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tothelasthoursofmylife · 5 years

Text

“It was the start of a long journey.”

HEART OF ENGLAND ARC

“Never close your lips to those whom you have already opened your heart.”

— Charles Dickens

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

~Cloudia~

My aunt Felicity was the patron of a little art gallery in London, and as I was currently living with her due to emergency repairs at my townhouse – evidence that not just the usage, but also the neglect of things could break them – it was only natural for me to accompany her to the reception for the newest exhibition at said gallery.

I didn’t have to particularly like it though.

The Layton Art Gallery surely was not located in a building anyone would describe as “large” when looking at it from the outside. As soon as you walked over its threshold, however, you soon realised that you were gravely mistaken: A humble overground structure and numerous basements with convoluted corridors and “hidden” rooms tricked visitors regarding the gallery’s actual size and allowed them to truly get “lost” in the building’s clever architecture – and, of course, in the labyrinth of paintings and drawings, of statues and busts.

Cloudia had been walking through these corridors for over two hours now and she was still surprised to turn around a corner and find more paths and paintings she had not seen before.

This made me worry a little bit about how I should find my way back to the ground floor. Only the Pyramids of Giza were more devilishly designed than this place!

Despite the art gallery’s infuriating structure, Cloudia eventually grew to like it as it was, after all, just a wonderful big puzzle she had to solve. Her thought that, if this place had so many nooks and crannies there had to be a less crowded or even empty area somewhere, certainly added to her fondness. And indeed, after a long period of trial and error and a lot of small talk, Cloudia finally found the most likely least crowded room in the Layton Art Gallery – if you could even call it “crowded” when there was only one other person around.

“May I?” asked Cloudia when she walked up to the bench on which the man was sitting.

He turned his head to her, blinking at her with his hazel eyes. Now able to see his face, Cloudia immediately recognised him as Baron Milton Salisbury from the reception.

She had helped her aunt and cousin to greet each of the many guests, and when it was Milton’s turn to step up, he had not only caught Cloudia’s interest because of the mourning clothes he was wearing or because of the name by which he introduced himself – she hadn’t heard that the last Baron Salisbury had died, hadn’t even known that he had any relations to whom he could pass his title – but also because his gaze had lingered a moment too long on her face right before he had bowed to her and walked into the main hall. When she had asked Keegan about Milton, he had told her that Milton was the previous Baron’s only son and that Leland Salisbury had passed away last December. These pieces of information had only sparked a new question in her: If his father had died only two months ago, why was Milton in public again? Weren’t you supposed to stay away from society for six months? Cloudia had wished for Keegan to be able to say more, but their greeting duty had kept him too busy to do so.

The order in reception lines was arranged after title and status, and as only a few titled nobles were present but numerous members of the gentry and rich businessmen, Milton had not been one of the last ones to announce himself; he had been one of the first. And so, Cloudia had been too busy to inquire about him again, and when, finally, the last guest had entered the gallery, it had been time for the opening speech and, afterwards, everyone had either mingled together or gone downstairs to take a look at the exhibition. Just when she had spotted Milton, the crowd had swallowed him up a second later, and she herself had been dragged to the basements by the masses.

And now, here he was.

“Of course you may, Lady Phantomhive,” said Milton Salisbury and stood up.

“Oh no, I don’t mean to chase you away, Baron! Don’t let me interrupt you and please sit back down.”

“I surely did not think that you meant to chase me away, Mylady. I am sorry that I made you believe this. I only want to go because it is the proper thing to do considering that you are unchaperoned.”

Cloudia shook her head. “It is fine; there is nobody else here anyway. And if one of us should leave, it should be me – after all, you were here first, and I was the one who interrupted you. Not vice versa. So, all I am asking you, Baron Salisbury, is this: May I keep you company for a little while even if I am without a chaperone? Or does it bother you too much? If this is indeed the case, I can go.”

“No, I guess, it will be fine,” Milton said after a while. To her surprise, his voice was steady when he spoke. She had thought that he would sound at least slightly uneasy. “If keeping me company is what you want, Lady Phantomhive, I see no reason to reject your request. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Cloudia replied and sat down on the bench. After a while, Milton sat down on the bench’s edge.

From the corner of her eye, Cloudia observed Milton clutching his hands together and looking at the painting hanging at the opposite wall. He had already stared at it when she had come; what was so fascinating about it that he could not take his eyes away from it? For Cloudia, it was nothing more than a watercolour depiction of a green, undulating landscape which was parted by a river; a little village nestled alongside it. The artist had done a wonderful job at capturing not only this place’s beauty but also its serene, calming atmosphere: The longer she looked at it, the more she felt like she was actually there. Still, Cloudia could not understand why Milton kept looking at it – it was only a beautiful landscape drawing and nothing particularly spectacular.

How curious.

They continued to sit next to each other in complete silence. Cloudia craned her head to look at the other drawings and small statues in the room, but every time she glimpsed back to Milton, she saw that his gaze was still fixed on the landscape drawing. A few times she had considered to start a conversation, only to drop the idea right afterwards. Cloudia didn’t want to disturb him in whatever he was doing – obsessively studying the painting? meditating? perhaps it somehow reminded him of his late father and was soothing to him – and had she not come here because she didn’t want to talk to anyone for a while? Even though the entire situation was quite strange, just sitting here in complete silence and being surrounded by pretty drawings did indeed calm her down and revitalise her after she had been drained from talking to others for hours and hours. And after a few more completely relaxed moments, Cloudia could not help herself but doze off…

Eventually, Milton stood up again, and the movement woke her. “Thank you for having been so kind as to keep me company, Lady Phantomhive,” he said softly, bowing his head to her. “It was a pleasure, but now, I have to excuse myself. I wish you a nice day, Mylady.”

Cloudia nodded at him, sleep still clinging to her. With a little but brilliant smile on his lips, Milton left, and shortly afterwards, Keegan stepped into the room.

“There you are, Cloudia! I was searching for you.”

“I am sorry; I needed a pause from all this hubbub,” Cloudia said and stood up, blinking the rest of her fatigue away. “Did I miss anything important?”

“No. I simply wondered where you were,” Keegan told her, frowning at one of the paintings. He might not seem like it, but out of all her cousins, he was the most worrisome, most protective one. As he was the only boy in their generation, he had always been told to keep an eye on his cousins; even if he was not, Cloudia didn’t doubt that he would have done so anyway.

“What were you even doing here?” he asked.

“Just sitting and enjoying the silence,” Cloudia said and glimpsed at the little plate below the apparently very captivating drawing – Landscape in watercolour (est. 1824-1827), unknown artist.

“You sat here all on your own? You did not do anything else?”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean that I ‘sat here all on my own’? Didn’t you see my companion? He left right before you came.”

“‘He’? I didn’t see anyone. Cloudia, don’t tell me…”

“Don’t worry, Keegan; I’m just teasing you,” she said, walking to him. Grinning, she tucked her arm into his. “There was absolutely no one here with me.”

***

On the road from London to Dover, England, United Kingdom – June 1848

~Cedric~

“The sun had risen to its highest point on the 13th of June when I, Cedric Kristopher Rossdale, first of my name, was travelling on one of the trains of the South Eastern Railway into a part of Britain which was known to many men, but not to me. To me, my destination – or, at least, my scheduled, my apparent destination; who could know what detours this creature of metal and wood may take to taunt me? – was the Great Unknown.

“Long ago, people had mapped and charted said areas; as I had no particular interest in old, ugly maps, I had not taken a look at them. This only manifested the entire mystery behind this part of England for me. Oh, how mysterious this place to which I was to go! What dangers may await me in this foreign land?

“In this foreign land to which I was dragged, kidnapped I daresay, by such force unimaginable to extraordinary men, let alone ordinary! And the reason for my kidnapping was as much strewn in mystery as these wondrous, faraway lands and plains! My life was hanging on a thread! A thin, disentangling thread! If I lived to complete my accounts, it would be a curious thing indeed…”

“Undertaker, stop staring out of the window and dramatically mumbling nonsense to yourself or else I will throw you out of said window – even if it means to pay the repair costs,” said Cloudia, glaring at him.

Cedric turned to her. They had met at the train station in London in the early morning hours, and still half asleep, he had allowed Cloudia to drag him onto the train and to their cabin where he had promptly fallen asleep. He had briefly woken up when they had arrived in Ashford and had to change trains. Only with great struggle, Cedric had managed to keep himself awake for the second part of their travel.

The last two days had been awfully busy as he had had to run back and forth between reaping souls all around the London area and the Management Division to get his application for leave. The only reason why Cedric had even managed to get his request permitted on time was that the Management Reapers had eventually grown tired and annoyed of him and his leave, after all, equalled that they would get some peaceful, restive weeks as well. In all the excitement, however, Cedric had been unable to ask Cloudia about any details regarding their little trip to the continent. And when he had fully shaken away his sleepiness, Cloudia had been reading – and he had learned over the past year and a half that when Cloudia Phantomhive was reading, it was painfully difficult to catch her attention. If she didn’t stop herself, the chances of making her look up from her book were rather low. Fortunately, thoroughly annoying others had always been Cedric Rossdale’s forte.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You are the one who keeps ignoring me. First, you do so for two months and now, you are doing it again! Did you grow tired of me, Countess?”

Cloudia blinked at him, closed her book, and put it away. “Well, you fell asleep as soon as you sat down. And as you were looking terribly tired all day – you were also pleasantly silent – I thought that it was better to let you sleep.”

“What were you even reading?” Cedric asked. The train stopped in Folkestone and it got a bit loud and tumultuous outside as people got off and on.

She held up her book. “Agnes Grey. Acton Bell’s second book is scheduled to come out later this month, and I wanted to reread his – or her or their – first one before the release.”

He frowned. “‘His or her or their’?”

“There is a lot of speculation surrounding the three Bells that suddenly appeared in England’s literary world – Currer, Ellis, and Acton. Currer Bell is the one who wrote Jane Eyre, do you remember? People are wondering if they are even men or three individuals or just one person or perhaps even a pair – a husband and a wife or a brother and a sister. I do think that they are different people – their writing styles are too different – but I believe they are, in fact, women. Only women can become governesses, and, at least, Currer and Acton Bell seem to know the life of governesses a bit too well.”

“Ah, you did not tell me this before.” He leaned back. “I am always a bit surprised when you read something that is not Dickens.”

“I have the complete, bound version of Dombey and Son in my trunk if you need proof that I am me.”

Cedric smiled. “I don’t. Now, back to my question: What are we even doing? Is this even a real Watchdog case or did the Queen randomly send us to holidays again? This time under the guise of a case?”

“It is a real Watchdog case,” Cloudia said. She waited until the train had left the station again and the commotion was over before she continued.

“Undertaker, have you heard of the Chartist movement?”

