock until she felt his breathing stutter. Two pumps later, she heard his voice.

“Careful, I'll—”

She sped up, squeezing harder, and right when his fingers flexed in her hair, right when a sound she couldn't quite place—somewhere between a moan and a groan—left him, Emma held her breath and pressed forward until her nose brushed his hair once more.

His seed hit the back of her throat, the sensation making her body want to gag, but she forced it down, holding her breath until Sebastian's hands came to cradle her face, pulling her off him gently. As soon as she could breathe, she swallowed, coughing a little. 

God, that had been fun.

She smiled up at Sebastian, who stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and when Emma slowly stood, her knees protesting slightly, he didn't let go of her face for a single moment. 

His eyes searched her face. “Are you happy?“ he asked, that smug smile gone completely. 

She tilted her head. “Did that feel good?“ 

“Yes,“ he replied instantly. “Very much so.“ 

Her grin widened. “Then yes. I'm happy.“ 

His eyes—now turned back to their human disguise—flickered over her face as if he were searching even for the hint of a lie. Emma kept silent, letting him get whatever worry he had out of his head. 

Then he exhaled, and that smile she had grown accustomed to reappeared, and his hands left her face briefly to pull up and refasten his trousers. 

“Who would have thought,“ he muttered, shaking his head in bewildered amusement as he pushed his shirt back into the hem of his trousers. “That pleasing my mate would turn out to be so beneficial for me as well.“ 

Emma rolled her eyes with a snort and stepped one step back, letting herself fall on her bed, legs dangling in the air. She stretched out on the bed, arms spread. “You say that as if you didn’t enjoy every second of it,” she said, her tone light, teasing.

Sebastian fastened the last button of his trousers and gave her that infuriatingly composed smile again, though there was still something a little too soft in the corners of his mouth. “Enjoyment,” he mused, straightening his cuffs, “seems too modest a word.”

She huffed a laugh, covering her face with her arm. “Don’t start using poetry now, demon. I can only handle one side of you at a time.”

“I was under the impression you rather liked all my sides.”

Emma peeked out from under her arm, her grin lazy. “Maybe. Though I prefer the smug idiot version over the mysteriously eloquent one. He’s easier to tease.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Smug idiot? How very cruel, my dear.”

“You’ll live,” she said, turning on her side and propping her head on her hand. “Assuming you can live at all.”

Sebastian chuckled, stepping closer to the edge of her bed. “Oh, I assure you, I’m quite capable of existing under even the harshest of insults.” He leaned down slightly, his eyes catching the firelight again. “Though I am beginning to suspect you find new ways to test that theory daily.”

She laughed, quiet but genuine. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

“That,” he said smoothly, “is because I’m endlessly patient.”

“Or hopelessly obsessed.”

“Those two traits are not mutually exclusive.”

Emma snorted again, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled, faintly, as if pleased she was laughing at all. “And you, my dear, have successfully delayed dinner preparations by precisely twenty-three minutes.”

Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth, laughing. “Oh no, I’ve ruined the schedule.”

“Utterly,” he replied solemnly, straightening to his full height again. “I shudder to think what chaos may unfold in the kitchen without me.”

Emma grinned up at him. “You mean Bard blowing something up again?”

“Precisely,” he said dryly. “Or Mey-Rin dropping an entire tray of glassware out of enthusiasm.”

“Or Finny trying to ‘help’ by throwing something through the window.”

He sighed dramatically. “My poor, suffering soul.”

“You don’t have a soul.”

“Which makes my suffering all the more impressive, doesn’t it?”

Emma giggled, rolling onto her back again. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside her, his shadow falling over her face. “And yet,” he murmured, that warm, teasing tone back in full force, “you seem rather fond of me.”

Her lips curved. “Maybe I am.”

For a heartbeat, his smile softened—less teasing now, more sincere—and he reached down, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Then I consider myself most fortunate.”

She smiled faintly, letting her eyes half close. “Go on then, before the mansion burns down.”

He chuckled quietly. “As you command, my lady.”

And with that, he turned, smooth and silent as ever, and disappeared toward the door.

And then he was gone, leaving the faint trace of his presence behind — warmth, and the faintest echo of amusement — as Emma lay back, smiling into the empty air.

The storm had been growling over the estate since dawn, deep and unrelenting — the kind of weather that made the old manor’s bones creak and the candles flicker. It hadn’t let up once, and now, as evening approached, the wind howled against the windows like something alive. The heavy rain blurred the view outside into shifting shadows of umbrellas and carriages, all arriving one after another in the courtyard below.

Emma stood beside Ciel in his study, her reflection ghosting faintly in the rain-streaked glass. Behind them, Sebastian moved like a dark silhouette, arranging the final reports, locking drawers, setting the room in perfect order before the chaos of the night began.

