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scribbleseas · 10 months

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Reading,

- Dan

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

Late October

The Royal Opera House, The Practice Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was not the first time you heard the sentiment.

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

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

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

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

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

That Evening, Post-Performance

The Royal Opera House, Your Dressing Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Evening, Pre-Ball

Your Bedroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps, you truly were Cinderella for once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You preferred that explanation much more than the former.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Evening, The Ball

Alexander Huntington’s Estate, The Grand Ballroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Midnight, The Ball

Alexander Huntington’s Estate, Alexander’s Office

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Past Midnight

Ciel Phantomhive’s Estate, The Drawing Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you care for more tea, Miss?”

57 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 9 months

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Straight Laced, Chapter V: To Be A Force of Nature…

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

Author’s Note: idk I have nothing to say for myself. i’m sorry this is so late. anddd keep an eye out for an upcoming poll! I need some input about which story you guys would like to see from me next, since we’re now officially halfway through this journey! As always, let me know what you think about this chapter! I love love LOVE audience interaction. So fun and so motivating. i love you all and hope you enjoy it!!

Happy Reading,

- dan (Depression Barbie LMAO)

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

The End of October

The Royal Opera House, The Practice Room

“Try it again, Y/n,” Natasha ordered. The bottom of her cane knocked against the floor to cue the pianist to start the music.

Despite your obedient nod, your whole body protested.

Every single muscle in your feet begged for mercy, and your legs and lower back began to do the same. The amount of complex pointe work and arabesques in the variation were what made it such a challenge— maintaining the perfect form but without being too stiff. The Sugar Plum Fairy had to be regal and majestic; you needed to be buoyant on your toes to create the vision of a fairy ready to flutter her wings and fly.

The Nutcraker’s Sugar Plum Fairy Variation was the physical and emotional equivalent of a chess game with Ciel Phantomhive. You watched yourself in the mirror, eyeing the streams of sweat that fell from your hairline and down the bridge of your nose. Still, your arms fanned to either side and your leg drew back to create your starting position: b-plus.

This was the piece that established the fairy’s power in the land of sweets. It needed to be perfect or near perfect by now or Natasha would have your head.

“Your pas de bourreé needs to be lighter,” the director criticized, catching every error in your movement. Her gaze was heavier than a magnifying glass. “It should be airy— and you must maintain the connection between your fingers and your head.” You frowned, your eyebrows knitting with concentration.

She has cautioned you about a heavy step sequence before, Y/n. Try harder— Tchaikovsky wanted this dance to be as light as raindrops; this is the second time Natasha has told you to land gentler.

Your throat felt dry with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to power through. The music hesitated to a short stop while you spread your arms as if you were bracing for a wide hug.

Seconds later, the music launched into its famous chorded sequence up the keys and you stepped into your piqué manége. While a pas de bourreé resembled a sideways sequence of you rapidly tiptoeing across the practice studio floor, the piqué manége and coupé jeté combination was a constant step and turn rotation. You had to spring into small jumps to make each turn, repeating the process until you outlined the perimeter of a square with your spins around the studio floor.

Your head swam, dizzied because you skipped breakfast and lunch that day because you wanted the extra time in the studio. The investigation with Ciel was eating more into your practice time than you wanted to admit— he summoned you to take short promenades through parks, short appearances at bakeries, and specialty boutiques, spoiling you. Showing the public that you were well provided for — frankly blooming under the warmth of his generous fortune— was the Earl of Phantomhive’s ‘love’ language.

“Keep your chest up,” Natasha’s voice felt distant, even though she was in the same room as you and the rest of the company. “You should be thinking of your spinal cord as a fixed structure that your ribs rotate around. And keep your arms controlled with these spins. You are delicate, but there is still a commanding firmness to you.”

You took your final spins, returning to the middle of the stage to chassé up— otherwise, arrange yourself into the performance’s ending position. Both of your arms were straight and angled upwards like you were reaching for a high shelf, and your back rounded to create an energetic arch. Your left foot extended behind your right leg.

