1889, May

Eleanor Midford resisted the urge to glare at her escort.

It was a hot, muggy, uncomfortable day in London. It was the kind of sticky day that made Eleanor wish she was at the Phantomhive manor and enjoying the freshness of the countryside.

London was a lovely city most days, but absolutely wretched on hot, humid days. Especially since Eleanor was forced to wear an uncomfortable amount of clothes. She could feel the sweat building up under armpits and she longed to jump in a pool or something similar.

"Charles, if you do not hurry up I'll leave without you," Eleanor said curtly.

There was a pitiful, mocking whine from her escort.

Charles Grey was a pretty boy at a glance. However any who knew him could overlook that because he had an obnoxious personality. He had a way of getting under anyone's skin and took genuine delight in irritating others. He was a noble heir, and one of the Queen's personal attendants so very few had the social standing to put him in his place. From that already small list, there were fewer who would.

Eleanor was one of them.

She cared for Charles like a dear friend, but on a day like that her patience was already thin.

"This feels unfair, Dame. If I was Ciel I bet you'd be waiting without complaint."

"Ciel wouldn't keep me waiting," Eleanor retorted.

"No, he'll simply abandon you during the Seasons," Charles snidely commented.

Eleanor kicked the back of his knees.

"Ow!"

He was not wrong, but he didn't have to sound so smug about it.

Ciel abhorred social gatherings, and consequently rarely attended them. There were a couple of balls he was obligated to attend every Season, and those were the ones hosted by the royal family. He should be attending more to network and maintain a more public status, but he was putting it off until he was older.

Eleanor couldn't blame him. Given his asthma if he stayed in London too long he was liable to get sick. There weren't many gatherings hosted outside the muggy city. That, coupled with his genuine disdain for socializing made it hard for Eleanor to force him into it.

Eleanor still had to, though.

As Ciel's fiancée, if he could not network she had to. The Phantomhive family had to retain some kind of public presence.

Reputation and honor was a nearly priceless thing in their line of work.

Even though the Phantomhive family mostly operated underground, if they were too obscure their reputation would be meaningless.

And reputation was a terribly valuable thing.

It saved lives.

By maintaining a peerless, ferocious, and terrifying presence, the Phantomhive family acted as the first deterrent for many unsavory folks. It allowed Eleanor the ability to only threaten instead of actual maiming or murder because the thought of the Queen's watchdog was scary enough.

If that reputation was damaged too much, or if they were seen as too soft...

Not only would the criminals pounce upon them, but they would be forced to take more lives than necessary.

It was like that when Ciel first returned to power.

So much bloodshed...

With the balance mostly restored, Eleanor was able to show mercy at times.

It honestly made her really happy.

Everyone was precious to someone, and if Eleanor could afford to forgive, she would.

Granted, she couldn't be too lenient otherwise they would be seen as soft, but... well. She did her best.

The more outstanding she was as Lady Phantomhive, the more power she'd have.

As she had saved Joker, and offered his family redemption, she wanted to do so again.

Mercy was a luxury for the strong, and a vice for the weak.

Reputation was a vital tool to wield mercy.

Hence why Eleanor had to attend social gatherings in her fiancé's stead, even if she did not feel inclined.

Ciel still ought to have some presence, though, which was why the ball she was orchestrating in July was so vital. It would be held at the Phantomhive manor, so Ciel's asthma should not be triggered. It absolutely had to be grand to leave a truly impactful impression to make up for Ciel's lack of attendance during the regular Season. The guest list had already exceeded two hundred, and Eleanor anticipated she'd hit three hundred soon.

The manor was huge but it could not hold much more than that. Especially since everyone would be arriving by carriage. It had to be completely streamlined.

Eleanor would try to keep the ball going all through the night so people could leave at different times and hopefully prevent any traffic issues.

There were some more logistical issues she was working out, but for that moment she was focusing on shopping.

That was why she was with Charles. He was accompanying her while she picked out new dishware for the ball. The Phantomhive manor had lovely sets already, but none of the matching sets were enough to be used for a party of that size. The previous lord and lady tended to host balls up to the high sixties, not triple digits. To make up for smaller parties, they held them frequently throughout the year.

Eleanor hoped to do one big night to set as an annual event. Something to maintain their status quo without forcing Ciel to make himself sick attending Seasons in London.

It was crucial to get right.

"Would you hurry up?" Eleanor demanded of Charles for the umpteenth time that morning.

She appreciated he came with her at all, but so far they had only spent the morning looking at new pistols for himself, not the dishware like she had planned!

"But Dame—"

"That's it. I'm leaving."

"Ahh, wait, wait, wait! Okay, okay," Charles said, hurriedly handing back the pistol to the salesman. "Sorry, didn't mean to hijack the trip."

Eleanor pursed her lips, tiredly watching her friend head over to her.

Charles Grey gave her a sheepish look—something not often seen from him—and said, "We can go now."

"Good. Why did you even want to stop at the store anyway?" Eleanor asked, heading out the front door. Snake opened the door for her and Charles. Joker, who was driving the carriage for them that day, sat up straighter when the two came out. "You hate guns."

"True. Unfortunately, I found out something truly terrible. Phipps is a better shot than me."

Eleanor paused as she climbed into the carriage. She bemusedly glanced back at Charles. "Heavens, no. Phipps a better shot than the man who goes out of his way to avoid target practice?"

Charles slapped her back, huffing. "It's inconceivable. I must be better than Phipps in every way possible. There can only be one superior Charles, and I refuse to let it be any other than me."

Eleanor hid her smile behind her hand. "Naturally. And so you need a new gun to practice?"

"I need a gun, period."

"What happened to the pistol your father bought you for your birthday?"

"I might have, perhaps, sliced it in half with my sword."

"Perhaps," Eleanor repeated faintly, trying not to giggle.

"Just perhaps," said Charles with a smile.

"I've plenty of firearms to spare," she offered. "Next time you come over to spar, you're welcome to try them out and take whatever you like."

Charles grinned. "Even the one you have now?"

"No," she said with an eye roll. "Father bought me this one after my one-hundredth consecutive win at the academy."

"I remember. It was quite the talk. But it's a nice pistol and it's white," said Charles, nodding at it.

Eleanor chuckled. "You can can order a custom firearm in white after you learn how to use one."

"I think I would learn better if it matched—"

"You can survive with a basic gun until you learn," Eleanor said.

Charles sighed. "What about Ciel? Does that little terrier have his own fancy gun?"

"He has many, he collects them," said Eleanor.

Charles made a pained face. "He would. Scrawny thing can't use a sword, can he?"

"Scrawny thing is a better shot than you," Eleanor taunted.

"Hurtful," he whined. "Speaking of him, though, why isn't he shopping with you for this party?"

"He's preoccupied at the moment."

"Brooding menacingly while plotting revenge over some poor fools?" Charles mocked.

"Perhaps. He's on a mission for Her Majesty and has had to enroll into Weston."

Charles stared at her in incredulous disbelief. "What? Do you mean to tell me that Ciel Phantomhive is actually at the academy? Weston College?"

"Yes."

Charles' entire face lit up like a child given free range at a candy store. "Please. Please tell me we can visit. Specifically around gym time."

"Ciel is excused from anything too extraneous."

He slumped. "Bloody hell. That damn terrier always ruins my fun."

Eleanor reached across the carriage and patted his knee. She cooed in a condescending tone, "There, there. If you're truly starved for entertainment I can always set up a little play date for you and Phipps to practice shooting—"

Charles headbutted her.

(✹)

Ciel Phantomhive wondered why any boy would want to attend an academy when they could afford to be tutored privately at home.

Even if it was a prestigious academy, Ciel found that Weston College was not a pleasant place to be. He had heard numerous stories about the academy from Eleanor when she visited, and found all of them painfully accurate.

The academy was attractive at a glance. Tall, sturdy, gothic buildings and a neatly maintained lawn. There was a long list of graduates who moved on to accomplish truly stupendous things in their career. Nobility and wealthy alike clamored for a chance to attend, and it was considered a great honor to have a child take classes there.

From those reasons Ciel could vaguely understand why the boys were happy to attend.

But.

It was tradition-obsessed, painfully bright, and the classes were woefully monotone.

All of it was miserably boring.

To be expected. He was amongst children. He was with Edward's peers, and considering how dull-witted that one was it was a no-brainer his peers would be equally flat.

Some things taught in class were topics that Ciel learned literal years ago, and yet the majority of the students had to actually work hard to comprehend it?

Ugh.

Ciel would much rather be at home and putting his time to better use, but what could he do?

Queen's orders and all that.

Evidently the son of one of her cousins disappeared while attending the academy. Derek was the son of Duke Clemens and in his fifth year at Weston. His disappearance drew Her Majesty's attention, and it was soon revealed that several more students had gone no-contact with their families.

Or rather, they're claiming to no longer go home or see their families with letters the families are certain weren't written by them.

It was possible all the students were alive and well and genuinely refused to speak to their families, but there was only one way to be certain—to check on them personally.

Hence why Ciel Phantomhive was sent in.