“I don’t think so; the name doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

She sighed. “This does not surprise me at all. You need to work more to stay in touch with the world; it will definitely benefit you and reading a newspaper every now and then surely doesn’t hurt. Well, let us talk about Chartism.

“It is the name of a movement of working-class members which came into existence in 1838. The name comes from the People’s Charter, a bill written by William Lovett of the London Working Men’s Association – one of the predecessors of the Chartist movement – and eleven other people. In this charter, Lovett describes the six main goals of Chartism: that all men above the age of twenty-one should be able to vote as long as they have the mental capacities to make a sound vote and aren’t criminals, that voting by secret ballot should be introduced, that members of the Parliament should be paid, that everyone should be able to become a member of the Parliament regardless of property or wealth, that the electoral districts should be equal, and that the Parliament should be elected every year anew instead of every five years. The movement’s goals did not change at all in the last decade; to make the House of Commons approve these six points is all they want and nothing more. In the last years, the situation of the working class people only worsened, and all their hope at improving their situation lies in receiving the right to vote. Currently, only those with property can vote, and members of the working class do not fulfil this criterion. That’s why the Chartist movement came to be – to give them a voice.

“So far, the Chartists presented three petitions detailing their propositions to the House of Commons. All of them were rejected. The first one from June 1839 was signed by more than a million people, their second one from May 1842 by over three million. Support and enthusiasm for the Chartist movement peaked around the times they presented their petitions to the Parliament, and every time they were dismissed, people became even more frustrated than they already are and the rejections were always followed by unrests. The movement, however, is characterised by the fact that it seldom resorts to violence – mostly only Chartist groups in Yorkshire and South Wales try to achieve their goals by violent means. Following the rejection of their first petition, Chartists engineered a revolt which resulted in numerous members of the movement to be arrested, sent to prison or to Australia; ever since they learned to be more moderate. Can you follow me?”

Cedric nodded. “Sure. Chartists. Angry, frustrated working class people wanting to vote. Turned down petitions.”

“Good. This April, the Chartists handed in their third petition, but as I’ve said before, this one was dismissed as well. This time, however, the aftermath turned out different than before: On the one hand, working-class people are becoming more and more disheartened, and more and more of them have started to lose hope in the movement. Chartism has lost its general appeal. On the other hand, Chartist members are still actively fighting. After their third petition was, yet again, not approved, it came to unrests in Bingley, Yorkshire. Before we got on the train, I heard from Scotland Yard that there are currently talks amongst Chartists of holding an uprising in London. Apparently, yesterday was their first meeting.”

“They cannot be very good if Scotland Yard found out about their plans so soon. And what exactly does this movement have to do with our trip to France?”

“Out of frustration and scorn at the latest developments, a man called Nicodemus Townsend formed a Chartist subgroup. Townsend is the son of a former governess and a factory worker; at thirty-one, he is the oldest of his parents’ children, and from what I have found out, he has always been a very charismatic person. Under Townsend’s leadership, this little group has managed to steal something of utmost importance to the Crown. They want to use it to force the Queen and the Parliament to approve the Chartists’ six propositions.”

Cedric’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me they were able to steal the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London…”

“I won’t because they weren’t; they have not. They stole something else.”

“And what?”

Cloudia shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“It seems that whatever Townsend and his goons stole is something so valuable to the Royal family that only handful members of the Royal family itself – the Queen herself, Prince Albert, Queen Adelaide, and some others – and the Prime Minister even know about its existence. It’s one of the most well-kept secrets of the Crown, maybe even the most well-kept one. Not even I, the Queen’s Watchdog, is allowed to know anything specific about it. Thus, Townsend has definitely no idea what exactly he has stolen. He only knows that the object is immensely important to the Queen. He does not know what it is, what it does if it even does something, or why exactly it is so valuable. Townsend only found out the object’s location from a traitor who was already identified and hanged. Said traitor didn’t know what the object is either.

“Townsend is now in possession of this object; the Queen knows this for sure but Townsend does not.”

Cedric frowned. “But if he knew where to find this thing and knows that it is important, why doesn’t he know that he really has it? It doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“The reason why Townsend isn’t sure if he has it or not is that the object is inside a special box,” Cloudia told him. “A box no ordinary person can open. It’s an incredibly elaborate puzzle box only Queen Victoria knows how to open. This box is the secret object’s last defence; it is the last thing to ensure that it cannot fall into the wrong hands.

“Now, Townsend has the box but he has no guarantee that it is, in fact, the right box. It could just as well be a decoy. That the traitor was hanged does not guarantee him the box’s authenticity. After all, the traitor sold out information about this secret’s whereabouts and, thus, committed a crime. In this case, it does not matter whether the box is a replica or not. Also, following the theft and hanging, the Crown is calmly continuing its work. There is no apparent unrest, no panic that could indicate Townsend that he did, in fact, steal the real box. He cannot even break the box to see what is inside because it was constructed to be nearly unbreakable; if he ever managed to break the box, Townsend would, most definitely, destroy its content as well. And you cannot exactly use a broken item for blackmail.”

“So… all Townsend can do is to try finding a way to open the box? To make sure that there’s really something inside?”

“Exactly.”

“But how does he intend to do it? You have said yourself that only the Queen knows how to open it.”

“This does not mean that no one else can open it. It only means that it is very, very difficult for anyone else to solve the box’s puzzle. Someone with a vast knowledge of puzzles and mechanics may be capable of opening the box. Townsend and his followers do not possess this knowledge. They need to find someone who does and persuade him or her to help them if they want to get any further. And as they know that they better should not conduct their search in Great Britain – the risk of getting caught is far too high – they weaselled their way out of the isle and got to the continent.”

Cedric groaned. “They really never make it easy for us, do they? Anyway – why France? Or better: How do you even know that they are in France?”

“I have told you that my grandmother, Genevieve Phantomhive, was French, right?”

“Yes, you have. And?”

“Before my grandmother married my grandfather, her name was Genevieve Hetherington, but that wasn’t her birth name. It was Genevieve Dupont. Her mother, my great-grandmother, remarried after the death of her first husband, Timothé Dupont, and legally changed the surname of her daughter to Hetherington, her second husband’s last name. The Hetherington family is fairly unremarkable – the Duponts, however, are infamous in France. They are basically the French equivalent of the Phantomhives, only independent.”

“You have to be joking,” interjected Cedric. “There are more of you?”

“You couldn’t seriously have thought that the Phantomhives are singular, could you? We live in a big world, Undertaker. There are surely more Watchdogs and Phantomhives. Or, at least, similar positions and families.”

He rubbed his face. “I don’t like where this is going, but please continue, Countess.”

“Undertaker, you have to know that the Duponts are not just active in France. They are also active, though to a lesser extent, all over the European mainland, but not on the British Isles. This is one of the reasons why the Duponts and the Phantomhives were so eager for my grandparents to marry. In the end, it did not turn out as they had wished, but that’s a different story.

“Anyway, I wrote to the Duponts regarding the theft. With their network, they were quickly able to find out that Townsend was seen last in the north of France. And while they do not know where Townsend currently is, they do have an idea where he could go, whom he could force to solve the box’s puzzle for him. Luckily enough, my great-uncle – my grandmother’s older brother – knows a noble family who has a manor house around the area where this ‘Clockmaker’ as he calls him resides. He made them leave for a while so that we can stay there, at Château de Charbonneau, during our time in France.”

“Please don’t continue anymore, Countess. I don’t think you will say anything good anymore.”

“And because they have never met me in person, and I have never met them,” Cloudia continued, ignoring Cedric, “they will come to stay with us there.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Cedric said, sliding down in his seat until he half-laid on it. “And I don’t like it at all.”

She frowned. “But you like my maternal family just fine?”

“I like them because they are normal. What can I expect of French Phantomhives?”

“The same as of every other person you haven’t met before and haven’t heard anything of. I do not know them myself; I also have no idea how they are. It will be a surprise to us all.”

Cedric opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, someone knocked on the cabin’s door. Cloudia gestured at Cedric to sit up properly again before saying “Please enter” and folding her hands in her lap.

The door opened and a short, slightly chubby lady with a friendly face and brown hair appeared in the doorsill. “Good day, my name is…” the snack lady started before her eyes widened at their sight and she exclaimed with joy gracing her face and voice, “Lady Phantomhive! Duke Underwood!” Hastily, she curtsied. “Mylady, Your Grace, it is such a pleasure to meet you again!”

Cedric and Cloudia exchanged surprised gazes before turning back to the lady. “Mrs Wilming!” they said almost synchronically.

Mary Margaret’s eyes glittered. “I feel so honoured that you remember me! I hope you had a nice journey so far?”

“Yes, we had. Thank you for asking,” said Cloudia with a smile. “And it is not that remarkable that we are remembering you, Mrs Wilming; it is more remarkable that you can remember us! It is truly surprising that we didn’t get buried beneath memories of thousands of other passengers, customers.”

She chuckled. “I remember everyone I have ever served. Your Grace, do you want everything from my trolley again?”

Cedric’s eyes shone in delight. “Yes, but I know I cannot. Instead, I will poach a bit. If you may excuse me,” he said and knelt down next to the snack trolley to collect everything he wanted.

“May I inquire where you are heading to this time, Your Ladyship?” Mary Margaret asked Cloudia.

“To Dover, and from there, we will head to a little village in France.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I see! Pardon me, Duchess, for addressing you wrongly! My sincerest congratulations, Your Graces!” She curtsied again.

“Duchess?!” exclaimed Cedric and stood up so abruptly and blindly that he hit his head on a part of the trolley. “Ow.”

“No, no, Mrs Wilming, you have misunderstood,” Cloudia was quick to say, waving with her hands. “We did not get married – we are not even intending to. We are going to France with a few others who we will meet in Dover.”

Mary Margaret held her face. “Pardon me, Mylady, for jumping to conclusions!”

“It is fine. It is not the first time that someone has mistaken us for an engaged or married couple; and to my annoyance, I doubt this will be the last time.” Cloudia turned to Cedric who had started to litter his bench with sweets. “Are you done or should Mrs Wilming just leave her trolley here?”

“I was done a few minutes ago, but then, I hit my head and decided to take more to ease my pain.”

“Naturally.” Cloudia took out her purse and paid Mary Margaret. “Here you go, Mrs Wilming. I wish you a good day – and I advise you to hurry to the next compartments before the Duke decides to chase after you and eat all the sweets from your trolley. And the trolley itself.”

Mary Margaret chuckled. “I really should be going. I hope you will enjoy your trip, Lady Phantomhive, Duke Underwood!” With a final wave, she was gone.

“For your information, Countess,” Cedric said while organising his haul, “I would never eat a trolley – unless it’s made of gingerbread, of course.”