Your heart pounded in your chest as Natasha inspected your chassé, peering at you in the same way Ciel examined whatever literature he happened to be reading at the time. Her cold fingertips guided your chin a few centimeters upwards before her head bobbed in a content nod. “Keep your gaze in line with your arms, in this position. Always.”

Natasha’s lips were relaxed in their frown. She was in a particularly stormy mood during this practice, all fortified scowls and impatient scoffs before this moment. Now, rather than completely vexed, the choreographer only seemed mildly frustrated. You struggled to hold her frustration against her— you had been having the same difficulties with this dance since the beginning of the month. You were frustrated with yourself.

“I appreciate your feedback, Natasha” you replied, maintaining your appreciative pretense for the rest of the company members present. Your smile was mechanical and fake, nothing more than the flimsy curtain that the backstage hands rolled in and out between every act. For you, harsh criticism gracefully was an act— smiling while your chest burned with indignation was incredibly blood-boiling.

Especially after you dedicated at least a full afternoon to perfecting the same piece.

She sent you a curt nod in response, only proving to you that there was something on her mind. Something unpleasant…along the lines of her husband being a serial rapist and potential murderer. Guilt sweat beamed in your hairline because, by Ciel’s orders, you still were not allowed to inform her of what you learned about William. But if she found out on her own…you could certainly comfort her, right?

“You are all dismissed,” Natasha addressed the class. “But remember! Soldiers have their designated costuming times with myself and the costuming director this upcoming week! Talk to one of us for your appointment.”

You waited until Natasha finished answering every post-rehearsal question, sending a nameless company member scurrying off with notes on the performance, or some set of miscellaneous instructions. Now that dress rehearsal was only a month away, it was time for each company member to make their dances technically perfect. Natasha preferred to focus on mechanical accuracy before adding the art and drama back into the ballet with the addition of stage makeup and glitzy costuming. Furthermore, Natasha was the heart and soul of the London Royal Company— it was a risk to so much as inhale at an undesignated time.

“Is there something bothering you?” you asked, your eyes breaking away from the door once you were sure everyone was out of earshot. “You were harsher than usual. I know dress rehearsal starts soon but—”

“Everything is fine with me, Y/n,” Natasha replied chillingly, jumping to the defensive. Her hand adjusted on her cane’s grip, bringing the walking accessory closer to her to re-shift her weight. She hissed through her clenched teeth at her bad leg, suggesting the old injury was hurting her. “If I were you, I would be more worried about my dancing than my director. Your rendition of Plum’s variation left much to be desired,” she said without a hint of hesitation.

Of course not— when it came to the choice of sparing a cast member’s self-esteem or breaking their confidence into jagged pieces of shrapnel for quicker results, Natasha would always, inevitably, choose the latter. She wasn’t the best prima ballerina in London five years ago because her feedback was obsequious. “Honestly. I would have thought you would have a breakthrough with your pointe work by now,” Natasha continued, disappointed.

With her sharp cheekbones and straight, raven hair, her visage reminded you of a slightly grumpier and career-driven Snow White.

“I will dedicate every free moment to it,” you insisted, your cheeks hot. Tears stung at your eyes, but you were accustomed to the suffocating feeling and managed to hold them in until you reached the closed door of your dressing room.

The moment you turned your lock closed, you turned towards the inner side of your door, resting your forehead on the cool wood. Your tears tracked down your cheeks, but you made no effort to flick them away. Not yet. You needed to sulk. You deserved to sulk.

“My wife doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” a man’s amused tenor told you, causing your head to jerk back in surprise. “I say, ignore her. I, for one, had a lovely time watching you today, my new prima.”

Ballerina, you wanted to finish the title. Prima felt much too familiar; much too oppressive.

William Wood was as relaxed as a lazy cat, his long and lean body poised comfortably on your couch. He gave a fleeting, yet bitter, look to the gold wedding band around his left ring finger before returning his gaze to you.

