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scribbleseas · 10 months

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Straight Laced, Chapter IV: To Be A Helpful Dance Partner

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: Oh, my. This is just over 9,000 words; I highly suggest getting a snack and finding somewhere comfortable if you intend to read this in one sitting. I really don’t know what happened, but I adore this chapter so much. I had so much fun writing it! Thank you so much for all of your support - I can’t believe I’m so close to 100 followers! I appreciate it more than anything.

One more thing: let us all collectively scream at the fact that us anime enjoyers are getting a season 4 of the anime!! Isn’t that something? I’m so stoked to watch it and come up with even more Ciel stories for us!! (I say, as if I don’t already have 3 baby ciel fics in the drafts.)

Happy Reading,

- Dan

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

Late October

The Royal Opera House, The Practice Room

No one dared settle in the middle of the frontmost barre. It was arguably the best spot in the practice room because all of the directional mirrors on the walls reflected the dancer in the spot— therefore, they could watch themself plié from any angle.

Being the lead prima ballerina, it was your spot after Janet died. The mirror her steely blue eyes would burn into was now yours and in the time before you joined the investigation, you relished having your own detached space. A vicinity where you could only see yourself while the rest of the cast shared what was left— just as you had before your promotion.

Now, you were purposely choosing to your old spot: the far left side of the main barre. You waited until Violet arrived and settled to your right. It was her usual spot and she was so accustomed to the routine, that she hardly spared you a glance.

“Hello, Violet,” you greeted, startling her as she adjusted her leotard. Warm-up class, Natasha’s pre-performance requirement, started in about two hours but dancers were sure to start arriving soon. You didn’t have a lot of time to accomplish what you wished. The ballerinas with something to prove were always there about an hour ahead of time. You would know— you used to be among them, pleading with Natasha for private lessons, picking every step apart like an austere war general. If it is not perfect, it is not correct.

Startled, Violet’s breath hitched as she flinched, acting as if you intimidated her. “Good afternoon, Y/n,” she replied timidly, her onyx eyes searching for a reason as to why you were speaking to her. You didn’t know her last name— you had never spoken to her. “You’re here early,” she ventured, attempting to draw an explanation from you.

“I want to talk with you,” you admitted, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial low. The two of you were alone for the time being, and you needed to have this conversation in private. Ciel wanted to raise as minimal concern as possible, and Violet was one of the quietest in the company. If you spoke with her, even about such a controversial topic, she would never tell anyone. The only other dancer she would have spoken to was the late Eliza O’Malley, whose patron was co-hosting the ball that you were to attend with Ciel later that night. Alexander Huntington.

“Did you?” Violet asked, pausing in front of the mirror to decide how she wanted to begin warming herself up. She inhaled sharply and dropped into a demi plié, her right hand holding the bar as her left drew outwards elegantly. “Why?”

You mirrored her, dropping into a demi plié and following her into her next fluid movement, a grand plié. “About the disappearances,” you stepped into second position and repeated the demi and grand pliés with her. Violet studied your movements, taking in your lengthened back, and the way you positioned your fingers. Of course. You were Odette. She was one of the shortest dancers in the company, and therefore, one of the four swans in the pas de chat.

Along with Violet, Eliza O’Malley was one of the swans before she died. Going missing before Janet and Amélie, she was the eighth dancer to vanish or die, rather. Your heart was heavy when Ciel told you that her body was found, but the details must have been so gruesome, that Ciel decided to spare you. “You were close with Eliza, were you not?”

Your words caused Violet to pause before turning her feet into third position and continuing to plié. Her pale skin seemed to only grow ashier as she regarded you. Watching her closely, you noticed that she was alarmingly thin— more emaciated than any ballerina would ideally be. With her raven black hair and matching brown eyes, you imagined that if Sebastian had a daughter, Violet would resemble her.

“We were best friends, I loved her,” Violet’s lip quivered, her voice no higher than a broken whisper. It was a pained whimper, the defeated sound of a mortally wounded animal.

“Will you come to my dressing room?” You asked, not anticipating her earnest confession. You wanted to give her the dignity of crying in private. “I need your help.”

Even more to your surprise, Violet agreed. Her trembling hands picked up her bag and shouldered it as she followed you to your private space. She startled at the harsh sound of your closing door.

“How…could I possibly help you? And what could you even need help with?” Violet asked, her curiosity defeating her concerns. She stared into her lap, sitting stiffly on your vanity chair while you occupied the loveseat at its side.

“I think dancers from this company are dying. Not going missing like everyone has been saying,” you said evenly, trying to speak with warm understanding in your voice to avoid upsetting her further. “I think someone killed Eliza and the others.”

Violet nodded resolutely, her inability to stay still reminding you of a wary bird. “I think you’re right,” she sniffled. “It was William Wood. I know it, and I come here during off hours to try to find the spare key to his office. I know he has one around here somewhere for when he forgets his copy at home. There’s got to be evidence in there—” The more she spoke, the faster her words came. They were confident, broken, and so certain that it was disquieting.

“Mr. Wood?” You asked in disbelief, causing her to give you a wide-eyed, silencing look. You must have said his name too loudly, but you doubted there was anyone incriminating outside of your dressing room at the moment. “Why do you say—”

“He forces himself on dancers!” Violet exclaimed, a stark contrast from her frantic rambling. “Eliza and the rest of the girls who disappeared were only a handful of those he abused.”

Your mouth was dry with shock, your eyes stinging with the need to cry. Mr. Wood? Natasha’s husband? No. The man was only ever smiling. He was generous, and kind. He loved his wife, did he not?

Your stomach lurched. The deaths all took place before William departed for Paris. Even Sebastian estimated that the killer poisoned Amélie and put her in contact with the chemical weeks before her death. He said she must have absorbed it through her skin. William would have been in London, at the time. He would have still been in London when Janet went missing, as well, though her body had yet to be found. Was Mr. Wood truly capable of being so cruel?

