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tothelasthoursofmylife · 1 month

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“Trains have surpassed ships as the worst type of transportation after all.”

On the way to Paris, France – June 1848

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 10:40

With a hiss and a screech, the train rolled out of the station.

Blood pounded in my head; thoughts and plans swarmed through my mind.

The train would not stop until it reached Paris.

Yvette and Jacques were five wagons ahead.

But where were Townsend, Florentin, and Maxime? And how many of their accomplices were here too?

“Countess,” she heard Cedric’s voice next to her. Only when she turned to face him and saw the wide, worried look in his eyes, did Cloudia realise that he must have called her a few times before she had reacted. His hand was still on her arm, their shoulders brushing against each other in this cramped space.

“They are on this train.” Her heart was racing, she was out of breath, and the words tumbled out of her before she could dwell on them. “I saw Jacques and Yvette boarding the train.”

Cedric’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. Cloudia registered a movement behind him: Aurèle, who stood behind Cedric and Kamden and was folded into this small space by the door with the others, lifted his head at the mention of his brother.

A passenger shoved his suitcase into his cabin and raised an eyebrow at the odd lot by the door before he entered the compartment and closed the door behind him. With the corridor now empty, Cedric gently pulled Cloudia into it. As soon as they stepped into it, the bubble broke, and the others spaced out too. Lisa and Newman remained in the back, whereas Milton stepped a little bit forward, close to Kamden. It was still very cramped – two next to each other was an imposition, three was an impossibility. Now, at least, they weren’t packed like sardines in a can.

“Jacques and Yvette are on this train too. I spotted them entering the wagon five coaches ahead of ours,” Cloudia said. This time she was slightly louder. The thundering of her heart had ebbed into a flicker, waiting in anticipation to re-ignite.

“But didn’t they kidnap Jacques nearly a day ago?” asked Cedric in bewilderment. “And you said Yvette and Maxime left Nanteuil-la-Forêt at about one or two in the morning – how did they arrive in Creil only now?”

“The heavy rain must have slowed them down,” Cloudia mused. “And maybe they did not immediately leave the village after I saw them at the hospital. They could have gone somewhere else within Nanteuil-la-Forêt first and might have been affected by the fire too.”

“That would explain why Maxime and Yvette might have been late but Jacques?”

“My brother isn’t an idiot,” said Aurèle. Cloudia saw Cedric open his mouth before quickly closing it again. “He wouldn’t have led them right to the Clockmaker, even if he was afraid.”

“You mean he could have led them astray first?” Cloudia replied, and Aurèle nodded.

“Cloudie, did you see anyone besides Yvette and…” Kamden wanted to know but his question was cut off by a gunshot and the sound of glass shattering. Cedric yanked Cloudia to the side. She crashed against a compartment door right when the bullet flew past her by a hair’s breadth.

And hit flesh.

A scream tore through the carriage. Cloudia did not turn to check who was hurt. Instead, she swiftly stepped away from the door, her own gun ready in hand – but another shot rang through the air before she could move.

Followed by the sound of metal hitting metal.

And a scream and a curse. Before she turned and confirmed it, Cloudia knew that their assailant hadn’t fired that shot.

Milton lowered his pistol. Though he remained alert, his gaze softened, changed, when he sighed, from concentration to worry. She could see he was about to say something but did not wait for him to speak. Cold realisation having hit her, Cloudia rushed along the corridor to the door at the other end of the wagon.

The clang, the sound of metal clattering against metal.

Of course, Milton had only disarmed the attacker. His gun must have hit the connector bars and was likely now bedded somewhere in the shrubbery behind us.

Which meant that the gunman was still alive.

Glass shards cracked under her shoes as she reached the door. She stared through its broken window to the neighbouring coach, saw the other coach’s door flung wide open and the attacker hastening to the end of the wagon. Cloudia raised her gun, fired once, twice, thrice until she saw him topple over, dead or close.

Cloudia turned to the others, the morning wind from the shattered window cool on her skin. Kamden scrambled to his feet – he must have either thrown himself on the ground or been pushed down – to tend to Aurèle who held his right shoulder, his face a mask of agony. Lisa and Newman walked towards her from the end of the coach. Cedric was still by the compartment door. He jumped to the side and against the windowed wall when the door slightly opened, and a head peeked out. Newman told the woman to stay in the cabin, and she readily obliged.

“I’m sorry, Lady Cloudia, I-” began Milton, who was the only one who had not moved.

“No need to apologise, Milton,” Cloudia cut him off. “You reacted perfectly; I did not expect you to shoot at the man,” she continued. As the words left her mouth, it dawned on her that she had just killed someone right in front of him, and the realisation sent an odd feeling through her. Cloudia mustered his face, but all it reflected was sorrow, a silent apology, not fear, and she recalled his words from earlier. Strange how only hours had passed since; the memory seemed further away. And although she knew that Milton didn’t lie, it was still soothing to be certain that he was not afraid of her.

But…

A thought bloomed in her head, something dark and pointy. Cloudia pushed it away. Later, she told herself; there was no time for that right now.

A shriek vibrated through the air, mixing with the hammering of the open door against the carriage wall and the rattling of the train as it breezed over the tracks. Cloudia glanced back to the other coach and spotted some passengers leaving their cabins and hovering over the body, pointing to the open door.

“That man, that reckless idiot,” said Cloudia to the others, “may not have been able to contact Yvette and Townsend somehow, but the passengers certainly will if enough noticed the corpse and heard the shots. And we don’t know how many of their people are aboard too, and where Townsend, Maxime, or the Clockmaker are.” She reloaded her pistol and pocketed it. “I doubt we can just stay put and wait until we reach Paris to get to Jacques; I suppose we need to go now.”