You made a rapid effort to wipe your distressed tears away. Normally, you were never one to cry over some constructive criticism, but you guessed it was your building stress— the amount of time and anxiety it consumed. The dark knowledge you had weighed on your mind heavily: knowing the truth about the man sitting in front of you, how he potentially murdered ballerinas like you. The fact that he was responsible for horrendous crimes and was still free to flash a winsome smile at you with the expectation that you’d fall for it.

Moreso, you imagined he used the same strong stare and enticing words to trap all of his victims; whether or not he persuaded them that he cared about them, or ripped all of their confidence away with his own surplus of it.

You cleared your throat, hesitant to meet his cool gray eyes. While Natasha’s were slightly blue, William’s were only a monochrome silver— as if all color was drained from them. His thin lips pulled into a half smile that he likely meant to be seductive and welcoming, but the longer you watched him, the more pursued you felt. He was watching you with the salacious eagerness a hunter would, aiming his rifle at an unsuspecting deer.

How could the other girls have reacted? Amélie, Eliza, Janet? Your heart was heavy with grief. The pain that these girls would never be able to share their stories with the rest of the world. Their lives were stolen from them. By this man.

“Thank you, Mr. Wood,” you greeted tersely. You knew your smile was unconvincing; you couldn’t bring yourself to bring the warmth of recognition into it, or the respect an employee would show to her handsome and potentially homicidal employer. All you could think of was the blood on his hands and the utter certainty across his lips. He was a huntsman. “I see you have returned from Paris. How was your trip?”

How could he live with himself?

“Just fine, Y/n,” William stood to his feet and took a leisurely set of steps towards you, casually crowding you against the door you just locked. There was enough room between you for him to deny his lack of respect for personal space, but so little room that you could spot every individual freckle across the wide bridge of his nose and his cheeks. “But I’m more interested in you. Your technique has simply flourished since that Janet girl left us.”

Left us?

You tensed, but you forced your body to remain open, fighting its natural urge to curl in and shield you from the danger. There was no hesitation in William’s face— not when he started flirting with you, and certainly not now, after he suggested that Janet simply retired from dancing and disappeared. Of course, the Yard was keeping these ballerina disappearances out of the papers. No one else knew there was anything wrong except for those clothes to the ten women, those investigating, and of course, the killer.

Ciel would tell you to talk about Janet and the recent company losses to gauge William’s response. His body language, what was saying, what he was not saying. He would tell you to either ignore the flirting or use it to your advantage, as rejecting Wood would likely bruise his ego too much for you to continue pursuing this…angle. Embarrassed, William would never speak to you again…or if you angered him, he’d simply kill you later.

You would need to use this interaction to set up future time with William. That way you and Ciel could make a plan to get his confession or gather concrete evidence, considering Ciel was too cautious to make the arrest if he wasn’t completely convinced.

If the course of the investigation was solely your choice, you would have already had William arrested for assault, abduction, and at least one murder. Unfortunately, your authority only extended to waltzing tips and how to make Ciel’s publicity smile appear less like a grimace.

William’s eyebrows raised, prompting your response. He was suspicious of your hesitation— which was surprising, given that he was married to your director. How could you fail to notice this…aggressiveness before this week? Now, it was clear to you.

“That is so kind of you to say, sir,” you paused, unsure of what to say next. How could you extract more information about Janet without appearing accusatory? “This opportunity has been extraordinary for my career. It is so hard for me to believe that Janet would give it up so senselessly.” You watched William’s face, looking for any flicker of emotion, but there was none beyond his pensive nod.

“You should know how it is, by now, Y/n,” William drawled with the wisdom of an experienced man who had been watching the ballet field for a near century, rather than a measly thirty years. While the Wood family owned the opera house since its construction in 1732, William only started running the Wood’s business empire five years ago — after his father, John, died abruptly. Heart failure.

The last production the opera house had under John Wood was the Sleeping Beauty run where William met Natasha, the new prima ballerina. They were both around your age at the time. You couldn’t imagine meeting your future spouse and marrying them only for your father to die a month or two afterward.