The past two weeks had been exhausting, but fruitful. Between planning guest arrangements, reviewing endless dossiers, and Sebastian’s insistence on daily French drills that lasted three hours each afternoon, Emma felt she had earned the faint ache behind her eyes. Still, she couldn’t deny a quiet satisfaction. Some phrases had come back naturally — Comment allez-vous, enchantée, passez-moi le vin, s’il vous plaît. Enough to understand, at least.

Sebastian had been smug about it, of course.

“You remember the accent surprisingly well,” he’d said one evening, after she’d stumbled only once over a long phrase. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet, my dear.”

“Flattery doesn’t make conjugations easier,” she’d muttered back, and he’d only smiled, clearly pleased anyway.

Now, the time for practice was over. The game had begun.

From their high vantage point, the first guests were already rushing into the entrance hall. Ciel’s sharp blue eye followed every movement, every face, like a chess master counting his pieces. Emma, beside him, folded her hands lightly before her, forcing her breathing steady.

Her gown — soft green silk with pale pink accents — shimmered when the lightning flashed outside. The color had been Sebastian’s choice. To complement your hair, he’d said, tone so casual that she hadn’t dared question it. The black ribbons woven into her sleeves matched Ciel’s own jacket, a quiet statement that she was, officially and legally now, a Phantomhive. The necklace around her neck declared as much with the Phantomhive crest displaced proudly.

Only the ring on her left hand — Edward’s — broke the coordination. But the weight of it didn’t bother her anymore. Not after Sebastian’s promise that it would never come to pass.

She smoothed her skirt lightly, then glanced toward the boy at her side. “You ready, sweet child?”

Ciel shot her a sidelong look. “Must you call me that before a public appearance?”

She smirked. “Would you prefer Your Lordship? I can do that too, but it sounds terribly formal.”

“Anything that doesn’t make me sound five years old would suffice.”

“Ah, so maybe young master?” she teased. “Oh wait, that one’s already taken.”

Ciel huffed, something halfway between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet here I am,” she said lightly.

Behind them, Sebastian’s quiet chuckle slipped through the air like velvet. “If I may, young master, she has a point. It’s far too late to object to Miss Emma’s habits now.”

Ciel turned a sharp glare on his butler. “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”

“Of course not,” Sebastian said smoothly, his smile betraying him anyway.

Emma bit back a laugh, glancing once more through the window at the gleaming black carriages below. “Looks like everyone’s arrived,” she said softly. “Are you nervous?”

Ciel adjusted the cuff of his jacket with a deliberate calm that fooled no one. “No. I’m prepared.”

“Good,” she said, her tone warm despite the teasing edge. “Then I’ll be the nervous one for both of us.”

He gave her a quick look, something brief and unreadable flickering in his expression before he looked away. “Don’t. You’ll do fine.”

It was simple, but coming from him, it meant more than any elaborate reassurance.

Sebastian approached then, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. “The guests have gathered in the entrance hall,” he announced. “It’s time.”

Ciel gave a short nod, straightening his posture. Emma took one last deep breath, brushing invisible wrinkles from her dress.

As they stepped into the corridor, the air felt charged. Not just with the storm outside but with something electric and expectant. Their footsteps echoed softly across the marble floors, the distant hum of conversation growing louder as they neared the grand staircase.

Emma leaned toward Ciel slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s hope no one actually dies tonight.”

He gave her a flat look. “That’s a terrible thing to say right before a dinner party.”

“Just being realistic,” she said, grinning faintly. “After all, it is us.”

Ciel sighed through his nose — that sound he made when he was torn between scolding her and admitting she was right.

And as the three of them reached the top of the staircase, the murmur of the gathered guests rising up to meet them, the lightning flashed once more, painting the grand hall below in a wash of silver and shadow.

Sebastian glanced between them, one brow lifting. “Shall we, my lord?”

Ciel nodded once, the perfect image of composure. Emma smoothed her dress one last time, her hand brushing against the cool metal of the engagement ring — a reminder of promises made, and promises yet to come.

They reached the first landing to the soft clatter of cutlery being set beyond the doors and Lau’s velveted voice carrying up like incense. “…a grim, proud Earl with an eyepatch,” he told Arthur, and Emma couldn’t help the quick, treacherous grin that tugged at her mouth.

“I’ve had enough of you teasing my guests!” Ciel’s voice rang crisp as a bell. Conversations thinned, faces turned; the manor’s storm-lit marble seemed to hold its breath. He stood a step ahead, immaculate and miniature and utterly sovereign—one gloved hand propped at his hip, the other easy on his cane. Emma matched his stillness half a pace behind, hands folded at her midriff, elbows tucked, every inch the well-schooled sister he’d been granted by royal decree.