Cloudia looked at Newman. “I am not sure if the corridors are too narrow for you to move fleetly in,” she said. “I would not mind if you stayed behind, Newman.”

“I understand your concern, Lady Cloudia. However, as a butler, I cannot stand by idly while my mistress brings herself in peril,” replied Newman. “And as the Phantomhive butler, nothing shall be impossible. I will follow you, even if I am slow.”

“Very well,” sighed Cloudia.

“I’ll come too,” Aurèle pressed out from between clenched teeth. “I need to get to my brother.”

“Definitely not,” said Kamden firmly. “The bullet got stuck in your arm. I need to get it out first.”

“You heard that, Aurèle? You’ll stay. Jacques also wouldn’t want you to strain yourself when you’re injured.” Aurèle’s expression darkened, though he did not retort anything to her surprise. Cloudia then levelled her gaze at Milton. “You stay back too, do you hear me? When I agreed to let you come with us, it did not entail this.”

Before she could hear any protests, Cloudia pushed the wagon door open. Keeping her eyes firmly on the wagon ahead of her, not on the tracks below or the world blurring around, she took a run-up and jumped.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 10:50

The question of how she meant to go to Yvette and Jacques when the train was moving turned into a horrified “oh” when Cloudia jumped to the other coach. Immediately, Cedric ran to the open door, glass crunching beneath him. He sighed in relief when he saw that Cloudia had landed well and safely on the other side. Without looking back, she walked down the corridor to the terrified passengers.

Cedric turned to the others. When he noticed the expression on Kamden’s face – the wide-eyed horror – he wondered if it was a mirror of his own countenance too. Then, Kamden took a deep breath and returned his attention to Aurèle who looked rather pale and miserable. Blood seeped out from behind his fingers.

“Could you please hold him still, Mr Newman?” asked Kamden, and Newman obliged with a nod. Kamden carefully pried Aurèle’s fingers away and stuffed a cloth into Aurèle’s mouth before he stuck his finger inside the wound without any warning. Cedric winced when he saw that. Aurèle squirmed and shoved Kamden and, miraculously, even Newman away, spitting out the cloth in the process and cursing at Kamden in French.

“I’m sorry but I need to look how deep the bullet lodged,” said Kamden, undeterred.

“But like that?!”

“Yes, it’s either the finger or the probe.”

Kamden opened his bag and before he could pull out the probe, Cedric cleared his throat. He was far too familiar with that infernal metal rod, and he feared Kamden might procure the forceps alongside it for good measure. “K… Emyr, maybe it would be best if you got into a cabin where there are still empty seats. It’s better if Aurèle could sit down, isn’t it?” Cedric said and opened the closest compartment door. A pale-faced woman and a man holding an umbrella in defence stared at him.

“Do you mind…” Cedric started before he remembered that, of course, the couple could not understand him.

“If you may allow me, Your Grace,” said Newman gently before he began talking to the couple who grew paler with every word. Cedric wondered if they would turn translucent, eventually.

“Your Uselessness,” Lisa chuckled as she squeezed past him.

“You don’t know French either, Miss Greene,” Cedric shot back.

Lisa did not react; without another word, she simply followed Cloudia to the neighbouring carriage. Next to him, Cedric heard a half-swallowed, horrified “Lisa,” and when Cedric turned, he saw Newman shaking his head. Nevertheless, when he noticed Cedric’s eyes on him, Newman said tersely, “It is only right for her to follow Lady Cloudia. She can do it more swiftly in this environment than me.”

Cedric nodded. Newman had finished his explanation, and the umbrella-wielding man and his wife now hurried to gather their belongings. They, apparently, did not want front-row seats for an amateur bullet removal. Cedric watched them briefly before he shifted away from the cabin and noticed that pieces of rope were now dangling from the ceiling in a line by the windows. He stared up at the ceiling and saw that part of it had opened, letting the ropes fall out. Bewildered, Cedric looked around to the others, an enquiry on his lips. He halted upon noticing Milton knock on a compartment door. The door tentatively opened, and he spoke a few words with the woman. Cedric could not understand anything besides the final “Merci” (he recognised the word from the chocolate brand) before the door was drawn shut again.

With whatever he had wanted to do done, Milton walked to the open door. Unlike Aurèle who had slowly made his way away from Kamden and his probe and was now uneasily mustering the space between the carriages, Milton seemed unfazed when he looked outside. Alarmed by the look in his eyes, Cedric called his name and hurried to him.

It was such a small space, only a few metres, a few steps, from one end of the wagon to the other but Cedric was still too late to stop Milton.

Thankfully, Aurèle wasn’t.

Just when Milton was about to take a run-up, Aurèle grabbed his arm and yanked him back and against a cabin with impressive force considering his injury.

“You,” Aurèle hissed at Milton when Cedric reached them, “are meant to stay behind. Didn’t you hear my cousin tell you that?”

“I heard Lady Cloudia,” replied Milton calmly. He held Aurèle’s gaze, meeting his eyes with an expression so oddly hard and intense it felt foreign on Milton’s face. “Only I have no intention to stay put. She had one condition for me accompanying you all and that was that I would stay safe. And I agreed. Lady Cloudia only told me to remain behind because she thinks it would be unsafe, but I assure you I will be perfectly fine. You should also not have done that; you are only worsening your injury.”

“Aurèle, let him go,” said Cedric before Aurèle could retort anything.

“Yes, Aurèle,” Kamden added, joining them by the door. “Let him go. They vacated the cabin; now come. The bullet shouldn’t be inside you for too long.”