“Not everyone can take the heat. Not everyone should. They can’t handle it because they’re not like you. You’re a shark. A force of nature; someone special. I can see it,” William continued, taking a loose strand of hair that fell free from your bun and tucking it behind your ear. His fingertips lingered on the side of your neck, and the top of his thumb kept your chin tilted upwards towards his face.

“A force of nature?” You asked, almost as puzzled as you were uncomfortable. You wished you could take a step away, but your backside was pressed against your only exit.

William chuckled, pleased to have the opportunity to explain himself. It made him feel smarter than you— something that most men adored as much as staring at you. “Yes. That means, unstoppable, strong, and…unforgettable. Beyond control. Like I said: don’t listen to Natasha. You were flawless. You are flawless.”

Your breath hitched, unable to hide the euphoria that came with praise, but of course, not without recalling that these were lines he likely rehearsed. William knew how to attract his victims with honey before resorting to vinegar. Ultimately, it made you realize that this was how Amélie, Eliza, and Janet felt. Seen. Special. Noticed by the owner of the opera house. Frankly, if you hadn’t been promoted, you doubted you would have been William’s next target.

Still, even if you knew you were a force of nature before William said so, there was something more empowering about hearing so. For once, it wasn’t your ego; it was praise. Genuine, few and far between, praise. Something educated and intricate— it might have been nearly leagues more satisfying than faraway applause from an audience that didn’t know the first thing about ballet…if you didn’t know that William had ulterior motives. If you didn’t know that this was the trap the huntsman fabricated to catch his next meal.

William took your prolonged silence as encouragement. He leaned downwards, each gaining centimeter only pushing him closer to your lips.

“Mr. Wood…” you cut his advance short, hesitating as you remembered that rejection was not an option. You tried to soften your expression, and your body, given that your words came out somewhat flat. You thought of the weak-willed princesses in children’s tales; the submissive character you put on for all of your old patrons; the long set of polite society’s rules Sebastian branded into the front of your brain.

William’s approach was to take vulnerable and insecure girls and make them feel like a force of nature because of him. Not because they were, inherently.

But you were. This time, he didn’t know who he was messing with.

“I think…we ought to wait until we have more time together,” you said sweetly, your hand coming from your side and adjusting William’s shirt collar. It was folded unevenly, and even the minute gesture was enough for him to think you cared about him— that you were looking intently enough to realize that there was a problem with his wardrobe in the first place. Any special attention from intended prey was like a drug to these power-starved men. It made you wonder why they thought they had all of the power. “Could you imagine the scandal? If everyone in the company found out?” You asked, widening your eyes with ironic innocence.

You were the black swan, Odile. Mischievous, conniving, confident. Frankly, thinking about making the arrest and putting the bastard away was what created your reluctantly seductive grin— much in the same way as Odile’s excitement to manipulate Odette’s prince.

William’s back straightened as he considered you once more, looking over you with reignited vigor, now that you were fully committed to playing his game. He tilted his head, though his eyes were slightly more hesitant to leave your lips.

“I think you’d get some enjoyment out of all that attention, Prima,” William joked, taking your hand in his. He pressed a kiss onto your knuckles before doing the same for the inner part of your wrist. His thumb rubbed the same spot on your wrist as if he wanted the feeling of his foreign lips on your skin to linger. “But unfortunately, you do have a point. I think I have a remedy for us, though,” William looked ponderous before he fished out a ring of keys from his jacket pocket with his free hand— he was still holding yours until he needed both hands to sift through the crowded keys.

To you, it suggested he had several places he needed to keep locked away. That could be residences, safes, closed doors, drawers... the number of potential areas to hide murder weapons and implicating items could be limitless if all of the locations for these keys were his. It was suspicious.

Once William found the key he was looking for, he unlinked it from the key ring. He pressed it into your palm so hard that you could feel it indent in your skin. “Here. This opens the back door of my country house. We will meet there. Tomorrow— after your performance,” he ordered, closing your fingers around the key for you. He pointedly failed to ask if you were available, presuming you would make the time for him.