“A child?” Arthur blinked up, brows knitting.

“That little child is Earl Phantomhive,” Lau replied, sing-song and unhelpfully delighted.

“Don’t say ‘little’!” The flare of Ciel’s temper was a spark—there, gone. He cleared his throat and slid on that perfect, porcelain smile Emma knew for the mask it was. Her own lips twitched; she loved him fiercely for the effort it cost.

“Thank you all for accepting our invitation,” he said, the room settling into courtly attention. “I am the master of this house, Ciel Phantomhive, and this is my lovely sister, Emma Phantomhive.”

She inclined her head—a measured, practiced angle; polite, warm, nothing to snag on—and together they descended, Sebastian a respectful shadow at their backs, each step a quiet performance of power.

“For those who favor me with their patronage,” Ciel continued smoothly. “And those I’m meeting for the first time.”

“We promise to offer our personal greetings once the banquet begins,” Emma added, lending the promise a softer edge, the kind that made people lean forward instead of bristle.

At the base of the stairs, the storm cracked somewhere distant; a draft licked the chandelier flames. Ciel’s gaze swept the entry hall once, a small muscle flickering at his jaw. “I don’t see our guest of honor…” he murmured to Sebastian and Emma alone.

“Apparently, he’ll be arriving late due to the poor weather,” Sebastian said, leaning just close enough that the words reached them and no one else.

“Now what?” Ciel’s brow ticked up, a hairline fracture of irritation. “We can’t keep everyone waiting in the entrance hall.”

They didn’t have to. The doors opened on a gust and wet coats, Charles Grey a blade of a smile at the fore, and beside him the man of the hour.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Siemens said, accent only brushing his English—Rhineland roundness polished by practice. “I’m Georg von Siemens. I appreciate the invitation.”

Ciel’s smile returned, unfelt and flawless. “You’ve come so far, I’m delighted to meet you.”

Emma slipped her arm through Ciel’s, a quiet tether as they turned. The dining doors swung and the room received them: silver bright as lightning, crystal chiming, the long table a stage. Sebastian’s voice cut through with a court herald’s precision, calling names in an order that made nobles feel appropriately important—Siemens placed first, Sir Arthur last—until conversation resumed in overlapping currents and the stage was set.

They flowed along the perimeter—greetings here, nod there—until they could breathe for a moment in the lee of a column, the candlelight catching on the green of Emma’s gown and the storm smudging the windows with rain.

“Hm,” Ciel said, so faint it was almost a thought. The mask didn’t falter, but his shoulders told the truth.

Emma kept her smile pinned on, eyes tracking the room. “On a scale of one to launching yourself out a window, how thrilled are you?”

“Door, not window,” he muttered. “Windows creak; doors close.”

“Noted.” She nudged his elbow with her own—sister code for I’m here, unfortunately so is everyone else. “We smile, we don’t stab, we survive the soup course.”

His mouth quirked a millimeter. “If Lau compares me to a tragic orphan again, I’m having him seated with the draught.”

“I’ll trade you,” she murmured. “I’ve already been cornered by three opinions on opera and one on the health benefits of raw eggs.”

He exhaled something that might have been a laugh. “Endure. Then eat.”

“Copy that, Captain.” She straightened, the picture of pleasant composure. “On your mark?”

He lifted his chin, cane ticking once against the parquet. “On mine.” And together they stepped back into the glow, masks polished to perfection.

Emma’s laughter—soft, melodic, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes—threaded between the rise and fall of silverware and polite conversation. In front of her, Georg von Siemens was already well into his third glass of wine. His cheeks had begun to flush, his vowels a little rounder, his consonants a little slower.

She leaned a touch closer, enough to be heard over the clamor. “Sie vermissen also Deutschland?” she asked, her accent faint but unmistakably native.

“Ach, Fräulein Phantomhive,” Georg replied, delighted that she’d chosen his mother tongue. “Natürlich. England is—how do you say it—soaked in fog and manners. In Germany, people speak directly. They mean what they say.”

Emma smiled, letting him lead the rhythm. “Sometimes I think that’s what I miss most,” she said in English now, switching with an ease that made him beam. “Directness. Here, people say one thing and mean another entirely.”

He chuckled and raised his glass. “To saying what we mean.”

She clinked hers against it, her gaze flicking instinctively across the room. Ciel stood not far away, politely cornered in conversation with Arthur Conan Doyle and Charles Phipps. Even from here, Emma could read the tension in his posture—the stiff line of his shoulders, the deliberate control in the way he stirred his tea. Good, she thought. Occupied, but not endangered.

“Tell me,” Siemens said, leaning in with the careless boldness of a man loosening his restraint. “Do you still think of Germany as home? Or have they turned you properly English by now?”