Weston College had a little known agreement with the Royal Family that prevented Her Majesty from directly interfering with the college. With the royal family maintaining neutrality and distance from the college, the nobles were forced to follow suit. That allowed the academy to operate in a way that prevented bloodlines from being judged academically.

Rich commoners were treated as fairly as the children of dukes. It would remain that way as long as the royal family continued to not interfere.

It was technically a broach of that agreement to send Ciel in, which was why Ciel had to be extra careful not to draw ill attention to himself. He was admitted for one term under the pretense of wanting to "experience" academy life.

As he was technically already an earl, he could use his title as an excuse to leave early as he would be forced to directly take care of family affairs. He could not afford to be away from the Phantomhive business for more than a term.

Well. Actually he could. Eleanor was very capable and Ciel implicitly trusted her to run his businesses in his absence, but he really didn't want to stay longer than necessary so he used his title as an excuse.

Besides—he only needed to find out what happened to one boy.

Ciel doubted he'd need more than a month, let alone an entire term.

His first day at the academy wasn't pleasant, but it was fruitful.

He encountered the four stand-outs amongst a sea of simpletons.

The P4, or Prefect Four.

What a lauded name.

They were the dormitory leaders, or prefects; one from each of the dorms.

The first was Edgar Redmond, a young man with scarlet eyes and long silver-blond hair tied with a crimson ribbon. He was friendly, amicable, and annoyingly charming. Ciel could see he might make a good diplomat, or perhaps politician.

Second was Herman Greenhill, another prefect. He was a stocky young man with short light blond hair and thick eyebrows. He always carried around a croquet bat which immediately told Ciel he was heavily into sports. He was also in the same dorm as Edward Midford, Eleanor's older brother.

Third was Lawrence Bluewer, who was the prefect in Ciel's own dorm. He was bespectacled with blue eyes, and had short straight grey-blue hair with his bangs aligned to the right side.

Last, and perhaps least, was Gregory Violet who was rather odd. He wore a cloak with the hood constantly pulled up. He had jet-black, messy, shoulder-length hair with a few select strands bleached white. He wore heavy make up including black eye shadow, black lipstick, and even painted his nails black.

Certainly a dreary fellow.

The P4 drew Ciel's attention immediately.

Anyone in power had knowledge, and consequently, they were the most likely candidates to point Ciel in the right direction.

Now how to approach?

The answer came to him on his second day at the academy.

Early in the morning on Ciel's second day at the academy he was called into the principal's office.

It was a room with a high ceiling, stained glass windows, and a pendulum that swung back and forth behind a desk. The prefects—the P4—stood in attention on either side of the room as the vice principal was seated at the principal's desk.

Ciel found it odd that the principal was not present.

Come to think of it—the principal was the only faculty member that Elly has never met, thought Ciel.

Most of the teachers had greeted Eleanor at one point or another during her many visits.

Except the principal.

Sexist, or... suspicious?

Ciel could not rule either out.

Herman Greenhill was the first to speak when Ciel arrived. "It's been a day since you arrived. How are you feeling, Phantomhive?"

"Feel free to come to the Red House if you can't get used to the Blue House. We'd welcome someone of your status anytime," Edgar smoothly added.

Lawrence pushed his glasses back as he said, "Only the principal can decide one's dormitory. No exceptions."

Gregory mumbled, "The dormitories are all the same though."

"This is a high-class public academy protected by tradition and discipline. From the moment you enter, you have to obey the rules," spoke the man behind the desk who Ciel knew to be the vice-principal from Eleanor's description of him. "Normally the principal would give you the welcome speech, but since he is busy, I'll be representing him. I am vice-principal Johan Agares."

"The principal decides all matters within the school," said Herman, hoisting his croquet bat over his shoulder.

"These decisions are absolute," said Edgar.

"And we, the prefects, have been chosen by the principal to govern the school," continued Lawrence.

"A rather unpleasant job in which we have to subdue all trouble," Gregory quietly said.

"This has been our tradition since the school's founding," Johan went on. "And—"

"Tradition is absolute," the five of them said in synch.

Johan inclined his head, cold eyes staring at Ciel. "Do you swear to keep to the rules of our school and obey our tradition and discipline?"

"I do," Ciel easily lied.

Johan stood up from the desk, pulling out a thick record book. He stepped down—the desk was at the top of a small set of stairs—but slipped on the first step and violently fell. It was a hard enough fall that blood gushed from his head, yet the man did not bat an eye even as the prefects cried out in concern. He stood right back up, and held out the book with a quill. "Then sign here."

Ciel signed.

"Welcome to Weston College, Phantomhive," said Johan as he held out his hand. Blood dripped down his face. "I welcome you."

"Thank you," Ciel demurred. "I understand the principal is busy now—when can I meet him?"

"The principal is very busy and does not meet with regular students," said Lawrence. "The only ones who can have meetings with the principal are us prefects."

Peculiar.

Ciel smiled to himself as he watched them leave.

Looks like this won't be a shallow case after all. Interesting.

(✹)

"Fag?" Ciel echoed at breakfast later that day.

It was a term he had read a few times, but it never applied to him. fags was the term used to describe underclassmen who would run errands for upperclassmen at academies. Ciel had read a few stories placed at boarding schools and so he was familiar with the term, despite never attending school.

He remembered the first time he had used the word when describing a story to Eleanor. She choked on her tea. When she could finally breathe she demanded to know how he knew that word and who dared to call him that.

Somehow she had confused it for some slur. Ciel wasn't sure how that was possible—he had never heard someone using student as a slur—and explained it to her.

Her face turned beet-red and she let out a small, "Oh."

It was one of the few times Ciel had ever seen Eleanor so utterly embarrassed. He made sure to never forget the moment.

It was rather cute how she would still fumble or tense when she heard the word.

When Ciel heard it at the academy, he had to fight the reflex to look around for Eleanor and see her reaction.

"Fag," confirmed the boy seated next to Ciel at breakfast. McMillan was a small boy with freckles, a very talkative boy by nature. Ciel was quick to make acquaintance with the boy since he was a naive information gold-mine. He would babble and blurt out explanations for nearly anything Ciel came across. "When breakfast is over it's fag time. It's one of Weston's characteristic traditions, where the underclassmen have to help out one of the upperclassmen."

"Help out?" Ciel probed.

"Like cleaning their rooms or ironing their uniforms."

Ciel's face twisted in disgust. "Like a servant?"

"Kind of yeah."

"Do prefects have fags?"

"Of course! Bluewer, the prefect of Blue House, has Clayton as his fag. A fag is a little different from a servant in that the upperclassmen will help out their fags sometimes as well. It's kind of like having a brother within the school."

Ciel had to work hard to keep a blandly polite face. "A... brother..."

"And fags of the prefects are kind of special. They can wear the dormitory flower on their chest just like the P4. And if you get permission, you can cross the lawn. And I've heard you can attend the Midnight Tea Party organized by the principal with the P4."

A midnight tea party organized by the principal? If I can attend I can meet the principal. But access is granted only to the P4 and their fags. Therefore—

An idea formed inside Ciel's mind. He had one option now, but before he committed he wanted to do a cursory check.

"This is a change of topic, but do you know the son of Duke Clemens, Derek Arden?" asked Ciel. "I believe he's a student of the Scarlet Fox dormitory."

There was a noticeable change in the mood. Students around them whispered to one another, shifty and uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Ciel asked.

"Ph-Phantomhive! It doesn't look good if you're too friendly with people from other dorms," McMIllan pressed.

"What? That sounds like the trivial rivalry of women," Ciel thought, immediately thinking back to Eleanor describing the cliques at balls. Certain women could only associate with other women who were part of their group. There were certain exceptions, but even Eleanor was not immune to their drama. She had to stay amongst certain peers—fellow royalists, or families affiliated with the Order of the Garter. As the only daughter to a marquess family she could only attend gatherings of her same ranking, or higher.

She had a little more wiggle room with that last part since she was to be married into the Phantomhive family. In terms of titles, it would be a step-down. However, in terms of noble prestige due to the Phantomhive reputation as being the Queen's Watchdog it was one of the best families to marry into.

Regardless, the noble ladies seemed to relish in their word-wars and petty rivalry. Who was the best hostess? Who lost their maids? Who cheated on who? Who got caught making eyes at the servants? Who hasn't bought a new dress this Season?

Trivial.

Ciel thought it all painfully exhausting. He did not understand how Eleanor could stand it.

And now it sounded like the concept of cliques was not gender-exclusive. Ugh.

McMillan abashedly smiled. "The rivaling dormitories are always competing over something. However, I do believe that student was transferred from Red house to Purple house on exception."

"Transferred?"

McMillan leaned forward to whisper. "I don't know the details, but the rumor is that the principal ordered it. A-Anyway, it's best not to stick your nose into other dormitories business. Especially Violet Wolf."

"What do you—"

"McMillan! It's fag time," barked an upperclassman across the cafeteria. McMillan jumped up.

"Yes!" He waved goodbye to Ciel as he took off. "This is my upperclassman. See you, Phantomhive!"

Hmm. A change in dormitories and that peculiar principal again. Ciel Phantomhive stood up from his seat, and was about to leave when he was approached by Lawrence's current fag, Clayton.

