Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh? A new recruit, Freckles?”

Ciel tripped over his own feet. Who—Wha—He hadn’t seen—?

“Careful, Smile!” Freckles fretted from behind him, swiftly yanking him up by the midriff to keep him from falling, showing as little struggle in doing so as lifting a bag of hot air.

Let go of me! he wanted to say, but couldn’t quite get enough air. Instead, he flailed around, gasping and coughing, Freckles’ concerned visage mocking him from his peripherals all the while.

The voice from before chuckled, pitiless to Ciel’s struggles. “Smile? A fitting name indeed. Well, we’ll be rooming together from now on, so let us get along, dear Smile.”

Elbowing Freckles in the abdomen, Ciel broke free. Huffing and puffing, Ciel heaved in an indignant breath, smoothened down his clothes, and spun around to squint suspiciously at the man—who, for some baffling reason, he hadn’t initially noticed when entering the tent—scrutinizing his… “roommate”... with a careful eye.

Crossed legs, slight smile, relaxed mien. Casual-as-you-please, the man sat on the edge of the washed-out bunk bed, eyes crinkled at the edges. Despite it being long past showtime, he was still in full costume, suited up, everything from the artfully styled strands of his hair to the shine of his shoes impeccably in place. Streaks of crimson and blue and bright, beautiful yellow traced his scholarly features, deepening the darkness of his pitch-black eyes and widening his smile. He lorded over the cramped, worn tent with an effortless elegance and gravity that was incongruous with the circus’ scrappy atmosphere; yet, at the same time, he seemed right at home. A bundle of mysteries in the vague-yet-not-quite-shape of a man, Ciel thought.

This is the other exceptional new member that yappy knife-thrower mentioned? Considering that “Suit” was a Grim Reaper… Could this man also be…

Ciel’s single eye narrowed. The man gazed back at him, smile widening.

…No, Ciel concluded eventually, quickly averting his gaze. His eyes are pitch black—not that odd phosphorescent shade the Grim Reapers possess. Regardless, caution is required…

He held back a sigh. This whole damn affair only kept getting longer and longer. Mysteriously disappearing children, getting dragged into a circus’ crew, running into that annoying Grim Reaper, being separated from Sebastian… No rest for the evil indeed.

Ciel painstakingly drew his taut lips into a smile, locking his hands behind his back, chin tilted down just so. “Yes, I am…… Smile.” Ciel’s smile tightened. He cleared his throat. “And you are, senior…?”

The flash of a charming smile. The clown-faced man opened his mouth—only to close it once more as Freckles cut in, seemingly unable to bear the thought of being left out. “This is one of our newest members—‘The Fool’!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the suited clown, a broad smile lighting up his face.

Ciel paused. The Fool? What kind of name is—? His thoughts went blank.

“Personally,” the so-called Fool corrected (Ciel blinked. What was I thinking about again…?), raising up an elegant black-gloved finger, “I prefer ‘Mr. Fool’. Though you may also call me ‘Klein Moretti’, if you’d so like.” He shot Ciel a winning smile, folding his hands primly on his lap. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Smile. May Fate one day bless me with the miracle of witnessing your namesake.” Humor coloured his tone.

Ciel’s eye narrowed. Another weirdo for the pile, it seems. Tch, just my luck. Where do they keep popping up from?

“Ah, Mr. Fool!” Freckles burst out suddenly, a violent assault of sound next to Ciel’s ear canals, interrupting his thoughts. The former was rocking back and forth unevenly on his feet, casually looping his arms around Ciel’s shoulders and tugging on him. He stumbled back. Presumptuous little— “Why don’tcha show Smile here one of your tricks?” He paused to ruffle cheerfully at Ciel’s hair, and he scowled, trying and failing to duck away. Freckles beamed brighter. “Those children the other day loved that card thingy you did!”

“I—” am no child! Ciel wanted to protest, but he was already being dragged along by Freckles, and, in the blink of an eye, arrived before the seemingly amused (or perhaps bemused? He couldn’t tell) Klein Moretti.

His eyes really are black, was Ciel’s first thought, so close to the older man that he could see the faint glimmer of starlight in those pitch-black pupils. He starred, and was stared at right back. Bright blue, into the darkest of blacks.

The clown-like man shifted forward, laying his head on a hand, looking at Ciel warmly, an aura of… indulgence in his demeanor, suffusing the darkness of his gaze, softening their void-like terror. It was gentle. It was kind.

It was how one would look at a child.

Ciel glared back, bright and burning.

Klein’s smile deepened, morphing into a soft chuckle. He glanced playfully between the dour Ciel and chipper Freckles, eyes crinkled, sounding positively tickled as he offered indulgently, “If you insist, then.”

No, actually, I don’t!

Unfortunately unable to read Ciel’s thoughts (or the burning sear of his glare, somehow), Klein proceeded to pull out an entire cane—how did it fit in there!?—from within his suit, twirling it with great familiarity and grace.

“Let’s see…” he mused, clever fingers running down the smooth surface of the cane. “Of course, I am the pinnacle of all Clowns, the most exceptional Magician…”

Wow, that’s some self-confidence right there, Ciel thought derisively, still held in place by a beaming Freckles and the stranglehold of his own shock. He could give Sebastian a run for his money.

“...But first and foremost, I have always been a Seer,” the overdressed clown finished.

With a sudden smirk, Klein flicked his wrist, and the cane morphed seamlessly into a clown mask, then a bouquet of blooming flowers, before finally settling into a deck of Tarot cards.