Scowling and grumbling, Aurèle took a step back and followed Kamden into the compartment. When the door was closed behind them, Cedric said, “Milton, I hope you’re well-aware that the Countess’ current plan of action is to jump between coaches on a running train until she reaches a bunch of criminals. One slip-up between wagons and you’re dead.” As soon as those words had slipped out, they dragged Cedric to the truth he had been ignoring for the last few minutes, ever since Cloudia had left their wagon.

One slip-up, one fall, one push, and Cloudia was dead.

“Kristopher,” Milton said with such gentleness that Cedric knew that his face had betrayed his thoughts. “There is no time to argue, is there? And I promised her, as I will promise you and whoever else I must, that I will keep myself safe.”

Cedric glanced to the other carriage. Cold fingers traced his spine when he saw that Lisa and Cloudia had already headed to the next one. “Very well,” said Cedric with gritted teeth. “Let’s go, Milton.”

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 10:50

Reckless, brash, idiotic, it swirled through my mind while I was airborne.

A moment ago, there had been rattling but firm ground under my feet. Now, there was nothing at all. I had jumped out of windows and carriages before, had felt the wind catch me, tear at my hair and clothes, force me down or sideways before.

But none of those memories fit with the sensation that overcame me now, in this moment, this second, this blink in which I was flying.

From one coach to another; metal beasts shrieking through the landscape with dozens of kilometres per hour.

Over a space only two, three steps wide and still as large as a canyon’s divide.

And then my feet touched the platform, and the moment was gone.

Cloudia grabbed the metal bars; the train hissed in anger at this violation of locomotive etiquette. Adrenaline pumped through her when she let go of the metal railing to stand properly on the small platform. The platforms on each end of a wagon were connected to a small set of stairs and possessed a simple bannister with an open gap on the side that faced the next coach. As if, despite locomotive etiquette, one was meant to jump between coaches.

Without looking back – she did not need to turn to know that Kamden and the others must have horror written all over their faces – Cloudia entered the carriage. Inside, three passengers were standing by the corpse, blocking the entire narrow walkway, and talking to one another with increasingly disturbed, panicked voices. Four more passengers were hovering on the doorsills to their cabins, their faces ashen and shocked as they stared at the body.

Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, Cloudia approached the three men by the body and asked them to step aside for a moment. Puzzlement bloomed across their faces, mixed with their panic; still, one of the men stepped halfway into a compartment, allowing Cloudia to kneel by the corpse.

“I would recommend returning to your cabins,” she implored the men in French. “Or you might end up like that man here.” Though Cloudia had directly looked at the onlookers while she had spoken and pointed at the corpse and the slowly growing bloodstain, they were rooted to the spot, watching her with wide, terrified eyes. Cloudia clenched her teeth.

This undertaking could only be a hassle with all these civilians around and no proper way to evacuate them. Couldn’t the gunman have stayed put?

Cloudia pushed down her irritation and glanced at the dead man. From his clothes, she could tell that he must have been a Nanteuillat. What can you tell me? she thought and was about to look quickly through his pockets when she heard a clang and a curse behind her. Cloudia lifted her head and saw Lisa holding onto the railing and trying to regain her balance, cursing under her breath.

“Not waiting for Newman?” asked Cloudia and rolled the dead man on his side to gain better access to his pockets. “And miss out on some fun? Definitely not,” Lisa said. She glared at the onlookers until they stepped back a bit and then carefully squeezed past Cloudia and stepped over the body. “I also didn’t want to stay any longer with him,” she continued. Cloudia knew without Lisa needing to elaborate that she meant Milton. “His Gracelessness and Al got Mr Kamden and Mr Beauchene to sit in one of the cabins.”

“That’s good.” Cloudia pulled two knives and a train ticket from the corpse’s pockets; his cabin was the one right in the middle. Cloudia got to her feet and went inside the man’s cabin. It was empty. He had brought no luggage with him – understandable considering the situation. What truly brought Cloudia’s mind into motion was the fact that this villager had been given a ticket for a compartment for four people, even if he was left all alone. Had Yvette and Townsend travelled with an odd number? Or did the dead man have a partner? But if yes, where could they be?

There was no one hiding here, but they could be hiding in one of the other cabins, having threatened its actual passengers to remain silent. Or…

Cloudia left the compartment and looked down the corridor. The door at the end was closed. The platform was too small for anyone to get a proper run-up to be able to jump the distance between the coaches.

If the dead man’s partner had jumped to the next wagon, why would the dead man bother to close the door after them?

Cloudia retrieved her father’s dagger, holding it firmly in her hand as she slowly approached the exit door.

Why not leave it open?

Abruptly, Cloudia kicked the door open, catching the man behind off-guard and slamming it into his face. Surprised screams echoed through the air behind her. The man’s gun slid out of his fingers, tumbling one, two steps down. Before he could recover, Cloudia sliced his throat and pushed him down the stairs. She saw him hit the ground and watched him roll down the hill for only a moment – a moment in which the cabin door closest to her opened.

A man burst out of it, his gun raised. He fired, but Cloudia dodged, and the bullet collided with the railing. The metal vibrated behind her. She lifted the dagger, saw his finger about to pull the trigger again.

Before they could do anything, the man fell forward.

Cloudia fled to the narrow stairs, holding onto the bannister with one hand, as the man’s head hit the metal of the railing, then the platform’s.

“I should have waited for Newman, right?” said Lisa, bloody needle in hand.

Despite everything, a chuckle burst out of Cloudia. “Of course not.” She returned to the platform and kicked the corpse to the side before she glanced back to the corridor (squinting past the passengers who were now moving around like headless chickens, she could make out Cedric and Milton at the last carriage’s door). Then, she turned to the coach ahead.

And right into the face of a wide-eyed woman looking through the little window, having spectated everything unfold.

A passenger, maybe. Hopefully.

But then she didn’t scream, didn’t remain.

Instead, she tore herself free from her stasis and turned and ran to the end of the wagon, hammering on the cabin doors she passed.

