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( chapter forty-six ! )

"Th— this wound?!"

Sieglinde's voice cuts through the tense air, trembling as she leans over the collapsed woman laid out on the woven rug, barely shielding her from the cool earth beneath. Crimson slashes stretch across the bare skin of her back, torn through the linen of her dress, deep and oozing. From shoulder to hip, three parallel claw marks laid upon another three rake across exposed flesh.

The woman trembles, her cries wet and animal, high in the throat. The blood paints the clothes around it dark. Leah hovers near the edge of the gathered women, off to one side with Ciel and the others, her arms curled about herself for warmth, teeth just beginning to chatter. Her dinner remains hardly eaten somewhere indoors, abandoned the moment Hilde barged in.

Sieglinde's voice rises over the crowd again, desperate. "Th— this is the first time such a thing has happened. Herr Wolfman has never turned his claws upon the people of our village before.."

At her side, Wolfram answers with grim efficiency, unfastening the cork of a small glass bottle, and passes it to Sieglinde. She doesn't hesitate. The liquid inside glimmers as it spills over the ruined flesh, and a howl rips from the woman on the ground. Sieglinde lays a gentle hand on the woman's head, murmuring while she pours.

Leah shifts her weight, her balance a little unsteady. She grimaces and rubs her wrist absently, still hugging her elbows. Her spine prickles from the cold, and her skin's gone clammy from the sudden shift between warmth and the forest night. Of course, she hadn't had the chance to grab anything—coat, shawl, even a pair of gloves.

She leans subtly toward Ciel without truly thinking about it, drawn more to his body heat than anything else. His fingers brush hers, brief and light, and she doesn't flinch when he does it.

"Wait," Sieglinde breathes, then louder, "Where is your talisman?!"

There's a pause, and the murmuring stutters.

A voice, high and quivering from within the crowd of village women. "Sh— she was just going to pick some medicinal herbs nearby, so she left it behind.."

"Fools," Sieglinde snaps, sudden fury and fear flaring in her. Her voice breaks as she turns back to the girl writhing beneath her. "After I told you, over and over, to keep it close to you at all times, you still.."

Leah's brow tightens. The scene shifts in her eyes, no longer just horror and chaos but something off, something askew at the edges.

She turns, her voice low, murmuring to Thomas at her side. "Why would she remove something that protects her in these woods?"

Thomas gives a long, lazy blink. "Hm. An excellent question, My Lady," his voice carries that same insufferable note of indulgence it always does when he's not especially invested. "Perhaps she had grown too confident."

"That's a stupid answer," Leah mutters.

"I'm not here to be clever. Just decorative."

Leah scowls at him, but she doesn't argue further. Her gut's crawling like she's walked into a room that looks clean but smells of blood.

Wolfram steps forward, casting a tall shadow, his cloak catching torchlight. "He might still be near," he announces, the boom of his voice jolting the crowd to motion. "Light all the torches."

Women scatter, lifting their skirts and rushing to grab long poles, flint, and steel. Flames flicker to life one by one, joining the stars above in setting the forest ablaze with trembling light.

Beside her, Sebastian and Ciel converse in quiet tones, too hushed for Leah to bother with. She isn't listening anyway.

Instead, she leans toward Thomas again, tugging at the hem of her sleeve, her mouth tight. "I don't buy it."

"Which part?" he murmurs, not looking at her.

"Any of it."

There's no chance to say more. A voice like rusted hinges shrieks out from the dark.

"'Tis the wrath o' Herr Wolfman!"

Heads turn, Leah's stomach lurches. At the fringe of the torchlight stands a figure cloaked in rags and darkness. Bent at the spine, long white hair streaming from beneath a hood, she looks like a walking curse. One eye glares white and bulging, the other dull and glazed, blind.

"'Tis his wrath at having strangers intrude upon his forest!" she croaks, gnarled finger stabbing through the air at Leah, at Ciel, at Sebastian behind them. "Begone, ye outlanders!"

Leah doesn't move.

Sieglinde, still on her knees, voice ragged from the pain of both the moment and her own constrained feet, cries out, "It's because she didn't have her talisman! If she'd had it with her, she wouldn't have been attacked!"

"Bah!" the crone spits. "Has Herr Wolfman ever before harmed us by his own hand?! Protect the outlanders, would ye?! Well, Emerald Witch?!"

A murmur stirs the gathered women. Doubt bleeds in with the light.

The old woman draws herself higher, ranting now, voice shaking with age and wrath. "Lest ye forget, Emerald Witch! Our ancestors suffered countless atrocities at the hands o' folks from the outside!"

Leah swallows a bitter taste in her throat, tuning out the rest of the woman's ramblings. Cold creeping through her slippers, the soreness blooming in her back from standing too long—those are easier to ignore than the way this hag's eyes keep lingering on her. A flush creeps up her neck, and not from shame.

The crone rounds on them, sharp nose practically quivering. "Hear ye, foolish interlopers! 'Tis ye who have unleashed the fury of Herr Wolfman!"

Now she's in Ciel's face. Long yellow fingernail lifting his chin with a sick intimacy that turns Leah's stomach.

"'Tis all your doing, swine! Yours! Sw—"

Leah's fist moves before her thoughts do. One moment, the old woman is sneering, and the next, Leah's knuckles connect with brittle cheekbone. The crunch is sickly and sharp as the crone crumples back, more surprised than injured, falling into the mud with a screech.

A silence follows, even the torches seem to be still. Leah blinks. Her wrist stings. That wasn't quite what she meant to do.

Thomas's mouth quirks into the shadow of a grin. "Well, that escalated delightfully."

Leah ignores him, rubs her hand against her skirts, and exhales. The silence breaks as Sieglinde coughs—a small, startled sound, eyes wide and expression unreadable.

Ciel is staring at Leah, unreadable, but not upset. A beat of silence passes, then he reaches for her wrist and carefully checks her knuckles, as if just making sure she hasn't cracked anything too important.

"You're ridiculous," she mutters, tugging her hand back. She doesn't pull away entirely, though.

The crone is already sitting up in the mud, one eye watering, her nose bent sideways, still cursing low and furious.

Wolfram, his voice rough and clipped, gestures sharply toward the remaining women. "Anyhow, stay inside 'til dawn! It's plain to all of you now, isn't it? Don't carelessly venture into the forest if you value your lives. Ever!"

No one argues. There's only a shuffle of skirts, a door clapping shut, the brassy squeal of an old latch locking in place.

A moment later, their small party turns away from the scene—six figures weaving beneath torchlight toward the looming silhouette of the Emerald Castle.

The path back cuts through a winding thicket of trees, shadows flickering along the moss-choked earth. The torches do little to warm her bones. Leah crosses her arms, tugging her sleeves taut as another gust of chill wind needles at her bare shoulders. The silk of her evening gown feels woefully thin against the night.

Ciel notices—he must, even if he doesn't say anything. His gaze lingers a second too long on her arms, then drifts ahead again. He walks with the same quiet deliberation as always, hands tucked into his coat pockets, posture stiff with thought. From this angle, his expression is unreadable.

She breathes out, long and slow, then mutters toward Thomas without looking. "Next time we storm out mid-supper, remind me to grab a shawl."

He's trailing half a step behind her like some ridiculous shadow, arms neatly folded, chin raised just enough to appear both mockingly dutiful and insufferably smug.

"As you command, My Lady," he says lightly. "Shall I embroider it with the words 'Leah's Emergency Wolfman Response Cloak'?"

She spares him a side-eyed glance, biting the inside of her cheek. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'Touch Me and Die.'"

Thomas hums, unfazed. "Too sentimental."

She doesn't dignify him with a reply, shifting closer to Ciel instead. His presence is steadier and quieter. Though he still says nothing, he allows it when her fingers lightly graze the back of his hand. There's warmth there, cold fingertips brushing against his glove, and his pinky curling ever so subtly around hers in return.

Their pace slows naturally to match the rhythm of Wolfram's long strides. Sebastian walks just behind them, ever so slightly turned in toward Ciel's side, his eyes narrowed, but not out of suspicion.

At one point, Thomas leans toward him with the smugness of a cat. "I thought it was your job to manage impudent old women. Growing weary of that duty, are we?"

Sebastian doesn't so much as blink. "I find there is little need when Lady Leah takes matters so.. personally."

"Oh, I quite agree," Thomas replies, resting a knuckle beneath his chin in mock thought. "She was so swift, I barely had time to savor it."

Leah rolls her eyes without looking back. "You savor it too much, and I'll break your nose next."

"Promise?" Thomas's tone lopes between teasing and fond. "What a violent creature you've become, My Lady. Marriage suits you."

"She's always been like this," Ciel remarks dryly, not glancing back either.

Leah doesn't argue. She's too tired, too cold, and there's an odd flutter just beneath her ribs that won't settle. Probably nerves, or the sick tang of metal she can still smell from the injured girl's blood.

Sebastian steps forward slightly, addressing her now. "Shall I retrieve a coat from the castle once we return?"

"No," she murmurs. "Too late for that. And it won't kill me."

His brow quirks faintly, unreadable. "I do not doubt your constitution. Still, it would be unwise to fall ill while abroad, particularly in unfamiliar climates."

Thomas leans toward her again, faux whispering. "Translation: you look like a walking goose bump and it's embarrassing for the help."

She smacks the back of his head without pausing her stride. Sebastian offers no comment on the exchange, nor does Ciel.

The wind shifts again, sending leaves rustling along the path, and Leah pulls her arms tighter across her stomach. There's a slight nausea that stirs beneath her diaphragm, not enough to slow her down, but enough to make the thought of walking another half-mile unpleasant. The dizziness is brief and dull, but lingers just behind her eyes. If she mentions it, she'll be ushered into a chair and plied with honeyed tea and hot cloths and sympathy. She doesn't want that.

Ciel's hand grazes her lower back as they pass beneath a sagging arch of branches, guiding her gently when her balance falters on a loose stone. It's so subtle she nearly misses it, but the gesture is deliberate.

"Watch your step."

She glances up at him, momentarily surprised by how close he's drawn. "I wasn't going to fall," she mutters, though her voice lacks bite.

"You looked like you might," he answers, and he doesn't let go right away.

The castle comes into view at last, its spires looming pale and greenish in the torchlight, windows dark save for a few flickering sconces on the upper floor. A crow takes off from one of the parapets with a harsh cry and wheels into the night.

Sieglinde lifts her head faintly, murmuring something into Wolfram's collar. Leah can't hear what she says, but the man makes a low sound of agreement, adjusting his grip on her before moving forward.

Behind them, Thomas sighs dramatically. "I was beginning to think we'd perish out here in the wild, devoured by mystical beasts and slandered by one-eyed hags. What a fate."

"You'd taste awful," Leah mutters.

"Oh, I should hope so."

Ciel suppresses the faintest twitch of his mouth.

They cross the threshold into the outer courtyard, the worn stone echoing beneath their steps. The great doors await.

═╬

A faint breeze lingers at the windows of the guest room, though they've long been shut. The bed, massive and ornate, is the kind meant for queens or traitors. Ciel perches at its edge, coat unbuttoned, one leg crossed lazily over the other as he addresses Sebastian, who stands at the tea tray like a man conducting an experiment.

Leah doesn't linger near them. She's by the arched window on the opposite side of the room, arms folded loosely, half-listening. Thomas lounges beside her, one hip tilted against the wall, inspecting his nails as if they might peel up something more interesting than the scene before him. Anna stands behind her, silent and patient.

Sebastian pours dark amber liquid into a china cup with a steadiness bordering on unnatural. Ciel's voice is even, clipped, as always. "Make it strong."

Leah lifts her chin slightly. "If we're staying up, could you make something less bitter for me? Not too much honey, but something soft. Chamomile, perhaps."

Sebastian's eyes flick toward her. "Of course, My Lady—"

"No," Ciel interrupts without turning. "You'll be sleeping."

That earns him a pause. Leah narrows her eyes faintly. "I beg your pardon?"

He glances toward her then, face unreadable but firm. "You're not needed for this."

"And what, pray tell, is 'this'?" her tone is mild, but her arms tighten across her bodice.

"Business," he says. "You'll retire for the night."

"Why?"

"Because I've said so."

The heat in her chest spikes a little, a sharp, slow irritant, like vinegar on a cut. She opens her mouth again, then closes it. He's her husband, and she is meant to obey.

Her jaw sets. "Fine. Thomas, help me out of this dress."

Ciel's expression darkens at once. "He will do no such thing."

Thomas halts mid-reach, hand hovering dramatically over the brass clasp. "How tragic. The fantasy was so brief."

Leah turns toward Ciel. "Why not?"

"Because I am your husband. And another man—servant or not—has no business seeing you undressed, if it can be helped."

Leah tilts her head, visibly unimpressed. "He's seen me in less a dozen times over. He was dressing me long before you were ever in the picture."

"And that picture has changed," Ciel murmurs into his teacup. "You'll have Anna."

There's a silence thick enough to stretch across the entire suite, even Thomas's amused hum is quieter than usual.

"Anna," Leah mutters with a flick of her fingers. "Come here."

The maid crosses to her, and Thomas makes a small, wounded noise. "I suppose I'll fold handkerchiefs alone tonight," he murmurs.

"Choke on one," Leah snaps, but without real ire.

He brings a hand to his chest, swooning. "Yes, My Lady."

She takes the nightgown from him without thanks. It's soft between her fingers—light muslin, pale ivory, with short, puffed sleeves and a lace trim that falls modestly at the collar but doesn't leave much to the imagination once candlelight gets involved. Not indecent, exactly, but certainly not a nun's garb. The kind of garment made more for private comfort than propriety. She doesn't care much. It's comfortable, and she's tired.

Behind the tall lacquered screen, Anna begins loosening the laces of her gown. Leah exhales, grateful to be out of the corset even if it leaves her dizzy for a second. Her skin is a touch clammy, and her legs ache more than usual. It's not even late, but the warmth of the room and the weight of the day has her head slightly swimming.

Outside the safety of the screen, Ciel's muffled voice reaches her through the rustle of fabric. The door creaks open, followed by a soft thump.

"Well, well, Lady Sullivan," Sebastian announces.

Then a flutter of something above—balloons. They drift to the ceiling like escaping secrets, caught against the arch of the roof.

Another thump and a rustle of fabric. Leah cranes her neck slightly, her chemise half-draped across one arm. She glimpses the shadow of motion through the carved wood of the screen, hears the creak of leather boots and the subtle wheeze of string.

Then Sieglinde's voice, small but bright. "I am a witch. I can see right through you two and what you're doing."

Leah's mouth curls faintly as Anna finishes tying the ribbon at the back of her gown. Her ears stay trained on the voices behind the screen, but her eyes flicker upward toward the balloon strings still dancing against the beams. A child's trick, but clever all the same. Something in her tone, confident and almost wry, reminds Leah of herself.

Back in her own world, Leah tugs at the sleeve of her gown and examines her reflection in the ornate mirror beside the dressing screen. The fabric's soft and clingy, a little translucent in the wrong light. She doubts Ciel will care, but Thomas might say something, if only to annoy her.

She steps out from behind the screen a moment later, hair loose and nightgown swaying just past her ankles. She ignores Thomas's pointed look and Sebastian's brief glance, instead drifting toward the armchair by the fireless hearth, easing into it slowly. Her legs fold neatly beneath her.

Her stomach twinges, a strange emptiness. She's a touch hungry, or maybe just queasy. She doesn't dwell on it. Leah smirks faintly, chin resting in her hand.

Sebastian clears his throat, offering another cup of steaming tea to Ciel. "Shall I prepare something more calming for Lady Leah, now that she's retired?"

Ciel glances toward her. He looks for a moment like he's about to object again, but stops short. Maybe it's the nightgown, or maybe it's the way she isn't looking at him.

She doesn't wait for his response. "Yes," she says. "Chamomile, please. With a bit of orange peel, if there's any to be found. I've had enough bitterness for one evening."

Ciel shifts on the bed, clearly on edge from Sieglinde's rather abrupt entrance minutes prior. Leah glances over just in time to see the girl suddenly throw herself backwards onto the mattress beside her husband.

"Well, come on, then!" Sieglinde declares.

The mattress gives an offended bounce under her weight. Ciel jolts, catching himself with one hand on the bed, eyes wide. Leah, who has just perched herself on the other edge of the bed with a wary grace, feels her heart hiccup in her chest.

Sieglinde props herself up on her elbows and grins between them. "Never did I imagine my first time would be a foursome, but this is all experience gained. Please do be as gentle as possible."

Leah freezes, her hand tightens slightly over her robe's sash. It's not the implication that bothers her—well, it is—but the absurdity of the phrasing.

Ciel, understandably, does not appear amused. He stares at Sieglinde like she's just grown another head. "What.. did she just say?"

Leah doesn't answer, lips parting in either disbelief or impending laughter—it's impossible to say which. Her eyes flick toward Sebastian, who merely raises an eyebrow, who is surprisingly also rather shocked.

Sieglinde's eyes flit toward Ciel, her fingers reaching up to the fastenings at the front of her bizarre contraption of a garment. "It appears you are perplexed by the design of my garb, yes? First, you must undo this button here—"

"No, no, no!" Ciel all but recoils, his voice rising. "Hold on! What exactly are you trying to do?!"

The girl pauses, cheeks pinkening only slightly as she gives a bemused blink. "So you prefer to conquer the citadel alone, do you? Your face says otherwise, but you're a man after all!"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about!" His voice is sharper now, louder, his discomfort practically vibrating off him.

Leah leans slightly away from the growing chaos, her stomach curling with an odd cocktail of amusement and nausea. The bed is warm beneath her, unpleasantly so. Anna stands near the screen where she'd just helped her mistress change, while Thomas lounges by the window with an expression of detached interest.

Sebastian murmurs, "So the young master is the kind of man who prefers to undress a woman himself," the barest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Or perhaps you're the kind of man who likes to have his women clothed?!" Sieglinde overlaps seamlessly.

Leah glares, but only half-heartedly. Her limbs feel too heavy to lunge. The sheer absurdity of it all is dragging a reluctant smile to her lips.

"I don't understand what you're saying, but I do know that you've got it utterly wrong!" Ciel yells.

Sieglinde gives a thoughtful hum, eyes narrowing. "Wait, could you be.."

Without warning, her hand darts forward and tugs slightly at Ciel's waistband. "Huh, so you're a male after all," she muses, blinking at what she's seen.

Ciel recoils like he's been stung. "How dare you?!"

The force of his reaction sends her tumbling backwards off the bed, limbs flailing and hair fanned out like a ruffled raven on the floorboards. A beat of silence follows, then a slight whimper.

Sebastian peers over the edge of the bed, stifling a laugh. "Lady Sullivan, are you quite alright?"

"What a boor you are to humiliate a young and innocent maiden!" Sieglinde moans from the floor, clearly undeterred. "You effeminate cur!"

Ciel springs in his spot, nearly stepping over Leah in the process. "Like I said, I haven't a clue what you're saying! You deviant damsel!"

Leah moves back slightly, tucking one leg under the other. On the floor, Sieglinde props herself up, her eyes now landing on Leah—more specifically, Leah's nightgown, or what little of it can be seen through the loosely tied robe. A slow grin unfurls on the girl's face.

Leah blinks once. "Don't even think about it."

Sieglinde lifts herself with what is clearly practiced effort, shuffling forward on her knees until she's by the bed again. "You are so very beautiful," she murmurs in soft, rolling German, her fingers brushing against Leah's ankle through the gauzy hem of her gown. "May I..?"

"You may not," Leah retorts, narrowing her eyes, though her voice isn't sharp.

That doesn't stop the girl. Her hand trails higher, fingertips ghosting along Leah's calf. The movement is featherlight and exploratory. Her head tilts. "I've only ever read about touching another woman," she continues thoughtfully. "But you are like marble with silk draped over it."

"Sullivan—" Leah warns, and she means it, but her tone is tinged with fatigue more than menace. She's far too aware of Ciel's stare boring into her from across the bed.

Ciel, of course, looks seconds from combustion. "Get away from her!"

The girl only glances up, expression impish. "Is she not your wife? Are you not meant to share things?"

Sebastian chuckles in the corner. "I do believe you're giving the Young Master heart palpitations, Lady Sullivan."

"Stop encouraging her," Ciel snaps, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he storms around to Leah's side.

Sieglinde turns her attention fully now, pressing closer. "I merely wish to see what is so very precious. I do not intend to steal her— only to borrow."

Her hand finds the edge of Leah's robe and begins to tug, gentle but determined. Leah doesn't stop her. It's hard to tell if she's frozen or simply curious. Her expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between boredom and faint interest. Her brain feels a few seconds slower than it should, weighted by the tea, the heat, the entire sequence of nonsense. She meets Sieglinde's gaze without flinching.

That's precisely when Ciel all but lunges. The silence that follows Sieglinde's second dramatic fall from the bed is broken by the indignant sound of her skirts rustling and a soft, wounded exhale. She lies sprawled on the floorboards, tangled in her own layers of ruffles and ribbons, blinking up at the ceiling as though the heavens themselves had betrayed her virtue.

Leah exhales slowly through her nose, her hands pressed flat against the covers as though trying to steady herself. She resists the urge to rub at her eyes.

Ciel's voice rises again in indignant protest, rattling off something about propriety and scandal and—God help them all—boundaries. Sieglinde, now propped upright on her elbows, stares at him with open, bemused offense, cheeks glowing pink.

"Now, now, you two."

Sebastian's voice cuts through the tension like a needle through silk. A familiar silver tray appears in his gloved hands, held out in front of him with the poise of a seasoned waiter presenting a crown jewel. Nestled on fine porcelain are three neat rows of sweets: golden caramel macarons, delicate eclairs piped with coffee cream, and slender dark chocolate florentines glistening with candied peel and almonds.

"Sharing sweet moments in bed can be delightful as well," he offers smoothly, his gaze drifting with pointed innocence across the room, "but what do you say to some sweets of the edible sort first?"

Leah very nearly slaps the tray out of his hands. Sebastian only smiles, bowing his head with mock humility. His timing, of course, is intentional.

Sieglinde's eyes sweep over the selection like a scholar before a sacred text. She snatches up a Florentine and takes a bite so large her cheeks puff like a chipmunk's as crumbs fall into her lap.

"'Men are always overwhelmed by the lusts of the flesh.' Or so it is invariably written in books."

From his post near the wall, Thomas exhales sharply through his nose, amused.

"Well," Sebastian concedes, moving to stand behind Leah's shoulder, "such men do exist, but—"

Sieglinde waves her hand, interrupting him with another mouthful of sugary confidence. "Only females reside in Wolfsschlucht. So this is my first time seeing a living, breathing man."

The statement hangs in the air. Leah glances up, blinking. It's difficult to imagine never seeing men—not at social functions, not on the street, not even within one's own household. Her entire life had been shaped by men; their rules, their wants, their expectations. She's lived in a world built and run by them. It hadn't occurred to her that someone else's world could be entirely devoid of them.

"What about Herr Wolfram?" Sebastian's inquiry is light, almost offhand.

"He's more like a guard dog," Sieglinde replies plainly, licking eclair cream off her thumb without thought.

A long pause follows. Leah doesn't speak. She simply listens, her breathing steady but slower than usual, the way it often is these days when she's trying to keep from being sick or dizzy. Sieglinde speaks with such nonchalance about the village, about her ancestors, about the witches that came before her. There's mention of emerald bloodlines and spells cast.

Through it all, Leah remains silent.

Sieglinde's voice draws the room back into focus. "As such, I've never once set foot outside of this village since birth. I'm certain I'll live out my days here without ever doing so."

Her eyes flick between Leah and Ciel. "You return to the world outside on the morrow, yes?"

Leah nods once.

"Let me hear all about the world I'll never come to know. The world that exists beyond the forest!"

Sebastian leans down, whispering something into Ciel's ear. The boy's brows twitch, as though debating it, but in the end, he sighs and extends his hand toward Sieglinde.

"Sorry.. just now. Let's be friends."

Sieglinde blinks at his outstretched hand like it's a strange creature trying to climb into her lap.

Leah lifts a brow, shifting her weight where she sits. "It's customary where we're from," she explains dryly. "A handshake. It signifies acquaintance, or trust."

Understanding dawns across the witch's face. She bobs her head and then promptly latches onto Leah's hand instead, her grip comically firm.

"Oh, that's right. I shall give you these."

From beneath the folds of her gown, she draws out three talismans. "They're charms to keep the wolfman at bay. Wear them on your way back."

Thomas lifts a brow. "Do I get one as well, or is this a ladies-only affair?"

She peers at him, brow furrowing in brief confusion, before passing over a fourth. "For the house pet, too."

Thomas, grinning faintly, tucking it in his pocket with mock solemnity. "How gracious."

Then Sieglinde's attention turns with sudden purpose toward Sebastian. "Now then! Let's have you get right down to it and tell me more about those 'sweet moments in bed' you mentioned before."

Sebastian puts a finger to his chin. "I suppose I did say something to that effect. What shall I do, young master?"

Ciel looks positively murderous. "Must you even ask? Go get toys or something and play with her."

Turning to Sieglinde, Sebastian murmurs, "It would seem that the Young Master wishes to play with toys in bed."

The witch nearly drops her Florentine. "What a terribly keen appetite from the onset!"

Ciel's face twists in dismay. "What kind of reaction is that?! I bet you've gone and misunderstood something again, haven't you?!"

A soft laugh escapes Leah before she can suppress it. She draws her legs beneath her on the bed, patting the space beside her and gesturing Sieglinde over with a flick of her wrist. The girl obeys, scooting up beside her like a curious pet.

"Don't act so eager. You'll strain something," Leah says.

"I'll strain something regardless," Sieglinde replies without thinking, and immediately claps a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Her cheeks pinken, the blush crawling high and fast. "Oh no, that came out wrong—"

"Did it?" Leah asks sweetly, dry as chalk. She leans in just enough that the scent of her skin catches in the air. "I hadn't noticed."

A nervous laugh bubbles from the other girl's throat. Leah waits for it to settle, then tilts her head against the wooden post, lashes low.

"Sometimes," she murmurs, "when he's tired, he falls asleep with his cheek pressed against my hip. That counts, doesn't it?"

Sieglinde gasps—delighted, scandalized, and fully invested. "It must! That's— oh, that's so intimate."

Leah only hums, feigning thoughtfulness. "And once," she adds, almost absently, "he kissed the inside of my thigh for so long I forgot what day it was."

The squeal that escapes from the other girl is muffled by both hands.

"He's rather thorough," Leah continues, voice lilting like idle gossip over tea. "Very detail-oriented. Sometimes he apologizes before leaving marks, but that's never stopped him. I suppose he likes his work to be seen."

The girl squeals and hides her face behind her hands. Her blush spreads to her ears.

"Oh, and once, he— oh, no, I shouldn't say," she grins slyly. "But it involved honey and a very long night."

Behind them, Ciel is visibly suffering. His face is pale, then red, then pale again. "Leah," he warns.

She merely shrugs, entirely unrepentant. It's then that the door creaks open softly as Anna reenters the room. It's only when she kneels at the edge of the table, smoothing out a small bundle of paper, a tin of well-kept pencils, and a worn deck of playing cards that anyone notices she had left at all. Her hands move with steady precision, expression mild.

A sigh escapes Leah as she leans against the plush pillows behind her. The warmth of the bed is starting to get to her. If she could, she would very much prefer to lie down fully and drift off into that sweet, dreamless haze her body's been begging her for ever since dinner. Unfortunately, there's still Sieglinde propped against the pillows beside her.

Leah glances over, watching the girl lean slightly toward the table, visibly excited by the paper and pencils.

Anna rises and offers a small bow, speaking in her usual dull murmur. "Shall I take my leave, My Lady?"

Leah's lips twitch faintly. "Yes, go on. You've earned some peace tonight. Thank you."

With the maid gone, the atmosphere shifts. Thomas lingers by the door like an ornament, perfectly polished and bored out of his mind. Sebastian is already perched near Ciel, ever-watchful, like a cat who's pretending not to be interested in the birds pecking at the windowsill.

Sieglinde reaches for a pencil, rolling it between her fingers. "Shall we draw?" she asks.

Ciel, to Leah's mild surprise, actually humours her. He lifts a sheet of paper and starts sketching with a casual ease. He doesn't seem enthused, exactly, but he's calm and willing. Leah watches him from her spot, legs tucked to the side, a hand resting just below her ribcage.

Her first drawing is little more than a bored circle. Then she adds lines, then a vaguely human form, and then something dark curls in the corners of her lips as inspiration strikes.

It's hideous. A caricature of Sebastian, with exaggerated demon horns, sharp little fangs, and a grin too wide to be anything but obscene. Yet it's drawn well. Meticulously detailed, almost disturbingly so. She takes her time with it, pausing only to stifle a yawn.

When she finally nudges the sheet toward Sebastian's elbow, her face is schooled into something resembling mild innocence. He glances at it and his lips twitch.

"How flattering, My Lady," he murmurs, adjusting the plate of sweets nearby with unbothered elegance. "You've captured my essence so thoroughly I dare not contradict it."

Leah arches a brow. "Glad you agree. Now go put it in a frame and hang it above your bed."

"I shall treasure it forever," he doesn't even blink, tone syrup-smooth.

Ciel leans over just enough to glance at the paper, snorts softly, and mutters something about her being insufferable. Leah just stretches her arms overhead. The flicker of chill through the room makes her shiver.

"I want to be read to," she declares suddenly, shifting her attention toward Thomas, who still hasn't moved.

His gaze flickers lazily toward her. "A story, My Lady?"

"No, a cookbook," she deadpans. "Of course a story, idiot."

Thomas bows slightly, too exaggerated to be genuine. "As my lady wishes."

He disappears, then returns not a minute later holding a slim volume in hand, one she instantly recognizes by the scuffed spine and shimmering gilt edge.

"Not that one." She wrinkles her nose. "The book I bought last week. The French one."

Ciel's pencil halts mid-line, and his head turns slowly.

Thomas raises a brow. "Ah. That one."

"Yes, that one," Leah replies, stretching back against the pillows again, crossing her ankles with catlike laziness.

He opens it and, with no sense of propriety, begins to read. "His hand brushed the swell of her—"

"That's enough," Ciel interjects sharply, sitting upright as though slapped. "What the devil is that book?"

Leah shrugs. "I bought it with the allowance you gave me."

"You— bought it?"

She reaches for a Florentine and nibbles at the edge, eyes half-lidded. "It sounded interesting. The premise involved aristocratic lovers exchanging secret letters during wartime. I didn't realize it had so much— flesh."

Thomas, helpfully, closes the book with a very audible snap. "There was quite a bit of it, My Lord."

"You're not reading that filth," Ciel decides with finality, tone like frost.

Leah sighs, more annoyed at being interrupted than truly scandalized. "Fine. Fetch Alice, then, Thomas. You'll do something useful for once in your long, dreary life."

"With the greatest delight, My Lady," he vanishes again, clearly amused, and she tosses a pillow after him. It misses, but the gesture counts.

Sieglinde, who has been watching all this with some confusion and a great deal of curiosity, finally pipes up, holding out her drawing—a horse, or perhaps a goat, with enormous eyes and smoke puffing from its ears. Ciel accepts it with something bordering on patience, muttering a soft, "Thank you," while sketching a tree in response.

Leah leans forward, sketching something beside Ciel's tree—something crooked and bent and probably supposed to be an owl, but it ends up looking like a disgruntled man with feathers. She adds a top hat for good measure.

Thomas returns, this time with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, the familiar worn cover almost comforting as he presents it to her like a holy text.

"Page sixteen," she instructs, folding her arms.

He reads with less sarcasm this time, perhaps sensing the shift in her mood. Leah closes her eyes briefly, listening. The rhythm of the words, the flutter of pages, Sieglinde's laughter as she tries to mimic the English words, the warmth of Ciel's thigh brushing hers—everything knits together into something strange and hazy.

═╬

The sound that wakes her isn't thunder, nor footsteps, nor any sort of alarm, but rather a low, muffled groan of exhaustion near her shoulder. A warm weight shifts the mattress beside her, prompting her lashes to flutter open just in time to see Ciel half-collapse onto his elbows, hair slightly askew and coat discarded.

"She's finally asleep..!" he breathes, voice tight with disbelief and low enough not to wake the girl.

Leah blinks, the edges of her vision still blurred, caught somewhere between sleep and irritation. Her head throbs faintly, not enough to be painful, but enough to be noticed. She shifts slightly, one hand rising to shield her eyes from the candlelight, before it drops again as she props herself onto one elbow.

Scattered across the bed are the remnants of earlier chaos—sketched pages curling at the corners, half-bent playing cards, pencils without their points. One has rolled precariously close to the edge of the bedframe. Sieglinde lies nestled in a fortress of pillows, her hair unbound and sprawled in all directions like fine silk thread. Her lips part slightly as she breathes in that childishly deep, slack-jawed sleep known only to those who wear themselves to pieces before surrendering to it.

Sebastian stands near the foot of the bed, composed as always, though there's an almost imperceptible amusement flickering beneath the surface. "Admirably done, Young Master," he murmurs.

Ciel exhales something between a scoff and a laugh, shifting to sit back properly. "Even though I just had single words, I managed to keep up the conversation. Her speech was easier to follow than the fellow who sold us the carriage."

Leah huffs a quiet breath through her nose and pushes herself upright, pulling the blanket loosely over her thighs. Her gaze flits over Ciel's profile, tired but not frayed. He doesn't look as worn as she would expect from someone who spent the better part of an hour entertaining a girl in another language, but he's clearly had enough of the day.

A sharp knock slices through the stillness. Ciel straightens immediately, shoulders taut as Sebastian turns toward the door, just in time for it to ease open without awaiting response. Wolfram steps in.

"Looks like my lady has paid you a visit," he says, voice flat, eyes flickering first to Sieglinde, then briefly to Leah.

Ciel's hand moves instinctively, drawing up part of the blanket to cover Leah's legs a touch more thoroughly. It's subtle, but it earns him a glance of quiet appreciation from her, even if she doesn't say a word.

Wolfram crosses to the bedside without fanfare and gently begins to gather Sieglinde into his arms. She stirs only slightly, brow creasing in her sleep before nestling into his shoulder.

Sebastian's tone remains perfectly polite as he notes, "She has only just fallen asleep."

At that, Wolfram turns toward the door, gaze unreadable. "Whatever my lady may have told you, put it out of your mind. You leave at daybreak. Are we clear?"

He doesn't wait for acknowledgment, just pivots and disappears as easily as he entered, Sieglinde still sleeping soundly in his arms.

Once the door shuts, Leah shifts her attention between Ciel and Sebastian, brow arching as the two of them exchange a glance that seems to communicate more than words ever could. It's one of those quick, fleeting things that feels like a secret unfolding right in front of her. Ciel stands, Sebastian moving with him, already drawing a modest winter cloak across Ciel's shoulders as if this were all rehearsed.

She doesn't bother hiding her annoyance. "You're going," she mutters, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, fingers curling around the nearest sheet of paper before discarding it. "You're both going."

Ciel doesn't answer right away. Leah rises, swaying just faintly, enough to make her grab the foot of the bed for support. Not out of weakness, not that she would admit to it, but the room swirls when she moves too quickly.

"Are you sure I can't come?" she asks, voice too even, too cool, betraying just a sliver of vulnerability tucked between her tone and the silence that follows it.

"I'd rather not risk you being dragged into something dangerous," he answers, tone light but firm. "Especially not if— if you're actually with child."

Leah flinches inwardly at the phrasing. Not from shame or worry, but from the implication that her body is no longer entirely her own. She doesn't care for it.

"I'm not porcelain," she mutters.

"You fell asleep two hours before she did and barely moved the entire time. I'd say you're not at your most resilient just now."

He steps toward her and presses a kiss to her cheek. The kind of gesture that isn't loud, but is honest. Leah softens against it without meaning to, tilting her face up only slightly, breathing in the smell of wool.

He doesn't say anything else, just leaves. Now, the door closes behind them with the finality of a guillotine, and the room seems emptier, still full of the remnants of the evening but missing its most active pieces. The silence left in their wake is infuriating.

Leah sinks back onto the bed with a groan, kicking a few playing cards onto the floor. Her head is aching again. She stretches her legs out, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Thomas," she calls, snapping her fingers.

He appears from the shadow near the hearth where he had been seated, cross-legged like a lounging cat. He lifts his chin in the most passive form of acknowledgement. "Yes, My Lady?"

"I'm bored."

"I gathered."

"Entertain me."

He doesn't even blink. "How?"

"I don't know. Juggle something. Set yourself on fire. Dance. You're a monster, do something unholy."

"There's a limit to what I'll do," he replies mildly, walking over with his hands in his coat pockets. "Though if you insist, I could always recite The Inferno in its original Tuscan. Or strip."

Leah huffs, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at his head. "Don't be disgusting."

"Too late," he says, catching the pillow and setting it back in place. "It's in my nature."

She shifts again, pulling her knees up and hugging them. The room feels too warm and too cold all at once, her skin either crawling or numbed. She's tired but not sleepy, restless but too heavy to pace.

"Very well. Shall I sing you a tragic ballad whilst tossing apples in the air with my eyes closed?" he murmurs, standing with exaggerated reluctance.

She waves a hand. "Do as you please, but if you drop one, I'm going to throw the candlestick at your head."

His smile curls like smoke. "A risk I'm willing to take."

He does juggle—three pieces of fruit from the side table, which he plucks with feline grace. It's absurd, watching a man in a silk waistcoat and polished boots spinning pears in the air while wearing the expression of someone who'd rather be stabbed, but it works.

Leah lets herself laugh, a breathless, amused thing that dies in her throat just as quickly. Her limbs feel heavy, like she's been swimming. There's a mild pressure building at the back of her neck again, and a sudden sourness rolls through her stomach.

Thomas notices. "My lady looks pale."

"She's tired," Leah counters.

"I daresay she always is these days."

She rolls her eyes and leans back against the pillows, arm draped dramatically across her brow. "Keep juggling or I'll make you eat that pear off the floor."

He juggles, she watches. Night stretches long before her, empty of Ciel's voice, of movement, of certainty. Thomas is on his third round of balancing silver teaspoons on the tips of his gloved fingers, pretending to look invested while clearly imagining himself anywhere else, while Leah stares with a dispassionate eye. He finishes the act with a soft flourish and a slight bend at the waist, mockingly theatrical.

"You're utterly useless," she drawls, arms folded.

Thomas straightens, dropping the spoons back into their porcelain dish with a soft clatter. "And yet you're still here watching. Makes one wonder which of us is the more pathetic."

She huffs. "You're the one doing parlor tricks for a bored girl. I think the answer's clear."

His mouth lifts slightly, a tilt more than a smile. "As ever, your logic cuts deeper than steel, My Lady."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't be dramatic."

The corner of her lip twitches, and that's enough to satisfy him. He dusts his palms together and approaches the window, glancing back over his shoulder with the air of someone tired of being the entertainment.

"That's quite enough nonsense for tonight. Sleep now."

"I'm not tired."

"You were yawning mid-insult."

"I was bored," she mutters, refusing to move.

Thomas doesn't push it. He merely lifts one hand to the iron latch of the balcony doors and murmurs something under his breath—a short phrase that turns the metal hot for the briefest of seconds before sealing it tight with an almost inaudible click. It doesn't look locked, but it is.

"What was that?" her voice sharpens.

He turns, fixing her with a look both flat and pointed. "You're not to go near balconies alone. Must I keep reminding you?"

A long pause. Her stomach flips, sour and sudden and uninvited.

"That was years ago," she mutters.

"You were fourteen. You threw yourself from the third floor. If I hadn't caught you—"

"Well, you did catch me," she cuts in, sharper than intended. "So perhaps you might consider letting it go."

His gaze doesn't soften, though there's no real anger there. "And if I hadn't?"

She doesn't answer, she won't. Instead, she folds deeper into the bedding, pulling the blankets tighter around her legs. "You're terribly sentimental for someone who's not even human."

"I'm many things, My Lady. Sentimental is merely a performance."

With that, he vanishes into shadow, leaving the room emptier than before. She glances at the balcony, heart thudding in a strange, uncomfortable way. The weight of the lock, invisible but present, presses against her chest more than the blankets. She tries not to think about it.

Her body won't relax. The scent is wrong, the silence is wrong. The pillow feels like it belongs to someone else, and Ciel isn't here to murmur something dry or sarcastic that would at least break up the stillness. Her legs ache, her back itches near the base of her spine, one of her shoulders feels colder than the other, and her chest is tight in that way that only ever means she's about to overthink something to death.

For a while, she manages. She thinks about the events of the day, the way Sieglinde's hair had curled like silver wire across the pillows, the way Ciel had looked when he collapsed beside her. Sebastian's voice echoing low across the room. She picks at the edge of the blanket, rubs her thumb over a bruise she hadn't noticed earlier on her arm. It fades purple under her touch.

Then her thoughts wander. Not like footsteps through snow, more like a fall. She doesn't notice when it begins, only that her breath catches and suddenly she's staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, throat dry.

It starts with one image—her mother's hand, pale and streaked with blood, gripping the side of a silk-sheeted mattress. The sound of shouting. Her father's voice, low and frantic.

"You have to choose, My Lord."

Then it unspools.

Leah shifts, suddenly clammy beneath the covers. The flicker of memory is too strong, too loud. She was five. The maid had dragged her from the corridor, but not before she'd heard enough. Not before she'd seen enough. Not before it was repeated to her by her father.

Her breath hitches, and she swallows. It shouldn't bother her. Her mother is a witch in her own right—controlling, critical, never kind—but the memory is still there. That moment when the nursemaid whispered, "You nearly had a little sister." The silence that followed, the way the house felt colder for weeks, the way her father wouldn't look her in the eye for days.

Her stomach turns, and she pushes the blanket away and sits up too quickly, palms pressed to the mattress. Her nightgown clings unpleasantly to her skin, too warm in some places. The candle guttering beside her throws a shadow across her lap.

She doesn't want this. Not really. Not now, not ever, and no one's forcing her to care. Not Ciel, not even herself, but her body's acting like it's happening, and that alone is enough to make her want to claw her skin off. The very idea of something forming inside her—something small, faceless, wordless—sends a shiver up her spine.

She doesn't want to die. Her mother had almost died. No, she can't think like that.

Leah lets out a sound, quiet and ugly, and curls forward, arms wrapping tight around her knees. Her throat stings. The room spins just slightly, and her heart is hammering in her chest.

It's too much. She wants Ciel. She wants the weight of his arm over her hip, his quiet, steady breathing. His voice. Even his stupid little frowns. Anything but this room. Anything but this empty bed. Anything but the silence that feels like it's digging into her skull.

The thought of him choosing her or the baby rips through her like a blade. Would he pick her? Would he hesitate? Does he even think like that? And if he wouldn't have to choose, if it all went perfectly fine, then what?

What the hell is she supposed to do with a child? She's seventeen. She only just started believing that maybe someone could love her without strings. She can't even make it through the night without needing someone else in the room.

Her palms press to her temples. She doesn't cry, just lets the shaking settle over her like dust. Minutes pass, or hours. She doesn't know.

Eventually, Leah lies back down because she can't hold herself upright anymore. Her body is exhausted, and her mind is wrecked. The nausea fades, but the rest doesn't. She stares at the ceiling. Sleep doesn't come. Every time she blinks, something ugly flashes in her mind. Blood, hands, a midwife's face twisted in something between horror and regret.

The sheets tangle around her ankles. She shoves them off with a growl, tossing a pillow across the room just to hear something break the hush. It thumps dully against the writing desk and knocks a bottle of ink sideways. The blot spreads slow and black like rot.

"Ugh— God, this room," she snaps aloud, voice cracking around the consonants. Her chest tightens further, the tremor in her hands no longer ignorable.

She stands too quickly. The world tips, only slightly, but enough to make her stagger. She presses her palms to her stomach, not softly, not lovingly. Like she's checking for damage. Finding none, she paces. One lap, then two. Her bare feet make soft sounds on the polished wood.

Then she screams. Not a dramatic, drawn-out wail. Not theatrical. It's brief, loud, and ripped straight from her lungs, the kind of noise that feels involuntary, pulled from some part of her she can't shut up tonight.

The chandelier flickers overhead. A low pulse rises in her ears. She slaps her palm against the foot of the bed.

"I am not doing this," she hisses. "I am not dying in some damn bath of blood while everyone stands around wringing their hands. I'm not—" her voice spikes again, nearly shrill, "—not going to be cut open for something that isn't even real yet!"

She kicks the footstool beside the vanity hard enough to send it skidding. Her lungs hurt, and her throat stings.

"I am not my mother!" she yells at the empty air. "And I don't— I don't care what anyone thinks! It's my life. Mine. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't—" her voice breaks entirely. She presses her knuckles to her mouth and shakes.

There's noise beyond the door, a shift of footsteps, and two distinct voices. One deep, clipped, German, and unmistakably Wolfram. The other lazy, silken, amused even as it murmurs apology after apology.

"..I do beg your pardon, she's rather spirited when she gets like this," Thomas is saying. "Yes, yes, of course, Sir Wolfram. I'll see to it that she calms down. A thousand thanks."

Their voices trail off as Wolfram moves further down the corridor. The door creaks open a second later, just wide enough to let in Thomas's narrow silhouette. The light from the hallway glints off one cufflink and a single, watchful eye. He leans against the frame, gaze sweeping over the chaos in the room with the same disinterest one might afford a spilled glass of wine.

"You truly must learn to suffer in silence, My Lady."

She turns on him, still trembling. "You—"

"—Are not the one making such an ungodly racket at this hour, no," he interjects, stepping inside and quietly clicking the door shut behind him. "What, precisely, was the goal of that display? To terrify the locals? To frighten the furniture?"

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. "I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, clearly," he glances toward the overturned pillow, the ink staining the wood. "But do be honest— was there ever a moment when you were?"

The sharpness in his voice surprises her. Not mocking, not his usual detached sweetness edged with sarcasm. A shade of real irritation hiding beneath the velvet.

She glares, breath still uneven. "If you don't like being here, you can leave."

"I wasn't here. I was outside, enjoying a perfectly peaceful nothing, until you began screaming like a Victorian banshee."

"That is what I am."

He lifts an eyebrow. "A banshee?"

"Victorian."

She's still shaking; the room doesn't feel quite real anymore. Her muscles hurt from holding tension for so long. She wants to hit him, or cry, or collapse into a chair and vanish through the floor. Instead, she digs her nails into her own arm just to feel the sting.

Thomas, of course, notices. "Now, now," he murmurs, stepping closer with all the caution of someone approaching a wounded, feral thing. "If you're going to bleed, at least do it prettily."

She turns away, but too slowly.

"Leah."

The rare use of her name stops her breath. He stands at her side now, and though his tone shifts back toward lightness, it doesn't mask the undercurrent.

"You're not going to die," he tells her flatly.

She doesn't look at him. "You don't know that."

"I know most things."

"You're not—" her voice catches, mouth suddenly too dry "—not God."

A pause as he laughs, low and quiet. "Thank hell for that."

She sags backward, catching herself on the edge of the bedframe. "I don't want them to choose."

"Choose what?" but he already knows.

"Between me or it," she says, voice low now. "If it comes to that, I know how it ends. I've seen how it ends."

"Your husband would not make that choice lightly."

That earns him a bitter sound. "You sound certain."

"I know him well enough," Thomas's voice is calmer now. Less irritable, more like the way he sounds when brushing her hair out of the way so she doesn't roll onto it in her sleep. "I know his dog as well."

Her throat tightens, and she swallows. "And what if it kills me anyway? No decision needed."

"Then," he says, and for once the sarcasm in his voice dies entirely, "it will have made a very grave mistake."

She goes still. He's standing much too close now. Not in a way that's threatening, but there's a pressure in the air around him. The same sort of thing that hovers when one stands near lightning. He reaches forward, as if to brush the back of her hand, but stops short of touching her. Her breath trembles.

"I hate this," she mutters, nearly to herself. "I hate being this scared. I hate feeling. I didn't ask for— this," her own hand waves vaguely to her midsection, as if the idea of saying the word aloud might hex her.

Thomas exhales softly. "Oh, My Lady. Most people don't, but here you are. It is somewhat your fault," he whispers the last bit.

His words aren't comforting, nor is his presence. She knows exactly what he is under all that polish and playfulness. That's what makes this worse. Being known by something like him.

"I need—" her voice drops, her fingers clenching in the sheer fabric of her gown. "I need Ciel."

Thomas doesn't answer. His expression doesn't change, but the breath he releases is quieter, less flippant than anything he's offered all evening.

"Well," he murmurs eventually, "you know where he is not."

She glares at him. "You're terribly helpful."

"I do my best," he doesn't quite smirk, only gives her that faint, unreadable curve of the lips, all too satisfied with being tolerated for another night.

He turns toward the door, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. "Do try to keep the screaming to a minimum. If you insist on sounding like a gutted pheasant every quarter hour, no one will take you seriously."

"Then leave."

"Mm. I intend to. Though, between us—" his eyes flick over her disheveled figure; nightgown rumpled from pacing, cheeks still damp, voice hoarse "—it is rather difficult to be angry with you when you look so sweetly unhinged."

"Out."

With a lazy half-bow and something dangerously close to a wink, he slips through the door, and she's alone again. The room is too quiet now. Her ears ring from the silence that settles over everything like dust. She lies back onto the bed, stomach flipping faintly at the movement, and drapes an arm across her brow.

She tries not to think of anything. Not about the screaming. Not about how she doesn't want this. Not about what might already be happening to her body, slipping out of her control with no announcement and no return.

She tries not to think of her mother bleeding out on beds, of Daniel's voice when he held her through it all. Of the way her father had sat still and silent at the table for hours afterward, choosing between a woman he loved too little and a child who hadn't asked to be born.

Her eyes close, and she breathes. Inhale, slow. Exhale, slower. Eventually, she drifts—half-asleep, not fully gone, but calm enough that her mind loosens its grip. Then a sound breaks through it. A faint noise, metallic. Click of a shoe or a buckle, or maybe the soft scrape of something on the balcony railing. Her breath stops. Slowly, she turns her head toward the windows.

A shadow moves across the terrace, and she bolts upright. There's no hesitation as her legs swing off the bed and she stumbles toward the doors, heart hammering a rhythm too fast to reason with. Whoever it is isn't trying to hide.

She grabs the handle and twists. It doesn't move.

"Locked—" she breathes, and yanks harder. Nothing.

Her fingers fumble at the latch. "Goddamn it, Thomas—" she jabs and tugs and pushes with increasing panic until something finally clicks loose. The moment the door gives, she jerks it open.

"Leah?" Ciel's voice.

The breath she hadn't realized she was holding rushes out. For a moment, she forgets everything else and only sees him.

He steps in, glancing behind him briefly. "Why is the door locked?"

He sounds more confused than annoyed. His hand runs through his hair, and he moves without hesitation toward the bed as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Thomas," she answers flatly, but she's not focused on that anymore.

She moves forward a step and stops dead. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her throat tightens, eyes locked on him, widening with every second she stares. Then the scream tears loose. She stumbles back, nearly tripping over her own feet.

He freezes. "What—"

She's already turned, voice ragged and rising. "What happened to your face?"