Ciel bit down on his lip to keep them from falling open in shock. He blinked once. Twice. Then a third time. Again and again, as though reality would reassert itself if he closed and reopened his eyelids hard enough. From behind Ciel, Freckles hopped up and down in excitement, holding back a squeal, and the arms around Ciel’s neck tightened.

Klein grinned at their (Freckles’) excitement and their (Ciel’s) breathless (literally, help, he could not BREATHE) anticipation. “Let us do some good old divination, then.”

A strange quiet fell over the tent as the clown straightened into the position. He expertly shuffled the deck of cards, gaze riveted to Ciel, eyes going half-lidded, tone melting into something soft and silent and mysteries. “Focus on your past, present and future, now… Here.” A wad of unflipped cards were presented to Ciel, who blinked rapidly in confusion.

“Pick three,” Klein continued, smiling as always.

Does he not know any other expression? Ciel thought, stifling a scowl (Smile, smile. Remember, you have a part to play…) Still, he obliged, reaching out, if with great skepticism. Whatever parlour trick this Klein Moretti had done with cane was impressive, sure, but fortune telling? Hah! As if the past, present and future could ever be divined—

The Fool.

Mr. Fool’s smile widened further. “Ah, ‘The Fool’. The Fool indicates infinite possibilities and potential, but also naivety—innocence. The beginning of the Tarot, numbering 0. There are paths aplenty, all yours for the choosing.” He tapped against the card in thought. “Your past, your childhood, had been filled with innocence and purity. A noble bloodline, good education, a loving family …You were quite the gifted and bright child, were you not, Smile?”

Me? Gifted? Bright? Ciel’s hands tightened into fists, fury suddenly crawling up his throat, clogging up his airways. His eyes—both of them—burned.

Do not presume to know me, Fool. As if such words could ever be used to describe me. Incompetent, perhaps. Naive, certainly. No—the gifted and bright one wasn’t me—never me—but it was—

“—Now, the present,” Klein said gently, drawing Ciel back from his spiraling thoughts. He suppressed a flinch. Unsuccessfully, it seemed, as Klein instead tilted his head, gazing keenly at Ciel with those light-consuming eyes of his.

“Something the matter, Smile?” inquired Klein.

Calm down, calm down… don’t glare at him, don’t glare…

“...Not at all,” Ciel replied finally, swallowing down bile. Anger smothered until it remained a mere gentle simmer—at least, for the moment. He fixed a smile onto his face, though it felt horribly twisted, even to him. “The present, yes?” he said instead, hastily drawing his second card.

The Devil.

If Ciel hadn’t already been doing his best to control his expression, he would’ve done much more than merely widen his eyes. As it was, his azure iris dilated uncontrollably, and a shudder ran through him, a gasp fighting its way out of his lungs. Ciel’s line of sight snapped towards the eternally smiling Klein, and, for the first time, he found something sinister lurking in the curve of the older man’s overly crimson lips, feeling a spike of unease—yes, unease. Merely unease. It is not fear. How could it possibly be? Calm down calm down—at the eerie, unknowable quality dancing within the Clown’s pitch-black eyes.

What are you? Ciel asked himself, not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last.

Klein laughed, and involuntary chills ran up Ciel’s spine at the very normal, unremarkable sound. “Well, it seems that I needn’t say more. This is quite self-explanatory.” Half-forgotten behind him, Freckles began to whine. Klein probably said something soft and placating, lulling him back into peaceful ignorance. And yet, none of it mattered. Ciel hardly spared a thought for either of them, still fighting down the urge to tremble uselessly, anger morphing into something new, something other, something that felt almost like—

(Stupid, weak, a good-for-nothing spare—)

“—The future,” said Klein, once again dragging Ciel back from his mire of a mind. He was looking at Ciel expectantly.

(—You are the Earl of Phantomhive. Brilliant and cunning; the Queen’s loyal hound. You will not be shaken by some second-rated hack’s magic tricks like some ignorant starry-eyed child. No, there was a logical explanation for this… this trickery.

There had to be.)

Significantly more weary, Ciel gazed at the remaining twenty cards with a burning stare; as if, through sheer force of will alone, he could scour out the secrets behind them. Finally, biting down on his lip hard, Ciel reached for the leftmost card—

—Only for a passing wind to scatter every single card away.

For a fleeting second, Ciel thought he saw Klein’s eyes widen with shock, his ever-present smile slipping away for the first time, before curling up in… delight? Madness? Then, that brief glimpse disappeared, hidden behind the Clown’s mask once more.

(What is real, what is fake? Or has this all been some surreal, twisted little lucid dream, starting from the moment the clock struck twelve on that fateful, hateful day three years ago?)

“Ehhhh?” Freckles articulated, still hanging off of Ciel’s shoulders, looking around at the Tarot cards scattered throughout the tent in confusion and disappointment.

“How nostalgic,” Klein muttered softly as though to himself, before giving them a reassuring smile. “Don't be alarmed. This, too, is a sign from Fate. As for exactly what it means…” He chuckled quietly, and this time, both Ciel and Freckles shivered in unison. “...Well, who can say?”

That night, Ciel slept uneasily.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“Sebastian,” Young Master whispered to him as they found a second of seclusion. His countenance was grave—well, more so than usual, at least. The child’s dark, endlessly greedy gaze was locked onto a man on the far side of the practice tent, who was seemingly doing acrobatic tricks while wearing the painted face of a clown, smiling broadly to his adoring and jealous onlookers. “That man… Is there anything special about him?”