“I think he kills them when he’s ready to move on. It keeps them quiet, s-so they don’t tell the Yard, or Natasha, or ruin his company, or…” she rambled, wringing her hands in her lap. “It’s only a matter of time before he moves on to the next one. You should be careful, Y/n.”

That was not the first time you heard the sentiment.

You put a tender hand on her fidgeting ones. Her nail beds were bitten raw. “Violet. I want to help you find who has been doing this. I… need to know where you have looked for his office key, and everyone you know he has assaulted. Can you help me with that?” You asked gently, using the same soothing voice you would calm a terrified animal.

When she didn’t respond, you continued. “I may not be able to tell you much, but I am working with someone who will stop at nothing to solve these murders. He truly is very smart,” the words tasted as bitter as cigar smoke, but you meant them. You had never met anyone quite as focused and certain as Ciel Phantomhive. He was the Queen’s loyal Guard Dog, and you were his accomplice. And his faux lover.

“Lord Phantomhive?” She asked, wiping away a fresh tear. Her lips turned upwards in a weak smile. “I knew that the timing was rather convenient— his courting you.”

You let yourself snort, amused that she stitched your collective lies and admissions together to find the truth. “Please do not tell anyone. If people find out…” you started, knowing she was smart enough to understand that if any other dancers know, then Natasha would find out, and inevitably, her husband would from her. Natasha deserved to find out that her husband was unfaithful, but not in such a painful way.

“No one will hear it from me,” Violet said resolutely, her cold hand giving yours a brief, yet reassuring, squeeze.

That Evening, Post-Performance

The Royal Opera House, Your Dressing Room

Ciel waited for you outside your dressing room after the performance, as he did every other evening. When he was unable to escort you, he would send two of his house staff members or Sebastian to escort you, highly concerned with your safety because of his ‘long list of enemies.’

Apparently, policing London’s Underworld did not make Ciel popular amongst big crime syndicates and even small-time criminals, making you a potential target. A weakness. Especially after The Oxford Gazette released a brief about your courtship, complete with quotes from Ciel and yourself. Speaking with Adam Blackwell during one of your performances’ intermissions earlier that week had been equal parts invigorating and intimidating.

Even if it was a startling process, the article had been illuminating for your public character. He painted you as an industrious self-starter who moved from France to pursue your passion for ballet. But you weren’t naïve enough to believe that a glowing review from the Adam Blackwell would completely erase the inevitable social repercussions you and Ciel would face for this faux pas. An Earl — especially one of Ciel’s magnitude — and a commoner such as yourself was unheard of.

Natasha easily unclipped your Odette costume, a white tutu with feather detail. The bodice was a strict and unforgiving corset, the clasps going up your back. You would never be able to get in and out of the costume on your own, even though Natasha had every right to force you to make do. She was the company director, not the lead costume designer. The costume designer, a kindly and mature woman named Poppy, was hard at work with measurements for The Nutcracker, and all of the costuming assistants worked on the wardrobes with her, rather than Natasha.

As the director, Natasha dedicated nearly every minute of her life into the Royal Opera House Company and for so little in return. For all of her earnest work, she received next to nothing in return. You couldn’t help but pity her.

“Lord Phantomhive’s butler asked me for your birthstone the other evening,” Natasha grinned as she fastened your costume back onto its hanger. “You do know what that means, yes?” She asked, her stormy blue eyes alight piqued interest.

“No,” you replied nonchalantly, your lips starting to curve upwards in a smile. You needed to play the role you were cast in: the unorthodox woman who caught the Earl’s attention. You needed to be lovestruck; you needed to be playful. “Do you?” You said with enough irony for Natasha to playfully roll her eyes and snicker.

“It means the Earl is looking to buy you an expensive gift, Y/n. A custom-made piece.”

“So soon?” You chuckled in a way you hoped was bashful. Natasha had never seen you in love before, but you presumed you’d be more tight-lipped than telling her every detail regarding your experiences with particular suitors — good and bad.

You unclipped your costume’s headpiece and offered it to the director once she finished hanging your Odette outfit next to the Odile ensemble on your wall.

For convenience, you slipped into a clean leotard and the long wool coat Ciel bought for you. It was the same charcoal black as his, and the hem fell to your knees. It was, by far, the warmest item of clothing you owned— it was just in time for the autumn season to shift into the bitter winter. Your tights matched your skin, giving your clothing an entirely nude palette.

“I know. How exciting,” Natasha said, all cheer and amazement for your success, given that a woman’s future heavily depended on the sort of man she married. She was always in your corner, ever since you joined the company. You imagined it was because she saw herself in you. The same hunger for brilliance and perfection. You imagined Natasha was a stunning prima ballerina before her accident, having met William because she amazed him with her portrayal of Aurora in the Opera House’s production of Sleeping Beauty about five years ago.

You felt another sting of pity for having to withhold such important information about her marriage from her.

For the sake of the investigation, you could hear Ciel chime in the back of your mind.

“Have a magical night, Cinderella,” Natasha joked, steadying her cane as she readied herself to leave. “I hope your ball is enchanting tonight. They tend to be.”

You quirked an eyebrow, struggling from the irony. You were the furthest from a fairytale princess— only heading to the ball because your fake Prince Charming needed to court you to divert suspicion for a serial killer investigation. “Does that make you my Fairy Godmother?”

“Something of the sort,” she winked before leaving, saying a brief hello to Ciel as she passed him.

That Evening, Pre-Ball

Your Bedroom

“You had a new dress made for me?” You couldn’t keep the surprise and slight frustration from your voice as you gaped at the various pieces of a clearly expensive ball gown. It was darker than blood, an intense and ironic color that you wouldn’t have expected from Ciel, given his trademark blues and blacks. A pearl necklace, a matching set of pearl drop earrings, three silver rings, and a pair of white gloves sat on your dresser. Matching red heels waited on your chair cushion— they were relatively short.