Emma tilted her head, letting a small, wistful smile play across her mouth. “Both, perhaps. I grew up in Germany, but England has a way of making you belong whether you want to or not. Still—every time I hear the rain against a window, I think of Brunswick.”

He laughed. “Rain there is warmer, no? Here it feels like punishment.”

“Everything here feels like punishment,” she teased back, which made him roar with laughter, loud enough that a few heads turned.

Sebastian’s did too. The butler’s gaze found her instantly from the far end of the room, and Emma caught it—sharp, assessing, unreadable. She offered a tiny shake of her head, the subtlest flicker of a smile: I’ve got this. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed for a heartbeat before he returned to refilling wine glasses, though the motion was a shade too smooth to be natural.

Siemens, oblivious, leaned closer again. “You’re very charming, Fräulein. And beautiful. England has done you no harm at all.” His fingers brushed the back of her hand—light, careless, presumptive.

Emma didn’t flinch. She merely smiled, the kind that could cut silk. “Herr von Siemens,” she said, tone low but clear, “I believe my fiancé might not appreciate such familiarity.”

He blinked, the fog of drink not quite masking his embarrassment. “Ah—your fiancé, yes. The young lord Midford, is it not?”

“That’s right.” Her hand withdrew smoothly, folding into her lap. “He is rather protective. As are my brother’s staff.”

For just an instant, her eyes flicked to Sebastian—who stood at Ciel’s shoulder like a shadow with teeth—and then back to Siemens, her smile entirely polite.

The German nobleman coughed, recovering with another drink. “My apologies, Lady Phantomhive. A gentleman should not forget himself.”

Emma’s voice softened. “No harm done, Herr von Siemens. We all forget ourselves sometimes—especially after good wine.”

He laughed again, relieved, the moment already dissolving in the warmth of the candles and the storm rumbling against the windows. As he launched into another story—something about a gala in Munich and a duke’s unfortunate fall into a fountain—Emma nodded, listening, letting her responses stay graceful and mild.

All the while, she tracked the room’s currents: Ciel’s calm mask, Sebastian’s predatory quiet, the way Lau’s smile never quite reached his eyes. The night was unfolding exactly as it should. And though Siemens would not live to see the dawn, Emma still raised her glass when he toasted again—because sometimes, knowing the end made the performance even more necessary.

Chapter Text

That Lady, masked

Despite the seemingly pleasant hum inside the grand dining hall, it was only a matter of time before the atmosphere fractured.

Emma stood among the polished laughter and crystal clinks, half-listening to Lau’s theatrical retelling of some Shanghai soirée while Ran-Mao observed in dignified silence beside him. The conversation had somehow drifted to opium, of course—Lau’s favorite subject when the wine ran deep.

Emma smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “My own experiences?” she echoed. “None, I’m afraid. Though I’ve smoked a fair amount of marijuana—if that counts as cultural research.”

Lau laughed, delighted, and Ran-Mao’s mouth twitched by a millimeter. Emma had just lifted her glass again when Irene’s sharp, furious voice cut through the room like a whip.

Every head turned.

Across the table, Irene Diaz shot up from her seat, fury blazing in her dark eyes. Siemens’s hand had just brushed her waist—a touch that lingered far too long for decency.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she snapped, voice sharp enough to slice through the hum of dinner conversation.

The man blinked, already too far gone on fine wine to recognize danger. “You expect me not to,” he slurred, lips curling, “looking like that?”

The words landed heavy, crawling across the polished table like a stain.

For one suspended moment, no one breathed. Emma’s fingers tightened against the fabric of her skirt; she didn’t move. She already knew what came next.

Irene’s hand cracked through the silence—clean, decisive, the sound ringing out like gunfire. A bright red imprint bloomed instantly on Siemens’s cheek.

The man reeled, pride stinging more than his face. “You little—”

He snatched up his champagne glass, the golden liquid sloshing wildly as he threw it in blind retaliation.

The arc caught the candlelight for a single heartbeat—then burst outward, aimed straight for Irene.

Ciel was faster.

He darted between them, small body taut with fury, arms spread wide as the drink splashed across his coat. Drops of champagne clung to his dark hair like raindrops. For a moment, the entire hall froze—the mighty Phantomhive heir standing there, dripping, expression caught between disgust and composure.

When Emma glanced over Lau's shoulder, Sebastian’s grin was unmistakable, razor-thin delight curling at the edges. Of course, he’d enjoy this little performance.

“This is a banquet,” Ciel said, voice even and unflinching, though annoyance glimmered beneath. “I’d ask you both to leave your argument here and—”

He didn’t get to finish. Irene’s partner—Grimsby? Grant? Emma couldn’t remember—was already on his feet, shouting something unintelligible as he hurled a bottle of champagne toward Siemens’s head.