Hm? Something special, beyond the mundane senses of humans? He narrowed his suddenly gleaming red eyes. He inspected the man’s soul, sniffed at the air, trying to taste it on his tongue—

…A riot of life and color, filtered through a gray fog… A thousand different sights and scenes… Hanging over it all, an inescapable note of sadness; loneliness…

—But it was utterly normal, utterly unremarkable. It was no delicacy like the Young Master’s, or even repugnant like the Grim Reapers.

“No, Young Master,” he stated, confidently. As far as his eyes (sharpness unrivalled) could see, there was nothing special about the clown; he was just another human, a faceless individual in an unremarkable crowd, as boring and normal as a soul could be.

Young Master did not appear satisfied by his answer, however. Impatience and dissatisfaction twisted the line of his lips, while anger shimmered beneath his eyelids. Hmph, human children these days…

The boy spoke up again, visibly trampling down on his frustration. “Then, what do you know of divi—No, nevermind.” The little liar shook his head. “It could’ve been a coincidence… Yes, it was nothing more than a coincidence.”

Still, even as Young Master tried to reassure himself, a frown marred his gloomy visage, a stain of worry that he could never truly remove. Forever, he was weighed down by despair, chained by doubt; yet, as ever, his eyes (blue as the sky and sea, reflecting an utterly hopeless world) were opened wide, unblinking even in the face of total darkness, gazing steadfastly—unflinchingly—into the abyss.

It was the perfect seasoning for the most perfect soul, the greatest meal he, “Seabastian”, would ever have.

“You should smile more, Smile,” he said with supreme amusement, all thoughts of the clown absent from his mind. Young Master scowled darkly at him, opening his mouth to…

“Oi!! Black, Smile! Less talking, more practicing!” came the voice of the knife-thrower, and he promptly straightened up, mask falling over him like a well-worn uniform, once more becoming “Black”—the Noah’s Ark Circus’ prodigious recruit, preparing for his explosive opening act.

Ah, what fun.

He smiled.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

As “Ciel” scrambled for the correct reply to Dagger’s nagging and as “Sebastian” watched his contractor fumble with malicious mirth, neither of them noticed as a pitch-black gaze locked onto them from afar.

“Interesting,” Klein murmured, his crimson smile never once wavering.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

As “Black” and “Suit” waltzed through the air, the crowd’s excitement reached a crescendo. Within the shadows, Klein, holding a small, delicately chased silver hand mirror, smiled wryly. His eyes tracked the two acrobats’ expressions as they flew through the air, sensing the hostility and disgust between them even from afar, noting the slight glint of malicious crimson and phosphorescent green flashing through their eyes.

“Many things are exactly the same, and yet wholly different. How very funny Fate is—how it so loves to play its little pranks on us all, great and small,” he whispered. The silver mirror in his hand lit up as if to express its agreement, flashing with adoring intent.

With a slight smile, Klein glanced in the direction of the first-tier members’ tents. If his gaze could pass through all obscurations, piercing through the waves of tents and crowds of people like they were no more than air, he would be able to see a singular struggling boy, fighting with all he had against Fate, and yet still being entangled within its tempestuous waters all the same.

Seeing the small boy, so thoroughly encased by the dark embrace of misery, the thought of stepping out of his role of “observer” and into “participant” had crossed his mind. A temporary, potentially damning, thought—hadn’t he come here to distance himself from the games of the gods and experience humanity? To intervene would draw many unwanted eyes, none of them particularly well-inclined nor sympathetic to his presence. The cosmic war that had temporarily died down could be reignited. No matter how one looked at it, getting closer to the boy would be an utterly foolish thing to do.

Klein ran a thoughtful finger down the side of the small mirror in his hand.

Foolish, hm?

Thunderous applause drew his attention back to the show. “Black” and “Suit” had each returned to their launching platforms, act concluded; the former bowing and smiling, the latter brooding and angry. The crowd clapped and cheered. Then, in the split second when all eyes left him, “Black” vanished faster than the—human—eye could see, as if had never been there at all.

(You aren’t human. Haven’t been so for… a long time now. Far too long.)

(Remember—You are a “he”, not a “He”.)

(Remember, remember, remember.)

“...Well, the situation seems stable for now. Arrodes?”

Words wreathed in silver swiftly appeared on the small mirror. “Great Master! What do you require of this humble servant of yours?”

Klein smiled down at the mirror in his hand. “I’m thinking that letting loose and having some fun would make this little vacation of ours much more interesting. At least, for the time being. Would you agree?”

“Of course, Great Master!” Arrodes promptly replied, ever dutiful. “Any who would dare to obscure your enjoyment deserves a violent and excruciating end!!”

Klein let out an exasperated sigh. At that moment, a young boy ran up to him, dragging his parents in toe, clambering for a “Divination with Me, Mysteries!” With a picture-perfect smile, Klein obliged.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“You still don’t get it?” the tightrope walker, Doll, asked him, gazing deeply into his eyes.

Ciel’s brain whirled.

Sitting on a nearby crate, Klein Moretti—still wearing that irritating face paint and irritating smile—was watching them with an obvious air of amusement.

Under their anticipating gazes, Doll put her hands on her wig, removing it with pomp.

Ciel stared. Klein laughed joyfully.

“It’s me!” Freckles declared, smiling at him cheekily.

“Freckles!?” Ciel shouted, still in disbelief. “Y-you’re a guy, and yet you would wear such a costume!?” Outrageous! Shameless! What kind of pervert was he!?

Dol—Freckles pouted. “How rude! I’m obviously a lady.”

…

She was indeed.

