The time flew by after your encounter with Queen Victoria. Days turned into weeks, then months, then years. Seven years went by and you never got what you wanted from Sebastian.

He gave you one fleeting look immediately after you learned who it was that brought on all the horror that had befallen you and Ciel Phantomhive. You couldn't be sure then if it was a warning, to disengage, that his master's contract was nearing its end, and that you were to stay out of his way, or something more cryptic. Perhaps it was regret, but despite its severity, it didn't seem malicious.

You couldn't be sure, yet you didn't lose hope as the countless hours passed. In fact, your heart grew stronger. You were surprised by your resilience. You cared less about his lack of response than you ever thought you would, and it was all because of what you were a part of.

There were two explanations for what had befallen the Aristocrats of Evil, Her Majesty's Guard Dog, your father, The Lion, and every other family still in the Queen's good graces with a stake in the match one of their own players had thrown.

One was simple. One was much more complicated.

Simply put, it was no secret that Aliestor Chamber would be the perfect suspect for the crimes committed against his former allies. His absence from the scenes where his associates committed their worst acts, brutalised you before attempting murder, sacrificing and killing the son of a vital resource to the crown, gave him away when enough of their names were revealed. He was known for his incapability to carry secrets. Who would have known he was the keeper of the biggest secret of all? Despite its apparent elementary explanation when the case was solved, Druitt's duplicity was monumental, and his effects were hard to eliminate.

That's where the complicated nature of the whole situation began. Clearly, The Viscount did not act alone. It would take time and effort, it would cost lives and a great deal of money to identify all those involved, and as you crossed name after name off a shared hit list, it became clear that the unprecedented camaraderie between the fearsome houses of the world in which Ciel grew up was upsetting him.

No, their assistance humiliated him. Nothing needed to be said for you to know why. You had heard the same words before from many people.

I'm sorry it had to be this way.

Was there ever another way? If so, an alternate route was yet to be found. Even in hindsight, Ciel's situation required him to act as he did. But why was he there in the first place if there had been a way to prevent it? Why did it come down to this, to you and him? If families like his had the capacity to work together, then perhaps this entire endeavour could have been avoided. The Viscount and his ostentations were infamous. Even if it took twice the time, which still would be less than two decades, he could have been presumptively dealt with. Several generations would be affected at this point. It was too late to change anything. Until recently, the wasn't a single day that went by after his pact with Sebastian that Ciel doubted or questioned his decision. His anger would lead him to answers, but he never expected any help from the people he knew.

On several nights over the course of those seven years, he came to understand remorse. His actions, as well as yours, kept you both busy. You were able to come out of hiding literally, but you both continually suppressed inner preoccupations.

You didn't worry about Sebastian as that fascinating, unbelievable night faded from memory. You never forgot what happened, but it's hold on you, it's terrifying significance, the end all be all of your entire existence, that side of it was gone.

You saw Ciel Phantomhive grow from an appealing kid to a brilliant, powerful young man, striking and dazzling as he matured. You finally met his betrothed, Elizabeth, and her family, the Midfords. You laughed when you realised why that one man in Ciel's office on the morning you met the Queen had laughed when you told him you would have liked some of that Earl Grey.

You want some of me? You recalled how frightened you were when raised his sword. I know your father could fight.

Charles Beaumont Phipps and Charles Grey, the latter the son of a renowned Earl, both employed directly by the Queen herself. Your favourite tea was named after him.

You grew substantially as well, becoming equally fascinating. Already unusual, you skyrocketed to the top of the chart of topics reserved for discussion in the salons of the beautiful, extraordinary homes of the guardians of London's underbelly. You were a teenager when you first came to Phantomhive Manor, and now, you were a young woman fit to reign in any world. One day, you would, and it would mark the start of the best days of your lives.

Your 'fellow' servants reacted accordingly when they learned the truth of your birth. Mey-Rin revelled in her newfound glory, being right made her dance through the hallways, breaking even more priceless artefacts that only Sebastian could mend. Bardroy and Finnian merely agreed that it made sense for you to be a noblewoman, but when they realised how highborn you actually were, they all reacted with equal awe.

You adored Ciel's fiancé, and you both learned from each other. Her mother made sure that you honoured your father's legacy and taught you how to fight fiercer than ever. Your swordsmanship needed work. She coached you, calling your father by his first name when she needed to motivate you in a way only a remark that hit close to home could do. They were friends, apparently, and good ones at that. It was one of the only times she let anyone outside her immediate family see her cry.

You wished your father knew Ciel's as you learned more about how much of their history could have led them to be allies. If you were friends before this, maybe it all would be different.

Neither of you would have met Sebastian Michaelis, either. Both of you accepted that, and it was all you had to remind yourselves of when it came to seeing your ambitions through to the end.

He was worth more to you both than either of you knew then, and you'd come to know the extent of that more than anyone else ever could.

You became accustomed to lording your previously concealed heraldry over people. While not publicly recognised at all, the vast majority of those in your circle knew that bastard daughters of Kings and Queens had ruled over many lands with a deeper appreciation for their peoples than legitimate heirs might have once a power shift made their fear of death and ruin a thing of the past. It was funny more than serious. Even so, there was undeniable historical accuracy to your namesake.

Your Highness.

The Queen wrote only when absolutely essential. When a letter came one afternoon, it meant your efforts had finally paid off. It was nearly finished.

Almost all the men who had been upsetting the order she had worked so hard to maintain had been exterminated like the rats they were, but several remained, just as rats do.

The Viscount had been kept alive in order to be interrogated. Information only he could possess was tortured out of him. It was an archaic practice, but an effective one if there actually was a witch warranting persecution after all. She had finally gotten it out of him, and who of all people to do it? One of the Charles's, but you'd have expected it to be the young man whose tea you liked much less now that he'd beaten you in almost every fight. Your immutable devotion was, in fact, extremely mutable.

Charles Phipps got him to crack, and he told him everything he knew. Druitt was responsible for what had happened, but he wasn't in charge. Someone else had started it.

The task of killing the true culprit was never something with which Her Majesty wanted to be faced, but it had been done by her ancestors, if the greater good required spilling royal blood. Familial executions warranted special care. Her request was personal, and you were to bring her the man who did all this so she could put an end to the embarrassing abuse of his birthright herself. Her words were reminiscent of Ciel's. He had taken advantage of his freedoms far too greatly for her to ignore any longer. The man to blame was the very reason you were so instrumental all along. You were born that way, useful from the start.

He was your biological father, after all.

It was high time you met him and gave him the regards of the only man you'd ever call father.

The closing remark of your sovereign's letter was like a sign from God himself.

"Don't let them get away with this."