“The one in… Southampton?” Your mouth felt dry. You went to William and Natasha’s country home once— about a year ago. Natasha allowed you to spend the night after you arrived at the docks after midnight, returning from a short visit to France. Your director didn’t trust you to make it back to your home safely, and she insisted you stay the night with her and William.

The Wood’s Southampton house was a symbol of Natasha’s kindness to you, and now, you were about to use it to further betray her. Failing to tell her about her husband’s crime was the first; and now, you were about to seduce him in order to expose those misgivings.

“Yes. Natasha stays late with the costuming director on Thursdays and Fridays. It’s perfect,” William reminded you. While most companies started costuming for the lead dancers, Natasha liked to start with the ensemble. She claimed it was best to get all of the mass-produced costumes fitted and out of the way before focusing on the standout pieces like yours.

Thinking about your Sugar Plum Fairy costume made you giddy with excitement. While you haven’t seen the ensemble itself yet, Poppy (the costume director that William failed to name) showed you her beautiful sketches for it.

“Meet me there at eleven. Sharp,” William ordered decisively, offering you no chance to protest. Within seconds, he unlocked your door, made sure there was no one outside to see him exit, and swiftly made his leave.

The Same Day, Dusk

Ciel’s Carriage

“No. Absolutely not,” Ciel’s stoic, yet resolute frown pursed into a line. He angled his chin upwards, daring you to argue with him.

“What do you mean?” You demanded, your eyebrows knitting together incredulously. You wanted to stand up to punctuate your surprise and frustration, but the moving carriage wouldn’t allow you to. “This is the perfect opportunity. You said it yourself: We need to investigate William Wood. If he is with me, his guard will be down! And we need evidence and a confession!”

“We would do better to explore a…different angle. I would prefer to meet with him,” Ciel said boredly, opening his book to his current page. He clearly didn’t think much of this disagreement; you thought it was, by far, the most ridiculous one the two of you dealt with up to this point. He was being brainless— you had an opportunity to get into William’s home and make him vulnerable, and Ciel didn’t want to so much as entertain your idea! Your lead!

“But, why?” You insisted, protesting like a child fighting their mother for an extra piece of candy. “What could possibly be wrong with this plan? Setting a meeting up between you and him — without looking suspicious — could take ages!”

“It will not take ages,” Ciel said, emphasizing his use of your words. He skimmed over the words in the passage of his book — The Canticle of Saint Eulalie — idly, speaking while he read. The novel was a relic from medieval French literature, a name you vaguely recognized only to have Ciel snicker at you for not being as inclined to know every facet of your home culture. It was disquieting to know that Ciel was fluent in your first language. When he offered to speak to you in that language, you had denied it vehemently because it was simply too personal. Speaking in French took you back to your mother, dance school, and every painful memory you left back on the European mainland. “I want to extend an invitation to Wood about a business venture.”

“Ciel, it is too convenient. No one will believe that we are in love if you make a business deal immediately after courting me,” you insisted.

“It only matters if he believes that it is a true business meeting,” Ciel said, flipping the current page over.

“I guarantee you, he will not,” you shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “William might be a sadistic criminal but he certainly is not a moron—” unlike you, genius “…and he will make the connection between you and me. Natasha has to have told him already.”

“Honestly! You are being stubborn because this is my lead! It was my acting and my efforts that gave us this opportunity. You are insecure. You are selfish! If we let our investigation progress slower than necessary, more people die! Is it worth it? Is your—” You would have proceeded with your tirade until you and Ciel reached your destination, but he slammed his book closed with a start. The heavy sound caused you to hesitate, giving him the opportunity to intercede.

“Y/n! Your plan is too dangerous!” Ciel snapped. “You are an untrained civilian. You are not going to meet a man who has assaulted and likely killed ten other of your peers. Certainly not when he likely imagines you as his eleventh! Honestly! You must be mad. Do you have a death wish?”