With a cough, Klein redirected the… conversation (though to call it such would be a disgrace to the concept) “At any rate… What were you doing there, Smile? It was quite the close call. Had we not been there…” Freckles’ expression pitched. Klein blinked woefully, mouth ever-so-slightly downturned, lower lip catching on his teeth—Ciel had the absurd urge to laugh. “Surely, Mr. Joker must’ve informed you about the snakes…” he trailed off, absently shuffling the deck of cards in his hands.

Ciel’s expression shuttered off. In a split second, he was on his knees, “confessing” to trying to steal from the first-tier troupe members—an old habit he couldn’t shake, that was all, it would only be this one time, never again, he promised, he swore. With tears in his eyes, he begged not to be kicked out, pleading for understanding…

Out of the corner of his eye, away from the “sympathetic” Doll, Ciel watched searchingly as Klein looked consideringly at him, mournfulness dissipated like smoke, a certain… glint in eyes. A knowing look. One that scoured away all mysteries, banishing the mists, leaving behind only the squirming truth, tiny and ugly and all too true.

All secrets and lies were crystal clear under that gaze, and Ciel did not like it one bit.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

That night, “Ciel” had his first asthma attack in years.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

By the patient's—young “Ciel”’s—bedside, Klein stood, arms crossed, head tilted down with a fretting Doll, a deep furrow to his brow.

Asthma…

As a Beyonder, and now, a Great Old Dominator, mundane illnesses had long become problems of the past to him. If he were to come down with a cold or sudden illness, it was indicative of a much more serious issue. The people closest him were also largely unaffected by such things. Thus, to see such a small child—who was supposedly thirteen but looked no older than eleven—come down with such a serious case of asthma, sweat pouring down his face, cheeks red with fever, the lingering smell of vomit on his lips…

(Not much got to him, nowadays. The horror, the pain, the misery—what was left that he had yet to see? But this…)

Klein’s frown deepened. Unseen by all, he flipped a coin. Such actions weren’t needed for divination at his level, certainly, but maintaining such a “lowly” habit was good—it was human, and that was more important than anything in the world.

(More than anything in the cosmos)

Klein caught the coin. Hm… “Smile” will be alright, it seems. My interference will be unnecessary. If not, he would've considered discreetly healing the child, but…

Face half-hidden in shadows, Klein subtly eyed the demon and doctor hovering over “Smile”’s bedside—though, in this case, the lines between their roles were, amusingly, blurred; the devilish doctor, and the doctorly demon. Had it not been for them, even if the child hadn’t been sure to make a full recovery, Klein might’ve healed him anyway, simply to save “Smile” the pain. Certainly, “Mr. Fool”, leader of the Tarot Club and mighty god, would’ve had no problems and simply snapped his fingers to grant his own wish. But that wasn’t him. “He” was Klein Moretti, a simple layman with a flair for the theatrics and a talent for tricks.

(You mustn’t forget that you are only “acting”.)

He rolled the coin between his fingers, the Fates of all flicking behind his half-lidded eyes.

Ah, choices, choices, choices…

Klein held back a sigh, slipped the coin back into his pocket, and closed his weary eyes.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“Joker. Prepare that for me,” the Baron Kevin demanded, in all his loathsome fury. Ciel subtly pushed the unwanted glass of wine offered to him further away from himself. Revulsion swirled in his chest, and had it not been so undignified, he might’ve even vomited up dinner.

“B…But…” Joker tried to protest, only to be quickly shut down. In the end, was this all the ringleader amounted to? A pawn in an idiot’s game? Ciel’s lips curled in disgust.

(Pathetic. Possessing of less dignity than even the worms beneath his boot. Had his—their—capturers and captors been much the same? What worthless wastes of space. They all ought to have dropped dead before they’d ever crossed paths, before that hateful night, silently and ignominiously like the vermin they were, before they had hurt Cie—)

Like a marionette strung along by its strings, Joker obeyed his “Father”’s commands. Standing tall atop an empty stage, the spotlight on him and him alone, Joker smiled, eyes unnaturally wide; a model clown, the perfect madman. He raised his cane high. “Welcome, Earl Phantomhive,” he said, in a sickening parody of the circus’ normal opening speech, a crazed glint in his eyes, “tonight, I will lead you into a world of pleasure and dazzling delights. Witness–!”

The curtains rose up, and Ciel tensed, wondering what he would he would find behind—

(Two children–twins—trapped in a cage, chains around their ankles and arms around each other, clinging, hoping, praying—!)

—But there was nothing. Not a single soul. Not a single kidnapped child. Then why—where—?

Caught in a swirling storm of mysteries, Ciel could only unknowingly, unwittingly, walk down the path set down for him by the Lord who governed the bizarre and the mystical.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“‘Tomorrow we’ll end everything’, huh…”

Amidst a violent, raging fire stood a singular figure, untouched by the wanton destruction. No flickering flame dared to bar his path, and no soot would think to stain the soles of his boot. Within the circular room, this—this mockery of human suffering, The Fool was utterly alone, eyeing the altar with distaste, his expression oozing enough disgust that even the twisted Baron Kevin would roll in his grave and curl up in shame from the force of his pure, withering hatred.

“A deserved death,” Klein whispered with all the divine judgement of a deity, slowly making his way out of the vile room at a sedate pace. Not a single flicker of attention was spared in the direction of Joker’s cooling—burning—corpse. Only a mild, distant ring of pity, quickly forgotten.

Foreseeing death and destruction in the stars, he had already made prior preparations and sent the kidnapped children within the manor away. It had caused quite the stir—The Baron had become raving mad when he found out that all his “servants” had simultaneously disappeared. It was child’s play to pin it all on the “Doctor”, of course, but if only he had come a bit sooner, paid a little more attention…

Sighing softly, Klein shook his head. Even as powerful as he was, he could not save everyone. Fate would rebalance the scales; here, under Inevitability’s inescapable umbra, that was more true than ever. He had done his best—the important thing was to ensure the prosperous futures of all the children he had not been too late to save.