Only now does he glance at his own hands, lifting one in the low light. His eyes narrow. The skin is reddened, angry, swollen, blistering faintly along the knuckles and creeping toward his wrist. His expression shifts; he hadn't noticed it before.

"What in hell—"

Leah presses herself against the wall, heart racing again. "Don't touch me!"

"I wasn't—" his gaze snaps toward her, flickering with something unfamiliar. "Leah, I didn't even realize. I don't know what—"

Another figure drops lightly to the balcony with the faintest thud. Sebastian. Leah doesn't even get a chance to scream again; her voice is already raw. The sight of him doesn't help; he's similarly marked, hands dark at the joints, face pale and glistening with sweat.

Sebastian straightens, eyes sweeping the room. "Young Master!"

Ciel turns his hand again under the light, watching the red blood from his nose drip into his hands before he suddenly collapses onto the floor and vomits.

"Sebastian!"

————

idk how much willpower i have to keep posting the chapters here on tumblr😭 kinda starting to feel like a waste of my time, especially now that i have to manually italicize stuff instead of being able to copy and paste and go

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #slow burn #sieglinde sullivan #emerald witch arc #wolfram gelzer #aged up characters

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edenityy · 2 months ago

Text

( chapter forty-five ! )

"From whence do you hail, peon?"

The words are sharp, snapped through clenched teeth, and come far too close to Sebastian's face. Wolfram's nose is practically touching his, his expression one of absolute distaste—upper lip curled, brow knotted so tightly it's a wonder he can still see. His posture is taut with indignation, like a wolf caught sniffing something foul.

Sebastian, unfazed, simply inclines his head ever so slightly, the faintest glimmer of a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. "Yes, well.."

Wolfram's hair jerks backwards abruptly, a small grunt of surprise escaping him. Sieglinde, still perched in his arms, has wound her small hand around his hair and given it a punishing tug.

"Enough, Wolfram," she murmurs coolly, her voice quiet yet firm as tempered steel. Then, directing her attention to the broader group, now a small audience caught between tension and curiosity, she lifts her chin slightly. "Excuse us. It has been quite some time since we last had visitors in this village."

Leah watches her, noting the curious calm that hangs over the girl's features. Sieglinde's gaze sweeps over the strangers with slow interest until it catches on Ciel.

There is a pause as Sieglinde stares, a few seconds longer than polite. Leah's eyes flick to Ciel. He doesn't flinch beneath the scrutiny, but his shoulders stiffen the way they do when someone tests his patience. Sieglinde hardly looks at Leah at all for longer than a moment. Which is, frankly, insulting.

Then Wolfram, recovering his dignity, continues in her place, voice stern. "I do not know how you managed to reach us, but here in our village of Wolfsschlucht, outsiders are not welcome to stay. Now that we're clear, go back to where you came from!"

The women behind him, still holding their makeshift weapons, mutter among themselves, several nodding emphatically. Leah's expression remains blank, disinterested at best.

Right on cue, Ciel speaks up. "Best to retreat and consider alternative approaches, I think."

Sebastian nods. "A prudent strategy, My Lord," he turns back to Wolfram and lifts a hand in placation. "Very well, then we will take our leave—"

"Wait!"

The shout rings out across the square, and the villagers' weapons snap back up in perfect sync. Leah doesn't even blink. The whole thing is theatrical, obnoxiously so. A few women look downright gleeful at the chance to threaten someone again.

"You and your party don't seem to understand how fortunate you are to have passed through the forest unscathed," Wolfram warns, voice lowering now into something darker.

Leah's attention drifts; she's had enough of being glared at by farmers with shovels. One of the older women is muttering something snide under her breath about the cut of Leah's bodice, too fine and revealing. Leah's eyes slide lazily to the woman, and she tilts her head with an arched brow. The woman averts her eyes almost immediately, muttering something even uglier this time.

Leah loses interest.

"..the talk of the wolfman.."

Her attention flicks back only when the word wolfman reaches her ears. She doesn't catch the start of it, too busy glaring at the wrinkled cow, but her interest piques. Sebastian's face remains unreadable, but she can hear the even lilt of his voice answering something. Wolfram's arms tighten subtly around the girl in his hold.

"Listen well," Wolfram continues. "If you head back into the forest now, darkness will fall before you make it out. The forest at night is far too perilous a place."

A hush settles.

"No. You'll never be able to leave its confines again. So we will make an exception and permit you all to stay the night."

The shift in atmosphere is immediate. Leah doesn't miss the flicker of surprise from Finny, or the way Bardoy mutters something under his breath about "women changing their minds faster than a kitchen fire." Even Ciel's eyes narrow faintly. It isn't gratitude. He doesn't like unexplained charity, least of all from hostile strangers.

"We can provide beds for the night," Wolfram adds, lifting his chin. "But come the very break of dawn—"

A voice interrupts, shrill and uninvited.

"You would house them?! Are we to suffer betrayers in our own liege's halls?"

Leah rolls her eyes. The woman is loud, shrieking nonsense in ugly dialect, gesturing dramatically like she's performing for an invisible audience. Her voice grates, nasal and high, all fury and no power. Leah is already bored. She keeps her gaze level on Sieglinde, who hasn't so much as flinched at the disruption. Neither has Wolfram.

Ciel leans in slightly, his tone low. "What's happening?"

"I believe," Sebastian says mildly, "we are being permitted to stay at the liege's residence for the night."

Leah's eyes lift, and there it is. Far across the darkening skyline, lit by the last rays of dusk, is the silhouette of a castle—tall and narrow, almost like it's grown from the earth rather than built upon it. Ciel stares, Leah doesn't say anything.

Wolfram gestures toward the shape on the hill with a stiff arm. "That is my lady's Emerald Castle. Follow me."

He shifts Sieglinde higher in his arms before turning sharply on his heel, the girl still as silent as stone. The villagers part as he walks, the way stalks bend in a field when the wind moves.

The rest of the group hesitates for just a moment. Then Ciel moves, and the others follow. Leah doesn't trail behind this time; she walks beside him. Her eyes remain fixed ahead, not on the castle or the people, but on the path.

Ciel narrows his eyes, gaze fixed on the backs of their hosts. "They told us to leave, then told us to stay the night. Really, what are they playing at?"

"Difficult to say, but it is clear this is not a normal village," Sebastian answers without missing a step.

The path leads them back through the center of the plaza, which reveals more of its secrets. Iron maidens stand open with rusted hinges, their sharp interiors lined with darkened stains. A cage the size of a man awkwardly sits. Beside it sits a chair fitted entirely with rusted spikes.

"Eep! What is this place?!" Meyrin's voice breaks the hush with a startled squeak.

"'You do realize that it's packed with instruments of torture?!' says Wilde," Snake adds, shoulders drawn up tight.

Anna, walking just behind Leah, folds her arms a little tighter. "These contraptions shouldn't be out like this.. it's as if they expect to use them again."

Thomas, lips pressed into a firm line, flicks a glance toward the iron maiden as though suspecting someone might still be inside. "Or never stopped."

"Those were quite popular in the witch trials," Sebastian remarks smoothly, as if discussing decorative sconces.

Ciel's jaw tightens. "This is all fast becoming occult for my tastes—"

"Hey!" Sieglinde's voice slices through the conversation with adolescent sharpness, her German clear and high. "You there, gnome. Bleak face. What's your name?"

Leah catches the shift in Ciel's posture instantly. A subtle jerk of the shoulder, the smallest twitch of an eyebrow. He doesn't understand the words, but he knows he's been insulted.

Sebastian lifts his brows faintly, just short of theatrical. "Oh dear! Forgive us for not introducing ourselves sooner.."

Ciel's hand moves subtly toward Leah's back, guiding her over a patch of uneven stones without thinking. Leah doesn't miss Sieglinde's choice of words. 'Gnome?' It's not even clever, yet she almost laughs.

Sebastian bends slightly toward Ciel, voice lowered just enough to be heard. "She's asking for your name."

Ciel meets Sieglinde's gaze evenly. "I'm Ciel Phantomhive."

There's a flicker in the girl's expression—not surprise, but not quite curiosity either, more like someone flipping through a mental catalogue for reference.

Sieglinde's eyes slide past him to Leah, lingering for a breath, then moving on. Leah doesn't offer anything. She holds the girl's gaze flatly, expression unreadable, and allows the silence to stretch just long enough to become intentional.

Sebastian, too practiced to allow a silence to stretch too long, steps in. "And this is the young master's wife, Leah Phantomhive—née Barrett."

Sieglinde studies her more intently now, as if taking in the details of a new specimen. Her lips purse faintly, and something shifts slightly in Sieglinde's face. Perhaps she expected a mistress, not a wife.

"How old are you?" she asks with the calm confidence of someone used to getting answers. Her eyes return to Ciel.

"Both the young master and his lady are seventeen," Sebastian supplies with his usual poise. "A recent marriage, early July."

Sieglinde hums, just a single note, void of any readable tone. Her stare stays level, neither approving nor scornful. Leah is fine with that; better to be regarded like a book than a child.

They've reached the edge of the village now, where the land drops steeply into a darkened ravine. A stone bridge stretches out over the chasm, connecting the village to the far side where the castle looms.

"Whoa!" Bardroy leans over the edge with all the idiocy of a boy on a playground. "So high! I'd be dead meat if I fell from here!"

Wolfram doesn't so much as glance back. "We have arrived. This is the Emerald Castle."

The structure rises like a forgotten cathedral. It's smaller than expected, tucked and narrow, with what looks like a jagged tower.

"I don't want to go inside," Leah murmurs, voice flat but not childish.

Ciel casts her a glance. "It's only for the night. We'll leave at dawn."

His tone is low, coaxing but not pressing. There's a rare softness in it; he's not arguing. He doesn't need her to like the place; he just wants her to stay close. She exhales through her nose and steps forward, following anyway.

Finnian nearly brushes against a flower, and Leah hears Sieglinde bark something at him.

Wolfram resumes climbing the stone steps that lead to the grand doors. "This way."

Sebastian halts halfway up and looks back toward the others. "You lot wait here."

They begin to fan out across the foyer like obedient dogs, each finding a spot to linger that seems marginally less threatening.

Leah doesn't stop. "Thomas. Come," she calls, with a flick of her fingers, like she's calling a hound to heel.

He straightens immediately and follows, like a well-trained hound.

Inside, the castle walls glitter faintly with veins of green crystal embedded between ancient, damp stone. Leah's heels click softly on the floor, echoing faintly as the doors creak shut behind them. There's even a tree in the center.

Wolfram and Sieglinde ascend the steps ahead, his posture never once faltering beneath her weight. Not a grunt or a twitch. The silence inside seems heavier than the one outside, somehow.

Leah watches the odd spires overhead from the corner of her eye. The castle architecture is unnerving in its asymmetry. Strange, narrow turrets lean at impossible angles, like they were added by someone who had never seen a castle before but heard a child describe one.

Ciel walks beside her, and he's silent too, but she doesn't need him to speak. He brushes his gloved fingers lightly along the carved banister as they ascend. There's a brief moment where their hands are close enough to touch. He doesn't reach, and neither does she, but the space between them is measured all the same. Behind her, Thomas keeps a half-step's distance. She doesn't tell him to walk faster; he knows how close to stay.

Ahead, a door creaks open, and they enter. Inside, the dining room is more peculiar than grand—ceilings high, walls mostly bare, and the chandeliers overhead oddly bright.

"You are our first guests in many a year. Let us treat you to a special feast," Sieglinde's voice slices the air from her seat at the head of the table, her tone more announcement than welcome.

Sebastian gives a courteous dip of the head. "We're much obliged."

Wolfram, still bearing her like she's made of porcelain, lowers her into the high-backed chair with strange horns beside Leah with practiced care. Ciel claims the seat to Leah's left with a slow, deliberate motion. She lowers herself next to him, not bothering with the same poise. Thomas settles behind her, silent and still except for the occasional tilt of his head as if studying the tapestries rather than the humans. Sebastian remains behind Ciel's chair, his shadow more than a servant's.

Sieglinde's voice continues, something in German, crisp and childlike. Leah lets the words fade. She doesn't care to think, not when her skull feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and her eyes threaten to fall shut every time she stops blinking. The first signs of her usual fatigue have been creeping in like mold.

Beside her, Ciel's gaze has drifted downward. He's studying the girl's feet, what little can be seen of them.

"You there," Sieglinde calls again.

Ciel stiffens. "..Are you addressing me?"

Sebastian's smile is tired, the kind he wears when dealing with foolish nobles who try to summon wine out of stones. "I am very sorry. The young master has not yet achieved fluency in German, you see.."

Sieglinde's eyes narrow, just a fraction. "..Is that so?" her voice is flatter now, almost absent of interest.

Leah doesn't bother offering a translation. She easily could, but there's no particular reward in it, and besides, Thomas hasn't so much as lifted a finger to help either. Let Ciel sweat a little.

The silence that follows is so heavy it seems to hang from the ceiling beams. One of the candles gutters in its brass holder, casting a dancing shadow across the table.

It drags on.

Now and then, Ciel turns slightly toward Leah, murmuring something—a small remark, maybe, or the beginnings of one—only to find her eyelids already drooping, chin briefly dipping. She doesn't respond most times. Thomas observes with vague amusement but offers no intervention.

At one point, when she jolts back upright, he shifts closer. Ciel tries again. "You're not cold, are you?"

Her response is a slow blink. "Do I look cold?"

Sebastian's lips twitch, but he says nothing. Across the table, Sieglinde's chin tilts slightly to the side.

"..What's wrong with her?"

Ciel glances her way sharply, one hand rising instinctively toward Leah's. He stops himself just short of touching her, but the gesture is unmistakable.

"She's.." he clears his throat. "She may be in a rather delicate condition."

That seems to pique Sieglinde's interest. "Delicate?" her voice sharpens. "Is she injured? Sick?"

Sebastian steps in again, voice soft and pleasant. "There is a possibility the lady is with child."

"I see. How unfortunate," she says after a moment. "I am told the early months are most burdensome. Perhaps that is why she looks so sour."

Leah stirs at that, nose wrinkling faintly. Her tone is dry. "How flattering."

Sieglinde leans forward the barest inch, hands folded like a miniature professor preparing to make a declaration. "I have studied physiology and reproductive cycles. If you permit, I may confirm the presence of gestation."

Ciel's face colors just slightly when Sebastian relays her offer. "That will not be necessary."

Another long stretch of silence settles in. Leah lets her head rest against her knuckles, resisting the urge to close her eyes again. Something about the stillness of this room, the too-quiet air and unmoving shadows, feels soporific. Even the candle flames seem to breathe slower here.

Thomas taps a finger once against the back of her chair. Not to wake her, just to be annoying. Her brow furrows.

The moments crawl past. Ciel's gaze flickers from the candles to the door, from the door to Sieglinde, who hasn't so much as twitched since her last remark. He opens his mouth once or twice, but always thinks better of it. The entire room is wrapped in silence thick enough to chew. This cannot continue.

He turns slightly, voice low. "Sebastian, say something!"

Before the butler can respond, a noise erupts from the head of the table.

Sieglinde's stomach growls like an injured bear, drawing every eye in the room. Leah jerks upright, startled and wholly unamused. Her eyes land on Sieglinde with a sort of flat disdain, as though she's been personally affronted by the sound and the fact that no one offered an apology for it. Her face doesn't shift much, but the slow drag of her glare speaks volumes.

Her voice is a touch raspy from disuse and sleep, but clear enough. "Was that your stomach?"

Sieglinde blinks at her, unfazed. "That is my body's signal that I ingest some sustenance."

Ciel stiffens, ears tinged with a faint blush. It's not so much the sound, it's the way she speaks of it without shame. No "pardon me," no attempt at decorum. English ladies wouldn't dare.

Sebastian, as unbothered as ever, checks his pocket watch with a faint frown. "Herr Wolfram seems to be delayed. Perhaps something untoward has taken place?"

Sieglinde tilts her head, her hair bobbing faintly. "He is indeed later than usual."

"If I may," Sebastian begins, his voice the model of civility, "I should like to visit the kitchen and ensure that all is well."

Sieglinde nods. "You may."

Just like that, he steps away. Leah tracks him briefly with her eyes, but doesn't speak. Ciel watches his retreat with something like dread settling in behind his ribs.

Sebastian gone, Leah half-asleep, Thomas about as useful as a flower vase. That essentially leaves him alone with Sieglinde, whose German he can hardly understand and whose stare keeps wandering toward him with faint, unreadable amusement.

Thomas finally shifts, the fabric of his sleeves whispering as he leans in slightly.

"Would you like me to throw her from the window, My Lady?" his voice is syrup-smooth and too quiet for Sieglinde to catch.

Leah doesn't look at him. "Do try to resist the urge."

"As you wish."

Her lips twitch upward, faint and humorless. The candle nearest her is guttering just enough to draw her attention once again. Leah's chin rests on her knuckles, her eyes slitted with the vague disinterest of someone who's neither awake nor asleep, just waiting for either state to win out.

Ciel tries not to fidget, but the chair beneath him feels more rigid by the second. His left leg taps once beneath the table, then stops when he catches himself. Across from him, Sieglinde watches without blinking, like a serpent in the tall grass—curious, perhaps, or simply content to observe him squirm. Her expression doesn't waver.

"..Black hair.. man.. name?"

The words are broken and stilted, clearly not English. Yet Ciel manages to make out the fragments, his mind slowly slotting them into meaning.

"Sebastian," he says, pausing between words like he's teaching a child. "My. Butler. Understand?"

His hand rises, palm facing upward, as he gestures toward the door Sebastian exited through, then he points to himself. It feels ridiculous, and he hates every second of it, but Sieglinde nods. So at least it's working.

She leans forward slightly in her chair and squints at him with more scrutiny than before.

"Your.. parents.. where?"

The question hits harder than he expects. He straightens in his seat, suddenly aware of the way the candlelight flickers across his gloves. His fingers twitch once at his sides, and for a moment, there's no answer.

"Parents. Don't.. have. Dead," his words are clipped and dry, like he's swallowing stones. He doesn't gesture this time.

Sieglinde doesn't immediately respond, her gaze dropping to the edge of the table. Her lips press together faintly, and the silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. Ciel looks to Leah, her head now nestled into her arm. She's fully committed to sleep, and he doesn't blame her, but he needs her.

He clears his throat sharply. "Leah."

No response.

He nudges her arm with the back of his knuckles. "Leah. Wake up."

A low sound escapes her, almost a growl. Her lashes flutter, then lift slowly as she glares at him through narrowed eyes, groggy and visibly unimpressed. "What?"

"I need you to translate."

"For what? You're doing fine with your caveman hand signs."

"Please."

The word seems to surprise her more than anything else. She blinks once, then lifts her head, stretching her neck.

"You'd better be grateful," she mutters, then turns and kicks Thomas' leg with the side of her foot.

He barely moves, just straightens a little and smirks with all the satisfaction of a man who's won something.

"Yes, My Lady," he drawls, voice syrup-smooth and entirely unbothered. "Do make sure to take out your temper on the help. I so live for it."

Sieglinde's brows lift in mild shock, watching the interaction unfold like a strange play with no clear genre. She glances from Leah to Thomas and back again, expression caught between disapproval and confusion.

"You are married?" she asks after a beat.

Leah lifts a brow. "To him?" she jerks her thumb at Thomas without looking. "God, no. I'd rather be buried alive."

Thomas gives a small, pleased sigh. "You do flatter me."

Sieglinde blinks, visibly more puzzled now. "I meant.." her eyes flick between Leah and Ciel, then lower toward the subtle way Ciel's fingers rest near Leah's wrist, not quite touching. "You two.. do you like?"

It's a strange question. Leah tilts her head slowly, as if weighing whether to take offense.

Ciel exhales through his nose. "We are married."

"That's not an answer."

She shrugs, her tone dry. "We like each other fine. Well enough to be stuck like this."

"Stuck?" he echoes, a flicker of irritation threading his voice.

Leah gives a half-smile. "I meant married, not to you, relax."

Sieglinde looks vaguely more satisfied by the banter. Maybe that was what she needed—something human, even if sharp around the edges.

"She's simply irritable because she insists on wearing that horrid bonnet," Ciel remarks offhandedly.

The words hang in the air like a gauntlet thrown, but Leah doesn't rise to it with the ferocity he expects.

Instead, she simply frowns at him. "I like it."

His gaze narrows. "You would."

"I bought it with your money," she says sweetly. "So really, you like it too."

The corner of her mouth twitches, threatening a smile before she catches herself. Sieglinde watches them in silence, chin resting on the back of her hand, her head tilted slightly like she's watching an insect crawl across glass.

"You touch her there," she gestures vaguely toward Leah's hand, "but fight."

"We're married," Leah says, tone blunt. "Touching's allowed."

"And bickering, apparently," Ciel mutters.

Sieglinde doesn't seem dissuaded, only vaguely contemplative. "Marriage is strange."

"Tell me about it," Leah murmurs, before promptly kicking Thomas again. This time, it's closer to his shin as she rounds on him instantly. "Fetch me a napkin, useless ornament."

"You already have one," he notes idly, gesturing to the crisp white linen at her place.

"Then fluff it, I don't care. Just don't stand there breathing."

"As you wish, My Lady." His voice is airy, and his smile borders on whimsical. "Shall I fluff it counterclockwise? Or with theatrical flair?"

"Fluff it straight into your eye socket," she mutters.

Thomas bends into a genteel bow. "Oh, lovely."

The flickering candlelight softens the harsh angles of the room, but does nothing to dull the weight of time. Somewhere in the back corridor, a door creaks faintly on its hinges, followed by a gust of air cool enough to send a chill down Leah's spine. She rubs her arm. Sieglinde's stomach growls again, and for the first time, she looks faintly annoyed.

Leah sighs, resting her cheek in her palm again. "Do you starve your guests for entertainment, or is this some form of hospitality unique to gremlins?"

Sieglinde tilts her head slowly, her voice flat. "You think I am a gremlin?"

Leah meets her eyes. "I think you're weird."

A beat of silence.

"I like you," Sieglinde replies.

"Unfortunately, I may start to feel the same."

Behind Leah, Thomas leans down and murmurs softly, "A touching display, My Lady."

She elbows him sharply without looking. "Touch that."

He grins. "With pleasure."

Ciel glances toward the door, the flicker of unease creeping in again. "Sebastian's taking too long."

"So are the drinks," Leah adds.

Thomas hums. "Perhaps they're related."

She throws a fork at his shoulder.

He catches it mid-air with an exaggerated yawn. "I'm beginning to think you missed me while I was gone."

"You were gone?"

Another silence falls, shorter this time. Leah stifles a yawn and doesn't move away when Ciel's fingers briefly touch hers.

"Sebastian had better come back with food," she mutters, eyes half-closed. "Or I'll eat Thomas."

Thomas, naturally, beams. "I'd be honored."

═╬

Steam curls upward from polished platters as Sebastian and Wolfram return, the scent of rich broth and crisped meat sliding into the air with alarming precision. Leah shifts, subtly straightening her posture as the clink of silverware heralds the end of awkward silence. Thomas perks up only slightly, though his gaze darts over the table with mild disinterest.

Sebastian moves with fluid ease, setting plates before the seated guests. "Maultaschen and wurst soup. Eisbein made of ham hock," his tone is pleasant, clipped in that way that always feels just short of mocking.

Then, from a covered dish with its silver top gleaming, he reveals a final plate. "And for dessert, rote Grütze."

Sieglinde brightens almost immediately, a quiet little gasp escaping her as she takes in the spread. She grips her utensils like twin weapons, visibly restraining herself from outright bouncing in place.

"Hohh.. this looks good.." her voice lifts, both hands raised with her fork and knife in tandem as if in awe. "A marvelous feast. Nicely done, Wolf."

Leah lifts a brow but says nothing, distracted briefly by the scent of the soup, pungent with spice, but not unpleasant.

She watches as Wolfram leans slightly toward his mistress, looking both pleased and flustered. "No.. er.. that butler assisted me," he mutters.

Sebastian, while setting Ciel's plate before him, offers a casual nod. "As you are allowing us to stay the night, it is only fair."

Sieglinde leans forward with childlike glee. "Let's have a taste."

Without ceremony, she plunges her utensils into the meat, lifts the whole bone to her mouth, and bites directly into it. The sound of tearing flesh is almost indecent, but the look on her face is one of pure rapture.

"Mmm! D'lish! I'b neber had sush shoft bwead befowe!"

Leah stares.

Beside her, Ciel goes still, his eyes locked on the sight with visible discomfort. "Sh— she eats with such gusto.."

"Indeed," Sebastian intones from behind him, eyes cool and expression blank. "She doesn't seem to mind people's impressions."

The food does look good. Leah has to admit that much, even as Sieglinde goes in for another bite with unrestrained glee, bits of broth dribbling onto her chin. Her gaze flickers to her own plate, still untouched. The soup glistens, the dumplings puffed and golden, the meat gently resting in its own broth like something lovingly placed. But her stomach turns in quiet protest, more from habit than true revulsion.

She feels Ciel watching her before she even looks up.

"Try the soup," he murmurs, too softly for Sieglinde to notice through her chewing. "Just a bit."

Her brows lower. "I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten properly all day."

"I ate some fruit earlier."

"One grape does not constitute nourishment."

Thomas sighs dreamily behind her. "Ah, to be doted upon so tenderly. Shall I compose a sonnet in honour of your concern, Young Master?"

Leah picks up her knife and very deliberately turns to glare over her shoulder. "I will stab you in the throat."

"I should hope so," Thomas smiles, entirely unaffected. "I'd like the scar."

She turns back around with a sniff, cutting into the maultaschen just enough to appease Ciel, though she doesn't lift her fork. Her appetite's gone, the same place her patience often goes when Thomas is in the room—straight to hell. Ciel seems to register it, but doesn't press. Instead, he pushes a piece of the dumpling toward the edge of her plate with his own fork, as if to say, 'try this one instead.'

His brow is faintly furrowed. "You'll feel worse if you don't," he says without looking at her.

That gets her, somehow. Not the nagging, she's used to that, but the sincerity. She takes the bite. It's good. Rich, with just enough herb and a strangely comforting chew. Humble food, not the kind she's used to, but good all the same.

Still chewing, she glances at Ciel. "Happy?"

He leans back in his chair a touch, letting his gaze drift downward as he sips from his glass. "Moderately."

"You two are disgusting," Thomas mutters.

Sebastian snorts, a rare breach of his composure. "Indeed. One might almost mistake you for a real butler, Thomas, the way you loiter and offer commentary like a parlor aunt."

"Loitering's a skill," comes the reply, lazy as ever. "As is keeping my employer alive, which you seem to rely heavily upon, proximity to accomplish."

The temperature of the room dips only slightly. Leah doesn't react beyond another bite, though she lifts a brow when Thomas tugs her napkin from her lap and flutters it over her like a bowing stagehand.

"Shall I feed you next, My Lady?" he offers.

"You shall die," she replies.

Before anyone can say more, a sharp pounding echoes up the stairwell. The doors burst open with a slam, Hilde bursting into the room like a gust of wind and hay. Her apron's askew, hair slightly mussed, cheeks red from exertion.

"Herr Wolfram, it's terrible!"

Everyone turns at once—Ciel's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, Leah lowering her glass with a muted clink.

Wolfram straightens, eyes narrowing as he moves toward her with quick steps. "What is it, Hilde?"

"The wolfman has come!" her voice cuts clean through the clatter of plates and silver.

Ciel jerks slightly in his seat and straightens his back. Leah blinks, barely catching the way Sieglinde's eyes widen. Around them, the table stills. Sebastian's hands return to his sides, gaze shifting sharply toward the doorway. Thomas lifts his head, expression finally losing its boredom.

Sieglinde wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist frantically. Behind Leah, Thomas makes a low sound, barely audible.

"Oh dear."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #slow burn #sieglinde sullivan #wolfram gelzer #emerald witch arc

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edenityy · 3 months ago

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it’s a wonder i haven’t driven myself insane with how i treat writing fanfiction like a full time job + being a professional procrastinator TvT

#fatigue is getting to me #but it’s okay #cause i’m awesome #edenity

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edenityy · 3 months ago

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( chapter forty-four ! )

"Ihhi furoy-eh.. mihhi jii kenen tsureru nen.."

The pronunciation is mangled, clumsy, choked, and flat in the throat. Not even the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels beneath their feet can hide how wrong it sounds. Ciel finishes the line with a faint clearing of his throat and a glance downward, as if he's half-hoping the pages of the book will swallow him whole before the inevitable critique comes.

Across from him, Sebastian adjusts the cuff of his white glove and regards his master with the cool precision of a surgeon preparing to make an incision.

"That will never do. Your accent is preposterous," the butler says, now inspecting a smudge on his glove with an air of grave disappointment, as though the German language itself has suffered an injury under Ciel's assault. "At this rate, the locals shall think you are confessing to kidnapping their livestock."

Ciel slumps back against the train seat, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.

"I can't do this anymore! I feel sick," he complains, holding the book above his head in irritation.

Sebastian looks down at the boy with feigned pity. "So undisciplined."

From under his lashes, Ciel scowls. "German pronunciation is impossible. I can read it just fine, isn't that enough?"

The book, now on his stomach, rises slightly with each breath he takes, then settles again. He closes his eye and lets the motion of the train lull him into a stillness that borders on sulking.

Across the narrow aisle, Leah sits with a small pillow propped behind her back and a closed fan beside her hip. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes remain fixed on the gentle, unremarkable swaying of the trees beyond the glass. Their leaves catch the light like scales on a fish, fluttering past in streaks of green. The air smells faintly of coal and polished brass.

Anna leans closer from her position beside her, voice lowered but not urgent. "It still hasn't come, My Lady?"

"No," Leah doesn't look at her. Her tone is even, almost bored.

"And you're still feeling poorly?"

"I haven't fainted or vomited, but I'm not sure exactly well either," she replies, eyes narrowing faintly at a particularly blinding ray of sun, "I can't keep cream down, I gag at the scent of boiled meat, I find myself falling asleep at any time of day, and yesterday morning I cried because I spilled rosewater on my slippers. I loathe those slippers."

Anna's brows knit in quiet sympathy, but there's a glint of relief behind her gaze. "Then.. it might be that. It's been over a month since.. well. Since your wedding."

Leah lowers the fan and flicks it once, more for something to do than for any real need of breeze. "Yes, I'm aware of the date, thank you."

"You should tell Lord Phantomhive."

Leah hums noncommittally and glances sideways. Across the aisle, Ciel is still sprawled out like an abandoned doll, his face turned just enough to make out the curl of his lip and the subtle furrow in his brow. His fingers drum once against the cover of the book, as though debating whether to hurl it out the window.

'It's strange,' she thinks—not because he looks childish, but because he doesn't. At seventeen, he carries himself like someone thrice his age, all sharp lines and sharper responsibilities. But sometimes, when he forgets to be the Queen's Watchdog or the heir to a great house, he just looks tired and young.

For reasons Leah doesn't feel like sorting through, she finds herself softening.

"I doubt he'd faint dead away at the news," she murmurs, more to herself than to Anna.

"No, My Lady. I don't think so," Anna agrees.

A moment passes as the train turns gently, curving along the hills, and the sunlight dapples her lap through the window.

"He'll probably be pleased," Anna adds, brushing a piece of lint off Leah's sleeve with a maternal sort of fussiness. "An heir so soon.. that's a blessing."

"Mm," Leah watches her own reflection in the glass. It stares back, pale and severe in the afternoon light, the shadows under her eyes betraying too many late nights and too little sleep. Her lips press into a thin line. "It was expected."

Anna doesn't respond right away, but she reaches over to refill Leah's teacup from the small silver pot nestled in the compartment beside them.

"You ought to eat more," she says quietly. "For the baby."

Leah lifts the cup without much enthusiasm. The word sits heavy on her tongue, even if she doesn't say it aloud. Baby. It's such a small word, practically a whisper.

She looks back toward her husband. His book has slipped slightly, and he adjusts it without opening his eyes. There's a kind of domestic intimacy to the whole tableau—the languid slouch, the way his mouth moves ever so slightly as though still muttering phrases under his breath.

He is not a gentle person by nature, and she knows this, but he tries for her. In his own odd way, in his own stiff, calculated gestures. She knows that, too.

The quiet stretches between them like lace being pulled taut.

Eventually, Ciel shifts and opens one eye, peering through the fringe of his hair at the seat across from him. "You're being suspiciously quiet."

Leah raises her cup. "I'm always quiet when you attempt to speak German. It feels wrong to interrupt a crime in progress."

His eye narrows as she sips the tea.

"I suppose I ought to study, but it feels pointless," he mutters, fingers brushing the spine of the book again. "They'll understand me well enough."

"You could hire a tutor or just bribe the mayor," she suggests absently.

"That's not a terrible idea," he muses. "The bribery, I mean. You'd make an excellent criminal."

"I've had excellent schooling."

Their eyes meet across the aisle. There's a flicker of something almost amused in his gaze, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward.

"Will you walk with me once we reach Bremen?" he asks, voice low but clear, as though making an offer and not a command.

She doesn't answer right away. The train lurches slightly, and her tea ripples in the cup.

Finally, she sets it down and folds her hands in her lap. "If I feel like it."

Ciel huffs a sound that might be a laugh and doesn't press her further. Outside, the landscape rolls by in endless green fields and smudged cottages under a sky streaked with light. The day leans lazily into the afternoon, and the conversation fades again into quiet, but something lingers between them now.

Leah rests her temple against the windowpane, fingers draped idly in her lap. Her thoughts have already wandered, drawn more by the dull ache in her lower back than the scenery rolling past. Anna folds her hands neatly atop her skirt, quiet until she isn't.

"You ought to tell him," she tries to urge again, keeping her voice just above a whisper.

The suggestion hangs in the air. Leah does not answer at once, drawing her fingers along the hem of her sleeve, then flicks her eyes back to the window. "And announce what? That I've missed a month and feel ill?" she breathes, dryly. "I may as well send for a town crier and ring a bloody bell."

Anna suppresses a smile, though it threatens to show. "He is your husband."

"Yes, I know. I was there when it happened," her voice flattens.

She lapses into silence again, picking at a small thread on her sleeve with almost surgical attention. After a moment, she tilts her head back, letting it rest against the glass. Anna waits, dutifully patient, a lady's maid through and through.

Eventually, Leah's fingers still. She shifts her weight, straightens, and rises to her feet in one graceful motion, arms steadying her on the side of the seat. She says nothing as she crosses the aisle, simply slides into the space beside Ciel, bumping the edge of the book with her elbow until it slides half off his torso.

He opens his eye, looking more annoyed than surprised. "I was using that."

"You weren't," she picks up the book anyway and places it spine-up between them. "You said reading on a train makes you ill."

"It does."

"Then I've saved you the trouble of looking at it again."

He watches her for a long beat, then closes his eyes again, exhaling through his nose. Leah doesn't speak at first. She watches the rise and fall of his chest and the faint twitch in his brow as he pretends not to notice her hovering stare. She reaches up and smooths a piece of his bangs from his forehead, more absent-minded than tender, and waits until his eyes open once more.

They meet hers, reluctant and resigned. "What?"

"Do you know what courses are?" she asks.

He blinks, and there's a pause, half a second too long. "I beg your pardon?"

She arches a brow. "Monthly courses. Lady troubles. Women's matters. You know. The thing no one mentions, and every man pretends not to exist despite having mothers and sisters and wives."

A flush of irritation colors his expression. "Why are you bringing that up?"

"I haven't had mine," she says simply.

Ciel stiffens slightly, his eyes searching hers as if expecting her to laugh or retract the statement. When she doesn't, he leans up, propping himself on an elbow. "You mean— since the wedding?"

"Since before," she corrects.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn't speak. The words sit heavy between them.

"I've been ill every morning this week," she continues. "My appetite's turned strange, I've gone faint twice, and I could smell the brandy in that man's flask two carriages down," she nods toward the back of the train without glancing. "If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is."

Sebastian turns the page of his newspaper he picked up with surgical calm. If he hears them, he doesn't show it.

Ciel frowns, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're not.. certain."

"No," she replies. "But it would be a rather elaborate coincidence, wouldn't it?"

There's something unreadable in his expression as he leans back again. Not panic, not quite. He stares at the ceiling, lips parted, thinking. The train rocks beneath them.

"I suppose it was bound to happen," he mutters after a moment.

"You sound thrilled."

"I'm seventeen, Leah."

"You're married, Ciel."

His mouth twitches faintly into a mixture of a grimace and a smile. "I know."

The silence that follows is less awkward than it should be. Her arm brushes his lightly, but neither of them shifts away. Her eyes trail over his profile—long lashes, smooth brow, that ever-present shadow of calculation in his gaze.

"I haven't told anyone but Anna," she says eventually.

"Why tell me, then?" he raises his brow.

Leah rolls her eyes dramatically with a furrow in her brows. "You're the one who did it."

He snorts. "I recall you participating."

She hums, satisfied. That earns a small smile from him, the first real one today. Brief, but sincere.

His eyes move to her again. "Have you given thought to what happens now?"

"I thought you'd be the one to do that," she replies, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "You're the one with a ledger for a brain."

"And you've a mouth for mischief."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't meant kindly."

She smirks.

Their banter is quieter than usual, toned down and subdued. Neither looks especially thrilled, but neither looks displeased either. It isn't joy, not exactly, but it's not dread either.

After a while, he shifts closer, resting his head lightly against her shoulder, as if anchoring himself. His hand curls beside hers on the seat between them, not touching, but near enough that she could close the distance if she wanted to.

"You ought to rest," she says, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve. "You look terrible."

"You flatter me," he fights a smile.

Leah shrugs jokingly. "I'm generous."

"Mmm," he hums.

A beat passes.

"Are you well?" Ciel asks, barely above a murmur.

She pauses and looks down at his profile again, softened in the light of late afternoon, more boyish than usual.

"I've felt worse," she says quietly.

His eyes close again.

Sebastian turns another page, the newspaper rustling faintly as the countryside speeds past, blurring trees and fields into green streaks of nothing. The train carries on, and the moment folds itself into the quiet rhythm of the journey.

═╬

A few children scatter as the iron-rimmed wheel of a wooden cart rattles past, cutting a muddy track through the center of the town. Most of the homes bear slanted roofs and hand-hewn beams, with the smell of livestock and smoke clinging heavy in the air. The buildings tilt forward as if eavesdropping on the visitors below—foreigners with fine coats and unreadable expressions. A bell chimes somewhere in the distance.

Ciel stands before a thick-set man in a woolen vest, brows drawing together as the German rambles on, arms folded firmly across his broad chest. Behind the earl, Sebastian watches with gloved hands behind his back, his expression politely blank. Leah remains to Ciel's right, fingers lightly brushing the fur trim of her cloak, gaze wandering to a crooked sign hanging from a thatched eave that reads something about a miller's wife and her pastries.

The man gestures roughly, his voice a deep garble of syllables that seem to tangle together like knotweed.

Ciel stares at him for a few beats too long before muttering, "Sebastian, what language is he speaking?"

Sebastian tilts his head with mild amusement. "East Franconian, young master. A southern German dialect."

Ciel gives a soft, disbelieving scoff. "The dialect is too strong! My studies were practically useless," a scowl tightens his features. "I can't even follow what they're saying."

Leah huffs faintly, but it's not unkind. "You're not alone. Half of it might as well be barking."

Ciel ignores that and turns to Sebastian again. "So— what's he saying?"

Sebastian chuckles under his breath. "The fundamentals are vital in everything, young master."

Ciel looks ready to strike him. "Sebastian."

"As you wish," the butler dips his head, then straightens. "He says, Ach, I ain't gonna go bite it from the witch's curse. No thanks. Dun matter how much gold you got, no's a no. ..so he says."

The man shrugs as if to punctuate it, looking at them with disinterest. Leah watches him with narrowed eyes. There's something lazy in the way he leans against the carriage, the same sort of boredom a butcher might show when discussing an animal that's already been slaughtered.

Ciel presses on, ignoring the looming stack of refusals. "Has he seen an accursed human?"

"And don't interpret the dialect into your own dramatics," he adds sharply, but Sebastian ignores him.

The man doesn't grow animated or glance around in fear. He speaks low and dry, only pausing once to scratch at his chin. Leah tunes out halfway through—something about survivors, something about the wolfman. She's already heard the stories. In these kinds of towns, stories fester like mold. They thicken in the corners and under beds, and no matter how often you clean the floors, they come back more fevered.

She doesn't mean to drift.

There's a wind curling in through the alleyways, threading past her ankles. Her mind slips somewhere quieter, far from the sour breath of the man and the clink of Ciel's boot on stone. She doesn't remember the last time she felt warm. Maybe in the bath, but even that was fleeting. Her skin had started to itch the moment she was dressed again.

A sharp movement to her left pulls her back.

Ciel turns abruptly, pulling her by the hand, not rough, but certainly not gentle either. Her palm fits neatly into his; he doesn't say anything, just tugs her forward, away from the man and his dismissive tone. She stumbles on the first step, then catches herself. His pace is brisk and purposeful. A deal struck, then.

"Ciel—"

"We're buying the carriage," he says flatly. "If the bastard won't drive us through the woods, he can give us the bloody thing instead."

Leah's eyebrows lift a fraction. "You mean to drive it yourself?"

"Sebastian will manage it," he huffs.

They round a corner, and the carriages come into view. Two of them, plain and open-topped, but well-kept. The horses, dappled and alert, stamp their hooves in the dirt. The man had refused to drive, but he hadn't refused to sell. Gold, after all, remains gold.

One for them and one for the rest.

Sebastian glides forward to begin preparations. The servants are not far behind, already organizing supplies. Leah suspects Thomas had known what would happen three exchanges ago. He always has that look, like he's listening to a script written in advance.

She lingers a moment beside the carriage, one hand brushing the wooden paneling. It's old but sturdy. The wheels are greased, reins newly repaired. Nothing grand, but it will carry them through the forest.

A low grunt catches her attention.

Ciel has already climbed in. He sits with his gloves off, fingers adjusting the lapel of his coat. He doesn't look up.

Leah raises a brow. "Am I meant to climb up without help?"

Ciel flicks his gaze toward her, lips twitching at the corners. A second passes, then he shifts forward, reaching a hand down toward her. She takes it, letting him pull her up, skirts brushing against the wooden frame. He holds on a moment longer than necessary.

Her seat dips as she settles beside him. The wind picks up again, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and something metallic beneath it.

"I think he liked you," Leah murmurs, watching the townspeople as they disperse from the square. The man they'd spoken to had already vanished back into the folds of his home, as if afraid his defiance might be taxed.

"I couldn't understand a single word that left his mouth."

"Charming nonetheless."

Ciel doesn't grace that with a reply.

Sebastian finishes his inspection and climbs into the driver's seat. He glances back once, receiving an almost imperceptible nod from the earl before he lifts the reins. A low whistle to the horses and the wheels creak forward.

Leah pulls her cloak tighter, eyes drifting to the tree line in the far distance. Beside her, Ciel leans slightly back against the bench, his leg pressed against hers.

The carriage turns down the road, following the other. Stone becomes dirt, and the town fades.

═╬

The forest creeps in like a breath held too long, branches rising overhead in twisted silhouettes that scrape at the darkening sky. The horses trot slowly along the damp path, hooves muffled against the moss-laced earth, the wheels creaking faintly under the weight of carriage and silence alike. It's not cold, but the air has turned thinner and strange, carrying the scent of pine and something older.

Ciel still sits beside Leah with the stiff sort of posture that only masks how at ease he's grown with her over time. His gloved hand rests against his knee, fingers lightly tapping as his gaze cuts through the overgrown path ahead. Sebastian sits up front, guiding the reins with one hand, the other flicking a glance at the small brass compass nestled in his palm.

"The compass has begun to drift," he remarks without turning.

Leah doesn't look up from where her elbow is propped against the edge of the carriage, chin in her palm, half-turned toward the second cart behind them.

Her voice carries lazily across the space between. "Is that so, Thomas? Do you intend to fall asleep and send us straight into a ditch?"

Behind them, the second carriage rattles. A pause, then Thomas's drawl wafts forward, amused and deadpan all at once. "If it would please you, my lady, I might consider it."

She smirks to herself and doesn't bother responding. That's the thing about Thomas—he rarely gives her anything worth tearing into, which only makes the occasional jabs more satisfying.

Back in the driver's seat, Sebastian lifts a brow, casting a glance back over his shoulder.

"It may just be that mineral resources are buried around here," Ciel offers, somewhat absently.

A subtle smirk touches Sebastian's mouth. "It may just as easily be a curse."

That earns a brief, dry look from the earl, but nothing more. Leah hears them, vaguely, but her attention doesn't linger. Whatever they're muttering on about—grim reapers and curses touch her ears—it fails to strike any chord in her at the moment.

Instead, her eyes flick to the treetops, the way they knot together so tightly the light struggles to push through. Leaves rustle, but nothing falls. No birdsong or wind, only the low creak of wood and the occasional snort from a horse.

Her spine aches from sitting too straight, so she shifts slightly, easing into Ciel's side in a way that feels natural. Her shoulder brushes his, and he doesn't pull away.

Rather than comment, he shifts just enough to allow it, his hand coming to rest lightly at her waist—a brief pause there, as if confirming something, before his thumb gives the faintest brush against the silk of her bodice. He glances at her only once, then back ahead, but it's not dismissal.

She tips her head toward him, cheek almost touching the edge of his collar. "I think Thomas wishes death upon me."

"Not for the first time, I imagine," Ciel murmurs, dryly amused. "You do provoke him."

"Of course I do. If I don't, who will?" her voice drops half a tone, near a purr of mock sweetness. "He'd grow far too dull if left to his own devices."

Ciel's hand presses just slightly firmer against her side, the movement hidden to anyone who might glance over. "You're too kind to him."

"Mm. You're right," she nods. "I should have him flogged for incompetence."

She turns her face slightly, enough that her nose brushes the high collar of his coat. There's nothing particularly romantic about it; she's not trying to be, but there's a quiet comfort in it. Familiar and settled. When he speaks next, it comes without its usual sharpness.

"You've been quieter today."

Her lashes lower slightly, a hum passing her lips that isn't quite agreement, but not denial either. "I don't trust forests, they're too quiet. You can't hear anything sneaking up."

"I thought you liked being snuck up on," he quips under his breath, the smallest twitch of a smirk betraying his tone.

She lifts a brow. "From you, maybe."

He doesn't answer, but his arm curls slightly more around her, just enough that her balance leans more securely into his side. The movement is protective without being coddling, firm but without a single ounce of fanfare. It's something she'd have mocked months ago, but doesn't now.

From the back, a voice drifts again. "Careful, My Lady. You may lose yourself in that misty affection."

Thomas again.

She doesn't turn this time. "Careful, Thomas. You may find a dagger in your back and not know whether I or Anna put it there."

A beat.

"How thrilling."

Leah scoffs softly, more breath than sound. It's all too easy, playing that game. There's no real malice in it, not anymore. Not when everyone already knows where the lines lie.

Ciel glances sidelong at her again as his fingers curl just slightly at her side, deliberate this time. "You're warm."

"Then stop touching me," she jabs.

He doesn't. Instead, his hand smooths just once down her side, and his voice lowers into something quieter, just for her. "You always get like this before something happens."

She tilts her head, glancing up at him with a touch of sharp amusement. "Like what?"

He looks ahead, expression unreadable. "Trouble. You get mouthy. Nervous."

"I'm always mouthy."

"But not always nervous."

Something in her settles at that. A part of her wants to argue, but she doesn't. The forest is too still, the wind too soft, and the thrum in her chest that she keeps ignoring has not quite faded. But even then, the way Ciel keeps his hand at her side grounds her.

The air seems to grow thicker as the carriages roll forward, and yet the trees do not close in so much as loom. Shadows flicker between trunks, fleeting and without shape. A crow cries once, sharp and distant. Thomas mutters something behind them, and Anna gives a small laugh, one not quite natural.

Leah closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, the branches overhead have twisted anew. Or perhaps they've always been that way. Her hand finds Ciel's without thinking, fingers brushing along the back of his glove.

He looks at her fully this time.

Her voice is quieter now, but not shaken. "If we vanish here, I'm haunting you first."

His expression doesn't shift much, but the corner of his mouth pulls. Not quite a smile, but close enough. "You already do."

For once, she doesn't feel the need to say anything cruel in return. The rhythmic creaking of carriage wheels fades into stillness as they stop along the outer edge of the forest.

Sebastian's head tilts, something sharp flickering through his gaze. "Oh-hoh."

The carriage jolts slightly as it settles. Ciel glances up at the butler's remark.

"What is it?" he asks, tone clipped but alert.

Sebastian gestures with a faint motion. "Young Master, please see for yourself. There are buildings over there."

Ciel peers past the canopy. Leah leans subtly into his shoulder, her eyes narrowing beneath feathered lashes. "At last," she murmurs, voice dry as bone. "I feared we'd die of tedium before arriving anywhere remotely worth being murdered in."

Ciel stands at once, and Leah moves to follow, gathering her skirts before she can step down. A hand appears before she can make the effort—Ciel's.

Her lips part into a faint smile. "What a gentleman."

He arches a brow. "It would not reflect well on me to let my wife fall face-first into a ditch."

"True," she murmurs, "you'd hear about it for weeks."

Leah steps down gracefully, skirts shifting about her ankles as she adjusts her footing. The air is dense with the green hush of leaves and earth, but something shifts as they pass from the forest into a clearing.

Behind them, the second carriage comes to a halt. Thomas hops down first, hand slipping behind his back with a little theatricality, and opens the door with exaggerated courtesy. Anna descends with cheerful care, followed by Baldroy, who mutters something under his breath about gloomy woods, and Mey-Rin, who nearly trips on her skirt, which almost takes Finnian down with her.

Thomas waits at the edge of the step, his gaze flicking over to Leah like a moth drawn to flame. "And here I believed I'd seen all the horror this land had to offer, but alas.." he looks her up and down. "She descends."

"You're looking to be smacked in the mouth," Leah says without looking at him.

"I live in hope, My Lady."

She lifts her skirts just enough to step over a root, muttering something in French under her breath about ridiculous men.

At the edge of the village, the trees open like drawn curtains to reveal a tableau of ancient homes gathered around a stone well. Weathered wood, latticed windows, moss-covered roofs—the place breathes an old, quiet life.

Ciel narrows his gaze. "So there really was a village in this forest.."

Leah doesn't turn when Thomas draws closer, but she glances sidelong at the sound of his step. He smiles faintly, and she clicks her tongue at him. "Don't linger too close. You've got a stench about you that may frighten the locals."

"I shall do my best to keep the wind at my back, My Lady," he replies, tone mild and eyes glittering.

She doesn't smile, but her mouth quirks slightly, and that's more than enough to please him.

A bridge of rough wood leads them further in. Finnian squints around, peering at the empty lane. "No one's around.. Is it abandoned?"

"No," Sebastian replies at once, his eyes trained elsewhere. His gaze settles on the well and the delicate rise of smoke from a few of the chimneys. "The houses have been taken good care of. I am certain people do live here."

Finnian cups his hand to his mouth and calls out brightly, "Hey! Is anybody he—"

A loud slam cuts him off. A wooden door swings open violently, banging against the wall with a burst of sound. Women pour out in a rush, half a dozen at first, then more—arms laden with spades, pitchforks, rusty scythes. Long dresses, aprons, braided hair under white coifs. Their speech is foreign, sharp-edged German, their eyes wild with alarm.