Clayton adjusted his glasses. "Phantomhive. Until you've been assigned to an upperclassman you're on cleaning duty for the dining hall."

Ciel glanced around the messy cafeteria. All of the students had left their plates and bowls there, and there were dozens of books haphazardly scattered around. Ciel tiredly asked, "All of this?"

Clayton turned away. "That's right. Don't slack off!"

As soon as Clayton left and Ciel was alone, he tugged up his eyepatch. He felt the contract tingle in his eye. "Sebastian, come here."

At once, Sebastian stepped behind him, still earring his disguise as a professor at the academy. More mockingly, as a priest who taught at the school. He even took on the name Michael. The absurd blasphemy of it all made Ciel wonder if angels actually existed because surely the true Arch Angel Michael would have wanted to smite the cheeky Sebastian for such a taunt.

Guess not.

Ciel said, "It seems Derek was transferred—"

"Yes, I saw his name on the register of the Violet Wolf," confirmed Sebastian.

"He should be there now. I'll check it out, so you can clean up here."

"Certainly," agreed Sebastian.

Approaching the dormitory turned out to be a no-go. The members of the Violet Wolf dorm chased him away with an unnecessary level of aggression.

That left Ciel with only one avenue.

He had to get in favor with the Prefect Four.

(✹)

One week later

There was a part of the academy that was exclusively used by the prefects and their fags. It was a lovely, closed off area known as the Swan Gazebo. A fragrant garden overlooking a small river. There was a white marble gazebo attached to the river and dock with a swan carved at the top.

Roses, lavenders, and irises, and many more bloomed all around. It was the single most beautiful spot on campus.

Inside the gazebo were eight students—the Prefect Four and their fags.

Edgar Redmond lounged across one of the couches, breathing in the fresh air. His vibrant red eyes stared up at the stone ceiling.

"Redmond, would you like another cup of tea?" inquired a pretty boy beside him.

"Yes, why not. Your tea is the best, Maurice," said Edgar Redmond.

Maurice, the pretty boy, demurely smiled. "Thank you."

"By the way, I heard that new student is quite capable," said Herman. The athlete casually lifted dumbbells as he talked.

"Ah yes... that cutie pie is in Lawrence's dorm. I'm curious too."

"Stop calling me by my first name, it's against the rules," Lawrence Bluewer quietly chided as he read from his textbook.

Edgar chuckled. "You're so strict, Bluewer. Only we can come here, no one is going to punish us. Clayton, what do you think about that boy?"

Clayton paused, thinking back on the week. Ciel Phantomhive took on any and all tasks assigned to him. As soon as Ciel had a moment alone to complete the task, it was done in a flash. It was downright supernatural how talented Ciel was at a variety of skills.

"He's extremely skilled. He works fast and carefully. Actually, the tea and snacks I asked him to prepare look like something made by a french chef," admitted Clayton.

"Wasn't he an earl? How come he can do that?" Herman Greenhill inquired, perplexed.

"He said it's like a hobby to him."

"An earl that works like a butler, um..." mumbled Cheslock, Violet's fag. "Pretty weird."

"Well if he's that good I wish he had come to my dorm. His rank is high enough. He's the head of a famous household already at such a young age—"

Edward Midford, Herman Greenhill's fag, muttered something under his breath.

"What?" Herman noticed, turning to his his underclassman. "

Edward pursed his lips. "Greenhill, can I speak?"

"I can't hear you, say it loudly and clearly!"

"Yessir! This new student you are talking about.... Is his name Ciel Phantomhive?"

"What do you know him?"

"Yes he's Elly's... well... my younger sister's fiancé."

"What?" came the surprising echoes of all the other boys. Gregory Violet had the most noticeable reaction, as he actually dropped his sketchbook. The boy rarely let go of it in the past year, and he scrambled to pick it back up.

Eleanor Midford was well known around the campus. She stood out every time she visited.

In the first place it was rare for girls or women to be allowed entry into the school, so any that did come always drew eyes.

However, Eleanor not only came to the school semi-regularly but she was even a guest instructor. That meant every student had met with her more than once.

And any who did could never forget her.

It was rare to meet any woman with the amount of calm confidence that she exuded, and no one could fail to forget the weapons she openly carried.

And used.

Watching her effortlessly defeat each student one by one without tiring was truly amazing. Even if she was not a woman, it was an incredible feat. She truly deserved to be called a prodigy.

However, the fact that she was a woman made her stand out even more.

Both because of how unorthodox it was and because... well...

She was a pretty girl. A very pretty girl.

With a good pedigree.

But she was too... anti-tradition.

Her existence was a noble dream, yet her actions contradicted so much of what they stood for. She was an uncomfortable oxymoron.

Pretty girl with a noble bloodline and good demeanor meant boys would inevitably crush on her.

But she kicked their butts and went too far against tradition which meant the boys weren't supposed to like her.

It created a terrible paradox where the boys wanted to like her but felt like they shouldn't. So they would go out of their way to show they didn't like her.

The only group that was exempt from that was the P4 and that was mostly due to Edward Midford.

Edward was Eleanor's older brother, so it made sense that it would be improper to speak ill of Eleanor in front of Edward. Therefore, the only time people felt it was socially okay to praise Eleanor was when they were with Edward, and as Edward was most frequently with the P4...

The P4 felt excluded from the obligation of needing to discourage Eleanor.

In fact... it wouldn't be a stretch to say they liked her.

"Huh..."

"I think we should invite him for tea..."

"Yes, it would be nice to meet the dame's betrothed..."

(✹)

"Ph—Phantomhive!"

Ciel was enjoying a sip of his afternoon tea when a young student burst into the cafeteria crying out his name. Ciel calmly set his tea down. The student rushed over to Ciel. "Cole wants to talk to you!"

"What, Cole?"

"Cole?!"

There were excited murmurs around Ciel.

"Who's Cole?" Ciel tiredly asked McMillan.

"Maurice Cole, a senior fag of the Scarlet Fox dormitory's prefect. He's the most handsome boy in the school. Why's he asking for you?" McMillan wondered.

"I suppose I'll find out," Ciel said, trying not to sigh. He left the cafeteria, and headed to the front of the dormitory. There was a pretty boy with a doll-like face and short blond curly hair. He reminded Ciel of some of the dolls his company sold. It wasn't an unattractive face, but Ciel couldn't see where he earned the title "most handsome boy" in the school.

Oh well. He was learning that students were weird about that kind of stuff.

The boy, Maurice Cole, smiled. "Are you Phantomhive? Pleased to meet you. I'm Maurice Cole, Redmond's fag."

"I'm Ciel Phantomhive," Ciel politely introduced himself.

Ugh. I've had to socialize for over a week. I'm getting burnt out. Do I really have to smile every time someone talks to me?

Maurice beamed. "You know, Prefects and their fags often meet together at the Swan Gazebo and the other day we were talking about the amazing new student."

"Uh..."

"Everyone agreed that they would like to have a chat with you. So, Phantomhive, would you come to the Swan Gazebo tomorrow?"

A chance to get close to the P4?

Ciel forced a bright smile on his face. It hurt his lips. "I would be glad to!"

"Really? That's great. Well then, we'll be waiting for you at the Swan Gazebo tomorrow at 4 PM!"

(✹)

Things weren't that easy.

Maurice Cole had lied to Ciel about the time. Ciel was requested by the P4 to show up at 2, and Maurice had told Ciel to come at 4. Being two hours late left a sour impression, and Ciel was essentially shooed away.

To say Ciel was annoyed would have been an understatement.

He was already exhausted from having to keep up a polite charade with a bunch of dim-witted brats, and the first chance he had to solve the mystery and leaving was squandered by a petty, jealous boy.

Maurice was fortunate he was considered a child in Ciel's eyes. Had it been an adult, Ciel would have been tempted to financially destroy him. Pompous git.

As he was dealing with a minor, however, Ciel had to readjust punishment.

Social humiliation and a tarnished reputation would suffice.

And so that was exactly what Ciel did.

He used Sebastian to uncover the dirty truth. As it turned out, Maurice Cole had been bullying other students into completing his fag tasks. Not a good look for the "seemingly perfect" pretty boy.

The next step would be to obtain evidence, and the best way to do that would be to send in a mole to the dormitory. He had been planning to find a pawn to use in that dorm since it was Derek's original dorm, so this seemed like the optimal time.

Unfortunately Ciel could not use Eleanor like he would have wanted. While she would not mind masquerading as a boy and infiltrating the premise, her face was too well known and she already had a reputation at the school. Ciel did not think risking the damage to her status there was worth the position of a pawn.

Instead, he'd have to reach out to someone else.

Soma.

(✹)

Eleanor

Weston College.

It was a vast premise with an overly complex main building. It held a magnificent gothic-style chapel and four historical student dormitories. The students were under strict discipline that valued tradition above all and were raised to be the new gentlemen of England through a boys-only dorm life and their individual high-level curriculum. It was a school that nobility and wealthy alike clamored for attendance if only for prestige.

Eleanor's elder brother, Edward, had been attending for some time.

For obvious reasons—she was a girl—Eleanor was not offered a chance to join but that never stopped her from visiting the school. Either to meet with Edward, or because she was invited as a special guest for sword practice.