Speaking of children….

He did not know what trials and hardships the boy that called himself Ciel had gone through—he would not unduly pry, without good reason; he wouldn’t disrespect the boy so—but…

(Idly, lost in thought, Klein kicked aside the “doctor”’s head, clearing in the way. Without resistance, it rolled into the all-consuming flames.)

….But in the end, it didn’t matter. No child should have to bear witness to death and destruction; no child deserved to be put through the crucible; no child should live on thinking that every second in which they breathed and grieved was merely borrowed time; no child should live solely for revenge. He would—could not—stand for it.

(Not if he could help it.)

Klein pushed open the haunted manor's gates. Unnoticed by Butlers and Grim Reapers and all, he strode through the threshold of the collapsing manor and back into the open night, his windbreaker drifting on the suddenly cold, lonely breeze.

Klein envisioned “Smile”, recalling the perpetual pain in his large, azure eye. The coldness of his smile. The hopelessness in all that was good, carved deep into his soul. The dark talons, digging deep into his brilliant mind, drawing blood, slowly staining his hands with ruby red. The light in his eyes, drip, drip, draining away.

“Should we meet again… No—when we meet again, I’ll be sure to show you not just the vileness of humanity, but also its beauty as well.”

(Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Even after all these years, humanity was still so uniquely beautiful—more so than anything in the cosmos. The glittering jewel of the universe; multifaceted and bright, buried under layers and layers and layers, filled with flaws, and yet still so beautiful.)

Klein slowly walked on. In one reality, he might’ve passed by the corpse of a young girl who liked to smile, who was fiercely loyal, who loved life and was almost painfully native. She was also as cold as stone, as capable of cruelty as her child-abducting brothers and sisters, shaped and stained and held together by her guilt and love.

But in this reality, she had never been killed by the demon named Sebastian for standing in a terrified child’s way.

“My gift,” Klein murmured, his words lost to the wind and the crackling flames. He had known Freckles—or perhaps Doll—for only a short time… Nevertheless, everyone deserved a second chance, no matter their sins.

He hoped she would take it.

Behind Klein, the manor that had witnessed countless tragedies and woes was being slowly burned away by the infernal flames of the abyss, stripping it down into columns of ash and a flickering record of horrific memories, one day destined to be buried by time.

Klein did not look back.

Chapter Text

“Correspondence from Master Lau, Young Master.”

Drowning in papers and documents, Ciel looked up at Sebastian’s approach. “Finally,” he grumbled, holding out a hand, in which the letter was placed. Swiftly, he broke the seal, scanning the letter within, feeling a sinister smile slowly tugging at the corners of his mouth. With this, all the pieces would fall into place… Hm?

P.S. I have a special guest I want to invite along. You don’t mind, do you, Earl?

- Lau, your dearest friend, forever and ever~

In Ciel’s grip, the letter crumpled slightly.

“Lau…” Ciel cursed, though the subject of his resentment was not there to hear it. He threw the letter onto his desk and leaned back in his chair, frowning heavily, his mind spinning. A special guest… This could potentially disrupt events.

“Isn’t it alright, Young Master?” Sebastian asked unconcernedly, taking back the letter and clearing up his Master’s desk. “With this, you will no longer owe Master Lau for the information you requested. This ‘special guest’ is most likely some client or another of Kunlun’s, or perhaps one of his girls. And, in the unlikely case that things go wrong, do you not have me, Young Master?” Sebastian smiled, salvation and damnation all in one. (Though mostly the latter.)

Ciel scoffed, and did not deign to reply. “Whatever,” he grumbled, returning to his work, making a shoo-ing motion with his hands, running out of his limited reserve of patience for the day. “Leave me be.”

The demon performed a textbook perfect bow, which conveniently hid his smirk. Ciel knew what he was doing. Bastard. “Yes, my Lord,” he demurred, as always.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

The day of the banquet.

“Wha… What kind of person is the Earl?”

“Let’s see… Ah, He always has an angry or otherwise sour look on his face. He’s the most prideful person you’ll ever meet. Also, he's always wearing an eye-patch—like a pirate!”

From atop the grand staircase, Ciel held back a tired sigh. “Why don’t you stop teasing my guests, Lau?” he said sternly, looking in the Chinese man’s direction from high above. Lau shrugged innocently. With him was his ever-present sister, Ran Mao, dressed in… shameless attire, as expected. Arthur Conan Doyle, the author, the victim of Lau’s torment was also present, a stricken look on his face. And finally…

Hm?

The final man wore a fine suit. Lau’s guest, presumably. He had a scholarly aura and the typical face of a Londoner, his lips stretched into a gentle smile. Like Ciel, he held a cane, bejewelled to almost look like it was shining with the light of the stars.

For some reason, he seemed almost… familiar?

Ciel quickly put those thoughts out of his mind. He would have time to investigate the man later. For now… “I am the head of the house, Earl Ciel Phantomhive…”

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“Earl, would you mind introducing me as well?” interjected Lau, placid as steam. His “sister” hung off his arm, looking slovenly as usual. And then his special guest…

“Sure,” Ciel replied casually, taking in the man from the corner of his eye. He gestured at Lau, turning towards his guests. “This is Mr. Lau, the English branch manager for the Shanghai trading company, Kunlun.” Ciel’s eye wandered to Lau’s guest, studying the scholarly man’s slight smile, gazing at his pitch-black eyes. “And this is…” he trailed off, suddenly struck by an odd premonition.