“I do not care about that,” you admitted, taking in a long inhale through your nose and quickly glancing out the window. Your fingers intertwined in your lap as your shoulders fell sheepishly. “The danger,” you clarified at the Earl’s perplexed expression. “I truly…it is of no importance to me.”

“And why is that?” Ciel demanded.

“Why do I have the right? They all…died. Why do I get the privilege of…” You let the sentence die, gesturing with your clammy hands because you couldn’t string the proper words together. How could you to know to be careful when these girls didn’t know what they were getting into? They deserved the same warnings you had, but that would never be.

“Come on, Ciel. We need access to his home and his belongings. We will not get it if we pursue your business meeting idea. Please, please, let me do this,” you said, fishing William’s house key out of your jacket’s pocket. The silver key had his matching initials engraved down the side of it in cursive. “While I keep him occupied, you and Sebastian can find the spare office keys in the studio and—”

There was a new grudging respect in Ciel’s face, paired with a thoughtful frown. He was considering your idea, freshly reminded that you were extremely committed to the investigation. After all, it was a personal matter, now.

“No,” Ciel started. He quickly sent a silencing look at you, noticing the confrontational way you leaned in toward him. The carriage was rather small, putting you in the same proximity William was to you, earlier that day. “Not without us. I will not, in good conscience, permit you to go tomorrow without Sebastian and myself. We don’t know what William might try with you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, victorious. You truly were a force of nature.

“You care about me,” you grinned, nose wrinkling with glee. “How kind. Who knew the magnificent, oh-so-powerful, Lord of Phantomhive could care for someone besides himself…” Your hand flew over your heart dramatically. “I’m touched!”

“I had no idea it was controversial to ensure a civilian’s survival,” Ciel smarted, his exposed eye-rolling. His face flushed, but you couldn’t decipher the cause. Frustration from having to accommodate your ever-shifting mood? Embarrassment? No, Lord Phantomhive could never view himself as lesser-than!

Or perhaps, you were right. He did care about you.

Your cheeks grew warm at the thought, causing your head to jerk away before you could regard his lips anymore. (Were they always this plump when he scowled? And that pink?) You were all too aware of your closeness, given that you hadn’t moved back to your original position in the carriage and had been leaning towards him with the severity of either someone enraged or in love.

Enraged. You were enraged.

“Admit that I persuaded you,” you demanded, unable to keep the play stoicism on your face.

“I will not,” Ciel shook his head, relieved that the carriage was coming to a stop because it gave him an easy reprieve from the conversation at hand. “We need you to confirm the body’s identification. Will you come inside?” The Earl asked, gesturing to the Yard’s station outside the carriage. He reminded you of the meaning behind your excursion: confirming that the body found floating in the River Thames was Janet Fischer or a nameless victim. While there were numerous pictures of Janet, they needed a person to confirm her remains.

“Yes, I can.” Your heart sunk, bringing your joy with it. Your smile melted as you nodded gravely, well aware that there was no need to maintain any pretenses in front of the body. Ciel forced the Yard to clear any non-ranked personnel to avoid conflict with your public appearance versus your intended utility to the case.

Within minutes, you were facing Janet one last time. She was truly perfect— the type of beautiful that belonged between pages of a storybook. Her cheekbones were high, but her cheeks were full; her lips were soft and pink. Her blonde hair fell in wisps, too thick to stay in her bun perfectly. Even in death, her eyelashes were long and curled, kissing her cheeks.

Unlike Amélie, there was little sign of death on her, save for her lack of breathing and the obvious bruise on her temple. Otherwise, there was no foul smell, no bloodshot eyes, or gaping mouth. Janet looked as if she was only napping, her face serene without the deep sadness that used to inhabit it. No one in the company carried the same innocence and melancholia— that was why she was Natasha’s first choice for Odette.

“This is her,” your voice hardly registered above a whisper. “Janet…what happened?” you asked, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling. You wished she could wake up and tell you. There was nothing you wanted more.

“She was officially reported as missing on the night of September 28th,” Ciel said, his presence somewhat comforting to you. Janet was already dead— there was nothing to be done except to bring her killer to justice and ensure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. “Exactly one day after the last time everyone has claimed to see her— the night of Thursday, September 27th.”