"Intruders!" one cries. "Everybody, come out and fight!"

Weapons are brandished without hesitation. A spade glints in the half-light. Several of the women flank out to encircle the group on the road. One jabs her trowel in Leah's direction, and without hesitation, Thomas places himself between them, coat flaring behind him like a black wave. His hand curls loosely at his side, ready.

Ciel's arm, though less overt, has shifted forward subtly in front of Leah. Just enough to shield and make clear she is not to be touched.

Bardoy snorts. "Talk about a warm welcome."

A gardening hoe levels towards the group. "Who are you bastards?! How did you find your way here?!"

The accents are thick, the words rough like gravel. Leah's brow rises, but she doesn't flinch. She understands them clearly, though she doesn't yet speak.

Something is wrong. Not in the supernatural sense, but in the way every single face glaring them down is that of a woman. No men, not even children at windows, and their clothing is strange. Outdated, like an old painting come to life.

Ciel leans toward Sebastian, voice low. "Tell them I wish to speak to the lord of this land."

Sebastian nods and translates fluidly. The moment the words leave his mouth, the air fractures again with fury.

"Could they be targeting the Honorable Sullivan?!"

Their confusion twists into outrage.

Ciel stiffens. "Hey, what are they—"

"You lot must be the rats, right?!" one of the women shouts, raising her gardening hoe as if ready to swing.

Finnian's face pales, his usual cheer bleeding out. "A.. A rat?! We're not—!"

The women move closer, yelling over one another.

"We will spare none of your ilk!"

"Don't let them out alive!"

"Death to the rats!"

Thomas takes a single step forward, eyes glowing faintly. His teeth flash in something between a warning and a threat. Leah can sense it without looking—he's not far from acting.

"Shall I kill them?" he asks, languid and almost bored. His eyes sweep the angry mob as though tallying fruit in a basket. "It would be more efficient than conversation."

"No," Leah replies at once. "They're just scared," her eyes narrow faintly. "Though, if they keep waving that gardening fork near my face, I may reconsider."

"You heard the lady," Thomas murmurs, casting a smug glance at the woman in question. "Mind the fork, dear."

Ciel shifts slightly again, one hand near his coat where Leah knows his firearm lies hidden. She puts her fingers on his wrist, not tightly but enough.

The chorus of aggression is abruptly pierced by a commanding cry, clear and forceful despite its higher register.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

Silence. The effect is immediate as the gathered women freeze as one and almost drop their weapons to their sides when they move to kneel.

"Th—the Honorable Sullivan!"

Leah glimpses her first real look at the speaker as a tall, broad-shouldered man steps forward carrying someone. A girl, pale, delicate, and dressed in finery unlike any other. She is perched atop his arms like a doll, one arm hooked primly around his neck.

Sebastian's head inclines politely. "You are.. the Lord, Master Sullivan?"

The girl, expression cool and composed, lifts her chin slightly. "Indeed," she answers in flawless German.

"I am Sieglinde Sullivan. Liege of this forest!"

————

i REEAAALLY hope no one missed that pregnancy tag over on ao3💀 it’s not gonna be a major thing for a while, but it’s there and exists. it’ll come into play occasionally.

i was going insane so i used a mixture of the official and fan translation for the quotes taken directly from the manga🧍🏻‍♀️ though as you can see, i added some of my own stuff. i figured the older chapters may have been a bit boring so i wanted to give it some flair and keep it interesting for y’all.

other than that, WE’VE FINALLY REACHED EMERALD WITCH ARC :’) I’M SO PROUD OF MYSELF. TOOK WAY LONGER THAN ANTICIPATED. small confession: i still haven’t started watching the new season TvT

anything spoken in german is in italics btw

how are we feeling about the first chapter of emerald witch arc? :3 i had fun. feels kinda good to be going back to my roots of following canon <3 we were drowning in a lot of original content chapters for a hot minute

we’re also back to thomas being a little shit🥰 he’s going back to his normal self

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #slow burn #emerald witch arc #long fic #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #aged up characters #pregnancy

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edenityy · 3 months ago

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Hello!! :D I am Eden(ity) and I write fanfiction. I’m promoting another one of my fanfics, which is called “Once Upon Her Time”!

It is inspired by the deleted story “It’s a pain to be a prince” on Quotev, however my fanfic is based more around the darker original tales the princesses are based on rather than their disney counterparts. I mix a lot of details from different versions of the story, whether it’s from somewhere like the Brothers Grimm or Disney. Obviously given the inspiration, the princesses are gender bent and there are yandere and obsessive themes!

This fic follows an OC of mine named Althea who buys some endearing items at an auction! Little does she know, paired with a music box gifted by her friend, she is unknowingly dragged into tales and told to complete them! With no knowledge of how to escape this responsibility, she does as she is told and accidentally forms attachments to these princes, but their attachments are even greater and darker. (I know OC’s aren’t nearly as popular as Y/N’s, but if you are interested I would appreciate if you would give it a chance! :D For some humor, I will include that Althea’s personality can kinda give Spongebob, specifically from the early seasons, but not nearly as annoying.)

So far I have 2 chapters and a prologue released! The first chapter and prologue are more setting context and world building, but chapter two is the entirely of the Sleeping Beauty tale which totals over 13k words :3 The tale is quite simple and easy, so it’s kinda hard to notice any darker elements, but they will be there in the future!

If you’d be interested in reading, I would love to welcome you! I am on AO3, Quotev, and Wattpad <3 I also have a discord server you can join where you can discuss my fics or just talk! There aren’t many people, but the ones that are there are nice and like to talk :) It’s Alice in Wonderland themed, has silly server emojis, and you get pinged immediately for updates.

(the ao3 link isn’t working and i don’t know why, i’m so sorry! TvT i’m not good with tumblr. if anyone knows how to fix it, i would appreciate it if you let me know! :3)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64931995/chapters/166908952

#fanfic #female oc #oc #yandere #genderbent disney #long fic #iaptbap #its a pain to be a prince #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #obsessive love #gothic #dark romance

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edenityy · 3 months ago

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( chapter forty-three ! )

"Read the sentence again— I was listening that time."

The room is warm as afternoon light leaks through gauzy curtains, casting honey across the carpet and the velvet of her dress. Somewhere in the manor, a door closes—distant enough to be polite. There is nothing to do and no one to impress; it feels oddly illicit.

Ciel exhales through his nose. His tone doesn't shift, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. "You were not listening the first time, either."

"I was. Mostly," Leah drapes herself more languidly across the chaise, bare feet pressed together at the ankles and knees parted just enough to be indecent if anyone else were present. Her bodice is untied at the back, and her hair hangs long and brushed behind her. "I just want to hear it again. You sound less dreadful than usual."

He doesn't take the bait. The novel rests in one gloved hand, pages flicked lightly by his thumb. His other hand sits curled on the armrest, elbow sharp and clean in posture as he turns the page back.

"'He paused, looking down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze unflinching. "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more," he said, and turned away—'"

"Wait," Leah lifts her head, eyes narrowing. "Is that Austen?"

"Yes," Ciel confirms.

"Which one?"

"'Emma.'" the reply comes without flourish. "You said you'd never read it."

"I haven't," she reclines again, sighing. "I thought it'd be dull. All those dreadful little parties and letter-writing women with no business of their own."

He raises a brow. "And now?"

"I suppose if the men speak like that, I can be persuaded," she shrugs.

Ciel's fingers twitch minutely, but he says nothing. He sits straight-backed in the armchair opposite her, boot resting neatly atop his knee. The page turns again.

Leah shifts to her side, watching him read, hands occasionally brushing over PomPom, who naps beside her. "Did she end up with him?" she asks after a moment.

"She does."

"Even though he said that terribly serious thing and walked away?"

"He comes back. They always do."

She hums in the back of her throat and glances toward the window. "I think I'd hate that."

"You hate everything."

"That's not true," her eyes flit back toward him. "I like you. That's one."

Ciel doesn't respond, but a muscle in his jaw tightens. He doesn't look up from the page.

"..Two," she adds, "I like the gardens here. Even if the flowers are awfully fragile. That's not Finny's fault, is it?"

"No," he murmurs, still reading.

"I knew it," she stretches her legs out and crosses them at the ankle. "Three, I like when it rains. And four— I like when you read to me."

"You're only saying that so I'll continue."

"I'm saying it because it is true, but if you're so easily flattered, then yes, continue."

The words flow from him, smoother than before. She lets them blur at the edges of her hearing, half-listening, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His voice isn't particularly dramatic, but it's steady and assured, and the way he reads female dialogue makes her grin into the velvet cushion.

She doesn't mean to fall asleep.

Or maybe she doesn't. It's only for a few minutes—ten at most—but when she blinks herself awake, the sun has shifted, and the book is shut on his lap. Ciel's looking at her, not with judgment, but that particular kind of amusement he wears when she's done something ridiculous and he won't say so aloud. Her hand has slipped over the edge of the chaise, fingers brushing the floor, and the back of her skirt has crumpled beneath her.

"I wasn't asleep," she says immediately.

His brow raises. "You were snoring."

Leah puffs her cheeks. "I don't snore."

"Your protest makes me think you're lying," says Ciel.

She scowls, sitting up with a wince. "Well, maybe I was bored. That's not your fault. It's Miss Austen's. I liked the other book better."

"The other one had murder in it."

"Precisely."

He shakes his head slightly and rises, slipping the novel onto a nearby table without ceremony. The jacket he wears is still buttoned, though his hair has begun to curl a little at the nape from the heat of the room.

She frowns at it. "You're overdressed."

"You're underdressed," Ciel counters.

"That is how it's meant to be," Leah rises too, smoothing her skirts as she does. "It's my honeymoon. I'm meant to lie around in nothing and eat sugared plums, or whatever it is newly married women do."

Ciel wipes the look off his face. "I believe the tradition calls for bridal tours."

"Well, I call it nonsense," she moves toward him, fingers catching his sleeve. "Besides, you'd hate it. We'd have to smile at people."

"I've done worse," he shrugs.

Leah rolls her eyes. "I haven't."

He studies her quietly, gaze flicking down her figure and back to her face. His hand lifts to touch her waist, just briefly, before falling again. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

"I've never read a book aloud to anyone before," he says.

Leah's brow arches.

"I didn't mean—" Ciel exhales. "I only meant.. it's not unpleasant."

"You sound like a scholar remarking on a particularly well-behaved parasite," she laughs.

"I'm trying to be sincere."

"You're terrible at it."

His hand comes up again, this time resting more firmly against her side, fingers splayed just below her ribs. He doesn't pull her closer, but he doesn't let go either. Leah leans into him, resting her chin on his shoulder. It's a strange fit, standing—she's almost level with him, and neither of them is particularly inclined to softness when it comes to affection—but it's warm and steady. She closes her eyes briefly.

"You can read to me again," she murmurs.

"You'll fall asleep again," Ciel complains.

"I might not."

"I won't hold my breath."

Leah's nose scrunches. "You're not allowed to die on the honeymoon. It's gauche."

"Is that so?" he raises a brow.

"Mmm," she nuzzles into his coat just slightly. "Very."

His thumb brushes over her side, absent and slow. It makes her want to say something, or nothing, or anything ridiculous just to fill the space, but she doesn't. The quiet is fine like this.

Somewhere outside, the wind picks up. A soft creak of branches against the glass and the curtains ripple with movement. She doesn't move.

They're only partway into the month.

═╬

The sun is warm above them, but not cruel. The bridle path cuts clean through the estate's woods, dappled light filtering through the high canopy as the horse moves in an even, steady rhythm. Leah's skirts billow softly with the motion, silk over velvet over lace, layered too fine for practicality but suited well enough for the aesthetics of newlywed bliss.

She's perched sidesaddle in front of Ciel, spine straight, hand resting over the pommel with a care that's more appearance than necessity. His arm wraps easily around her waist, gloved hand resting over the reins she's not actually holding. His chest is warm against her back, the faint rise and fall of it brushing her shoulders with every breath he takes. Neither of them has spoken in several minutes, but it doesn't feel like silence. There's the low creak of leather and the soft exhale of the horse. Birds call, and wind rustles through the hedgerows. Everything smells faintly of violets.

"You needn't keep your back so straight," he says eventually, voice low in her ear. "You look like a portrait."

"I am a portrait," she replies without looking at him. "And I'm being ridden like one."

His breath catches in his throat, but he makes no comment. She smirks.

The path curves gently, revealing a break in the trees where the lawn slopes down toward the pond. Afternoon sunlight flashes off the water, golden and clean, and a few ducks stir as the horse's hooves disturb the gravel. Ciel tugs gently on the reins to steer them toward the open field instead, and Leah feels the slight shift in balance as the horse adjusts beneath them. It's a big beast, a black Hanoverian, calm and well-trained, but powerful—she can feel the muscles moving under its coat with every step.

She leans back into him just enough to make a point. "If we were in America, I'd be riding astride."

"If we were in America, I suspect you'd be shooting at pheasants and calling it romance," Ciel purses his lips.

"I would never harm an animal," she huffs.

His fingers tighten slightly at her waist. "You would harm a person. You'd do it in a ball gown, too."

Leah lets her head tip to the side in mock thought. "..Would that be frowned upon?"

"Only by the people."

They pass the edge of the gardens where wisteria blooms wild along the trellis, bright and tumbling, and she watches the petals fall like confetti as the breeze picks up. The grounds are manicured and beautiful in the way things are when someone else has maintained them for centuries. It's too quiet to be anything but private. She doesn't like the stillness, but here, like this, it's palatable. She wouldn't call it peace, but it's something close.

She adjusts her posture again, lifting her skirts slightly to shift her legs. Sidesaddle is elegant, yes, but her thighs are aching from the uneven pressure, and the saddle feels like sitting on the edge of a grand piano.

"I think this is more for your amusement than mine," she mutters, tugging at a fold of silk that's clinging to her knee.

"It's traditional."

"Most traditions are invented by people with bad taste."

"You agreed to it," he grunts.

Leah fights the urge to throw her head back and whine like a child. "I agreed under the impression that we'd dismount after ten minutes and feed each other treats beneath a cherry tree."

"We don't have a cherry tree."

"Then the deception runs even deeper than I thought."

He laughs softly behind her, the sound barely more than a breath against the back of her neck. She feels it more than hears it, which is somehow worse.

A beat passes before he speaks again. "You've a good seat, even sidesaddle."

"Praise from you? I shall write it in my diary," she hums.

Ciel's brow raises slightly. "You don't keep one."

She shrugs. "I'll start."

The reins shift again as the horse slows to a walk. They're approaching the far edge of the estate, where the land dips again and the fences are whitewashed and freshly repaired. Beyond, there's nothing but hedgerows and quiet countryside. Leah watches a bird take off from one of the fence posts, wings flashing silver as it disappears into the trees.

"I could ride by myself," she says after a moment, not with challenge, only thoughtful.

"I know."

"I'd ride faster."

"I know that, too."

He doesn't release her, nor does he loosen his grip. Just enough pressure to keep her balanced, nothing more.

The wind picks up, fluttering her veil where it's pinned into the back of her hair. One of the pins has come loose; she can feel the slight give at her nape, but she doesn't bother adjusting it. Let it fall and unravel. There's no one out here to see her except him.

"Yet," she adds, voice low, "you insisted we ride together."

"We're married," Ciel says matter-of-factly.

Leah rolls her eyes. "That's not an answer."

He shrugs. "It's not a question."

She scowls, twisting slightly to look at him over her shoulder. His expression is calm, unreadable, but the light catches the corner of his mouth again, barely there. The sort of smile he wears when he's won a match of chess and doesn't care whether anyone noticed.

"Say it plainly," she mutters.

"I wanted you close," he doesn't even hesitate. That annoys her more than it ought to.

"Close," she echoes. "To what? Fall off?"

"To me."

They ride a moment longer before she leans back against him again, more deliberately this time, and her cheek brushes his coat.

"You're sentimental," she says flatly.

"And you're not."

"I never said I was."

He doesn't argue. His hand lifts instead, brushing a strand of hair away from her temple and smoothing it back behind her ear. The gloves make it gentler, less tactile, but the weight of the gesture lingers anyway.

Their horse picks its way slowly down a gentle incline, hooves sinking softly into the grass. A dragonfly skims across the water, and the ducks have all moved to the far bank. The silence isn't heavy anymore, it's just quiet, and they ride until the shadows begin to change.

═╬

The morning sun filters weakly through the sheer curtains, warm light pooling across embroidered coverlets and the soft white curve of a woman's shoulder. The windows are half-cracked, allowing in the pale hush of summer air, which cools the warmth left behind on the sheets by the previous night's indulgences. Though the clock has long since struck ten, there is still no sense of rush in the stillness of the room.

Leah lies propped against several pillows, her hair a tangled, glossy spill over bare shoulders, only somewhat tamed by the pale lace wrap shrugged loosely around her arms. The breakfast tray across her lap is mostly untouched. A fine crystal glass of apple juice sits off to one side, dewed with condensation, and on a porcelain plate edged in gold, there are neatly sliced strawberries, skinned orange segments, and a cluster of green grapes arranged with more care than she'll ever appreciate. She picks at them absentmindedly, the tines of her fork moving a single grape around the plate.

Beside her, reclining back against the headboard, Ciel is nursing a cup of black tea. The tray beside him holds his own light meal—smoked salmon on dark bread, a coddled egg, and a few artfully positioned slices of pear.

A quiet clink breaks the silence as Leah sets her fork down again. Her legs shift beneath the sheets, one knee rising slightly. She's still sore—not terribly, just enough to remind her how thoroughly she'd been kept up the night before. Yet, she feels no irritation about it, not really. Only the faint ache and a bone-deep laziness that makes her unwilling to move unless absolutely required.

"You ought to eat more than that," he remarks after a sip of tea, not looking up.

The fork clinks again, though this time not by accident.

"I am eating," she answers, dragging a sliced strawberry through a bit of condensation on her plate and popping it in her mouth like that alone absolves her.

He glances at her finally, his gaze unreadable. "Barely."

She doesn't respond at once. A grape is plucked and rolled between two fingers, cool and smooth. Her eyes remain fixed on it, lashes low.

"You know I don't like breakfast," she murmurs.

"I recall. You don't like much of anything before noon."

"And yet," she breathes, raising the grape to her mouth, "you continue to speak to me before then. Curious."

He huffs quietly, amused despite himself. "It's either speak to you or sit in silence while you pick your food apart like a dissatisfied duchess."

Her lip curls, faintly pleased.

"I could summon Thomas to keep you company instead," suggests Ciel.

Leah scoffs. "I'd rather starve."

His lips press into a line. "Which, evidently, is already your intent."

This time, her fork is dropped outright, clattering lightly onto the tray. The movement earns his full attention, though he doesn't shift his position.

"That wasn't funny," she says flatly.

"It wasn't meant to be."

The tension is soft, not brittle. Familiar ground. Still, her posture draws tighter, like a cat flicking its tail. Her pride always flares when her habits are brought up, even when it's him. Especially when it's him.

A long moment of quiet passes between them, broken only by the faint whistle of wind against the glass.

"You presume much," she mutters, but she picks the fork up again. Doesn't eat, though. Only holds it.

"And you presume I cannot tell when you're trying not to faint," he counters.

A sharp look shoots toward him, but he doesn't flinch or smirk. The remark lands heavier than the rest, matter-of-fact, as though it's already been established that this is simply how things are. How she is.

Leah sets the fork down again, more gently this time.

"I don't want to look grotesque," she says, the words barely more than a whisper. There's no dramatic tone, no forced self-pity, just the bare truth of it laid on the sheets between them. "Is that so wrong?"

He shifts at last, reaching to set aside his empty cup. Then he leans in, his posture unhurried as his hand brushes against the curve of her knee beneath the sheets.

"No," he says, "but starving yourself isn't beautiful either. There are better ways to have your way."

A pause.

"And what would you know of beauty?" she asks, though her tone isn't cutting. More curious than anything, like she's prompting him for something she already knows he won't say aloud.

He reaches for her tray and sets it aside without asking, then slides closer across the bed. One hand drags the sheet lower, down to her hips, and he gathers her in without ceremony. She lets him, curling against his side, head resting just below his shoulder.

"I married you," he says finally. "If I cared about the weight of your waist, I'd have found another."

"I suppose I should feel flattered," Leah's brow cocks.

"You should feel loved," he replies, and his fingers press lightly into her side. "But if flattery helps you eat, then yes. Be flattered."

Her eyes close briefly. She breathes in slow, shallow pulls, the kind that don't disturb much but fill the silence enough to make it seem like she's considering his words. "I'd rather feel spoiled."

"Then finish your breakfast," says Ciel.

She groans quietly, and he can feel the rise of it against his chest.

"You're insufferable," she murmurs.

"You're petulant."

"I'm delicate."

He doesn't argue that. Instead, he shifts her into a more comfortable position, his hand slipping beneath her robe to rest at the curve of her lower back. His thumb draws absent patterns into her skin.

"You are," he agrees. "And difficult. And temperamental."

"And you enjoy every moment of it."

"I wouldn't have brought you fruit if I didn't."

Her gaze lifts to meet his, narrowed. "You'll be smug about this all day, won't you?"

"Only until lunch," he smiles.

She glares. Then silence settles again, but it's a warmer and familiar sort this time. His fingers stay on her skin, slow and aimless, and her legs tangle further with his beneath the sheets. The tray of fruit remains untouched at the edge of the bed, but she doesn't push it away this time.

A clock ticks somewhere down the hall. The manor is otherwise still.

Leah presses her lips lightly to his collarbone, no warning or reason. A wordless thing. He doesn't comment, only breathes in once and continues the slow motion of his hand.

She thinks she might doze off like this just for a few minutes, and if she wakes up hungrier, then maybe she'll finish the strawberries.

═╬

The grandfather clock in the corridor chimes seven, its low, resonant tolls echoing through the east wing of the manor. Warm light spills from the high windows of the drawing room, gold against the dusky lavender sky beyond. Ciel has settled on one of the deep crimson settees, legs crossed neatly, one arm resting along the back as though posing for a portrait. His waistcoat is slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, the stiffness of earlier formality long since discarded.

A half-empty decanter of wine sits on the low table between them, joined by a dish of lemon biscuits that no one has touched. Cards are scattered across the table's surface in disorderly patterns, some bent slightly at the corners from Leah's restless fingers and some cast face-up in a state of tragic defeat.

She reclines across from him, slipper dangling off one foot, back slouched enough to annoy the ghost of her aunt had she been present. The bodice of her gown is slightly off-center from leaning, the silk wrinkled from where she's bunched it over her knee. Her hair's been pinned up and redone twice now, and a third time seems likely, judging by the way she keeps tugging strands loose with the occasional frustrated swipe.

"You've cheated," she accuses, peering down at the card in her lap as though it's somehow deceived her. "There is no world in which you beat me five times in a row without some form of trickery."

Ciel raises a brow, but the faint tug at the corner of his mouth betrays the amusement. "You declared you understood the rules after the second round."

"Yes, and that was before I realized the game was designed by sadists," she huffs.

He draws a card from the pile without looking, sets it on the table. "It's whist, Leah. Not fencing."

She narrows her eyes. "There's a trick to it. I've no doubt you learned it in the cradle."

"There's no trick," he replies mildly, and leans to refill his glass. "Only arithmetic."

Leah grumbles something about arithmetic being a poor substitute for charm, but sits upright again to gather the cards nonetheless. Her fingers are quick, though her method is a chaotic mess of half-shuffling and half-smacking them into order. The first time she handled the deck, she bent one of the corners nearly in half, which prompted a look from Ciel sharp enough to freeze the air. She's since tried to be more delicate, but her patience only stretches so far.

They have played three hands of whist, one round of vingt-et-un, two attempts at hazard, and one miserable, drawn-out disaster with a spill of dice neither of them wishes to revisit. Somewhere between the second and third game, she called him smug. Somewhere between the third and fourth, he called her erratic. She slapped his wrist during the fifth.

It has been a good evening.

By the time she gathers the last of the cards into a neat pile, her fingers are sticky with sweat. She glances toward the fire, watches the way the flames reflect in the glass of a cabinet, then tosses the deck at him with a flick of the wrist. He catches it one-handed, but not without arching a brow.

"What now?" she asks. "Or have you exhausted your appetite for humiliating me?"

"I could continue," he offers, eyes glinting above the rim of his glass. "But you do seem near tears."

"Oh, do shut up," she gets to her feet and moves toward the hearth, arms crossed beneath her chest. The fire's heat prickles her skin, drawing warmth through the silk and lace as she watches the embers shift. "There must be something I'm good at, surely. God wouldn't be so cruel as to grant me a face and nothing else."

From behind, there's the sound of a card snapping lightly against the table.

"You're tolerable at vingt-et-un," he says, and she hears the faintest pause. "When you don't insist the dealer is lying."

"I know when people are lying. You shouldn't hold that against me."

"I suppose not, but it makes the game unplayable."

She turns her head just enough to look over her shoulder. "You ought to invent something better. A game without so many rules."

Ciel's gaze meets hers, cool and thoughtful beneath the flicker of lamplight. "And leave room for chaos? Never."

Rolling her eyes, Leah crosses back toward the table and reclaims her seat, this time letting her limbs drape with deliberate, feline laziness. "You are dreadfully boring sometimes, do you know that?"

He doesn't offer a reaction. "And you are delightfully uncivilized."

The corner of her mouth curves. "See? You can be charming when you wish."

"I'm always charming. You're simply too bitter to notice."

She leans forward, elbows to knees, chin in hand. "That sounds like something a bitter man would say."

He lifts his glass in a mock salute. "Touché."

The room quiets for a moment, and the clock ticks in the hall. A draft curls along the wainscoting, stirring the hem of Leah's skirts. She eyes the cards again, then the dice set aside in a small crystal dish. Too many games have passed in one sitting; the thrill has softened now, leaving behind only warmth, company, and the steady pleasure of unspoken intimacy.

Ciel sets the wine aside. "There's always charades."

Her lips pout. "You are not dragging me into a game of charades."

His smile returns, slow and sly. "Are you afraid you'll lose again?"

"I'm afraid I'll throw myself from a window," Leah says.

"Come now," he murmurs, tone feigning innocence, "it requires no arithmetic."

She considers the set of his shoulders, the glint of mischief edging into his eyes, and the small twitch of his gloved fingers against the tabletop. Then she sighs, long and dramatic.

"Fine," she concedes, voice drawling like someone being marched to the guillotine. "But if you make me act out something as humiliating as a goose again, I will bite you."

"Noted."

They shift, rearranging the chairs to face one another, and Leah smooths the wrinkles from her skirt with exaggerated precision.

The first round is awkward. She stares blankly at him when it's her turn, vaguely miming a person, then an action, then—when he fails to guess—flinging herself onto the rug with a groan of despair.

"You're abysmal at this," he says, tone utterly without sympathy.

"It was clearly 'woman hurling herself from carriage to avoid conversation with dull husband.'" she growls.

He doesn't dignify that with a response.

The second round goes better. She guesses pirate after he limps across the rug pretending to have one leg. It makes her laugh hard enough that she nearly snorts, which prompts a scandalized hand over her mouth.

They play for longer than intended. One round becomes two, then three. Her slippers end up discarded beneath the table, and his waistcoat is shed and tossed over the back of the settee. The wine is finally gone.

Though Leah loses more often than not, she's flushed, smiling, and breathing easier now than she had when the evening began.

When she stumbles through an act that might be meant to represent "storm at sea," and collapses across the chaise in a dramatic heap, she glances up to find Ciel standing over her, arms crossed, one brow raised.

"You're not trying," he accuses.

"I am. You simply don't know art when you see it," she kicks a foot.

He leans down slowly and plucks a loose hair from her forehead. "That's what they all say."

Her hand darts up and slaps his away. He smirks and lets her.

Outside, the wind picks up slightly, rattling the branches against the windows. The fire burns low, casting long shadows along the walls. Neither of them reaches to light another lamp. The night has grown long, but neither of them moves to end it.

═╬

The east parlour is swathed in pale light, heavy with the perfume of roses. It creeps in through tall windows and settles on the sprawl of opened boxes, ribbons, and half-wrapped parcels that have all but overtaken the floor. Every table surface has been claimed by something. A gold clock in the shape of a swan, a set of bone china too delicate to touch, embroidered linens that still smell of starch. There's a lace parasol propped against the edge of the chaise, absurdly ornate and utterly impractical. Leah eyes it with the sort of disdain she normally reserves for lesser girls.

The gifts have been trickling in since the wedding. Dozens—hundreds, likely. Items from far-flung family, sycophants, social climbers, and overindulgent friends of her parents. A few from people she and Ciel actually tolerate, but most of them bear the stamp of polite obligation, the kind that turns her stomach if she dwells on it for too long.

She unwraps a box containing what appears to be a crystal decanter shaped like a blooming tulip. A note nestled inside reads 'To a match made by Heaven and sanctioned by society. May your union be as enduring as cut glass.' She snorts and tosses the card aside. The decanter isn't terrible, at least. If anything, Leah thinks it's cute. She holds it up to the light and watches it catch a rainbow against the ceiling.

"You've made a disaster of the room."

Ciel's voice floats from the doorway. She doesn't look up right away as there's tissue paper caught under her slipper, and she leans down to free it with a wrinkle of her nose. When she straightens, he's stepped further in, one hand holding a pair of letters.

"I didn't realise it was your parlour," she answers, gesturing lazily to the chaos. "Shall I ask for your blessing before I wrinkle the rugs?"

"I'm the master of the house. It's all my parlour."

"Marvellous. I'm sure you'll enjoy the mess I've made, then."

He approaches slowly, his gaze drifting over the array. One of the tables bears an enormous glass vase filled with sugar roses, peonies, and violets, all so finely crafted she thought them real at first. She's grown to detest them. The arrangement is almost vulgar in its prettiness.

"You've gone through all of them?" he stops just beside her, nudging a box aside with his toe.

She shakes her head. "Not yet. I thought I'd pace myself. Something to look forward to."

His mouth twitches, but she doesn't give him the satisfaction of a smile. There's a set of pearl-handled letter openers nearby, lying in a crushed velvet box. Likely meant for correspondence she'll never read. She picks one up, spins it between her fingers, then returns it with exaggerated care.

"You're not keeping that," he mutters.

"It has a satisfying weight," Leah says.

"It's hideous."

"That's why I like it."

She moves past him to another stack. Someone had the gall to send a wedding portrait she and Ciel never sat for. Their faces are distorted, a little too angular, and the colours are too bold. Ciel's hair is the wrong shade, and her own gown is rendered in an offensive yellow, not even close to what she wore. She turns the frame face down and hopes the artist meets some unfortunate end involving fire.

He watches her with folded arms. "You've only unwrapped the gifts?"

"Mm, and mocked them. Thoroughly."

"No thank-you notes?"

Leah shrugs nonchalantly. "You may write them yourself if you're so concerned."

"That would defeat the purpose of you appearing grateful."

"I'm grateful enough for the ones I didn't hate."

"That's not how gratitude works."

She plucks up a handkerchief monogrammed with their initials entwined like a pair of serpents. The stitching is expert, something she can appreciate. She folds it neatly and tucks it back into the box, then pushes it away with a fingertip.

Ciel lowers himself into the chair beside her. One of the letters he carries is torn open, the wax seal broken cleanly. He reads in silence, posture composed, only glancing up when she exhales sharply through her nose. Her attention has turned to an elaborate candelabrum shaped like a twisted tree, each branch ending in a porcelain bird.

"What is that?" she asks.

"French," he replies.

"Of course it is."

She drags it closer, inspecting the birds' painted faces. One of them has a chip in the beak, hairline thin, only noticeable in the right light. She runs her thumb over it.

"I rather like this one," she mutters. "Shame it's flawed."

"It suits you, then."

Her eyes flick to him, narrowed, but he's still reading, serene as ever. 'Bastard.' She leans across the table and aims a half-hearted swat at his arm. He catches her wrist without looking, holds it just long enough to be annoying, then lets go.

"Shall I sort the ones I like?" she asks, reclining back into the cushion, all mock effort. "We could build a separate wing for the rest. Call it the Hall of Mediocre Tokens."

"No need," he murmurs. "We'll simply re-gift them to people we dislike."

Leah lets out a quiet snort and shifts, drawing one leg up under her as she reaches for another box. This one's tied in red silk ribbon and doesn't have a card. She tugs it loose and peels back the wrapping. Inside is a music box shaped like a carriage, gold, lacquered, and grotesque. When she twists the key, it plays something that vaguely resembles Clair de Lune, though the mechanism grinds audibly with every rotation.

She snaps the lid shut. "That one's going in the fire."

"I'd rather not poison the household," Ciel grimaces.

She glances toward him again, her gaze trailing over the sharp lines of his profile. He looks less tired now than he did in the days leading up to the wedding. His face no longer bears the stretched-thin look of someone pretending to be fine for the sake of appearances. There's an ease in his shoulders now, a looseness to his posture, like the world has stopped biting for just long enough to let him breathe.

"You're not going to make me write those thank-you notes, are you?" she asks, quieter this time.

"No," he doesn't elaborate.

She watches him for another moment, then returns to the boxes. The next one contains a fan carved from ivory, its paper hand-painted with scenes of lovers in a garden. Excessive, but it's pretty, and she lets it rest on her lap while she tears open the next ribbon.

There's something satisfying about it, the rustle of paper, sprayed fabric, and the idle sorting of treasures and horrors alike. It's the sort of mindless work that fills an afternoon without fuss. She might hate half the contents, but at least they're hers now. The collection grows around her feet, a little more ridiculous with each addition. She could sit like this for hours.

Ciel doesn't move.

The music box still rests at her elbow. She considers winding it again, just to annoy him. Or perhaps not. There's still another box to open, and the next ribbon is knotted a little too tightly. She begins to work at it with her thumbnail.

The light shifts through the window again, dimmer now. Dust motes drift, and the fire hasn't been lit, but the room is warm enough without it. Her fingers pause on the bow as she glances sideways, then undoes the knot.

═╬

The evening is still, soaked in gold from the candles flickering high in the sconces and along the centre of the table. Heavy drapes have been drawn, keeping out the dusk and its curious chill. A lace cloth drapes over the table, gathered at the sides like a gown. Two plates rest across from one another, touched by silver and delicate bone china, their contents modest but elegant—duck glazed in something faintly sweet, a curl of buttered carrot, thin green beans trimmed like ribbons.

Leah's knife moves in quiet arcs, slicing through her portion with practiced ease. She isn't ravenous, and she won't pretend to be, but it's not unpleasant tonight—the food, the quiet, the faint crackle of the hearth behind her. The air smells faintly of orange peel and woodsmoke, and though everything around her seems arranged for intimacy, it lacks the suffocating edge of earlier nights when they both still stumbled over the novelty of being married. The silence isn't hostile. It lingers without need to be filled.

Across the table, Ciel is watching her with his usual calm, his elbow on the table and his chin barely tilted in thought. He's already finished most of his meal, not rushing, but content. His expression rarely betrays much in front of others, but there's a softness in the line of his mouth that she only ever sees when it's just the two of them and no one else to notice.

She picks up her fork again, nudges a sliver of duck onto it, then glances up at him through the veil of her lashes. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Should I be worried?"

"You might, if you'd done anything worth worrying over," his tone is dry, almost careless.

Leah chuckles. "Mm, give me time. The night's young."

He lifts his wine glass to his lips, but the edge of it catches on a smile. A real one, faint and flickering.

They've had no visitors since morning, no correspondences requiring immediate attention, and even Thomas has learned to leave them be after dinner hours unless the manor is on fire, which, blessedly, it isn't. Time has slowed these past few weeks, bending to their schedule in a way that feels indulgent and fragile all at once. No trips, no galas, and no pretenses, at least not outside of their own.

Leah eats slowly, less out of dread and more for pacing. It's easier when there's no conversation to perform, no social obligation to finish everything, and no Sebastian lingering just out of view waiting to clear her plate. She's eaten enough, more than enough, so she lets the fork rest.

Ciel finishes his wine and sets the glass down with an absent motion. "The estate accountant requested another audience. I've refused him."

"Why?" she reaches for her own glass but doesn't drink.

"Because I would rather spend my evening doing anything else, and he's tedious."

"You do love a tedious man."

"Not when I'm dining."

A flicker of amusement dances through her expression. She leans back slightly, fingers toying with the edge of her plate, tracing the rim with one pale fingertip.

"I think I ought to learn the accounts myself," she muses aloud, tone light but laced with sincerity.

"You?" Ciel lifts a brow. "You'd sooner set fire to the ledgers than balance them."

"Incorrect. I'd have them bound in something prettier and perhaps printed in color, but I would balance them," she fights the urge to twiddle her thumbs.

Ciel hardly looks up. "Decorating the margins with ink roses does not qualify as finance."

She lifts her glass this time and takes a sip. The wine has mellowed since it was poured—softened, like the mood in the room. "Then teach me properly. If I'm to be paraded about as the mistress of this place, I ought to know more than which wine glasses to choose."

"You already know more than most wives of your rank," he gives a faint tilt of his head.

"I'm not most wives," she licks her lips.

"No, you're not," he says, quieter, eyes not leaving her.

The room feels warmer then. Leah sets the glass down gently. Her other hand lies idle in her lap, fingers curled against the silk folds of her skirt. She shifts, just enough that her foot brushes his under the table.

He doesn't move, his gaze remaining steady.

"You'd let me do it, wouldn't you?" she murmurs. "Go through the books. Take notes. Ask too many questions."

"I'd let you ruin the whole estate if it meant you'd do it in here, with me," there's an almost unnoticeable flush on his cheeks.

She almost laughs, but doesn't. Instead, she leans her cheek into her hand, elbow resting again on the table's edge. Her eyes flick past him to the window, then return. "That's a sentimental answer."

"It's true."

"Yet if I so much as breathe near the wine cellar, you act like I'm going to poison our guests."

"That's different."

"How?"

"You're impatient," he leans back in his seat.

"You're smug."

"And you married me."

"I must've been tricked," Leah huffs.

"You weren't," he murmurs.

She hums, soft and low, not an agreement but not a challenge either. A loose strand of hair slips near her cheek, and she doesn't bother to tuck it away.

"I didn't think I'd like this part of it," she says, not looking at him. "The quiet. The hours where we're not doing anything at all."

"What did you expect?" Ciel's brow raises.

"I don't know. Something more.. dramatic," she shrugs. "I thought I'd grow bored of you."

"You will."

"I haven't yet."

Ciel lifts his hand, brushing his thumb across his lower lip as if in thought, though his eyes are trained solely on her now. Not distractedly. Not because she's beautiful, though he clearly thinks she is, but in the way one looks when they're listening more than watching.

She takes another sip, then rises from her seat with unhurried grace. The air shifts as she moves, her gown rustling faintly with every step. She circles the table, fingers brushing the linen surface as she walks. When she reaches his side, she stops just behind him.

He doesn't turn.

Her hand lifts, fingertips grazing his shoulder, then smoothing along the line of his coat. He still doesn't look at her, but he's not avoiding it. He's waiting.

"I could sit with you," she murmurs. "Watch you work. Be quiet. Just for once."

"That would be suspicious."

"I'm capable of being well-behaved."

"Briefly."

Her other hand drapes over his other shoulder now, and she leans in, not quite against him, not yet. Her mouth hovers near his ear, and when she speaks again, it's quieter.

"You like when I'm near you, don't you?" she smiles.

He tilts his head just enough that she sees the faintest curve of a smirk. "When you're not biting."

"I might still bite," she lets her hand slide lower, slow and measured, fingers light over the buttons of his coat. "You'd deserve it."

"I usually do."

The fire crackles behind them. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimes the quarter hour, muffled by distance and heavy walls. She lets the silence stretch just a moment longer, fingers stilling.

"You're in a better mood than you were last night," she says lightly, tone veiled, thoughtful.

"I'm not being pelted with hairpins this evening," he replies, tone flat.

"So yes, perhaps I am."

————

there was smut in this chapter that i obviously don’t think i can post here again TvT it’s inbetween the horse riding and breakfast scene if you want to read it on ao3! don’t worry, this is the last time for what i think will be a long while! sorry for the inconvenience again

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55513072/chapters/140880142

also, this is a chapter of some highlights from ciel and leah’s honeymoon! chronological order, but none happen in the same day—there’s space between all of them.

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #slow burn #wedding #ao3 writer #honeymoon #smut

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter forty-two ! )

"I told you the sleeves were going to be the death of us."

The words are half-muffled by a whalebone bodice and a mouth full of pins, but they still carry the same exasperated tone Gwendolyn always manages to adopt when wrestling with an overly complicated piece of fabric. Leah stands perfectly still, arms outstretched and lifted, while her cousin fumbles with the third layer of silk puff that's meant to sit just off her shoulder.

Sunlight spills across the floor in bright patches, filtered through sheer curtains and dancing across embroidery and pearls like it knows what kind of day this is—her wedding day. Leah doesn't speak at first, she's trying to take it in.

The gown is everything she's ever wanted it to be. Ivory silk tulle cascades in soft but commanding folds, layer upon layer of intricate embroidery stitched by hand in Paris and ferried over in a locked trunk. Every seam is perfect, every panel structured and sculpted with purpose. Delicate silver threads loop through a pattern of small roses and thorns down the bodice and into the fullness of the skirt, blooming wider near the hem. There are rosettes stitched to the bustle like a garden that's threatening to overtake her entirely. The sleeves are dramatic, puffed, slit, and trimmed with scalloped lace, and her train drags behind her like a curtain made for royalty.

And the veil is cathedral length, trailing several feet past the edge of her skirt, shimmering faintly under the weight of so many pearls that even Leah had blinked in awe when she first tried it on. The lace at the crown is stiff and stitched so precisely she could almost cry. It is obscene and perfect.

"Do not tug it like that," Henrietta warns, swatting Gwendolyn's wrist. "The tulle is thin, and if you rip it, I shall make you pay the embroiderer yourself."

Gwendolyn glares. "We have one hour. One. I would sooner pay the embroiderer than deal with your dramatics."

From across the room, Elizabeth clutches her hands to her chest and lets out a soft, breathy sigh. "It's like something out of a fairytale, truly. I've never seen a dress like this, not even in the fashion books from Paris."

"You wouldn't," Gwendolyn mutters, but it's more habit than malice.

The chatter is distant to Leah, though she hears it. She's too still and breathless, the reality of it all finally settling into her bones like some heavy, lovely thing. The corset tightens with each breath. Her lungs feel pressed, but not in a bad way. More like she's being held together, formed, and sculpted into something holy, into the vision of what she always imagined she'd become once the day came.

"Stand straighter," Vivienne says from her corner by the mirror. She has been watching the entire process with the detached air of a woman observing a portrait being framed. "There is no grace in a slouching bride."

Leah obeys, but only barely. Her back is already aching, the bodice is unforgiving. Still, she says nothing. The less Vivienne speaks this morning, the better.

Her mother has been in a good mood, or what passes for it. No sharp remarks about Leah's height, no criticisms of her arms or her posture beyond the usual. She even allowed a touch of pink on Leah's cheeks without complaint. Leah isn't about to ruin the fragile peace. She can feel Vivienne's measuring eyes on her, though.

"You look radiant," Henrietta says softly, stepping forward now to adjust a bit of lace that's slipped from Leah's shoulder. "Do you feel it?"

"I don't know what I feel," Leah answers, honestly. "Everything. Nothing. I've not had a moment to breathe."

"Well, breathe now," Gwendolyn says, fixing the veil where it spills from its comb, "because once we're downstairs, it's over. You won't get a moment alone for the next seven hours and then you're to vanish entirely and we all pretend not to know why."

Elizabeth turns even pinker at that. "Gwen."

"I didn't say it," she puffs her cheeks.

"Not yet."

Leah gives a faint laugh, one that surprises even her. Her fingers tremble a little as she lifts them to touch the embroidery near her hip. The thread is so fine, that it feels like the texture of a spider's web. It's odd, standing here in the quiet chaos of a bridal chamber, the women around her fretting, fluffing, and tying and yet she feels calm.

She's marrying him.

The thought alone has weight. Not because she doubts him. She doesn't, not even a little. It's because, in all her life, nothing else has ever truly mattered. Not her Season and the stupid courtship balls or the endless, glittering teas. Not the girls simpering behind gloves or the ones whispering behind fans. Not even her mother's smirks. This is what matters. Ciel, her marriage, and her life. And to top it all off, she gets to leave today.

"You're thinking too hard," Gwendolyn says suddenly, eyes sharp as she pins another twist of lace into place.

Leah meets her gaze in the mirror. "Am I?"

"You're doing that thing. The one where you pretend you're not nervous and then you start brooding and sticking your tongue out in focus. Stop it."

"I'm not brooding."

"You're absolutely brooding," Henrietta agrees.

"I'm thinking," she replies. "You'll have to forgive me for not squealing like a lamb."

"No one asked you to squeal," says Vivienne, still by the mirror. "But a bride should look content. Not like she's contemplating war."

A sigh catches in Leah's chest. She smooths her hands down the front of her skirts. "I am content. Just aware."

There's another silence, a shared breath. Even Vivienne, for once, has no retort. A small clock chimes from the mantle. One-half hour.

The veil is arranged, the final pearl fastened, ribbons tied, gloves waiting and untouched. Her heels—white satin and hand-embroidered—peek out just beneath the hem. Leah doesn't move yet. She's looking at herself in the tall mirror now, truly looking.

The girl there is beautiful. Not in a way she's grown used to denying or like the compliments she's heard in drawing rooms or the shallow observations made by bored men hoping to charm. This is different. She looks like she's stepped out of a painting, like marble carved into flesh. For once, she feels that she can acknowledge and accept her beauty.

"I can't breathe," she says suddenly.

Gwendolyn goes pale. "Is it the corset?"

"No. It's—" Leah breathes again. Laughs, too suddenly to stop it. "I mean it in a good way."

Relief floods the room. Even Vivienne's posture shifts ever so slightly, her hands relaxing against the folds of her own gown.

"Thank the stars," Henrietta mutters. "I thought we'd have to cut you out like a roast chicken."

Another laugh bubbles out. Leah reaches out and squeezes Gwendolyn's hand, and then Henrietta's. Elizabeth beams beside them, almost swaying with excitement.

She does not look at her mother. "I'm ready as I'll ever be," Leah says.

Stepping out of the room, they all shuffle into the hallway. It feels narrower than it ought to be, though Leah suspects that has little to do with the actual architecture and far more to do with the sheer circumference of her gown.

As beautiful as the dress is, it makes every step feel like wading through a dream—or a nightmare, depending on how one looks at it. Now, as the final door clicks shut behind them and the corridor stretches ahead, she realizes that for all her childhood visions, she never quite imagined how utterly inconvenient her dream dress would be.

Her heel catches on a hem and she lurches forward half a step, jolting the bodice as the corset beneath reminds her that breathing is not a priority today.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she mutters under her breath, voice soft but not entirely concealed. "How does anyone move in this?"

A beat passes and then Gwendolyn, just behind her on the left, leans in slightly and murmurs, "Do you want the honest answer?"

"No," Leah says, dragging the word out like a sigh as she attempts to angle her hips to accommodate another forward step. "No, I want to keep pretending I'm gliding down the hall like a swan on a still lake."

"Right now you're more like a swan caught in brambles," Gwendolyn jokes.

That earns a sharp breath that might have become a laugh had Leah's lungs more freedom. As it is, she merely smirks, then glances sideways to catch Gwendolyn's grin, fond and dry.

Behind them, Elizabeth hurries to keep pace without stepping on the veil, her gloved hands fidgeting with the edge of it to make sure it doesn't snag on a passing sconce.

"I could carry the train again if it would help," she offers, trying her best not to sound flustered despite the speed with which she has to dart around Leah's billowing silhouette. "Or, I don't know, perhaps we ought to pause for a moment? Just until the corridor widens."

Leah doesn't stop walking, but she does tilt her head toward Elizabeth in what she hopes passes as a gracious, bridal sort of acknowledgment. "No, no," she says. "Let's just keep going. If I stop now, I may not start again."

Henrietta lets out a low, sympathetic hum from somewhere near Leah's elbow. "You really weren't joking when you said the dress was theatrical."

"I was never joking," Leah replies, voice dry. "I spent three years designing this gown in secret. If it didn't look like a stage curtain mated with a chandelier, I would have considered it a personal failure."

"And now?" Henrietta arches a brow.

"It's magnificent," Leah says, "but I feel as though I've been swallowed whole by it."

The corridor turns, then opens up into a grander passage lined with floor-length mirrors and marble columns. Leah feels a flicker of satisfaction pulse through her chest.

She looks like a bride from the fairy books, one of the ones with doomed beginnings and sweeping, romantic endings. 'This is all I've ever wanted.' Not the husband, the parties, the season, or the approval of parents who never wanted her to be anything but quiet and pretty and useful. Just this.

"I suppose this is what I deserve for insisting the veil be cathedral-length," she says absently, watching herself move. A small army of girls flurries about her like birds, adjusting the hem where it snags, fluffing the layers behind her so they trail neatly and don't fold over.

"You insisted?" Gwendolyn scoffs gently. "You threatened the seamstress."

"I was nine," Leah replies airily.

"You told her if the veil didn't touch the floor in three rooms, you would weep until your lungs collapsed."

"True. Now I can barely walk without tripping over my own legacy."

"You look heavenly, though," Elizabeth offers quickly, clasping her hands together with a kind of earnest delight that's only a little exhausting. "Like a princess in a storybook."

That coaxes a real smile from Leah. "That's the idea."

She pauses as they near the chapel doors, her heart kicking once, sharp and nervous. There's still time before the procession and the guests are still settling. Her father, somewhere, is no doubt counting down the seconds until he may hand her off like the Barrett heirloom he treats her as.

Gwendolyn notices her shift in stance and leans in once more. "Do you need to sit?" she asks, softer this time. "Or water?"

Leah shakes her head, expression composed. "No. Just thinking."

Henrietta peers up at her from her right, squinting slightly. "Nerves?"

"A bit," Leah admits. "Not about the wedding, though."

She doesn't elaborate, not that she has to. They all know her too well. Leah shifts her weight again, trying to test how long a stride she can take before the bodice constrains her. Not long, perhaps half what she's used to. Her height works against her, ironically. A petite girl would've glided effortlessly in this.

Gwendolyn watches her with a knowing look, already lifting a handful of skirts in preparation. "Walk slowly," she says. "One step at a time. No one's rushing you."

"Except the weight of my own ambition," Leah murmurs.

"And possibly your mother," Henrietta adds, "but you can't hear her from here, so let's pretend she's not real."

That finally makes Leah laugh, the tension in her shoulders drops slightly. She exhales and lets her hand trail along the carved edge of the nearest column.

It isn't the end of the corridor, not yet. There's still more walking to be done, still more breath to conserve and elegance to feign. But in this moment, surrounded by girls who know her and dressed in the dream she's carried for years, she feels something close to content.

The hush before a storm or the calm after one. Either way, she lifts her chin and prepares for the next room.

The moment the room clears, the quiet is almost shocking. The click of the door closing behind Gwendolyn is the last sound for a beat too long, the stillness settling around Leah like the folds of her gown—heavy, intricate, and impossible to ignore.