She didn't have the best reputation at school because of the latter.

Dames were...

Well.

If she didn't have breasts she'd be considered remarkable by their standards, but due to the extra mounds of tissue she was disgraceful. The majority attending the lessons clamored for a chance to defeat her if only to "put her in her place."

Not all students were like that, of course, but the school did reinforce a misogynistic code.

It raised gentlemen.

Tradition was king for them.

It never bothered Eleanor when she visited. The students there were no crueler than what she had faced prior. Nobles knew better than to directly insult her, and in turn the commoners followed their lead.

They could glare at her all they wanted, and whisper behind her back. It would not phase her.

She did not care that they did not like her.

Which was why she was always able to ignore the eyes that followed her every time she entered the premise. Students always stopped what they were doing to watch her walk by. She moved brusquely, a clear purpose in mind.

For reasons unknown, Ciel had called in Soma to join the academy with him.

Soma had bragged to Eleanor about it when she had dinner at the townhouse earlier in the week. Soma said that Ciel wanted to become schoolmates with him. Soma was over the moon, while Agni looked ready to have a panic attack.

Eleanor had congratulated Soma then, even though she wanted to grimace.

She was not at all unhappy that Soma would get to attend the academy. Certainly not. The prince was still searching for ways to fill in his days while he stayed in London, and going to school seemed like an ideal suggestion for him. Not only would he have a chance to make friends with people close to his age, but he'd have more hands-on experience with the culture in England and hopefully have an easier time acclimating. Maybe he'd even find an area that caught his interest and he'd pursue a degree. Wouldn't that be lovely?

Soma going to the school was good for him, and she was genuinely happy for him in that regard.

How. Ev. Er.

She knew that was not why Ciel called Soma out—nor that Ciel sincerely wanted to be schoolmates.

Eleanor highly doubted Ciel enjoyed attending school. Her introverted, borderline misanthropic fiancé? No. No way was he anything less than irritated. Maybe even murderous.

Okay maybe not murderous. He was cynical and bratty, but he knew better than to kill children.

If Ciel was calling on Soma that meant he hit a hurdle and needed another tool. Which meant the investigation was going to go on for longer than expected.

And that was not acceptable. If the mission carried on too long, Eleanor was concerned Ciel would not be able to attend the party they were meant to co-host. The very notion sent her into a fit of anxiety, and she rode out to the academy on horseback right away.

At the academy, she marched across the premises in search of her fiancé.

"Ho there, Lady Midford!" called a familiar voice.

Eleanor paused in her search long enough to address who called out to. "Hello Mr. Greenhill."

Herman Greenhill, Edgar Redmond, Lawrence Bluewer, and Gregory Violet were the four prefects at the academy. Eleanor had met with them the most after Edward because Herman was Edward's senior. Herman had taken Edward as his F... fag a couple of years ago.

Urk. She hated that word. She couldn't believe the slur had such a humble beginning. It was like being told kohai became an equivalent of cunt a hundred years in the future. Hard to comprehend.

If she ever lived in an era of the internet, she'd make a mental note to find out how exactly that word evolved because what the hell?

"... and Lord Redmond, and Mr. Bluewer, and Mr. Violet," Eleanor continued when she noticed the prefects were together.

They're always together. Kind of cute.

"We were getting ready to meet with our fags at the Swan Gazebo for afternoon tea, would you care to join us?" Edgar offered politely.

"No thank you. I'm looking for someone currently."

"Perhaps we can help?"

Eleanor placed her right hand over her heart as she bowed slightly. "I would be honored. I am looking for my fiancé, Earl Phantomhive."

Their expressions soured. Eleanor immediately narrowed her gaze. "Has my fiancé done something to upset you?"

"We invited him to tea and he was two hours late," Edgar sighed dramatically, shaking his head ruefully. "Terribly rude."

He's an earl, you're associated with a viscount family, Eleanor thought. Outside this academy and in high society, he could be several hours late and you'd be sneered at for complaining about him.

It was good of the academy to allow their students to treat each other equally, but it seemed detrimental in preparing them for high society. Eleanor had witnessed, first-hand, commoner alumni being rude to nobles and being ruined for it. She had not thought Edgar was dumb enough to forget that lesson, and yet he was pointlessly making an enemy out of Ciel for... two hours?

Two hours?

Eleanor resisted the urge to glare.

She knew Ciel was not the kind of person to be late unless he had a very good reason. It irked her that he was being snubbed over something that was—in all likelihood—not his fault. The fact that they had the audacity to complain about it directly to her face was downright insulting. It meant they did not consider her and Ciel's ranking and reputation a valid threat to be wary of, when in all honesty she and Ciel outranked all of them.

Eleanor had grounds to challenge any of them to a duel to the death, both from a standpoint as a dame in Her Majesty's order, and as the daughter of a Marquess.

She did not mind it when people were rude to her. She could bear it.

But being rude to her best friend? To her face?

"And, did you ask him why?" Eleanor coolly inquired.

"What does it matter?" Lawrence retorted. "Late is late."

"Ah. I did not realize you were so unforgiving," she said coldly, her lips curled into a sneer.

"Wait, wait," Herman said in a rush, his eyes widening. "We're not—we're not—"

"He hasn't even apologized," Edgar was quick to add. "W—We'd forgive him if he did."

"I see," came her icy response.

What if they snubbed him because of me?

The thought made her queasy, and only furthered her resentment of the situation. She was not so ill-disciplined that she would resort to violence against minors, but she was not so saintly she could forgive and push past their insult.

Lawrence Bluewer pushed his glasses up. "Please understand, Lady Midford, we have to adhere to the rules of the academy. Being late to a meeting with a prefect is a violation of those rules and requires consequences."

"Consequences?!" Eleanor bristled. "How can you give out a punishment when you don't even know the entire situation? You evidently did not even ask why he was late. I certainly hope none of you are going into law, since you feel so confident to hand out condemnations without proper course."

"Mr. Phantomhive has not offered remorse to the situation—"

"And have you given him a chance to?" she snapped. "I doubt that considering how quickly you are to judge the situation. Perhaps you should spend more time studying than drinking tea at the gazebo, you lot clearly need it."

Eleanor stormed off, her nose in the air as she haughtily turned away. She was indigent on her friend's behalf and equally annoyed at how quick they were to pass judgment. She detested those in power who only saw half-truths and zealously stuck to them. There were so many nobles who would believe anything told to them if told by another noble, and would stubbornly adhere to it regardless of the facts presented.

Eleanor knew where Ciel was staying, and so she headed to the Blue dormitory. If he was not there, perhaps one of his schoolmates would know where he was.

Thankfully, she did not need to search long.

There!

She spotted Ciel with a couple of textbooks talking with another student.

"Ciel!"

Ciel stiffened in surprise, turning to face Eleanor. His peacock blue eye widened briefly in surprise. "Elly? What are you doing here?"

"Huh? Phantomhive, you know the dame?" the boy beside Ciel asked, gaping at the two of them.

"Ah... yes, she is my fiancée. Excuse us," said Ciel with a fake smile. The boy completely believed in that smile and beamed. Ciel and Eleanor headed over to a bench on the sidewalk to privately talk. As soon as they were out of earshot of the other student he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you and making sure this investigation won't prevent you from attending the party."

"Well—"

Oh she did not like that halting tone. She knew Ciel too well, and that tone was the one he used when he was about to make excuses.

I don't think so!

"Ciel you promised to do the masquerade with me," Eleanor curtly interrupted.

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing," she said, trying not to pout. "It's only for a weekend. You can surely put a pause in your investigation if you haven't solved it by then."

Ciel grimaced. "Yes, but—"

"But?" Eleanor pressed, her lavender eyes narrowed. "Are you implying that you won't have this resolved by July? Is it truly that difficult of a case?"

"No, but–"

"Then there is no issue. Since you'll be co-hosting this event with me, it's important that we have everything prepared prior. That includes our outfits, which will take Nina some time to work on. Which is why–"

"Okay, okay, okay," said Ciel sourly. "We'll go to the tailor's this weekend."

"Promise?" Eleanor pressed.

"I promised," Ciel said with great reluctance. It could really irk him sometimes how well Eleanor knew to nag him. If she was anything less than relentless, he would squirm his way out of any and all social events. She'd be far easier to deal with if she didn't know him so well. "Did you really have to come onto campus for this?"

"Yes. You would have ignored my letters."

Ciel clicked his tongue, unable to deny that.

"I'll also come here to pick you up," she said with a narrowed gaze. "Even if that means having to physically carry you out."

Ciel flushed, immediately recalling the (one too many) times when Eleanor had literally picked him up and carried him. Most of those circumstances were urgent and required speed, but there were some that she had done because she was too impatient, or wanted to tease him.

The most humiliating moment was when Ciel was sick and unable to get comfortable to sleep. Eleanor had bundled him in blankets–practically swaddled him–and carried him around in her arms until he dozed off. He was too disoriented to argue or protest, but not so delirious he had no memories of it.

Most horrifying of all, it worked. Barely ten minutes being carried around and he was finally able to sleep.

Sebastian's smug aura was unbearable the rest of the week.