“I know.” Cloudia held out her hand, and Cedric handed her a package with bonbons. “They are humbugs,” he said with a grin and sat back down.

She rolled with her eyes, but opened the package nonetheless and put a bonbon in her mouth.

“Before Mary Margaret Wilming interrupted us, I was meaning to ask what Milton thinks of everything,” said Cedric, throwing a few black circular sweets into his mouth. He grimaced and spit them back into the package. “Ugh, it’s liquorice. Who the hell likes liquorice?” He held up the bag and glared at it. “You are called Pontefract cakes. You are supposed to be cakes, not something coming from the pits of hell!”

“Only because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean you should simply spit it back!” Cloudia looked away. “It’s gross.”

“Just like liquorice. It is gross; it deserves a gross end.”

“They aren’t that gross.”

“Please don’t tell me you like liquorice, Countess.”

She turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “What are you going to do if I say I do?”

“Well, then, I would gather my belongings, say ‘Countess, it was nice to have met you in a weird, nerve-wracking way, but under such circumstances, I cannot keep up this partnership,’ and part ways with you forever.”

“You would leave me over liking liquorice?”

“Of course,” said Cedric, his mien serious, hers baffled – and then, they burst into laughter.

“We went through too much together, Countess, for liquorice to be the end of us,” he said, chuckling.

“Your hygiene may be it though,” Cloudia replied and threw a humbug at him.

He caught it. “Not this again! I’ve washed my trousers! I swear!”

“And your hair?”

“Do you know how long it takes for this much hair” – he grabbed his ponytail and waved around with it – “to dry?”

Cloudia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “My hair is almost as long as yours and I manage just fine.”

“I was in a hurry today.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I don’t have servants to help me dry it.”

“No excuse either.”

“Grim Reapers are the epitome of death; they are not supposed to smell like flowers and fruits.”

“As I have understood, Grim Reapers are collectors of the dead, not the causation of them.”

“I did wash my hair today.”

She smiled. “I know. And, for your information, I would not even eat liquorice if it was gratinated with gingerbread.”

I replied to her smile with one of my own; and in silence and joy, we stayed like this for a little while until the conductor knocked against our cabin door and pulled us back into the here and now.

“Back to my question,” Cedric started to say, awkwardly shoving a humbug to the side in his mouth after the conductor had left again. “What does Milton think of all this? Our trip?”

“What should he think of it?” Cloudia replied while fumbling with the lace on her gloves.

“You have told me that he is coming with us because he is going to bring us to wherever we have to go to catch Townsend and retrieve the important secret item – but the catching and retrieving is Watchdog business, and Milton is an ordinary civilian.” He paused. “Wait, he is an ordinary civilian, right? And not one of your Aristocrats of Evil?”

“Milton? An Aristocrat of Evil? Don’t be ridiculous. He is nothing but a regular civilian,” said Cloudia. “Every now and then, we write to each other. It is a rather tedious affair as Milton is always travelling: All you want to send to him, you have to send to his deputy Sycamore first.

“A while ago, when it had become clear that I would have to go to France, I asked him to do me the favour to help me find the best possible route to get where I needed to go. Of course, all he knows is that I am going to France to visit family.

“I assumed that Milton would simply tell me where to go, which roads and railway companies I have to avoid and which to take, that he would perhaps even ask some of his acquaintances in France to assist me. But, coincidentally, he returned to England the day before he received my letter, and what is even more coincidental, he has business to do in Paris around the same time as we have to be in France to investigate. Kind as he is, Milton offered to guide us to Nanteuil-la-Forêt as it is not very far away from Paris. In return, I have offered him to stay with us at Château de Charbonneau until it’s time for him to go to Paris. Originally, Milton had planned to set out in a few days and, thus, arranged his meeting accordingly. However, he was unable to reschedule it after accepting my favour which means that he has a few ‘spare days’; these he will spend with us in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

Cedric chuckled. “Of course, Milton accepted your offer. I don’t think this boy would ever pass up on an opportunity to spend a few days with you somewhere in France. What was the name of the place where we’re going again? Nantoy-le-furry?”

“Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

“Ah, okay. Do you think that it will be all right for Milton to stay with us? After all, the Duponts sound scary and we need to catch Townsend.”

“It will be fine,” she meant, closing the humbug bag and putting it away. “Milton is easy to handle and will not be a hindrance to us: He greatly values the privacy of others, and he will, most likely, spend the majority of our time there sitting in a secluded corner all by himself, reading or working. The manor will be rather crowded, and Milton cannot stomach crowded places for too long; he will surely seize every chance to vanish to quieter places.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said Cedric, leaning back and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “He is like you in this regard, Countess. You always shudder whenever you have to attend any kind of social gathering. I’ve always thought that you did not particularly like him, but you seem to be quite a match in some aspects – and you are writing letters to each other. For how long are you doing this anyway?”

“For a bit over a year,” Cloudia replied, looking out of the window. “He sent me flowers for my birthday, and I wrote him a letter to thank him for them – and somehow, the correspondence kept on going, albeit only sporadically considering that Milton is always travelling and I have to send all my letters to his deputy first who has to track him down and…” She sighed. “I didn’t even think I would ever hear of him again after the destruction of his villa, considering how well our meeting before that one went…”

Cedric leaned forward. “Huhu, now you are sparking my curiosity! What happened at that meeting?”

“He proposed to me,” she told him, not taking her gaze from the scenery outside.

“He proposed to you? You’ve told me that Milton tried, is trying to marry you despite your ‘engagement,’ but I’ve thought you meant that he said things implying his intention or that he was, in some ways, making advances to you or something like that. I would have never thought that he actually proposed to you! Who proposes to an already ‘engaged’ person?” He paused. “Wait, Milton does know about your betrothal, right?”

“Yes, yes, he does. Of course, he does. I guess he forgot about it at that moment and…” Cloudia sighed again. “It was so sudden.”

“And what was your answer?”

Slowly, she turned to Cedric. She blinked at him. “Obviously, I said ‘no.’”

“Well, you could have said ‘yes.’”

“What in the world makes you even a tiny bit believe that I accepted?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought for a moment ‘What if she missed to tell me that she is not simply fake engaged but really engaged as well? What if she simply forgot?’”

Cloudia shook her head, smiling, and stood up. “We have arrived, Undertaker; come get up before we miss our station.”

***

“So when exactly are we going to meet Milton at the port? In fifteen minutes? Twenty? Half an hour?” asked Cedric when he sat down opposite Cloudia in the carriage.

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s – wait, did you say tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. Undertaker, are you becoming old or why are you constantly repeating what I’m saying?”

“I’m not becoming old. I am old. I was born old, was born with an old man’s grey hair – now, tell me: Why are we already in Dover when we are only meeting up with Milton tomorrow? We don’t need that much time to get to the port, right?”

“Of course, not,” said Cloudia, fumbling with the cords of her bonnet. “We are here a day early because I want to see the city before we cross the Channel. Of course, we will come back to Dover when we return, but I doubt that we will have the time to stay here for long then: There’s always more work to do after all.”

Cedric sacked in his seat. “I could have slept longer. I didn’t have to rush that much with my application.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that you don’t want to explore Dover.” Cloudia folded her arms in front of her chest. “After all, you have never been here as well.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. He sighed and smiled at her. “Yes, I haven’t. Yes, I would love to explore the city with you.”

“Wonderful!” Cloudia clapped her hands together and took a little notebook out of her dress pocket.

She flipped it open. “I’ve already planned out everything…”

***

Overly enthusiastic, Cloudia had dragged me from one end of the town to the other. We had only limited time in Dover, and Cloudia had planned our entire stay here dead on time: It had been a whirlwind of an adventure, and even though my bones got tired fairly early, I still kept up – and whined as little as possible. I had let her take me to Dover Castle, to the town’s museum where the air circulation was so bad I nearly fainted, to Dover’s famous fortification, the Western Heights, and so on and so on. I had let all the facts and historical data Cloudia told wash over me: that the town’s name came from the River Dour where we had had a picnic for lunch, that Dover – or Portus Dubris during that time – was one of the most important ports during the Roman era, that in 1580 the, so far, largest recorded earthquake in England and northern France and Flanders occurred in Dover Strait, that Dover had been a garrison town during the Napoleonic Wars…

It had been awfully exhausting, but it had also been wonderful to spend an entire day with Cloudia again; perhaps, if we had seen each other in the past months, I would have just let myself faint in the museum… Nevertheless, it had been a funny day; it was always nice to watch Cloudia while she rambled down her facts and to see her expression when I teased her a bit too much.

“What are you reading today?” Cedric asked, sitting down next to Cloudia on the bench. Newman and Lisa were standing a bit offside with the luggage and were serenely chatting. The port was extremely busy: People were running around loading and unloading cargo, shouting commands, welcoming arriving relatives and friends. Cedric had watched the workers and the waves crashing against the shore and port, but while watching people was certainly interesting and watching the waves both comforting and terrifying, doing nothing else but watching quickly got boring.

To his surprise, Cloudia immediately looked up. Today she wore a simple dark blue costume and a light blue bonnet covering her braided and pinned-up hair. “It’s still Agnes Grey,” Cloudia told him. “I wasn’t able to continue it yesterday. I’ve only been able to pick it up again this morning.”

“And you are still not finished? You are becoming slow, Countess.”

“I am not. The story itself is good, but the novel was sloppily printed and not proof-read; it’s full of mistakes which makes it annoying to read. I’m going to murder the publisher if Acton Bell’s next novel is just as horrendously treated.” She sighed. “I hope I can finish it soon. I want to reread Dombey and Son so badly.”

“If Agnes Grey is so annoying to read, why don’t you put it away, read Dombey and Son now, and continue it later?” Cedric wanted to know.

“I am a bit afraid that, if I do that, I will make up excuses not to continue Agnes Grey afterwards and never finish it. I’ve already read it, yes, but no matter what, I don’t want to leave a book unfinished. I finish every book I read even if it is absolutely awful. After all, sometimes a book’s beginning may be awful but the rest is not. I want to judge a novel by its entirety and not just by a few pages.”

Cedric straightened up and looked around. “Uh, when do you think Milton is coming?”

“It’s really amusing how fixated on Milton you are,” she said. “Did you grow to like him so much after talking to him twice?”

“Well, I do think he’s nice, but I am asking about him because he’s supposed to escort us to France after all.”

She turned her gaze back to the book in her lap. “I think he’s coming after the others have arrived.”

Cedric stared at her. “What others? You didn’t tell me that more would come!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You still could have told me! Who are the others? Do I know them?”

“Yes, you do.”

A sudden wave of dread washed over him. “Don’t tell me Oscar is coming.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Oscar is rather well known and officially dead. I couldn’t possibly ask Milton to transport him. And now, be quiet and wait – I want to read.”