She exhales through her nose slowly when she watches her father enter. Lucius doesn't speak when he steps forward, only takes the place Vivienne left open with the kind of ease that suggests he's rehearsed this moment. 'He likely has.'

Every step of this day has his signature pressed into it—the invitations, the gilded altar, the seating arrangements, the music. Leah's aware of it all and for once, she finds she doesn't mind. It's not often her father offers anything without strings, but today the strings are visible and she knows how to untangle them.

He studies her with a long, appraising look. Not so different from the way a man might regard a painting he commissioned. There is no softness to it nor a fatherly gleam in his eye. Just pride, sharp and quiet and square-edged.

Lucius inclines his head a little. "Well," he says. "You certainly aren't subtle."

Her lips twitch at the corners. "I never intended to be."

A brief hum, halfway between amusement and agreement, comes from him as he offers his arm. Leah doesn't take it just yet, trying to take a step only to almost trip, though not quite. The fabric gathers around her ankles like waves at shore, unwilling to part easily. Her brows draw together slightly.

Lucius notices. "Do you need to adjust something?"

"No," she says, tilting her chin higher. "It's manageable."

He says nothing more, though she catches a flicker of judgment in his eyes. She doesn't rise to it. Today is not a day for provocations.

They begin walking slowly, Lucius matching her pace without complaint. Perhaps he can sense that she needs the time. The train of her gown unfurls behind her like a royal banner, sweeping the polished floor. It is all a great deal more dramatic than most weddings might allow, but she's never wanted subtlety. Ciel understands that.

She wonders where he is now—whether he's standing at the front already or if he's pacing quietly somewhere in another room. 'I hope he isn't nervous.' He's not a man who takes well to emotional fussing. Then again, he isn't marrying just anyone, he's marrying her.

"I suppose this is the part where I say something sentimental or impart advice," Lucius says, breaking the silence with the edge of something like irony, "but you've never taken to that sort of thing."

Leah glances sideways at him. "No. And you've never been sentimental."

"True."

They turn a corner, the pace still painfully slow on her part. Leah has to concentrate to keep her steps from becoming too wide. She's used to moving quickly and taking stairs two at a time, used to commanding her space. The dress is not built for that, it commands instead.

Lucius watches her walk for a moment, his gaze dipping briefly to the hem of her gown. "You're managing better than your mother would've in that thing."

She huffs out a laugh, the sound small but genuine. "Mama would've fainted before they opened the chapel doors."

"Or claimed she was ill. She's always preferred exits to entrances."

"That she has."

It's one of the rare moments they laugh together, if you can call it that. Not warm, exactly, but something close to shared understanding. Vivienne has always been something of a performance—beautiful, brittle, and best when watched from a distance. Leah sometimes wonders if her mother was ever young, silly, or free. She doesn't imagine so.

The doors at the end of the hall grow closer, the light from the stained glass leaks across the floor in fractured color. Her fingertips tighten slightly around the edge of her bouquet, careful not to bruise the petals.

Lucius slows his steps, forcing her to match them. "You'll need to move with more grace than this when the doors open."

"I'm aware," she murmurs. "I'm simply trying not to fall."

"Don't."

She doesn't respond. The nerves curl tighter, but they're not unpleasant. They feel the way excitement ought to feel when it's too tightly laced. She can handle it. She's prepared for this moment for years, long before she knew who the groom would be.

Now, she does know and knows him well. Ciel has always been cold to most, but not to her. Not lately that is. There's a comfort in knowing he sees her as more than a Barrett daughter and more than a glittering match. With him, there is no pretense or need to perform.

"You're sure about this," Lucius says, and it isn't a question.

"Yes," she replies.

He simply nods. "Good. Because there's no turning back."

Leah takes a deep breath. "I don't intend to."

He studies her again, longer this time. His expression doesn't change, but she can feel the weight of it. There is approval somewhere in it, buried beneath layers of distance and expectation.

The music swells slightly from the other end of the doors, causing her fingers to flex. Lucius offers his arm again and she takes it.

"Ready?" Lucius asks as the string quartet begins to play.

Leah squares her shoulders. "Quite."

They step forward and the curtain is drawn. The chapel doors swing wide, and a collective hush rolls through the crowd like a ripple across water. All eyes turn to her and for once, she doesn't feel compelled to look away or temper her presence. 'Let them look. That's half the point, isn't it?'

The aisle stretches long ahead, strewn with pale petals, flanked by rows of well-dressed guests in hats and gloves and layers of wealth. Even Henry Moore is in attendance—someone she expected would choose to ignore her invitation. Beside him, Lau slouches with a lazy grin, Ran Mao standing silent and statuesque at his side. There's something surreal about their presence, but Leah doesn't linger on it, smiling knowing Ran Mao has come.

Her focus remains forward.

At the altar, Ciel waits. He wears a deep navy coat with silver detailing, something dignified but tailored with a crisp cravat at his neck and his family signet glinting against one gloved hand. His expression is calm, but there's a softness to his mouth, a slight lift at the corners that he wouldn't dare wear on any other day. Not for a ball and not even for death, but today, for her, it rests there without shame.

Soma stands behind him, fussing lightly with his own cuffs. He looks like he's struggling not to fidget entirely. Leah spares him the briefest nod of amusement as she passes down the aisle, but her attention flicks right back to Ciel as if magnetized.

Lucius walks her with steady, deliberate steps. There's a formality to the way he holds her, not quite affectionate but not cold either. He's doing his duty and he's doing it well.

As they reach the front, Lucius places her hand into Ciel's without ceremony. The moment is brief. He doesn't say anything sentimental, simply inclines his head and steps back, retreating to his seat beside Vivienne who watches the exchange with unreadable eyes. Beside her, Daniel sits trying to hide the tears that spill from his eyes.

The officiant begins the ceremony, voice slow and clear, the cadence grand enough to suit the setting. Leah tunes in and out of the words, focusing instead on the weight of Ciel's hand in hers. His thumb brushes against her knuckles in a gesture so small and personal, that it anchors her more than anything else.

The exchange of vows is elegant and brief—no tearful proclamations or overwrought speeches. Just the essentials, delivered with poise and clarity. Ciel's voice is quiet, but not cold. Leah doesn't smile too wide or cry, but she knows her expression is softer than most have ever seen. She doesn't care. It feels earned.

When the time comes to sign the Parliament, Leah steps forward first. The fountain pen is sleek, and heavy in her grip, and the parchment is thick with Parliament's seal impressed upon the header. Her name flows in graceful script, learned from years of practice under the threat of Rosaline's sharp gaze. Ciel signs second, his writing more restrained.

There's no kiss. It would be inappropriate, bordering on scandalous.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

The guests erupt into polite applause.

Ciel leans in just slightly as they turn to face the room together, his voice is quiet against her temple. "You look more magnificent than Versailles."

Leah smirks. "I should hope so. I've always liked to win."

Together, they begin their slow recessional down the aisle, arm in arm. The guests rise as they pass—rows and rows of relatives, nobles, merchants, and allies. Mostly coming from Leah's side.

The reception is only a short walk away, prepared for the next stage of the day. Opulent, but tastefully so with long tables and heavy linens, arrangements of peonies and orchids, crystal chandeliers dripping with light.

Behind her, Gwendolyn is already pulling Henrietta into a tight hug. Elizabeth hovers nearby, fidgeting with her gloves and trying not to burst into fresh tears.

Soma rushes over as soon as decorum allows, his grin blinding. "You two looked wonderful! And you," he says, turning to Leah, "I think I nearly forgot to breathe when you walked in."

Leah laughs, light and unguarded. "It's the dress."

"It's you in it," Soma insists, then spins on his heel to drag Ciel into conversation, clearly thrilled with himself.

For a moment, Leah allows herself to simply stand there watching the chaos unfold. The guests milling about, the servants discreetly shuffling champagne glasses into position, the low hum of conversation building like a tide.

Her eyes drift to the side, catching her mother's narrowed gaze from across the room. Vivienne's lips are pursed like she's smelled something sour, though she masks it with a sip of wine. Lucius is already off speaking with someone else, deep in some humorless conversation.

'It doesn't matter. I'm not going home with them.'

Leah turns back to the center of the room, where Ciel now stands half-listening to Soma and sparing her a glance that softens immediately when their eyes meet.

Everything she wanted and everything she's been made to endure has led to this. It's excessive. It's a spectacle. It's exactly how she wanted it.

═╬

Sunlight filters in through the tall stained-glass windows of Barrett Manor's ballroom, casting a soft glow over the long tables dressed in fine linen and adorned with silver candelabras and overflowing arrangements of peonies and orchids. Harpists in emerald green gowns perform softly near the far end of the room, the melodies delicate and fleeting.

The scent of warm bread, fresh fruit, and strong tea mingles with imported florals and expensive perfume. The setting is perfect—ornate, elegant, and entirely excessive—but that was always the intention. After all, Leah has never been accused of moderation.

Though it is hardly afternoon, champagne flows freely and laughter rises from every corner. Dozens of her relatives, most of whom she has not spoken to in over a decade, are engaged in various states of polite conversation, excessive fawning, or outright gossip.

It is not just the Barrett name that has drawn them, but the scale of the affair. There is a duchess sipping tea next to a retired opera singer. A marquess' third cousin-in-law smiles across the table at a Spanish countess who, rumor has it, has a son she intends to introduce to Leah's younger cousin.

Ciel looks like he has been dropped into an unfamiliar wilderness and told to navigate by starlight.

His posture remains composed, expression unreadable but distinctly tight around the mouth. The subtle twitch of his brow every time someone else with the Barrett nose and cold blue eyes approaches does not escape Leah's notice nor does the way his hand lingers near his waistcoat pocket, itching for a pocket watch or a reason to excuse himself.

"You're counting them, aren't you?" she murmurs, sidling close enough that her shoulder brushes his.

"I ceased counting after the fifth round of congratulations from a great-aunt who called me 'the boy with the bleak face.'" Ciel replies lowly, voice clipped but not without a trace of dry humor.

"Ah, that's Aunt Louise. Her husband sells tobacco. He has a limp, she has an attitude. Avoid both," Leah plucks a strawberry from a nearby silver tray and pops it into her mouth, speaking around it. "I could draw you a map, but I suspect it would only make things worse."

"Are there.. this many of you?" he asks, side-glancing at her with the barest flicker of something like awe. Or perhaps dread.

"You've seen but a portion. They multiply like weeds," her voice is amused, tone bordering fond despite the dig. "Don't worry, most of them are only here for the food and the spectacle. You'll never have to see half of them again."

"And the other half?"

"You'll pray you don't see them again either."

A chorus of delighted shrieks cuts through the music—a cluster of children, perhaps ten or so in total, dart past the newlyweds' table. One of them, a girl with dark braids and mismatched shoes, crashes directly into Leah's leg and nearly ricochets off her train. The child looks up, stunned, wide-eyed and red-cheeked.

Leah steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. "Careful now. If you ruin this dress, I shall haunt your dreams forever," the words come out sweetly, but the girl still pales.

That is, until Leah tucks a loose braid back behind the child's ear and murmurs, "Go on. Just not near the cake."

The girl squeaks and scurries away.

"You say you dislike children," Ciel mutters, watching as two more little ones approach Leah with the sort of reverence reserved for princesses.

"I do," she leans forward slightly, smiling as a boy clutches her gloved hand and starts rattling off something about his pet rabbit. "But they're not terrible if they're small and quiet and have the good sense to listen."

"You have a remarkable ability to make that sound maternal and tyrannical at once."

"Thank you."

Daniel, now two drinks in and recovering from what was very nearly a full emotional breakdown at the altar, approaches their table with a forced sense of dignity. His eyes are still suspiciously glossy, but his voice holds steady. "Leah, you look like a damn fairytale. And you—" his gaze lands on Ciel with a sneer barely hidden behind a tight-lipped smile. "You look.. like you're not entirely certain what you've gotten yourself into."

"On the contrary," Ciel says, standing just enough straighter. "I know exactly what I've gotten into. That is what makes it so terrifying."

Leah barely holds back a laugh.

"I'll kill him if he hurts you," Daniel adds under his breath as he leans in to kiss Leah's cheek.

"I know you will," she gives his hand a small squeeze before letting him retreat back to the safety of their cousin's table.

Another round of guests descends. Cousins from her mother's side, one with a laugh like a dying bird and another who insists upon shaking Ciel's hand thrice in under a minute. Leah explains their names in short, quiet bursts.

"That's Cousin Maribel, talks too much. Avoid asking about her twins. That's her sister, Maria, but she goes by Lulu now for some reason. That man in the plum coat is Uncle Rafael's bastard, number four, I think—no, wait, six. Or was it seven?"

"Seven?" Ciel repeats, barely keeping his voice neutral.

"He likes to pretend he's very proper now, but he once threw a bottle at my father during Christmas supper. Mama still invites him every year," her smile tightens. "Probably out of guilt, since she introduced him to his second mistress."

"Delightful."

"That's one word for it."

Gwendolyn appears just then with a plate stacked high with sugared pastries, Henrietta close behind her carrying a fresh pot of tea. The contrast between the two is always jarring: Gwendolyn, slender and composed, almost royal in the curve of her posture, while Henrietta bounces slightly with every step, her face already pink from laughter. They seat themselves without invitation, chatting brightly as if the weight of decorum is nothing to them.

"Henrietta nearly tripped into the refreshment table," Gwendolyn says flatly, stealing a macaron off Leah's plate.

"It was slippery!" Henrietta insists. "Someone spilled cordial on the floor."

"Your own glass, likely."

Elizabeth joins a beat later, her voice cheerful, bright as sunlight. "They're serving almond cake soon. I made sure yours has no rose flavoring. You loathe it, don't you?"

"I do," Leah says, surprised. "Thank you."

"Of course! I remembered from that party last winter—you barely touched it then either," Elizabeth nods along to her own words.

Leah smiles, more genuine than she means to, and suddenly feels very aware of how tired her cheeks are from smiling so often already. Her whole body aches from the sheer weight of her dress, but she is content. For the moment, at least. The worst of the formalities are over.

Still, the reception stretches on. There are too many eyes, too many names she has to pretend to recall, and more questions about children and estates and future inheritances than she knows what to do with. But her fingers touch against Ciel's under the table, steady and subtle, and she remembers there is a carriage waiting to take them away when the time comes.

One particularly small boy, maybe three, clutches her hand with alarming determination. His fingers are sticky. Leah glances down with a stiff smile.

"You've jam on your face," she murmurs, bending slightly, her gloved fingers dabbing uselessly at his mouth with a handkerchief, "and now, on my glove. Splendid."

The boy only giggles, utterly unfazed. Another girl tugs at Leah's sleeve with bright eyes and frosting on her nose, babbling something about wanting to see the veil again, "up close and proper." Soon she's surrounded by a miniature horde of them. Loud, syrupy, and almost endearing.

Eventually, though, the small crowd is ushered off by a nursemaid and Leah exhales with mild relief. Ciel appears at her side shortly after, his hand brushing hers. He doesn't say anything at first, but the look he gives her is enough to make her smile. It's soft and mellow. The kind of expression only she gets to see.

"You seemed cornered," he says under his breath.

She nearly rolls her eyes. "Do not act as though you weren't the one who fled the scene the moment the jam-fingered one began his pursuit."

"I value my cravat and my sanity," he replies.

There's a fondness beneath the dryness and it settles in Leah's chest with more warmth than she expected. She leans toward him slightly, catching the scent of bergamot and his cologne.

Their brief reprieve ends when a trio of older women approach, two of them powder-faced and beady-eyed, dressed in silk too tight for the heat. One of them, a cousin on her father's side—twice removed, thrice meddling—smiles as if she's about to offer sage wisdom when it's only ever veiled insult.

"Well," the woman says, looking Leah up and down with a heavy sort of scrutiny, "you are a lovely bride, my dear. Though I daresay you've barely touched a bite this morning."

"I have eaten," Leah answers politely, measured. She keeps her posture straight and her tone sweetened just enough to pass inspection.

The woman tsks. "A woman is to be well fed if she is to bear children. A narrow frame is all well and good for gowns, but it's hardly practical for motherhood. I trust your husband will encourage heartier appetites."

Ciel's expression doesn't shift, but the air around him goes still in that unnerving, deliberate way of his. Leah can feel the tension in his silence and swiftly interjects before he has the chance to speak.

"I assure you my health is in no danger," she says with a smile poised like the blade of a knife.

"Indeed," the woman says, waving her fan like a scolding schoolmistress, "but you're young and these habits tend to follow girls into womanhood. I've always said—"

"Mm," Leah hums, smile still intact. "How fortunate I'm not in need of advice, then."

That earns a stifled cough from Gwendolyn somewhere behind her, clearly trying not to laugh. The older woman pauses, uncertain if she's been insulted. She chooses to ignore it, settling instead on a muttered comment about "delicate temperaments" and moving along with her companions.

As the group retreats, Leah exhales slowly through her nose, feeling that her hands are clammy inside her gloves. Ciel touches her wrist beneath the drape of her sleeve, brief and wordless.

"Did you want to say something?" she asks quietly.

Ciel nods quietly. "I did."

"And?" she inclines her head.

"I thought better of it."

She studies him sidelong, searching for any trace of the cold detachment he so often presents to others. There is none. Only carefully worn restraint.

They linger through the rest of the brunch with polite smiles, cutting cake and sipping from crystal flutes of elderflower cordial. Gwendolyn steals the last tart, Henrietta convinces a distant uncle of Leah's to dance, and Elizabeth hugs Leah for the sixth time and nearly trips over the edge of her train. Even Lau and Ran Mao stick around, followed by Soma and Agni who seem to be hassling Henry Moore.

Eventually, the guests begin to thin. The sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across the lawn. 'It's time.'

Their carriage waits at the front of the estate, white-lacquered and glossy, gilded like something from a fairy tale. The luggage has already been secured, the footmen standing poised.

Leah takes one last look at the terrace—the silk and ribbons, the half-finished plates, the lingering guests with flushed cheeks and champagne laughter, and finally, at her family. Lucius, stony-faced near the entryway, murmuring something sharp into Vivienne's ear. Her mother nods, barely looking toward Leah at all. A little behind them, Daniel is waving at her with a sad smile, tears flowing down his cheeks once again.

Leah doesn't bother waving and her parents, but she sends one towards Daniel, childishly blowing a kiss.

Ciel helps her into the carriage, his hand firm at her waist, the gesture more functional than sentimental. She gathers the folds of her skirts and veil, settling into the seat with a faint rustle of silk and before she knows it, the door shuts behind them.

As the carriage begins to pull away, she watches the estate fade through the window.

═╬

The drive is long enough that the hem of Leah's gown pools over the carriage bench, layers upon layers of fabric folding and crinkling in the cramped space. Outside the window, the countryside stretches, slowly giving way to dense forest shrouded in rolling mist.

When Phantomhive Manor appears through the trees, it does so like a monolith. The sight of it makes her straighten and for a moment she forgets how tight her corset is. The earth crunches under carriage wheels, the air turning sharp as the horses slow before the estate gates. Even the trees seem to part for the family name.

Sebastian is already waiting, standing at the manor entrance. Leah catches Anna's familiar figure a step behind him, hands folded primly and head bowed.

The footman opens the carriage door with a nod and Ciel steps out first. There's a moment where he simply stands, adjusting his coat with that well-worn precision, glancing once toward the door as if to assess the probability of her emerging without calamity. The dress is another creature entirely; Leah shifts inside it like a woman wading through a pond.

Ciel exhales, just barely.

"I can manage," she says, one heel appearing beneath the miles of silk.

He offers a hand anyway. Not with flourish, more like a man offering a truce to a lion. Her gloved fingers brush his. With effort and an audible swish of fabric, Leah descends. Her skirt thumps the gravel as she rights herself with practiced grace.

Then, hesitating, Ciel glances toward the doors of the manor.

"You needn't carry me," Leah says, eyes narrowing slightly.

"It's tradition," he replies, though he doesn't sound particularly committed to it. "If you trip, it's considered bad luck."

"Then it's good that I don't trip."

A pause stretches, then snaps. He steps back, gesturing for her to proceed. "After you, Lady Phantomhive."

A smile curls at the edge of her mouth as she steps forward, the title sounds sweet. If nothing else, it's hers.

Inside, the manor smells like polished wood and cold stone. Leah doesn't give Sebastian the courtesy of her attention as she passes. The entry hall is grand, but she's too focused on the weight of her veil catching on the carpet and the rustle of her underskirts to truly admire it. She turns slightly to make sure Anna is following, noting her maid's silent precision.

Everything is going well until something catches Leah's eye.

"What the hell is he doing here?" her voice carries like a whipcrack, slicing through the hush.

From the far end of the hall, Thomas bows as if that will excuse the offense of his presence. Dressed in his usual dark uniform, face unreadable, hair slicked back as though he wants to appear quite proud to be stationed at Phantomhive Manor.

Leah's blood boils instantly. "No," she says, jaw tight. "Absolutely not."

Ciel looks at her, puzzled at first, but it takes only a glance at Thomas to piece it together. His brows lift. "He was reassigned by your father."

"Well, he can be unassigned by you," she demands.

"He's not my servant," Ciel looks away, shifting on his feet.

Leah scoffs loudly. "He most certainly is not mine."

Thomas says nothing as he keeps his eyes low, though Leah can sense the smugness radiating off him like heat. She knows his silence well. It's always meant to imply he's above rebuttal, that infuriatingly civil quiet.

Ciel's gaze flicks between them, but before he can speak, an orange blur bounds from the side corridor, yowling indignantly as it leaps onto the stair railing. Sam.

"Samson!" Leah exclaims.

The cat's ears twitch at the sound of his name, blinking lazily at her before slinking down the banister and landing with a soft thump. He rubs himself along the base of her gown, tail twitching like a metronome. Ciel inhales sharply.

"You brought the cat," his eyes narrow.

Leah puts her hands on her hips. "Of course, I brought the cat."

"I'm—"

"—Allergic, yes, I know," she says, stooping slightly to scoop Sam up in her arms. "You'll live."

Ciel regards the cat as though it's a loaded pistol. "Is he to roam the halls?"

"He's to do whatever he likes," she replies. "Unlike Thomas, who is to leave."

A small yip echoes from behind and then PomPom rounds the corner with a flourish, pink ribbon tied between his ears. He skitters to a stop beside Ciel's foot, spins twice, and plops down with an expectant huff.

Ciel stares at the two animals. One in Leah's arms and one trying to chew his shoelaces. "Wonderful," he mutters.

Leah adjusts Sam in her arms and regards the room like a queen deciding what to burn first. Anna, as usual, says nothing and simply begins collecting the veil, guiding the fabric up into her arms so Leah can move more freely.

Leah gives Thomas one last withering look. "This isn't Barrett Manor," she says. "You weren't invited."

Sebastian clears his throat, stepping forward with a small, diplomatic bow. "Lady Phantomhive, it may be wise to discuss household arrangements with the master before—"

"I am the master now," she snaps, eyes cutting to him. "I'll discuss it with whoever I please, whenever I please."

Ciel's lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk threatening his otherwise neutral expression.

"Shall I show you to your chambers?" Sebastian asks, tone as smooth as ever.

Leah doesn't answer, glancing up the stairs instead. "I know the way."

She begins the climb up the stairs, Anna trailing behind with the veil still in her arms. PomPom follows, tiny paws tapping on marble. Ciel waits a beat, gives one last glance to Thomas, then turns to follow his bride.

At the landing, Leah slows, turning to look down at the grand entrance. The manor does not yet feel like home despite the amount of times she has been here. However, there's something satisfying in knowing it's hers now.

Even if her cat will have to share it with a man who might sneeze himself to death.

Even if her father has once again had the final word in sending Thomas like a final thorn tucked into the bouquet.

She breathes in and lets the thought settle.

At the top of the stairs, she hears Ciel behind her. "You're certain the cat must stay?"

A small nod. "Yes."

"And the dog?" Ciel tests.

"He belongs here," she drones.

A pause. "Of course he does."

She smiles and doesn't hide it this time. The door to their chambers looms ahead, open and waiting. When they finally step inside, Anna is quick to exit while PomPom is shut out by Ciel.

The door clicks shut behind them and the quiet that follows feels heavier than before—thicker, like the room is holding its breath. PomPom scratches lightly at the other side, letting out a muffled whine when it becomes clear he is not permitted entry. Leah stares at the wood for a second longer than she means to, like the absence of the dog somehow deepens the finality of the moment. No maid, pet, or buffer. Only her husband and his room.

She turns, surveying the space she is expected to share, and finds herself mildly disappointed. It's not ugly or cold, but plain. It looks nearly the same as the last time she saw it. The walls are a light shade of green, the furniture heavy and austere. A few items rest atop the dresser—his pocket watch, a pair of cufflinks, a closed book—but there are no flowers, no lace, and nothing that seems pretty or fun. Only some portraits and shelves seem to line the walls.

"Your chambers could use some more decoration," she says as she trails a hand along the back of a chair. "At Barrett Manor, my room had gold leaf on the ceiling and my favorite items lined the walls."

Ciel adjusts a cane leaning against the wall by the wardrobe. "You may alter it to your liking."

"Oh, I will. But I rather thought you might have a personal touch or two. Some evidence of taste, perhaps," she teases.

"There's taste in restraint," he replies evenly. "Not every surface requires embroidery."

There's no real bite to it, though and she allows herself a small smile. The veil is already slipping from her hair, the pins loosening from the weight and hours of motion. With an annoyed huff, she reaches up and begins yanking the remaining ones free, letting the gossamer spill into her arms like a cloud come undone. It flutters to the floor in a soft heap.

"God, I thought I'd be buried in it."

————

there’s an entire 3k words cut from this chapter where they get freaky, but i can’t post it due to guidelines so head over to my ao3 if you wanna read it!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55513072/chapters/140880142

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #lau black butler #slow burn #wedding #smut #ran mao #long fic #long reads #slowly losing my mind

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter forty-one ! )

"Is there a reason the invitations don't mention the church?"

The question, innocent on its face, floats down the length of the long drawing-room like a dagger in silk. Vivienne lifts her teacup delicately, as though she hasn't just lobbed a conversational grenade into the middle of an already fractious afternoon.

Sunlight spills through the tall, arched windows. A spread of parchment, ribbons, and floral samples fans out across the velvet-covered settee, encroaching on every available surface like a siege. In the chaos of tulle swatches and invitation proofs, Leah sits half-curled in a bergère.

For a moment, no one answers.

"We have a church?" Daniel says finally, deadpan, one brow lifting as he glances up from the seating chart he's meant to be overseeing. He's sprawled on the fainting couch like he owns it, long legs crossed at the ankle.

Next to him, Ciel doesn't bother to look up. He's reviewing a list of guests, pen in hand, neat script already marring the margins with notes. "I assumed you'd simply select whichever one had the most tolerable vicar."

Vivienne places her teacup back onto its saucer with unnecessary care. "It is customary for the bride to be married in her family's church. In England, that is."

A faint sound escapes Leah, half scoff and half breath. "We've lived here fourteen years and haven't attended a single Sunday service. If we have a church, it must be a phantom."

Lucius, seated near the hearth with his hands folded over his middle, grunts in agreement without looking up from the latest financial ledger. "Waste of time. If I wanted to be judged, I'd walk into Parliament."

Vivienne's nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. "Regardless, appearances matter. The invitations will be examined and picked apart. These little things reflect on all of us."

"They reflect on me," Leah says, voice honeyed and taut, "and I prefer not to be married somewhere that smells like damp hymn books and old men."

Daniel snorts. "So, nowhere in London, then."

"Not helping," she snaps, but there's no heat behind it.

The bickering settles into a kind of static. Leah breathes it in like air and lets it sharpen her edges. Every detail of this wedding has been hers for years, imagined and reimagined during dull dinners, tedious lessons, and lonely nights when she could almost believe someone might love her enough to marry her on purpose. Now it's here. Real and becoming more solid by the hour.

The drawing room has become her war room. The table is strewn with battlefield debris—sample menus, embossed stationery, and hastily scribbled notes from the florist who clearly didn't understand that "blush" is not the same as "dusty rose." Anna hovers somewhere near the doors with a measuring tape around her neck, wisely pretending not to exist.

Ciel, ever composed, sets down his pen. "We could use the church near the Opera House. It's clean, quiet, and no one goes."

Vivienne frowns. "It isn't a proper church."

"It's a functioning Anglican parish," he replies, unbothered. "That's proper enough."

Leah tilts her head, studying him. His dark eyes flit to her only once, but it's enough. 'He's telling me to choose.'

"I want the ceremony there," she says, quickly, before Vivienne can find new objections. "I don't want the guest list expanded again. We already cut some distant relatives. There's no reason to invite cousin Bransfield's third wife just because she knows how to feign tears in public."

"That woman is charity incarnate," Vivienne says stiffly.

Leah rolls her eyes in annoyance. "She's a harpy with diamonds in her teeth."

Lucius chuckles. "She is that."

Daniel leans over, eyeing the invitation proof in Leah's lap. "What is this font? It's atrocious. Looks like a footman wrote it mid-seizure."

"It is French," she says through her teeth. "Handwritten calligraphy. I happen to like it."

"Of course you do," he stretches lazily. "God forbid we have something that doesn't scream expensive and vaguely threatening."

"I am expensive and vaguely threatening," she crosses her arms.

"Tragically self-aware," he mutters.

"Daniel," Vivienne warns, though her tone lacks commitment. She seems distracted now, fingering a length of ivory lace as though trying to summon maternal enthusiasm.

"Could always marry in America," Lucius offers idly. "Vegas, maybe. Quicker. No church at all. Drive-throughs, I hear."

Vivienne shoots him a look so sharp it could slice marble.

Leah ignores them all, silent for a moment too long. When Ciel shifts beside her, she glances at him. He hasn't moved much, but he watches her with quiet attentiveness.

"I'd rather not be a spectacle," she murmurs.

"Too late," Daniel says.

She kicks at his boot with her slippered foot.

Ciel lifts a brow. "Then perhaps don't act like one."

It's almost a joke. She narrows her eyes at him, but there's a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, fading just as fast.

Vivienne rises, brushing down her skirts as though that will somehow reset the room. "We'll need to finalize the floral arrangements by tomorrow and the guest list is not yet approved."

"I already approved it," Leah says, standing too.

"Your father and I have not," she counters.

Shrugging with indifference, Leah glances around the room lazily. "I don't care."

The words fall out before she can stop them. The silence that follows is sharp-edged and immediate. Anna's eyes widen from her quiet corner and Lucius lowers his newspaper just an inch.

Vivienne simply stares.

Leah breathes in slowly, then lets it out. "I'm not seventeen forever and this wedding will not be yours."

Surprisingly, there is no explosion. Vivienne merely lifts her chin, lips pressed into a line. She smooths a nonexistent crease from her bodice and turns toward the door.

"I shall inform the planner that the bride has decided."

With that, she leaves. The click of her heels fades down the hall like gunfire.

Lucius mutters something about taking brandy before dinner and disappears behind the paper again. For a moment, there's nothing but the distant ticking of the grandfather clock.

Then Daniel sighs and flops back onto the couch like a corpse. "Well. I hope the dress is worth it, considering you've just murdered Mother's last nerve."

Leah doesn't answer, looking down at her hands clenched white around a silk ribbon. Ciel's fingers brush against hers, brief and unspoken, causing her to unclench slowly.

"I don't care if it kills her," she says, voice soft. "This is mine."

Outside, the bells of some distant church begin to toll.

Returning to her notebook full of scrawled words, Leah taps her pen against her lip. "I suppose I ought to change the shade of the runners," she says, mostly to herself but loud enough that the room is quiet for half a second. "The blue we agreed on clashes with the florals, I told you it would."

Ciel doesn't look up from the small stack of invitations he's half-heartedly inspecting. "You didn't say anything of the sort."

"I implied it."

"That is not the same."

Lucius chuckles from where he's standing near the drinks cart. "You two will be quarreling over napkin folds next," he mutters. "What's wrong with the damned runners?"

"They're blue," Leah says flatly. "An uncivilized, sea-sick blue. And no one asked for your opinion."

"Careful now," her father's voice remains teasing, though there's the faintest edge beneath it. "You're quite dear to me today, but that could change if I get another invoice by morning."

Daniel chuckles into his teacup. "God forbid the runners aren't the precise hue of a newborn's eyelid. You'll be inconsolable."

Leah closes her notebook with a pointed snap. "Why are you even here?"

"Papa told me to stay. Something about making sure you don't bankrupt the estate before the end of the week. I am also getting free time away from Weston, it's lovely."

"I wouldn't need to adjust anything if people would simply listen to me the first time," she replies, turning back toward Ciel with a flutter of her hand. "You ought to support me more."

"I am supporting you," he says, patient but unimpressed. "I've let you change the menu three times."

"Because it was dreadful the first three times," she says. "Don't pretend you'd be satisfied eating pigeon pie on your wedding day."

He raises his brows, only slightly. "You'll hardly even eat the food."

"That's not the point," she huffs

A brief, reluctant laugh escapes Daniel once more. "She wants everything perfect and she's marrying you. That's what matters."

Ciel doesn't respond, though a glance flicks his way. Daniel's distaste for Leah's fiancé is hardly new—though he mostly keeps it civil enough for public settings. She can practically hear him biting down on a dozen snide remarks every time he shares a room with Ciel, which, lately, has been far too often.

Outside the window, the gardens shimmer beneath the late afternoon sun, the manicured hedges and rose beds bathed in golden light. The colors are too bright, too summery, and much too vivid for what Leah always envisioned. She fiddles with the corner of her notebook, gaze drifting.

"I always wanted a winter wedding," she murmurs after a moment. "Frost on the windows. Candlelight. I used to imagine snow falling just as I stepped inside the chapel."

Ciel looks up now, not startled, just attentive. "Then why not wait until winter?"

"Because a few days ago you said we should get married now, so I am just doing as you wish," she adds quickly, swatting away her own irritation. "I've adjusted."

"You've adjusted?" Daniel repeats with mock astonishment. "Is that what we're calling this?"

"I think I'm very reasonable," Leah says. "Besides, everything is already planned."

Lucius drains the last of his brandy and sets the glass down with a clink. "Of course it is. The dress was made before the boy proposed."

"It wasn't—" she starts, then falters. "It wasn't made for him. It was made in the hope of someone proposing."

"You were six," Daniel says. "What was the rush?"

She glares at him. "You're annoying."

"Still older and taller," he sticks his tongue out childishly.

"And yet not the one getting married," she says, teeth flashing in a smile that is far too sweet to be genuine.

Daniel offers an exaggerated yawn in response. Lucius turns back to the cart, pouring himself a second drink with the serenity of a man used to tuning out the bickering of his children.

"I do think it would be better to add gold to the invitations," Leah says suddenly, "Just a small embellishment around the names. The silver looks cheap."

Ciel lifts an invitation between two fingers, examining the calligraphy with the same blank expression he's maintained for the past hour. "They cost twelve pounds a piece."

"That's why they shouldn't look cheap."

"I'll have Tanaka see to it," he says mildly.

Lucius raises a brow. "Will he also be paying for it?"

"Papa," Leah drawls. "Don't pretend you're on the verge of financial ruin. It's embarrassing."

"I'm not, but you spend as though I were immortal."

"You'll live until the reception," she replies, voice syrupy sweet. "After that, I shall mourn you with grace."

Her father merely hums, lips twitching upward despite himself. 'He's in a decent enough mood, then. For now.'

Across the room, Ciel sets down the invitations and leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily along the armrest. He's watching her again.

"Do you want to discuss the seating?" he asks, noticing that Daniel abandoned it.

Leah shakes her head absently. "No, that's too complicated. I'll do it later."

"You've said that for three days," Ciel stares.

"And I'll say it for three more unless I have quiet to concentrate."

"God help the guests who cross her," Daniel mutters.

"They won't dare," she says, standing with a rustle of skirts and beginning to pace slowly in front of the fireplace. "Now—I want the musicians placed on the upper terrace. They'll be hidden by the lattice, but the sound will carry better. If they're on the ground level, it's far too crowded."

"You're assuming it won't rain," Ciel says.

"It won't," she states with scary certainty.

His brow raises. "And if it does?"

"Then I'll throw something," Leah's voice nearly becomes sharper.

Lucius, with surprising fondness, laughs under his breath. "Like your mother."

Leah doesn't reply. It's easier to keep her mouth shut when he's in one of his semi-fond moods. The atmosphere is rare and not to be disturbed.

There's still much to settle—final confirmations, lists, arguments about flowers and seating, and which guests to tolerate and which to shun by omission. The wedding is close now. Close enough to feel real in the weight of her gown fittings, the cool press of ring metal against her skin, and the way people look at her when she enters a room. The whispers, the congratulations, the envy.

There is still more to do.

═╬

The night drapes thick and soft over the townhouse, blanketing the manor in a peculiar hush. In Leah's chambers, the air carries the faintest scent of roses. A small fire burns in the hearth, a comfort more than a necessity in the summer warmth. She sits before her vanity, a silver brush idle in her hand, the silence hanging between her and Vivienne like a curtain not yet drawn back.

Vivienne stands by the window, her arms folded too tightly and her expression is taut. She has not sat since she entered the room a quarter-hour ago. Every few moments, she opens her mouth slightly, only to close it again as though trying to remember the start of a particularly unpleasant verse.

Leah watches her through the mirror. It's rare that her mother seeks her out for a private conversation at all, much less lingers long enough to fidget. Something about the way Vivienne shifts from foot to foot, like a schoolgirl unprepared for a recital, sets her on edge.

She sets the brush down with a soft clink. "Is something the matter, Mama?"

Vivienne inhales through her nose and turns, the candlelight catching the tiredness beneath her eyes. "No," she says, too quickly. "That is to say—nothing dreadful. Only.."

A pause.

"Well. I suppose it's time we spoke of certain.. expectations," her tone wavers near the end, as though the word 'expectations' has sanded down the edge of her teeth.

Leah turns fully toward her now, one leg tucked beneath the other. "Expectations?"

There's a long pause before Vivienne crosses to the armchair near the fire, perching herself on the edge with the poise of a woman prepared to flee at the first hint of discomfort. She clasps her hands in her lap, her knuckles paling as her fingers twist. "Tomorrow you'll be married," she begins, fixing her gaze somewhere above Leah's shoulder, "and tomorrow night, as tradition dictates, your husband will expect certain.. duties of you. It is not a subject I care to speak on, but a mother ought to, I suppose. Even if the matter is deeply—well, it is indecent, frankly."

The room, which had moments ago felt perfectly temperate, suddenly feels warm enough to boil. Leah doesn't say anything at first, she simply blinks. The implication settles in slow and heavy, a flush creeping up her neck. She half-wants to laugh just to cut the tension, but Vivienne looks so solemn that it would feel almost cruel.

Still, there's an absurdity to the entire affair. Vivienne, who never once stayed in the nursery longer than absolutely necessary, who spent most of Leah's girlhood pretending she wasn't there unless she'd done something wrong, now she decides to play mother?

"I—" Leah starts, then hesitates, unsure of what exactly she's meant to say. "I mean, I know some things. I'm not.. entirely in the dark."

Vivienne's gaze snaps to hers with a mixture of alarm and scrutiny. "Some things? Who told you?"

"Alexandra said a few things once," Leah admits almost defensively, remembering Gwendolyn's older sister. "Not much. Just bits and pieces. She's tiresome, not discreet."

Vivienne looks vaguely scandalized by this, though she doesn't say so aloud. Instead, she lets out a delicate sigh and presses two fingers to her temple, as if pained by the weight of familial gossip.

"Well, I daresay Alexandra ought to keep her mouth shut. Girls who speak too freely of such topics usually do so from experience or desperation."

The remark lands stiffly between them. Leah only nods, not out of agreement but because it's easier than arguing. She fidgets with the edge of her sleeve, pretending to smooth it down.

Vivienne watches her a moment longer, clearly warring with herself. Then, after a soft, almost inaudible groan, she shifts in the chair and continues, "It will be unpleasant, that is the truth of it. I would like to say otherwise, but it is no use dressing it up. The first time is rarely enjoyable. You will bleed. There may be pain."

Leah's brows lift a fraction. No matter what she thought she might hear, this was not it. Her lips part, then close again. "Oh," is all she can manage.

"Oh," Vivienne repeats dryly, misinterpreting the tone. "Yes, well. If I sound dispassionate, it's because I've no interest in romanticizing such matters. No woman worth her salt has ever claimed to relish the thing."

Leah opens her mouth again, only to pause, her eyes narrowing. "But it's supposed to—" she hesitates, choosing her words with more caution than usual, "—be how you.. get children. Isn't it?"

"Indeed," Vivienne's tone is clipped. "It is not for leisure. That is what women must always remember. Whatever nonsense modern ladies chatter about, the act is for bearing heirs, not enjoyment."

Somewhere in the back of Leah's mind, a vague recollection stirs—Alexandra whispering half-wrong information behind a fan at some cousin's dull engagement party, something about men and urges and something about how it only hurts the first time if you're lucky. She hadn't believed half of it, but even so, Vivienne's bleak pragmatism makes the whole thing sound as if she's being sentenced to a private execution.

"I see," Leah says finally, though she doesn't.

Vivienne gives a slow nod, clearly thinking her duty is almost done. "It's best not to dwell. It'll be over quickly, assuming he knows what he's doing. Which—" she stops herself, drawing her mouth into a prim line. "Never mind."

Leah's face pulls slightly. "Assuming he—Mama, is it supposed to hurt because of him or me?"

Vivienne flinches at the bluntness of the question. "That's enough detail. I won't get into that."

"But you said—"

"I said what I said," she holds up a hand, more distressed than angry. "This is not a conversation I care to extend. I've done my part. The rest.. the rest will happen as it's meant to."

The fire pops in the hearth, startling both of them slightly. Leah shifts again, she feels vaguely as though someone has placed a particularly large book on her lap and told her to read it with her eyes closed.

Vivienne rises, smoothing her skirts with practiced swiftness. "I must go. There are still things to attend to and I imagine you'll want a full night's rest before tomorrow."

Leah slowly nods, though her mind is too full to imagine sleep now. She feels more confused than enlightened. If anything, the whole exchange has raised more questions than it's answered.

Vivienne crosses to the door, pausing just long enough to add, "Don't fret over it. All girls survive it and in time, it becomes tolerable. So I'm told."

With that, she's gone, leaving the door to click shut with too much finality for Leah's liking.

She sits in silence for a while, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Exhaling slowly, she drags her brush back into her hand and begins to glide it through her hair with absent strokes.

Leah briefly thinks of Ciel, but the mental image doesn't help. If anything, it makes the weight in her stomach roll again. Her fiancé is many things and terrifyingly competent is one of them, but even he hadn't ever spoken to her plainly about what would happen once the wedding was done and the door closed behind them.

She presses her palm to her cheek, which is warm despite the cool air and exhales. There's not enough time to settle into the awkwardness before the knock comes.

"Come in," Leah calls, already slouching against the cushions in vague anticipation of more nonsense.

The door opens with a soft creak and in slips Anna. She curtsies automatically, then stands twisting her fingers in her apron.

"Mistress," she starts, closing the door with far more caution than needed, "your mother asked me to.. to come speak with you. About the, ah.. the wedding night."

Leah stares at her. "You?"

Anna reddens. "Yes, Mistress."

Her eyes narrow in suspicion. "You're not married."

"No, Mistress," Anna shakes her head.

"You're not even—" she pauses, searching for a delicate way to phrase it and failing. "How old are you again?"

"Twenty-four," Anna mumbles.

Leah huffs, not quite a laugh but something drier and flatter. "And you know what happens?"

"Well," Anna hesitates. "Not exactly. Only what I've heard and read. Some from the other maids. There's a kitchen girl who was married once for a month—he died falling off a cart—but she said—"

"Anna," Leah cuts in. "You don't have to give me the village gossip version. Just tell me what you know."

There's a long pause. Anna fidgets again, smoothing her skirt, eyes flitting toward the fireplace as if hoping it'll swallow her whole.

"Well," she begins, stepping gingerly over to an armchair and perching at the edge like she might flee at any second, "when a husband and wife are alone on the night of their wedding, it is expected that.. they'll, um.."

"Consummate," Leah supplies flatly. She's heard the word. Gwendolyn's sister had used it far too confidently for someone who once thought a vaseline jar was meant to be a dessert.

"Yes," Anna nods, grateful. "Exactly. It's, uh.. it's a duty. To ensure the marriage is.. proper and legal. If you're hoping for children, it must be done."

Leah narrows her eyes slightly. "I know that much. I meant details."

"Details," Anna echoes, horrified. Her hands clutch the hem of her apron with renewed fervor.

There's a brief silence in which Leah begins to regret even being curious.

"Do you know how it happens..?" Anna asks, quieter now as if the walls themselves might recoil from such vulgarity.

"Not in full," Leah picks at a ribbon on her sleeve, avoiding eye contact. "I know it's done in bed. That it involves undressing and lying down and.. him. That he.. enters," her voice goes stiff like she's reciting medical literature she doesn't quite believe. "But beyond that, not really."

Anna flushes again, her face nearly matching the soft rose of Leah's hairpins. "Well, yes. That's.. that's it. He lies on top. Or I think. That's how they show it in those paintings. Not the proper ones, the other kind."

"You've seen those paintings?" asks Leah.

"I dusted the study once when Mr. Barrett was traveling."

Leah lifts her brows. "Papa keeps indecent art?"

Anna looks mildly offended. "It was in a book. Hidden behind Robinson Crusoe."

The corners of Leah's mouth twitch, but the moment passes quickly. "And does it hurt?" she asks after a pause, wanting to know if her mother was speaking the truth.

Anna doesn't answer at first. "I heard it might at the start, but not always. Sometimes ladies say it's.. unpleasant. Other times they say it's not so bad."

Leah frowns. 'That isn't exactly helpful.'

Anna presses on, voice barely above a whisper. "Some say it's quick and others say it takes time. But it depends on the man and the woman. And.. well, love might help."

Leah lets out a long breath, face pressed briefly into her knees. "Do you think he'll be gentle?"

"I think," Anna says, folding her hands in her lap now, tone with the cautious confidence of someone who deeply believes in the best outcome but has absolutely no evidence for it, "that he's never been cruel to you, not once. And he loves you. So yes, I think he will."

The fire cracks softly in the hearth and Leah doesn't answer right away. She's never been afraid of Ciel. Never once. He's hers and she trusts him. That doesn't mean she knows what he'll be like behind locked doors when it's just them. No titles, no servants, no chaperones. The thought stirs something unfamiliar and nervous in her chest.

Anna stands after a beat, smoothing the front of her apron. "Would you like me to stay a while or should I leave you be?"

Leah shakes her head, then stops, reconsidering. "Stay, just for a little. But don't talk, I feel odd."

"Yes, Mistress."

The quiet resumes, not tense, but contemplative. Leah stares at the wall, where the firelight dances across painted vines and curling leaves. She's never wanted anything as much as she wants this wedding to go well, but this part still feels foreign, like something from a novel she never finished.

She glances at Anna, who sits primly now, eyes cast down and hands folded like a child in chapel.

"..Did she really make you tell me?"

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #slow burn #wedding #long fic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #slow burn makes progress

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter forty ! )

"You are rowing us into a thicket, Sir Davis. Or perhaps you fancy a duel with that willow tree?"

Sun winks off the water in fat golden coins, turning the ripples into lace. Around them, the park simmers with lazy opulence—white parasols, afternoon chatter, the rustle of muslin skirts, and the occasional laughter from other boats drifting by like oversized petals on the lake.

Leah's voice slices through the gentle summer haze, her gloved hand gesturing vaguely at the low-hanging branches ahead and how their green tips are nearly kissing the bow of the little boat.

Christopher Davis glances over his shoulder with mock indignation. "Madam, I'll have you know I rowed at Eton. Though I admit we had rather fewer trees on the Thames."

Henrietta snorts behind her hand. "You mean to tell me there's not a single willow tree in all of Oxfordshire? I'm scandalized."

"I believe the Eton boys chop them down and use them as paddles," Leah adds airily, crossing one leg over the other as she reclines with careful elegance. "It explains the arms. Unnecessarily heroic, but I suppose useful in this instance."

She's teasing, but the air around her is not tense. It rarely is when Henrietta is present, and Elizabeth's presence feels familiar enough to fold into the space without rattling her nerves. The same can't be said of the water though. It laps against the sides of the boat with a rhythm that's too close and loud. The hollow thunk of the oars stirs something beneath her ribs. Nothing she voices aloud, of course. That would invite fuss and if there is one thing Leah has resolved to avoid this season, it's being fussed over.

Besides, this is a leisure outing. A friendly little party on a calm lake in Hyde Park. She is not bleeding and fighting for her life beneath chandeliers and gaslight on a cursed ocean liner.

Still, her hand stays firmly at her side, nails pressing into the embroidered silk of her gown each time the boat shifts beneath them.

Elizabeth Midford leans forward slightly from her perch beside Henrietta. "You do row very well, Sir Davis," she says, her bonnet bobbing with the compliment. "I daresay we're in safe hands, even if we are surrounded by savage flora."

The viscount bows his head slightly in acknowledgment, shoulders moving with the easy rhythm of the oars. "A true gentleman guards against both pirates and shrubbery."

Leah hums, amused despite herself. "What an epitaph that would be."

Henrietta stretches her legs out in front of her, ankle boots knocking gently together. "You'd prefer pirates, wouldn't you, Leah? You've always had a soft spot for brigands."

"I do not have a soft spot," Leah replies, watching a pair of swans glide past with studied disinterest. "I have standards. The two are very different things."

"Oh, forgive me," Henrietta says, lifting her chin. "I must've confused your affection for masked highwaymen and disgraced nobility with mere indulgence."

Leah's lips twitch. "That was one time, and you're misremembering. He was not a highwayman—he owned land."

"He owned debt," Henrietta counters.

"Which is a sort of land, in its own way," Leah's face scrunches at the argument.

Christopher lets out a laugh at that, shoulders hitching. "I must say, Miss Barrett, you do have a singular approach to humor. Dry as a toast biscuit."

"Would you prefer something moist and simpering?" she asks, tilting her head. "I can flutter my lashes and remark on how dreadfully lovely the lilies are if you like."

"I rather enjoy the biscuits, myself," he replies without missing a beat. "Though lilies are lovely, I'll grant you that."

The sun is warm on Leah's shoulder, filtered through the delicate lace of her parasol. Her gown, a seafoam confection of satin and gauze, clings lightly to her frame in the heat, though not oppressively so. The lace at her sleeves tickles her wrist every time she shifts, and she adjusts it absentmindedly, eyes darting from the glittering lake to the other boats.

Christopher is decent. More than that, he's kind. Intelligent without boasting. He hasn't spoken once of stocks or hounds, or how his uncle knows someone who once danced with the Duchess of Richmond. That alone makes him remarkable and a good match for Elizabeth.

She glances at Elizabeth, who's beaming in that helplessly sincere way of hers, like her entire body's one big, fluttering heart. There's a real fondness in her eyes when she looks at Christopher. 'I would wager a week's allowance that Elizabeth has already dreamt up the wedding gown.'

"Do you know," Elizabeth says suddenly, "this reminds me of that painting—the one with the nymphs and the swan. I saw it at my aunt's manor last year."