Ciel hissed, "Elly we have talked about this–"

"I know, I know. Potato sack carry, not princess carry," she sighed.

"I do not want to be carried at all!"

"Then make sure I won't need to do that."

"You will not need to ever do that–"

"Now that is just not true. Plus I love carrying you."

Ciel was aghast. "Why?!"

"Because I know you're safe in my arms."

Ciel's face took on a vivid rosy hue. For a brief second, Eleanor could see his careful mask collapse as he was simultaneously mortified and smugly pleased. It only lasted a second, however, because he abruptly turned on his heel and stormed away. "Go home, Elly! We will speak later."

Eleanor offered a brief curtsy to the back of her fiancé. "As you wish, my lord."

(✹)

The following weekend Eleanor ran into Soma at the school before she could find Ciel.

"Dame!" Soma exclaimed cheerfully when he spotted her. He had a sparkle in his eyes as he sprinted over to her. "Are you visiting?"

"I'm here to pick up my anti-social other half," Eleanor said. She couldn't resist smiling affectionately at Soma. His joy was always infectious, coupled with his natural sincere charisma it was impossible to resist. Although lacking in discipline, Eleanor was certain he'd one day make a good leader. Leading what she could not say—he was too far down the line of succession—yet she could not imagine Soma in any other position.

The young Indian prince laughed at that. "You know Ciel's actually very friendly here. Almost all his dorm mates praise him."

"Really?" Eleanor asked, amused. Ciel could turn on the charm on command, although it was utterly exhausting for him. She could perfectly picture his exasperated face at the end of the day.

Honestly, he should be thanking her for making arrangements for them to leave the campus. He could probably use the break.

"Mm-hmm."

"And how do you like your schoolmates? Are you having fun?" Eleanor asked him.

Soma's grin stretched wider. He puffed out his chest. "The school part is easy. I learned all of this years ago at the palace. A lot of the other students are really nice, though. I got invited to join the art club."

"Oh my! Will you go?"

Soma rubbed under his nose. "Heh. I might as well, right? I'm an amazing artist as you know."

"You've certainly come a long way," Eleanor agreed. "Do you think you'll stay here after you're done helping Ciel?"

At that, Soma frowned. "Honestly... I don't know. It's weird not having Agni around."

"Weird, but...?"

"Well... You don't rely on your servants nearly as much," Soma said, his grin gone. His brow creased as his demeanor shifted from jubilant to thoughtful.

"Correct," Eleanor said slowly, wondering where Soma's thought process was leading them. "I don't like being dependent on others. It's important I can be self-sufficient if the need arises, so I try to do things on my own on occasion."

"Why?" he asked. "Do you not think they are capable?"

"On contrary," she said. "I have complete faith in their abilities. I admire them as individuals. But I also want them to feel the same way."

Soma blinked. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"As I trust them, I want them to trust me," Eleanor explained. "I want them to believe I am capable on my own, and in turn to rely on me. If they trust me, they will trust my ability to lead them."

Soma gaped. "I never—I never thought of it that way."

Eleanor almost said: Because Agni trusts you unconditionally.

But then she realized that wasn't the case. Because if Agni truly trusted in Soma, he would have never tried to hide the truth about Mina to Soma, nor would he have gone off on his own. Agni acted in what he believed to be Soma's best interest without talking to Soma.

Why?

Because Agni did not believe Soma would react well to the news.

He didn't trust Soma to make the best choice.

Soma's expression darkened briefly with hurt.

He must have made the same conclusion.

He turned away. His hands curled into tight fists at his side. "Your servants do trust you, Dame."

Eleanor quietly said, "Thank you, Your Highness."

"Agni..." Soma looked up at the sky. "I don't think Agni trusts me the same way."

Eleanor paused. "Likely not. I'm sorry."

Soma sighed and shook his head. "You've nothing to apologize for. I've always liked how honest you were, even if it's not the words I want to hear." His dark eyes met her gaze. "What would you do? No, actually don't answer that. It'd be counterproductive, wouldn't it?"

Eleanor smiled. She reached over and patted his shoulder. "You'll figure it out, my friend."

"Mn. Thank you, Dame."

(✹)

Ciel

Later that day, Ciel returned to the academy. Eleanor found him early in the morning with Soma and dragged him out for his fitting.

The fitting went fine, and he was happy to join her for brunch and tea afterward.

Less happy to return to the academy. Eleanor did return with him—she promised to have dinner with Soma and give Agni a status update—so they parted ways at the gate.

That was because he had to have tea with the P4 after dinner.

In the week between Eleanor first visiting him, and taking him out for his fitting that weekend, Sebastian and Soma had been focused in on Maurice Cole. They were able to uncover a bountiful of blackmail material, and the night prior Ciel unleashed all of his evidence across campus.

Maurice was disgraced that night.

The P4 invited Ciel to join them in what Ciel guessed would be an apology meeting. While they did say sorry the night Maurice was disgraced, they mentioned wanting to make it up to Ciel.

And Ciel would have to accept their apology with a polite smile on his and play nice to get on their good side.

Ugh.

Ciel tidied up his appearance and headed over to the swan gazebo to meet with them.

The prefects and their fags—sans Maurice—were waiting for Ciel as the sun started to set and cast the creek in an orange glow.

"Good evening," Ciel politely greeted them.

"Come sit down, Phantomhive," Edgar Redmond said with a dazzling smile. He brushed his silver hair out of his eyes. "We've wanted to talk to you for some time."

I've always been available. What stopped you? Ciel was tempted to sneer. Outside of school, each of them would have had to bow their heads to Ciel. In terms of ranking, Edgar had the highest title—heir to a viscount—but Ciel was an earl.

If they were at an official noble gathering, Edgar Redmond would be not have any power over Ciel.

Only in that damnable school.

Ciel detested having to lower himself and play nice with them. Children with swollen heads who knew nothing of the outside world. He did not understand why the school shouted for equality when it still segregated the academically intelligent against the rest. It did nothing to prepare the students for the harsh reality of the real world; and instead disillusioned them that they could be equal to their superiors.

While Ciel did not personally put much value in bloodline, he knew better than to try and fight the system.

He served Her Majesty, and as long as Her Majesty demanded the noble hierarchy, he would adhere to it accordingly.

So preparing generations to ignore that hierarchy struck him as setting them up for failure. He was doubtful such prideful students would be bow their heads when appropriate.

Maybe he was being cynical. Maybe they would adapt to life outside of school fine.

Only time would tell.

One thing was for certain—

He was not fond of the P4 at all. He disliked how they made him work for their mere attention, and resented the fact that they blindly trusted Maurice. He thought of them as naive, pompous, brats.

"I'll be happy to oblige," Ciel effortlessly lied as he plastered on his practiced smile. Eleanor called it his "angel smile" which made him and Sebastian chuckle. One time he used it on Charles Gray and the knight visibly retched.

"Once more," Herman Greenhill said, "we want to say we're sorry. We should have listened to you before passing judgment."

"It's fine," Ciel said. "I hope we can get along now."

"We hope so too," added Lawrence. He adjusted his glasses. "Something we wanted to talk to you about—"

"You're Lady Eleanor Midford's fiance?" Edgar blurted out. Then he caught himself, coughed, and calmly followed up with, "We've had the pleasure to encounter the dame on numerous occasions."

"I am," said Ciel, instantly on guard. If he had to listen to them besmirch her on top of everything else—

Herman asked, "Does it not bother you that she is better at swordplay than you?"

Here we go.

Ciel tried hard not to sigh. It took considerable effort to keep his expression from souring. He was a professional, however, so he did not lose his smile. "Of course not. She is better at certain things, just as I am better at others. The fact that one of those things she's good at involves running around with a metal stick does not perturb me."

To his surprise, all of them smiled.

Herman laughed. "That's one way to look at it, hahaha."

"I wouldn't call what she does as running," Edgar added.

"No, no, maybe dancing?" Lawrence suggested.

"She's pretty intense to watch," said Cheslock. "How often does she train?"

"Five to six times a week," answered Ciel.

"Wow."

"Talk about dedication."

"Not surprising—she's good for a reason."

Huh.

Ciel was surprised at how their conversation kept circling back to Eleanor. It didn't seem like any of them were driving for it, or attempting manipulation by bringing her up, rather it was naturally drawn to the dame and Ciel's connection to her.

For some reason, the students there were genuinely interested in their relationship.

It perplexed Ciel for the majority of their conversations. From his experience, people interested in Eleanor were rarely kind about it. It would range from ambitious young women angling for a higher position in society by usurping Eleanor, or patronizing nobles who felt uncomfortable with the idea of a dame.

Eleanor did not regularly talk about that group, so Ciel was not under the impression they were friends–certainly not like Eleanor and Charles were friends–yet the P4 had an undeniably warm tone whenever they said her name.

Ciel could tell there was a level of respect for her, but it was something more.

And the way they kept tying Ciel's connection in with Eleanor irked him.

He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but something bout the situation was peculiar.

Oh.

When Ciel realized it, he almost reacted.

Jealous.

They were jealous of Ciel. Because of Eleanor.

What a twist. For the first time, someone was jealous of Ciel because of his fiancée.