“But it doesn’t take that long to give me any names – and now, you’re back in your reading world.” Cedric leaned back and sighed. “I will go to Miss Greene and Alfred for a while. I don’t know if you’re listening, but I am saying this anyway because I don’t want you to wonder later on where I went – and because I want to say ‘Well, but I’ve told you!’ if you still do. I’ll see you later, Countess,” he said and stood up. Lisa’s expression darkened the instant, Cedric stepped to her and Newman.

“Did Lady Cloudia grow tired of you, and now you need someone else to annoy?”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Miss Greene.” Cedric turned to Newman. “She always hits the mark; I came to annoy you for a bit. I hope you do not mind?”

“Your presence certainly does not bring annoyance to anyone, Your Grace,” said Newman and slightly bowed his head.

“You are always too nice, my friend.”

Lisa crossed her arms. “It’s Al’s best and worst trait. Now, how does it come that you are still so energetic after Lady Cloudia dragged you through every single street of Dover?”

“Right after my head touched my pillow, I fell asleep like a stone and didn’t wake up until breakfast time. It was an efficient and much-needed recharge. What were you two doing yesterday?”

“We went to the hotel to check in and leave our luggage there. Then, we went to the market to buy things for the picnic.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards, someone” – Lisa linked arms with Newman whose cheeks rosed – “wanted to go to the museum and visit some local bookstores. We also went to a lovely little café.”

“That sounds relaxing.”

“It was.”

Newman nodded. “The tea was exquisite. How were the Western Heights?”

“A bit terrifying. We could not get inside, much to the Countess’ chagrin; I did not really want to go inside anyway. While we were watching it from afar, I always had the feeling that we would be shot down any minute…” replied Cedric. “I would not recommend go–” He stopped talking when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a young man approaching Cloudia. Cedric could not see his face, but as the man had blond hair and Cloudia looked up from Agnes Grey when he stepped in front of her and even greeted him with a smile, he guessed that this must be Milton.

“Oh, look, Milton has finally arrived!” he said and pointed to them. “Excuse me for a moment.” With a few long strides, Cedric walked up to Cloudia and Milton. “It was about time, Mil…” he began to say before he the rest of his sentence was nipped in the bud when he finally got to look at the young man’s face. “Kamden?”

With a nervous smile on his face, Kamden Sainteclare waved to him. “Hello, Your Grace.”

“I am certain that the last time I saw you, you had black hair. I thought you were Milton!”

Timidly, Kamden tugged at a strand of his hair. “Do-does it look that bad? Because Cloudie and I look so much alike, I thought it would be better to change my appearance a bit so that Baron Salisbury would not be confused.”

“You didn’t have to; rather than confused, I think he would have been ecstatic for there to be basically two Countesses,” said Cedric, and Kamden looked at him, puzzled.

“Ignore him, Kam,” Cloudia interfered. “You don’t need to understand his nonsense.”

“I see?”

“Anyway,” Cedric said. “Kamden is coming with us to France? Why?”

“Because, in my affliction, I’ve forgotten his birthday cake this year and subsequently promised him that I would go on a trip with him. I thought we would go to Wales to visit his grandmother, but Kamden was a bit worried when he learned I was going to France for Watchdog business reasons and promptly redeemed his wayfare coupon to accompany me.”

Kamden cleared his throat. “Furthermore, Sir Barrington insisted that I come in his stead; he is currently tied up with business matters and unable to accompany us. He specifically requested my presence because my neighbour, Dr Alan, is a physician. He was friends with my parents and treated them when they got ill. After they died, he took me under his wing and taught me a few things.”

“A few things? Kam, don’t downplay your abilities. He’s very good,” said Cloudia to Cedric, and Kamden turned a bit red.

“Uh, eh, yes, aaaa-anyway, Your Grace,” Kamden said. “As I will go to France as Sir Barrington’s ward, you cannot call me ‘Kamden Sainteclare’ when Baron Salisbury is nearby. It is ‘Emyr Bonham.’”

“‘Emyr Bonham’?”

“That’s my birth name,” whispered Kamden. “Kamden Emyr Llywelyn-Bonham. ‘Sainteclare’ is the surname of my adoptive parents. The general public knows that Sir Barrington has a ward named ‘Emyr Bonham.’ It’s easier than ‘Kamden Emyr Llywelyn-Bonham’ and does not lead back to my occupation and store as ‘Kamden Sainteclare’ does.”

“I see. Your full name is certainly a mouthful.”

Kamden scratched his head. “Yes, I know…”

“There are royals and nobles with worse names,” said Cloudia, putting away her book and standing up. “Prince Albert’s full name, full example, is Prince Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.”

“I wonder if the Queen tripped over his name while speaking her wedding vows,” Cedric said.

“As if Queen Victoria would ever trip over her beloved husband’s name.”

“For a moment, I forgot how infatuated she is with him. I suppose she even says his full name to herself every now and then when she thinks of him. ‘Albert Francis something-something…’ ‘My dearest Tongue Twister man!’”

“It’s Francis Albert August Charles Emmanuel.”

“They could have just called him ‘Faace.’ ‘Dear, you have something on your faace,’” said Cedric, and Cloudia chuckled.

“What miserable joke did he make this time, Lady Cloudia?” Lisa asked when she joined them while Newman stayed with the luggage.

“A ridiculously miserable one.”

Theatrically offended, Cedric looked at Cloudia. “Still you dared to laugh!”

Next to them, Kamden addressed Lisa and bowed briefly. “Right before I left for the train station, your order arrived.” He took out a parcel from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Lisa.

“Thank you, Mr Kamden,” she replied, taking the package from him.

“You’re welcome, and it is ‘Mr Emyr’ for now, Miss Lisa.”

“I understand.”

Cedric stared at them before turning to Cloudia. “Did you see what I saw? Miss Greene was friendly and did not scowl at Kamden! The only persons I’ve never seen her scowling at are you and Alfred.”

“She did scowl and glare at him in the beginning,” Cloudia told him. “Then, Lisa started to get along astonishingly well with Kamden. They have some common interests.”

“I still think it’s strange. Is the world ending?”

She shrugged.

“As Kamden’s here now… When do you think Milton is going to come, Countess?”

Cloudia took out her pocket watch and frowned. “How odd. We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago. He is usually very punctual. I hope nothing happened?”

“Ten minutes is nothing to worry about. Perhaps the traffic is heavy? Perhaps he is walking towards us at this very moment.” Cedric craned his head and gazed around – and spotted Milton standing a few metres away from them and looking terribly lost. “Oh, hello, Milton!” Cedric waved at him. “We have been waiting for you.”

With a shy smile on his face, Milton waved back and joined them. “Hello, Kristopher. I am sorry to have kept you all waiting.”

“Milton!” said Cloudia. “I’m glad that you are finally here.”

As soon as Milton saw her, he started to beam.

How in the world had Cloudia not noticed on her own that he was in love with her?

He bowed to her. “Lady Cloudia, I wish you a good day. My sincerest apologies for my tardiness.”

Cedric frowned. “Wait a minute: How long were you standing there, Milton?”

Milton hesitated. “About eleven minutes.”

“If you were here on time, why did you not come to us?”

“I saw you talking and did not mean to interrupt you,” he said, looking down to his feet.

“It would have been fine; it is fine, Milton,” Cloudia assured him. “Let us forget this now. Milton, may I introduce you to Sir Barrington Weaselton’s ward, Mr Emyr Bonham?”

Kamden lowered his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Baron Salisbury.”

“Likewise,” Milton replied and extended his hand. “And, please, it’s just ‘Milton’ if you do not mind.”

“Then, simply Emyr will be fine,” Kamden said and shook his hand.

“Of course.” Milton turned to Lisa next and bowed to her. “Miss Greene, I hope you had a wonderful day and that you will enjoy the seafaring.”

Scowling, she briefly curtsied. “Thank you, Baron, and I hope I do.”

With a smile on his face, Milton straightened up again and turned to Cloudia. “Is that everyone, Mylady?”

“Not quite. Newman, can you come?” She waved her butler to her.

“Oh, Mr Newman is coming as...” Milton began to say and turned around, but his sentence was left unfinished when he saw Newman.

Newman was quite tall and broad-shouldered, and when I had met him for the first time, I had been surprised as well. However, I was I and Milton was a nobleman, and wasn’t it impolite to stare at other people?

“Milton, as far as I know, you have never met my butler, right?” continued Cloudia. Apparently, she had not noticed Milton’s strange behaviour. “This is Alfred Newman. Newman, this is Baron Milton Salisbury.”

“It is an immense honour to finally be acquainted with you, Baron,” said Newman and bowed. When he stood up straight again, Milton was still staring at him with wide eyes. Cedric frowned.

“Master Milton,” Cedric heard a voice saying behind them, and Milton slightly flinched at the address. At the same time as Cedric craned his head to see who had spoken – it was Milton’s elderly butler, Abraham Wentworth, who had appeared behind them –, Milton cleared his throat and held his hand out to Newman.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr Newman,” he said while he shook hands with Newman. “I do not know what came over me.”

“It is all right.”

“I hope I did not make you uncomfortable, Mr Newman.”

“You did not, Baron.”

Milton sighed in relief. “This is good to hear, and please just call me Milton. I do not like it when anyone is being too formal with me.” He paused. “Of course, I do not want to dictate you how you have to address me, Mr Newman… It is only an offer. If you prefer to call me ‘Baron,’ it is fine.”

Newman lowered his head. “Of course. I will think over it.”

Milton smiled at him and turned to Cloudia. “Mylady, I see you holding a book, however, I cannot see its title. May I inquire what you are reading?” he softly asked.

She grinned at him. “‘Shortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my room and see that I had everything I wanted; it was a small, unpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment.’”

Bewildered, I watched their exchange; and so did Kamden, and to a lesser extent, Alfred. Interestingly, Miss Greene witnessed it with an expression of absolute boredom on her face as if she had watched it a thousand times before.

“Agnes Grey,” Milton said with a smile on his face. “I am sure that you have already read it.”

“I have.”

“So, you are rereading it in consideration of Acton Bell’s second publication in a few weeks.”

“Exactly. Correct as always. It’s your turn now.”

“‘Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were tangible, and cast them there.’”

“Dombey and Son!” she exclaimed.

His gaze softened. “Correct as always.”

“It is a bit unfair. I own the hardcover, have it in my suitcase; still, I have not been able to read it. I wanted to finish rereading Agnes Grey first.”

“You are almost at the end; I think you will finish it soon despite the spelling errors.”

“I am sorry that I have to interrupt this silly game you are playing, but I wanted to announce my arrival – and aren’t we supposed to set sails in fifteen minutes?”

Neither Barrington or Oscar – thank God – were coming, and I thought the apparent greatest stressful aspect was the fact that Cloudia’s extended family was awaiting us in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.