“Damn,” Cloudia said and got ready to jump, “we need to get going.”

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:00

With a sigh, Cedric held onto the bannister. The wagon rocked softly under his feet, and he needed a moment to compose himself after having jumped between coaches on a running train.

This was one of the most idiotic things I had ever done.

Nausea brushed its fingers against him when Cedric glanced into the chasm between the coaches, saw the tracks running and blurring beneath. He quickly tore his gaze away from the sight and shook his head. Letting go of the railing, he turned to walk into the corridor.

Milton had jumped first.

There had been no talk. He had simply gone first, and Cedric had felt odd when Milton landed on the next wagon’s platform, looking unfazed as he glanced back at him. The image clung to Cedric still as he watched Milton talk to the passengers. Although they were in uproar and hysteria, the soothing tone of Milton’s voice managed to reach Cedric; it was like a band of calmness weaving itself through the panic and trying to bring everything under control.

Cedric hovered by the door for a moment, mesmerised by Milton gently guiding passengers back to their cabins and easing their worries with a few, to him, unintelligible words. Then, Cedric shook himself free and elbowed his way through the screeching crowd and the narrow walkway, bumping against walls and shoulders and nearly tripping over a corpse before he finally got to Milton.

Cedric grabbed Milton’s arm, careful to avoid his wrist this time. “Milton! We need to go!” he said and tried to drag him along, but Milton would not budge.

“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric. “We need to continue to the next coach!”

“What about the passengers?” replied Milton, surprisingly steadfast although Cedric pulled on him again.

“We have no time to look after panicked passengers! They will manage.”

“No, you have no time for that,” Milton retorted. “You can go ahead without me, Kristopher. I will be fine on my own.”

“I cannot just leave you behind, Milton,” said Cedric, getting even more irritated that he had to move a bit sideways to let a man push through. This space was far too cramped for his liking.

“Of course, you can. I’m sorry; that might be your way, but it is not mine.” The serious expression Milton had worn in the burning cabin crawled back onto his face. He tried to pull away from Cedric’s grip; however, just like Milton had not budged, neither did Cedric, and he held on tight to him.

“Stop being so stubborn for once, Milton. You know I cannot leave you alone.”

“I am not a child that needs to be looked after,” replied Milton with an uncharacteristic cold edge to his words that startled Cedric, “and you are not my butler. I know you don’t even want to be with me right now, so just go ahead. Mr Newman will follow soon; I won’t even be alone for too long!”

“But…”

“Kristopher. We have little time for arguments. Can…” Milton faltered for a moment. Anguish briefly washed over his face as he continued, “Kristopher, can’t you trust me for once?”

Cedric flinched slightly. For a moment, a wing beat, they only stared wordlessly at each other. “Very well,” he said ultimately; his voice sounded distant even to his own ears. “Take care, Milton.”

Cedric let go of him and immediately turned to make his way through the crowd. Just as he reached the end of the carriage and was about to jump, he heard Milton’s voice, soft and quiet but still clear over the chaos, “You too.”

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 10:57

Cloudia landed on the platform with a loud clack that reverberated through the metal. Without stopping, she opened the door – and immediately someone ran into her. Instinctively, she grabbed his shoulders, shoved him back. “What are you doing,” she said. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

The man’s eyes widened at her sight, making Cloudia wonder if she had blood on her. Then, he yelled something that sounded like “murderer!” and turned and ran, right into someone else.

“What on earth,” Cloudia heard Lisa behind her.

“We were announced, apparently,” replied Cloudia dryly and ran into the wagon. The corridor was cramped. People were looking out of open compartments, wide-eyed; others were blocking the walkway. The damn woman from earlier had been quick to alert them all.

But she had not been quick enough to escape.

Cloudia thrust people aside. Some tried to grab her, but she kicked them away. The woman flung the door at the carriage end open. Behind Cloudia, Lisa cursed and then she heard a scream and a shout. No time to turn and look. Cloudia shoved someone away, quickened her pace.

The woman set out to jump. Cloudia lunged and grabbed her jacket. They both tumbled down to the ground. The woman yelled out when she hit the metal platform. Cloudia pulled out the dagger and was about to stab the woman in the leg when someone pulled on hers.

Caught off-guard, Cloudia let out a gasp but quickly composed herself and pushed herself off the ground and around, kicking at her assailant. He let her go, and Cloudia jumped to her feet. Unlike the men from the last wagon, she could not tell if he was a Nanteuillat or not. He could be with Townsend or a passenger who could not mind his business, believing that Cloudia was the villain here. All she knew was that the man was a nuisance and that behind her the woman must have regained her composure as well.

No time, no time.

Cloudia rammed the hilt of the dagger into the man’s jaw before she whirled around. The woman had just jumped off the platform. Fleetly, Cloudia switched from dagger to gun, raised it, took aim. The woman landed on the next coach’s platform. Cloudia’s finger curled around the trigger, pushed down.

Then, Cloudia was thrown against the windowed wall. The bullet was sent flying elsewhere. Passengers screamed.

A man pinned her to the wall, a hand clasped around her neck.

Goddammit, Cloudia thought and immediately raised her gun; thankfully, she had held tight to it. Before she could pull the trigger and shoot the man’s leg, he slammed it out of her hand. He tightened his grip around her neck, and she gasped for air that wouldn’t pass to her lungs. Cloudia tried to kick him, but she was beginning to see stars, and the man, so much taller and stronger than her, pressed a knee against her stomach.

Damn, damn, damn, echoed it through her mind as her lungs burned and her vision blurred. And then she remembered something Oscar had told her years ago.

With another wheeze, Cloudia stopped struggling, closed her eyes, and went limp in the man’s arms.