Sebastian moved before the sound finished leaving the man’s throat.

The air seemed to split. In a blur, the butler caught the bottle mid-air, spun, and arranged the tumbling glasses into a glittering tower before most had even registered motion. The champagne cascaded down flawlessly.

“Sebastian truly is remarkable,” Lau commented beside her, his grin as sharp as ever.

“Well, what does he always say?” Emma replied, folding her arms with mock dryness. “He’s one hell of a butler, isn’t he?”

“Indeed, he is.” Lau chuckled and stepped forward to collect his newly filled glass, as though nothing at all had happened.

Emma’s focus, however, shifted immediately to the small, drenched figure now making his way toward her—his expression torn somewhere between exasperation and pride.

“You could’ve ducked,” she murmured when he reached her.

“And let that imbecile hit a lady instead?” Ciel shot back, half a glare, half weary dignity. His coat clung to him; the damp fabric shimmered faintly in the lamplight.

“Chivalry suits you, but champagne doesn’t,” she said, her tone light as she turned to fetch a towel from one of the chairs lining the wall. It was exactly where she’d placed it earlier that day—just in case.

When she returned, she didn’t ask permission. The towel rose, soft and deliberate, brushing over his hair and cheeks.

Ciel endured it with the stoic patience of someone who’d long ago accepted that Emma rarely asked before mothering him. “You’re treating me like a child,” he muttered.

“I’m treating you like someone who looks ridiculous when sticky,” she countered. “Hold still.”

A few strands of his hair clung obstinately to his forehead. She pushed them back, gentle but efficient, her hand steady even as Sebastian, a few paces away, refilled glasses for their guests as though the scene had been choreographed.

Ciel sighed through his nose. “He’s enjoying this far too much.”

Emma smiled faintly, dabbing the edge of his jaw. “He usually does.”

Her smile sharpened slightly as her gaze drifted toward the far end of the table, where Sebastian stood, effortlessly charming a cluster of guests as though chaos had never brushed past him. He looked too pleased with himself, the faintest, smug curl at the corner of his mouth.

Emma’s eyes narrowed, amusement darkening into mischief. Enjoy yourself while you can, she thought. You won’t be smiling so wide when you’ve got a poker through the chest.

True, Sebastian adored outsmarting humans—he would take the Queen’s little test as a game. But she doubted he’d enjoy it quite as much once he was on the receiving end of it.

“I don’t like that look,” Ciel said suddenly beside her, his sharp young voice tugging her back to the present.

Emma blinked and instantly smoothed her grin into something softer, gentler. “Sorry, sweet child.”

She kept her tone low, mindful not to embarrass him in front of the guests, though the faint pink rising on his cheeks told her she’d failed just a little. His frown deepened, but he didn’t move away, which only made her chuckle.

Sebastian joined them a moment later, as seamless as ever. He slipped behind Ciel, fingers deft as he slid the drenched coat off his young master’s shoulders. “Are you alright, young master?”

Ciel arched a brow, unimpressed. “Another champagne tower?”

Emma couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped her, shaking her head as she resumed drying the last droplets along Ciel’s neck.

“Everyone seemed to like it,” Sebastian said, tone infuriatingly mild. The wet coat hung neatly over his arm, perfectly folded despite its condition.

Ciel huffed softly and reached for the towel himself. Emma handed it over, following his line of sight as his expression hardened. Siemens was still laughing at some crude remark, oblivious to the scorn in every eye turned his way.

Ciel’s next words came smoothly in French. Emma caught only fragments: cet homme, comportement, boissons. That man. Behave. Drinks. The gist was clear enough.

Sebastian replied, his voice low and amused, with something that made Ciel’s mouth twitch—the words 'lack of self-discipline' sharp among the otherwise musical syllables.

Even without knowing the full exchange, Emma could tell they were mocking him, elegantly and mercilessly.

When Ciel mentioned une maladie incurable, Emma’s composure broke; a snort escaped her before she could smother it behind her hand.

She wasn’t the only one.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, seated just behind them with a glass of wine and an entertained smirk, chuckled under his breath, clearly having caught the exchange.

Ciel turned, one finger raised to his lips, a wide grin shining there. “Shh,” he warned playfully, blue eye gleaming.

Arthur raised his free hand in surrender, still smiling.

Emma shook her head, hiding her laughter in her hair. For all their formality and masks, it was moments like these—Ciel’s wry spark, Sebastian’s veiled humor, and the fragile thread of normalcy they all clung to—that made the weight of the night feel, for a fleeting heartbeat, almost light.