It seemed that I had been wrong.

“Why are we still standing here, then?” continued Cecelia Williams, arms akimbo. As always, she wore a black dress and a smirk on her face.

“Good day, Baron Salisbury, I believe we never had the pleasure of meeting?” She held out her gloved hand. “Marchioness Cecelia Williams. I am thrilled to finally make your acquaintance, Baron.”

The glow Milton had acquired while speaking to Cloudia slipped away; he straightened and without hesitation or a hint of nervousness, Milton took Cecelia’s hand and leaned forward to press his lips to it. “Likewise, Marchioness. I have heard so often from you; so often we have been at the same gatherings – still, our paths never crossed until now,” he said. Cedric saw Wentworth intently watching his master behind him.

“Yes. Such a pity. At least, it made our meeting delightfully more satisfying,” said Cecelia. “I sincerely hope that I did not catch you off-guard, Baron. I specifically asked Cloudia to keep my presence in her travel group a secret; if you want to blame anyone, don’t blame her but me.”

“I will not blame anyone. There is enough space on the Daphne.”

“That’s good to hear. Now, let’s board the good lady. Where is she docked?”

“A few metres down the pier. My butler Bram will guide you there.” Milton turned to Wentworth who lowered his head in understanding. “If you may follow me, Marchioness Williams?” he said and led Cecelia to the ship.

“I am sorry,” Cloudia said as soon as Cecelia was gone.

“You do not have to apologise, Lady Cloudia,” Milton softly replied. “It was certainly a surprise, but nothing for what you have to apologise. Of course, you need to take a chaperone with you; it is my fault for not thinking of this beforehand. And Lady Cecelia is right: It is time that we go aboard the Daphne. It is not the ship I normally take, but still perfectly fine and I hope that her accommodations will be after your taste.”

“I am sure they are fine,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“If the Daphne is not your usual ship, why are we taking her then? Is there a reason for it?” Cedric asked while Milton led the rest of them to the ship.

“My usual ship had to be repaired and is, thus, currently unusable. Maybe that’s a sign that I am spending a bit too much time overseas?” He smiled sheepishly. “If you may excuse me?” Milton said before he walked a bit faster to be ahead of them.

Cedric leaned to Cloudia. “What were you and Milton doing earlier?”

“Playing a little game,” she told him. “We have made it a habit to ask each other about the last sentence we have read in the book we are currently reading. Then, we guess to which book the quote belongs. It’s quite silly, and we haven’t done it in quite a while. I was a bit surprised when he brought it up again.” She bit her lip.

Cedric opened his mouth to say something when they arrived at the dock, the ship hovering right in front of them in the water. Her exterior surface had been lacquered blue-green like the sea while the ship’s funnels and the railing were white; Daphne was written in gold cursive on one side. Cloudia stopped when they were almost at the stairs leading up to the deck. Kamden, Lisa, and Newman climbed the stairs before them; all of them glanced into their direction – and Lisa additionally glared at Cedric – when they passed by but nobody said anything.

“Is everything all right?” Cedric asked Cloudia who was looking at the Channel with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“It will sound pathetic but I have always dreamed of leaving the isle,” she said after a while, breathing in the salty air and closing her eyes for a moment. “And now, here I am – about to go aboard a ship and turning this little silly dream of mine into reality.” Cloudia turned towards him with a brilliant smile on her lips. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I would never, Countess,” he said.

“Liar. You always laugh.” She offered him her arm. “And now, my little idiot, let’s finally go aboard. We let everyone wait long enough.”

Returning her smile, Cedric linked arms with her, and together, they walked up the stairs to the Daphne.

***

Across the English Channel – June 1848

Cloudia’s words had reminded me that, once, I had dreamed of something similar. For a very brief time in my long life, I had also wished to get away; not exactly across the sea, just somewhere where nobody knew me and I knew nobody and nothing. It had been such a momentary wish; a short-lived ember of a dream that had gone out before it had even sparked. If it had not been for Cloudia, I would have never remembered it; like so much else, it would have stayed forever buried in the past.

But simply remembering this old wish had not brought it back. The fire had not been rekindled; it was still cold ash in the chimney when we set sail and my wish, in some way, was finally fulfilled.

I guessed that I had never wished for this as much as I had believed I did. Or things had changed too much for it to even matter anymore. Or both.

One by one, Wentworth guided us to our rooms. First, Cloudia – Cecelia had already been shown to hers –, then Kamden, Alfred and Miss Greene, and now me. Milton had said that we would only be three hours at sea, but he had still prepared cabins in the midship area if we wanted to take a nap, be to ourselves, or needed a place to fight potential seasickness.

“This is your room, Your Grace. I hope everything is to your liking,” Wentworth said when he opened a red-framed door and let Cedric inside.

The cabin was quite unlike anything Cedric associated with Milton: heavy, intricately engraved furniture, seating and curtains of red velvet, tapestries ornamented with little, glittering seashells which had been painted red. Hadn’t Cloudia said that Milton liked everything to be simpler? But from bow to stern, everything here was decorated and engraved and shining with grace. It had made Cedric frown when he had stepped aboard, when he had walked through the corridors; it made him frown now. Milton had said that this wasn’t his usual ship, though; it made sense that nothing seemed like “Milton” – but whom else did it seem like? Who had designed the ship’s interior?

Cedric briefly dwelled on this question before he pushed it away and fell into one of the comfortable armchairs. “It is. Thank you, Wentworth.”

The elderly butler bowed. “This is good to hear, Your Grace. If you may excuse me, I am now taking my leave,” he said and went away.

For a few minutes, Cedric sat there, staring at a particularly pretty piece of wall, before he got up and walked back to the deck. In the corridor, however, he stumbled over Cecelia.

“Oh, hello. What a surprise that you are here too,” Cedric said when he saw her.

“This was my intention,” she responded. “A memorable entrance! Not as elegant as I had desired as you were clumsily huddled together and everyone around us was either shouting or a seagull. At least, it did what it should.”

“And what should it do?” he asked, confused.

A smile cut through Cecelia’s pretty face. “Oh, my dear Not-Kristopher,” she said, stepping closer to him and lowering her voice. “I will tell you soon when we can talk more freely and his shadow is not lurking around us.” With a final smile, she turned on her heels and hurried away.

Still frowning at her words, Cedric resumed his walk to the deck. Couldn’t Cloudia have normal associates?

When he arrived on deck, he looked around. He had hoped to find Cloudia or perhaps Kamden, but the only one here was Milton who leant against the white railing and let small stones fall into the water.

“What are you doing?” Cedric asked when he approached him.

“Oh, hello, Kristopher!” Milton greeted him. “I’m only standing here, watching the waves.”

“I saw you throwing stones into the water.”

“Oh, you meant that.” He rubbed his neck and looked out to the Channel. “It’s a little something my grandmother and father used to do for my mother whenever they crossed the Channel. As they are dead, I am upholding this little tradition.” He directed his gaze downwards. “I know it’s a bit silly.”

Cedric leaned against the railing. “Every family has their traditions, and some are weirder than others. Do you know that Lady Cloudia’s family always sings a very cheesy song on someone’s birthday? It is something dear to them; it doesn’t matter if I think it’s ridiculous.”

Milton smiled. “You are very kind, Kristopher,” he said and took out another stone from his pocket.

“How often do you have to do this?” Cedric wanted to know.

“I have to do it seven times; I have already thrown six stones.” Milton held the stone over the railing. “This is the last time.”

He let it fall and closed his eyes.

The other times I had seen Milton, he had always been nervous, a bit jumpy. In this very moment, with the wind tousling his fair hair, he seemed serene, relaxed.

“Have you ever travelled by ship, Kristopher?” Milton suddenly asked, startling Cedric out of his thoughts.

“No, I have not.”

“I hope you will like it.” He smiled at him. It was a clear sunny day and in the bright light, Milton’s eyes looked greener than usual.

“I hope so too.” Cedric yawned.

“Are you tired?”

“I was forced to explore the entire City of Dover yesterday. I slept wonderfully afterwards, but I guess, I’m still exhausted.” Cedric rubbed his eyes and when he put his hands down again, he saw Milton staring at him, his eyes wide with worry.

“Kristopher, you look pale. Are you feeling dizzy?”

“I’m not dizzy; I’m simply tired. I’m fine.” Cedric stepped away from the railing. Immediately, nausea washed over him. He pressed a hand against his mouth.

“Come, I bring you to your cabin,” said Milton, steadying him and gently guiding him to his room. He helped him lie down on his bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Cedric groaned.

“I hope it will get better soon.” Milton clutched his hands together, glancing every now and then towards the open cabin door. “This area of the ship is steadier than others, and lying down helps too but… Lady Cloudia mentioned that Mr Bonham is a doctor’s apprentice. Shall I fetch him or will you be fine?”

“There’s no need to bother him. It will be fine. I will lie here and try not to die.”

“I’m sorry. I should have chosen a slower ship…”

Cedric wanted to shake his head, but as he feared that he might vomit if he did so, he just wiggled with his finger. “No, it’s all right. I would have ended up like that no matter the speed, I guess.”

Milton bit his lip.

“It’s fine, Milton. You don’t have to stay here.”

“But…”

Cedric cringed. Having a headache and feeling dizzy at once was really crazy. “I don’t want you to stay here and watch me being miserable. I will be fine. You should go and see after the others.”

Slowly, Milton nodded and walked to the door, but before he left, he turned back to Cedric. “Are you absolutely sure…?”

“Yes.”

Milton still hovered a few moments between the cabin and the corridor before he finally left and closed the door behind him.

This was not the story of how we went to France and caught Townsend – it was the story of how I died. Again. And I did not like it at all.

“I’ve heard from a hysterical Milton that you are seasick,” Cloudia said, peaking into the cabin. “I didn’t even know you could get sick.”

“I have to eat and sleep; I can get hurt and die – of course, I can get ill.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “It didn’t surprise me that you – as the collective ‘you’ of Grim Reapers – can get sick. I meant the singular ‘you’ as in ‘you, my very own moron Reaper.’” Cloudia sat down on a chair. “From all I have heard, being a Grim Reaper only makes you very long living, gives you a strange eye colour and even stranger powers. Apart from this, you are ‘normal.’ Anyway, I was surprised to see you like this because you have not got sick before. This is not the same as a cold or a fever but you were always perfectly healthy in the one and a half years I have known you.”

“I have always been a very healthy person; I rarely fall ill.” Cedric rubbed his temples. “But I have never been on a ship before. And, anyway, I finally start to understand how you must feel all the time, Countess.”

“You can only hope that you don’t pass out.” She took her book out of her dress pocket and thumbed to the page where she had stopped.

“You came here to read?”