“Yes. It is of the utmost importance that your clothing assures the rest of the nobility that you belong on my Lord’s arm,” Sebastian replied. “I took the liberty of bringing your measurements to our modiste.”

Where could Sebastian have possibly learned your dress measurements? You wondered, your eyes widening and lips pursing with stress. If Sebastian could find such minuscule details about you, his master’s ally, you were scared for those who fell on the other side of his opulent shield.

“Shall I help you prepare, Miss Y/n?” Sebastian asked, fastening his necktie around his eyes for your modesty— not that it was of importance to you anymore. He moved before you could answer, completely aware that your answer would be yes.

As Sebastian pieced your dress together— several smaller, complex accessories went under the top petticoat— he held an impromptu etiquette lesson.

“You must address nobles with their rightful titles, Miss. Given that you are a commonoer, all titles are above yours— you must refer to nobles as my Lord and my Lady. You must not engage in any impolite conversation,” Sebastian continued, tightening your corset. It felt as if he was suffocating you with the excessive information and by over-constricting the undergarment. “By impolite conversation I mean: do not engage in argument, do not interrupt anyone when they are speaking, do not lose temper or speak excitedly, do not speak of personal matters. By personal matters, I am referring to…”

Even if he was overzealous when it came to cramming two decades worth of knowledge into your brain, you knew Sebastian meant well. He was helping you master etiquette because ultimately, your success was his master’s as well. If you could play the role of a reformed ballerina, it would ensure that the investigation would remain as inconspicuous as possible. A strong show of social prowess from you meant you and Ciel could bring the killer (potentially your employer, if Violet was right) to justice.

By the time Sebastian was finished preparing you, your head pounded, a physical manifestation of every rule the butler engrained into you. Furthermore, the woman who returned your gaze in the mirror was certainly not you. She was the picture of opulence— she wore the pearl necklace elegantly as if it were her birthright. Her hair was out of its typical ballerina bun, styled partially up and partially down impeccably. It bounced in ringlets that Sebastian accomplished through a long process including fire-heated tongs and curl paper.

Perhaps, you truly were Cinderella for once.

“How will you address Gabriel Giffard and Alexander Huntington tonight?” Sebastian asked as he rolled the long white gloves up your hands. He slid your rings on for you— they were thin silver bands, matching the silver in your pearl drop earrings.

You punctuated your silence with a hum, drawing yourself from staring into your reflection. “Gabriel is the Viscount of Tiverton so it would be…Lord Tiverton and Alexander is…” You closed your eyes briefly to try to recall if Alexander had a noble title. No, he is only a wealthy businessman. “Mr. Huntington.”

“Very good, Miss,” Sebastian said. He studied your face before turning back to your vanity. He picked a light lip rouge, a soft red that was natural enough for your lips to appear bitten, rather than painted. Your makeup was significantly less dramatic than you’d ever worn, and instead, it accentuated the features you already had. It was less of a weapon and more of a tool. Sebastian ran the near-neutral lip salve over your lips and gave you a tissue to blot any excess away.

“There. You resemble a proper lady, now,” Sebastian said. If he hadn’t been looking at you like an artist after his final brushstroke on his masterpiece, you would have been offended. Instead, you looked at yourself once more and found yourself agreeing with him— albeit hesitantly.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” you replied earnestly. “I could never have accomplished something like this on my own,” you felt strangely emotional. You spent most of your life in ratty leotards, and months-old tights. Even now that you were the principal dancer, you spent even more time in such makeshift wardrobe, only able to wear pieces that made statments during performances. Of course, those statements were made to represent your character, rather than yourself. Privately, you supposed this was no different.

Sebastian chuckled, expecting the sentiment. “If I couldn’t do this much, what kind of butler would I be?” He asked rhetorically, offering you his arm to allow him to escort you to the carriage, where Ciel awaited you. There was a foreign anxiety in your stomach that worsened with every step toward the vehicle as if you worried about how Sebastian’s master might react to your appearance. Or perhaps, anxiety was of the long-term effects of being unable to breathe properly.

You preferred that explanation much more than the former.

“I finally understand why you nobles are always so unpleasant,” you declared, stepping into the carriage with help from Sebastian. You settled on the seat opposite from Ciel, per the norm, but the dark carriage kept you from seeing more than some of his face highlighted by lamp posts outside the carriage window.

“Excuse me?” Ciel blanched, taken aback by your greeting. “Did you not just have a lesson in etiquette with my butler?”

“This corset hinders my breathing, and I can barely remember all of the rules from within my lesson,” you adjusted your skirts to keep them from catching in the carriage door. The gown took up nearly all of the space on your bench and in the rest of the space. “Not to mention, I have plenty of ball gowns. It was unnecessary for you to—”

“We couldn’t have you re-wearing some dress from some old patron,” Ciel explained. “That would have been most unseemly.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course, the Earl dressed you in the most expensive and elegant ensembles you’ve ever worn to preserve his image, of all things. Though you supposed, he was sacrificing more than you were, at least on the social stage. You had to look and act flawlessly, or it would only drive him to further (self-inflicted, of course) ruin. The fact that you had to pretend to be in love was Ciel’s fault, to begin with! You were entirely innocent!

Your face sobered as you recalled the crucial information Violet uncovered for you. “Oh— Ciel, I learned something today,” you admitted, your sudden urgency capturing his attention. “I heard that William Wood takes sexual advantage of company members— many of whom have been killed over the past several weeks….” You started, exhaling as if the information was constricting your lungs as painfully as the corset was in the midst of doing.

Ciel’s grave expression didn’t insinuate surprise. Instead, it only grew stormier. “I’ve heard the rumors of the like about the bastard. I was looking to confirm them,” his fist clenched in his lap. “For this evening, we will speak with Alexander Huntington. We will need to investigate William Wood, next. Understood?”