Most of the time people were jealous of Eleanor because of Ciel, but now–

Huh!

What a novel feeling.

People had been jealous of his status, wealth, intelligence, and even appearance but now–

Ciel wanted to smirk. He really wanted to. He refrained, choosing to keep his polite facade as he continued to answer their questions. Now aware of their feelings, he could more easily spot the barbed undertones. They were, thankfully, not the petty or malicious kind of group that would verbally berate Ciel because of their jealousy.

It was very well contained, and they were consistently cordial. Although envious of Ciel, none of them begrudged him for it. It made for pleasant conversation.

It was nice when Ciel got to talk about Eleanor. He was proud of her, and that wasn't something he had the opportunity to express without getting teased.

So he was more than happy to indulge in their questions, to quietly brag about what else she had done. He talked about the first time she defeated her father in a duel, about how easily she could make friends with some of the least expected people–an Indian prince, an opera singer, and a circus performer. He mentioned her amusement park project that was being jointly funded by the royal crown and was pleased to see how impressed they were.

"Edward's always so tight-lipped about her," Edgar complained. "We're glad you're not."

"It's not polite to gossip," Edward grumbled.

"It's not gossiping, it's bragging," Ciel said smugly.

"That's not polite either, Phantomhive!"

Ciel shrugged unsparingly in response. He wasn't about to waste such an opportunity. There were too few people who appreciated his companion in the first place. Of that already short list, Ciel couldn't bring himself to talk about Eleanor to any of them.

Sebastian would tease him. Relentlessly.

Charles would tease him, then turn around and tell everything to Eleanor.

Edward was already difficult to deal with.

Ciel did not find it proper to talk to their servants about their lady.

Soma... would likely unintentionally embarrass Ciel by either telling Eleanor everything Ciel said, or tease him.

They chatted until it was nearly time for curfew.

"Do come again tomorrow," Lawrence said.

"I'll be happy to," said Ciel, surprised he actually meant it.

Lawrence smiled at Ciel and patted the top of his head. "You're a good kid. We're happy the dame has such a kind companion."

Ciel almost laughed at the word kind. His lips twitched. "What would you do if I wasn't kind?"

"Hard to say," said Lawrence. "Best not to think on it."

"Mm."

Eleanor was stuffed from her dinner with Soma. It was near curfew by the time she started to leave the academy. She was grateful she had asked Snake and Joker to prepare a carriage for her, as she thought she'd be too tired to ride home.

Just before reaching the front gates, however, she was stopped.

"Um," came a quiet voice. Eleanor felt someone grab the edge of her sleeve, tugging hard enough to make her stop but not enough to throw her off balance.

Eleanor turned to face the voice. She frowned when she saw who it was.

Gregory Violet was a gloomy boy. He constantly wore his hood up, and had dark make-up that leaned into gothic-aesthetic. He was quiet, reserved, and disliked confrontation. He was one of the handful of students permanently excused from gym, yet he still showed up for every one of her lessons. He only watched her on the sidelines.

Eleanor heard Gregory speak thrice out of the numerous times she had encountered him over the years. Every time she came around, his gaze immediately went to his sketchbook and he refused to look at her.

Eleanor couldn't tell if he outright disliked her, felt uncomfortable around girls in general, or was painfully introverted.

Either way, he was not someone Eleanor would ever expect to call out to her, let alone grab the cuff of her sleeve.

She appreciated that he did not grab her wrist, or directly touch her. The fact that he only grabbed her sleeve and immediately let go when she turned around kept her calm. She did not feel threatened, or that he had ill intentions.

Therefore she did not reach for her rapier.

"Hello Mr. Violet," Eleanor politely greeted. "May I help you?"

Gregory clutched at his sketchbook. He tried to keep her gaze, but lost whatever nerve he had and lowered it. "Ciel Phantomhive... he really is your... fiancé?"

"Yes," said Eleanor. "We were engaged as children."

Gregory Violet was silent for so long that Eleanor felt uncomfortable waiting on him.

"If that is all, I'll be leaving," she said.

"That—" Gregory stepped forward. "When will you... will you... come back tomorrow?"

"I can," said Eleanor slowly. "Are you asking me to meet you tomorrow, Mr. Violet?"

"If you would please."

"Very well. Where would you like to meet and at what time?"

"Tomorrow night, by the swan gazebo... after the sun has set," he whispered, then turned away and left.

That's not a very specific timeframe, Eleanor thought. Hmm. Weird he even called me out. What could he want?

As this was all new territory plot-wise, Eleanor really had no way to predict what could happen next. She only knew two things.

One, the Undertaker situation had to be resolved.

Two, the original cult that kidnapped her, Astre, and Ciel, still had to be found.

She didn't think either of those two things could be related to the current investigation of the school. Rather, if she were to predict anything the school would either be another unremarkable case for Ciel to solve—there were numerous of those, but he usually had them resolved within a few days—or it was used to set up new people.

(✹)

Eleanor took a seat on underneath the gazebo. She stared up at the waxing moon. It was a quiet night. She heard Gregory approach, and she shifted her body to face him. She greeted him with a polite smile. "Good evening, Mr. Violet."

"Good evening, Dame Midford," he whispered. He hesitantly approached her.

Gregory held out a bundle of papers neatly wrapped in a delicate purple bow. Eleanor carefully accepted the papers, pulling the ribbon off so she could examine what was on the papers.

She gasped.

(✹)

Flashback for Gregory Violet

Gregory Violet's cape had blown away in the wind, and he had sprained his ankle tripping over himself trying to catch it.

Sullen, miserable, and hating everything at that moment the surly student buried his face in his hands. He hated the sunlight. Hated how hot it was outside. He hated being outside in general. Everything was too bright, too loud, too overwhelming.

He much preferred the quietness of the night, or the tranquility found in solitude.

It was the middle of the day. Most of the students were in class. He hadn't meant to skip, but he had overslept. For the past couple of weeks Gregory struggled with his block. He found no inspiration in art, music, or even in his potion-making hobby. Muse was hard to come by.

He loved to create. It was one of the few things in life that made him consistently happy. When he couldn't find the words, or sounds, or picture to express that love he fell into agony. He'd become restless, grouchy, and more dour than usual.

He stayed up far too late trying to force inspiration, and ended up sleeping well past his alarm.

Why am I even here? Gregory bemoaned. It was already so late in the day, he should have just taken the whole day off instead of trying to run to catch his afternoon classes.

Now he sat on hot bricks with a sprained ankle and lost his cape.

He wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

"Are you okay?"

The concerned voice made him flinch in shame. It was feminine and familiar—

Gregory lowered his hands to warily look up at Eleanor Midford. The dame was in that weird outfit again—a cross between pants and a skirt—with her rapier strapped to her side. Gregory had heard rumors about a dame being a guest lecturer but he had not had the chance to see her in action.

He mumbled, "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," she said, squatting down to his height and peering at him. He noticed she had striking lavender eyes.

"I'm fine," he repeated, trying to use his hands to shield his face from the sun.

Eleanor blinked once, twice, and then seemed to realize something. She smiled kindly at him, pulling off her cloak and draping it over him. At once he could smell lavender and steel. What a queer combination.

He almost voiced a protest, but her cloak kept the sun off him and it was immediately better than nothing.

"... Thank you," he whispered.

"Your knee is scraped up. Did you fall?" she asked.

"Yes," he quietly said. He had not noticed the knee while his ankle throbbed.

"Where were you headed?"

Gregory glanced up at the third floor of the academy. "History, room 3A."

He had not expected much of a response from that admission. It was nice of her to loan her cloak—

Gregory let out a small squeak of surprise when suddenly he was picked up. She had one arm hooked under his knees, and the other supporting his back.

"Hold tight, okay?" she said.

"But—I'm—"

"You're pretty small," she continued without losing her smile. "Make sure you eat more, okay? Kids shouldn't be this light."

The pre-pubescent student flushed. He knew he was on the smaller side, but that was only because he was a late bloomer...!

He was too flustered to protest. His heart pounded in his chest as she carried him straight to his classroom.

He got looks. A lot of looks. Some of the boys whispered, and others jeered. She ignored them.

And so he did, too.

She left him at the classroom without waiting for his thanks.

It was a memorable first impression.

He thought he would only ever see her as a nice girl.

But then he saw her spar.

From the window seat in history class, he overlooked the upperclassmen in their gym class. He could see the boys were plainly displeased, but the teacher waved them off. Eleanor stepped into the ring, twirling her foam-tipped rapier. Her opponent entered. They bowed, and at once she pounced upon him. Graceful, quick, and merciless, she had won the match in mere seconds with the sword held to his throat.

Gregory's eyes widened. He clutched at the sweet-smelling cloak she had loaned him. The professor continued to prattle on about something, but Gregory could no longer hear him. His focus was entirely on watching the girl below.

Another opponent stepped up. That one was angry and arrogant. Again she moved, side-stepping his attack and securing victory in another swoop.

Again. His heart thumped.

Again.

Again.

She was beyond comprehension. He never thought such a brutish sport could look so... beautiful.

She was a dancer.

His chest felt tight as his heart pounded.

He had found his muse.

(✹)

Present

Eleanor gaped at what he had drawn.