A moment later, he let go of her throat. She did her best not to gasp for air immediately. She let her body sack sideways. Before the man noticed that Cloudia was still breathing, she heard a familiar “Countess!” ring through the air followed by a grunt.

Not pinned against the wall anymore, Cloudia sank to the ground and now she allowed herself to take deeper breaths. She re-opened her eyes and peered right into Cedric’s concerned ones.

“Chartreuse eyes,” Cloudia managed to press out, her voice hoarse. “Am I dead?”

“Don’t joke about that,” said Cedric and helped her to her feet. “Are you okay, Countess?”

She rubbed her neck. “Yes,” Cloudia replied. She glanced at the man sprawled on the floor, unconscious. “I hope you didn’t kill him, Undertaker.”

“I just hit him with a knife handle. Maybe I should have killed him,” Cedric said darkly.

Cloudia immediately snapped her head around to him; a poor choice because she briefly saw stars again, though she did not care at this moment. “Don’t you joke about that. You know you cannot kill anyone.”

He looked at her. “But…”

“No ‘buts’. No killing for you.” Cloudia bent down to pick up her gun and quickly checked it. At the edge of her vision, she noticed the passengers staring at them. “Lisa should still be here somewhere.”

“I haven’t seen her. I…” Cedric quietened. Cloudia raised an eyebrow in question, though he did not continue.

With a shrug, Cloudia stepped through the crowd that, now shocked and terrified by what they had witnessed, parted like jittery ghosts for her. The carriage wasn’t big, so it was not difficult to find Lisa. Breathing heavily, she stood in a compartment. She clutched a bloody needle in her hands; her hair was half-pulled from her braid, and blood bloomed across her side. Still, Lisa looked better than the man lying in front of her on the bench, glassy-eyed and stabbed to death. Behind Lisa, a woman was hugging her two children to her chest and whimpered.

“Lisa!” Cloudia called, and her maid turned to look at her. “I hate this goddamn train,” Lisa said before her face crumpled in pain.

“Miss Greene! You’re hurt; what happened?” Cedric asked when he joined them.

“I hate you too,” hissed Lisa and sank into the seat next to the petrified little family, pressing her hand against her wound. “What do you think happened, you genius? This asshole pulled me into this cabin and yanked at my hair and stabbed my side. And I stabbed him many more times in return,” she finished with a wince.

Cloudia stepped to her. “Let me look at that.”

Lisa shook her head. “I assume that woman managed to get away? You need to follow her immediately.”

“I will after I quickly fix you up.”

Lisa glared at her. “I can bandage myself up just fine, Lady Cloudia. You know that I have practice. I’m only annoyed that I’m now out of action. Please avenge me by going after that woman and Yvette and whoever else is on this damn train.”

“Very well,” said Cloudia with a sigh. “Do you have what you need?”

Lisa rolled her eyes and dug out a roll of bandages from her pocket. “Yes. Now leave with His Gracelessness before I actually bleed to death in this miserable place.”

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:05

The next wagon was mayhem too; only I barely registered any of it. As soon as I spotted Cloudia, my vision tunnelled and everything else went black, fell away. The passengers, the noise, even the coach itself.

The light only turned on again when I heard Cloudia’s laboured breaths.

After we found Miss Greene bloody and bleeding but alive and full of rage in a compartment, I slipped away, letting Cloudia argue with her alone. I glimpsed back at the carriage behind us and was stunned to see that it had cleared. Somehow, Milton had managed to coerce the passengers back into their cabins. He even seemed to have dragged the corpse elsewhere. Seeing the emptied, dirtied corridor, I could not help but feel bad that Milton had to move a dead body.

Even though he had not minded it at all to carry his dead employee.

I stumbled over that thought. Milton was standing on the side, and when he stepped away from the windows (what had he been doing?), our eyes met looking through the opened doors.

“Can’t you trust me for once?”

“Undertaker?”

Cloudia’s voice behind him made Cedric flinch. He quickly turned to face her, carefully obscuring her view to the door. She did not have to see that Milton was in the neighbouring wagon – at least not now as she would only get upset. Cloudia frowned at him. “Is everything fine?”

“Yes,” Cedric replied. “I was only looking around and didn’t notice you were done with Miss Greene.”

“I think saying that she is done with me is more fitting,” Cloudia said, sighing. “She insisted that I should go after that woman as she can very well fix herself up.”

“She can? That wound didn’t look good.”

“No worries; Lisa did that all the time before we met,” she told him and turned to jostle through the crowd. “Now, come. We do have to hurry and throttle some pests.”

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:15

Cloudia jumped first. Even before her feet touched the platform, she could hear the chaos in the wagon. She gritted her teeth together. That woman had turned out to be an absolute annoyance; she had even closed the door behind her. Cloudia went to the door and glanced through its small window but couldn’t spot her anywhere. With her hand on the handle, Cloudia craned her head to Cedric. He had still not jumped. Frowning, she watched him look back – did he look nervous or was she imagining it? – before he finally took a run-up and hopped from one carriage to the next.

“Is everything all right?” Cloudia asked. Cedric who was looking back to the previous wagon again snapped around to her.

“Yes, of course,” he said unconvincingly. “And you?” he added, his eyes drifting to her neck.

“Yes, perfectly,” Cloudia replied. She wanted to enquire further; only they had no time. Without another word, she pulled open the door and let them be engulfed with hysteria and hysterics.

A man thought it was the best moment to roll out his suitcase, blocking a good portion of the walkway. A couple started an argument with him about that. They pushed and pulled the suitcase, their faces red and their voices agitated. A mother tried to soothe her crying, screaming baby, and yelled at others around to calm down. A young man asked the other passengers what was going on, his voice becoming shriller and squeakier every time he asked. A moustached man tried squeezing through the crowd while holding a large, open bottle of water.