Henrietta raises a brow. "You're going to need to be more specific. Every painting from the last century features a swan and at least two women with their bosoms out."

"Oh, hush," Elizabeth giggles. "It was tasteful."

Leah's eyes flick to the water again, where reeds bristle near the edge like waiting fingers. The shadows beneath the surface are darker here and she has to suppress the shiver that stirs at the base of her spine.

"Miss Barrett," Christopher says as though sensing the direction of her thoughts, or at least sensing her silence. "Do you enjoy rowing?"

"I prefer dry land," she says smoothly, "but this is tolerable. Especially with such pleasant company."

Henrietta laughs. "High praise, coming from you."

"I'm in a charitable mood," she offers a slight smile. "Besides, if we were to sink, I'd simply climb on Elizabeth and let her buoy us all to safety."

"Because I'm light of heart?" Elizabeth asks hopefully.

"Because your dress has the circumference of a lifeboat," Leah replies.

The giggle that follows ripples around the boat, light as the breeze tugging at the ribbon of her hat. For a moment, the tightness in Leah's chest loosens. Today is sunshine and chatter and the warmth of friends who've earned their titles.

Christopher rows them lazily toward the far end of the lake where willow branches dip low enough to brush the surface, their tips breaking the water into quiet rings. The conversation drifts from paintings to concerts to some awful ball where Elizabeth's slipper had gone missing mid-dance.

"I told you, Henrietta, it wasn't my fault the heel snapped!"

"You lunged at the pudding tray, Lizzie."

"I stumbled," Elizabeth protests.

Henrietta stares blankly. "You charged."

Leah leans back with a contented sigh, tuning them out just enough to breathe. When she glances at Christopher again, he's already watching her. His gaze is thoughtful, unreadable in that frustratingly noble way, but not leering. Just curious, like he's trying to pry a secret from her.

She meets his eyes evenly and defensively raises her brow. "I am not in need of rescuing," she says lightly, more to herself than to him.

"Good," he replies, just as lightly. "I doubt I could save all three of you anyway."

Henrietta's laugh rings out loud again and somewhere beneath the teasing and the chatter and the creak of the oars, Leah lets herself smile.

The boat drifts further toward the shaded edge of the lake, the cool breeze shifting with it just enough to lift the ends of Leah's hair.

"You'll steer us into another thicket," she says, glancing toward the trees again.

Christopher grins. "If I do, you can navigate us out."

She shakes her head. "I don't do navigation."

"Then you'll have to rely on me."

Leah considers him for a beat, one brow arching. "How dreadfully romantic," she says sarcastically.

A waterlily brushes the side as they pass. Leah watches it for a moment, her elbow resting on the side of the boat, gloved fingers curled beneath her chin. The paddle cuts through the water again, rhythmic and certain.

Christopher's sleeves are rolled just slightly past his forearms now, a concession to the heat. He doesn't look especially bothered by the effort, though a lock of hair has fallen over his brow and his waistcoat has grown dark at the collar.

Elizabeth had fretted over him earlier, of course. "Do let me take a turn," she had offered, which was met with a half-laugh and an assurance that her hands were too delicate for that sort of labor. Leah hadn't protested, naturally. The last thing she wanted was to wind up rowing a gaggle of lace-trimmed friends across a lake, especially when her arms ached just thinking of it.

"You row with more grace than any man I've seen," Henrietta comments from the other end of the boat, stretched out on the cushioned bench like a lounging cat. Her fan clicks open and she flicks it toward her face with all the theatricality of a woman melting in a desert, though the breeze is tolerable and the sun mild under the tree canopy.

Christopher grins at the compliment but doesn't miss a beat in his rhythm. "Is that so? I suspect you've not seen many men row, Miss Sánchez."

"Only the ones foolish enough to impress me," she returns, fluttering her lashes. "They've all failed spectacularly."

That earns a laugh from Elizabeth, light and tinkling. Leah doesn't laugh, but she does allow herself a faint smile. Henrietta always has been good at keeping the mood buoyant. If not for her, she might've already drifted too far into her own thoughts—too far into the memories that linger behind every ripple in the water.

She shifts slightly, legs crossed at the ankle, and her skirts catching the edge of the boat's floor. Powder-blue brocade embroidered with silver filigree. Far too fine for such an outing, really, but Leah has never known how to dress halfway.

"I daresay you enjoy rowing far more than any man ought," Elizabeth says to Christopher, leaning forward just slightly, her parasol tucked behind her shoulder.

"I enjoy being in your company, Miss Midford," he replies and though it's clearly meant to charm, his tone is mild and respectful without the slimy sort of flirtation Leah's used to seeing from titled men. 'He's either terribly sincere or terribly well-practiced.'

Either way, it works when Elizabeth turns a little pink and sinks back against the cushion, clearly pleased. Leah glances aside, pretending to examine a patch of tall grass lining the bank. She doesn't particularly mind watching their courtship unfold. Not when it is unfolding with this much ease.

There is something comforting about it. Elizabeth is prone to dramatics, but there's no performance in the way she looks at Christopher. Just genuine and sweet affection that he returns with quiet attention. It's nice. Refreshing, even.

'Not every nobleman is a predator and not every courtship a battlefield.'

Her gaze drifts to the surface of the water again. The movement beneath it is subtle, with little distortions of light and suggestions of depth. She wonders, not for the first time today, what it would feel like to slide in. Just slip, accidentally. Would the water be cold? Would it burn, like the freezing water had burned her lungs that night on the Campania? Her stomach tightens and she forces her attention back upward.

Henrietta is frowning at her. "You're quiet," she says, voice pitched low enough that only Leah can hear it.

Leah shakes her head dismissively. "I was enjoying the scenery."

"You hate scenery," Henrietta tilts her head.

Face contorting, Leah scoffs. "What kind of blasphemous lie is that? I love scenery."

Henrietta doesn't press further, though her expression makes it clear she doesn't quite believe her. It's fine. Leah doesn't need her to believe it, she just needs her not to ask more questions.

"Tell us something, Lord Davis," Henrietta says after a moment, pivoting the conversation away again. "What is your opinion of ladies who climb trees?"

Elizabeth giggles. "Oh heavens, Henrietta, don't bring that up again."

"But it's a fair question!"

Christopher looks caught between amusement and confusion. "Climb trees?"

"Yes. Let us say—hypothetically—that a young lady was once found tangled in a tree on her father's estate, clinging for dear life after attempting to rescue a kitten."

Leah arches a brow. "Wasn't it a glove?"

Henrietta shoots her a look. "That's neither here nor there."

"A glove?" Christopher repeats, laughing now.

"It was stuck on a branch. I wasn't about to leave it," Elizabeth says, both hands to her cheeks.

"You weren't about to leave it, but you nearly broke your neck," Leah points out. "You were howling like a banshee."

Elizabeth nearly screams. "Because I was frightened!"

"She was up there for all of ten minutes," Henrietta cuts in. "Screaming as if she'd been marooned."

"Well, I had never been in a tree before."

Christopher glances at Elizabeth with a small, crooked smile. "I must say, that's the first time I've heard such a story."

"Oh, I've improved since then," Elizabeth says quickly. "I haven't climbed anything since."

"That's rather a pity. I think I should like to see that."

Leah watches them with a faint tilt of her head. Something is charming about it, even if it is a touch silly. That's what Leah envies most, she realizes. Not the attention, not the gentleness of a man's gaze. Just the freedom to be a fool without feeling like you're going to pay for it.

The boat slides under a low bridge, its stone surface crusted with moss. The temperature drops for just a moment, shadows draping over their shoulders like a damp shawl. Leah shivers before she can stop herself.

Christopher notices, his brow creases faintly. "Too cold?" he asks.

She straightens and waves a hand. "Not at all. I simply hate stone," an odd lie she chooses to tell for no real reason.

The others don't question it as they drift out of the shadow again and into the light. A mallard paddles past on the left, oblivious to their presence. Leah finally exhales slowly, her stomach feels tight and her gloves are damp at the palm. She wants to ask how much longer they will be out, but the question feels too sharp and impolite for the softness of the moment. She bites her tongue instead.

There is a dock in the distance, but no one mentions it until they have stopped beside it. The barge rocks gently as it drifts into the dock, the creak of rope and the soft lap of water against wood a welcome sound now that dry land is in sight. Leah tightens her grip on her skirts, tapping against the fabric with her gloved palm in silent impatience.

Henrietta stumbles on the last step, muttering a half-hearted curse in Spanish under her breath. Leah doesn't bother pretending not to hear, simply flicks her gaze down and smirks faintly. Henrietta, bless her, somehow still hasn't learned to walk in heels without leaning forward like a soldier under musket fire.

The grass under their feet is mercifully soft. Dainty shoes sink slightly into the earth as the girls file into the manicured gardens of Hyde Park. The sun finally peeks from behind the clouds, gilding the paths in amber. It's enough to lift Leah's mood slightly, if only because the discomfort of the barge now feels like something she can put behind her.

"It's absurd, really," Elizabeth says brightly as they walk, adjusting the pale orange ribbon tied around her sleeve. "I cannot think why boat rides are such a popular activity. They are fun in the beginning, but they start to get dull."

"You quite enjoyed yourself before the wind picked up," Leah replies dryly. "Or did I imagine that laugh when Sir Davis nearly toppled into the water when he leaned back too far?"

"That wasn't laughing," Elizabeth insists with an earnest frown. "That was a startled exhale."

Beside them, Henrietta snorts. "Sounded like a wheeze to me."

Leah's lips twitch, but she says nothing. She's not in the mood to argue over semantics. Besides, the moment is broken by a sharp whistle followed by the scurrying steps of a boy in a flat cap and mud-caked boots weaving toward them through the crowd.

"Pamphlets!" he shouts, waving a bundle of folded parchment over his head. "Fresh off the press! New issue of The Somerset Whisper! Viscount secrets, debutante blunders, scandal at the opera!"

The crowd stirs, attention sharpening like foxhounds catching a scent. Women in silks and taffeta lean forward, fingers twitching toward reticules. The boy navigates deftly, pushing his way toward the knot of girls.

"Three pence, miss," he says, holding one out toward Leah.

She doesn't bother glancing at Henrietta or Elizabeth; her hand is already sliding into her sleeve to pull a small silver from the hidden pocket. The coin is pressed into the boy's palm and the pamphlet into hers in one swift, well-practiced exchange. She waits until he darts away before unfolding it.

The paper is crisp and cheap, the ink smudging slightly where it's still warm. The masthead is printed in thick, flourished lettering: The Somerset Whisper – Society's Most Loyal Scribe. Beneath, the subtitle in smaller type: An Honest Ear to Every Whisper, A Sharp Pen to Every Lie.

"How vulgar," Henrietta murmurs, but she leans in all the same.

Leah's eyes skim the page with relish. There's something unspeakably satisfying about the bite of clever prose. The writer—still unsigned, despite the social season's best efforts to uncover them—has a way of twisting even the smallest faux pas into something devastatingly delicious. Leah would be a liar if she said gossip doesn't excite her terribly. She respects a pen that cuts as clean as a surgeon's scalpel.

"Oh, here," she says aloud, not caring who listens. "This one's good."

Henrietta huffs while Elizabeth cranes closer, nearly bumping their cheeks.

"'Though Miss Darcy Blanchard appeared every inch the part of a refined young lady at Tuesday's supper at the Chesterfields', one wonders if the same could be said of her hemline which bore a suspiciously muddy stain. No doubt a result of an over-eager attempt at a garden tryst. Rumors of a rendezvous with a certain Mr. Carlson Rodger's have reached our ears, though the gentleman in question insists he was merely admiring the landscaping.'"

"Darcy?" Elizabeth blinks, scandalized. "She said she only had one glass of wine!"

"She also said she was learning Latin to impress her cousin," Henrietta mutters, "so."

Leah raises a brow but doesn't comment. She's not particularly interested in Darcy's budding reputation as a liar or a flirt, though she admires her audacity. What draws her attention more is a smaller piece nestled near the bottom, inked in finer script:

"'Word travels swiftly through drawing rooms and carriage halls alike—our future Lady Phantomhive has once again captured the eyes of many, though none dare act upon it. One wonders whether her betrothed's shadow is more fearsome than his presence. A shame, for she is rather a picture.'"

Her breath hitches only a little. The phrase is careful and calculated, but there is something about the way it's phrased that needles at her, tugging on a thread she tries not to acknowledge.

Elizabeth doesn't notice. Or maybe she does and has the sense not to say anything.

Henrietta glances sideways, brow creasing. "They're talking about you."

"Clearly," Leah answers, snapping the pamphlet shut. "I wonder how long that one's been sitting in the editor's drawer, waiting for an opportune moment. Must they keep speaking of me? Surely I am a boring topic at this point."

"If I were a boy," Henrietta says with a sigh, "I'd flirt with you anyway. Just to see what might happen."

"You already flirt with me," says Leah as she rolls her eyes, tucking the pamphlet into her sleeve as they move forward through the garden, stepping over a patch of gravel that crunches underfoot.

There's music floating somewhere ahead—violins, faint but drawing closer. From this distance, the scent of rosewater and spun sugar drifts pleasantly through the air, like a bribe.

Elizabeth hooks her arm around hers, tugging gently. "Come on. I think I see Lord Northbridge near that table. If I don't speak to him today, Mother will faint."

"Let us not let her do that," Leah says. "We'll be tripping over smelling salts for hours."

Henrietta rolls her eyes but follows, dragging slightly behind them as they step back into the fray. The paper's words still linger in the back of Leah's mind. She doesn't mind being mentioned, it's the tone she can't shake.

Still, the park is nice. The air feels less like a cage and the pamphlet is already being passed from one girl to another, gasps rippling like birds startled from a wire. There will be more whispers by evening, and more to read by morning. With any luck, someone else will do something scandalous at the ball tonight. Preferably in full view of a duchess.

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The sky has yet to surrender its final streaks of pale gold, but lanterns already glitter strung from branch to branch, casting their glow across the sprawling gardens. Music hums in the distance—waltzes and minuets bleeding softly into one another beneath the laughter and chatter of silk-draped bodies.

The ball is outdoors, but it hardly lacks opulence. Stone railings have been wound with lilies and forget-me-nots, fountains titter behind hedges shaped like animals, and the orchestra is cleverly hidden beneath an open pavilion dressed in navy silks and gold tassels.

Leah stands near one of the food tables, though calling it a table feels woefully insufficient. It is a gilded monstrosity of carved wood and pastel confections, guarded at either end by towering pyramids of candied fruits and sugared almonds. She plucks a grape from a silver dish, pinching it delicately by the stem and biting only half before discarding the rest in a napkin. It's sweet and slightly overripe, still cold from the ice beneath the platter. Her stomach protests the indulgence in quiet, simmering dread, but she's in too good a mood to care much.

The evening is lovely, with not too many guests and none that are truly loathsome. The grass has been carefully flattened to prevent any danger to their heels and someone had the sense to position citronella candles near the hedges to keep the gnats at bay. More importantly, there hasn't been a single mention of her waistline, her prospects, or the Phantomhive name all evening—not in her earshot, at least. It's a rare sort of peace and she intends to enjoy it while it lasts.

Around her, a small gathering of debutantes prattle in circles, their fans fluttering like nervous birds. They stand close enough to suggest intimacy, but their eyes flick toward passersby with habitual calculation. Someone mentions Lady Anstruther's gown from last week's musical, claiming it was dyed with real crushed beetles. Another insists that Lord Gainsley has a glass eye and simply refuses to admit it. Leah listens, not with rapt attention, but with the idle amusement of someone watching a cat chase a ribbon.

"You must have seen him," a girl in coral silk says breathlessly, her voice lilting with that particular brand of excitement that always accompanies gossip about a handsome stranger. "He stood near the rose arches for nearly twenty minutes and said not a word to anyone. Tall, very pale. The sort of pale that looks intentional."

Someone gasps and clutches their fan. "How thrilling. Perhaps he's foreign."

"Perhaps he's diseased," murmurs another, which earns a round of delighted titters.

Leah rolls a grape between her fingers, pretending to examine its skin. "Or perhaps he simply detests conversation," she says, offhand.

A few of the girls glance her way. One smiles in a way that's almost genuine, another shifts closer to someone else.

It doesn't bother her. The remarks she does offer—dry, half-bored things—usually get lost in the chatter, but they serve her purpose. She's contributing just enough to be included and never enough to invite scrutiny. It's the safest way to pass the time in these sorts of settings and with the barometer of her mood tonight, she has no wish to spoil things by overextending her energy.

Someone mentions Lady Whitcomb's recent disappearance from the guest list. "an illness," they all say, with the kind of smugness that suggests otherwise. Another girl whispers that her sister caught her kissing a footman behind the conservatory and now she's been sent to Devon for the season, which everyone agrees is essentially social death.

Leah presses a grape to her lips, pauses, and lowers it. "Could be worse," she says mildly. "She might've been sent to Scotland."

A few of the girls laugh properly this time. It doesn't escape her that none of them really like each other.

The music changes, a slower waltz now, and a few couples begin drifting toward the open lawn where the dance floor has been laid out in white stone tiles. Lanterns bob gently above it, suspended on golden poles like floating moons. Leah watches them, swaying slightly where she stands, eyes narrowed just a little. She could dance if she wishes to. There's no shortage of young men eyeing the crowd with thinly veiled desperation, trying to determine which girl might giggle prettily and not step on their toes, but she doesn't care to encourage any of them tonight.

The group shifts slightly, someone excusing herself to speak with a cousin, and Leah sidesteps closer to the table, giving the impression of idly examining the confections. From the corner of her eye, she spots one of the Montclair twins whispering to a girl in mauve. They're glancing her way. Not often, but just enough. It's the same look she's been receiving in pieces all season, though no one's said anything openly. 'Are they speaking of my ears? Or more gossip?' Her earrings are larger than strictly fashionable, she likes them that way.

"Do you suppose," a brunette in green silk murmurs suddenly, "that Lady Derring's baby is actually Lord Averley's?"

It's asked with such soft mischief that even Leah glances over.

Another girl chokes behind her fan. "She only just married him last spring."

"And yet the child came early."

"Premature births aren't unusual," someone offers weakly.

Leah hums. "They're more convincing when the child isn't ten pounds."

That earns a few snorts and a muffled gasp. One girl looks positively scandalized, but in that thrilled way that ensures she will repeat the line to someone else before the night ends.

She pops the last grape into her mouth and dusts her fingers with the corner of her napkin. There's a lightness in her limbs tonight that feels foreign, like walking through someone else's dream. It's not exactly happiness, but it's near enough.

Someone nearby asks if anyone's read the new pamphlet yet—an evening edition, hot off the press. It's supposedly a rather scandalous one, full of insinuations. The girls start debating who might be the author again, each theory more absurd than the last. One of them suggests it's Lady Worthington's husband, trying to distract from his gambling debts. Another is convinced it's the Duchess of Ashcombe's third son because he once rhymed something at a dinner party.

Leah's eyes drift lazily toward the hedge maze beyond the tables, where the lanterns dim into deeper shadows. Her reflection catches faintly in the glass of the punch bowl and she barely recognizes herself in the soft golden light. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from rage. Her posture is good, but not stiff. She's not playing at anything tonight.

When Leah turns away from the confection, something shifts in the air behind her—so slight it could be mistaken for the wind changing direction. She recognizes the presence before she sees him and that fact irritates her mildly. She pivots, slow and smooth, and there he is.

Ciel Phantomhive, looking very much like he's stepped directly out of her imagination, only with a slightly more smug expression. His coat is deep navy and silver trim, his hair a touch longer since the last time she saw him. He's clearly arrived with little warning to anyone, she would have heard.

"I was under the impression you were still on a mission at Weston," she says, lifting her brows as if his arrival were mildly inconvenient rather than the most interesting thing to happen all evening.

"I was," he replies, voice crisp and low, his gaze skimming her face with that unsettling attention of his. "But it has been solved. And I thought, since I happened to be in London and you've been trotted out like a prized hound for the last nine weeks, I ought to see you in the wild. Observe the famed Miss Barrett in her natural habitat."

Leah can't help the twitch at the corner of her mouth. "How scholarly of you," she takes a step closer, just enough that her perfume brushes past him. "You might've told me you were coming."

"Where's the fun in that?" Ciel gives a mock pout.

She wants to swat him, and not in a ladylike, flirty way. But he looks too pleased with himself, and she's too conscious of the watching eyes along the terrace. Already a few of the girls near the table have gone silent, their posture straightening and their curiosity thinly veiled.

Ciel doesn't spare them a glance. "They've been talking about you all evening," he murmurs, shifting to stand just beside her now. "Or rather—about you and a certain Duke Henry Moore," he says the name without venom, but not without pointed interest. "Funny, I didn't know you were so well-acquainted."

Her fingers curl loosely around the stem of her glass, though she hasn't taken a sip. "We're friends," she says, flatly. "He's a nice man."

There's a pause.

"You sound like you're describing a Labrador," he says dryly.

Leah lifts her eyes to his and hides the laugh that threatens to surface. "What would you like me to say? That he's terribly dashing and intelligent and that I'm positively swept off my feet?"

His expression flickers, but it doesn't change much. Ciel rarely gives anything away unless he chooses to and Leah's never been fond of games she can't win. Still, she knows him well enough to catch the subtle shift in his posture and the way his fingers twitch like they're considering something violent.

"Daniel mentioned it, you know," he says, glancing idly toward the dance floor as if this conversation means nothing at all. "In passing. Something about your mother writing to him. Apparently, she thinks the Duke's quite taken with you."

"My mother also thought arsenic water would tighten her jawline," Leah replies. "She isn't what I'd call a reliable source."

Ciel makes a sound low in his throat, approaching laughter, but not quite. His gloved hand lifts for a moment like he might tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but he thinks better of it. They're not alone and he's nothing if not precise in his displays of affection. Public adoration is for men who need to be seen loving their fiancées to prove something.

He looks at her instead and for a beat, the other sounds of the ball fade into soft background noise. His eye, so cold to others, turns thoughtful. "You're enjoying yourself."

"Is that a crime?" her voice edges toward defensive, though she doesn't mean it to. She's been in a good mood. It's not his fault he's just now arrived.

"It suits you," he says simply.

For a moment, Leah forgets herself. She forgets the angle of her wrist and the tilt of her shoulders and all the countless corrections her mother has hissed at her since she was old enough to hold a teacup. The warmth of his gaze disarms her more effectively than compliments ever could.

"I heard someone say you were late tonight because of a duel," she lifts her brow. "Should I be concerned?"

Ciel makes a quiet noise of amusement. "I was not in a duel."

Leah shakes her head solemnly. "Disappointing."

The corners of his mouth tug upward. "Don't be greedy. You already have me here, don't you?"

"I'll admit, I'm not entirely offended," Leah says, and this time the smile does come. It's small, but it's real.

He leans closer, murmuring just above the shell of her ear. "I should hope not. You've been enough trouble to keep, I'd rather not find out what letting go would entail."

A flicker of something runs down her spine, sharp and electric. It doesn't show on her face, of course, it never does. "Careful," she says sweetly. "You almost sounded sentimental."

"Only almost."

The orchestra swells again, this time transitioning into something slower, lush with strings. A few couples break away to dance. The chatter near the food table fades as the crowd's attention pivots toward the main lawn. Someone whispers about fireworks. Leah hears it but doesn't look up just yet.

Ciel offers his arm. "Come. Before someone else gets ideas."

"I doubt anyone here is brave enough to steal from Phantomhive," she replies, even as she places her hand in the crook of his elbow. "Though you're flattering yourself if you think I'd simply go quietly."

His tone is cool. "You wouldn't."

They step away from the table, past the murmuring crowd, and toward the edge of the lawn. The night has deepened around them, though the sky hasn't quite turned black. Somewhere behind the trees, a technician gives the signal.

The first firework goes off with a shrill whine and bursts over the lawn like spilled jewels—white, then red, then a sharp flicker of gold. The crowd gasps appropriately. A second follows, this one higher, exploding in a crown of pale blue.

Leah's hand remains looped loosely through Ciel's arm. Another firework blossoms above the garden like the soft flare of a dying star—silver-edged with green, its tail drifting lazily before disappearing into the warm night. Leah stands beside Ciel at the edge of the lawn, her gloved hand still resting lightly in the crook of his arm, a posture that feels beyond natural. She hasn't done this in a long time.

"Will you be attending the opera on Thursday?" she asks quietly, not looking at him. Her eyes are on the fireworks. "I've heard the soprano has a tendency to die off-key. It might be worth the spectacle."

Ciel hums faintly beside her, quiet and noncommittal. "Perhaps. That depends."

"On?" Leah tries to subtly pester.

"Whether or not you intend to go," is all he offers.

Her lips twitch, but she doesn't respond. A red firework goes up next, casting a blood-colored sheen across the terrace. There's a pause. Not one of those heavy, awkward pauses that make people fidget and smooth their skirts. It's lighter than that, like a held breath that never quite gets released.

"You're fond of it," he says carefully, and it takes her a beat to realize he means the ball—the season—the whole glittering mess of it.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say fond," she replies, brushing a loose wisp of hair away from her cheek, "but it hasn't been awful. Which is more than I expected."

He gives a pleased smile. "You've done well."

"I know," she says, unbothered.

Another pause. This one does make her glance up at him, just barely.

His face is angled slightly upward as if he's watching the fireworks but not really seeing them. "I've been thinking," he begins, and immediately she knows something is off. Not wrong, just different. The tone of his voice is careful and measured in a way that makes her feel like she ought to brace herself.

She waits.

"Your season is nearly over," he continues. "You're seventeen. I'm seventeen. I have no missions for the foreseeable future. You've been presented before the Queen."

"You sound like you're preparing to issue a verdict," she says, voice light, though her heart is beginning to pick up its pace without permission.

"Not a verdict," he murmurs, finally looking at her. "A decision."

A firework cracks through the sky overhead, louder than the others. White and gold, cascading like a waterfall.

"I thought," he says, "we might marry. Now."

Leah's head tilts slightly. Not in confusion or protest, but in sheer surprise.

He says it so stupidly plainly, like they're discussing train timetables or new curtains. Not that she expected hearts and flowers—he's Ciel, not some simpering fool—but this? This is almost absurd. However, she doesn't hate it.

"Now?" she echoes.

"As in," he clarifies, "soon. Within the year. If not the season."

Her lips part, close, then part again. No words come out, which is annoying. She hardly ever stumbles over her words.

Ciel shifts beside her, a flicker of discomfort breaking through the cool façade. Not embarrassment, exactly, but something close. Awkwardness or self-consciousness, maybe. Like he's aware that he's just crossed some invisible line between how things usually are and how things will be.

"I'm not," he says, "trying to catch you unawares."

An exhale escapes Leah. "You're doing an excellent job regardless."

His mouth twitches into a smile, not overly warm, but there.

"You're already mine," he says, more quietly. "Everyone knows it. And this—" he glances toward the still-glowing lawn, the silk and powdered hair and champagne laughter—"this whole affair. It's all theatre. Your mother's little performance."

She scoffs. "You sound jealous."

"I am," he says, flushing.

Leah swallows, just once.

"Not of them," he adds quickly, "but of time. I've waited three years. I may not be able to say I have loved you all three, but I can say I love you now and I think I've waited long enough."

There's a prickling warmth at the base of her neck that creeps upward, not unpleasant. She's not used to him being like this. She's used to his gloved silences, the cool regard, the calculated affections doled out in glances and brief moments of unspoken understanding. But this is not silent or calculated. This is not a boy vaguely aware of his role as fiancé. This is Ciel deciding something and meaning it.

"I thought you weren't in any particular hurry," she says, trying for dry, but it comes out quieter than she means.

"I wasn't," he replies. "And now I am."

That shouldn't be enough to fluster her, but it is.

She turns back toward the sky if only to hide the expression threatening to betray her. The fireworks are starting to slow now, the finale still a few minutes off.

Her chest feels strangely tight. "It won't be a small affair," she says, filling the space between them. "Not if I have my way."

"I'll suffer through it," Ciel declares confidently.

Leah brings her face a bit closer to emphasize her point. "You'll hate it."

All Ciel does is give a subtle nod. "Probably."

Her fingers drift slightly against his arm, the motion so small it could be missed if he weren't paying attention. Though, he always pays attention.

After a beat, she says, "You're serious."

"Yes," he affirms quietly.

It is almost as if Leah can't believe it, even if they have been on 'to be married' status for years. "You want to marry me?"

"I do," his tone is drier now, but the edges are softer. "Unless you've changed your mind."

Leah quickly shakes her head. "Hardly."

"Then why do you look as if I've just told you I plan to defect to France?" he raises a brow in the hopes of hiding the flush that is creeping onto his ears now.

"I didn't think you'd ask me like this," she mutters.

"Would you have preferred a ring in a pudding?" Ciel attempts a joke.

She finally looks at him and he has got that faintly smug glint again, the one that usually follows a biting remark or a perfectly timed insult. Yet there is warmth under it, too. Soft and steady like it's been there the whole time and she just hasn't been allowed to see it.

"I would've preferred," she says slowly, "to have some warning."

He hides a faint laugh with a shrug. "You're the one who kept saying your season would be a formality."

"I didn't mean immediate consequences," she counters lightheartedly.

"I did."

She exhales a sharp little breath that escapes before she can help it. "All right."

Ciel blinks. "All right?"

"I don't dislike the idea," she declares.

There's a pause as his voice lowers. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

She gives him a sidelong glance in slight annoyance and amusement. "You're being very forward tonight."

Ciel turns his head back towards the fireworks. "I've earned it."

"You're being very smug," she mockingly pouts, shifting on her feet.

"You like that about me," he grins.

The last firework shoots into the sky—a high, whistling scream that ends in a scatter of silver embers across the clouds. Leah watches them fall, one hand still at his arm, fingers pressed just slightly tighter now. She waits until the sound fades completely before speaking again.

"Then let them clear the calendar," she murmurs, eyes still on the sky.

"I've waited long enough too."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #elizabeth midford #slow burn #long fic #long reads #bridgerton inspired #social season arc #marriage proposal #slow burn makes progress #it is burning

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter thirty-nine ! )

"You're being ridiculous, Vivienne."

The words slice clean through the silence, sharp and low and half-strangled with fury. They carry well in the townhouse's narrow halls, especially at this hour, when the servants have long retired and London's distant hum has dulled to an afterthought. The curtains in Leah's room stir faintly where she's left the window cracked, letting in a nice breeze, but the sound cuts through even the quietest spring night.

She blinks awake, lashes sticking slightly. There's a moment of hazy confusion, but then another voice rises in response—her mother's.

"You're being sentimental. I am not speaking of emotion, Lucius. I'm speaking of opportunity. Of advantage. Of a duke, for God's sake—"

Leah sits up, the sheets rustling around her. The room is mostly dark with only the faint glow of moonlight filtering through lace. She stays still for a few seconds, letting the last fog of sleep slip off her limbs.

The voices continue, muffled but rising, and she can already tell they're not in the drawing room or any of the studies. Those are too far away to hear from here. They're likely just down the stairs, near her father's office or the small sitting room Vivienne pretends is hers when company comes.

Carefully, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool floor bites at her bare feet and the hem of her nightgown brushes her ankles, soft with lace. Her hair spills freely down her back, still tousled from sleep. A candle might make things easier, but she doesn't dare risk the light. Not when whatever this is sounds important enough to rattle her mother's porcelain tongue.

As if on cue, Vivienne's voice rises again, more clipped this time. "You're not even listening. Henry Moore has expressed clear intent and he's of far higher rank. His family name alone—"

"Ciel Phantomhive is nobility, Vivienne. He's an earl. Inheritance settled, estates managed, title clean, a close and direct connection to the Queen. What more do you want?"

Leah pauses just outside her door, the latch easing closed behind her with a light click. She listens to the pace of her mother's sharp footsteps. By contrast, her father always grounds himself when he's angry, heavy-shouldered and still. She imagines him standing with one hand braced against the fireplace mantle or the back of the settee, expression carved from stone.

"And what would you have me tell the duke?" Vivienne snaps. "That our daughter is already promised to a boy whose house is shrouded in oddities? That she turned him down, despite his offer? Do you think he'll ask again, Lucius? He won't. I may be married to you, but I am still a Gray. I know how these circles work."

"I know you've always preferred them over your own children," Lucius counters sharply.

Leah freezes halfway down the corridor. There's a moment of silence that lasts a beat too long. Lucius doesn't raise his voice often—he doesn't need to. His tone is steady and grounded in the kind of quiet finality that speaks louder than shouting. On the occasions when he does snap, it tends to leave the room raw.

"Don't be dramatic," Vivienne says at last, but there's a crack in her voice this time. "I'm trying to ensure she's positioned for the future."

"She has a future," a pause. "With Phantomhive."

Vivienne shakes her head, unsure of whether it's discomfort or uncertainty. "He's strange."

Rolling his eyes, Lucius shifts on his feet. "He's loyal."

There's a thud and the sound of pacing follows, then Lucius speaks again, quieter. "You weren't there. You didn't see them together at Bexley last spring or last winter in York. That boy treats her like she's made of porcelain. He looks at her like—hell, I don't know. Like she hung the damn moon. You want to toss that out so she can secure another title she doesn't even need?"

A sharp inhale comes from Vivienne. "You're speaking like this is about her feelings, Lucius. Since when do we—"

"It isn't about her feelings. It's about ours," he interrupts, but not cruelly. "We promised her, we agreed to it together, and it's done. Over. I'm not humiliating our family for a second offer that came too late."

Leah exhales slowly through her nose, her fingers clutching the banister now as she creeps halfway down the narrow staircase that leads to the floor below. She's still well out of sight—tucked neatly into the shadows cast by the hallway lamp, which has long since been dimmed for the night—but from here, she can hear every word clearly.

Her mother scoffs. "You think this is about the Barrett's dignity? You, an American in an English townhouse, telling me about preserving family pride?"

"Don't start with that," Lucius sighs, taking a sip of his drink.

"I should have married George's uncle. You know, I should have. I could have had a seat at court, I could have—"

Lucius' voice raises. "You could have lived in Sheffield for the rest of your damn life with nothing but a crumbling estate and a cold bed."

"Oh, and this is better?" Vivienne questions.

There's a sharp creak, the sound of the floorboard by the hearth. Leah knows that one, she had nearly tripped on it as a child. For a moment, she pictures Lucius standing there, expression half-drawn and staring Vivienne down like he's trying to see past the lacquer and powder.

"I'll not sell off my daughter," he says.

Vivienne squints her eyes. "You've technically done it before. She wouldn't even fight it."

"That doesn't make it right," Lucius shakes her head slowly.

A silence settles again, tension festering. Even Leah feels it while perched on the stairs. Her heart beats a little louder now, thudding against her ribs in a slow, precise rhythm. There's something strange about hearing her parents speak of her this way. She's used to being discussed—dismissed, most of the time—but this feels different. Their tones are warier. This isn't one of those idle drawing room spats about her posture or poetry tutors.

Eventually, Vivienne speaks again, quieter than before. "So you'd see her married to a haunted boy?"

Lucius doesn't hesitate. "I'd see her married to the boy she chose. Who's already chosen her."

The grandfather clock down the hall begins to chime the hour. Leah counts the bells. 'One.. two.. three.'

Vivienne's shoes tap softly as she crosses the floor. She's likely standing by the window now, she always drifts toward glass when she's angry. It's where she feels safest and can watch others from behind it.

"I hope you're right," she murmurs. "For her sake."

Lucius doesn't reply and the silence stretches.

Leah lingers one moment longer, then backs away from the stairs, careful not to let the wood creak beneath her steps. Her nightgown trails behind her like mist, whispering against the floor. The argument's weight still clings to the air. She doesn't return to her bedroom. Instead, she creeps past the closed doors of her parents' rooms and down the opposite hallway.

The corridor is silent, save for the soft creak of the townhouse settling and the faint hiss of light fixtures long since extinguished for the night. She keeps one hand against the wall, steadying herself in the dark. There's something in her expression—a look she gets when her thoughts are moving faster than her mouth can keep up.

It's not fear that trails her as she rounds the corner, brushing past a closed cabinet with a vase she's knocked over more than once. It's restlessness and a strange urge to do something ridiculous. Anything to burn off the sick twist in her stomach her mother's voice has stirred.

She hesitates outside Anna's door and, with a small grin creeping up her face, raps her knuckles three times in quick succession. Not too loud, just enough. The door cracks open within seconds.

Anna doesn't look surprised. "You heard them, didn't you?" she asks flatly, still half asleep and with a candle in her hand. Her long braid trails over her shoulder, bits of hair escaping from their confine.

"Of course I did. Who could sleep through that? Even I can't," Leah pushes the door open wider and steps inside uninvited. "The walls are paper. Besides, it's boring upstairs."

Anna sighs. "It's past two in the morning."

Leah throws herself face-first onto Anna's bed with a faint whine muffled by the sheets. "Yet here we are, fully awake."

"I'm not fully awake, you are. You always are when you're agitated," Anna leans down and relights the wall sconce with a practiced hand, bathing the room in an amber glow.

"You make that sound like a flaw," Leah mumbles, rolling onto her side and resting her cheek on the pillow. Her eyes flicker toward the window. "Let's go out."

Anna gives her a look. "Out?"

"Not out out," Leah scoffs. "Not to the street. Just out to the garden or something. I need air. Or amusement. Preferably both."

"I thought you didn't like the garden at night. You said it smelled like mildew and loneliness," Anna's brow raises in mock suspicion.

"That was two years ago. I'm allowed to change my mind," Leah sits up with sudden energy, tossing her hair back with a flick. "And anyway, I feel like doing something to quench my boredom. It's your duty as my lady's maid to supervise me."

"I think your father would rather I chained you to the bedpost."

"Exactly. So before he gets the idea, we flee."

Anna looks toward the door, then back at Leah, then down at her own nightdress. "Fine," she says at last, grumbling as she fetches her shawl. "But if we're caught, I'm blaming you."

"You always do," Leah says sweetly, skipping toward the hallway like she hasn't a care in the world. "Now hurry. The ghosts await."

The two make their way down the main staircase, careful to avoid the spots that creak. The townhouse is a ghost of itself at night—no servants rustling linens, no doors clicking shut, no silver being polished in the back scullery. Just darkness and the occasional distant drip of a pipe in the wall.

They are nearly to the side door when a shadow peels off the corridor and moves toward them with elegant, deliberate steps.

Thomas doesn't speak right away, he simply watches them with his arms folded behind his back. He's not in his butler uniform. Only a white shirt with the top few buttons undone, the sleeves rolled back to the elbow.

Leah stops in her tracks, annoyed that they didn't make it to the exit first. "Don't you have anything better to do than slink around like a cat?"

"Apparently not," he replies with polite dryness. "Would you like me to accompany you or stand by while you hurt your ankle tripping over a root again?"

"I did not trip," she says. "I stumbled. It was poetic."

Anna bites back a smile at the words.

Thomas turns toward the door, holding it open with a slight bow. "After you, My Lady. Miss Anna."

Leah rolls her eyes and glides past him anyway. "Try not to slow us down, won't you?"

They spill into the garden with the hush of night at their backs. Moonlight glints off the small ornamental fountain at the center of the lawn and there's a faint rustling of ivy on the far wall where a breeze passes through. Leah pads down the main path, fingers grazing the tops of the hedges, eyes bright with some childish gleam that rarely gets to surface.

Anna trails beside her with practiced calm. "So what exactly are we doing out here? Is there a plan?"

"No plan," Leah says. "Plans are for when I feel trapped. Tonight I feel.." she hesitates, looking upward at the stars beyond the twisted iron arch overhead, "like I don't want to be told who I belong to."

"That's new," Thomas says mildly.

"Shut up, Thomas," snaps Leah.

He nods without question. "As you wish."

The three drift toward the back of the garden, where an overgrown lattice structure hides a little stone bench and a patch of wildflowers left to grow too long. Leah sits with a small sigh, folding her arms behind her head and staring up.

Anna takes a seat beside her, smoothing her skirt. "I suppose there are worse ways to spend the night."

Thomas remains standing, hands behind his back, casting a long shadow. "You've dragged me out here before for less."

"Yes, and you always pretend you don't enjoy it," Leah gives him a sidelong glance. "You're not as unreadable as you think."

He smiles faintly. "No, I merely let you read what I wish."

Anna stretches out her legs, yawning into her sleeve. "You two are exhausting."

"You've only yourself to blame," Leah says. "You could've locked your door or told me no, but you didn't. You never do."

"I stopped trying to say no when you were seven and found where I hid the house key in the winter room fireplace."

Leah giggles at the memory, shifting in her seat. "That was resourceful of me."

"That was reckless," Anna deadpans.

A shrug leaves the girl. "Same thing, really."

Thomas wanders a little, inspecting a flowering bush that seems to tremble under his gaze. "Would you like me to fetch something to eat?" he asks without turning. "I imagine neither of you had dinner."

Anna gives Leah a look. "I could eat."

Leah stretches her arms above her head and yawns. "Only if it isn't boring.. And nothing heavy."

"Understood," Thomas vanishes into the night like fog pulling back.

Anna shifts closer, voice dropping. "Do you ever think about leaving? Not forever. Just for a while."

Leah turns to look at her. "Where would I go?"

"Anywhere. France, Spain, Somewhere quiet."

"Sounds awful. I'd be bored within the week."

Anna nods slowly. "Still. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to live where no one knew me. Where nothing was expected of me."

Leah shrugs. "We'd still be us. Expectations follow people like us, Anna."

For a while, they sit in silence, the night holding its breath around them.

Then Leah grins suddenly. "Do you remember the time I tried to dye the pond purple?"

Anna groans. "You used blueberry preserves. It stank for a week."

"It was charming."

"It was foul."

"You're no fun."

The silence of the garden breaks with the click of the iron gate behind the hedges, causing Leah's head to turn. She's just tucked one leg beneath her, fingers idly twisting the ribbon on her nightgown sleeve, when the familiar jingle of a bell announces the whirlwind arrival of something small and white.

Pompom launches into the scene at a furious speed, his puffball body practically levitating over the grass as he circles around the fountain once before flinging himself at Leah's ankles with the force of a cannonball.

"He has so much energy at this ungodly hour," Anna mutters, pulling her feet up onto the bench in alarm.

"I'm not surprised," comes a voice from the shadows. "He took one look at my carpet and declared war."

Gwendolyn steps into view with a sleepy smirk, wrapped in a white silk robe that slips slightly off one shoulder. Her slippers don't match and there's a faint pillow crease across her cheek. Leah sits up straighter, a grin already forming.

"I heard him whining at my door," Gwendolyn says, crossing the lawn toward them. "Figured something was wrong. Then I peek into your room and voilà—no Leah. Just your bedsheets all rumpled and tragic. Very convincing, by the way. Like a governess fainted there."

Leah scoffs and flicks her cousin's hip with her toes. "He snitched on me?"

"Like a traitor, so I followed the noise," Gwendolyn bends down and scoops Pompom into her arms mid-sprint. He immediately licks her chin, tail wagging furiously. "He nearly dragged me out the window."

"That dog is a menace," Thomas says, emerging again from the hedges, this time with a linen-wrapped parcel and a flask. He surveys Pompom with visible distaste. "I fail to see how that is a birthday gift and not a punishment."

Leah leans her chin into her palm and smirks. "He's from Ciel. You're just jealous."

"I assure you I'm not," he says dryly, handing off the parcel to Anna. "Here. Raspberry tartlets. Not terribly sweet, but better than nothing."

"You say that like you didn't bake them yourself," Anna says, already unfolding the linen. "They're warm."

"That's called efficiency."

While the rest of them settle down again, Anna slices the tartlets in half with a small folding knife she pulls from a pocket. Gwendolyn flops onto the grass, back against Leah's bench. Pompom rolls from her lap like a marble and immediately begins biting Anna's discarded slipper with single-minded devotion.

"He hates me," Anna murmurs.

"No," Leah says, licking a bit of raspberry from her thumb. "He just thinks you're his chew toy. Which is worse."

"You really should be asleep," Gwendolyn says, stretching out her legs and picking a blade of grass to shred between her fingers. "You've got fittings tomorrow. Or.. today, I suppose."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Leah mutters, half under her breath, then glances up. "Besides, it's not as if anyone expects me to dance myself into a proposal. I already have a perfectly decent one."

Gwendolyn smirks. "If you say perfectly decent about Ciel one more time, I'll eat this tartlet whole."

"He is perfectly decent," Leah says innocently. "Also insufferable. And I am always finding myself in trouble when I am with him, but I find it endearing."

"You would," Anna says.

There's an ease between the four of them that only years can make. The old garden, despite its peeling edges and overgrown roses, seems to understand their rhythms. Thomas leans against the trellis post with his arms folded, observing the scene with a kind of polite detachment, though he's not nearly as aloof as he wants to seem.

"You've something on your mind," Leah says, catching his gaze. "I can tell. Your face is too smooth."

Thomas smirks. "I assure you, I'm always this smooth."

"You're always something," Gwendolyn says with a grin.

Thomas tilts his head. "I take it as a compliment."

"You shouldn't," she gives a half-hearted laugh.

Pompom tears past again, now in possession of one of Anna's ribbons. She makes a half-hearted reach for it but gives up halfway through and exhales loudly.

"This is why I never had siblings or children," she says.

"You had me," Leah corrects, "which is worse."

"You were an unholy terror," Anna mutters. "You cried if I tied your shoes too tightly. Then you cried if they were too loose."

"I still do that," Leah says. "Your point?"

"You refused to let anyone else dress you, even when you couldn't do it yourself. You used to sob if I didn't pin your bows symmetrically."

Gwendolyn raises her hand. "I can attest. She once bit my wrist over a hair ribbon."

"I was five," Leah protests, grinning. "And you stole it."

"I borrowed it."

"You never gave it back."

"I still have it," Gwendolyn admits.

Thomas watches this exchange with an expression that could almost pass for fondness if it didn't vanish the moment anyone looked at him too directly. "You always wander when you can't sleep," he says eventually, voice quiet. "You walk in circles until your feet ache and then you yell at me when they blister."

Leah glances at him. "How sentimental of you to remember."

He shakes his head in annoyance. "I've had to carry you back more than once."

"That's your job," Leah's face twists with the same feeling.

"I take pride in doing it with as much dignity as possible."

Gwendolyn snorts. "You mean you enjoy it."

"I said what I meant," he stares blankly.

Anna studies him from her place on the bench, head tilted slightly. "Why do you bother? You clearly don't need the money."

"I find the work meditative," he says with an easy shrug.

She tilts her head. "You find Leah meditative?"

"I find Leah.." he pauses, "instructive."

Leah stares at him. "That sounds like a threat."

Thomas gives a faint smile. "I wouldn't dream of threatening you. I'm far too fond of being employed."

"You're hardly even paid, you lunatic."

"Still. Fond."

Gwendolyn throws a crumb of tartlet at his head, which he catches without looking. "Stop flirting," she mutters.

"I am not flirting," Thomas says smoothly. "I'm simply answering questions."

"He does that when he's bored," Leah says. "Picks fights, plays aloof, mocks my dog."

"Your dog is currently attempting to drown himself in the birdbath," Anna says, pointing.

They all turn to watch as Pompom struggles to climb into the shallow porcelain basin, determined to ruin everyone's night.

Leah sighs. "He's perfect."

"No, he's you," Gwendolyn says, laughing. "That's what he is."

Pompom finally succeeds in sloshing into the birdbath, sits down, and lets out a bark of triumph so high-pitched it makes Anna wince.

"Absolutely not," she says, standing. "That's it. I'm going to fetch towels."

Thomas steps in immediately. "Allow me."

"I'm already up."

"You've already fed them. Let me take something off your plate."

Anna gives him a strange look like she isn't sure whether he's being genuine or mocking her. Then, slowly, she nods. "Fine. You want the pleasure of drying a wet, shivering Pom? Be my guest."

She sinks back onto the bench and tosses the linen parcel at his chest. He catches it with one hand and turns toward the house. Leah watches him go, expression unreadable.

Gwendolyn leans up on one elbow. "You ever wonder what's wrong with him?"

"All the time," Leah swallows and murmurs, then tucks her other leg beneath her and stretches out on the bench again. "But the mystery's half the fun."

Anna hums faintly, her eyes still on the house. "Might be less fun if it ever stopped being a mystery."

═╬

Inside the drawing room is quiet save for the soft ticking of the longcase clock in the corner and the occasional flutter of Pompom's slightly damp ears as he dozes in Leah's lap, his little body curled into a warm tuft of fluff against her thighs. One paw kicks out with a gentle twitch every so often, likely chasing something in his sleep.

Leah has been half-whispering to him for the better part of twenty minutes, cradling his face in her palms and kissing the top of his head in between cooing, "Oh, you're so handsome. Yes, you are. Look at that nose. Look at those eyes. I'd die for you. I'd die twice."

From the settee across from her, Gwendolyn lets out a wheezy sort of chuckle as she sprawls further into the cushions. Her hair is a disheveled mess and her eyelids are beginning to droop.

"Don't you say Sam is the most handsome man you've ever seen?" she asks without looking up, her tone dry and faintly amused.

Leah's head snaps up with a gasp as if Gwendolyn has just uttered the gravest accusation known to man. "They're both handsome," she snaps, eyebrows knitting as she cups Pompom's cheeks and squishes his face inward until his tongue pokes out in a mild protest. "Don't pit my men against each other."

"Men," Gwendolyn echoes, snorting. "You sound deranged."

"You sound jealous," Leah says coolly, smoothing a hand down Pompom's spine. "It's not my fault you haven't anyone begging at your feet."

Gwendolyn mumbles something obscene in Spanish under her breath and lets her head fall sideways against a throw pillow. She's been yawning for the past ten minutes but refuses to go back to bed. "I'll only get more tired if I move," she claims, so she remains in her heap on the couch, half-listening to the way Leah coos at her dog as if he's the last living thing on earth with any sense.

Thomas stands behind one of the armchairs, eyes half-lidded with a look of carefully curated indifference. He has been silent for so long that one might think he's gone to sleep standing up. Truthfully, he has grown used to these late-night episodes over the years. In the early days, Leah would wake in a panic and bark orders at him until she tired herself out again. Now, she simply prattles to her dog like a drunk widow.

"I daresay," he says finally, voice smooth as oil, "your affections are wasted on that thing."

Leah's head jerks up again, scowl deepening as her gaze lands on him. "Don't you speak of him that way," she hisses. "He has a name."

"So do I," Thomas murmurs, though there's no heat in it, "and yet I find myself fetching slippers and warming milk."

"You don't warm milk. Anna does," Leah says, sniffing.

"Yes. Because I'd sooner burn the house down."

"That's not funny," Anna says sharply from where she's seated in a velvet armchair by the fire, rolling a skein of yarn between her fingers. Her needles rest idle in her lap, but she hasn't picked up the pattern in some time. She's been watching Leah with a fond look she probably isn't even aware of. "Not when you nearly lit the library curtains aflame trying to boil water last spring."

Thomas doesn't dignify the remark with a response or acknowledge that he had done that on purpose, though the corner of his mouth just barely lifts. Gwendolyn chuckles under her breath again, clearly more awake than she wants to admit, and Leah makes a low sound in the back of her throat, stroking Pompom with a certain wounded dignity.