“I am here to watch over you in case you have to empty your stomach contents over the lovely furniture. Who designed the ship’s interior, I wonder? It surely wasn’t Milton; it feels more like it was a woman. Perhaps his mother? His aunt?” Cloudia shrugged. “Also, you should not talk that much and rest; and when I cannot talk to you, I thought I could read. However, I can read to you if you want.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Cedric watched her eyes hushing over the lines to find the last one she had read; she always looked so beautiful when she was reading, so calm and happy in her own little world. He fixed his gaze to the ceiling.

“‘When I descended thence – having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and arranged my toilet with due consideration for…’”

***

Dunkirk, Nord, France – June 1848

At about 18 o’clock, we arrived in Dunkirk. I had thought that we would continue our journey right away, but apparently, our next station was Lille – and as it was hours away by carriage and we were rather exhausted from the seafaring, Milton had scheduled our trip to Lille for tomorrow and reserved some rooms in a lovely hotel. I could not have been more thankful for his gracious planning. If Cloudia had planned everything, she would have let me rest for an hour or two before we headed to Lille in the dead of night.

While the others were away to eat dinner – apparently, the town was known for some strange-sounding chicken dish – I stayed in my hotel room and rested. The others except for Milton, Wentworth, and Alfred had eventually become seasick to different degrees, but it had caught me the worst and I still needed time to fully recover from it.

“We have plenty of time,” Cloudia said to him in the breakfast room the next day. “There is really no need to wolf down everything.”

“I have not eaten anything since lunch yesterday. I am starving,” Cedric replied, shovelling more bread into his mouth.

“People are looking.”

“Le’ ’em wa’ch if ’ey enjoy i’ so mu’,” Cedric replied, gazing at some of the spectators who quickly looked away in disgust.

Cloudia held her head. “Why are you like this?”

He was about to reply to her when Kamden joined them at their table. Cedric had only met Kamden once before and even now he knew that he, most likely, would never get used to seeing him with blond hair. It was already odd enough that Kamden looked so much like Cloudia; with the blond hair, it was even more unsettling.

“Good morning, Cloudie, Your Grace,” said Kamden and sat down.

“Good morning, Kam,” Cloudia said while Cedric waved his knife in greeting. “And there’s no need to call this hoggish ferret ‘Your Grace.’ Just call him by his first name; it will be fine.”

“Uh.” Unsure, Kamden turned to Cedric who nodded. “It’s all right.”

Kamden sighed in relief.

“Kam, if you want to eat anything at all before we head to Lille, I advise you to be fast.” Cloudia glared at Cedric. “Someone is trying to eat the entire food supply of Dunkirk after all.”

Cedric stopped in the movement of spreading jam on his thirtieth slice of bread while still chewing on his twenty-ninth. “Who do you mean?”

“It is incredible that the servant who has to make sure that the bread baskets are never empty still hasn’t suffered a nervous breakdown. He deserves a pay rise.”

“Is it always like this… Is Hi… Is Kristopher always so hungry?” asked Kamden, taking a slice of bread and some cheese.

“He says it’s because he hasn’t eaten anything since before we boarded the Daphne. In fact, however, he is always like this.”

“I see?”

Cloudia looked around the crowded breakfast room. “Say, Kam, have you seen Cecelia?”

“I’ve briefly seen her on my way down. It seemed like she was also going downstairs… I suppose she will join us soon?”

“And Milton?”

He shook his head. “I have not seen him, but Miss Lisa has. She said he got up early and went somewhere with Wentworth. I assume they went to fetch the carriages and drivers?”

Cloudia nodded and sipped on her tea. They ate in silence for some time until Cecelia sat down at their table. Her brown eyes shone with mischief when she said, “Good morning, my friends and semi-allies, have you heard the latest news?”

Cedric swallowed down the piece of waffle he had been eating. “What in the world did you dig up again?” he asked but she ignored him.

“It should arrive in a second,” Cecelia said with a conspiratorial smirk. Indeed, only a moment later, Milton appeared at their table still dressed in a light coat. Restlessly, he turned the matching hat in his hands as he bowed to them, and when he straightened up again, Cedric saw that Milton’s face was flushed with what seemed to be embarrassment.

“… and his shadow is not lurking around us,” Cecelia’s words suddenly rang in my mind when I saw Wentworth dutifully standing behind his master, his light blue eyes not directed at Milton but at us. She couldn’t have possibly meant this old man, right?

“Good morning,” Milton greeted them. “I am sorry that I have to disturb your breakfast with such unpleasant news but I wanted to inform you immediately: Due to unfortunate circumstances, we cannot go to Lille today. Only now, I have learned that the drivers and the carriages are unavailable today, and I do not know when they will be ready again. I have started to ask around to find replacements – however, I could not find suitable ones so far. I will try to get everything ready as soon as possible; at the latest, we will have to wait until tomorrow. I am so sorry.”

“It is a bit troublesome, but it is fine, Milton. It’s not your fault,” Cloudia said. “Don’t you want to sit down and eat with us first? It seems that it will be a long day.”

Milton’s gaze softened and he stopped twirling the hat in his hands. Instead, he dug his fingers in it. “Thank you, but I have already eaten. I should better get to work again. I hope that, in the meantime, you will enjoy your stay in Dunkirk,” he said with a smile and left as quickly as he came, Wentworth right behind him.

“In all the time I have known Milton,” Cloudia began after a minute, “I have never seen him like that, have never seen something like that happening. Milton is the epitome of ‘organised.’ It’s almost scary.”

Cecelia nodded. “It is definitely a first for him, but nothing surprising. I suppose our dear Baron got a bit overwhelmed. His company expanded only recently after all.”

“Maybe I should not have asked for his assistance after all.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Cloudia. It does not suit you. It is his fault for doing you this favour when he knows that he is busy.” Cecelia stood up and winked at them. “I may re-join you for dinner or when a miracle happens and our Baron manages to find new, passable vehicles in the next few hours,” she said, whirled around, and walked away.

“I have a question, Countess,” said Cedric when Cecelia was gone. “Was she always your chaperone?”

Cloudia raised her cup to her lips. “Ever since we met.”

“This explains a lot. Where did you even find her? It must have been a different circle of hell than the one where you found Oscar.”

“I didn’t. She found me.” She put down her cup. “One day when I was twelve, Cecelia managed to get an invitation to a party hosted by Aunt Joanna. I was also there, but at a separate party for the ‘little ladies,’ the young daughters and granddaughters of Aunt Joanna’s guests. I still don’t know how Cecelia did it but the instant I left the party to quickly refresh myself, she appeared at my side and whispered to me ‘Countess Phantomhive, as a newly created Watchdog, I suppose you are currently in search of Aristocrats of Evil?’”

Kamden choked on his tea, and Cloudia leaned him a bit forward and patted his back.

Cedric stared at her. “Cecelia employed herself?”

“Though it sounds crazy, that’s exactly what happened. You cannot imagine how shocked I was – or how shocked Barrington was when I told him about it. I was not even the Watchdog for a month and someone already found out about it.” Cloudia shook her head. “Are you fine?” she asked Kamden, and when he nodded, she turned back to Cedric. “At least, it was only Cecelia and people did not start to come to me and whisper ‘You are the Queen’s Watchdog, aren’t you?’ into my ear every single week. It would have been disastrous; I would have been fired if this had happened. I would have gone down in secret history as the Watchdog with the shortest tenure. Cecelia has been useful ever since and I am glad to have female company separate from my cousins, but the first days after she approached me were awful. If Oscar had been one of my Aristocrats of Evil at that time, he would have certainly killed her.”

Cedric put his hand over the skull pendant necklace. If he had killed her for this, would he have been your Evil Nobleman at that time… What exactly have you told him about how we met?

One January night, a drunken idiot happened to stumble over me killing Ronan Parrish. I decided not to kill but keep him instead.

I want to thank you, but then, this sounds like you have adopted a stray kitten.

Cloudia shrugged. You don’t have any objections regarding the “drunken idiot” part?

“Does any of you have an idea what we could do today?” she abruptly asked. “As this delay came so suddenly, I did not prepare anything. Suggestions?”

***

The longer Cedric was in Dunkirk, the more dread he felt.

After breakfast, he, Kamden, Newman, and Lisa had gathered in Cloudia’s room to make a plan for the day. As nobody could foresee whether or not Milton managed to fix the carriage issue today, they had settled on a quite casual plan: Rather than allowing Cloudia to drag them to every single museum, to every monument, they had decided to take a thorough walk through Dunkirk sprinkled with many pauses in random restaurants or cafés – and to pay a visit to the Musée des Beaux-Arts to appease Cloudia.

However, it was not because of the city why Cedric felt dread tugging at him; it was rather that while they had walked through it, walked along the beach and into all kinds of shops that Cedric had realised something he had completely blocked out when he had learned of their trip and tried to get his application for leave approved – and this exact thing was the source of the dread. While everyone else seemed to thoroughly enjoy their stay in Dunkirk, all Cedric could think of was this one thing he had forgotten – and how mad Cloudia would be when she found out.

“Did you know that almost exactly fifty-six years ago, the astronomers Jean Baptiste Joseph Delambre and Pierre Méchain used this belfry as one of their reference points to measure the meridian arc distance from Dunkirk to Barcelona?” Cloudia told him when they looked from the belfry’s observation platform down to the Place Jean-Bart, Jean Bart’s statue depicting him in privateer garment and holding up his sabre in its centre. As it was a clear day, they could even see the port and the North Sea if they looked farther. From up here, the view was breathtaking, but even now, Cedric could not focus on it; his mind kept and kept slipping back to thinking about that one forgotten thing…

“The belfry used to be the western tower of the St Éloi Church.” Cloudia pointed across the street to a Gothic church built with pale stones. “But in the last century, the belfry and the church’s main building were separated…”

Cedric could barely focus on what Cloudia was talking about.

“I’ve read that the belfry has a total of fifty bells and they chime every fifteen minutes. How loud do you think they will be?” asked Cloudia, turning to look at him.

All I had to say was “I guess fifty bells must be very loud.”

“I don’t speak a word French,” blurted it out of Cedric.

Cloudia blinked at him. “Frankly, I am quite happy that I have no insight into your thought process. Why are you telling me this completely irrelevant piece of information?”

“Wait… you are not mad because I did not tell you about this before?”

“Why should I? It was obvious. When we met, you told me that they taught you ‘foreign languages,’ but knowing you, I have never believed that you paid much attention in those classes. Or if you actually had, that you would even remember them considering that a hundred years may have passed since then and that you, in your profession and every-day life, have no opportunities to practice your language skills. Furthermore, you did not catch our destination’s name – Nanteuil-la-Forêt – when I first told you it and were severely confused what a coq à la bière was supposed to be even though it has a very telling name.”

“Actually, I took German and Italian and am, in fact, still rather proficient in them,” Cedric told her.

Cloudia raised an eyebrow.