That Evening, The Ball

Alexander Huntington’s Estate, The Grand Ballroom

This is another stage, Y/n. It is not unlike the Opera House, you repeated to yourself in an effort to quell your drumming pulse. It was anxiety; it was excitement. It was the same readiness you felt moments before the beginning of a new performance; the feeling of knowing that there were several dozens of eyes on you.

“Remember everything Sebastian told you,” Ciel mumbled, moments before stepping through the grand entrance and into the ballroom. He’d led you up the grand stairway in the front of the main building and through the open doors, which were flanked by two guards. Your arms were laced together, and you watched his face fade from Ciel Phantomhive and ignite once more to portray the Earl of Phantomhive, a small, certain smile tugging the corner of his lips, his chin raised.

You didn’t need to force yourself to smile in amazement. Lord Tiverton’s ballroom was bursting with life— over 100 nobles occupied the space as they danced, talked, ate, and drank. Astonishing paintings lined the walls, accompanied by intricate wood paneling and long leafy plants by the ballroom’s balcony. One great stairway led to the elevated space, which was also crowded with people.

After taking every facet of the space in, you allowed your grin to fall back into something closer to the detached amusement on Ciel’s face. Sebastian had told you to appear pleased, but not too pleased as it would be an affront to your courtship with Ciel.

“Ah, Phantomhive! You’ve finally managed to show your face!” A man greeted Ciel. You were walking in his group’s general direction, and Ciel’s answering half-smile (it was much more genuine than his previously idle look) suggested that the group was his intended destination, to begin with. The man who called out appeared to be around your age. He was lightly tanned with tousled light brown hair, and matching hazel eyes. His smile displayed his white teeth and drew your attention to his tasteful goatee and beard.

“Hello, Tiverton,” Ciel answered, stopping across from the Viscount as the rest of the group made room for the both of you. This was Gabriel Giffard — Lord Tiverton — a co-host of the ball. The only face you recognized in the group was Adam Blackwell, the editor-in-chief of The Oxford Gazette; the rest of the group consisted of a young woman with curly red hair, and a man with dark hair and even stormier gray eyes. “Where is Huntington?”

“Dancing with Margaret. Why? Tired of us already?” Tiverton asked. Good-natured jabbing— lack of formality. Sebastian hadn’t told you that Ciel was on close terms with the Viscount.

Before Ciel could reply, Tiverton changed the subject. “You cannot walk away without introducing your partner. That would be rude.”

Now the rest of the group seemed comfortable with overtly staring at you, rather than continuing to attempt to mask their curious looks. You remained silent, per Sebastian’s warning, and allowed Ciel to speak — no matter how it enraged you. Given that you had the lowest status, you were unable to introduce yourself to anyone of higher rank. Ciel needed to do so for you.

“Fine, yes. This is Y/n Y/l/n, the lead prima ballerina of the London Royal Opera House Company,” Ciel said, but his delivery was completely wrong. He was too stiff and detached— as if he was getting paid to attend the ball with you.

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Tiverton,” you said politely, dipping in a shallow curtsy to observe his Viscount title. You could feel Ciel stiffen next to you, clearly wanting to comment on the fact that you respected Gabriel’s title while refusing to give him the same treatment at every opportunity. The thought of his silent frustration helped nurture your natural grin; the pinching in your cheeks was beginning to make the expression stiffen into something artificial and unsettling.

“We’ve heard much about you, Y/n. Do enjoy the ball— even if your partner here is a bit of a wallflower,” Tiverton gestured to Ciel with his chin, turning the group’s attention away from you once more. You assumed he made the cheap joke with that goal in mind, sensing your light discomfort beneath your shield of satin, pearls, and unearned confidence.

“Not everyone loves to dance, Tiverton,” Ciel said with a comedic bitterness that matched his sardonic half-grin. Brilliant light from the chandelier reflected in his exposed eye. He truly was unfairly attractive.

“You shouldn’t admit such a thing. You’re courting a literal prima ballerina,” Blackwell scoffed, giving you a firm head nod to denote his acceptance of you. The other two in the group, the freckled woman with the red hair, and the grumpy man with the perpetual scowl, had yet to give you any indication of acceptance. She studied you like a foreign agent in a laboratory, while he seemed uninterested in your presence.

Your eyes widened. Of course, Ciel disliked dancing— the man despised everything that wasn’t monochrome, monotonous, and dreary. Even still…he also disliked partaking in activities that he didn’t particularly excel at. Could he be a bad dancer?

You had to work to hold your laughter in. Instead, you turned to Ciel, your gaze sinister. “I have never danced with you, Lord Phantomhive. I believe a waltz would be most exhilarating,” you suggested, silently daring him to reject you in front of his usual company.

For once, Ciel stuttered, at a near loss for words. “I… perhaps after we greet Alexander and his wife. We may join the waltz after that,” he wanted to use this opportunity to take his leave of the conversation and find the target. So much for enjoying the ball.

“That sounds like a lovely idea,” you agreed placidly, playing the role of a polite young woman, despite her promiscuous occupation. Sebastian emphasized that in this setting, being unagreeable simply was not an option. Neither was failing to be polite and kind— which apparently, you were not on an average day. But who could blame you?

Ciel was rarely a ray of sunshine, even when he was poorly acting in front of a group.

“Shall we go?” You prompted, keeping your tone light and patient to avoid appearing desperate to exit the conversation.

“Yes. Enjoy the night, everyone,” Ciel said before leading you back down the stairway to the main floor once again. Once you were out of earshot, he lowered his voice. “We will use this waltz as a diversion. Sebastian will ensure Alexander stays away from his office, should he leave the ballroom,” he explained, his gaze locking on Alexander and his wife as they danced, laughing amongst themselves. They seemed like a loving couple— hardly one that would be half unfaithful.