Pandemonium was a tin of confused and distraught passengers; Cloudia did not look forward to making her way through it.

“Please excuse us and let us through; this is an emergency,” Cloudia tried. However, when the majority neither budged nor listened, Cloudia decided to drop the courtesy and thrust people away left and right; Cedric was right behind her. She kicked the damn suitcase back into the cabin, kicked its owner for good measure, shooed away the jittery young man, and accidentally elbowed the moustached man’s face. He grabbed her jacket as he stumbled back, pulling her with him; water slopped out of his bottle. Cloudia tumbled back too but managed to find her footing back quickly.

Cloudia sighed in relief when she and Cedric finally reached the exit and could feel the fresh, cold air on their skin again. At least, there had been no incident in that wagon.

They lost no time getting to the next one. When Cloudia landed on the platform, her heart began to beat a bit faster. They entered the wagon, hurried through the passageway as best as they could. More and more electricity and excitement pulsed through Cloudia with every step she took, with every step that brought her farther and closer to the end of the coach.

One wagon.

Jacques and Yvette were only one wagon ahead of us now.

The tension, the anticipation, tried to pry her attention away, exchange it for tunnel vision and only make her focus ahead – in vain. Despite her excitement, Cloudia did not allow herself to let her attention drift away. She was hyperaware of everything – the passengers, the open and closed doors of the compartments, Cedric right behind her, assuring like a safety net – as she nudged people aside. Again, there were no incidents as Cloudia made her way forward to this wagon’s door.

And then to the next.

With a clack, Cloudia jumped on the platform five carriages ahead of the one where she had boarded the train. The platform of the wagon where Yvette and Jacques were. Cedric arrived right behind her.

I couldn’t wait to cut Yvette’s throat and get Jacques back. I was so close now but…

Cloudia put her hand on the door handle, dragged it open.

But…

A wave of foreboding hit Cloudia. She was just quick enough to turn to Cedric and grab him.

“Coun–” he began, the address torn in two when she yanked him to the stairs. Reacting swiftly, instinctively, he pulled her to him right as a bullet soared through the air.

Blood rushed through her ears. Cloudia’s hand reached for the dagger before she realised it. With cold terror did she notice its absence. It was not attached to her side anymore; she had no idea when she had lost it or where. Part of her wanted to cry but she pulled herself together and procured a knife instead. When another bullet followed the previous one, and a body followed the bullet through the door, Cloudia was there. Her knife was already raised, his gun still held low.

Cloudia slit the man’s throat.

And then the platform vibrated, and time slowed.

Again, Cedric called out to her. Again, the word was split apart.

One of Townsend’s people had been in the previous coach after all.

Another loud, panicked “Coun–” was shouted into the air when Cedric rushed between Cloudia and the new arrival…

… and trailed into nothingness when Cedric was thrown off the train.

***

June 23

About 11:30

“Cedric!”

She didn’t register the shout escaping her throat.

She was aware of nothing but the sight, the memory, the shock of seeing Cedric be shoved and – vanish.

All the rest was a blur. Cloudia was only pulled back into the now when she heard a loud clang.

She was panting, her grip iron-clad on the bloody knife. Something wet was running down the side of her head. She could not care less about that or the body on the small metal staircase. Her body forced her to put one hand on the bannister and go down the stairs to see and check.

The train was rattling through the landscape, endless fields of green and specks of houses and colour passing by.

But there was no grey, no black, no chartreuse.

Breathe in, breathe out. Deeply, steadily.

Collecting her strength, Cloudia went upstairs, ripped her hand from the railing. The rush had ebbed away, leaving her body full of ice. Fascination overcame her that she was not crumbling or breaking apart when she raised her hand to her throat, yanked the necklace free from beneath her clothes, cradled the pendant in her fist.

Undertaker, she sent to him, waited.

One second, two seconds.

A sharp inhale.

Undertaker, she tried again. Thoughts had no volume; still, she pressed as much force and insistence into that one word as she could.

One second, two seconds.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

There was no voice at the end of the line.

But as she concentrated, she could feel, faintly but surely, that there was an end of the line still.

That invisible thread, pulled taunt, vibrating like the heart beating in her chest.

As long as the pendants were intact, as long as the thread and its strangeness were running strong, she could find him.

And don’t be ridiculous, Cloudia thought to herself as she let the pendant vanish behind her clothes. She stepped away from the bannister while wiping the blood from her face.

I might not know what could kill Death and if it could be done at all.

Cloudia kicked the corpse from the stairs, though refrained from watching it go.

But it couldn’t be done like that.

I was certain of it.

The skull pendant was warm against her chest when she strode into the carriage.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:35

The skull pendant was warm against his chest, its heat coaxing him awake.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, wondered whether he was dreaming. His head hurt, his body felt sore and cold, the world around him spun…

… no, it ran past him, the train and its speed smearing all colours to a blur.

The train.

Cloudia.

Cedric heaved himself to his feet, reached out to the railing to steady himself.

The memories flowed back to me. I had followed Cloudia through the coaches until someone had shot at us and someone else had jumped from the previous wagon to ours. When he had charged at Cloudia, I had jumped between – only to get pushed off the platform.

If I hadn’t teleported at the last moment, I would lie in shambles a few kilometres back in the grass.

The thought made me shudder.

But where exactly was I now instead?

Cedric looked around, the wind tearing at his hair. At some point, his ponytail had come loose, and the band had flown away. He brushed some wayward strands from his face and adjusted his glasses.