The grandfather clock had just struck eleven when Lord Siemens finally slumped sideways in his chair, head lolling, snoring loud enough to rattle the silverware.

Emma nearly sighed in relief. The smell of wine and cigar smoke clung to the room, thick as fog, and her patience had thinned hours ago. As much as she enjoyed a good mystery, she could have gone her whole life without one unfolding under her own roof.

Let’s get this over with, she thought, watching with silent amusement as Sebastian, ever composed, hoisted the unconscious nobleman onto his back with effortless grace.

The sight nearly made her snort with laughter—the Queen’s Watchdog’s impeccable butler, carrying a drunken lord like an oversized child.

Ciel retired for the evening as well, bringing up his usually nonexistent bedtime, and Emma followed with the promise to return shortly.

The three of them—Ciel, Emma, and Sebastian with his snoring cargo—left the dining hall together. Once the heavy doors shut behind them, the pleasant masks fell away as if peeled off by the echoing click of the latch. Her cheeks had started to hurt from all this smiling.

The corridor stretched ahead, long and dim, candles flickering in the drafts that crept through the old manor’s bones.

“Well,” Emma murmured, glancing sideways at the ridiculous image of Sebastian carrying Siemens. “If this doesn’t make the front page tomorrow, I’ll be disappointed.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “The young master did handle himself quite admirably this evening.”

Ciel’s eye twitched. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “You’re only a child when it’s convenient.”

“Shut up,” Ciel snapped, which earned him a small, unbothered hum from the butler and a laugh from Emma.

Her hand brushed lightly against Ciel’s shoulder, a silent reminder that she was there. “You did well, sweet child,” she said softly.

He gave her a withering glare but didn’t shrug her off. “Don’t call me that when he’s listening.”

Sebastian’s grin widened, but he said nothing, pretending to adjust Siemens’s slipping arm as they continued down the corridor.

When they reached the guest wing, Sebastian paused at the correct door, pushing it open with his shoulder and disappearing inside to deposit Siemens. Emma and Ciel stopped outside the room a few doors further—his own.

“Finally,” Ciel muttered under his breath as he opened the door.

Inside, the air was warmer, scented faintly with smoke and polished wood. Emma followed him in, shutting the door behind her as thunder rolled distantly outside.

“Turn around,” she told him softly, already reaching for his coat buttons.

He hesitated. “I can manage—”

“You’re exhausted, and I’m not asking,” she said firmly, fingers deft as she unbuttoned his now dry coat and slipped it off his shoulders.

Ciel huffed, too tired to argue further. “You treat me like I’m five.”

“You act like it sometimes,” she said, tone affectionate despite the teasing. “Now lift your arm.”

He did. The sound of fabric and rain filled the quiet room.

As she unfastened his waistcoat and started on his shirt, she caught the moment realization hit him, his body going still, that telltale pink rising across his cheeks.

“You’re—” He blinked hard, flustered. “You’re a woman!”

Emma laughed outright this time, shaking her head as she reached up to ruffle his hair. “Sharp observation, my sweet child. It only took you months.”

He scowled, tugging his shirt half-closed. “That’s not what I meant—!”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted, grinning as she stepped back. “And before your tiny brain combusts, I’ll remind you who you're talking to. You know, time-traveler, modern woman. Your sister. Modesty doesn’t scare me.”

The door opened behind them, cutting off his retort.

Sebastian entered, his composure immaculate as ever, though the faintest smirk betrayed his amusement. “Shall I take over, my dear? The young master seems rather… overheated.”

Ciel made a strangled noise that might have been an insult, which only deepened Sebastian’s grin as he moved forward to help him into his nightgown.

“Perhaps the sight of feminine kindness has unsettled him,” Sebastian mused, fastening the buttons with deliberate precision. “Or perhaps he’s simply unaccustomed to such care.”

“Enough,” Ciel muttered, tugging the blankets up in an attempt to bury both himself and his pride.

Emma rolled her eyes, turning her back to give him privacy. “You two are impossible.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “That is, admittedly, accurate.”

Once Ciel was settled, she moved to his bedside. The thunder cracked again outside, rattling the windows faintly. His eyes were half-lidded, the exhaustion finally creeping in past his usual stubbornness.

Emma reached out, smoothing a hand gently over his hair. “If you need anything tonight—anything—call for me, alright? I don’t care what the plan is.”

Ciel blinked up at her, caught off guard by the softness in her tone. “You think I can't manage on my own?”

“I think everyone gets scared sometimes,” she said simply. “Even you. And just because you can manage on your own, doesn't mean you should have to.”

He hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. “…Fine. But I won’t.”

Emma smiled faintly. “I know.”

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. His hair smelled faintly of champagne and candle smoke.

“Good night, little brother,” she whispered.