“So we are not waltzing?” You asked, pouting exaggeratingly as he led you past the side of the dancing area — the center of the vast ballroom — and towards a side corridor. The both of you had to make occasional stops every few steps to greet someone new. You stopped keeping track of names and affiliations after the third mother-daughter combination approached you to size up your relationship with one of London’s most eligible bachelors. Having to respond to jealous and longing looks with your blazing grin became something akin to a game.

“No, we need to search for clues in the suspect’s office,” Ciel responded boredly, his tone telling you not to continue pressing the matter. You wanted to ask him why you didn’t have Sebastian search the office while you both continued to work the ball, but you assumed his haughty response might be along the lines of: this is my investigation. He merely acts as I instruct him, rather than making moves on his own.

Even if Sebastian could search the room much faster than the two of you could, Ciel would underutilize him to secure his position as the master.

“It seems unlocked,” you said, surprised when the door knob turned obediently in your hand. “That means he has nothing to hide, no?”

“Or it could mean he believes he has everything hidden well— or in a different location…” the Earl stepped inside before you and locked the door after you entered behind him. He took a moment to survey the room before starting towards Alexander’s long oak desk. The desk was covered with an assortment of papers, pens, a typewriter, and a candlestick telephone. Ciel started sifting through the sloppy records on the desktop not without complaining about the mess, of course. (Is the man too frugal to bother hiring a live-in maid?”)

“He certainly has an appreciation for fine art…” you mumbled, inspecting the painted canvas that hung on the wall. Aside from the art, his desk, and an office chair, there was nothing else in Alexander’s office. It was painfully empty, compared to Ciel’s ample bookshelves, bay window, and wall decor.

Still, the office was too simple for a hyperconfident man. Alexander was supposed to be a smart entrepreneur with ideas bright enough to persuade a Viscount to co-found a company with him. He wasn’t supposed to leave his office door and desk drawers unlocked unless he was trying to appear innocent to anyone looking. Business-savvy men kept their records well-maintained, rather than carelessly splayed out. At least they ensured their crucial documents were secure.

You decided to think back to what you knew about the powerful men who sponsored you over the past few years. None of them would leave such a private room so accessible unless they were hiding more crucial information, and using this display to deter any wandering eyes. This setup had to be a distraction. There was no other explanation, given the number of servants that were maintaining the ballroom— serving drinks, amuse bouches, managing garbage — there was no reason for them to avoid their master’s office unless they were specifically ordered to do so.

If Alexander was looking to sidetrack intruders in the office by giving them a messy scene to work with, then there had to be something in the room he was looking to distract them from…

You hummed, taking a step to the side to look at the painting’s canvas from the side. It wasn’t directly adhered to the wall as most paintings were— there was a gap between the back of the frame to the wall itself since the work hung from a nail hammered into the wall. Without any further thought, you moved the painting off the wall and set it on the floor, the movement easy given that the painting was quite small.

Of course, if it was easy for you to move, it had to be lighter than a feather for Alexander to lift it as many times as he pleased.

“How did you think of that?” Ciel demanded, staring at the newly exposed cutout in the wall as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You— moved the— and—”

You surged forward. “Look. These are checks made out to Eliza O’Malley,” you pulled the papers out of the cutout. “The last one was made the week before she died. It has not been cashed,” you said, turning the document to Ciel for him to look at it over your shoulder.

“They stopped immediately before she died,” Ciel mused.

“Could he have heard of her death? That she went missing?”

“The Yard is on strict orders from Her Majesty to keep these deaths private,” he said. “It is unlikely he was aware that anything was wrong before it was time to write the next check.”

“Meaning… Alexander had to know that something happened to her,” you were unsure if your words were supposed to be a statement or a question. “So as to know not to write her another check.”

“Unless he was about to choose another company member to subscribe to, or stop the practice altogether,” Ciel suggested, but you immediately knew better.

“That seems unlikely. He was her only patron for months,” you frowned, glancing back at the hole in the wall. There seemed to be other documents— mostly business related, given that his and Tiverton’s company monogram was stamped at the top of them. You also noticed assorted valuables, gold, jewelry, watches, and notes of currency (foreign and domestic). You felt a sting of homesickness when you noticed the stack of French francs.

“Come on, Ciel. I think there is nothing to accomplish without speaking to Alexander himself—

“There is no separating him from his wife smoothly at the moment,” Ciel cut in, making you roll your eyes. How was it that women in polite society weren’t to interrupt, but Ciel could interject whenever he felt like it?

You made a show of clearing your throat. “We should wait, then. And in the meantime, teach you how to be a convincing actor,” you advised the derision in your voice more than palpable. “I nearly forgot we were supposed to be courting, given how coldly you were treating me,” you continued, raising a challenging eyebrow. “If we continue this way, no one will believe us.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Ciel asked impatiently, “I seem to have forgotten that you were the mistress of everything regarding deception.” He put Alexander’s checks back into the wall and moved the floral painting back into its original position. In his frustration, his movements were hurried, jagged with an irritation that seemed reserved for you.

“Well, between the two of us, you certainly are not the master!” You fired back. “Come this way, we are wasting time,” you took his arm, unlocked the door, and practically pulled him back out to the ballroom. As luck would have it, Alexander’s orchestra was just beginning a new piece.

“No, you cannot be serious, Y/n…” The sound of the conversating guests and the beginning notes of a waltz nearly drowned out all of Ciel’s quiet protests. “Y/n— no,” he seemed desperate enough to consider bribing you out of the matter, but you had your mindset. Furthermore, there were too many pairs of eyes on you for him to outwardly refuse you without seeming suspicious.

You only released Ciel’s arm once you were settled in the middle of the dance floor. The spot allowed all of the ball’s attendees to freely stare at you and him, something that he seemed to be acutely aware of, given his vague blush. The pink flush tinted his cheeks, spreading up to the tips of his ears. As the music drew louder, you dropped into another curtsey, keeping yourself in line with Ciel’s bow, dropping and raising in tandem.