He was still on the correct train; his impromptu teleport had not taken him elsewhere entirely, that he knew. Only, on which wagon was he right now? He had not landed at the very back at least (Cedric didn’t know how he could have explained himself that he was back there, in case Aurèle and Kamden decided to look out of their compartment at this very moment). If this was the fifth wagon from the back, it would be ideal. He could easily catch up with Cloudia then. He would not mind if it was the fourth wagon either.

Cloudia. Her name rang through my mind with such heaviness.

I knew she was fine; of course, she was. Nonetheless, the image from earlier clung to me, seeing her limp in that man’s arms.

Cedric reached to retrieve the pendant – and halted when he saw something odd from the corner of his eye: Something was attached to the carriage wall behind him.

He turned to figure out what it was and realised with horror that no, it was not something that clung to the train.

It was someone.

His heart dropped when he registered that he knew who it was.

“Milton!” Cedric cried out, just as Milton rammed through the window.

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:35

The annoying woman had been in this wagon too. This time, of course, not only she had alerted the passengers and beckoned them out of their cabins; the gunshots and the fight had as well. They had, however, also frozen the civilians with fear. Now, instead of wandering around, wondering, crying, arguing, they stood still in the corridor and doorsills, staring at her anxiously.

In the last few coaches, Cloudia might have welcomed the change, even if it had come at the price of such a horrific scare. Here, the sight only made cold tendrils curl up her spine.

After all, Yvette and Jacques were meant to be in this wagon.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:38

It took Cedric a moment until he could move again. His mind had momentarily blanked upon the sight of Milton vanishing in a shower of glass inside the wagon.

Now, his mind replayed the memory while Cedric hastily jumped to the carriage behind him. No matter how often it ran through his head, he could not understand why on earth this idiot would do something so absurdly reckless – hadn’t they left all doors open when they passed through the train?

And if the door had somehow closed in the meantime, couldn’t he have simply opened it again?

“I will keep myself safe,” my ass, Cedric thought as he landed on the platform, took the one, two steps to the door. Anger mixed with horror and worry. He could not wait to chew out Milton for his behaviour. But when he laid his hand on the door handle and pushed it down, it did not budge.

And when he looked up and through the door’s small, broken window, he froze again.

How could that be?

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:38

Cloudia hurried to search the compartments, one by one.

They were not here; they were not there.

And when she reached the last cabin, she tightened the grip on her blade, drew the door open…

… and gazed at people she had never seen before.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:39

The scene in front of him was nothing if not surreal.

In bafflement, in puzzlement, Cedric watched everything unfold; his brain tried its best to comprehend the strange sequence that played before him.

Yvette was backing away, inching closer to the door behind which Cedric stood. He could not see her face; still, he knew that she must be looking terrified. After all, he could see the tension in her body.

And the horrifying look on Milton’s face as he charged at her, knife in hand.

His oddly calm expression. The bloodcurdling blank fury in his eyes.

Blink; Milton turned the knife in his hand. Cedric hadn’t even registered that he had been holding it oddly, had been grasping its blade before.

Blink; the space between them was conquered.

Blink; the knife was raised.

Blink – and Milton was pulled back.

The moment was broken, the tense seconds shattered as Newman grabbed Milton’s arm and yanked him back.

Yvette, unhurt, stumbled back, and lost something in her haste to get away.

It tumbled out of her pocket, that rectangular little object, and rolled right to Milton’s feet.

Cedric inhaled sharply when he saw Milton snatch it and the look in his eyes shift.

Milton might be standing on the other end of the walkway. Still, Cedric could make out his expression as clear as day.

It was a familiar one, after all. One he had got to know only days before.

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:39

I cursed under my breath.

I had not excluded the possibility, of course, that Yvette or Townsend or Maxime might move between the wagons too. I had only anticipated that the probability would be rather small as they would have to jump with hostages in tow, one of which was little Jacques.

But with all that commotion, they must have seen no other way.

They could only hope for their own sakes’ that they had not decided to simply discard Jacques on the way.

Cloudia stepped away from the cabin and briefly glanced back before she opened the door and jumped to the carriage ahead.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 11:40

“I wondered if it were you. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Baron Salisbury,” said Yvette and straightened up. Cedric could hear the smile in her voice. He would have broken open the lock, bolted through the door, and torn it right off her face if Maxime hadn’t come out of a cabin at that moment, a blade pressed against Jacques’ throat. He was followed by a man Cedric didn’t know who levelled a pistol at Milton and Newman.

Damn, damn, damn.

Yvette, Jacques, and Maxime were here, in a completely different coach than we had anticipated. Cloudia was ahead, trying to find them. Newman and Milton were with them – and my hands were bound.

If I made myself noticed, at best, Maxime and Yvette would threaten to cut Jacques’ throat if I did not stay back. At worst, they might kill him immediately, the suddenness of me breaking the door or whatnot possibly spooking them enough to draw the knife across his neck.

I could not even teleport myself behind Yvette, Maxime, and the gunman and knock them out in secret because of Milton and Newman.

I had to find another way, another opportunity, to get inside. For now, all I could do was turn myself invisible, in case Yvette, the gunman, or Maxime spotted me through the window, and listen to their conversation with my teeth clenched.

Goddammit, Milton; couldn’t you have a better poker face?

“Townsend told me about your company,” Yvette continued, delight dripping into her voice. “How Salisbury Trading, already successful, thrived with you as its head, Mylord, and established itself as one of the quickest transportation companies that exists, if not as the quickest one. And how secretive you are. However, Townsend still managed to take a glimpse at some machine blueprints while he ‘worked’ for you. His father used to work on machines in a factory and told him a lot about his job, did you know that? Townsend himself was never adept with technology; nevertheless, he knew from the moment he saw those blueprints that they were unlike anything he had seen before.