Anna rises after a moment, brushing her hands against her skirts. "Come now, Mistress. You ought to stretch your legs a little. You've been hunched over that dog for half an hour."

"He's warm."

"The hearth is warmer. Come here."

Leah lets out an exaggerated groan but rises all the same with Pompom in her arms like the pampered dog he is. She crosses the rug barefoot and plops herself down on the large embroidered cushion Anna sets out in front of the fire.

"Happy?" she mutters, curling her legs beneath her and adjusting Pompom's position against her chest.

"Yes," Anna says, gently kneeling behind her and beginning to run a hand down the length of Leah's hair with practiced familiarity. "You're not much heavier than you were at ten. Just taller and fussier."

"Not fussier," Leah mumbles, eyes falling shut as Anna begins to braid the long dark waves. "You just knew how to shut me up back then."

"I still do," Anna says softly, looping the braid with deft fingers, her motions unhurried. "You only forget."

Thomas watches from his usual perch against the wall, arms folded now and his gaze unreadable. He's not truly bored—he never is, not when Leah is within view—but there's something about the domestic quiet of the moment that sets his teeth on edge in the gentlest way.

He never intended to stay this long. Not in a townhouse or among humans. However, here he is standing in the same drawing-room he's stood in dozens of nights like this one, listening to Leah call her dog a handsome gentleman while Anna reverts to the habits of years past as if nothing has changed and nothing ever will. He turns his attention to the fire instead.

"I'm not going to sleep," Leah murmurs after a long silence, her voice a slurred contradiction of the heavy-lidded daze clouding her eyes.

"You are," Anna says without looking up. "You're nearly there."

"I could stay awake another hour if I wanted to," Leah counters.

Anna merely shakes her head with a subtle smile spreading across her lips. "I'm sure you could, but you won't."

Leah hums under her breath, stroking the soft fur behind Pompom's ears. Her lips are parted slightly, her limbs relaxing more with each pass of Anna's fingers through her hair.

"You used to hum to me," she says quietly, almost too quiet to hear. "When I couldn't sleep. When it was bad."

"I remember," Anna replies, her voice as calm and even as it was over a decade ago. "You were always too clever for your own good. Too many thoughts in your head."

Gwendolyn's head has fully dropped now, her arms slung across her torso, and the only sounds in the room are the fire's crackle and the slow, steady breath of four bodies.

"Should I carry her to bed?" Thomas asks after a while, though it sounds more like a formality than an offer.

Anna glances up at him, then at Leah, whose lips are barely moving as she presses another kiss to Pompom's crown.

"Let her be a little longer," Anna says softly. "She'll go on her own once she's ready."

He tilts his head. "If she doesn't?"

"You'll carry her then," she says simply, smoothing the back of Leah's hair once more.

It's quiet again. The kind of quiet that lingers, warm and familiar, just waiting for someone to stir. Leah awakes for the second time that morning to the rustling of soft linens. Now, she feels the tug of her nightgown being smoothed over her legs and a blanket tucked just beneath her arms.

Anna's hands move with quiet precision, practiced and maternal, never rough but not overly delicate either. She has always known how to balance care with efficiency, even when Leah had been a tempest of a child, wailing at the injustice of bedtime or sulking into pillows with all the melodrama of a stage actress.

A small groan leaves Leah's lips as her lashes flutter and her brows knit faintly. "I was asleep."

"You were slumped like a sack of flour," Anna murmurs, easing one of the girl's arms out from under her side to rest more naturally across her waist. "I feared you'd wake with a crick in your neck."

"I'm tired.." Leah's voice is low and childish with sleep.

"I gathered," Anna replies, brushing back a loose wave from Leah's temple, letting her hand linger there a moment longer than necessary. Her palm is warm, fingers a little calloused, and Leah leans into the touch with the trust of someone who has been cared for in this exact way since she was small enough to be carried.

Her bedroom is quiet, lit only by a few flickering sconces and the embers of the fire across the room. Somewhere on the upper floor, Thomas is likely placing Gwendolyn in her bed, probably with some dry remark under his breath about her weight, not that either of the girls would take him seriously.

Leah shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into the plush pillows behind her and blinking slowly. Her hair spills like a sheet of brown silk over her shoulders and down her back, unbrushed but still somehow elegant in its messiness.

She yawns, then turns her face toward Anna with something resembling a pout. "Read to me?"

The request is so quiet and plainly stated that it softens whatever edge might've still clung to the air.

Anna doesn't hesitate. "Your book is in the side cabinet," she says, already moving toward it.

She opens the door and pulls out the well-worn copy of 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland', its cover a little frayed at the corners and its pages thumbing out like the folds of an old flower. The spine has long since given up on holding straight. Leah's name is written in careful cursive on the inside cover—Anna's own hand from a decade ago.

"You've had this since you were three," Anna says as she returns, settling into the armchair beside the bed. "Your father had the gall to say it was nonsense."

"He also called me nonsense," Leah murmurs, curling onto her side and letting her cheek sink against her pillow. "Not very original, is he?"

"No, not particularly," Anna agrees, flipping open the book. Her voice dips into that old, familiar tone as she reads: gently melodic and no forced theatrics. Just the even, comforting cadence that used to lull Leah to sleep all those years ago in Barrett Manor when thunder rolled outside and the house was too large and cold.

They slip into the rhythm of it easily. The words are second nature to Anna by now; she's read this story aloud more times than she can count. Leah listens in silence, eyes half-lidded and drowsy, mouth parted just slightly.

"'..and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversation?'"

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Leah's mouth. "I used to argue with her," she murmurs. "When I was little, I thought books without pictures were perfectly fine as long as someone was reading to me."

Anna smiles faintly, eyes not leaving the page. "You'd get very cross when the chapter ended on a cliffhanger. You once threw a hairbrush at the hearth."

"I stand by it. The Queen of Hearts was terrifying," Leah's voice is slurred with sleep, each word slower than the last. "She still is."

Anna glances over and sees that the girl's hand has gone slack against her side, her fingers no longer fidgeting with the trim on her blanket. Her eyes are open but heavy, their blue dulled by the haze of sleep and firelight.

There's something painfully tender in the way she looks so young and soft around the edges. It reminds Anna of another time entirely, back when Leah still wore pinafores and climbed onto Anna's lap without asking. When she used to cling to her skirts and whisper secrets meant only for her maid's ears. Back before the season, before society, and before the sharp edges she's had to hone just to keep from crumbling.

"You know," Anna says softly, voice almost more to herself than to the girl beside her, "you're not nearly as difficult as you think you are."

Leah shifts slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you try very hard to be cross and impossible, but I see through it. I always have," Anna's thumb brushes lightly along the spine of the book. "When you were ten, you refused to eat for two days because your father called you petulant. You were afraid if you acted out again, they'd send you away permanently, but you couldn't help it. So you tried to disappear instead."

A beat passes. "I didn't know you remembered that."

"I remember everything," Anna replies. "I remember how tightly you clung to Rosaline when we arrived. How you stopped speaking for almost a week, but held my hand every night until you fell asleep."

Leah doesn't answer, but her expression softens, some of the tension in her brow ebbing away.

Anna smooths the blanket again, her voice quieter now. "I was only twelve when I started working for your family. I didn't know how to look after a little girl properly, but I did my best. I still do."

"You're not very good at pretending you don't love me," Leah murmurs, eyes closed now. "You're bad at being cold."

"Only where you're concerned," Anna says simply.

The fire crackles in the hearth. Somewhere down the corridor, footsteps sound faintly—probably Thomas returning. Anna ignores it for now, focusing only on the girl she has watched grow from a wild little storm of silk and scowls into someone remarkably brave, even when she doesn't feel it.

She picks up where she left off, reading softly as Leah's breathing evens out and the tension in her shoulders melts into the bed.

"'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'"

After a pause, Leah murmurs without opening her eyes, voice thick with sleep.

"'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.'"

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #slow burn #social season arc #slowly losing my mind #long fic #long reads

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter thirty-eight ! )

"You walk like a swan, darling. Not a racehorse."

The Barrett's London home, though a few streets removed from true old nobility, is grand enough to silence whispers. Imported crystal chandeliers catch on every surface of the ballroom, flinging light like shards of glass across polished marble and the vivid rose-and-gold tapestries lining the walls. The orchestra has already taken place beneath the gallery, waltzing through a medley light enough to signal the night's beginning. The crowd has only just begun to thicken.

Leah's fan flutters delicately, but she doesn't break her stride. Her mother's voice follows her from the corridor as she descends the final steps into the ballroom, pale silk skirts swaying around her like whipped cream. The woman's words are fond for once, almost playful, but Vivienne's tone always carries a weight that Leah has long since learned to spot.

Walking slowly, Leah pauses with precise poise as a maid adjusts the ribbon trailing from her sleeve. Already the room seems to bend toward her—the deliberate centerpiece of her family's efforts, dressed in a lilac silk gown threaded with silver embroidery and trimmed with scalloped white lace at the bust and hem. Ribbons curl around her arms like vines and delicate gloves fitted tight to the wrist. Her hair is arranged higher than usual tonight, mahogany brown pinned and powdered with sugared petals at the crown. No one dares outshine her.

Across the room, her father lifts his glass, offering her a sharp, satisfied smile that never quite reaches his eyes. He's speaking to an Earl, Leah thinks, or at least someone pretending to be one. Lucius has always had a gift for charming his way into the right circles, even if his accent still rounds out vowels in ways the English find irritating. Most of them wouldn't dare say it to his face, they don't quite know how to handle Americans who dress well and have money.

Vivienne has insisted they hold this ball as a display of gratitude to all those who have graciously welcomed Leah into Society as if the girl hasn't already conquered it. But beneath the lace and flattery is something Leah recognizes more than anyone else: a bid. A well-calculated show of power from a family that most of the nobility still views as up-jumped colonials.

Leah doesn't care for the politics of it. What she does care for is how their drawing room had been stripped of its usual dull elegance and redone for the event or how the flower arrangements had been imported from the country just for tonight or how not a single guest can seem to stop looking at her.

She drifts to the refreshments table, nodding briefly to Lady Claremont's daughter as she passes. The girl drops into a curtsy so deep it nearly topples her. Leah gives a graceful smile and then promptly ignores her. 'Rather unnecessary..'

A cluster of young women are whispering near the columns, flicking fans beneath their chins in time with each other's murmurs. Leah doesn't need to hear them to know the topic is her gown. She could approach or intercept the conversation, but it's far more satisfying to let them stew in it.

Instead, she drifts to the side of the room, standing near one of the open balcony doors to breathe in the night air. The city's distant noise hums faintly beneath the melody of violins. London smells of warm stone, garden smoke, and carriage oil.

Someone approaches, but she doesn't turn.

"Well, you've got them all in knots, haven't you?" a voice mutters just behind her, low and vaguely amused. "Poor souls. I almost feel sorry for the ones who thought they stood a chance."

"Don't be vulgar," Leah replies, coolly. "They'll hear you."

He laughs. "They're too busy trying not to trip over their own pride."

Turning, Leah glances up at the man, Lord Ellington's second son, if she remembers correctly. A tall figure, pleasant enough in appearance, but about as interesting as old wallpaper. His mother had thrown two dinners and a picnic to try and get him next to her last week and Leah had tolerated it with a headache.

"Yet you've come to speak with me again," she says, flicking open her fan. "Are you hoping I'll change my mind?"

He shrugs. "No. Just like the view from here," a pause. "I meant the city, of course."

"Of course," she echoes, not bothering to hide the amusement in her tone. "How very patriotic of you."

He grins, but his courage falters under her gaze and he drifts away without ceremony as Leah returns to her place by the door. She knows the exact time to speak and when to remain silent, it's an art most girls haven't mastered yet.

The musicians slip into a new number, a familiar minuet, and couples begin to take the floor. Leah notices her mother eyeing her from across the room and makes a slow, measured turn toward the dance before she's intercepted halfway.

"Miss Barrett," says a tall, broad-shouldered young man whose name she only partially recalls. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

The boy's smile is pleasant, his teeth very white and his hair a little too well-coiffed. She lets her eyes travel up to meet his without warmth.

"I believe I've already promised this one," she says smoothly, even though she hasn't.

He hesitates. "Ah—of course. Perhaps the next."

"Perhaps," she gives an unnoticeable shrug.

He vanishes before she finishes the word. There's satisfaction in it, though her heels ache. She's tired, but she's winning and that makes it worth it.

Two gentlemen begin arguing about something at the other end of the ballroom, gesturing toward the pianist and a misplaced overture. Lucius' laughter booms above it, echoing over the sound of strings. He has a glass of something dark in his hand and one of the footmen stands uncomfortably close, waiting for instructions.

Leah sighs, raising the fan again as the music crescendos. The dance floor is filled now with faces she half-recognizes from teas and luncheons under the glint of light.

Vivienne appears behind her, stepping closer. "Smile more," she says, lips barely moving. "Not like a cat. Soft. You're too clever by half when you're quiet."

Leah lowers her fan just slightly. "Would you prefer I act as though I'm stupid?"

"No, but they are would," Vivienne says, pausing. "Now go."

Following the orders, Leah moves back into the room, posture tall and chin tilted at the exact angle to look both regal and disinterested. She smiles, politely and softly, just as instructed.

═╬

A second violin enters just behind the cello, soft and sure, signaling the beginning of another quadrille. The ballroom has warmed considerably, though Leah's face remains untouched by sweat. Powder holds, rouge softens her cheekbones, and the faintest gloss of beeswax on her lips keeps her expression fixed in something elegant.

There is a subtle shift in the air that alerts her before the voice does. One can always tell when someone is about to ask for a dance by the way they square their shoulders, the slight tilt of the head, or the straightening of cuffs or waistcoat. The approach is always formal and expectant. Polite dread settles in her stomach.

"Miss Barrett."

The voice is smooth, familiar in the way fine whiskey is familiar—refined with a burn tucked somewhere inside it.

She turns, smile already in place. "Your Grace."

Henry Moore's dark hair is swept back and tied with a pale ribbon that compliments the gold brocade along the edge of his navy coat. 'It's a good color on him,' she thinks absently.

"You look like you're trying very hard not to appear bored," he says, with a hint of a smile.

"I am trying," Leah answers. "Which is far more than I can say for some."

He inclines his head, amused. "Would you permit me the next dance? I fear I may come undone with shame if you refuse."

She lowers her fan, expression unreadable for just a moment too long. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she replies, "I suppose if you've already resigned yourself to humiliation, I might as well grant you a reprieve."

"I'm much obliged," he offers his arm and she takes it.

They step out onto the floor together just as the strings shift again. The movement is light and playful with a lilting rhythm that doesn't demand rigid formality. Leah lets herself settle into it. The two of them move easily through the opening steps, their timing precise, but not rehearsed. She's danced with him a few times by now to know that he doesn't step on toes or grip too tightly. His hand at her waist is always steady and warm through the silk and boning of her bodice.

"You didn't linger at the refreshments table," he notes. "Is the punch not to your liking or were you simply avoiding suitors who've been mentally rehearsing their proposals since breakfast?"

"I don't drink punch," Leah says flatly. "And I try to avoid men who smell like starch and fear."

Henry's mouth twitches, nearly losing count of the step. "That's rather unkind."

"Is it?" she lifts a brow. "I always thought it was rather generous. I could name them aloud if you prefer."

He gives a laugh. It's not the tight, polite laugh men give at teas or luncheons. It's genuine, a little too loud for the music, and she sees three heads turn in response. Leah's cheeks warm as she looks away and brings the back of her hand to her mouth as if she's suppressing a cough, but a snort slips out.

For a half-second, she freezes in horror.

Henry stares at her in delighted disbelief, and then—like something giving way—he starts to laugh again, shoulders shaking with it now. It breaks through the ballroom's lacquered calm like a dropped glass.

Leah covers her face with her fan, but she's quietly laughing too. It bubbles out before she can stop it. When she glances up at him through her lashes, he's still grinning.

"Well," she murmurs, voice hoarse, "there goes any chance of retaining mystery."

He leans in slightly, just enough for her to hear over the music. "On the contrary. You've only increased it."

"You're mocking me," her brows knit.

Shaking his head, Henry can't wipe the smile from his face. "I'm applauding your restraint. If I'd done it, my mother would've sent for smelling salts."

She breathes out a laugh through her nose and spins neatly as the dance shifts. They separate, circle, and return. The air between them has changed. Not quite softened, but there's something that stretches comfortably without snapping.

He doesn't speak again until they've crossed the floor and paused on one of the steps that allows for conversation.

"I suspect," he says slowly, "that if your circumstances were different, I'd be making a very different sort of request tonight."

The words don't land with weight. There's no edge to them. No lingering gaze or forced melancholy. It's said plainly, as though observing the weather.

Leah doesn't answer right away. The music resumes and they move again, weaving among other couples. She watches the swirl of gowns around her, the blur of silks and powder-blue feathers.

It takes her a moment to respond before her voice barely hits his ear. "You wouldn't get far."

"No?" his brow raises.

Another laugh escapes her at the thought of Gwendolyn. "My cousin would kill you."

Henry lets out a quiet breath, more smile than a sigh. "She'd have to catch me first."

"You're not nearly fast enough," Leah shakes her head absently.

Tilting his head, his hand loosens ever so slightly. "Is that a challenge?"

She nods. "You'd die."

He laughs again, more subdued this time. "Well. There's always next season."

"Don't be vulgar," says Leah for the second time that evening.

"I'm being patient."

They break apart again, each turning through the next sequence. She lets the moment linger and the stillness between them stretch, then settle. When they return, she catches his gaze again.

"You'd make a decent friend," she says.

A smirk spreads across Henry's face. "That sounds dangerously close to a compliment."

"Don't get comfortable," Leah hides the mock roll of her eyes.

Henry quickly shakes his head. "Never," he's smiling again, that quiet kind of smile that doesn't demand attention but simply is.

Something inside her twists in response, not with attraction, but recognition and understanding. There are few people who speak plainly with her, fewer who don't expect something when they do.

As the dance draws to its end, Leah curtsies, and Henry bows, both still smirking faintly. No declarations. No romantic stammering. Just two people who, despite everything, might have actually started to like each other.

They part at the edge of the floor and his hand lingers just briefly on hers, a gesture more of habit than hope. "I'll send a note," he says.

Leah turns her head. "I may not answer it."

With a smirk, Henry gives one last bow. "I expect nothing less."

Before she can blink, he is gone, absorbed into the crowd and she is left alone once more beneath the chandelier, breathless in a way she hadn't anticipated.

For the moment, her smile is real, and it stays even as she lifts her chin and turns back into the glittering fold. This moment doesn't last long though when she hears a soft scritch-scratch from beneath the card table. Then sees an orange paw, large and languid, emerge from beneath the silk tablecloth, swiping at the frilled edge as though it offends him personally. Leah halts in her tracks as her eyes narrow and another paw joins the first.

She mutters a curse under her breath and skirts toward the table, lifting the edge of the cloth as if inspecting a battlefield. Sure enough, Sam lounges beneath it like a king under a canopy, eyes half-lidded, entirely unbothered.

"I told you to stay upstairs," she hisses.

The cat merely blinks at her, stretches, then rolls over with a great deal of effort and a faint groan as though he's the one being inconvenienced.

"Oh, marvelous," Leah breathes.

Somewhere nearby, a footman clears his throat with purpose. Leah straightens at once and smooths the folds of her skirts, feigning interest in the wallpaper. Her heart skips, but the man simply walks past her with a silver tray held aloft so she releases the breath she had been holding.

Knowing no peace, a yip follows from across the ballroom. Leah's blood freezes. 'No. No, no, no—'

A flash of white streaks between two pairs of shoes, startling a lady into spilling champagne down her sleeve. PomPom, in all his puffy glory, is prancing madly in zigzags along the perimeter of the room, bow crooked on his head. He looks possessed in the midst of his burst of energy.

Several people look down and a few startled gasps ripple through the crowd. Someone tries to grab him, but PomPom easily evades. A gentleman in green even gets tangled in his lead and nearly topples, saved only by the iron grip of his dance partner, who looks mortified.

Leah doesn't hesitate as she sweeps toward the dog with all the speed her corset and long skirts will allow, managing to appear composed only by years of practice.

"I swear on all that is holy," she growls under her breath.

PomPom halts mid-run, eyes wide, and then bolts in the opposite direction.

'He must've escaped from the upstairs sitting room again. Probably slipped past a maid. Sam—bloody bastard—must've followed. They always do this every time there's a party or a guest.' PomPom cannot abide by not being the center of attention and Sam cannot abide him. He only follows to sabotage his efforts at stardom.

Leah lunges forward and manages to seize the lead just as the dog spins toward a tray of sugared almonds. The momentum drags her slightly, but she plants her heels and grits her teeth, yanking PomPom back with one arm while the other clutches her skirts as the dog lets out a noise of betrayal.

"You," she hisses, lifting the dog into her arms like a misbehaving child, "are not invited. You were never invited. You weren't even on the list."

A small cluster of guests have begun to notice the affair. One woman stifles a laugh behind her gloved fingers and a few young men look on with amusement. Someone whispers something about "Miss Barrett's little dog" and "how spirited," and it makes Leah want to throw PomPom out the nearest window. Though she would never really do such a thing.

Sam chooses this exact moment to saunter out from beneath the table. He stretches again and begins grooming his paw like the scene around him is an entirely private matter. A housekeeper finally notices and she makes a move toward him, but he steps lazily away, tail flicking. Then he's off, stalking through the ballroom like it's his.

"You fat beast," Leah mutters.

The cat stops to sniff at a plate of biscuits, makes a face, and continues on.

PomPom starts squirming in her arms, barking furiously at his rival as Leah tightens her grip. "You will stop," she snarls through clenched teeth, "before I dye you black and pass you off as a rat."

PomPom snaps his jaws in indignation.

More laughter now. A few ladies have gathered by the refreshments, fanning themselves and nudging one another as they watch. Leah catches the eye of one of them, a girl from Bath with too many teeth, and delivers a look so sharp the laughter cuts off mid-giggle.

She begins marching toward the nearest hallway, dog under one arm like a handbag, searching for a maid to take the animals upstairs and lock them in. Sam, sensing his cue, follows behind like a bored guard dog.

A young boy in short trousers gasps and tries to pet PomPom as she passes. Leah tilts her arm away from him without slowing her stride. "He bites," not entirely true.

Around the corner, she finally finds a maid who looks young and terrified enough to obey her without question. Leah dumps PomPom into her arms, gestures violently at Sam, and hisses, "Upstairs. Give them some food and shut them in the rose room."

The girl blanches and nods. Satisfied, Leah turns on her heel and smooths her dress. She gives herself five seconds to silently scream inside her head, then reenters the ballroom with a face like carved marble.

As she approaches the nearest refreshment table, she hears the tail end of a conversation.

"..seemed perfectly in control."

"I would have cried."

"Oh, I'd have let them destroy the place."

Leah takes a glass of wine and sips it with calculated grace, pretending not to hear even though her expression is cool enough to freeze a fire. The crowd gradually returns to its normal buzz. Music begins to play again and the evening continues.

Just as she settles near the veranda doors, allowing the breeze from the cracked windows to dry the heat from her skin, the click of heels announces someone approaching from behind.

"Darling," comes Vivienne's voice. "Your father has arranged for a small surprise in the garden. Come along, now. Do try to look delighted."

Leah turns, glass still in hand. "Oh," she says, dragging the word out like taffy. "I do love being surprised."

Vivienne doesn't answer, already walking away. Leah follows a moment later, tossing one final glance toward the ballroom to see Sam's tail has just disappeared up the stairs.

═╬

Guests begin filtering into the garden. Somewhere in the distance, a water feature hums steadily, its basin filled with floating blossoms—peach-pink camellias, white gardenias, and the palest lavender clematis, each bloom bobbing lazily in the gentle current stirred by the fountain's trickle.

A thin mist of warmth still clings to the stones beneath their shoes, evidence of a summer day well spent, but the evening air is cooler now and the sky beginning its slow slip into slate. Above them, the garden is canopied by trellises and trained vines. Along the winding paths, hedgerows and sculpted greenery shape the crowd's movement without caging it.

Leah stands just before the central pond, her gloved hands resting lightly on the carved railing that overlooks the water. The marble is cold beneath her palms, but not unpleasantly so. Her reflection ripples faintly in the surface below, distorted by the petals drifting lazily across the water. She can see the pale sweep of her skirts in it. Behind her, the chatter of the other guests weaves in and out in a soft murmuring lilt. No one has grown bored yet.

"I do like this better than being inside," she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Her mother's voice flits in nearby, low and almost cheerful. She flutters past Leah, exchanging pleasantries with a woman whose name always slips Leah's mind, and offers the barest nod in her daughter's direction. Vivienne's gown glints faintly in the fading light, a soft dove-gray layered with tulle and tiny beads, and for once, she isn't trying to direct Leah's every step.

From across the lawn, Lucius' deep, familiar laugh cuts through the garden's mild tranquility. Something about the evening has pleased him—perhaps the turnout or the lack of chaos.

Someone bumps into Leah lightly, a flounce of pale skirts, the smell of orange blossom, and then offers a hurried apology before darting back into a group of girls giggling under a trellis. Leah waves it off without comment and doesn't bother to join them. She prefers the view here.

A breeze shifts through the trees, rustling the petals and leaves like a soft exhale. Then, with no warning but a low hiss of gas and a click too subtle for most to hear, the garden begins to glow.

It starts at the far edge. One lamp flickers to life—then another. Then ten. Then twenty.

All at once, the trellises overhead bloom with soft amber light, the strings of lamps catching like fireflies in the net of branches. Their glow is gentle but bright, spreading in ripples through the garden until every path is washed in gold. The gaslights stretch from one pillar to the next, swaying just slightly with the air, arranged in graceful arches that mimic the curves of the hedgerows below.

There's a gasp, audible and collective. Guests pause mid-step and the murmurs stop. A few tilt their heads back to watch, mouths parted slightly, the light caught in their eyes. Even the servants stationed near the refreshments pause to glance upward.

Leah's eyes widen. She doesn't necessarily smile, but her lips part and she breathes in a slow breath through her nose. The lamps shimmer faintly in her irises, giving them the look of glassy sodalite. Her hands still rest against the railing, unmoving.

"It's quite something," she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Golden light dances across the petals in the pond, illuminating the blooms like little ships adrift on fire. It's so unlike anything else she's seen at these dreadful parties. No stuffy ballroom ceilings or predictable centerpieces. Just light, open air, and things that float.

The guests begin to speak again, all at once—their voices full of praise, admiration, and wonder. They seem to forget their practiced grace for a moment, pointing upward or guiding others toward better vantage points. Some younger girls twirl in their gowns just to see how the fabric looks in the light. Leah watches, faintly amused. The beauty of it all is undeniable which means, of course, it's already something to be envied.

A woman near the roses comments loudly that she must do something similar for her daughter's engagement supper. Another mutters about the price of gas. Leah lifts her chin, and then finally steps away from the railing.

She begins moving through the garden with a slow, deliberate pace, careful not to catch her hem on the stone edges. Wherever she passes, she catches the glow of the lamps overhead and the scent of lemon balm and jasmine blooming along the paths. A few people offer greetings, but they're distracted by the display and Leah is grateful for it.

She finds a quiet place near the fountain—one of the smaller ones, with carved cherubs and polished stone too fine for the countryside. The fountain's base is shallow and the water still. For once, there is no music, no instructions, and no pressure to be seen, or admired, or spoken to. Just the evening light, the faint laughter of strangers, and the soft hush of the garden.

Leah carefully sits on the edge of the fountain, resting one gloved hand in her lap and letting the other trail just barely above the water's surface. Sadly, the rustle of skirts signals someone approaching, but it's only Vivienne again as she looks down at Leah, her face unreadable in the amber glow.

"Your father's very pleased," she says after a beat.

"I'd hope so," Leah replies. "He's been dropping hints about this for weeks."

Vivienne nods, glancing out toward the guests. Her hand adjusts a ribbon at her waist, absently.

"You ought to make your way toward the arbor in the next half hour," she adds. "The musicians will begin soon and your father wants you to be visible near the center."

Leah exhales. "Naturally."

Vivienne smooths her skirts and steps back, already looking away. Before leaving, she pauses and speaks so softly that Leah nearly misses it.

"You look lovely in the lights."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #slow burn #long fic #long reads #social season arc #bridgerton inspired #victorian era

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edenityy · 4 months ago

Text

( chapter thirty-seven ! )

"But it's always Green House. Always. Why must I dress up just to sweat through layers of silk while pretending to care about the same outcome as every year prior?"

Standing barefoot on the velvet carpet, Leah has her slippers kicked off somewhere near the foot of the divan. Her corset is laced but her outer dress hangs open in the back, only half done. One sleeve droops down her arm as she glares at her reflection in the tall mirror. Anna waits awkwardly beside her with folded hands, uncertain whether she ought to continue or wait until the tantrum passes. Vivienne, seated near the open window with a cooling cup of tea and a lemon slice long gone bitter, sets her saucer down with a bit more force than necessary.

"Because it is tradition," she says curtly, not looking up. "Because your brother plays and because it is expected."

From behind a discarded copy of the London Evening Post, Lucius adds without glancing up, "And because we're all going. We're not leaving you behind to sulk like some overdressed child."

Leah scoffs under her breath and turns from the mirror with a dramatic flourish, her half-laced bodice flaring open like she means to discard it entirely. "You've left me behind before."

"Yes, when you were ten and halfway feral," Vivienne replies. "Rosaline was quite clear about that," she lifts her eyes only now, sharp and lined with a faint smudge of kohl. "If you'd rather go back to brawling with scullery maids and spitting into your gloves, we could always see if she's still accepting houseguests."

"Don't tempt me," Leah mutters, folding her arms and letting her weight shift to one side. "At least Rosaline wouldn't force me into the sun for hours just to watch boys with no hand-eye coordination chase after a ball."

"You're being insufferable," Lucius says as he finally lowers the paper. "It's one day, you'll survive. Bring a parasol and pretend you're enjoying yourself. That's what your mother does."

Vivienne offers a thin smile. "Except I actually do enjoy myself. Watching young men in trousers all afternoon? It's the only part of the season worth anything."

Leah glares at her. "That's revolting."

"It's honest," Vivienne counters.

"You act as though Daniel's presence alone should make it bearable," Leah says, lifting her arm so Anna might resume lacing. "As though my dear older brother's sweaty brow and puffed chest will provide all the entertainment I need."

"There's also Ciel," Lucius points out.

"I'm engaged to him, not obsessed with him," she snaps. "I see him often enough and he certainly doesn't care whether I'm there watching his little match."

Vivienne lets out a soft and humorless laugh. "You're full of dramatics this morning. Did you even sleep?"

"Barely," Leah mutters. "The ball lasted forever, the ride home was horrid, and the new maid snores through the wall."

Lucius rises from his chair, smoothing the front of his waistcoat as he crosses the room. "If I told you Green House wouldn't win this year, would you come without complaint?"

"I'd know you were lying," she turns her head slightly to avoid Anna's tug. "You can bribe the judges all you like, Father, but you'll never get boys to play sports like they care."

"Then don't watch the match," Vivienne says. "Sit under the tent. Eat strawberries. Gossip. Do something feminine, for God's sake."

"I've done all that," Leah hisses. "Every year since I was eleven. Same patch of grass, same lemon cordial, same half-baked gossip about which girl is making eyes at which boy—none of whom I care about!"

Anna gives the final tug, ties the back with shaking fingers, and flees before another verbal barb can be thrown. Leah exhales loudly through her nose, the sound almost a growl.

Lucius glances toward the door. "You'll finish dressing. You'll come with us. You'll smile for the photographers. You'll clap when Daniel makes a pass and make your presence known to every other family attending."

"Even though they all already know I'm spoken for?" she asks archly, narrowing her eyes.

Vivienne folds her hands neatly in her lap. "You're not doing it for them, Leah. You're doing it for us. Your success reflects on this family."

"I'm already the diamond of the season, or did you forget?" she says, brushing a curl behind her ear. "What more do you want?"

"Consistency," Lucius mutters. "Grace. Silence, preferably."

"Then you ought to have had a quieter daughter," Leah says sweetly, turning to grab her earrings from the dressing table.

Vivienne rises now, brushing the folds of her cream-and-silver gown into place as she approaches. "There are young ladies who would kill to be you. Who'd give up half their dowry just for a nod from Phantomhive and you mope about because you've been asked to spend a day in the sun."

"I'm not moping. I'm expressing disdain," Leah fastens the left earring, then pauses with her lips pursed. "It's completely different."

The sound of the carriage pulling into the drive cuts through the room. Footmen shuffle below. The sound of horses and wheels and afternoon bustle seeps in from the garden-side windows.

Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose. "You've got five minutes to be in the carriage or I'm having someone drag you down in a bed sheet."

Leah looks at him sideways. "You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

"Would you lace the sheet, Mama?" she asks, sweetly cruel.

Vivienne smiles faintly. "No, darling. I'd tie it in a knot and push you out the door myself."

═╬

Later that night, Weston College is awash in candlelight and laughter, filled to its golden, high-vaulted brim with velvet gowns and starched collars and the smooth hum of social niceties passed between strangers. Glasses clink, violins sing from the corner, and the Weston banners hang proudly above the long tables pressed against the walls, each draped with sweets and stewed fruits and crystal dishes that reflect every flickering flame. Beneath it all, polished shoes glide across marble while plumed fans wave away heat and unwanted conversation alike.

Leah doesn't drift through the crowd so much as she cuts through it, walking with practiced ease, chin lifted just enough to keep anyone from stopping her unless they have something particularly worthwhile to say. Her smile is faint and distant. The same one she wears to charity luncheons and dreary gallery unveilings, and though she's exchanged a few harmless pleasantries, she hasn't really spoken to anyone. Not properly or genuinely. She doesn't need to.

Her gown—a froth of pale red and ivory silk embroidered with golden lilies—trails behind her like a whisper as she rounds a crowded table, ignoring the whispered compliments that follow in her wake. Her earrings catch the light as she turns her head, scanning the room with only the faintest flicker of anticipation and hope, though she would never admit to such a thing aloud. Her gloved fingers twitch once against the tiny parcel tucked discreetly in her fan. She's nearly at her destination.

A familiar head of blue catches her eye just past a group of boys huddled in Sapphire Owl colors. For a moment, she watches him speak—cool and composed, his profile sharp beneath the pale lights. He doesn't laugh, but his eyes flick with faint amusement. She sees it and immediately knows the difference.

Then, he looks her way and his posture straightens, subtly but undeniably. The corner of his mouth barely lifts and the rest of the room disappears.

Leah makes her way to him without faltering and the instant she stops before him, the weight of the day seems to lift from her shoulders, though her mouth still holds the echo of her earlier scowl.

"I see you've not died of boredom yet," she says softly with a glance over his shoulder at the small cluster of Sapphire Owl boys.

"Not yet," Ciel replies, tone drier than the champagne being served. "Though if one more first-year tries to ask me how I prefer my tea, I might fling myself from the bell tower."

"I thought you liked being worshipped," she teases, but her voice softens almost imperceptibly. "Though I suppose you've always been particular about your tea."

He eyes her for a moment, then lets his gaze flick briefly over her ensemble. "You look very.. seasonally appropriate."

"I look exquisite. Just say it," she muses.

"Fine," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You look exquisite."

She raises her chin in a satisfied manner, then slides a hand into the hidden fold of her skirts and pulls out a small silk pouch. Her movements are delicate. She doesn't look at him as she offers it, only holds it out.

"For you."

Ciel hesitates, then takes it without ceremony. The drawstring slides open easily, and inside: a lock of soft brown hair, bound with a pale ribbon. Beneath it, a miniature photograph, expertly taken of Leah seated in profile, chin tilted, expression demure but not without edge. Her mouth is caught just before a smile, she looks like she knows something.

He holds the image between gloved fingers, silent for a beat too long. "You were in a mood," he says finally.

"I am in a mood," she counters, stealing a glance at him. "But yes, I thought it might amuse you. Or at least prevent your eyes from falling out of your head when some debutante tries to convince you she's fascinating. Even if there aren't many here."

"I'm immune to debutantes," he says, tucking the pouch inside his coat with something almost reverent.

"You weren't always."

He purses his lips. "That was before I knew better."

Leah smiles truly this time and small enough that it only barely creases the corners of her eyes. "So you do miss me."

"I never said that," Ciel says too quickly.

She tilts her head. "No. But you kept the ribbon."

He looks away then, mouth twitching like he might deny it, but doesn't. The silence stretches pleasantly, charged with all the things neither of them says in front of other people. Bluewer walks past, nodding toward Ciel with idle respect. Leah doesn't bother to acknowledge him.

"Is your mother behaving herself?" he asks after a pause.

Leah laughs mockingly. "She's drunk on compliments and lemon cordial. I count that as well-behaved."

"And your father?" Ciel tilts his head.

"Wants me to smile more. Also wants me to stop talking. Contradictory, but not unfamiliar," her smile is one of defeated acceptance.

"You have been smiling more," he says.

She narrows her eyes. "You think so?"

He steps a little closer, not quite touching. "You only look like you hate everyone a little. Progress."

"Rude," she says, but the way her gaze softens contradicts her tone. "I've done my best."

"You shouldn't have to," he says under his breath, and the flicker of sincerity startles her more than she lets on.

She lets her fan rest against her hip, her fingers drumming idly against the handle. "You'll win tomorrow?" she asks, changing the subject.

"You sound convinced," he raises a brow.

"Well, if not, you'll still look lovely in defeat. I'll console you, if you ask nicely," Leah jokes.

Ciel holds back a snort. "Very generous of you."

"I'm practically angelic," she huffs.

Ciel bites his lip. "That's not the word most would use to describe you."

Leah gives a mock gasp. "That is a blasphemous lie."

He hums, unconvinced but amused as they fall into a more comfortable quiet. Though the room behind them buzzes louder now, conversations cresting and the swell of bodies moving as more guests arrive. Somewhere across the hall, Elizabeth's laugh rings out.

"I've made it through the day without clawing anyone," she says, tone conversational. "You ought to be proud."

"I am, truly. A triumph for diplomacy."

"And self-control," she adds.

Ciel brushes imaginary dust from his pants. "Let's not go that far."

She pretends to glare at him, but Ciel only smirks faintly and offers her his arm.

"Come. I'll fetch you something sweet. If you faint from boredom, I want it to be on someone else's conscience."

"I knew you were fond of me," she says, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You do all this because you like me."

"I do," he says quietly, just for her. "More than I should."

Her mouth opens to respond, but someone brushes past them, too close. She says nothing, just tightening her grip on his arm. They walk into the crowd together, slow and certain, the hem of her dress catching briefly on the toe of his polished shoe. Neither of them apologize.

The moment has barely settled between them. Leah still lightly holds Ciel's arm, his gloved hand poised as if he might reach for hers when a sudden shout from across the room cuts through the polite clamor of the hall like a dropped glass.

"Leah!"

Before she can turn, there's movement—swift, unhesitating, and absurdly un-English. A blur of rich red and gold breaks through the crowd with arms already open, eyes gleaming.

"Dearest little sister!"

Prince Soma tackles her in a hug that lifts her slightly off the ground, entirely oblivious to the nearby stares it draws or the visible tensing of her fiancé beside her.

"Soma!" Leah gasps, more from surprise than discomfort, though her voice muffles against the silk lapel of his coat. "Warn a girl next time."

The young prince beams as he sets her gently back down, hands still holding her by the arms as if to make sure she won't vanish. "It has been months! I was beginning to think you had forgotten me entirely. And you are wearing red! You know that is my favorite."

"You were at my birthday," she says wryly, adjusting her skirts where they've been nudged out of place. "In March."

"And now it is June! Far too long."

Her laughter is soft but real, an amused sound laced with fondness and no real irritation. She smooths back a stray curl with her fingertips, lifting a brow at him. "You might have written."

"I did!" Soma protests, scandalized. "I sent three letters. The first, I believe, got lost in the post. The second I entrusted to Agni, but he became distracted with a puppy. And the third—I think the envelope may have been soaked in curry, but the intent was there!"

"Oh, well," Leah drawls, "if your curry meant well."

Ciel, standing just slightly to the side, remains still as a statue—his expression unreadable save for the faint downturn of his mouth. His posture has stiffened by degrees, like a sculpture hardening.

Soma turns at last, eyes bright. "Ah, Ciel! Do not glower so. I have borrowed your betrothed for but a moment."

"You seized her like a pirate," Ciel mutters.

An under-exaggerated sound escapes Soma. "I seized her like a brother!"

"Last I checked," comes a new voice, low and pointed, "Leah only has one brother."

The air shifts when Daniel emerges from the crowd like a bloodstained knife, all sharp edges and simmering presence in his crimson Weston coat. His hair is ruffled just enough to suggest he doesn't care, but his eyes cut straight to Soma's arm still looped through hers.

Soma turns, looking entirely delighted by the new addition. "Daniel! I forgot Leah is your sister.. You two do look so alike."

Leah's lips twitch. "Do we?"

"Absolutely!" Soma continues, utterly oblivious to the tension now stretching between the three men like a tripwire. "You could almost be twins."

Daniel doesn't blink. "Charmed."

There's a beat as Leah looks between them once before disentangling herself from Soma's grip with a graceful twist of her hand. "Let's not posture over me, shall we? I'm perfectly capable of choosing who I let accost me in public."

"Of course, little sister," Soma says with dramatic contrition, placing a hand over his heart. "Forgive me. I let my joy carry me away."

Daniel makes a sound that could be a scoff or a cough. "Little sister?"

Ciel, without looking, says flatly, "It's a nickname. Evidently."

"I have one brother," Daniel says, looking directly at Soma now, "and you are not him."

Leah sighs, eyes fluttering upward like she might summon divine patience from the ceiling. "You don't have a brother if you are my only brother. And don't be rude."

"I'm not," he says smoothly. "Merely confused. First I hear you're being carried around by a prince and now you're gifting Phantomhive pieces of your hair like some tragic widow."

"You saw that?" asks Leah.

Daniel stares. "Unfortunately."

Before Leah can retort, a light voice joins the gathering from the right—silken and amused, with just enough weight behind it to command attention.

"Well, if it isn't the Barrett girl."

Edgar Redmond stands beside them with his usual poise, a soft smile warming his elegant features. He looks at Leah with the sort of familiarity she's accustomed to from older noblemen who remember her in ankle socks and bows.

"My, you've grown since I last saw you," he says, tilting his head. "Still terribly sharp about the eyes, though. I remember that look when you used to chase after Daniel in the stables."

"I was eleven," Leah says blandly.

"Even then," Redmond chuckles, "you had the expression of a girl already plotting her escape."

She arches a brow. "You remember quite a bit."

"I never forget a pretty girl," he replies, then glances to Ciel, unbothered. "Or an engaged one."

Leah lets herself smile then, faint and laced with just enough arrogance to remind everyone who raised her. "You flatter me, Mr. Redmond."

"I merely speak the truth," he says, eyes sparkling. "And it is Lord Redmond now, I fear. Dreadfully pompous title, but it keeps the schoolmasters happy."

"Do stop circling her like cats around cream," Ciel murmurs. "It's unbecoming."

Redmond lifts a brow. "Jealousy ill suits you, Phantomhive."

"I'm not jealous," Ciel tries to defend himself.

It is far from believable for Redmond, but he doesn't push it too hard. "Then you've grown boring. A shame."

"You're provoking him on purpose," Leah says, biting back a laugh.

"Only a little," Redmond smirks.

Daniel clears his throat. "Is this what passes for mingling here? Hugs and passive threats?"

"I think it's called charming banter," Redmond supplies.

"It's called crowding," Ciel answers flatly. "Which we are done with."

He reaches for Leah's hand and laces his fingers through hers with such familiarity that no one dares interrupt. The room around them continues in its din, but their small corner is now tightly spun with something unspoken. Leah glances down at their hands. His grip is warm and firm.

"Well," she says, lips curving again, "it is nice to see you all, but I do think Ciel promised me a sweet."

"I'll walk with you," Daniel offers.

"You may not," Ciel says.

Redmond snorts into his palm while Soma merely waves.

"Later, then," Daniel mutters, eyes narrowing just enough to hint at something unspoken.

Leah gives a polite nod, brushing past him with Ciel still beside her.

"Little sister," Soma calls fondly, "I expect two dances tomorrow!"

"You'll have one," she answers without turning. "Assuming you survive my brother."

Just like that, she's gone with Ciel again, disappearing into the velvet swarm of bodies and voices—her fingers still curled in his, the sound of their departure muffled under the violin's crescendo.

Upon reaching the buffet table, it stretches beneath an embroidered cloth the color of old parchment, sagging slightly under the weight of gleaming silver platters and precariously tall arrangements of fruits, cheeses, and pastries that look far too dainty to be satisfying. Overhead, the chandeliers flicker with candlelight that glances off crystal bowls filled with sugared petals and candied violets.

Ciel reaches for a thin square of chocolate-drizzled cake, ignoring the savory side of the spread entirely. Beside him, Leah stabs a skewer of roasted quail and plucks a miniature tart.

"You've no taste for the sweets, then?" he asks as she deliberately passes over the almond biscuits.

"Not in the slightest. You know that," she replies, frowning faintly at a tray of lemon custards, even though she loves lemons. "It's the quickest way to an aching stomach. Sugar and I have a fragile alliance."

"You must be impossible at tea parties."

"I am," she says, stabbing the quail again for good measure. "Mother used to make such a display about it, claiming I was embarrassing her by avoiding some of the pastries. I thought it better than vomiting on the lace."

His lips twitch. "Charming."

"Would you rather I'd suffered quietly for appearances?" Leah cocks a brow.

Ciel snorts. "I'm quite glad you didn't, but I imagine your mother was less delighted."

"She rarely is, unless someone's telling her how pretty she used to be." Leah shrugs and lifts the tart to her lips, chewing thoughtfully. "Mm. This one's not dreadful."

Across the room, a ripple of laughter rises from a knot of students and visitors near the wide windows. Edward Midford, standing tall and impossibly earnest in his Green Lion colors, glances their way. When Leah's gaze meets his, she smiles. The boy flushes a shade deeper than a Scarlet Fox member's coat and turns hastily back to whoever he is speaking with.

Ciel follows her line of sight and lifts a brow. "Did you just flirt with my cousin?"

"Hardly. That was a polite smile," Leah looks at him incredulously.

"Your polite smiles don't make men blush," he scowls.

There's a pause before she sets her plate down and looks out toward the banners draped along the walls. Green Lion's crest hangs closest, smug and gleaming.

"I meant it, by the way," she says. "About hoping you win, of course. But I'll be satisfied with anyone triumphing over Green House. I'd even clap for Purple House."

"Would you?" he says dryly. "Even though Daniel tells me they once locked you in a broom cupboard for calling their prefect's recitation 'a biblical punishment'?"

"I was twelve. And he was," she says, eyes glittering. "But yes, anyone but Green."

A beat of quiet stretches between them as Ciel picks at his cake but doesn't take a bite. "You could cheer for me, you know," he says casually. "As a gesture of affection."

Leah turns toward him with that slow, deliberate smugness that never fails to make him uneasy. "Oh, Ciel. I love you dearly, but I'll be cheering for Daniel."

He stares. "You'll what?"

"I have to," she shrugs, wholly unbothered. "It's tradition. I've been cheering for him nearly every year since he joined Weston. It would be cruel to stop now simply because I'm promised to someone else."

Ciel narrows his eyes. "There is nothing cruel in supporting your future husband."

"There is when your brother might hold a grudge and refuse to carry your trunks next time you visit," she says sweetly. "Besides, he'd bring it up for months."

"You're abandoning me out of convenience."

"I'm being pragmatic," Leah gives a faux frown.

He narrows his eyes. "What happened to loyalty?"

"It doesn't vanish. It's merely.. divided," she leans slightly closer, tone playful. "Don't sulk, Ciel. You'll still have my heart. Daniel only gets my applause."

"You speak of it so easily," he mutters. "As if I'm not presently wounded."

Leah tilts her head. "Are you wounded?"

"Gravely," Ciel deadpans.

"Poor dear," she offers him a sliver of quail from her plate. "Have a bite. It'll soothe your pride."

He sniffs it with exaggerated disdain. "It smells like smoke and indignity."

"Then it suits you," she smiles.

Despite himself, a laugh escapes him. It's low, brief, and rare enough that several boys across the table pause in startled silence. Leah hides her grin in a sip of juice, the flavor too floral for her liking, but the victory worth it.

Ciel composes himself a moment later, smoothing the expression from his face like a wrinkle in cloth. "You'll regret this when I win."

"Mm," she hums. "You'll need to come in second, then."

"I don't do second," Ciel hardens.

Leah giggles. "We'll see."

Their plates half-finished, they step aside to make space for another pair of students.

Leah flicks a glance toward them, her expression unreadable. "Do you remember the first sport you ever played?"

Ciel hums. "Barely. I was shorter and angrier."

"You're still both," Leah shrugs.

Turning his head in offense, Ciel fakes a gasp. "I've grown."

"Hardly," Leah says, refusing to look up and acknowledge that Ciel did in fact hit his growth spurt years ago.

Another laugh threatens, but he swallows it down with the rest of his cake. "Tell me, then. Do you intend to spend the rest of this season undermining me with sharp commentary and unwavering support for your brother?"

"I do," she says without pause. "It's part of my charm."

He studies her face—her lightly glossed lips, the faint flush of her cheeks, and the smile that tugs one corner of her mouth higher than the other—and lets himself feel the full weight of affection without disguise.

"Leah," he says at last, softly. "I'm very fond of you."

"Mm. I should hope so," her tone is light, but her eyes flick up to meet his, open for a moment in a way she rarely allows. "I'm fond of you too."

"Even if I lose to your brother?" he questions.

A smile spreads across Leah's lips. "Especially if you lose to my brother. It'll humble you. Even if Daniel needs some humbling himself."

He shakes his head, amused and mildly exasperated. "You're insufferable."

"You like me that way," she sticks out her tongue teasingly, making sure only Ciel can see the gesture.

They linger there a moment longer, nestled beside the buffet table like they belong to a different corner of the event entirely. The room swells around them with conversation and laughter, but their exchange feels private.

═╬

The next day, Leah fans herself with a folded bit of stationery she stole from her father's coat pocket. There's already a faint red line rising along the curve of her shoulder, sunburn creeping in. Her face is still pale, but her nose has gone pink despite the frilly parasol Paula's been dutifully adjusting for the past half hour. Elizabeth sits prettily to her right, smiling like the sun itself hasn't declared war on them, and clapping whenever someone so much as touches the bat.

"My God, how long have we been sitting here? Two hours? Four?" she complains.

"It's only been—" Elizabeth pauses, checks the little gold watch pinned to her sash, "—thirty-seven minutes since the last interval."

Leah sighs like she's just been told her cousin died. "So we're not even close to a break, then."

Elizabeth giggles, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. "Not until the second match ends. But it is rather exciting, don't you think?"

"No," Leah offers nothing more.

A small sound escapes Elizabeth. "Oh."

Finnian, sitting cross-legged on the grass beside the edge of the blanket, munches noisily on a slice of peach. His face is flushed and his hat has been cast off somewhere behind him, hair sticking in every direction like he's been wrestling a sheep. "Miss Leah, look there! Master Ciel's bowling!"