Mechanically, Ciel’s arm wrapped around your back while its counterpart took your hand. He was close enough for you to feel his rigid body, stiff with uncertainty — whether it was from his clear disdain of recreational dancing, having the limitless ballroom’s attention, or the realization that he was, indeed, awful at pretending to be in love.

“You need to relax and allow yourself to have fun, sometimes,” you said, wrapping your arm around his tense shoulder. Your gloved hand sat slightly above Ciel’s shoulder blade, the other trapped in his tight grasp. Your eyes locked on the sight of your intertwined fingers, slotting together perfectly. You nearly wished you weren’t wearing gloves so you could feel the warmth from his body, and the texture of his skin. His hands were always hidden by the same black gloves; you couldn’t help but wonder what his hands might have looked like. Did aristocrats have calluses, too?

“Dancing is fun,” you insisted, putting the entirety of your body into the next spin for emphasis. “Pretend I am someone you truly like. Someone you would enjoy spending time with— no matter what you are doing,” you suggested in an attempt to dispel the nauseous look on Ciel’s face. Instead, your words only caused him to look at you incredulously, suggesting that there was no one in his life he would feel such a way for. You didn’t blame him.

“Twirling about like children is not so much my idea of fun.”

“If you bothered to watch my performances, you would realize that dancing is an art form,” you said snidely, well aware of Ciel’s habit of waiting until each production ended before waiting outside your dressing room. He hadn’t deigned to watch you in your starring role, despite being your partner. “You might also realize that dance follows emotion.” You took the words from one of Natasha’s private lessons, but it was a phrase you repeated to yourself in a mirror more times than you could count.

“Dance follows emotion,” Ciel repeated dubiously, frowning at you. His reluctance seeped into his dance steps like spilled ink to surrounding fabric. You could still feel his tension, his slight panic, and his uncertainty.

“Listen to the music. Let it guide you— not how you feel. You know these moves, Ciel. It is a nonissue,” you urged. You didn’t have a lot of time to make this dance into something believable, it would only be a few moments before onlookers would expect Ciel’s initial awkwardness to evolve into a beautiful and soft display created by an unmatched affection for you.

You needed to show that the Earl of Phantomhive loved you enough to forgo his usual wallflower role and waltz with you, his ballerina.

“Just look into my eyes,” you suggested, thinking back to the notes Natasha gave to Timothy, the dancer playing Prince Siegfried while you rehearsed Act II’s Love Duet one last time before your first performance as a prima ballerina, rather than Swan Number 43. This performance featured you as the Swan Queen, Odette as she falls in love with The Prince. It is the complete antithesis of your pas de deux as Odile, your movements formed with humility and grace rather than overt audaciousness and flashiness. While Odette was an innocent victim, Odile was a cunning trickster.

Though, you struggled to recall her advice to Timothy… perhaps, what you needed in this situation was her advice to you.

You remembered Natasha telling you to move as if you were weightless to convince the audience that you were a woman who lived in the body of a swan during her days, the condition causing her to retain most of that legato movement in her human form at night. The routine was crucial to master in terms of chemistry because it displayed Odette’s transition from being afraid of The Prince, attempting to fly away and hide within herself, to timidly deciding to place her faith in his love for her. Unlike Odile, Odette moves with The Prince in matching, co-dependent steps. She doesn’t lead him into each new move because she is not manipulating The Prince into loving her as Odile is.

“Be ethereal, fluid, and delicate,” Natasha said, “make certain your port de bras resembles a swan’s wings.”

You tried to focus on more relevant insight. Anything Natasha had to say about the acting, the artistry that accompanied the athleticism in ballet. Particularly, how to capture the Swan Queen’s gentle movements. You needed to be a helpful dance partner or your farce wouldn’t survive the night. Come on, Y/n.

“Use Odette’s wounded backstory to transform it into something beautiful. Pour her pain into her selfless love. Your Odette may have a somberness to her, and that is fine because she is a victim of a curse. She puts every bit of that pain into maintaining her iron will. You can channel any strong feeling — anger, sorrow, joy — into passion.”

You stared into Ciel’s eye, tilting your head and smiling as his gaze finally managed to soften. “Better. See, you can channel any strong emotion into a passion. Think about your favorite tea or something that can only evoke kind feelings,” you explained with a newfound gentleness as the two of you settled into a natural rhythm with the music.

Something was paralyzing about his sapphire stare. It forced you to nearly miss a step in your waltz, causing you to fumble. He held the depths of the ocean in his eye— you wished he didn’t need his eyepatch. Selfishly, you wanted to look into both of his eyes.

A new grin played on Ciel's lips. It managed to reach the rest of his face, for once. “Be careful. We can’t have the principal dancer tripping over herself in a dance of all things,” he remarked, the arm around your lower back tightening to keep you steady. The hand clasping yours gradually relaxed from its business-like squeeze to a softer grasp meant for gentle dancing.

The piece drifted to an end. Couples around you stepped into their concluding stance, about a step away from one another. They bowed and curtsied to one another, or settled into another beginning stance to continue dancing. You looked at Ciel questioningly, confident that he would be more than ready to steer you back to the sidelines to continue making your rounds about the room.

That was until he extended his hand to you once more, after righting himself from his shallow bow. “It would be optimal to wait until most of the guests leave. Until then, we have time to kill,” he explained, gauging your reaction. You willingly accepted his hand and returned to your former position— gently ensnared in his arm, while rounding yours around his shoulder.

You were close enough to smell the sweet scent of expensive tea and clean soap wafting from his neck since the height difference between you and the Earl left you aligned with his sternum. Or more interestingly, the blood-red tie he wore to match your gown.

After Midnight, The Ball

Alexander Huntington’s Estate, Alexander’s Office

The ball was showing typical signs of a natural closing. Noble parties tended to extend into one in the morning, and typically the idle widows and daughters and mothers who were unimpressed with the ball’s bachelors started to take their leaves. The ballroom was still crowded, but there was a slight current of guests making their rounds of goodbyes and showing themselves to their waiting carriages.