They were sketches.

Some colored. Some not.

But beautiful sketches.

On the top sketch was that of a dame, triumphant from a duel. She stood righteously, powerfully, confidently with her rapier. There was power in her stance and gaze. She looked untouchable.

And she had lavender eyes.

Eleanor's eyes burned. "This... this can't be me."

"It is," he said. "You have... been my muse..." he bowed to her. "Thank you."

"No, no, this is... an exaggeration, surely, I—" Eleanor's face felt hot as her eyes stung.

"You are," he disagreed. "It is a shame this world will not let you see otherwise."

Her bottom lip trembled. "I'm really not... really. I'm scarred, Mr. Violet."

"Skin is superficial, Dame Midford," he said.

Eleanor shook her head, her hands gripping the papers. Her heart thumped painfully as her stomach dropped. She bit hard on her bottom lip.

She stood in front of the mirror, her eyes glued to her scars and burns.

Time had dulled the redness and swelling, but the disfigurements remained. Her skin was not flawless, or smooth, but rough and ugly underneath the clothes. Her back and hips had the worst of it, and in the throws of her nightmares they would ache as badly as the night she came home. Her dominant hand had the mark of the devil—Sebastian's contract—and her hands were rough and calloused from her relentless training to be stronger.

Her hair was dull, plain. Her face was unremarkable.

By society's standards, she was not pretty. She was not attractive.

She was treated politely to her face due to her rank and ability to duel for her honor.

Without her bloodline she would not be allowed to duel others who sneered her.

If she were a commoner, no one would even spare her a glance.

She wasn't—She wasn't—

This.

This... drawing.

Gregory Violet drew a beautiful young woman who dressed like her. That woman stood above the other students after a fencing lesson, and she was gorgeous. Powerful, confident, and exuding a type of timeless beauty that was above reproach.

That wasn't Eleanor.

That couldn't be Eleanor.

She was startled when a cold finger touched her cheek. She hadn't realized she had been crying when Gregory suddenly wiped away her tears. She shied away, sniffling as she looked up at the sky. "S-Sorry, Mr. Violet."

"I did not mean to upset you, Dame Midford," he said quietly.

"N-No, it's not... it's not your fault. I—I think you are gravely mistaken, though—"

"I am not," he said. "I've done much more. But I feel you should have these. You... have been an inspiration. You steadfastly stand your ground. You're resilient, talented, and watching you fight has been—"

Eleanor's whole body started to burn. She placed a hand over his mouth, unable to handle any more direct praise.

"Please," she whispered. "No more. Not now. I—I must leave. Good evening, Mr. Violet."

She fled.

She almost made it to the gate, but to her surprise Ciel was waiting for her. He had a folder under his arms—likely something business related he wanted to her to handle in his stead.

"Ah... Ciel," she said, sniffling.

"What's wrong?" Ciel asked sharply.

"Nothing, I—I—I don't know."

"What's in your hands?"

"Oh these...?" Eleanor hesitantly handed them to Ciel.

Ciel flipped through them. "Ah, are you hoping to have a new portrait done? It's been years so you are due. Whoever drew these did a good job."

"Don't you find them a bit... exaggerated?"

Ciel's brow furrowed. "Exaggerated? In what way?"

"That looks nothing like me."

Ciel looked up to stare at her. "What?"

Eleanor immediately flushed under that stare. It was not a nice look. It was the look he gave people whenever he thought they said something so inanely stupid he was questioning whether they were smart enough to know how to breathe.

"Who drew these?" Ciel pointedly asked.

"Gregory Violet," Eleanor whispered.

Ciel glared at her. "I find Mr. Violet's drawings to be very accurate. I am certain anyone would agree."

Eleanor bit her bottom lip. She wanted to disagree, but she could tell from Ciel's expression and stance that he would argue with her.

Too tired to start that fight, she demurred, "As you say, my lord."

"Elly."

"Yes, Ciel?"

"Stop being stupid."

"Yes, Ciel."

(✹)

As Ciel was became affiliated with the P4, he was able to continue his investigation into the disappearance of the Duke's son.

He carefully engineered a conversation to naturally bringing him up, and oddly enough the P4 reacted cagily. They were evasive in their responses, only citing the standard rumor that he had transferred to the Purple dorm.

Ciel did a thorough investigation of the dorm—he set it on fire and had Sebastian count everyone who ran out—and concluded that Derrick Arden was certainly not at the dorm.

The P4 had lied.

So what had happened to Derrick?

Before Ciel had a chance to ponder his next move, something unexpected happened.

He received an invitation to a tea party by the principal.

The suspiciously absent principal that even Eleanor had never met.

Ciel, with the P4 and their fags, joined the principal for a midnight tea party. Through the back door of the principal's office, Ciel was guided to a hidden garden filled with purple and white flowers. There was a long table set up for them with tea and biscuits already made. As CIel took a seat beside Lawrence, the man at the end of the table spoke.

"Welcome, my dear students," cooed a familiar voice.

No...

Ciel sighed. "I should have known."

"Phantomhive, do you know the principal?" Lawrence Bluewer asked.

"Something of the sort," said Ciel.

"And I know why you're here, Earl," the Undertaker said. He took off his hat, his long white hair spilling out.

"Let me guess, payment upfront?" Ciel shrewdly asked.

"Not this time," said the reaper. "What was planned should not pass, which is why I'm moving forward. Your inquiry will be found tomorrow morning."

"I see," said Ciel. "And what caused it to vanish in the first place?"

"A tragic accident," explained the Undertaker.

"Accidents don't involve cover-ups," retorted the earl.

"What are you talking about?" Edward asked. "Ciel... don't tell me you're here on... orders?"

Ciel did not answer.

"Be that as it may, the circumstances require it to be an accident for everyone involved," said the Undertaker.

So... something unsavory happened and it's best to stay hidden? Ciel calmly sipped his tea. He wasn't ordered to find out the details—only to locate Derrick, and to a degree the other missing students.

"Prefects... go ahead and tell Ciel the truth of what exactly Derrick was," the Undertaker said softly.

The P4 all exchanged dubious glances. Then one by one they told a tale. One of a two-faced noble who abused his power and position to violently beat, burn, and berate commoners. His victims still lived, and had the scars on their body to match the story.

Ciel could understand, then, why Derrick's death should be rulde as an accident and left unsolved.

Her Majesty would never want to draw negative attention to the royal family, and scrutinizing the truth would inevitably shine light on Derrick's poor actions.

For the sake of appearances—the Royal Family's reputation—Derrick's body should be discovered in the river and look as though he slipped in, hit his head, and died by an accident.

The end.

Ciel sighed at the end of the tale. On one hand, he was happy to be done catering to children. On the other hand, it worried him how easily the case was resolved.

"Your cooperation is... noted," Ciel said thinly.

The Undertaker smiled mysteriously. "No need to be so cold, young lord. We both want the same thing."

"And what's that?"

"To see the little birdy fly."

(✹)

Ciel returned to his home a week later. Eleanor joined him to help coordinate the party that was only a couple of months away. She was pleased he was able to wrap up his case so quickly, although when she asked about it he was oddly vague on the details.

To her surprise, Soma chose to remain at the school. She wished him good luck.

Even more surprising, it would appear Ciel made some "friends" with his schoolmates. Primarily with the prefects who he agreed to join them for tea again a couple of times in the month. He even invited them to the party!

Things fell into their familiar routine. Ciel got caught up on his Funtomhive paperwork, and Eleanor worked on the details for the party.

Everything was going well.

And one day, people arrived at the manor.

Or rather, people were kidnapped and brought to the basement of the manor.

Not the basement where they kept the wine and other food.

The bad basement. The dungeon.

All of the servants, except Sebastian, stood around the top of the steps.

"What's going on?" Eleanor asked quietly.

There was a shift in the air, a subtle tenseness in all of the servants. The Phantomhive servants demurely looked away, while Joker and Snake stepped forward. Both bowed, placing their hands over their hearts.

Their stiff posture and somber air relayed a stiff sense of formality. Immediately, Eleanor tensed.

"Lord Phantomhive gave us a mission," Joker began. "To find blokes–er–people–who–er–"

"They tarnished your reputation," said Snake.

Coldness washed through Eleanor. Her stomach dropped. "What?"

"Not completely," Joker was quick to assure, panicking when he noticed Eleanor's horrified expression. "But the bastards tried to."

"From the beginning. Explain everything."

And so they did.

Eleanor listened with mounting outrage.

It had started off as a small little gossip group. Ladies who attended her knighting ceremony and were horrified that such a young girl was already so corrupt. They kept it amongst themselves and for the longest time, it was only that–a small group of traditionalist ladies who could not accept the idea of a woman becoming a knight in their era.

Then Eleanor became better known. First, it was discovered she was betrothed to a respectable noble family–Phantomhive–and then it was learned that she was building a reputation for being good at fencing and fighting. That she had, unimaginably, bested boys and men alike inside Weston College and outside.

The more famous she became, the more she was on people's tongues. Stories were exchanged. Her duels, her victories, who she associated with, and so on.

What was a small group had evolved into a tight-knit ring of indigent fury from both men and women.