Sebastian stepped forward, holding the door for her as she left. “Sleep well, young master,” he said smoothly.

Ciel’s muffled reply followed them into the corridor, half-grumble, half-affection: “Don’t call me little.”

The hallway was silent, the kind that pressed against the skin, save for the rain hitting the windows with heavy drops and the thunder rumbling high over the roof. 

Sebastian walked beside her, one hand steady on the candelabrum he carried. Its light flickered across the walls, painting the corridor in amber and shadow, their reflections wavering in every framed portrait they passed. The faint, steady rhythm of his shoes against the carpet was the only sound between them. Every once in a while, lightning creeping across the sky would illuminate the hallway, pushing the shadows away for the barest of seconds.

Emma kept her hands clasped before her, fingers idly worrying at one another. Her thoughts were tangled—half on the plan ahead, half on the heavy stillness that seemed to drape itself over the entire house.

“Would you,” Sebastian began after a stretch of silence, his tone mild but carrying easily over the thunder, “feel inclined to offer me a few details about what’s to come these next few nights?”

Emma turned her head, pretending to look scandalized. “You mean you don’t already know?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I am, though highly perceptive, not omniscient.”

She let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “I’m sure that’s debatable.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear,” he said lightly, though the glimmer in his eyes suggested he enjoyed it all the same.

Emma hesitated for a moment, her expression softening. The playfulness faded, replaced by something weightier. “I can’t tell you much,” she said finally. “If I do, I might change how things happen. And I really shouldn’t risk that.”

He hummed lowly, thoughtful. “You believe me so fragile that I cannot withstand the suspense?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “No. I believe you’re going to be in a lot of pain.”

For a heartbeat, Sebastian said nothing. The candle flame trembled as they passed a draft, its light catching in his crimson eyes as he turned to her.

“Pain,” he echoed softly, almost amused. “That would hardly be a novelty.”

“Not this kind,” she murmured.

His smile thinned into something quieter, more deliberate. “You speak as though it concerns you.”

“It does,” she said simply, and stopped walking. Of course it did. She didn't want him to be hit in the head, didn't want him to get stabbed in the back, and then have him stab himself in the chest once more.

He stopped, too, and studied her for a moment longer, then looked away again, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Then I shall endeavor,” he said at last, voice low, “to suffer beautifully, for your sake.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the small tug of a smile at her mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They walked a few more steps before she spoke again, her voice gentler now. “Ciel will act so convincingly through all this… I remember crying the first time I watched it happen.”

Sebastian glanced at her, brows lifting slightly. “You cried,” he repeated, tone colored with genuine surprise.

She huffed. “Don’t sound so shocked. You forget that I actually have human emotions.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound smooth and quiet, almost fond. “On the contrary,” he said, leaning just a fraction closer as the thunder rolled again, “it’s one of your more dangerous traits.”

Emma arched a brow. “My humanity?”

“No,” he replied softly, his gaze flicking down to her face in the candlelight. His free hand reached out, his gloved fingers gliding over her cheek so gently, she barely felt it. “Your heart. You feel too deeply — and yet still manage to stand tall after every storm.”

Her breath caught, just for a moment, at the unexpected sincerity in his tone.

Emma’s fingers came up, catching his wrist before he could pull away.

Slowly, deliberately, she pressed his hand firmer against her cheek, his palm warm even through the glove. Her eyes found his in the flickering candlelight, steady and unflinching.

“You’ll be humiliated,” she said quietly. “In a way you haven’t been before. I know because… you said it once. In the show.”

For the smallest moment, something flickered across his face—not fear, not vanity, but something older and deeper. Then, like smoke, it was gone, replaced by his usual wry calm.

“Humiliation,” he murmured, thumb brushing idly across her skin. “How delightfully human a concept. I suppose I should look forward to the experience.”

“You won’t,” she said softly.

His lips curved, though it wasn’t quite a smile, more like resignation dressed as amusement. “Perhaps not. But if it brings the young master satisfaction…” He let the words trail off, his gaze lingering on her as though to measure her reaction. “...then it will serve its purpose.”

Emma huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely rising over the patter of rain. “Oh, he’ll enjoy it immensely,” she said, a trace of teasing in her voice.

Sebastian’s expression shifted just enough, a faint narrowing of the eyes, the smallest crease at the corner of his mouth. “Of that,” he said dryly, “I have no doubt.”

She smiled, tilting her head a little against his hand. “You sound almost jealous.”

“Not jealous,” he corrected softly. “Merely… intrigued by how much entertainment humans find in my suffering.”

Her fingers slipped up from his wrist to his hand, their palms meeting briefly—warm, grounding, familiar. She wished the glove wasn't there. “You make it entertaining,” she murmured.