“Bei meinem Namen Cedric Kristopher Rossdale schwöre ich dir, verehrteste Gräfin, dass ich absolut imstande bin, einen grammatisch korrekten deutschen Satz zu bilden und diesen nahezu perfekt auszusprechen.”

“Impressive,” she said, and a grin appeared on his lips.

“I guess we both have our secret language proficiencies, Miss I-Lied-About-My-Welsh-Skills.”

“I have never said that I do not speak Welsh; thus, I did not lie. All I did was to repeat your terrible pronunciation and ask you what in the world you could possibly mean with it.”

She looked at him, and he looked at her – eyes slightly narrowed, manner serious.

“You always have to have the last word, haven’t you?” said Cedric.

Cloudia smiled at him and turned back to the opening to look outside. “For your information, you do not need to know French. Kam, Newman, Cecelia, Milton, I, and perhaps even Wentworth know it, and the Duponts speak English.”

“That’s a relief. I’ve thought you would…”

“Of course, I insist that you still learn it though.”

Cedric slouched his shoulders. “That’s exactly what I’ve thought you would say.” He leaned against the wall, gazing outside. “Speaking of the Duponts – will they help us in our search for Townsend, his men, and the box?”

She shook her head. “They are only showing us the way to the ‘Clockmaker’ because I am part of the family; otherwise, they have no interest in mingling with foreign affairs. They may help us if there is a sudden emergency though.”

“I am not saying this because I don’t want your relatives’ help, but I hope that no such emergency occurs. I have the feeling that this trip will be incredibly straining even without something like that.”

***

In the early hours of the 15th of June, we resumed our travel, and without further delay, we headed straight to Lille.

We had been allocated to three carriages: Cloudia and Cecelia in one, Kamden, Milton, and I in another, and Alfred, Miss Greene, and Wentworth in the last. Only then had I noticed that Cecelia had not brought any maid of her own. Did she think Miss Greene was enough for both her and Cloudia? Or did she expect that a maid would be provided to her at the manor?

I had thought that we needed carriages to get to the next train station; I learned, however, that there was, in fact, no railway between Dunkirk and Lille and this was the reason why we had to resort to carriages.

This meant that it would take eight to nine hours for us to arrive in Lille. We would only take a few short pauses to feed and briefly rest the horses; otherwise, we would be constantly on the road. I wished I had Cloudia to keep me company, but I did not know if I was able to survive nine hours of being stuck with Cecelia in a carriage. Kamden and Milton were fine enough, and I engaged them in all sorts of conversational topics – at least, I did so for the first thirty minutes of our drive; then, I fell asleep.

It must have been the early hour and, or the terrifying prospect of driving in a carriage for more than a third of a day, but in one moment I told Milton about our visit to the Dunkirk belfry and in the next, I fell into the rabbit hole to the Land of Sleep.

The next thing I remembered was waking up stiff and without orientation in the carriage. Light was coming through the curtains, and on the bench opposite mine, Milton and Kamden were quietly conversing. With a groan, I sat up – I had laid down as best as I could on the bench – and stretched myself as much as I could in this small space.

“Oh, you’re awake,” said Milton when Cedric sat up. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as you can in a carriage.” Cedric cracked his neck. “Are we finally there? How long were we driving?”

“We’re almost there,” Kamden told him. “We… we have already arrived in Lille and only have to get to the train station now.”

“Yes? That’s wonderful.” Cedric leaned back with a smile on his lips. “I really hope that they will build a railway between Dunkirk and Lille soon. Preferably before it’s time for us to return.”

Milton chuckled. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said before he drew back the curtain and added, “Oh! Look – we’re there.”

***

Lille, Nord, France – June 1848

The clock on top of the Gare de Lille struck four on the 16th of June when they arrived in front of the station, the sun still shining high and proud, the people busily walking about.

Cedric gazed up the station’s façade while everyone else got off the carriages and the servants quickly arranged the luggage. Gare de Lille was written in gold letters beneath the clock; the station was made of light stone, was all high windows and semi-circular arches. At the very top, the French flag flapped lazily in the faint wind.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” said Milton, stepping next to Cedric. “We are quite lucky as the passenger terminal was completed only two months ago; otherwise, we would have needed to take carriages again or I would have had to transport you alongside my goods.”

“I would have happily agreed to be transported alongside them,” Cedric replied, and Milton smiled.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Cloudia when she joined them. Unlike Cedric himself, she still looked fresh, just like when they had started their journey today, and not dishevelled and ready to run into the next hotel and fall asleep in its foyer.

“The train station,” Cedric told her. “Milton said that it was completed only two months ago.”

Milton nodded. “The terminals in Lille caused quite some disputes and controversies; there were long debates between the City Council, the Ministry of Public Works, and the military as the railways disrupt the city walls. They first built a terminal only for goods transport outside the fortifications before it was decided to add another terminal for passengers and…” He stopped. “I apologise; I rambled again. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

Cedric glanced at Cloudia. “I’m used to such ramblings.”

She briefly glared at him when Milton was not looking. “May I take your arm?” she asked Milton whose cheeks faintly rosed and who, to Cedric’s surprise, looked at him as if he needed his permission. Perplexed, Cedric nodded, and after a sigh of relief, Milton said to Cloudia, “Of course, you may,” and offered her his arm. Cloudia called to everyone else that they had to go inside now. Linked, she and Milton formed the head of their little travel party. Cedric walked right behind them.

Milton expertly manoeuvred them through the crowd, but right before they arrived at the correct platform, Milton was suddenly pulled away by someone into the crowd.

What?

Cedric hurried forward, and so did Cloudia, ready to take the dagger out of her dress sleeve. They elbowed their way through the masses and ultimately found Milton in a rather calm area on the margin. Surprisingly, he was neither hurt or had been robbed; instead, he was hugged by a man, tall and broad with dark hair.

“Milton! I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” the man said with a British accent and tightened his already potentially bone-crushing embrace around Milton.

“It’s good to see you too, Quentin,” Milton replied, astonishingly neither sounding surprised nor confused at all. He did not even sound like he was about to suffocate.

The man, Quentin, let go of him and gave him a pat on his back. “How have you been, old friend?”

“Before you lose yourself reminiscing about the past and catching up with the present, could you please explain to me what is going on, Milton?” Cloudia said.

Flushed, Milton rubbed his neck. “Well, this is my acquaintance Mr Quentin Thibault…”

“The name’s Quentin Thibault-Nichols!” said the man, taking Cloudia’s hand and energetically shaking it. “Pleased to see that Milton found new friends! I am so happy to meet you, Miss!”

For a moment, Cloudia stared at Quentin in absolute shock before she shook her head and chuckled. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Mr Thibault. My name is Lady Cloudia Phantomhive.”

“It is just Quentin, Mylady!” he said with a wide smile before he went to shake Cedric’s hand as well. “Hello, my fellow!”

“Hello as well,” Cedric returned. “I’m Kristopher Underwood.”

“Another delay, Baron?” sounded Cecelia’s voice close to them. Cedric craned his head to see that she was standing right behind him, looking quite intimidating in her black dress and veil and with the others behind her.

“Of course not, Marchioness,” said Milton. “We still have time until the train will depart…”

“The train!” Quentin exclaimed and let go of Cedric. “Milton, the prototypes were successfully installed and everything is ready.”

“This is wonderful to hear,” Milton replied a bit uneasy. “Thank you, Quentin.”

“I know we will see each other in Paris later, but before there is no time anymore you have to promise me that you will swing by for dinner or lunch or a brief afternoon tea, perhaps even breakfast if it cannot be avoided! Méline really wants to meet you.”

“I promise that I will try. How are Méline and Isabelle?”

“They are doing well. Izzy has just learned how to walk and it’s such a delight to watch her trying not to bump into every piece of furniture she encounters,” Quentin said, and Milton smiled at his words. In the distance, Cedric heard someone yell something in French.

“Oh, I have to go now!” Quentin briefly hugged Milton again. “So happy to see you again, friend!” Briefly waving to Cedric and Cloudia and the others, Quentin walked away.

Milton ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I am sorry. Quentin is quite energetic.”

“He certainly is,” Cloudia remarked.

“I do not want to sound impolite,” interjected Cecelia, “but we are standing in the middle of a very busy crowd.”

“Oh, yes, I am sorry,” Milton quickly said with a nervous laugh. “Please follow me.” Quickly, he led them to the train and while Wentworth guided Newman and Lisa to the servant compartments, Milton showed the others to theirs. Milton had got them two cabins in different parts of the train and before he could add anything to this information, Cecelia rashly claimed one of the cabins as her sole own and went away.

“Uh,” said Milton. “I thought that, perhaps… I did not want to sound selfish, but it was meant for… uh… And now, uh…”

Cloudia gently patted his arm. “It’s fine, Milton. I have to apologise for Cecelia; something must have thoroughly annoyed her to behave like that.”

“Isn’t she always like that?” asked Cedric, but Cloudia ignored him. “And I do not mind sharing a compartment with you, Emyr, and the Duke,” she continued. “Barrington, my uncles, or Keegan simply don’t need to find out.”

Milton laughed nervously. “I should have got four compartments; shall I switch places with Miss Greene?”

“Nonsense. It cannot be helped now. Oh, see, we are already moving! Now, let’s sit down before the conductor comes, sees us, and goes around telling others about the strange group standing in their first-class compartment for the whole drive!” Cloudia said and sat down.

“What are the prototypes Quentin was talking about?” she wanted to know when everyone was seated.

“Oh, those,” said Milton and clutched his hands. “French trains are slower than British ones, and I thought that, maybe, it would be good to convert the train a bit by, among others, exchanging the engines and… They are only prototypes – the finished products are used for the Salisbury transport trains – but they still work well and are slightly better than the train’s original engines… You will not notice any difference in speed as you are used to trains driving so fast but the French… I thought that if I used the finished products, they would notice even more that something is wrong… But then, we will arrive about an hour earlier than the official schedule states and… Maybe it was not the best idea. However, it is still good in a way that we will arrive earlier in Creil as it means that we will get more rest and we do need to rest before we continue our journey… This last part will be the most tedious one after all…” He stood up. “I’m sorry… I guess I should switch places with Miss Greene or with her and Mr Newman, or simply go without switching with anyone…”

“There is no reason to be so nervous, Milton,” Cloudia assured him, holding her hand out to him. “And why do you want to get away so badly?”

“I simply thought that, perhaps…” Milton looked down. “That, perhaps, I was interrupting something?”

“You helped us to get here,” said Cedric. “Nobody dislikes you here – or am I wrong in this assumption, Emyr?”

Kamden shook his head.

“See, Milton? Nobody sees you as an intruder.”