"I'd rather look into the sun," Leah mutters, though her eyes do shift lazily toward the pitch.

A Sapphire Owl boy, all sharp posture and narrow-eyed, winds up and hurls the ball with such force it sends up a spray of dust. One of the Red House boys stumbles trying to hit it, and Daniel, shouting from the side, nearly leaps at him. Leah gives a tepid clap with two fingers against her palm.

"Lovely," she drawls. "Riveting. Remind me to have it carved into my tombstone: She died at a cricket match. May God rest her soul."

"Your brother's playing too, isn't he?" Finnian asks, still bright-eyed.

"Which is why I haven't left yet," she says, shifting irritably under her parasol. "Well, that and my father's glare."

Lucius, seated at the head of the small cluster of chairs beside Vivienne, says nothing but tightens his jaw whenever Leah shifts. He hasn't spoken much since their arrival, preferring to watch the match in silence, but his presence is as commanding as ever. Vivienne, dressed to outshine half the spectators despite the heat, flutters her fan at nothing in particular and mutters every so often about too much dust and absolutely no champagne.

Elizabeth continues to cheer politely, now and then murmuring a sweet "bravo!" or "how splendid!" under her breath. Behind the girls, Paula keeps the parasol angled just enough to shield both girls from the cruel midmorning light.

Leah shifts again and winces, her corset has begun to bite. "I hate sports," she announces. "And men. And especially the combination of the two."

"Why men?" Elizabeth asks, blinking.

Leah's eye twitches. "They invented cricket."

That earns a huff of laughter from Finnian. Mcmillan, seated near the edge of the group with his knees perfectly folded and posture stiff as a board, shifts slightly. Leah catches it. She doesn't know why he's here, exactly. He's not unpleasant, just there. Watching the match like it holds the secrets of the universe, hands neatly placed atop his lap, face set in that vaguely admiring way that some boys get.

She side-eyes him again, but he doesn't notice.

Elizabeth leans in closer, whispering, "He's Ciel's friend, you know."

"That explains nothing," Leah replies.

"Oh, don't be horrid."

"I'm not. I'm simply curious," she squints toward the pitch.

"McMillan is nice," Finnian pipes up.

"Is he?" Leah glances again.

This time McMillan does notice as he turns his head slightly, catches her gaze, and offers a small, unsure smile. Leah nods back, a tight-lipped thing somewhere between 'hello' and 'what do you want from me?'

Another round of applause erupts from the field. Daniel has taken a wicket and Red House is cheering like mad. Leah lets out a small, exhausted "hurrah," and slouches even further in her chair.

"That's the spirit," Elizabeth says.

"I'm trying," Leah groans. "But if this match doesn't end before I begin peeling like a roasted turnip, I shall throw myself into the lake."

"We don't have a lake," Finnian says.

"Then I'll dig one."

The umpire shouts something across the field as both teams scramble to rearrange themselves. Leah pretends not to hear them, focusing instead on twisting her empty fan into a makeshift cone and pretending it's a megaphone. She cups it over her mouth.

"Go Daniel, may the sun burn your opponents into ash!"

Elizabeth squeaks. "Leah!"

Leah tilts her head innocently. "Too far?"

"Yes!"

"...Noted," she says quietly.

The match continues, sweat gathering along Leah's back as she debates removing her gloves. She doesn't, only because her mother would make a scene.

"I need something cold," she mutters.

Finnian raises his peach pit. "Want the rest?"

She gives him a look that could curdle milk and perhaps would have thrown him across the field if she wasn't so fond of him.

Leah turns toward Elizabeth. "How do you still look alive?"

"I've always loved being outside," Elizabeth replies cheerfully. "It's good for the skin."

Leah lifts a brow. "My skin is screaming."

Giving Leah's abnormally pale skin a once over, Elizabeth tries a half-hearted suggestion. "You should try rose water."

There's a sudden roar from the field. A dramatic catch—Blue House has taken another wicket. Elizabeth leaps up in excitement, hands clapping furiously. Paula flinches, but joins her.

Leah stands only half an inch, squinting toward the field. She spots Ciel watching Daniel with narrowed eyes. Daniel laughs and says something Leah can't hear.

"Oh, please," she mutters. "You're not rivals. You're just overly dramatic teenagers with god complexes."

"What was that, Leah?" Elizabeth asks.

"Nothing, Lizzie. Just cheering," she plucks a strawberry from the plate Finnian has somehow acquired and bites into it viciously.

There's still another half of the match left. Another interval. Another few hundred minutes of boys swinging sticks in the sun.

Leah adjusts her gloves and settles into her chair again, eyes rolling toward the sky. "I miss the ballroom," she says flatly. "And proper refreshments, walls, and shade that doesn't move."

Finnian pats her arm gently. "You'll survive, Miss Leah."

By the time the next interval rolls around, the sun is finally relenting. Not entirely, of course. It's still glaring down upon the pitch like a judgmental aunt, but the sound of the umpire's whistle and a chorus of hoarse cheers signals the interval. A breeze wafts in from the trees. It isn't strong enough to cool anything properly, but it gives the illusion of mercy. A few boys toss down their bats and dash toward the trestle tables in search of lemonade and meat pies, while the spectators lean back with collective sighs of relief.

Leah lowers herself back onto the cushioned chair with far more grace than she feels. The silk bodice of her gown sticks uncomfortably to her back despite Paula's careful efforts with a linen fan. She takes a chilled glass of apricot juice from a passing servant and sips it with enough reverence to make it seem like a fine wine. The sweet sharpness cuts through the sluggish heat and revives her better than any polite clapping ever could.

"Tell me this isn't the most tolerable part of the entire affair," she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Elizabeth leans over, cheeks flushed from excitement. "They've put out fruit and little tarts as well if you'd like something sweet. Though I'm quite sure Paula could ask the staff for anything you prefer."

Leah gestures vaguely toward her glass. "This is all I require. I can taste my will to live returning."

Finnian, now lying on his stomach like a child, pops a candied plum into his mouth and lets out a happy hum. "Master Ciel was amazing out there, wasn't he?"

"He was perfectly competent," Leah answers without looking up, tipping the rim of her glass toward her lips again. "Though I still maintain the sport is dreadfully dull."

A familiar figure in white and scarlet strides into view, the red of his sash stark against the golden tones of the grass and sun. Daniel wipes the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief before he even reaches them, offering a crooked grin that says he's already aware of how smug he looks.

"Good, you're still alive," Leah mutters. "I feared you'd collapsed somewhere from overexertion."

"I'm not the one lounging about like a fainting goat," he replies as he leans in to give her a quick kiss atop her head, careful not to disturb her carefully coiffed hair. "I see the sun hasn't devoured you yet."

Leah smiles mockingly. "Only because this parasol has been shielding me like a battlefield nurse. You owe it your sister's life."

"Noted," he says with a lazy smirk. His gaze flicks to their parents. "Mother. Father."

Vivienne inclines her head with a smile and Lucius, arms crossed, gives a nod.

"You're not eating with your team?" Leah asks, glancing toward the distant tables, where boys are tearing into savory pies like starved hounds. "Go on, then. Wouldn't want to miss your fill of meat and glory."

Daniel grimaces slightly. "They're serving meat pies. I'll pass."

Leah lifts a brow. "You used to adore them."

"When I was six and lacked discernment," he rolls his eyes.

"More for the others, then," Lucius finally says, his voice like cold iron. "You'll need the energy if you plan to win."

Daniel shrugs. "I'll be fine. I'd rather not play the rest of the match feeling like I swallowed a brick."

Vivienne tuts. "You'll spoil your appetite being choosy."

"I'll live," he replies, then turns to Leah with a more conspiratorial tone. "How are you surviving all this? Has your blood boiled yet?"

Leah sips her juice and holds his gaze. "I'm one scorching gust of wind away from bursting into flame. I've been half-expecting one of the owls to mistake me for a corpse and peck my eyes out."

"I'll keep watch," he says, grinning. "For the owls, I mean. Can't have you losing both your eyes before the season ends."

Leah rolls her eyes. "How generous."

She finally looks him over properly. Sweat clings to his collar, and his hair—usually combed back with military precision—has begun to curl at the edges, damp from the match. But he carries himself easily, a natural athleticism that earns him praise even from boys who'd rather die than admit admiration. A small knot of pride unfurls in her chest, reluctant but present.

"You've done well," she allows. "I daresay your aim has improved since you used to throw stones at my head for sport."

Daniel laughs. "Ah, but back then, I wasn't aiming to miss."

That earns a laugh from Elizabeth, who covers her mouth with her gloved fingers. Leah merely shakes her head, a smirk threatening to betray her.

"Are you heading back soon?" Elizabeth asks.

Daniel glances over his shoulder, where a few Red House boys are already trudging back toward the pitch. "I guess I am now."

═╬

A cricket ball whistles through the air and slams into the dirt with a dull thud. Ciel misses again. From the Barretts' shaded viewing area, Leah watches her fiancé square his shoulders with an air of polite, unyielding frustration.

The crowd gives a faint collective wince, though no one dares laugh outright. Still, there's a subtle shuffle of whispers from the younger girls beneath their parasols and fans, the sort of giggles one learns to recognize after attending even a single term's worth of public events.

Ciel looks unbothered, the set of his mouth is perfectly neutral and his posture is composed despite his clear lack of aptitude. He isn't athletic by any definition, his limbs are too fine and aristocratic, and Leah already knows he doesn't enjoy any sport that requires much exertion. Regardless, he moves back into position without hesitation. Pride compels him forward where skill does not.

"He looks handsome in the uniform," Elizabeth offers weakly.

"Yes. Perhaps he'll distract the opposing team into forfeiting," Leah murmurs, not entirely without warmth. She draws a small fan from her lap and flicks it open, watching the sharp glint of the sunlight against Johanne's brass cufflinks as he readies the final throw.

Sapphire Owl is down by many points. If Ciel misses this final pitch, Red House claims victory.

Johanne lifts his arm, but there is a pause. Not a dramatic flair, something is off. His back stiffens and his head jerks ever so slightly. Then, abruptly, he doubles over with a guttural sound that carries far too easily across the field as the ball drops from his hand.

For a moment, there is only silence. A pause in the breath of the event.

"Oh my God," someone gasps.

Another boy stumbles sideways across the pitch, his face ashen and drenched in sweat. A third collapses onto his knees and lets out a sound that could be mistaken for a war cry if it weren't followed by a moan of unmistakable agony. Then another and another.

"What in the world—" Elizabeth's voice trails off into stunned disbelief.

Leah sits upright, her eyes wide. Her glass of apricot juice tilts precariously in her hand, nearly forgotten.

All across the pitch, Red House players are convulsing, clutching their stomachs, some even abandoning all dignity as they stagger off the field or crumple to the ground. A few try to crawl toward the sidelines, their bodies wracked with spasms. The unmistakable sound of retching cuts through the air like a blade.

Then the faint smell coming from Johanne hits.

"Dear God," Leah mutters, lowering her fan and recoiling just enough to press into the seat back. Her gaze flicks to Daniel's end of the field. He and Soma and the only ones left standing. The two exchange glances, dumbfounded and helpless.

Sapphire Owl's team, by contrast, is untouched. Ciel stands motionless with an odd expression on his face. The blue of his uniform doesn't even appear ruffled. Which, of course, means he had something to do with this.

"Oh my God," Leah whispers again, this time with far more horror. She presses a gloved hand to her mouth, then removes it just as quickly. "He didn't."

Vivienne waves a handkerchief delicately before her face. "I told you those meat pies looked too rich. No proper English meal ought to smell like a bakery left out in the sun."

Leah lets out an exasperated noise that's far too undignified for public consumption, then quickly schools her expression as Daniel trudges across the lawn to join them. His boots crunch against the gravel and his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, jacket abandoned somewhere on the sidelines. He looks like he's aged twenty years in five minutes.

"Don't," he says flatly before anyone can speak.

Leah lifts a brow. "Not even going to try to defend them?"

"There's nothing to defend. They're all shitting themselves into unconsciousness," Daniel throws himself into the empty chair beside her and yanks off his gloves. "I am never eating anything prepared by this school again."

"Daniel!" Vivienne hisses at his choice of language.

Leah almost laughs, but the stench drifting toward their area ruins the moment. She quickly fans herself again, resisting the urge to gag. All around them, the crowd sits frozen, unsure whether to intervene, flee, or pretend this hasn't just become the most undignified disaster in school history.

Her eyes flick back toward the Sapphire Owl side. Ciel has yet to move. He watches the scene unfold with all the solemnity of a chessmaster noting the fall of a pawn.

Leah's fingers tighten on her fan. "This is vile," she mutters. "Absolutely vile."

Daniel shrugs. "It's effective."

"Don't you dare encourage him," she snaps.

"I didn't say I liked it. I said it worked," he leans back in the chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Sapphire Owl wins. I hope they're happy."

Lucius lets out a dry chuckle. "Didn't think I'd see the day."

"Well, don't get used to it," Daniel mutters. "They're still terrible. Just.. less terrible than we are when drugged."

The match is officially called. Sapphire Owl claims the victory by default as the majority of Red House is deemed "unfit to continue," which is a gracious way of saying they can't make it to the field without shitting their trousers.

"The Scarlet Foxes are unable to continue playing and therefore withdraw from the match. Thus, the first match goes to the Sapphire Owls!"

It is hard to hear when the stands suddenly erupt into shouts, such news is beyond a surprise.

═╬

Much time later, they are nearing the hopeful end of the last match. Green Lion versus Sapphire Owl—the very concept outside of the original story had once seemed laughable, a joke whispered between the older boys and easily dismissed with a roll of the eyes. Yet, here they are with an impossible remnant of the morning's chaos trailing behind them.

Leah's skirts rustle faintly as she adjusts in her seat beneath the silk parasol. There's a fold in the lace of her sleeve that's irritating her, but her attention stays rooted on the field. She's perched just behind the frontmost viewing pavilion now, where the nobler families linger with drinks and gossip masked behind pleasant smiles.

"They're going to riot again," someone mutters a few seats down.

Elizabeth leans in closer, her gloves pristine despite the long day. "Do you think the judges shall call it off?"

"Not now," Leah murmurs. "They've let it go on too long. If they call it now, the whole thing's pointless."

Indeed, the tension is palpable—like the last knot in a corset drawn too tightly, one sharp tug from snapping. Minutes earlier, Blue House had been accused of ungentlemanly conduct. Jeers from a few students still echo faintly in the air like ghostly aftershocks, though the officiants have already waved their handkerchiefs and moved on. The match continues, smoothed over with the sort of blind optimism only English institutions are capable of.

Bluewer steps forward now, his brows slightly furrowed, jaw tight with finality. The last bowl of his school career. It shows in the posture and the aching precision with which he stretches his arm, rolls his shoulder back, and lines up the throw. The crowd hushes without needing to be told.

From her vantage point, Leah narrows her eyes slightly. She doesn't love cricket, but she likes watching people care this much about something stupid. And he does care. They all do, even when they're pretending not to. She lets her hand slip from her cheek as Bluewer releases the ball.

The bat swings with a sharp crack—Greenhill's clean and practiced form, but it's not the ball that captures attention. It's the sudden recoil, the jarring motion, and the sharp grunt that follows. Greenhill twists as his bat finishes the arc and strikes something behind him. The sound is not the dull tap of willow against leather. It's bone.

Gasps ripple like wind through wheat.

On the pitch, Ciel Phantomhive falls back from his crouch behind the wicket as one of his gloved hands flinches up to his head.

"Oh my—" Elizabeth's hand flies to her mouth.

Leah bursts out laughing. Not a shriek of delight or mockery. It's a reflex. Sharp, startled, and inappropriate. The kind that slips through when something awful happens.

"Oh my God," she mutters immediately after, fingers clamping over her lips as though that might call the laugh back. "I— oh my God, that wasn't— I didn't mean to—"

Her gaze darts wildly toward the pitch again. Ciel straightens, jaw clenched, a trickle of blood tracing his forehead. Greenhill turns around, his body twisted in concern, stepping toward Ciel and asking if he is alright.

Then, without a word, Ciel hurls the ball.

It arcs low and fast, almost vicious in its trajectory, and slams into the far wicket. The other batsman tries to catch up but fails.

The umpire stares in silence.

"Green House, ten outs."

"Time! The match is over!"

Screams sound from Sapphire Owl. It takes a moment for everyone to process what's just happened. Leah remains frozen for a beat, still half-laughing and half-stricken.

"That little snake," Daniel mutters with the faintest grin.

Across the field, Ciel is being lifted up by his teammates with a smile on his face as they all cheer delightfully.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Elizabeth whispers, her complexion pale. "That sounded awful."

Leah swallows and adjusts her skirts. "It was awful," she agrees faintly, "but he's fine."

"Are you positive?" asks Elizabeth.

The Barrett gives a half-hearted shrug. "He didn't faint. That is practically the same thing."

Elizabeth's brows pinch. "You really shouldn't laugh when your fiancé gets struck in the skull."

"I didn't mean to!" Leah groans. "It just happened! I didn't expect it and it sounded like a bloody melon—" she presses a hand to her mouth as she nearly starts laughing again. "He's never going to let me live this down."

Ciel catches Leah's eyes and smiles. 'Green House didn't win..'

As impossible as it seemed, he somehow managed to deliver her wish.

"Blue House won!"

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #lau black butler #slow burn #long fic #long reads #weston college #public school arc

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edenityy · 5 months ago

Text

( chapter thirty-six ! )

"I met someone."

Sun, softened by the lacework of thin clouds, drapes the park in a flattering glow, and the pathways—though busy—are just wide enough for Leah and Elizabeth to stroll without the burden of unwanted company. Birds twitter in the hedges and a few little carriages wind along the far road. Early afternoon has always been forgiving to London's less serious pedestrians.

Pompom, energetic as ever, trots a few paces ahead, restrained only by the delicate silk ribbon Leah uses in place of a proper leash. His white coat looks nearly iridescent beneath the gentle light as he prances, tail curled high, thoroughly enjoying himself. Occasionally, he pauses to sniff a flowerbed, only to be hurried along by a subtle tug.

Leah glances sidelong at Elizabeth. "You met someone?" the words are carefully repeated, neither indifferent nor enthused—merely curious, as if testing the weight of them.

Elizabeth's bonnet dips as she nods, blonde curls bouncing slightly beneath the fine lace trim. "Yes, a gentleman. His name is Mr. Davis—Christopher Davis," her tone swells with quiet excitement, betraying her efforts to remain composed. "I met him at Lady Wetherby's dinner last week, though I scarcely thought to mention it before. He was quite.. agreeable."

The corners of Leah's mouth lift faintly as she adjusts her grip on Pompom's ribbon, allowing him a bit more freedom as they reach a quieter path lined with towering trees. "I imagine agreeable must seem like heaven after meeting some of the men in London," the teasing lilt in her voice is gentle, but not without sincerity. "Tell me, is he terribly handsome, or simply tolerable enough to excuse?"

A soft laugh escapes Elizabeth and she briefly hides her face behind her gloved hand. "Leah! I should not answer that. You would only make sport of it."

Leah hums, letting the matter rest for a moment. There is a distinct pleasure in letting Elizabeth flutter on with her girlish delight.

Pompom darts towards a small flock of pigeons and scatters them with theatrical barking, but his antics draw little more than an indulgent glance. Leah keeps a light hold on the ribbon, letting him believe himself the victor without dragging him away too soon.

Elizabeth steals another look at Leah. "I had worried you might think me foolish," she says, quieter now. "Considering.. well."

"You are often foolish, but not in this," Leah answers without malice. "I am glad for you," she means it. There is no bite or sharpness beneath the surface. Just the simple truth.

They stroll past a little pond where swans glide lazily across the water, indifferent to the attention they draw. Leah's skirts swish faintly against the gravel, their fullness occasionally brushing Elizabeth's. The fashion of the season may be dictated by English propriety, but Leah clings to the excesses of her French tutors' influence—flounces, ribbons, and colorful silks that border on indulgence. Even now, the pale rose fabric she wears is embroidered with delicate vines, the design more suited to Versailles than London, but she wears it unapologetically.

Elizabeth watches the swan but keeps glancing back to Leah, visibly relieved by her reaction. "You are certain? I had feared you might think it soon."

"Soon?" Leah raises a brow. "You are no longer a child, Lizzie. Neither am I. Soon becomes late faster than you'd think," there is no bitterness in her voice, but perhaps a hint of recognition. The season may be a formality for Leah, but there is no denying how quickly time presses on. Seventeen feels like an eternity and yet somehow almost an ending.

A cool breeze stirs the air, rustling the branches above and prompting Elizabeth to pull her shawl a little tighter. Leah, by contrast, lets the chill pass over her without much thought. She grew up with harsher winds and colder winters—even born in the middle of one. The softness of England's early spring is nothing compared to the sharp gales of her father's properties in the American countryside. There is something almost pleasant about it.

"You'll introduce me properly, I hope," Leah says after a beat, eyes fixed on the little dog who now wrestles with a fallen stick twice his size.

"Of course!" Elizabeth brightens again. "I had hoped you'd say so. He mentioned he would call at the next assembly, and perhaps—if you would not mind—you might.. assess him?"

Leah's lips twitch into something resembling a real smile. "What? You wish me to judge the poor man?"

"Only a little," Elizabeth admits with a sheepish look. "You are far more discerning than most and you know I value your opinion."

"Flattery," Leah says plainly, but not unkindly. "Still, I suppose I might. If only to ensure he isn't a card sharper or some other dreadful bore."

Elizabeth laughs fully this time, the sound carrying over the quiet path. For a brief moment, the world seems simple again, as it had been when they were girls before duty and title began to twist everything into shape.

Further down the path, the sound of another carriage arrives, wheels cracking against gravel, but it is distant enough not to disturb them. The park, mercifully, seems their own for now. Leah shifts her attention back to Pompom, who has abandoned the stick in favor of flopping into a patch of clover, triumphant and tired. She lets the ribbon slacken, giving him leave to bask as he pleases.

"You must not let your heart get ahead of itself," Leah warns gently, eyes still on the small dog. "Not all agreeable men are worth the trouble."

Elizabeth does not immediately reply. Instead, she looks out over the pond, thoughtful, but not discouraged. "I shall try," she says at last, with a smile Leah suspects is more hopeful than cautious.

With that, they continue down the path, skirts swaying softly and Pompom trailing behind like a prince without a care.

═╬

The sound of carriage wheels grinding to a halt in the courtyard is nearly drowned out by the rain that has begun to fall in light, misty sheets. Though the afternoon had been dry, the evening air carries the scent of damp stone and fresh earth, creeping through the open windows of the Barrett townhouse.

Candles flicker in their sconces, and somewhere down the hall, the faint notes of a pianoforte drift from the parlor played with all the lifelessness expected of a household where music is an obligation rather than a pleasure. None of it matters, none of it even registers, because Leah is already halfway down the grand staircase before the footman has a chance to announce that the carriage has arrived.

She does not wait. The moment the doors swing open and the figure of Aunt Rosaline emerges from the shadows, shaking the rain from her cloak, Leah moves forward without hesitation.

"Aunt Rosaline," her voice is alight with something dangerously close to joy, restrained only by years of careful breeding. The world outside is cold and wet, but here, standing in the entryway with the warm glow of the chandeliers reflecting off polished floors, she feels nothing but warmth.

Rosaline lifts her chin slightly, taking in the grand house, the uniformed staff, and the picture of wealth and propriety that her niece presents. She has not seen Leah in years, but she has not forgotten her. "Leah," she acknowledges, her tone even and expression unreadable. However, there is the barest trace of something softer in her gaze as she removes her gloves and hands them to the waiting footman.

Leah does not lunge forward like a child or clasp her aunt's hands or weep with relief. That would be improper. Instead, she stands straight, her fingers twitching at her sides and her heart pounding with something she refuses to name. Rosaline had been the one constant in a world of uncertainty, the only person who had ever shaped her into something more than a burden to be cast aside. She had not been affectionate, but she had been present, and that had been enough.

"I trust your journey was comfortable," Leah continues, her voice perfectly smooth.

Rosaline steps further inside, allowing the butler to take her damp cloak. "It was tolerable," she replies, casting a brief glance around the hall. "Your father was kind enough to send a carriage, though I must admit, I did not expect such hospitality."

The words are neutral, but Leah hears the undercurrent, the unspoken understanding that Lucius Barrett does nothing unless it serves a purpose. Hospitality is a performance, one dictated by obligation rather than sincerity. But Leah does not care about her father's motives. Rosaline is here, in her house, if only for a few days, and that is all that matters.

"Come, we shall sit in the drawing room," Leah says, leading the way without waiting for an answer. It is a familiar dynamic—she had learned long ago that Rosaline dislikes wasted time. The house is warm and the fire in the drawing room crackles softly as they step inside. A tea tray has already been prepared with an assortment of delicate cakes arranged in perfect symmetry.

Rosaline takes a seat, her posture impeccable. She has not changed in the slightest. The years have left her with a few more lines at the corners of her eyes and a faint touch of silver among the dark strands of her pinned-up hair, but she is still the same woman who had once ruled over Leah's childhood with quiet authority. Albeit, only for about a year.

Leah sits opposite her, hands folded in her lap. "It has been some time," she remarks, watching as Rosaline reaches for her teacup.

"It has," Rosaline agrees, lifting the porcelain to her lips and she does not bother to elaborate.

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable, but it is charged with unspoken things. Leah has questions—so many of them—but she does not ask them yet because she does not need to. Rosaline is here, sitting before her, not some distant memory or ghost from her past. That is enough, for now.

A knock at the door disrupts the moment. Anna steps inside, her expression as unremarkable as always. "Would you care for anything else, Lady Rosaline?"

Rosaline barely glances at her. "No, this will suffice."

Anna nods, her gaze flickering briefly to Leah before she turns to leave. She does not comment on Leah's uncharacteristic eagerness or the way she seems lighter and more at ease, but she notices.

When the door closes, Rosaline sets down her cup with a quiet clink. "Tell me, Leah. How have you fared?"

The question is simple, but the weight of it settles between them. Leah hesitates for only a moment before she smiles, a picture of practiced grace.

"I have done well," it is the answer she is supposed to give, the one that satisfies expectations. But Rosaline is not one for pleasantries and Leah knows that. So, after a pause, she allows a sliver of honesty to slip through. "It has been.. tiring."

Rosaline watches her for a long moment before inclining her head slightly. "Society is exhausting."

A quiet laugh escapes before Leah can stop it. "That is a polite way to put it."

Rosaline does not smile, but there is something knowing in her expression. "And your engagement?"

The mention of Ciel is expected, yet it still sends a strange thrill through her. "It is wonderful," she answers, lifting her chin. "He is currently attending Weston College."

Rosaline studies her. "You are content?"

There is no hesitation this time. "I am."

For the first time that evening, something shifts in Rosaline's demeanor. It is not quite approval or warmth, but something close. "Then I am pleased for you."

Leah exhales, though she had not realized she was holding her breath. For the first time in a long while, she feels something almost like peace.

The firelight flickers against the polished wood, casting shifting shadows over the drawing room walls and rain has softened to a steady patter against the windows, muffled by thick drapes. A small clock on the mantel ticks evenly, marking the passage of time in gentle, rhythmic beats. The tea, once warm, has begun to cool.

Leah swirls the last remnants in her cup before setting it down, fingers brushing lightly against the porcelain rim. "You intend to stay the full week?"

Rosaline regards her over the rim of her own cup, gaze level. "I do, unless your father's hospitality wanes," the words carry little inflection, neither a jest nor a complaint, merely an observation.

"It might," Leah does not attempt to soften the truth. Her father has moods like the tides—distant, indifferent, sometimes tolerable, other times less so. He plays at warmth when the occasion demands it, but such efforts are never sustained. If Rosaline stays long enough, she will see it for herself.

A faint hum of acknowledgment is all Rosaline offers in return. Setting down her teacup, she smooths the fabric of her sleeve, fingers lingering over the delicate embroidery. "I had wondered whether you would flourish under this house's influence or wilt. I see now that you have not done either."

The comment settles over Leah like a weighted veil. "I am not so fragile as to wilt."

"No," Rosaline agrees. "You were never fragile."

The words should please her, but instead, they linger in a way that is almost uncomfortable. Leah does not know what she wants to hear—perhaps nothing at all. Her fingers tighten in her lap as she tries to keep her expression as smooth as glass.

"You were always quite particular about your own expectations," Rosaline continues, "and you were always quick to anger when they were not met."

A sharp exhale presses against Leah's ribs. "I was a child."

"Yes," A pause, "now you are not."

Something in the quiet of the room shifts. Leah watches her aunt carefully, searching for some trace of judgment, but finds none. Rosaline has never coddled her. She had taught her discipline, shaped her into something refined, and made her unyielding where once she had been wild. She had done what no one else had bothered to do, but she had never been cruel.

A footman enters, setting a fresh pot of tea on the table before retreating without a word. The scent of bergamot drifts into the air, curling at the edges of Leah's thoughts.

The fire crackles softly, filling the silence between them. Leah has no desire to speak of her childhood, nor of the girl she used to be—impulsive, unruly, filled with an anger she did not know how to temper. That girl had been sent away and she had been reshaped.

"Your fiancé," Rosaline says at last, shifting the conversation as if sensing the direction of Leah's thoughts. "You have no doubts?"

Leah does not hesitate. "No."

Rosaline studies her. "You are young yet."

"I am not uncertain."

"No?" one dark brow arches ever so slightly. "And what of him? You are certain of his affections?"

A lesser girl might blush at the implication, might turn coy or evasive, but Leah does not. "He is not demonstrative most of the time," she admits, tilting her head slightly, "but his affections are not in question."

Rosaline does not press further and merely nods as if considering something privately. "It is good that you are fond of one another. Affection is a luxury in a match such as yours."

There is something almost dry in her tone, something edged with quiet understanding. 'I wonder if Rosaline had ever been afforded such a luxury herself.'

Outside, the rain continues its slow descent, casting rivulets against the glass. The house is quiet but not empty—footsteps in distant corridors, the occasional murmur of servants going about their duties. It is a house of presence without warmth, of people who exist alongside one another rather than with one another.

Rosaline taps a single finger against the armrest of her chair, a slow and measured movement. "The opera," she muses as if weighing the word itself. "I assume you will be on display."

Leah exhales a quiet breath. "I am always on display."

The amusement is barely there, but Rosaline catches it. "You have been trained well, then."

"I was trained by you," Leah counters, and for the first time that evening, something flickers between them—almost close to mirth and understanding.

Rosaline's lips press together in a manner that is not quite a smile. "I was thorough, at least."

The fire dims slightly as the logs settle, shifting with the weight of their own slow burn.

"Do you miss it?" Leah asks, surprising even herself with the question.

Rosaline tilts her head slightly. "Miss what?"

"The house," Leah clarifies. "Your lessons. Me."

A pause. Not a long one, but enough for Leah to notice it.

"I do not make a habit of missing what is no longer mine to tend to."

It is not a cruel answer, nor is it dismissive. It is simply the truth, stated plainly without embellishment. Leah nods once, accepting it for what it is.

═╬

Gilded chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow upon the lavishly dressed attendees, their jewels glittering like stars against the deep, velvet red of the opera house. The performance is nearing its crescendo, the soprano's voice soaring, yet Leah barely breathes for fear of missing a note.

She sits poised, hands delicately folded in her lap, but there is a brightness in her eyes that betrays her usual restraint. The music sweeps through her like a tide and for a rare moment, she forgets the obligations of the evening—the mingling, the careful restraint of her temper, and the ever-watchful eyes of high society dissecting her every move. Here, in this moment, she is simply a girl enraptured by the beauty of it all.

Lucius, however, is less enthralled. He shifts beside her, adjusting his cuffs with a touch too much force, and exhales sharply through his nose. The gesture is not loud, but it is noticeable enough that Rosaline flicks her gaze toward him with a look of restrained exasperation.

It is a wonder he has endured this long—opera has never been his taste, nor has anything particularly European, if he is being honest. While he has spent years assimilating into English society, there are certain things he refuses to relinquish and his disregard for their cultural refinements is one of them.

The long, drawn-out performances, the endless bowing and scraping, the way these men speak in circles rather than getting to the damn point—it grates on him. He has always preferred the briskness of business dealings, the directness of American enterprise, and the simple fact that in his country, a man does not have to pretend to like someone to succeed.

Still, he does not make a scene. He is, after all, a man of considerable wealth, and wealth affords one the privilege of impatience. Even the most self-important lord would hesitate before criticizing a man whose influence extends beyond mere titles and into the very mechanics of trade.

Vivienne, seated with perfect posture on Lucius' other side, remains composed, her expression unreadable beneath the delicate lace of her mask. Unlike her husband, she has always embraced the demands of high society, adapting to its unspoken rules with a grace that makes her nearly indistinguishable from those born into it.

However, even she has little interest in the opera itself. Her focus is elsewhere, her eyes subtly scanning the audience, observing and assessing. She notes which women wear last season's fashions, which gentlemen linger too long in conversation with married women, and which families appear particularly eager to align themselves with the Barrett's. A small smirk touches her lips—these people, with all their airs and carefully practiced etiquette, are as predictable as ever.

Leah does not concern herself with such things tonight. She has spent enough of the season wading through tedious conversation, biting her tongue when faced with the more insufferable members of the peerage, or curbing the sharpness of her wit for the sake of propriety. In this moment, she allows herself the pleasure of indulgence. The soprano's voice rises once more and she is spellbound.

Then, Lucius shifts again, more noticeably this time. A few heads turn in irritation at the disruption. He mutters something under his breath, something about the "damn unbearable seats," and Rosaline finally levels him with a look that could silence a storm.

"If you cannot remain still for another twenty minutes, then perhaps you should excuse yourself," she murmurs, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. "Unless, of course, you wish to be remembered as the American who could not endure an evening of culture."

Lucius snorts. "Oh, forgive me. I had forgotten that enduring discomfort for the sake of appearances is what passes for refinement here."

His voice is low, but the distinct lack of effort in concealing his accent draws a few glances. It is not that his manner of speech is crude—his education and wealth ensure that he speaks properly—but there is a directness and an unapologetic sharpness that sets him apart from the men around him. The British have mastered the art of veiled insults and saying one thing and meaning another. Lucius, by contrast, sees little purpose in pretense.

Leah glances at him from the corner of her eye. She is accustomed to his impatience and irritation with the very world he insisted upon entering. For all his wealth and power, he will never truly belong here, not in the way Vivienne does or the way she has had to. But that is of little concern to him—he does not need their approval and never has.

Still, she wishes he would at least pretend to enjoy himself. His presence is a necessary one, if only for the sake of formality. Though her engagement to Ciel ensures her future is secured, there is still merit in maintaining their family's position and in proving that the Barretts are not outsiders but equals. Lucius' barely concealed disdain does little to help that cause.

A brief pause in the music allows for a shift in atmosphere, the audience stirring slightly before the next act begins. Leah takes the opportunity to compose herself, smoothing the skirts of her gown as she allows her gaze to wander. Across the theater, she catches sight of familiar faces—young women she has exchanged pleasantries with and gentlemen who have attempted to court her before realizing the futility of it.

The music resumes, sweeping through the theater with renewed vigor and she allows herself to be drawn back into its embrace. The night is not yet over and there is still much to be endured. But for now, she lets herself exist within this moment, where nothing matters beyond the music.

Below, the stage glows in the soft golden light of the chandeliers, the set a grand spectacle of painted backdrops and lavish costuming. Leah watches with quiet interest, her fan resting idly against her wrist as the lead soprano takes center stage again. The woman's voice is magnificent, filling the opera house with a resonance that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine.

Lucius leans back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded in what could be mistaken for appreciation but is, in reality, boredom. "I fail to see what is so remarkable," he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for his wife and sister-in-law to hear. "A woman wailing for near an hour and the people cheer as though it were the second coming of Christ."

Vivienne doesn't so much as glance at him, her attention fixed on the performance. "Because it is art," she says, her tone clipped. "A concept lost on some, I suppose."

Rosaline casts Lucius a sidelong look, unimpressed. "Do spare us your theatrics. You are in a theatre, after all."

Leah suppresses a smirk, hiding it behind her gloved fingers. Her father huffs but does not argue, merely shifting in his seat as if to make himself more comfortable. It is a rare thing to see him so easily dismissed. Perhaps the opera has its merits after all.

A soft knock at the door draws her attention away from the stage as an usher steps inside, bowing briefly before speaking. "My Lord, my Ladies, you have a visitor—the Duke of Aylesworth requests a private audience with Miss Barrett."

Vivienne's head turns sharply, her lips parting in mild surprise while Lucius raises a brow but merely glances at his daughter, waiting to gauge her reaction. Leah remains composed, though inwardly, she wonders at the suddenness of the request. It is not uncommon for gentlemen to seek conversation during the intervals.

Curiosity piqued, she nods once. "Very well."

The usher steps aside and moments later, Henry enters the box. His bow is executed with an ease that suggests he has done it countless times before, movements smooth and assured. "Miss Barrett, I hope I am not intruding," his voice is pleasant and richer than she remembers, though perhaps that is simply due to the quiet of the box.

"You are not," Leah replies evenly. "Though I admit, I am surprised."

Henry smiles. "Then I shall take that as encouragement rather than deterrence," his gaze flickers briefly to the rest of her family. "Lord Barrett, Lady Barrett, Lady Martin."

Lucius regards him with vague recognition, Vivienne with polite indifference. It is Rosaline who watches him the closest, eyes sharp beneath the delicate lace trim of her mask.

He does not linger under their scrutiny. "I hoped to steal a moment of Miss Barrett's time. May I?"

Lucius waves a hand lazily, as though already growing tired of the exchange. "She is her own keeper. If she wishes to entertain you, I see no reason to object."

Leah rises, smoothing out the skirts of her gown. "We will remain within view," she says, a pointed reminder that, regardless of her independence, certain proprieties must be observed.

Henry inclines his head. "Of course."

They move to the edge of the box, where a pair of seats offer a degree of privacy without complete seclusion. The sounds of the opera swell in the background, voices soaring over the soft hum of the audience.

"I admit," Henry begins, "this is the first time I have gone to such lengths to speak with someone. It is rather unlike me."

Leah tilts her head slightly. "Then I shall consider myself flattered."

He chuckles. "As you should. Though I would not wish to bore you with pleasantries—I am certain you have endured more than enough of those this season."

The remark earns him a small, genuine smile. "A perceptive observation, as always."

"Perceptive, perhaps, but not particularly remarkable," he says. "Anyone with eyes can see the season is a tedious affair. For ladies such as yourself, especially. It must be dull sifting through the same rehearsed conversations and the same declarations of admiration from men who hardly know a thing about you."

Leah regards him with interest. "And what of you, Your Grace? Have you come to add to the tedium?"

"On the contrary," he leans back slightly to emphasize his ease. "I came because I realized I know little about you beyond what society dictates I should. That is an oversight I mean to correct."

Her fingers toy with the edge of her fan, considering. "You are confident in your success."

Henry smiles. "I am determined. There is a difference."

It is difficult not to be at least somewhat amused. He is far from unpleasant company and unlike so many others, he does not seem to be approaching this conversation with the expectation of something more than civility. There is no cloying flattery, no attempt to impress her with exaggerated wit. 'It is.. refreshing.'

She studies him for a moment longer before speaking. "Very well. If you truly wish to know me beyond the season's formalities, then ask what you will."

Henry's expression brightens slightly, though he does not gloat. "A dangerous offer," he muses, "but I shall restrain myself."

The next few minutes pass in an easy rhythm, conversation drifting between topics that have little to do with the season. He speaks of travel, of places he wishes to visit, and she finds herself sharing small details in turn—nothing overly personal, but enough to make the exchange feel genuine rather than forced.

At some point, he glances toward the stage, then back at her. "What of the opera? Do you enjoy it?"

Leah exhales a quiet breath, considering her answer. "I do. The performance is exquisite."

"And yet," Henry observes, "you are here speaking with me rather than watching it."

A soft, almost imperceptible laugh escapes her. "You make an excellent point."

"Then perhaps I should count that as a victory," he says lightly, "to have held your attention even briefly."

A voice interrupts before she can respond. "Leah."

Turning, she finds Rosaline watching from a few feet away, expression unreadable. It is not a summons, but it is certainly a reminder. Time is not limitless, nor is the patience of those observing.

Henry seems to understand as well. He rises, offering a hand to help Leah stand. "I will not keep you further," he says. "But I do hope this will not be our last conversation."

She hesitates for the briefest of moments before offering a polite nod. "We shall see."

It is noncommittal, as it should be, but there is no outright dismissal.

Henry smiles. "Then I shall have to hope for the best."

Giving a bow, he steps back as she returns to her family's side. The performance continues below, voices soaring, but the air between them lingers with the remnants of conversation yet unfinished.

Soon enough, the intermission arrives and hums with the low murmur of conversation, nobles moving through the gilded corridors of the opera house like peacocks at leisure. Amidst the crowd, Lucius and Vivienne stand apart—not by decorum, but by the sheer absurdity of their ongoing argument, conducted in hushed but pointed tones.

"I hardly see why it matters," Lucius mutters, arms crossed, his expression carrying the distinct weariness of a man forced into an inconsequential debate. "If the man chooses to eat fish at such an establishment, that is his prerogative."

Vivienne's eyes narrow, her delicate gloved fingers tightening around the stem of her champagne flute. "It is vulgar, Lucius. Who in their right mind orders fish at a place renowned for its venison? It speaks to a certain.. lack of refinement."

"You detest venison."

"That is entirely beside the point."

Seated between them, Leah watches the exchange with detached amusement, accustomed to the silly subjects her parents could turn into battlefields. A flicker of something like recognition passes through her. She and Daniel had inherited this very trait—the ability to make the pettiest of grievances a subject of heated debate. At least they knew when to stop before it spiraled into true animosity.

Lucius sighs, exasperated. "You act as though the man has committed a crime against the Crown."

"I am simply stating that it reveals something about his character," Vivienne retorts. "One's choices in dining are a reflection of one's upbringing."

Leah, against her better judgment, lets out a quiet laugh. "If that were true, I'd imagine my upbringing to be a great point of concern."

Both parents turn to her at once, expressions shifting from irritation to scrutiny.

"And why is that?" Vivienne asks, voice slow, measured.

"Because I have been known to order whatever I please, regardless of what is expected," Leah lifts her glass to her lips, feigning nonchalance. "A terrible flaw, no doubt."

Lucius gives her a flat look. "That is hardly the same."

"No?" Leah tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Then what does it say about me?"

Vivienne does not answer. Not because she lacks one, but because there is no response that does not lead into treacherous waters.

Rosaline, who has been listening in silence, finally decides to intervene. "Do stop this ridiculous quarrel," she says, not unkindly but with the air of someone who has tolerated quite enough of their antics for one evening. "We are in public."

Vivienne exhales sharply, looking away. Lucius, still visibly irritated, takes a sip of his brandy and mutters something under his breath that Leah cannot quite catch.

For a brief moment, peace settles over them. Then, just as Leah is beginning to enjoy the quiet, a voice—syrupy and edged with barely concealed disdain—cuts through the lull.

"My, Miss Barrett," coos a woman to Leah's left. "What an enviable position you find yourself in this season."

Leah turns, already schooling her expression into one of polite disinterest. The speaker is Lady Adeline Warrington, a woman whose fondness for inserting herself where she is least wanted is only rivaled by her talent for veiled insults. Older, but not yet past her prime, with a sharp gaze that lingers too long on Leah's gown, her jewels, and the curve of her mouth as if searching for some imperfection to latch onto. 'Oh dear God, please.. I don't know how much more I can take speaking about the same topic every day.'

Composing herself, Leah inclines her head. "Lady Warrington."

"A diamond, an engagement to the Earl of Phantomhive, and the admiration of all—one might say you have won the season," the words are pleasant, but the smile that accompanies them is anything but.

Leah is accustomed to such women. Women who speak in sugared tones but wield their words like daggers, waiting for a misstep or a crack in the porcelain. She has spent years perfecting the art of remaining unshaken.

"A most fortunate position," she agrees mildly. "Though I should think the season is not a competition to be won."

"Oh, but it is, dear," Lady Warrington says, tilting her head as though to assess her more closely, "and you have set quite the standard. Though I do wonder, does it not feel terribly dull to have your fate already decided? To enter a season not as a hopeful debutante, but as one merely fulfilling an obligation?"

There it is. The barb is subtle but deliberate. A challenge.

Leah does not rise to it. She merely allows the corners of her lips to curve in the faintest hint of amusement. "I would hardly call securing one's future dull," she replies, tone airy. "In fact, I find the certainty rather comforting."

Lady Warrington's expression flickers, just briefly, but it is enough.

Vivienne, who has thus far remained silent, finally interjects. "It is quite the spectacle, is it not?" she muses, swirling the champagne in her glass. "A season where some are fortunate enough to enter with their futures secured, while others must fight tooth and nail for even the slightest consideration."

Lady Warrington stiffens ever so slightly. She has daughters, after all. Daughters who, despite their breeding and their tireless efforts, have failed to make advantageous matches in previous seasons.

Lucius chuckles under his breath, taking clear enjoyment in his wife's words. "It is a rather fascinating thing to witness," he remarks. "The desperation and maneuvering," he sips his brandy. "Quite like a game of chess."

Rosaline offers a deceptively pleasant smile. "One should be careful with such games, though. One wrong move and it all comes crumbling down."

Lady Warrington presses her lips together, the first true sign of irritation showing through. Leah watches, sipping her champagne, feeling the small and quiet satisfaction of victory.

The woman recovers quickly. "Well," she says after a moment, "I do hope you enjoy the remainder of the evening, Lady Barrett. I look forward to seeing how the season continues to unfold."

With that, she sweeps away, the scent of jasmine trailing behind her.

Leah exhales, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Insufferable."

Lucius huffs a laugh. "You shall meet many more like her before the season's end."

Vivienne simply lifts her glass to her lips. "And you shall learn to tolerate them."

Watching Lady Warrington disappear into the crowd, Leah smiles against the rim of her glass.

"I sincerely doubt that."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #multiple ocs #ocs #i love my ocs #long fic #long reads #bridgerton inspired #locked tf in #slowly losing my mind #slow burn

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edenityy · 5 months ago

Text

( chapter thirty-five ! )

"This shade of blue does not suit me in the slightest."

It is a peaceful morning in London, full of people merrily walking down the streets and going about leisurely activities. Inside a dressmaker shop, Leah and Vivienne try on various gowns in search of new tastes for upcoming events with Anna in tow.

Leah's tone is clipped as she inspects her reflection, gaze dragging over the sea of fabric draped across her form. The silk is a soft, powdery hue, delicate as morning mist, but the moment it touches her skin, it washes her out completely. Even the fine embroidery along the hem and bodice does nothing to improve the matter. She resists the urge to sigh. 'Why must dressmakers insist on such insipid colors?'

Madame Fournier, the esteemed modiste responsible for half the gowns seen in the ton, clucks her tongue as she steps forward, hands clasped before her in quiet disapproval. "Mademoiselle Barrett, the shade is most fashionable this season."

"Then it is a pity that fashion and my complexion are at such odds," Leah replies dryly, tilting her head. "I believe we shall have to find another solution."

Seated nearby with a cup of tea in hand, Vivienne makes a noncommittal noise. "Try the lilac next. You ought to have at least one gown in a softer shade, Leah. It would do you well not to appear so severe at every gathering."

Leah offers her mother a practiced, sweet smile—one she has perfected over years of feigning amiability. "Of course, Mama," she says lightly, though she does not intend to entertain any shade that makes her look even more like a corpse.

Standing a respectful distance away, Anna watches on with her usual mildness. She has been attending Leah since childhood, and by now, she knows well enough when her mistress is merely humoring others.

As the attendants begin unfastening the blue gown, the quiet murmur of conversation drifts from the other side of the room. Leah pays little attention at first, more concerned with ensuring the next gown is something remotely flattering, but then a familiar name catches her ear.

"Lady Eleanor has been utterly inconsolable, or so I have heard."

"Her mother must be beside herself. To think, after all her careful arrangements, the engagement would be broken so cruelly."

"Men can be so fickle. The Earl of Wexley was singing her praises only a fortnight ago. And now? Engaged to Miss Beatrice Hargreaves instead. Imagine!"

Interest piqued, Leah allows her gaze to flicker toward the source of the conversation. Two young ladies, both clad in finery that suggests they come from respectable families, are seated near a display of lace gloves. They lean in toward one another, voices hushed, but not nearly hushed enough to prevent eavesdropping.

"Lady Eleanor is ruined," one of them whispers, shaking her head. "Everyone knows a broken engagement reflects poorly on the lady, not the gentleman. And Wexley did not even have the decency to wait a respectable amount of time before announcing his new betrothal. It is as if she has been discarded entirely."

Leah feigns disinterest, allowing her attendants to pull the blue silk from her shoulders and replace it with the next gown, but her mind lingers on the gossip. Lady Eleanor Mayfair—sweet, soft-spoken, wholly unremarkable beyond the fact that her parents had secured her a match with a wealthy earl. Or they had, at least. What a disaster for her. A humiliation.

"I suppose it is fortunate Miss Barrett does not have such worries," the second girl says, and Leah stills. "A match with the Earl of Phantomhive of all people. And at such a young age! One would think his attentions would have gone elsewhere by now."

Her fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of her skirts.

"Oh, you know how it is," the first one says with a little laugh. "A man like that could change his mind at any moment, he has done it before. Not every engagement ends in marriage."

Leah exhales through her nose, composing herself before she says something sharp enough to cause a scene. She knows how this game is played. If she reacts poorly, it will only lend credence to their words.

Instead, she allows the modiste's assistants to finish fastening the lilac gown, then turns slightly toward the mirror, pretending to assess the fit. Their words are meaningless. Ciel is not Wexley and she is certainly not Lady Eleanor.

Vivienne, however, has clearly caught wind of the conversation as well. She does not look up from her tea, but there is the barest flicker of amusement in her eyes as she finally speaks. "Leah, dear, do stand properly. Slouching makes you look uncertain."

Leah's expression does not waver as she straightens. "Of course, Mama."

The two gossiping women are watching now. Clearly, they had not expected to be overheard. Leah meets their eyes through the mirror, gaze cool and entirely unimpressed as she lets a slow, knowing smile curve her lips as they look away first.

Anna, ever quiet, steps forward to adjust a sleeve. "The fit is good," she says simply. "Shall I fetch the rose-colored silk next?"

Leah hums in thought before nodding. "Yes, I believe you shall."

The conversation behind them fades into something else, something about a baron's daughter and an ill-advised rendezvous, but Leah has heard enough and she will certainly not forget it. Her mind almost drifts to another place until the sharp sound of a bell chiming above the shop's entrance draws Leah's attention. A flurry of pastel silk and golden curls sweeps through the threshold, accompanied by the unmistakable trill of Elizabeth Midford's voice. Just a few steps behind her, Francis quietly follows.

"Oh, Madame Fournier, I must see the new silks you promised! You know how desperately I need something perfect for the opening ball."

There is no need to turn and confirm the identity of the newcomer. Elizabeth's voice carries through the shop with an ease that suggests she has never once considered whether or not she might be speaking too loudly.