The man’s smile widened, and that was when it hit Ciel.

(But it couldn’t be.)

“Klein Moretti, at your service,” said the man—the clown from Noah’s Ark Circus—eyes twinkling with mischief as he looked directly at Ciel, whose mouth had gone dry. Chucking, he thumbed his cane. “I am… a history professor.” His smile was overflowing with warmth, in contrast to the icy cold spreading through Ciel. “It is nice to meet you all.”

• ────── ♱ ────── •

In the large ballroom, Arthur sat by himself, sullen. Compared to the other guests—famous actors, successful merchants and distinguished nobility—he stuck out like a sore thumb, and he was feeling it, deep in his bones. He didn’t belong here, in this world of shifting dances and flowing glasses… If only he could go home…

“Mr. Doyle?” came a gentle voice, and Arthur startled. His head snapped up. “Would you mind if I were to sit with you?” inquired Klein Moretti, the graceful gentleman who had introduced himself as a history professor. Compared to the other guests, Arthur felt that he was the warmest and most approachable of all, though his pitch-black eyes were… a little unnerving.

“A-ah, of course,” he stammered, trying for a casual smile and missing it horribly. He really wasn’t cut out for these sort of things… “Please,” he inclined his head.

The man smiled gently and sat beside Arthur, crossing his legs, right over left, effortlessly elegant. “So, how did a great author such as yourself get acquainted with the Earl?” Professor Moretti asked expectantly. Was it his own wishful thinking, or did the man seem sincere… even excited? “Is the Earl a fan of your works as well?”

“A-as well?” Great author? Arthur couldn’t help his giddy smile. Then he remembered that he had been asked a question. “Oh! Er, I’m not quite sure myself… Why I was invited, that is.” Arthur scratched his neck, feeling a little self-conscious under the professor’s earnest gaze. “The earl is a noble, though. And my works have all been published in minor magazines… So he probably hasn’t read them…”

“What does being a noble have to do with that?” asked the Earl Phantomhive, raising a thin eyebrow.

Arthur jumped out of his seat.

Professor Moretti chuckled, reaching out timely to help Arthur steady his glass, preventing it from spilling. “Indeed, Mr. Doyle. One’s status in life does not prevent them from enjoying great works.” The history professor turned his dark gaze towards the Earl. His lips curled up further. “Is that not right, Earl?”

Silently, the child Earl studied the professor with a seriousness that should’ve been far beyond his years. “Yes,” he said shortly, never once taking his gaze off of Klein.

Ah, am I going to be excluded again…? Arthur felt a slight sense of sorrow. He took a sullen sip of the champagne. At least I get to try high-class champagne… It’s rather underwhelming, actually…

Then, simultaneously, both men turned towards him. Arthur promptly froze.

“Mr. Wordsmith,” the boy—the Earl said, gesturing to the seat on Arthur’s left. “May I sit with you?”

“...Of course, Earl,” he replied, a little belatedly, shocked. W-wordsmith!?

Thus, Arthur was flanked on both sides.

“Mr. Doyle, I have to ask—what were the inspirations for your characters?” Professor Moretti asked, leaning in, putting on a sparkly smile. “Especially Sherlock Holmes” —he smirked, as if sharing an inside joke— “and Professor Moriarty?”

Arthur took a sip of champagne to warm his dry throat. “Ah… A former professor of mine, Joseph Bell. I owe Sherlock entirely to him.” He smiled into his drink. Hm? Professor Moriarty? Did I ever write such a character…?

“Fascinating,” the Earl muttered. “I wouldn’t mind meeting the person of your ingenious inspiration one day. At any rate,” Ciel Phantomhive shook his head, “Have you… two… been enjoying the party?”

Professor Moretti laughed joyfully, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yes, I have. You throw such wonderful parties, my dear Earl. But…” he turned that unnaturally dark gaze of his towards the other guests, recrossing his legs, left over right. “...The real show has not yet begun. So, I shall reserve my final judgment.”

Hearing this, the Earl’s smile tightened at the edges. “...Happy to entertain, my dear… Professor.”

Klein Moretti smirked.

Feeling left out, again, Arthur coughed. “The party has been—” nice so far, Earl, he had meant to say, but was interrupted by a shout from across the room.

The Earl promptly stood up. “A moment,” he spoke, striding across the room to deal with his other rambunctious guests. Arthur deflated; the professor put a commiserating hand on his shoulder, warm features drawn in sympathy. “Let’s get you another drink, shall we?”

Arthur nodded sullenly.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

“Keep an eye on Lau’s guest, the… history professor, Sebastian,” Ciel ordered in a whisper, speaking in French so that their German guests could not overhear. Drenched in champagne, Ciel slowly closed his eyes as Sebastian cleaned his face.

Sebastian finished toweling him. “Yes, my Lord,” the demon acknowledged, eyes flashing red.

Ciel turned to look at the author eavesdropping behind them, put a slender finger to his lips, and made a shush-ing sound. Seeing Arthur jump, Ciel stifled a smirk.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

A handful of hours later, Lord Siemens was “murdered”.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

Deep into the night, a large snake slithered through the walls, flicking out its tongue, following Smile’s scent as instructed by Snake…

Only to freeze in primordial terror. A sense of great foreboding, a purport of certain doom enveloped its cold-blooded heart, and it shook in primal fear. All thoughts of following Smile’s smell was wiped from its serpentine mind, replaced by the instinct to flee, to escape, to survive—and so it did, returning to its brothers and sisters, white hot terror still coursing through its mind.