A smiled hushed over Milton’s face before he ran his hand through his hair and briefly smoothed it back. “Hah, I’m sorry I don’t know how I came to think of such a thing. Of course, you’re not… I guess the carriage drive was really a bit long.” He sat back down next to Kamden. “I made a fool out of myself, didn’t I?”

“It happens,” said Kamden.

Cedric leaned back. “Milton, how long will it take us to get to Creil?”

“About two and a half hours.”

“How about we spend the time playing a game? I know a particularly infuriating but definitely amusing one: ABC Sentences! We have to make sentences in which the first word starts with an ‘A,’ the second with a ‘B’ and so on until we arrive at ‘Z.’ We could make separate sentences on our own, but it’s funnier if we make a sentence as a group; each of us contributes a word.”

“You could not think of a worse game, could you?” Cloudia said.

“Well, you have the honour to begin, Your Ladyship.”

“Do you think Cecelia will let me inside her cabin?”

“Definitely not; she outright abandoned us and thwarted Milton’s well-laid plans. The first word, Mylady?”

“Do you even want to play this game?” she asked Kamden and Milton and got a slightly hesitant nod and an “It does not sound too bad” as answers.

Cedric grinned, and Cloudia sighed. “Fine. Alison.”

“Bakes! Emyr, you’re next.”

“Huh? Yes? Well, then… cake? Alison bakes cake?”

Everyone looked at Milton who said, “Alison bakes cake, dried…”

“Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant…” continued Cloudia.

“Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit,” said Cedric.

“Gracing?” added Kamden. “Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit gracing…”

They had managed to extend their sentence to “Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit gracing her imaginary, jovial kettle lying miles nearly over Port Quasimodo, reigning supremely tomorrow under vases wrinkling xylems yielding zebras” before Cedric succumbed to a severe laughing fit.

***

After I had calmed down again, we played a few more word games until we arrived in Creil. There, we rested for the rest of the day and spent the night in a nice hotel. Again, I was truly thankful for Milton’s generous planning because, apparently, from Creil, it would take us thirteen and a half hours by carriage to arrive in Nanteuil-la-Forêt!

And this was just the time it would take us if we drove without any breaks! With breaks, it could be fifteen, sixteen hours. Where were my beloved railways when I needed them?

On the 17th of June, we started at six o’clock, and the sun had long set when we finally drove through the gates of the Château de Charbonneau. Never had a drive seemed so long; never a day so long; never had I been so happy to have solid ground under my feet – and this time for more than thirty minutes straight! On our way home, I would definitely return the Grim Reaper way! And nobody would be able to stop me! I had enough of carriages for the rest of my undead life! I was done in every possible way with this case before it had even begun!

***

Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848

“You cannot make me,” Cedric said, his back straight, his loose hair combed, his voice and countenance serious. “I am a free man with a free will; no one may force me to do something I see no reason to do.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow and folded her arms in front of her. “So you don’t want to eat anything?”

“I did not say that.”

They had arrived at the Château about an hour ago, had exchanged greetings with Cloudia’s “aunts and uncles” (technically, they were her first cousins once removed) – her little cousins were already in bed, and so was her great-uncle who seemed to be only known as “the Marquis” – before being ushered to their rooms. As soon as Cedric had gazed upon his bed, he had mentally said goodbye to Cloudia and the others for the day. However, as if she was a psychic, Cloudia had burst into his room right before he was about to change into his pyjamas and told him that a light dinner that been prepared for them.

“But how will you eat something if you refuse to go to dinner?”

“It’s almost midnight. I want to sleep,” Cedric replied and in this very moment, his stomach grumbled. Traitor, he thought.

“Come, it will not be that bad,” Cloudia said and held her hand out to him. She had exchanged her white-and-blue-striped traveller outfit with a pretty lavender dress, had released the pins holding up her braid to a wreath at the back of her head; now, her braid was hanging loosely over one of her shoulders. If he had only looked at her and not outside or at a clock, he might have thought that it was day and he had simply blanked out sleeping and waking.

“Don’t you dare abandon me with all these people,” Cloudia continued.

“Aren’t they your relatives?”

“Relatives I have never met before; they are practically strangers. Also, I hope you are aware of what people say about family reunions?”

“I cannot tell; I have never been to one.” Cedric put his hair into a ponytail and fixated it with a ribbon. “And doesn’t your maternal family meet every now and then? On birthdays? Christmas?”

She sighed. “Those are not exactly family reunions; we see each other fairly regularly after all. And people always say family reunions are awful. Aunts and uncles and cousins you have never met and are perhaps not even somewhat closely related to you pinch your cheeks, ask you painfully intrusive questions about your personal life: Is someone courting you? Are you engaged? Married? How many children do you have? How many children do you want to have? Cathleen’s – and August’s – extended family hold family reunions every few years, and she told me all about them. Of course, she does not say that they are horrible, but it sounds like they are.”

Cedric shrugged on a fresh jacket, walked to Cloudia, and pinched her cheek. “Oh, how beautiful you have become, my dear! How many children do want to have, my dear?” he asked her with a broad grin on his face.

“Fifteen,” she said in all seriousness. “I want to have a little army which is able to compete with Her Majesty’s six.”

He laughed. “You will be fine, Countess. Also, keep in mind that not your entire family will be present.”

“Oh, yes. This will await us tomorrow.” Cloudia rubbed her face.

“Wasn’t I the one who dreaded to meet your relatives and not you?” asked Cedric while they walked down the corridors to the dining hall.

“I am not dreading to meet them; it’s just late and I am tired and I would rather not have that many persons around me right now. Especially not ones I don’t know.”

“Well, I am still here – and so are Kamden and Milton. Perhaps even Cecelia.”

Cloudia looked at him, and he gently elbowed her in the side. “Very well, Countess. Now, be honest to me: How many children you really want to have?”

“Fifteen.”

“Countess.”

“I would not carve anything into stone given that I am still young and neither betrothed nor married, but I think three children would be good.”

“Hah, I thought you would say ‘one.’”

“No, one is terrible! I would have liked to have any siblings growing up; I would never have only one child. And if I were unable to have more than one biological child due to complications of some sort, I would definitely adopt.” She gazed up at him. “I have never asked, but… but did you have any siblings, Undertaker?”

Cedric clenched his hands; however, before he could answer her question, a knife flew right past them and got stuck in the wall.

“Sorry,” said a young man with dark brown hair and a seemingly eternal frown on his face when he stepped to them; he could not have been more than one or two years older than Cloudia.

He tore the knife from the wall. “I am Aurèle Beauchene,” he introduced himself. Unlike Cloudia’s “aunts and uncles,” he had an accent when he spoke English. “You must be Cloudia.”

“Yes, I am,” she said with a smile. “So you are one of Amélie’s sons?”

“I am,” Aurèle replied, pocketing his knife. “My little brothers were, uh, excited to meet you; so were Anaïs and Gerard, but they are still little and already went to sleep.”

“What were you doing with the knife, Aurèle?”

“Practicing; Maman does not like it when I practice inside.” He paused a moment. “This is not our house after all.”

“I will not tell her.”

Aurèle nodded. “Thank you. I have to go and help her with, uh, something now. It’s good that you are finally here, Cloudia,” he said, narrowed his eyes at Cedric, and quickly climbed down the stairs.

“He ignored me!” Cedric exclaimed when Aurèle was gone.

“He did not ignore you.”

“He did until the last second – in which he glared at me. Are the rest of your cousins also like that?”

Cloudia shrugged. “I cannot say.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they had arrived in front of the dining room door, Cloudia turned to Cedric. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” he replied and pushed open the doors.

***

Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

Despite the staff members’ best efforts to navigate her through the asylum’s less awful passages, it was evident to Cloudia that this place was more of a prison than a hospital, that like Oliver Twist’s workhouse, it was built with a good intention in mind, but ultimately failed in everything it was supposed to be. But despite the asylum’s bleakness and the horrors she imagined behind the numerous doors, she could not help herself but feel excited.

I could not believe that after three years I was so close to the end. Three years of studying the sketchbook’s pages for any clues; three years of research; three years of wondering. Three years of waiting for the right time to come.

I could still remember the curiosity, the excitement I had felt when I had found the sketchbook and thumbed through its pages for the first time – thumbed through the drawings of forests, of landscapes, and of villages, of shopfronts and marketplaces and of the little boy with the red-blond hair by the river, staring into the distance, his eyes full of wonder. My eyes must have shone like his when I looked through the sketchbook; the thoughts in my head turning somersaults, trying to figure out what the drawings meant – if they even meant anything.

The closer Cloudia and her guide got to their destination, the deeper they delved into the asylum, the less filled were the rooms, the cells.

But not only landscapes and places had been captured by pen and paper: While most people in the sketchbook were evidently nothing but extras, there were rows of pages filled with drawings of one and the same man. Often, he had been drawn from afar – in secret to make the pictures as natural as possible: the man while he was reading in a library, the man while he was in a garden, the man at tea time. There was only one proper portrait of him amongst all these drawings. Finding out who this man in the drawings was had been my mystery to solve for the past three years.

I had expected from the sketchbook to lead me to the village, not to an asylum. Who could have thought that the man in the pictures would eventually end up as a lunatic and be shoved under high surveillance and security precautions from asylum to asylum?

And I, fully knowing about who he was and what he did, had still decided to come here.

“We have arrived, Lady Phantomhive,” her guide told her and nodded towards the room at the end of the corridor.

“Thank you. I can handle the rest myself,” Cloudia replied and walked to the cell.

Three years had passed since I had stumbled over the drawings, and now, I had found him. I hugged the sketchbook against my chest. Now, I would meet him.

In front of the door, Cloudia came to a halt, and in the second she collected herself, a voice came through the little window at the top of the door.

“Who are you to come to visit me?”

She tightly clutched the sketchbook. “I am Cloudia Phantomhive, and I have a proposition to make.”

Translation of “Bei meinem Namen Cedric Kristopher Rossdale schwöre ich dir, verehrteste Gräfin, dass ich absolut imstande bin, einen grammatisch korrekten deutschen Satz zu bilden und diesen nahezu perfekt auszusprechen.” --> "By my name Cedric Kristopher Rossdale, I swear to you, dearest Countess, that I am absolutely capable of forming a grammatically correct German sentence and pronouncing it almost perfectly."

If any experts on travelling by train/ship/carriage in the 19th century (or anyone familiar with the history of trains or ships and the speed of ships) are reading this: I am sorry if I messed up too badly. I tried, I promise. (But then, I purposefully let the Daphne be a bit faster than she may actually be...)

#Watchdog of the Queen #yes i'm still alive #barely because i saw tangled's mid-season finale and i need the english version of cass' solo so badly #i'm a mess since 9 am i hope i did not mess up the editing process #also apparently this story consists of now 219400 #words which is a really neat even number #i'm writing this so long lol and i'm getting old this year too! how the time passes...#main chapters

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