It was, at its core, a hate group.

They started off small–buying information about Eleanor to learn her weaknesses–and eventually turned into trying to actively dismantle her reputation.

It was a strike against her to be a dame.

It was a second strike against her to be friends with boys who were not her fiancé.

It was a strike against her to–

To–

–to not be chaste.

It was not a large group, rather a small ring of zealots. There were others who briefly joined and left shortly after seeing how ravenous the group had become.

Eleanor trembled by the end of their explanation. Her stomach heaved with disgusting nausea. Chills clawed their way down her spine. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as her anger multiplied everything she felt by ten.

"I see," she said quietly. Her mouth was dry. "Are they in the dungeon?"

"Yes," said Snake.

"Then let's pay them a visit."

"But–" Mey-Rin and Finnian were about to protest, but a sharp look from Snake made them fall silent.

Into the darkness, they descended.

The dungeons were the second basement to the Phantomhive manor. They were cold, dark, and lined with iron cells. The only way to access the dungeons was through the main door, which was normally locked.

Since Ciel took over as Earl, the dungeons had to be used over a dozen times. Normally Ciel and Sebastian would be the only ones to enter it, but there had been a handful of times where Eleanor did as well.

She disliked it. Both the place, and what it represented.

That day was no different.

Awaiting her at the bottom were roughly ten men and women. They were in iron shackles, bound to iron bars of one of the cells. When they saw her, at once they started to loudly speak and pull on their chains. She recognized all of them. Half were nobility, and the other half were aspiring to a higher status.

"Lady Midford!" exclaimed Lord Smitherson. "Are you behind this? How dare you. Who do you think you are?!"

"Release us at once!"

"You'll regret this!"

She drew her rapier, at once the voices fell quiet. "Each of you know I am unafraid to use this."

Indeed they did. How could they not? Eleanor had dueled for her honor multiple times, and each instance she maimed her enemy. Many of them permanently loss use in one or two limbs depending on the severity of their rudeness. She had to take the extra step for the sake of her reputation.

She could not afford to be seen as weak.

Weak people were targeted. Especially—especially—in her line of work.

"You know why you all are here," Eleanor said. "For her slanders."

"That—"

"We were only—"

"I am to be Lady Phantomhive," she said, her voice feathery soft. "And yet you dare?"

"W-We are sorry, n-noble lady," pleaded Lady Annalin Featherhue. "It was a mistake, a g-grave mistake."

"Yes, l-let's put this all behind us now," begged Lord Ruthburough.

"You've made your point," blustered Lord Gruth. "R-Release us and we will trouble you no further."

Eleanor tilted her head as she listened to them, her gaze apathetic and face expressionless.

"If I were to spare you," she said quietly, softly, her voice barely above a whisper so they had to strain to hear her, "it would make me look soft. My reputation has, evidently, not been enough to keep you at bay. Mercy here... would only make it so much worse for me and my family."

"N-No, not at all!" Lady Featherhue panicked. "We will s-sing praises of your generosity. Of your kindness!"

"That's right! P-Poems of your mercy—"

"You—You are to be a knight, aren't you?" Lord Smitherson exclaimed. "There is no honor in your actions now."

Eleanor chuckled mirthlessly. "Have you forgotten what I am? I am to be Lady Phantomhive."

The dungeon became unbearably cold, the prisoners shivering and trembling in their shackles.

"What use is kindness to a monster on a leash?" she whispered.

Reputation was king.

Only when perceived as something untouchable, unbeatable, unapproachable could she afford to lend a hand.

If she gave mercy to those who greviously harmed such a vital tool, she would be branded as too soft.

Too weak.

Her cold rage made the next part easier.

Although she wished she did not have to do it.

She looked each of them in the eyes. She stared at their faces, memorizing them.

Every life was precious. They were not unwanted cretins forced into the world, but rather people who were born into families. Some were married and had children. They were mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Sons.

They would be missed, dearly.

It was not okay—it would never, ever be okay—but again, again Eleanor made her choice. She was committed to her path even if it would take her into the jaws of hell itself.

Us or them.

I choose us.

"Thirty days," she said. "If you are alive at thirty days... you are free to go."

"Than—"

She turned on her heel. She did not want to see their faces for what would come next.

She addressed Snake, "Fill a tub with water for each of them, enough to cover their legs when sitting down. Weigh their legs down so they are forced to stay submerged."

The human skin starts to break down after continuous immersion in water of a few days. It'd begin with sores, which would likely turn into fungal and bacterial infections. Eventually, the skin would start to fall off entirely, leaving behind a fleshy mess.

Could they survive?

Eleanor wasn't certain. She lived in a world where people defied expectations, though, so she couldn't rule out the possibility.

"If any are alive after a week, dump some maggots in their water," she said.

Some of the ladies shrieked at that.

"Maggots?" Joker echoed.

"Of course. To give them a chance, I should offer them something to eat, don't you think?" she sneered.

She could hear thumps behind her as some of them had fainted.

At the end of the thirty days, she would return whatever was left to their families.

Even if they survived, the damage done to them would be irreparable. Their legs would be useless, if not outright toxic.

If they did want to die of dehydration they would need to drink the contaminated water, and if they did not want to starve they would have to feast upon the maggots... or themselves.

It was cruel.

But it would make a very loud and clear statement.

Dead or alive, their bodies could not cover up the story of what happened to them.

A warning.

Lady Phantomhive could not be perceived as the weak link.

Especially when she already had so many strikes against her.

Eleanor left the dungeon and noticed Ciel stood at the top of the stairs.

He smiled mirthlessly at her.

"Do you have reservations about my orders?" she asked him.

Ciel placed a hand over his heart and offered her a shallow bow. "It will be as my lady wishes."

(✹)

Eleanor leaned against the window frame of her bedroom window. She had opened the window to let in a breeze and sat on the bench attached to it. Her back was pressed against the frame as she rested her head against it.

It was a full moon that night with not a cloud in sight. Thousands of stars twinkled above her, shining brilliantly against the dark curtain. It was the kind of beauty that could never be captured by a camera or painter, something only magical to see in person.

On top of the view, it was nice outside. It was a warm summer night, but cool enough to not be uncomfortable.

In another life Eleanor would have called it perfect camping weather.

In another life Eleanor wouldn't be feeling sick her stomach over what she had ordered.

She was shivering in spite of the warmth. She was too nauseous to even look at her dinner, let alone eat it.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to run away. To run far, far away.

The shame and guilt would not abate so easily. Those two always came to greet her in the night after rough days. She had been dealing with her nightmares better, but she could not stop them outright.

Didn't want to stop her guilt, either. A part of her felt like it was deserved for her failure to protect Ciel and Astre. Another part of her felt that the day she stopped feeling guilt for her murders was the day she became a monster.

She had made her peace with needing to take lives, but going that extra step for outright torture deeply unsettled her.

Which, of course, caused her mind to wander into dark places.

Dark memories.

Her deaths. Her trauma. Her regrets.

It was tempting, tantalizingly so, to just lean forward a bit more–

As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn't.

She could never abandon her loved ones.

Didn't stop her from feeling so–so–

DisgustedTerrifiedResentful

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes and trying to calm her heartbeat.

Thoughts are thoughts and these too will go away, Eleanor glumly thought, hugging herself as she looked up at the moon.

I've survived everything else. I can survive this, too.

She closed her eyes.

But can I survive what's to come?

She wished she knew more.

The uncertainty of the future coupled with the knowledge she knew they were in for a rough time... it exacerbated her anxiety.

If only all her problems could be resolved through combat.

She wished she could swat down gossipers, stab her nightmares, or parry the shame away. If her issues could be resolved by her own two hands and without the need for bloodshed–

Her nails dug into her arms as she continued to hug herself.

She could not fight Sebastian any more than she could predict what was to come.

She and Ciel were still entrapped by their contract, their souls forfeit for the time being.

Her closest confidant had turned into an unwilling enemy and she...

All she could do was put one foot in front of the other and try to fight whatever came their way.

That's right.

Could she survive what was to come?

She didn't know.

But she would certainly try her best.

Even if—

Her bottom lip trembled, a surge of raw emotions making her vision blur.

It was a beautiful night. A moon so big and bright it could inspire anyone into waxing a poem about it. The stars sparkled with an ethereal glow. The breeze was consistently gentle and cool amongst the warm summer night.

No one would be looking for her that night. Any still awake had to be drawn to the beauty of that moon, not her.

And so with no one looking at her, Eleanor thought it would be okay to just–to just–

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice so quiet she thought no one would hear her.

Yet someone did.

He stepped out from the shadows, his footsteps silent against her bedroom floor. The moon shone brightly above them, bathing the below lavender garden in a silver wash. They danced in the summer breeze.

Ciel stood beside her, and he did not say anything.

He simply took her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

Nothing more needed to be said.

It's okay.

Because I'll still be right here with you.

(✹)

Birthday update. :d New chapter for Black Butler, Overlord, and complete one-shot for Bungou Stray Dogs.

Answer: Multi-verse hopping to try different foods with sunshine girl Orihime.

Question: What kind of fictional school would you want to go to, and who would you want to be your best friend throughout it?

Reviews are love!