You and Ciel waited outside of Alexander’s office— Sebastian finally alerted you that the businessman went to check on his clandestine belongings.

“Are you certain you want to come inside?” Ciel questioned. He didn’t think you could handle another violent scene after finding Amelie’s body, but you couldn’t imagine there was a worse sight than her lifeless eyes and mottled skin. Besides, this was your investigation as well, whether Ciel liked it or not.

“Yes.” You said. The air of finality around the single word was enough to make him stop looking at you cautiously.

“Mr. Huntington. I would like a word. It is Lord Phantomhive,” he said, knocking on the door twice as Sebastian settled down the hallway, a guard in the event Alexander became violent.

“Of course, my Lord. Enter by all means,” Alexander’s muffled voice responded. You listened for the light tap of the painting getting put back into place, the slight rustling of hastily thrown documents shifting behind the canvas once he hung it in its original spot.

“I need to speak to you about Eliza O’Malley,” Ciel said, never one to bother with pleasantries and formalities when he was investigating a person of interest. You knew that better than anyone, given the way he sternly told you to put on more clothes when you first met. He watched Alexander’s face, scanning every little nuance for hints of guilt or any noticeable emotion.

At the mention of the ballerina’s name, Alexander’s green eyes hardened, his arms crossing in front of his chest.

“Eliza O’Malley. I know her, unfortunately,” he replied gruffly, knowing better than to outwardly lie to Ciel. “She is a sly wagtail, isn’t she? I’ve never been more relieved to cut ties with someone.”

Alexander was using the present tense for her, and you couldn’t detect any manipulation in his words or body language.

“Cut ties? Care to explain why?” Ciel asked, but everyone in the room was well aware that it wasn’t a request. You could see the gears turning in his mind, attempting to piece together every minuscule detail you’ve managed to compile in the last several days up to this point. Alexander had been her only subscriber for the past six months— he wrote her checks until the week before her death. Presumably, he ended their relationship. Presumably, Eliza and most of the other murdered ballerinas were having sexual relationships with William Wood.

“I gave that—that…bitch everything,” Alexander spat, lowering his voice as it wavered with inundating emotion. “I paid for her townhouse, her pointe shoes, her meals…she was mine. She wasn’t supposed to—…” he took a long breath in with stammering difficulty. “She wasn’t supposed to go and be with some other man. It was a betrayal,” he spat, unshed tears shining in his eyes.

Ciel’s face darkened. You imagined yours did the same, eyebrows drawing inward, head tilted with uncertainty. Alexander must have found her with William. They were cavorting in her townhouse to avoid Natasha growing suspicious of William.

“She was just…supposed to be mine, do you understand?” Alexander shook his head, his shaggy brown tresses moving with the gesture. “It is an utter embarrassment for her to defile herself with someone else in the house I pay the rent for.”

“So you ended your patronage with her, when?” You cut in, growing weary of the man’s pathetic tears. His quivering voice. Everything about him was growing exhaustive, but it was his entitlement to Eliza’s body that most fueled your outrage the most.

“I-I…early September, I think. I have the last check I gave to her…” Alexander said, his estimation was consistent with the records you and Ciel found prior.

“Who did you find her with?” Ciel asked the edge in his voice causing you to suspect that he also presumed it was going to be Natasha’s husband.

“William Wood,” Alexander answered bluntly, verifying Violet’s claim. Of course— there was no need for her to lie. Eliza was her best friend, and they lived in that townhouse together. She was now a witness. “He was defiling my precious, innocent— Eliza…” he continued, adding to the bile that threatened to rise in your throat.

Alexander’s teary gaze cut back to yours. “Do you all do this to your sponsors? We don’t pay all of your bills and the foyer fees to have to share you with other men,” he asked. “You should keep a close eye on her, my Lord.”

“That is quite enough,” Ciel replied, as cold as a glacier. “You will not speak of her in such a manner. She may very well be the next Countess of Phantomhive.”

“Just because you’ve dressed her pretty, doesn’t mean she’s worth anything more than a common prostit— hey!” Alexander cried out, nursing his reddened cheek. Ciel wrung out his bare hand and slid his glove back over it, satisfied with the imprint he left on the man’s face.

“That will be your second and final warning, Alexander,” he stated. “When you speak of her in such a way, you are speaking of me all the same. You do know how I take to slander, do you not?”

You were desensitized to perhaps any hateful term one could level at you, but you couldn’t help but the satisfied grin that surfaced to your lips. Until now, you never had anyone fight for you. Leading up to this point, you were the only one in your corner. (Save for Natasha, perhaps, but she would always lead with the company’s best interest in mind.) You were accustomed to preserving your own dignity. No one had ever defended you with Ciel’s ferocity. It brought goosebumps to the exposed flesh of your arms.

“Apologize,” Ciel demanded, his statuesque features assembling the very picture of an immortal’s wrath. “This instant.”

When Alexander hesitated, Ciel flashed a small gun from the depths of his autumn jacket, causing you to gasp inadvertently. Your face grew warm, causing you to look away.

“I didn’t mean it, Miss Y/l/n!” Alexander’s words came hurriedly, his tears finally spilling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” he whimpered desperately.

Ciel wore a Machiavellian grin. It was heartless. It was venomous, like a snake’s. “Do you forgive him, Y/n? Or shall we make him grovel some more?” He unlocked his pistol, causing both you and Alexander to tense.

Strangely, you weren’t afraid. Instead, you returned his relaxed expression and nodded. “Yes, I forgive him. I think we should finish our business here,” you answered snidely, watching Alexander tremble. There was a dark, yet potent, power that came with being on the Earl’s arm. It wasn’t a power you disliked. Perhaps, you were as twisted as the noble holding the gun.

“I agree,” Ciel said, hesitating to re-lock his gun as if he was sorry he couldn’t shoot the man. “I have one final question for you, Alexander,” he pocketed the pistol much slower than necessary, reminding the businessman how trivial his life was once again. “What did you do after you found Eliza and William together?”