A certain demonic butler with a wound in his chest, still flowing warm with blood, furrowed his brows. He thought he had heard something… But no, perhaps it was just the wind, or perhaps an errant animal. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts; there was still much to do in preparation for the coming morning.

Sebastian resumed his meal preparation, his thoughts wandering once more.

“Keep an eye on Lau’s guest, the… history professor, Sebastian.”

Young Master had ordered him to keep an eye on Klein Moretti; and so he did. His assessment remained the same as before, however. He was an utterly normal human being. Nevertheless, even regular humans could hide surprising secrets and desires within them—that this man had, seemingly, followed them from the Noah’s Ark Circus, all the way to the Phantomhive Manor… did not bode well. What was his motive, then?

Should I kill him? he wondered, rinsing a handful of vegetables.

The thought appealed to him. It was a simple way to deal with a troublesome problem, and a nice way to let off some steam. Dead, no matter what his motives were, Klein Moretti would no longer be a threat. The stage was simply all too perfect as well—Sebastian was sure he could find some way to pin the blame on Woodley, who was already slated for execution…

Eventually, however, he discarded the thought. Though unusual, the man had not proven to be a true threat quite yet. Perhaps, like them, he had gone to the circus undercover. In that scenario, the only complication was what faction he represented. Or perhaps he was an independent actor? Hmm.

Later, Sebastian made a note to himself, they would have to interrogate Lau. But at the moment, Sebastian was content to let the “history professor” live on another day.

Besides…

“What fun is there in a game that holds no risk?” he smiled, bringing down his knife.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

At dawn, as instructed, Mey-Rin released the owl Sebastian had given her. As it flew onwards towards the horizon, and finally, far from even the sight of Mey-Rin’s prodigious eyes, a single figure in a flowing black windbreaker enveloped the bird in his all-encompassing embrace.

“Let’s see…” Klein muttered to himself, absently petting the struggling owl to placate it. He drew the piece of paper attached to its leg. Idly, he unfurled the message…

And was struck silent.

“It’s blank… It’s actually blank…” Klein sighed. “I was sure there'd be something… They must have great confidence in each other’s improvising skills, then. Or is this some kind of joke…?”

Still shaking his head from side to side, Klein reattached the piece of paper and let the owl go on its merry way. With a final sigh, he disappeared in a Blink, his sudden displacement not disturbing even a single drop of rain.

(Not a dozen seconds later, soaked to bone, Sebastian caught up with the bird—only to find it laid over a high branch, sprawled out inelegantly, and he blinked at it bemusedly. How very clumsy of it, he thought, and gave the matter no more mind.)

• ────── ♱ ────── •

Sebastian the butler’s body was discovered in the morning.

Standing with Arthur (Conan! Doyle! The author of Sherlock Holmes!), Klein stifled the urge to make small talk. It would be rude and highly insensitive, after all, even if the demon wasn’t truly dead, and the Earl was only acting. Wrestling down the surge of endearment at the young boy's—overdramatized, too blunt, hiding beneath the genuine fear of being left all alone—performance, he schooled his expression into one of supreme shock, unmasked horror, and appropriate sorrow.

(For the space of a blink, the child Earl glanced his way, his quick gaze a sharp blade; Klein winked. The boy’s eye flitted away like a startled little dove.)

The demon’s dedication to his role is quite admirable, Klein mused privately. In his Spirit Vision, both the Earl’s and the demon’s colors were blue, indicating calm. A poker to the gut isn’t exactly pleasant. Even a cold, callous creature of the abyss has their pride, I suppose.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Klein studied the other people in the room. The servants, overtaken by grief; Arthur Conan Doyle, clearly worried, his mind spinning a hundred threads a second; Earl Grey, confused, but otherwise unafraid; Irene Diaz and her boyfriend, disturbed, almost sickly; Lau and Ran Mao, unbothered and placid as ever; Karl Woodley, the soon-to-be wrongfully accused (though not undeserving) antagonist of this little murder mystery play, spiraling inwards, ready to snap with the slightest provocation; and finally, Patrick Phelps, who should’ve—rightfully—died the night before due to a snake slipping into his embrace, looking like he was about to faint.

Klein held back a yawn. He hoped breakfast would be good.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

The spiraling stairs leading down to the Phantomhive Manor’s cellar were certainly dark and creepy enough to be featured in a horror story, Arthur thought, fighting down both a chill and the urge to reach for his notepad.

“This place has the kind of atmosphere where one would expect a ghost to pop up at any moment, doesn’t it…” he couldn’t help but mutter.

Klein smiled, and, illuminated only by a dim lamp, it appeared almost… sinister. “Indeed!” he piped up, far too cheerful for the occasion. Faint firelight danced across his face; the darkness of his eyes absorbed it all. “Hehehe… Perhaps, at any moment, from around the corner, a wraith will fly out at us, hungering for our blood and souls, longing to be freed from its dark, eternal prison…”

Clinging tightly to the young Earl, Charles Grey cried out, “Will you cut that out!? There’s no way ghosts and wraiths or such… such nonsense exist!!” Despite his words, Earl Grey started shooting wild looks around, gripping the handle of his sword, knuckles white and bloodless enough to match his hair. With finality, he declared, “I only believe in things I can cut with my sword!!”

“Then could you unhand me, please…?” the Earl protested.

“I used to think that, too,” Arthur almost thought he heard Klein whisper, but when he turned around, Klein was merely smiling, his eyes fixed ahead, as usual.