That earned a real smile from him, low and sharp, like the glint of steel in candlelight. “Do I?”

“You do.”

He leaned closer, just enough for the faint warmth of his breath to brush against her skin. “Then I shall endeavor to perform spectacularly.”

“Always the performer,” she whispered, though her tone was affectionate now.

“And you,” he said, his thumb tracing once more over her cheek before he let go, “the ever-attentive audience.”

Emma huffed out a quiet laugh and, almost without thinking, stepped closer. Her fingers found the curve of his waist, the fabric of his vest smooth beneath her touch. She rose onto her toes just as he leaned down, the motion instinctive, unhurried. His free hand slipped into her hair, fingers threading gently through the strands as he tilted her face toward his.

Their lips met in the softest of kisses—unspoken warmth where words would’ve felt clumsy. It wasn’t hungry or desperate, only sure. Familiar. His gloved hand lingered against her neck, the faint scrape of fabric against her skin grounding her even as the world outside rumbled with thunder.

When he drew back slightly, their foreheads stayed pressed together. His breath brushed her lips when he murmured, almost to himself,

“Even when the storm howls, you are still the calm.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his vest. “And you’re still far too good with words.”

A low hum escaped him, amused and affectionate. He kissed her once more, slower this time, before pulling away entirely. The faintest trace of a smile softened his usually sharp features as he reached up to smooth her hair back into place, fingertips lingering just a second too long.

“Shall we, my dear?” he asked, tone gentle but laced with that familiar hint of irony. “The night is far from over.”

Emma sighed, her hands falling back to her sides. “Don’t remind me.”

Sebastian chuckled, offering his arm as though none of it—the kiss, the storm, the flicker of tenderness—had ever happened.

“Then let us endure it together,” he said.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. Together, they turned down the corridor, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the storm as they made their way back toward the glow and murmurs of the banquet hall—the night’s calm already stretching thin.

Chapter Text

That Lady, lying

The rain hadn't softened in the slightest by the time Emma found herself back among the remaining guests. The grand dining hall had long since emptied—laughter and conversation scattering through the manor like drifting embers. A group had migrated to the billiard room, their voices rising with each clack of cue against ball, while others had chosen to linger in the lounge, where the air was thick with cigar smoke and lazy amusement.

Emma sat with Lau, Ran-Mao, and Karl Woodley on a velvet settee by the fire. The flickering glow painted their faces in amber and gold, the low hum of conversation blending with the patter of rain.

Lau was lounging with his usual careless grace, one elbow propped along the backrest, a glass of red wine dangling from his fingers. “You English,” he said with a grin, “never tire of your rules. Forks for this, glasses for that. A banquet should be a celebration, not a lesson in restraint.”

Karl laughed, swirling his own glass. “Ah, but without restraint, there would be no dignity. That’s what separates us from chaos.”

“Chaos,” Lau echoed, amusement glittering in his eyes. “I rather enjoy chaos. It keeps the world interesting.”

Emma, reclining slightly with her own untouched glass, smiled faintly. “No wonder you're getting along splendidly with my brother, then. He’s quite fond of a little well-placed chaos himself—so long as he’s the one causing it.”

Ran-Mao said nothing, but her eyes flicked toward Emma, a small knowing curve to her lips that said she found the remark amusing.

Karl raised his glass toward her. “Then allow me to toast to your brother—and to you, Miss Phantomhive. I must say, you’ve handled this evening with remarkable composure. Few could manage such… eccentric company.”

Emma inclined her head with a practiced smile. “Years of surviving family dinners have prepared me for worse.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. She's been here barely five months.

They laughed, the kind of laughter born from expensive wine and mutual boredom, and conversation drifted toward lighter things—business, foreign markets, the Queen’s latest gala. Karl spoke animatedly about industrial expansion and trade, while Lau countered every claim with effortless mischief and vague allusions to “more profitable” ventures he refused to name.

Emma listened, contributing when required, her words smooth and measured, the way Ciel would have wanted. She took only the smallest sips of her drink, the taste still too sharp, too dry. Wine and champagne had always felt more like performances than pleasures. Better, she thought, to stay clear-headed.

At some point, Karl gestured to his empty glass with a mock sigh. “Ah, tragedy strikes. We’re out of wine.”

Lau’s grin widened. “Then summon your miracle worker. What was it he called himself again? Ah yes — one hell of a butler.”

Emma’s smile tugged wider despite herself. “Indeed.”

She leaned over, rang the small silver bell resting on the table beside her, the clear chime cutting through the murmur of voices.

Moments later, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, candlelight catching against the silver of his tray. “You called for me, my lady?”

“More wine, please,” Emma said, tone light but steady. “It appears we’ve exhausted the current supply.”