Alexander wiped away any remaining tears and squared his posture, attempting to regain the confidence you and Ciel ripped away from him. “Um— I told some of my other friends who are subscribers. They should know what they’re paying for,” he said cautiously, wary that Ciel would hit him again for disparaging your name.

“You had no further contact with Eliza?” Ciel asked.

“Not at all. I haven’t seen her since that night,” Alexander shook his head rapidly. Somehow, you doubted the man could kill her. He was crying because of her betrayal— at least before Ciel terrified him— he still harbored some degree of love for her. “I heard she left the country because I’d told my inner circle and the rumor only spread from there.”

“She was found dead blocks away from her home a week after that incident,” Ciel informed him, all too stoic for the topic at hand. “Where were you on the night of September 15th?”

Alexander hesitated once more, before his face brightened with remembrance, though more tears welled in his eyes after hearing that Eliza was dead. An alibi. “The Theatre Royale in Manchester. A stage production of…Trilby. I think I still have my tickets, and the performers and stagehands can confirm that I was there. My wife loved the novel, so I arranged for a backstage tour for her!”

Ciel’s face was unchanged. “I expect confirmation of these claims within the next several days, and I want a list of the patrons you informed.”

“Look, whatever they might have done is not my fault…” Alexander started to say, but Ciel interrupted. At least he interrupted everyone — not just you. Even if it was na enourmously frustrating habit of his, amongst a number of others. You could name several of them: Ciel’s inability to be wrong, his commitment to never touching a surface that could have been grazed by a commonor’s hand, his insistence to remain as close to every rule as possible. He was as laced as straight and as tight as your bloody pointe shoes!

“You’ve done quite enough. Now if you wish to stay in business with a personal friend of mine, you will ensure that everything we have discussed this evening stays within this office. Am I understood?”

Another frustrating quality: Ciel’s habit of asking if he is understood. Yes, Ciel. You are next to always, understood. You rolled your eyes.

“Quite, my Lord,” Alexander nodded vigorously. He reminded you of a puppy— all too eager to please. “Have a lovely night, Miss Y/l/n,” he added as Ciel gestured for you to open the door and take your leave for the evening.

“Thank you for the ball,” you chirped over your shoulder.

Past Midnight

Ciel Phantomhive’s Estate, The Drawing Room

Your exhaustion began to seep into your bones. It was a culmination of your typical rehearsal time to prepare for The Nutcracker, your pre-performance warm-up class, that night’s Swan Lake performance, and the noble ball you attended, to say the least. That estimation didn’t account for your everyday stretching, the physical toil of becoming a butler’s live dress-up doll, or the emotional burden of such a long-winded day.

You couldn’t believe it wasn’t over. You should have known there would be a catch when Ciel invited you to spend the night at his estate— there was more work to be done.

Now, you sat across from one another, a chessboard sitting in the middle of you. A class of foreign pieces sat on your side of the board, the white set instead of the black, since Ciel claimed it. You looked at them blankly, having never played chess— much less seen such an ornate set of the board game. Selling it would likely give you enough money to pay your rent for the next several months.

“Ciel, I want to retire,” you moaned, taking a long drink from your green tea. Sebastian made it fresh and it still steamed from the kettle, but you didn’t mind the warm sensation as it soothed your tired throat. “I am exhausted.”

Everything was warm and comfortable at the Phantomhive estate. Your face was still flushed from the warm bath their clumsy maid, Mey-Rin, drew for you. You had never bathed without having to heat the water yourself and dump it into the bathtub until that night. (That morning?)

Even the nightgown they offered you was so silky, that you barely felt it around you. It was a soft baby pink with a large bow in the middle— proper sleepwear for a noblewoman— you presumed. Even so, you couldn’t help but feel partial to an oversized nightshirt and your drawers— even if it seemed to scandalize Ciel more than your leotards and tights.

“Let Maisie go on for you tomorrow, then,” Ciel suggested haphazardly, shrugging his shoulders. His hair was still wet from his bath— it dripped onto his white nightshirt. “We need to strategize. Make your turn,” he ordered, drinking his Earl Gray tea.

You stared at your pieces, forlorn. “I don’t know how…oh, fine,” you conceded, picking up the horse-shaped figure and moving it two spaces in front of the short piece that was in front of it.

“That is against the rules. The knight moves in an L shape, do you recall?”

“No,” you wrinkled your nose. The second Ciel began lecturing you about the complexities of each piece, you stopped listening. “I do not recall.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “We just went over them, Y/n. I don’t think they can be any clearer.”

“Oh, you and your rules,” you mumbled. Despite the frustration on Ciel’s face, you made no effort to move your piece. “If your butler would serve me a good Quarts de Chaume as I originally requested, I might have more energy to play your childish game.” That particular dessert wine was a favorite of yours, made from Chenin Blanc grapes.

It would have paired perfectly with your poached peaches with crème anglaise, a light snack Sebastian had ready moments after you took your seat in the drawing room. He seemed to have caught on to your rather light way of eating and made a particular effort to make your small bowl contain more peaches than cream. There couldn’t have been more than a few teaspoons of the anglaise, but that hardly mattered. It was rich enough for a little to go more than a long way.

“Serving wine this late is inappropriate,” Ciel said boredly, “and it will only make you more tired.”

Technically, the correct terminology was: serving wine this early. But who was keeping track? Certainly not you.

“Being awake this late is inappropriate!” You complained instead, cutting a slice of peach in half with the side of your fork. “What is there to strategize? William is still in Paris.”

“Actually, Miss Y/l/n, I’ve just received word that his steamship has just docked,” Sebastian’s pleasant voice emerged from the open doorway. He pushed a small cart with more tea for you and his master, as well as an array of fruit-based desserts for Ciel to choose from.

“Would you care for more tea, Miss?”

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