…It had been a trying day. Arthur gave the questioning history professor a weak smile. Perhaps he was hearing things…

• ────── ♱ ────── •

They inspected Sebastian’s room.

Spartan, lifeless, Klein concluded, running a gloved finger across a mahogany bureau, eyes panning the length of room with pronounced disinterest. Doesn’t look like the key’s here… hmmm?

A pang ran through his Spirit Body. Curiosity elicited for the first time, following his intuition, Klein drifted silently towards the closet, thumbing its varnished handle, expectantly pulling it open, and…

…And from within, a clowder of cats jumped out, droplets of rain still clinging to their soft furs.

Exclamations of surprise—and alarm—echoed throughout the room. His eyes wide, Klein caught the nearest kitty, a beautiful beau with a coat of black and stunning golden eyes, holding it in his embrace.

“Oh my,” he muttered, letting the lil' cutie sniff at his hands with a broad smile.

As the gardener, Finnian, held out a lovely white kitten for his master’s inspection, the Earl cried out, “FINNY! Don’t come near me while carrying that, carrying that thing!! My allergies are…”

Absently petting the purring cat in his arms, Klein Grafted the Earl’s “allergies” onto a paper figurine in his pocket. Unheard by anyone, a tiny paper figurine man sneezed, once.

(“Bless you,” Klein whispered, patting his pocket, and the little paper figurine nodded in acquiescence before falling inanimate once again.)

“My allergies… are…” Ciel continued, his button of a nose scrunched up, bracing himself for a sneeze that never came.

Still confused and highly bewildered, he didn’t fight back as Finny dropped the cat into his arms. Meow-ing curiously, it licked softly at his cheek.

The boy screamed.

Klein smiled; in his embrace, the newly christened Ms. Serena let out a sweet meow.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

As “Jeremy Rathbone” was detained, still soaking wet from the rain and dripping onto the carpeted floor, Klein caught the man’s eye. He smiled gently at the abyssal being in disguise, his gaze serene. Ms. Serena was lying peacefully in his lap, blinking slowly, while his hands gently combed her fine furs.

Sebastian’s eyelids twitched.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

Charles Grey lifted up the cloth covering Sebastian’s prone body, inspecting it with a razor-sharp focus.

“... As if,” he muttered quietly, after he was certain that the butler was dead, making his way out of the room, coat swishing behind him like the tail of a particularly rumpled cat. “There’s no way it could be…”

Left alone in the room once more, Sebastian opened his burning red eyes.

“...That was close,” he said aloud to the air, more to vent his frustration than anything. A split second later, and all his careful work would’ve been undone…

Suddenly, a glint of gold peered at him out of a shadowy corner, and he tensed—only to relax once more, as a fluffy kitten stepped forward, revealing her majesty, meowing cutely. She tilted her head, unblinking, tail swishing to-and-fro.

“Ah…” he said, tension falling away, replaced by a growing, genuine smile. “Dear, what are you doing here? I hadn’t noticed…”

He paused.

I hadn’t noticed, Sebastian reaffirmed to himself once again, staring unblinkingly at Ms. Serena. Last he had seen her, she had been with… the “history professor”.

Why hadn’t I noticed?

For the first time since he had become Sebastian the butler, the demon felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Ms. Serena purred.

• ────── ♱ ────── •

After the arrival of “Jeremy Rathbone”, everything played out smoothly and without a hitch. The “true” culprit behind the murders, Karl Woodley, was taken into the custody of Her Majesty the Queen’s butler, the exalted Earl Charles Grey, the criminal carted off in fury and chains. The curtains fell on the Phantomhive Manor’s murder mystery, and everyone shared a toast with lightened spirits…

“That was quite the party, was it not, Mr. Doyle?” Klein asked him the following morning as their carriages arrived. He was, as always, smiling, staring into the distant horizon. A light dusting of orange coloured the sky, courtesy of the sun peeking out shyly from behind the horizon line; at last, a new day had dawned!

“Yes,” Arthur replied, returning the history professor’s smile with one of his own. Relief—that this whole torrid affair was behind them at last; mystery solved, criminal caught, story concluded—flowed through him. Arthur chuckled ruefully. “Hahh… I can’t wait to get home…”

Klein laughed. “Yes, indeed… home. Well, I wish you a safe trip, Mr. Doyle. Ah—but, don’t forget our promise to exchange letters, alright?” He grinned cheekily, like the cat that had gotten the cream, eyes… huh. It almost appeared like the stars in the night sky themselves twinkled in his dark eyes, all the universe contained neatly within Klein Moretti’s gaze.

“Of course,” Arthur agreed, smiling away his overly fanciful thoughts, shaking Klein’s offered hand one last time, buoyed by his enthusiasm for the future. Despite everything, that he had made a new friend and pen pal here was a bright silver lining, and a glowing warmth bloomed in his heart. It was almost enough to banish away his lingering unease at the long shadow cast by the Phantomhive Manor. “See you again someday.”

(Only almost, though, he would write, later, years down the line when all was said and done. You’ve always been an author at heart, however—the unknowable mysteries captivated you, and curiosity ran in your veins. If only you knew the price of knowledge. If only you remembered that curiosity killed the cat.)

“See you again,” Klein returned, tipping his half-top hat with a wink.

As Arthur walked away, only the slightest sense of dissonance and doubt in his mind, Klein called out—

“—Some things are better left unknown, Arthur.”

He paused, looking back with confusion.

Klein was in the same spot as before. The soft morning glow of the sun illuminated his face and his smile—so sad, so warm. The man bowed, like a performer giving a final curtain call, and walked back into the manor, waving adieu.