"Ah, Lady Midford," the modiste greets her with the exaggerated warmth she reserves for her wealthiest clientele. "You are in luck. We have just received a new shipment from France."

"I knew it! Oh, I simply cannot wait to see them," a pause, then a gasp. "Leah!"

Elizabeth's excitement is tangible as she crosses the shop with a determined purpose, her skirts swishing in an exuberant rustle of lace. "What a delight to find you here! And trying on gowns, no less. How wonderful!"

Leah barely has time to brace herself before Elizabeth takes both of her hands in an enthusiastic clasp. The force of her arrival is like a gust of spring wind, sweet-scented and entirely uncontainable.

"I must know, how goes your season thus far?" Elizabeth asks, her green eyes alight with curiosity. "You are already the envy of half the debutantes. I have heard no fewer than three ladies lament that you have stolen away every eligible suitor before the season has even begun!"

A delicate brow lifts in practiced amusement. "That is quite the accusation," Leah muses, allowing a hint of a smile to grace her lips. "I was not aware I had done anything of the sort."

Elizabeth laughs, light and airy. "Oh, do not play coy. Everyone knows that you are already spoken for, but that has not stopped men from fawning over you. Why, just yesterday, Lord Parker was singing your praises at tea! And Baron Redford—well, I ought not to repeat what he said, but rest assured, he is most smitten."

A flicker of irritation threatens to creep in at the mention of more unwanted admirers, but Leah tamps it down with well-practiced ease. It is to be expected, she supposes. High society loves its spectacles and a young woman with fortune, beauty, and a secured engagement is precisely the sort of thing they like to gossip over.

Vivienne, who has been observing with a detached sort of amusement, takes a slow sip of her tea. "It seems my daughter is quite the sensation this season," she muses, though there is a note of mild satisfaction in her tone.

Elizabeth beams. "Oh, but of course! Leah has always been most admired."

"How fortunate for me," Leah remarks dryly, earning a knowing look from Anna, who has just returned with a rose-colored gown in hand.

The sight of the new fabric shifts Elizabeth's attention in an instant. "Oh! That color would suit you beautifully," she declares. "You must have a gown made of it. Ciel will be beside himself when he sees you in such a shade."

Both girls smile at the mention of the boy, but Leah’s is far less noticeable. "It is rather fetching," she concedes, tracing a gloved hand over the fabric's soft folds. "I will have to see how it looks once it is fitted properly."

Elizabeth nods enthusiastically. "It is certain to be divine. Everything suits you, Leah."

The flattery is effortless, if slightly excessive. Leah humors it with a graceful incline of her head, though she is saved from responding when Madame Fournier returns with a selection of delicate lace gloves.

"I believe these would be most fitting, Lady Midford," the modiste says, presenting them with a flourish.

Elizabeth turns her attention to the offerings with the same bright excitement she bestows upon all matters of fashion. As she sorts through them, she continues her lively chatter, shifting topics with little warning.

"Oh, but I must tell you, Leah—you simply must attend Lady Norwood's luncheon this week. Everyone will be there and you know how dull these things are without someone to suffer through them with me."

A low hum of consideration escapes Leah as she steps aside to allow Anna to assist her with the next gown. "I will consider it."

Elizabeth pouts. "You always say that."

"I do often attend, do I not?"

"Yes, but only because I insist!"

The exaggerated exasperation earns a small laugh from Leah, who shakes her head. "You are insistent, that much is true."

Elizabeth brightens at the laugh, clearly pleased by the response. "Well, someone must ensure you do not spend the entire season suffering through tedious events with no enjoyment."

Leah arches a brow. "And you consider yourself my source of enjoyment?"

"Naturally!" Elizabeth grins. "Who else would dare tease you so boldly?"

"Indeed," Leah murmurs, allowing just the faintest hint of a smirk.

The conversation continues, light and effortless, as Elizabeth chatters about upcoming events, recent scandals, and the latest trends sweeping through high society. Leah listens with practiced patience, responding when necessary, and humoring where appropriate. It is not unpleasant, Elizabeth is not without charm, but it is exhausting in its own way.

Still, there are worse fates than enduring Elizabeth Midford's good-natured ramblings in a dressmaker's shop. Besides, there are far more pressing matters on the horizon.

The fitting continues with little change in the energy of the room. Elizabeth, still caught up in her delight over Leah's apparent triumph over the season, has since turned her attention to the latest fabrics brought in from France. She handles them with great care, chattering all the while, her voice light and full of easy amusement.

Madame Fournier busies herself with pinning the final adjustments to Leah's gown, her hands deft and precise. "This silhouette is most becoming on you, Lady Barrett," she remarks, stepping back to assess her work. "The fit is near perfect. Only the waist needs the slightest refinement."

A satisfied nod is all the response Leah offers, she has long since grown accustomed to the dressmaker's expertise and trusts her judgment more than most. The gown, though unfinished, already sits beautifully against her frame, the fabric catching the candlelight in soft, luminous waves.

Across the room, Elizabeth holds up a delicate swatch of embroidered silk, pressing it against her sleeve as she considers. "Do you think this shade is too pale for me?" she asks, tilting her head in thought. "I do adore soft colors, but I fear it may make me look rather wan in the wrong light."

A thoughtful hum comes from Leah as she casts a glance toward her. "You suit brighter hues best," she answers simply. "Pastels wash you out."

Elizabeth sighs, dramatically setting the fabric aside. "You are right, of course. You always are."

"Not always. Hardly always," Leah corrects, though amusement flickers in her expression.

The shop has grown quieter as the other patrons have taken their leave, leaving only the seamstresses working in the background and the occasional sound of rustling skirts. Even Vivienne seems to have exhausted her interest in the proceedings, now idly flicking through the latest French fashion plates, pausing only to murmur an occasional comment.

Anna, ever patient, watches the final adjustments being made with quiet attentiveness. "Shall I have the carriage prepared soon?" she asks. "It is growing late."

The reminder is a welcome one. The fitting has stretched on longer than Leah anticipated and while she has no particular complaints, she has little desire to linger much longer. A final glance in the mirror confirms that the gown is, as expected, exquisite, but her interest in it has already begun to wane.

Elizabeth, however, is still not quite ready to part ways. "Oh, before you leave—will you be attending Lady Cook's masquerade next week?" she asks, her expression bright with anticipation. "I know it is certain to be the event of the season and I should be most put out if you were not there."

There is no doubt that the masquerade will be grand. Lady Cook is known for her extravagant taste, and the entire ton has been abuzz with speculation over what marvels will be on display that evening. Leah considers the question for only a moment before offering a nod. "I will be there."

Elizabeth claps her hands together in delight. "Splendid! Oh, we must coordinate our ensembles. Imagine the stir we would cause!"

The thought of making an even greater spectacle of herself is hardly appealing, but Leah merely humors her with a small smile. "We shall see."

Madame Fournier steps back, signaling that the final pins are in place and the gown may now be carefully removed. Anna moves to assist, her hands practiced and efficient, and within moments Leah is freed from the elaborate layers of fabric. A sense of relief settles over her as she steps away from the fitting platform, rolling her shoulders subtly to ease the tension that comes with standing still for so long.

Vivienne closes her fashion plates with a quiet snap, signaling that she too is prepared to take her leave. "Come along, Leah," she says, rising gracefully. "We have taken up enough of Madame Fournier's time."

Elizabeth, sensing that their departure is imminent, offers one last squeeze of Leah's hand. "Do not forget about Lady Norwood's luncheon," she reminds her, eyes gleaming. "I shall expect you there."

A noncommittal hum is the only answer Leah gives, but it seems to satisfy her well enough. The final arrangements are made, the necessary payments discussed, and soon enough, Leah steps out of the shop and into the crisp afternoon air. The cool breeze is a welcome contrast to the warmth inside and she exhales slowly, allowing herself a brief moment of respite.

The social season hasn't even gone on for a month, yet already it has begun to feel like an endless parade of gowns, suitors, and carefully measured words. The attention, the scrutiny, the expectation—it is nothing she has not anticipated, yet that does little to make it any less exhausting.

Still, she reminds herself, there is an end to it. With any luck, it will come sooner rather than later.

═╬

The Barrett townhouse is lively with the hum of polite conversation and the clinking of fine china. Afternoon tea is in full swing, the drawing room bathed in golden light from the high windows, illuminating the delicate pastries and sugared fruits arranged with precision upon the table. The scent of fresh flowers mingles with the aroma of steeping tea and despite the refined atmosphere, the air carries an undercurrent of hushed speculation and well-veiled scrutiny.

Sitting near the center of the gathering, Leah's back is straight and her hand delicately rests upon her lap, maintaining an air of effortless composure. At her side, Henrietta Sánchez leans in slightly, her smaller frame half-shadowed by the drape of Leah's skirts. Though their postures suggest nothing but decorum, the occasional twitch of their lips and the faintest shake of their shoulders, betrays their amusement. It is only when a particularly absurd remark from across the room reaches their ears that their restraint collapses entirely.

Henrietta stifles a laugh against the rim of her teacup, while Leah, not quite as successful, presses a gloved hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling. The source of their mirth? An overzealous matron loudly proclaiming that a lady's worth is measured solely by the elegance of her embroidery continues her speech, oblivious to the quiet mockery occurring just a few seats away.

"I cannot bear it," Henrietta murmurs under her breath, voice thick with laughter. "If I must endure another moment of this senseless prattle, I shall surely expire."

Leah exhales, lowering her hand. "Do hold on a while longer. Your untimely demise would be most inconvenient for me."

A snicker escapes Henrietta as she sets down her cup, composing herself just enough to adopt a look of faux solemnity. "You are right, of course. I must persevere, if only for your sake."

The two dissolve into quiet laughter once more and for a moment, the absurdity of the social season, the expectations, and the ever-present scrutiny fades into the background. Leah allows herself to bask in it—the rare ease of companionship unburdened by pretense.

Sadly, indulgence can only last so long. Across the room, her mother's gaze flickers toward her, subtle but unmistakable. The delicate porcelain of Vivienne's cup barely moves as she takes a sip, but Leah understands the silent summons well enough. With a measured inhale, she tamps down the lingering amusement in her expression and shifts her focus.

The conversation around them flows seamlessly, topics shifting from fashion to the latest suitors vying for attention. It is inevitable, then, that Henry Moore's name surfaces.

"He is quite promising," one lady remarks, fanning herself lightly. "A well-mannered gentleman, and a rather fine dancer."

"Handsome as well," another chimes in. "Though I wonder if his estate is as grand as they say."

Vivienne, ever the picture of composed interest, tilts her head slightly. "One cannot base a match on such shallow considerations alone," she muses. "Character, ambition, and, of course, the ability to provide—these are what truly matter."

It is a pointed remark, one that subtly steers the discussion toward Leah without naming her outright. The implication is clear.

Leah meets her mother's gaze evenly, offering a carefully neutral expression. "I have not given Mr. Moore much thought."

A slight furrow mars Vivienne's brow. "Oh? I would have assumed he made an impression."

"He did not," the words are simple, unembellished, and entirely indifferent. Leah does not care for Henry Moore, nor does she see any reason to feign otherwise. Ciel is her betrothed. This season, despite its intricacies and its expectations, holds little real weight for her future.

Vivienne's lips press into a thin line, though she does not push further, not yet. Instead, she shifts her attention back to the broader conversation, nodding along to some remark about eligible bachelors. Leah lets her focus drift, knowing well enough that this matter is not yet settled. Her mother will circle back to it in time.

Turning her attention back to Henrietta, she finds the girl watching her with barely concealed amusement. "Do you suppose," Henrietta muses, voice just above a whisper, "that if I were to spill tea upon my dress, I might be permitted to leave?"

Leah huffs, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. "If only it were so simple."

Henrietta sighs, tracing a finger along the edge of her saucer. "Alas. Then I suppose we must endure."

Endure they do, though not without finding moments of levity. Beneath the veil of propriety, between the measured responses and careful nods, they exchange sharp glances and biting observations, their mirth a quiet rebellion against the monotony of it all.

It is only when the conversation takes yet another tedious turn—this time toward the subject of lace patterns—that Leah exhales, setting her cup down with deliberate grace. "Shall we take a turn about the garden?"

Henrietta's eyes brighten with gratitude. "An excellent idea."

They rise together, their departure unobtrusive enough to be excused without question. As they step onto the terrace, the crisp air offers a welcome reprieve from the stifling warmth of the drawing room. The garden stretches before them, a carefully curated display of blooming roses and neatly trimmed hedges, sunlight casting long shadows upon the stone pathways.

Henrietta stretches her arms overhead with a quiet groan. "I do not know how you tolerate it."

A wry smile plays at Leah's lips. "I have long since mastered the art of feigned patience."

"Well, I have not." Henrietta shoots her a sidelong glance, smirking. "It is a miracle I have not yet been cast from polite society."

Leah scoffs lightly. "I am certain you could charm your way back in with little effort."

A pleased hum leaves Henrietta's lips. "I shall keep that in mind."

They walk in companionable silence for a moment, the rustling leaves and distant chatter from the house providing a gentle backdrop. Despite the day's demands, despite the expectations that loom over every interaction, here, in the open air, there is ease.

Henrietta tucks her hands behind her back, gaze flicking toward Leah. "You truly feel nothing for Moore, then?"

The question lacks the weight of scrutiny; it is mere curiosity, a friend's idle inquiry.

Leah does not hesitate. "Nothing at all."

Henrietta nods, satisfied. "Good. He is rather dull."

A quiet laugh escapes her before Leah shakes her head, gaze flicking toward the horizon. "Even if he were not, it would make no difference."

"No, I suppose not," Henrietta concedes, watching her closely. "You and Phantomhive—"

Leah cuts her a sharp glance, but there is no mockery in Henrietta's expression. Only knowing amusement, a glint of something that suggests she understands far more than Leah would ever admit aloud.

She scoffs lightly, looking away. "Say nothing."

Henrietta grins, tucking her arm through Leah's as they continue their leisurely pace. "Very well. I shall spare you."

It is a small mercy. But Leah knows it will not last forever. Sunlight filters through the latticework of tree branches overhead, dappling the stone pathway with shifting patches of gold. The afternoon breeze carries the scent of roses and damp earth, the air cool despite the lingering warmth of the season. Leah continues to stroll at an unhurried pace, her skirts rustling softly against the gravel as she moves. Beside her, Henrietta glances back toward the tea pavilion with a smirk that suggests she also feels no remorse for abandoning the insipid chatter of the other ladies.

"It was nearly unbearable," Henrietta sighs, plucking a low-hanging blossom from a nearby hedge as she changes the topic. "I do not know how they find so much to say about lace trim and embroidery techniques. Would they not rather discuss something of substance?"

Leah snorts. "They have little else to occupy their minds. You know as well as I that most of them have spent their entire lives preparing for this season alone. What should they do if not prattle on about silks and ribbons?"

"They could at least pretend to possess thoughts beyond their own gowns," Henrietta mutters, twirling the stem of the flower between her fingers.

A group of doves takes flight from the grass ahead, their wings beating against the stillness. The two girls watch them for a moment before continuing along the garden's winding paths. It is a rare bit of peace, removed from the carefully managed performance of the social season. Here, at least, Leah can breathe without minding every word that leaves her lips.

Henrietta slows her pace, eyeing the nearby pond with a thoughtful expression. The surface glimmers beneath the afternoon sun, reflecting the sky in perfect clarity. A handful of koi drift lazily beneath the water, their bright scales flashing as they turn.

"You know," Henrietta says, tapping her chin with exaggerated contemplation, "I have always wondered whether it is possible to make those ridiculous little ducks scatter in every direction at once."

Leah follows her gaze to a cluster of waterfowl preening at the pond's edge. The birds are entirely undisturbed by their presence, nestled among reeds and lily pads without a care in the world. It is a tranquil scene—one that should remain undisturbed. But then, what is the point of escaping tedious conversation if not to indulge in a little amusement?

"You would simply have to startle them from the center, I imagine," Leah muses, tapping a gloved finger against her lips. "They would have nowhere to go but outward. Though I suspect you mean to conduct an experiment rather than accept mere theory."

Henrietta grins. "Naturally."

A glance around the garden confirms that no one is within immediate view. A few distant figures linger along the far path, but none seem inclined to approach. It is enough to embolden them both.

Henrietta gathers the folds of her gown and steps lightly onto the low stones lining the pond's edge. Leah watches with growing amusement as her friend inches closer to the water, her slippers perilously close to slipping from the uneven rock.

"Henrietta," she drawls, arms folded across her corseted bodice. "If you fall in, I shall not assist you. You will simply have to wade out on your own, dripping and miserable."

Henrietta huffs. "Have a little faith in my grace, will you?"

Before Leah can offer a retort, Henrietta raises her hands and claps twice, a sharp and sudden sound echoing across the pond's surface. The ducks react at once, honking in alarm as they take flight in a chaotic flurry of wings and splashing water. A startled koi leaps clear from the pond before vanishing beneath the ripples. The commotion is magnificent, precisely the absurd spectacle Henrietta had envisioned.

Leah laughs, a rare and uninhibited sound. It is cut short when Henrietta, caught up in her triumph, shifts her weight just a fraction too far forward. Her foot slips against the damp stone and with a shriek, she tumbles unceremoniously into the water.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence. The garden, so briefly disturbed, falls back into stillness. Henrietta surfaces with a gasp, her dark hair plastered to her forehead and her gown billowing around her in the murky water.

Leah blinks, then doubles over with laughter. "Oh, how marvelous," she manages between gasps. "You wished to scatter the ducks and instead joined them."

"You are horrid," Henrietta sputters, wiping water from her face. "Help me out, you wretch."

Leah steps closer, peering down at the spectacle with obvious delight. "And risk being pulled in myself? I think not."

A dark look flashes across Henrietta's face—one Leah knows all too well. Too late, she realizes her mistake. Henrietta lunges, grabbing hold of her wrist with both hands and yanking downward. Leah barely has time to gasp before she plunges into the pond.

The water is colder than expected, the weight of her skirts dragging her down before she kicks frantically to the surface. It almost brings back memories of the Campania. She emerges spluttering, curls plastered to her face, utterly and completely drenched. Henrietta, floating beside her, looks far too pleased with herself.

Leah wipes water from her eyes and glares. "You are a menace."

"You deserved it," Henrietta counters, unrepentant.

They stare at each other for a moment before both dissolve into laughter, the absurdity of the situation impossible to ignore. Leah cannot remember the last time she felt so unreservedly childish. It is a welcome, fleeting escape from the expectations that weigh so heavily upon her.

Eventually, Henrietta paddles toward the shallows, gripping a stone ledge to pull herself upright. Leah follows, though the effort of wading through her sodden gown is nothing short of miserable. The moment she reaches solid ground, she wrings out her skirts with a grimace.

"We are ruined," she declares. "Absolutely ruined."

Henrietta flicks water at her. "Speak for yourself. I think I look rather fetching."

"You look like a drowned cat."

"And you resemble something dredged from the Thames."

The sound of distant voices drifting through the garden reminds them both of the reality they now face. Someone is bound to stumble upon them eventually.

Leah sighs, glancing toward the estate with resignation. "We had best make our retreat before we are caught. I refuse to explain why we appear as though we have been fished from a well."

Henrietta groans, rising to her feet with a wet squelch. "Do you think anyone will notice if we flee through the servant's entrance?"

"It is our only hope."

Side by side, they hurry toward the less-frequented paths, laughter still bubbling between them. Despite the discomfort of their drenched clothes and the knowledge that they will soon face the consequences of their antics, neither regrets a single moment.

═╬

Evening washes over London's piece of the world, prompting any sane person to begin winding down for the way. The Barrett family is no stranger to this. Maybe even elated to sleep after a long afternoon of tea and conversation.

Bathwater sways gently as Leah leans back, her head resting against the porcelain rim. The room is warm, the air thick with the scent of lavender and rose oil, steam curling lazily around the candlelit space. The soft glow flickers against the pale blue walls, casting shifting shadows across the gilded mirror above the vanity. The day has been long—filled with tedious conversation, forced pleasantries, and the ever-present weight of expectation—but now, she has a moment of peace.

Anna kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, carefully pouring a fresh pitcher of warm water over Leah's bare shoulder. It spills down her back in a steady stream, washing away the remnants of perfumed soap. She works methodically as she always does, her hands steady and sure, though there is something different in her manner tonight. A slight furrow in her brow. A hesitation in her movements. Leah notices, but for a time, she does not comment.

"Your hair is getting long again," Anna murmurs, running a careful hand through the damp strands, fingers detangling with practiced ease. "Shall I trim it soon?"

Leah hums in thought, eyes half-lidded. "Perhaps. Not too much, Ciel prefers it long," there is a small pause. "Though, I think I prefer it shorter. Mama would have my head if I dared to cut it at a time like this. The last time I did, her heart nearly stopped"

A faint smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she says his name. The warmth of the water is pleasant, but the warmth she feels at the thought of him is something else entirely. She does not need to go through the motions of the season as other girls do, searching for a match and feigning delight at empty compliments. Her future is secured with someone she actually wants. It is a privilege few in her position can claim.

Anna's hands still for the briefest moment before she reaches for a comb. "As you wish," she says, voice even, though something lingers beneath it.

Silence stretches between them, comfortable but not quite settled. The quiet allows Leah to hear the faint sounds beyond the bathroom walls—the muffled voices of servants finishing their nightly duties, the distant clatter of the last dishes being put away, and the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the hall. The townhouse is winding down for the evening, much like its occupants.

The comb glides through her hair with ease, each stroke gentle and deliberate. Anna has been doing this for years, long enough to know the precise pressure that soothes rather than pulls, the exact rhythm that lulls Leah into an almost meditative state. But, tonight there is an absent-mindedness in her touch, a subtle distraction that does not go unnoticed.

"You're quiet," Leah remarks after a moment, tilting her head just slightly to glance at Anna from the corner of her eye. "More than usual."

The maid exhales softly, as if she had not realized she was being observed. "I was only thinking."

"About?"

There is a pause, not long, but telling. Then, a measured response. "My future, I suppose."

Leah blinks, surprised by the admission. Anna rarely speaks of herself beyond what is necessary. She is steady, dependable, and often dull in the way that long-serving maids tend to be—always present yet never obtrusive. It is rare for her to express much of anything personal, much less something as uncertain as her own future.

Intrigued, Leah shifts in the tub, causing ripples to disturb the still surface. "And what of it?" she presses, propping an elbow on the rim and resting her chin against her palm. "Are you planning to leave me?"

It is meant as a jest, but there is an undeniable thread of curiosity woven into the words.

Anna shakes her head, though she does not quite meet Leah's gaze. "No, of course not. But I am nearly twenty-five. My mother writes often, reminding me that most girls my age are already wed." A pause, then a quieter confession: "She expects me to return home before long to find a husband."

The notion is almost absurd. Anna, married? Leah has never considered it before, though perhaps she should have. She has known the woman since childhood, has spent more time in her company than nearly anyone else, and yet, she has never once wondered what Anna's life beyond this house might look like.

"Do you wish to marry?" she asks, genuine curiosity threading her voice.

A thoughtful silence follows. Anna continues combing through Leah's hair, eyes fixed on the strands as if considering her response with great care. "I am not certain," she admits at last. "I have never had the time to think on it, but I do know that I would rather choose for myself than have it chosen for me."

Leah huffs a quiet laugh. "Then you are already better off than most. Choice is a luxury," she shifts again, resting her arms on the rim of the tub. "And if you did marry, would you leave service entirely? Or would you simply return home with a husband in tow?"

Anna hesitates, then shakes her head. "I do not know," she says again, though this time, there is something wistful in it. "But I do know that I should like to decide before my mother decides for me."

Leah watches her for a moment, the candlelight flickering over her face, casting shadows beneath her eyes. It is rare for Anna to speak so openly, rarer still for her to express a desire beyond the duties of her station. The realization is strangely sobering. Leah has always assumed that Anna would simply remain, as constant as the walls of this house, as unchanging as the seasons. The idea that she too might one day leave unsettles something deep within her.

"Well," Leah says at length, letting her head tilt back against the porcelain once more, eyes slipping shut. "If you do marry, I expect you to choose a man who will allow you to stay in my service. I refuse to train another maid to comb my hair as well as you do."

It is spoken lightly, teasing, but there is an undeniable truth beneath it. Change is inevitable, but that does not mean she has to like it.

Anna lets out a small, breathy laugh, the tension in her posture easing just slightly. "I shall be sure to keep that in mind, Mistress."

A comfortable silence settles between them once more, the quiet sounds of water lapping against porcelain, of the comb running through wet strands, filling the space. Leah exhales, content for now, allowing herself to sink into the warmth of the bath.

After a moment, Anna speaks again, softer this time, almost hesitant. "Do you ever miss America?"

The question is unexpected. Leah opens her eyes, blinking against the candlelight, considering.

"Sometimes," she admits, voice thoughtful. "Not in the way my father does. I do not recall enough of it prior to our move to long for it as he does, but—" she trails off, searching for the right words. "From my visits, I remember that it was.. easier. Less suffocating. Less rules to follow, less expectations to uphold. I could climb trees without being scolded. I could speak my mind without it being a scandal. There is something to be missed in that."

Anna nods as if she understands. Perhaps she does.

Another moment passes, then Leah sighs, stretching lazily before sinking further into the bath. "But," she adds, a smirk playing at her lips, "England has far better dresses. And I do so love my dresses."

Anna snorts, shaking her head as she wrings out a damp cloth. "I should have known that would be your conclusion."

Leah grins, eyes slipping shut once more.

"I am nothing if not consistent."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #slowly losing my mind #long fic #long reads #slow burn #bridgerton inspired #i love him #i love them #i love my ocs

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edenityy · 5 months ago

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( chapter thirty-four ! )

"I should think they would have the sense to direct their attentions elsewhere."

The drawing room of the Barret townhouse is more lively than it has ever been, filled to the brim with men who carry various gifts and dull personalities. Leah's fingers trail along the rim of her teacup as another footman announces the arrival of yet another gentleman and she does not bother looking up. The whole exercise is rather ridiculous, a parade of hopeful men vying for a hand she has already promised to another.

Vivienne, seated beside her, does not share the sentiment. "Nonsense, Leah. This is as much about appearances as it is about courtship. It would reflect rather poorly on you if no one called at all, betrothed or not," she smiles as she says it, but there is always that sharp edge to her words. The underlying suggestion that Leah should be grateful for the attention she receives.

Across the room, Gwendolyn appears to be enjoying herself immensely. The moment a new gentleman bows in greeting, she fixes him with a look that is just a little too keen, just sharp enough to unsettle. "And what, sir, compels you to waste your morning on a lady already spoken for?" she inquires, eyes glittering with amusement.

The poor man, a rather unremarkable fellow with a receding hairline and an unfortunate waistcoat, stammers through some nonsense about courtesy and admiration. Leah nearly pities him. Nearly is a rather strong word.

Florence, ever the mediator, clears her throat delicately. "Gwendolyn, dear, let us not scare them away before they have even had the chance to sit."

There are several men in attendance, some appearing more earnest than others. A few hover near the edges of the room, uncertain of how to engage, while others do their best to charm despite the obvious futility of their efforts. Leah offers the appropriate smiles and murmured pleasantries, but she is not inclined to encourage them. She even nods at all the right moments as Vivienne boasts of her accomplishments.

"My daughter speaks French, Chinese, German, and Latin with enviable fluency. Her tutors have always remarked upon her intellect."

That, at least, is true. Leah has always excelled in her studies, but she knows well enough that her intelligence is not what will secure her place in society. Beauty, elegance, the Barrett name—all of those things work in her favor. Whether she can quote Horace in Latin is of little consequence.

One of the suitors, a particularly overeager young man with a mop of curls and an unfortunate habit of wringing his hands, leans forward with evident enthusiasm. "It must be a remarkable thing to possess such a mind. Miss Barrett, do tell me, what are your thoughts on the recent lectures at Oxford concerning Greek philosophy?"

Leah meets his gaze, expression unreadable. She could answer in detail, could dissect every argument and counterargument, but what would be the point? Instead, she offers a demure smile. "I am afraid my opinions on the matter would be of little interest to you, sir."

Lounging against the armrest of a nearby settee, Gwendolyn lets out a barely suppressed laugh. "Oh, come now, Leah. Surely you must indulge the poor man."

Vivienne shoots her niece a warning look, but the damage is already done. The gentleman, clearly flustered, glances between them before offering a sheepish chuckle. "Of course. Forgive me. I only meant to express my admiration."

It is all so dreadfully tedious. Leah wishes, not for the first time, that she could simply fast-forward through this entire affair. She knows her duty. She will attend the balls, she will be seen, she will allow the men to swarm for a time before the season inevitably ends and she returns to Ciel's side, secured and triumphant. This is all merely a formality.

Across the room, another suitor attempts his luck. This one is older and more composed with the air of a man who considers himself quite clever. "Miss Barrett, I must say, I find your composure most admirable. Many young ladies would be quite overwhelmed by such attention."

Leah inclines her head. "One must grow accustomed to such things, I suppose."

"Indeed. And tell me, do you find it flattering or tiresome?"

The question is a trap, one she will not be foolish enough to step into. Instead, she lifts her teacup, considering her words before replying. "I find it an inevitability."

He smiles at that as if she has said something particularly clever, though she has merely stated a fact.

Gwendolyn, meanwhile, seems to have made it her personal mission to unsettle as many callers as possible without entirely ruining her reputation. She asks questions just a shade too forward and makes observations that dance on the edge of propriety. It is a delicate balance. One wrong step and she will be dismissed as too difficult, too opinionated, and too much trouble. But for now, it is amusing to watch the men fumble in her wake.

Florence watches her daughter with an expression of long-suffering patience. "Gwendolyn, do try to behave."

A shrug is the only response as the conversation drags on, an endless cycle of introductions and meaningless pleasantries. Some men linger too long, clearly unwilling to admit defeat, while others recognize the futility of their pursuit and make polite excuses to leave. One by one, they trickle out, until only a handful remain.

Vivienne, ever the strategist, takes note of who has made the best impression. It does not matter that Leah has no need for a husband, connections must still be maintained and opportunities kept open.

Lucius, silent for much of the morning, finally speaks. "It is amusing, is it not, how men will persist even when faced with impossibility?" his tone is dry, his expression unreadable. He has never cared much for Leah, but he is not blind to the power her success could wield.

Leah sets down her teacup with a soft clink. "Desperation makes fools of many."

A flicker of something, approval and amusement, crosses her father's face before he turns his attention elsewhere.

By the time the last caller departs, the room feels significantly lighter. The performance is over, at least for now.

Gwendolyn stretches languidly, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Well, that was fun."

Smoothing the folds of her gown, Leah exhales. "That is one word for it."

Vivienne, ever composed, rises gracefully. "It was necessary. And you conducted yourself well enough."

Not exactly high praise, but Leah has never expected as much from her mother.

Florence offers a small smile. "It is only the beginning, after all. There will be many more days like this."

Leah does not doubt it. The season has only just begun and she must endure it, but at the very least, she knows where she stands. She is not here to secure a match. She already has one. This is all a game and she knows how to play it.

Gwendolyn, still smirking, nudges her playfully. "At least try to enjoy it, dear cousin. You are, after all, the envy of the season."

Leah tilts her head, lips curving into something not quite a smile. "Yes. How fortunate I am."

The drawing room is quieter now, save for the faint crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of conversation from elsewhere in the house. The scent of perfume and cigar smoke lingers, mingling with the faint floral notes of the fresh-cut bouquets arranged in crystal vases. A moment of peace, however brief.

Then, the doors open once more. A footman steps aside and Henry Moore, Duke of Aylesworth, strides into the room with measured ease. He is later than the others—so much later, in fact, that his presence now feels almost like an afterthought rather than an expected call. Yet he does not appear the least bit troubled by it.

"I do hope I am not interrupting," he remarks, his voice smooth and pleasant, laced with the faintest trace of amusement. His dark eyes sweep the room, taking in the absence of competition and the lingering atmosphere of polite exhaustion. "Though it seems I have missed quite the affair."

Leah, seated with an air of carefully composed poise, does not rise but tilts her head in acknowledgment. "It was, as you might imagine, a rather lively morning," her lips curve in a way that is neither smile nor smirk, something deliberately unreadable. "You are fortunate to have arrived now rather than earlier. I am quite certain the room was insufferable at its peak."

Now next to her, Gwendolyn, who has been watching the proceedings with barely restrained interest, lets out a quiet laugh. "You ought to be flattered, Your Grace," she says, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink. "You have the lady's company all to yourself."

Henry chuckles, the sound low and warm. "I shall take that as a privilege, then," he approaches with unhurried confidence, stopping just short of where Leah sits. The candlelight catches the sharp lines of his features, accentuating the easy amusement that lingers in his expression. "Though I do wonder, was the crowd truly so unbearable, or is that merely an excuse?"

Leah exhales, not quite a sigh, but something near enough. "An observation," she corrects. "Surely you understand, Your Grace. Too many voices in one space all speaking of the same dull things. The weather, the latest scandal, the Queen's favor. It grows rather tiresome."

"Ah." He inclines his head slightly, as if in agreement. "I cannot say I find myself much in disagreement. Though I imagine you bear it far more gracefully than I might."

Florence, who has been content to observe until now, chooses this moment to interject. "You give my niece too much credit, Your Grace," she says, her tone light but edged with something knowing. "She may be charming when required, but I suspect she shares your sentiments more than she lets on."

"I can be both charming and honest," Leah says without missing a beat. "They are not mutually exclusive, Aunt."

Smile deepening at that, Henry does not press the matter further. Instead, he finally settles into a seat opposite her, his posture impeccable and his presence commanding without effort. He does not fidget or glance about the room as lesser men might. He is comfortable in his own skin and silence. It is an uncommon thing and Leah finds it far from an unpleasant one.

"You must tell me, Your Grace," Gwendolyn says after a moment, eyes bright with curiosity. "Have you truly only just arrived in town? The ladies have spoken of little else but your presence at court. There were quite a few speculations as to whether you would even participate in the season."

Henry hums, glancing toward her with mild amusement. "I am afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Vásquez. There is nothing so mysterious about it. My affairs required my attention elsewhere until recently."

"How very responsible of you," Leah muses, studying him with interest. "I do not imagine many young gentlemen of your station would feel so inclined."

"Perhaps not," he allows, "but then, I have never been particularly inclined to idleness."

The conversation drifts, shifting seamlessly between topics—London, the season, the peculiarities of society. Henry is well-spoken without being ostentatious, his humor subtle but engaging. There is no undue flattery in his words, no empty pleasantries meant to charm, only easy and natural conversation. For Leah, it is a welcome change.

"You must think it all rather ridiculous," she says at one point, watching him over the rim of her teacup. "The way they speak of you. As if you are some grand prize to be won."

Henry exhales, a soft huff of laughter. "I have been called worse things, I imagine."

She raises a brow. "And better things, no doubt."

"On occasion," he concedes, "though I suspect none of it is particularly accurate."

Gwendolyn, who has been quietly entertained by the exchange, grins. "And what is accurate, then?"

Henry considers for a moment. "That," he says finally, "is for you to determine."

Leah regards him for a moment, then sets her cup aside, a slow smile pulling at her lips. "A dangerous thing to say, Your Grace. I am quite the critic."

"I shall endeavor to withstand your scrutiny, Miss Barrett."

Florence, having listened with the sharp perception of an experienced matron, shifts in her seat. "I daresay you have managed well enough thus far, Your Grace. Not all gentlemen fare so well in my niece's company."

Leah casts her aunt a look, but there is no real heat behind it. "You make it sound as if I am intolerable."

"Not intolerable," Florence says, eyes glinting. "Simply.. particular."

Henry does not seem deterred in the slightest. If anything, he appears all the more amused. "A quality I can appreciate," he says easily.

Their gazes meet and something unspoken lingers between them. Not tension, not attraction, but understanding. A quiet acknowledgment that, for all the formalities and all the expectations that society places upon them, they are simply two individuals navigating it all as best they can.

The hour grows late, though none of them remark upon it just yet. The fire still burns, the conversation has not yet waned and for the moment, there is no rush to bring it to an end.

═╬

Sitting before the vanity, Leah's posture is languid, and her arm drapes across the table as she watches Anna unlace her corset with a patience Leah does not share. The maid's fingers are methodical and careful, every movement deliberate as she tugs at the ribbon binding Leah's waist.

The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the room, illuminating the soft sheen of the lemon-yellow silk gown now slipping from her shoulders. The house has quieted considerably, the distant murmur of conversation from the drawing room long faded leaving only the crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the wooden floors beneath Anna's shifting feet.

"You are impossibly slow, Anna," complains Leah.

"I would be finished sooner if you sat still," Anna replies, voice as even as ever.

Leah exhales, letting her head tilt back, exposing the long column of her throat. Her hair which has been brushed loose spills over the back of the chair in waves. It has been an exhausting evening Her cheeks still ache faintly from forced smiles and her mind dull from the ceaseless prattle of men vying for her favor. Then, there was Henry Moore, lingering far longer than he should have, though she had not particularly minded his company. Her parents had noticed, of course, but they liked him so they held their tongues.

She is considering whether she ought to be grateful for that when the door swings open without so much as a knock. Thomas strides in as though he owns the place, utterly unbothered by the impropriety of his presence in her chambers while she is half-dressed. His usual grin plays at his lips, sharp and knowing, as he holds up two neatly folded letters between his gloved fingers. The wax seals gleam in the candlelight.

"Letters for you, My Lady," he announces, voice thick with amusement.

Anna stiffens, scandalized with her hands frozen mid-motion at Leah's back. Leah, however, merely lifts a brow. "You should not be here, Thomas."

"Yet, here I am," he says as he steps further inside. "Your reputation remains intact, I assure you. I will be in and out before anyone notices."

"You say that as though my reputation is of any concern to you."

"It is," he muses. "To a degree."

Leah rolls her eyes but extends a hand for the letters. Obliging, Thomas drops them into her palm with an exaggerated flourish before retreating a step.

One is from Daniel. She recognizes his handwriting immediately, bold and slightly messy, as though he had little patience to keep his letters neat. The other is from Ciel, her fingers brush over the elegant loops of ink, the careful strokes of a pen wielded with precision.

The seal cracks under the press of her letter opener. Anna, now finished with her work, adjusts the delicate lace of Leah's nightgown before quietly gathering the discarded gown from the floor. Thomas does not leave despite his earlier claim, watching her with the keen interest of a cat observing a cornered mouse. Leah ignores him.

The parchment is smooth beneath her fingertips as she unfolds the letter. The ink is bold, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of the writer's mind—his thoughts, his affections, all distilled into neat lines upon the page.

"Leah," it begins.

"Your brother would not cease his incessant prattling about your presentation. I had little choice but to endure every excruciating detail, though I suspect he exaggerated half of them. Still, I suppose I might admit to some interest, if only because the subject concerns you. You were, of course, well-received. Anything less would have been a failure on their part, not yours. Even Her Majesty seems to have found you acceptable. Congratulations, though I doubt you required her approval any more than you require mine."

She smirks, lips pressing together to suppress the flicker of amusement. Of course, Daniel had spoken of it incessantly. He has always been proud of her in his own way, even when their parents are not.

"I trust you carried yourself with the expected grace and dignity, though I doubt you would confess otherwise if you had not. London must be unbearable now, infested with every insipid bachelor eager to throw himself at your feet. How utterly tiresome for you. I imagine they trip over one another in their efforts to impress you, and yet, none of them matter. You humor them out of obligation, but it is a pointless endeavor. You and I both know as much."

A soft hum escapes her throat. Ciel has always been direct and unapologetic in his certainty that she belongs to him and no one else. Though there is still some jealousy in his words, no insecurity is shown. Only the quiet annoyance of knowing that there are other men that he cannot stop himself. She traces her thumb over the edge of the paper.

"I will assume you have not already forgotten me in favor of some ridiculous fop who fancies himself charming. If you have, I expect Sebastian will hear of it before I do and I would hate to have to rely on him for such information. Try not to keep me waiting too long for your next letter."

She can hardly control the smile that spreads across her face when her eyes drag over the words. The letter continues in much the same manner, touching briefly on matters at Weston—though nothing of real consequence. If there are difficulties, he does not speak of them and if he misses her, he certainly does not say so. But there is something in the way he writes and the effort he puts into telling her of the mundane, the every day, that suggests it all the same.

"Yours,

Ciel Phantomhive."

The warmth that spreads through her chest is unwelcome and irritating in its persistence as she lowers the letter to her lap with a deliberate slowness.

"Love letters at this hour?" Thomas drawls, arms crossed over his chest.

Leah lifts her gaze, unimpressed. "It is hardly a love letter."

"No?" he tilts his head, expression sly. "That is unfortunate."

The weight of the letter lingers in her hands, heavier than it ought to be. She is not foolish enough to read too much into it, Ciel is not the sentimental type. However, she cannot deny the way her heart stirs at his words and the knowledge that he is thinking of her, even from afar. She traces the edge of the folded parchment, thoughtful.

Somewhere in the distance, the clock strikes the hour. The night stretches ahead, quiet and still, and though the day has long since ended, Leah does not yet feel the pull of sleep.

Anna, now finished tidying, clears her throat, hesitant. "Shall I fetch you some tea before bed, my lady?"

Leah shakes her head. "No. I am not tired yet."

Thomas smirks as if to say 'Of course you are not.'

She does not give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Instead, she folds the letter with great care, putting it aside as she considers Ciel's words once more. The season stretches ahead of her, tiresome in its predictability, a game she must play but has no real stake in. Her success is inevitable, a mere formality. But, for all of London's whispered speculation, for all the suitors who will attempt to charm her, the outcome has already been decided.

She is Leah Barrett and she belongs to Ciel Phantomhive.

The crisp fold of Ciel's letter still lingers between Leah's fingers, the weight of his words settling into her mind like a stone sinking into still water. She had expected something composed, perfunctory—perhaps even a touch distant, given the nature of his work at Weston—but there was a warmth there, however reserved. Pride, too, though whether it stemmed from her presentation before the Queen or Daniel's endless crowing about it, she isn't certain. It does not matter.

She turns her attention to the second envelope. This one is heavier, its wax seal uneven as though pressed in a hurry and she knows at once that it will be full of nonsense. A sigh escapes her as she breaks the seal. Daniel writes in a hand both careless and bold, the ink smudged in places where his enthusiasm has outpaced his patience. The opening lines confirm her expectations at once.

"Leah, you insufferable creature—"

She exhales sharply, something like a laugh catching at the edges of it. Already, she can picture the self-satisfied smirk he must have worn while scrawling it down, no doubt reveling in whatever grievance he has conjured to pester her with this time.

"I am utterly convinced that you orchestrated my suffering from the moment I set foot back at Weston. It is the only explanation. Not a day has passed without some fresh torment befalling me and I lay each and every one of them at your feet. Do you recall that imbecile, Waverly, whom I have been saddled with for a roommate? I swear on all that is holy, he chews like an ox and snores like one too. If I am to perish within these hallowed halls, know that it was not the rigors of academia that felled me, nor the depravity of my peers, but this single, abhorrent creature depriving me of my rest."

Leah presses her knuckles to her mouth, shoulders trembling with silent laughter. She can all but hear the indignant drawl in his voice and the dramatic emphasis on every other word.

"Of course, it is not simply Waverly conspiring against me. No, the entire student body seems hell-bent on making my life miserable. Did I tell you that I was nearly trampled on the way to Latin? The students here have no sense of decorum and no concept of personal space! I was barely upright before another horde came barreling through. It is a miracle I am alive to write this letter at all."

There is a pause as she shifts, the silk of her nightgown cool against her skin. Anna, who has remained dutifully silent throughout her reading, busies herself with folding Leah's discarded garments from earlier in the evening. The room is quiet save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the scratch of parchment beneath Leah's fingertips.

"On the subject of miracles, it appears your dear Phantomhive has managed to retain his reputation as an unapproachable specter. There was some commotion last week regarding his dormitory. No one knows precisely what happened, but the rumors are delightfully absurd. One boy swears he saw a man lurking about and another claims to have heard voices speaking in some unknown tongue. If I had to guess, I would say Ciel is merely being his usual, secretive self, but I admit, it is amusing to watch them work themselves into a frenzy over it."

Leah's lips quirk. 'That sounds like Ciel.' The rumors surrounding him have always bordered on the ridiculous—half-truths and exaggerations that he does nothing to correct. It suits him to be seen as unknowable, just as it suits him to remain a step removed from the rest of them.

"But enough of that. Tell me about your debut. I expect the Barrett name to be spoken in nothing less than awed whispers by now. Did any poor soul make the mistake of attempting to outshine you? I imagine it was a rather short-lived endeavor if so. And what of our dear parents? Were they tolerable, or did Father find some fresh way to humiliate us in polite company? You must tell me everything, Leah, or I shall be forced to resort to secondhand accounts and we both know how dreadful that would be."

The amusement in his words is unmistakable, but beneath it, there is something else. A genuine interest, perhaps even a measure of concern. The smile lingering on her lips softens. Daniel may be a perpetual nuisance, but he is still her brother and in his own way, he cares. More than their parents, certainly.

She taps her fingers against the parchment, considering how best to respond. There is much to tell—her first ball of the season, the endless parade of suitors, the way Florence had watched her like a hawk the entire evening as though waiting for her to slip. Some part of her wants to downplay it, to brush it all aside as tedious, but she knows Daniel would not be satisfied with that.

"Shall I bring the writing set, Mistress?" Anna's voice is gentle and expectant.

Leah blinks, glancing up as if only now recalling the maid's presence. For a moment, she considers answering, but instead, she folds the letter neatly and sets it aside.

"Not yet," she says, voice quiet but firm.

There is no rush. 'Daniel can wait.' Anna nods, saying nothing more as she continues tidying the room.

Leaning back slightly, Leah's gaze drifts toward the window. The night beyond is dark and still, the distant glow of lanterns lining the streets below offering little in the way of warmth. Her mind wanders. To Daniel, to Ciel, to the weeks ahead. The season has only just begun and she already feels as though she has been doing this for months.

Without another word, she stands from her seat, grabs Ciel's letter, and makes her way over to her bed, dropping herself down dramatically. The firelight casts flickering shadows across the silk-draped walls of Leah's bedroom, the glow softened by the gauzy canopy that drapes over her grand bed. The scent of lavender lingers in the air, courtesy of the sachets Anna placed beneath her pillows earlier in the evening. It is late enough that the house has settled into silence but not so late that Leah feels particularly inclined to sleep.

Now, she sits atop the plush bedding with her legs tucked beneath her, running her fingers over the edges of Ciel's letter for the third time. The paper is crisp despite how often she's opened it to read small sections again, her touch always careful. She takes comfort in the weight of it, as though holding it alone is enough to remind her of the certainty of her engagement.

Anna moves about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening things that need no straightening and smoothing out the fabric of Leah's unused dressing gown draped over the vanity chair. She has already braided Leah's hair for the night, the plait falling over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon that matches her nightgown. When she passes the bed, she pauses, glancing down at the letter in Leah's hands.

"You will wrinkle it if you keep handling it so," she says with a mild voice.

Leah doesn't look up. "I won't."

"Then at least put it aside. If you are not going to sleep, you should rest your eyes."

The suggestion is met with a soft sigh, but Leah does as she is told, placing the letter atop her bedside table. She leans back against the pillows, arms loosely crossed, watching as Anna moves to blow out one of the candles.

From his place by the hearth, Thomas watches the exchange with a look of passive amusement. The demon is leaning against the mantel, arms folded, perfectly at ease in a position that would earn any ordinary servant a reprimand. But Thomas is no ordinary servant and Leah does not bother correcting him.

"I suppose it is a relief that your affections are not so easily swayed," he remarks, a trace of mockery in his voice. "It would be terribly dull to go through all this fuss only for you to set your sights elsewhere before the season's end."

Leah turns her head just enough to glare at him. "Do not be stupid."

"That is not an answer," Thomas gives an insufferable smirk.

Anna cuts in before Leah can retort, her tone as level as always. "You do speak nonsense, Thomas. The Mistress' engagement has been set for some time. There is no reason to suggest she would entertain another match."

The words are spoken plainly, but there is a firmness to them that makes Thomas' smirk widen. "Of course. I am merely making conversation."

"You are being insufferable," Leah mutters, shifting onto her side.

"Am I?" he tilts his head, pretending to consider. "Then allow me to be of some use. Shall I read you a story before bed? A fable, perhaps? Or one of those dreadful French romances you pretend not to like?"

Anna exhales through her nose, unimpressed. "The Mistress is not a child."

"I think she would rather suffer my storytelling than listen to you nag her about sleeping."

Leah presses her fingers to her temple. "Both of you are unbearable."

For all her irritation, the familiarity of their bickering soothes her more than she is willing to admit. It is easier to let Thomas' teasing roll off her shoulders when she knows there is no true malice in it. Anna's presence, as steady as ever, is its own comfort. She has never had to worry about hiding her moods from either of them nor has she ever needed to measure her words with caution the way she must with her parents.

The thought reminds her of the dinner earlier in the evening, the way her father's mood had been mercurial at best and her mother's attention drifting everywhere but her. Even Daniel's letter, however affectionate, carries the weight of their family's expectations. It is only here, in the quiet of her room, that she can allow herself to feel tired.

Anna adjusts the blankets around her without a word, smoothing the silk as though Leah is much younger than she is. Though she would normally protest, she does not tonight, merely shifting slightly beneath the covers.

"You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow," Anna reminds her. "It would do you well to sleep."

"I know."

"You will want to be at your best. Your gown is already prepared."

Leah huffs a soft laugh. "You say that as though I have not seen it."

Anna does not dignify that with a response, simply reaching for the last candle by the bedside. Before she can put it out, Leah catches her wrist, pausing her movement.

There is a hesitation in the way she speaks next, her voice quieter. "Stay for a little while."

Anna blinks, clearly not expecting the request. Leah is not the sort to ask for company. If anything, she usually prefers to be left alone once her nightly routine is done, but there is a subtle vulnerability in her expression that makes refusal impossible.

"If you like," Anna says simply, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.

Thomas watches them with vague interest before making his own decision. Rather than taking his leave, he moves to sit in the chair nearest the bed, one leg casually crossed over the other. "Since we are all indulging sentimentality this evening, I may as well join."

Leah groans. "Must you?"

"I think I must."

She does not argue, only sighs as she sinks further into the pillows. Anna sits in composed silence, hands folded neatly in her lap while Thomas lounges in a way that is just short of disrespectful. It is an odd scene, given their respective roles, but there is an easy familiarity between them that does not require explanation.

For a while, they say nothing. The fire crackles, the candle flickers, and Leah listens to the quiet sounds of the house settling around them. When she speaks again, her voice is softer and less sharp than before.

"This season will be dreadful, won't it?" she whispers.

Anna smooths a crease in her skirt. "It will be as dreadful as you make it."

Thomas smirks. "So, quite dreadful, then."

Leah glares at him half-heartedly. "I ought to have you dismissed."

"You won't."

She exhales, eyes drifting half-shut.

"No, I suppose not."

#fanfic #ciel phantomhive #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #social season arc #bridgerton inspired #slowly losing my mind #multiple ocs #long fic #long post #long reads #slow burn

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