“This wound seems as if it was from a blunt object,” Sebastian noted, peering at the purple bruise on the side of Janet’s right eye. “But she was found near the Tower Bridge, the rest of her wounds consistent with a high fall.”

“Could she have been hit with the object and subsequently pushed?” Ciel wondered, not truly looking for a response from either you or Sebastian. He crossed his arms, searching for answers from Janet’s body.

You battled a fresh wave of nausea.

“The bruise appears to be circular. I believe the object we’re looking for is slightly round — like a hammer, the pommel of a dagger, or even the end of a cane might create this shape of bruise,” the butler continued, the broad number of potential items doing nothing of note.

If the bruise wasn’t leading to anything concrete, you opted to focus on something — anything — else. Janet went missing on a Thursday… Today was Wednesday. William wanted to meet with you on another Thursday. You had full Nutcracker rehearsals on Thursdays and Sundays, but William said that Thursday would work the best because Natasha always stayed at the studio to work with Poppy.

That made Thursdays the ideal day for him to kill someone: Natasha was out of the picture, and the whole cast was exhausted after a full show rehearsal and a showing of Swan Lake.

You stiffened, your head jerking to look at the Earl. He startled at your sudden movement, knitting curious eyebrows together. What is it now, Y/n? He asked without having to speak.

“Ciel, do you have the dates for any of the other disappearances?”

“Sebastian?” Ciel prompted.

“Annalisse Sterling’s last sighting was Thursday, September 14th and Harriet White’s was August 31st, and…” Sebastian continued, as you flipped through a calendar. You ripped off one of the officer’s unoccupied desks. You circled every date Sebastian said until he stopped at Amelie’s disappearance date.

“The majority of disappearances have taken place between these three weekdays,” you declared, showing Ciel and Sebastian the months of circled Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. “Look. And these are days where we have full show rehearsals and his wife is thoroughly distracted…it cannot be a coincidence.”

Ciel considered the theory, nodding slowly with perceptible hesitance that you wanted to kick out of him. There was absolutely no basis for him to doubt you! Why did he need to be this stubborn? All of the time? “Is there anyone we can speak to regarding Janet? We have already spoken to her family and Lord Taylor, but—”

“She never had friends,” you shook your head. It was true— Janet always distanced herself from everyone. Even Natasha, who seemed to be the entire company’s older sister. “What did Lord Taylor tell you?”

“He has a solid alibi— hosting a birthday dinner for his niece in Tanglewood. His son’s betrothed,” Ciel said. “The party location puts him too far away from the Tower Bridge at that time, and there is no evidence that Taylor told Janet to meet him there.”

“She had to tell someone that she was going out of her usual way,” you shut your eyes for a moment to organize your thoughts. “Janet was not stupid, she would never leave without notice. Her mother and her brothers relied on her income to live.”

“The mother insisted Janet found a note in her dressing room, but there was no one — and no note — to corroborate that,” Sebastian recalled, as perplexed as you’ve ever seen him. Anyone could have left a note in Janet’s room— the murder had to be premeditated if that was how the killer lured her. They knew to leave it there after the performance and to either dispose of it themself or take it from Janet after killing her. Not only that— they had access to those backstage areas. It needed to be someone who blended in at the opera house, otherwise, the interviewed dancers and stagehands would have noticed a suspicious character.

“Ciel, we need to look into William. He owns the opera house— no one would think anything of seeing him backstage. William knows when rehearsals are, and his wife’s work schedule,” you demanded, wide-eyed. Honestly, if Ciel continued to doubt you, you would suspect he was in the wrong line of work.

“Say it is William,” Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose, “how would we proceed?” He asked flatly, guessing that you had a few ideas.

Your expression wasn’t gleeful. You were unsure what to call it, besides fierce and unyielding. It was forceful, it was serious. A real force of nature would do this. You were going to do this.

“We get a confession, then. Tomorrow night.”

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