“When he told me all that, all I could think was what a waste it is to hide machinery like that. You could become richer than you already are; you could become more known than you already are. Instead, you keep everything away and yourself too. Not a singular picture of you in any newspaper! There was only some hearsay about golden hair.” The delight in Yvette’s voice darkened to something bitter. “You could have everything, but you hide yourself because of ‘humbleness.’ I could laugh! Selfishness is all that is. I even viewed you as tyrannical for withholding those blueprints and the people behind them. At the same time, I could not help but wonder if Salisbury Trading’s prodigious accomplishments are truly coming from its employees or actually from its elusive director.”

Yvette made a step towards Milton. Cedric tensed when she reached into her pocket, but she only procured a pair of handcuffs, not a weapon. He still did not like it at all what Yvette must want with it.

“Mylord,” Yvette said, boasting with confidence. “I have a proposal for you. I will hand over Jacques to your companion. In exchange, you will remove your weaponry, return the Queen’s box to me, put on these handcuffs” – she lifted them – “and come with me, Maxime, and Stevens with no protest. We would also lock Jacques and your companion in one of the cabins. It’s not long until Paris anymore. When we arrive, I’m sure Miss Watchdog or someone else in her entourage will free Jacques and your companion. By that time, we will be long gone and traversing the city until we find a nice, quiet place for you to open the box. Of course, if you refuse, Maxime will slit Jacques’ throat.” On cue, Maxime tightened his grip on the boy, and Jacques whimpered. Cedric clenched his jaw. “And if your friend there tries anything, Stevens will, of course, shoot you both.”

Yvette held the handcuffs out to Milton. “What do you say, Mylord?”

“Do you not have the Clockmaker in your grip? Why would you require another to solve the box?”

To everyone’s surprise, it was not Milton who responded but Newman. Cedric sucked in the air when he heard his friend’s voice and wished he had a better view of him and Milton. Yvette, Maxime, Jacques, and Stevens the gunman were in the way, and Cedric could only vaguely make out that Milton turned to Newman. Cedric pictured him looking aghast and was sure that Milton must be saying something in protest to Newman, though he could not hear it.

“Of course, we have that disagreeable Clockmaker in our grip,” replied Yvette. For once, Cedric was happy that Florentin was like he was; he must have made the journey to Creil rather unenjoyable for Yvette and Townsend.

He should not have let himself be taken though. Even if they had held Jacques hostage.

“I simply like having options,” Yvette continued. “And as you can see, the box is a unique oddity – just like the Baron’s machinery. The Clockmaker seems to work with the old, the Baron with the new. Between the two, they should be able to open the puzzle box. Now, what do you say, Baron Salisbury?”

“Yes, of course,” Milton said with shocking immediacy.

“Baron Milton,” gasped Newman in a mirror of Cedric’s thoughts.

“What other decision is there for me to make, Mr Newman?” Milton said before he addressed Yvette. “I will put on the handcuffs, and then you will hand over Jacques at the same time as Mr Newman will surrender me and the box to you.”

“And then, you will remain with Maxime until Jacques and Mr Newman have let themselves be locked up,” added Yvette.

“Exactly.”

“Lord Milton, don’t!” cried Jacques. Maxime tightened his grip on him anew, and he whimpered again. Cedric could hear the tears in his voice as Jacques still strained to continue, “You can’t let them have the box! It doesn’t matter what happens to me!”

“Don’t say something like that, Jacques,” Milton replied softly. “This is just a box, and what kind of queen would place a keepsake above the life of a child?” Yvette shifted a bit to the side, allowing Cedric to see Milton pass the knife he had still been holding in his left hand to Newman. Only then did Cedric notice its familiar glint.

How did Cloudia’s father’s dagger end up with Milton?

Milton proceeded to remove his odd utility belt and gave it to Newman too. Just when he took the handcuffs, Jacques cried out again. “They won’t let you go, Lord Milton! No matter if you cannot open it or if you can!”

“That is fine,” Milton said with an odd voice. The handcuffs clicked loudly into their locks when he bound himself. “There is nothing they can do to me that is new.”

With that, Milton stepped forward. “The box for the boy, me for their survival.”

“Yes, of course, Mylord.” Yvette beckoned Maxime to her. He dragged Jacques forward, keeping the knife pressed to his neck, until they were standing next to Milton in this narrow space. Newman was behind Milton, Yvette stood behind Maxime, and Stevens remained where he was and pointed his weapon at Milton.

“Lord Milton,” sobbed Jacques.

“Do not be afraid and go to Mr Newman as fast as you can when you’re released,” Milton replied and held the box out to Yvette. Now that Milton was closer, Cedric could see the serene expression on his face better and the engravings on the box. “Miss Guilloux?”

“Flattered that you know my name, Baron Salisbury,” said Yvette and grabbed the black box in his hand, though she only lifted it from his palm the moment Maxime let the knife sink.

Then, everything happened in short succession.

Maxime nudged Jacques to Newman. Newman pulled the boy behind himself. Yvette took Milton’s arm, dragged him to her.

With a glance over her head, Milton turned and rammed his shoulder into Yvette, thrusting her back into Stevens.

A bullet was released. A scream was heard.

Stevens was pressed against the door. Cedric broke the lock and threw the door open.

Stevens stumbled backwards. Although he didn’t fall through the open door, Cedric was still there to catch him and yank him to the side. He fought against the itch to shove him down the stairs and dodged when Stevens fired at him, the bullet flying half-heartedly past his leg.

Cedric hastened to take the pistol away from him but was suddenly overpowered and pushed too. For a moment, his stomach fluttered as he feared to be kicked off the train again. Instead, his back hit the cold metal railing, the bars digging into his clothes. He clenched his teeth, and when Stevens raised the gun to his head, Cedric slapped it away, sent it flying into the landscape.

Cedric had just taken hold of Stevens’ wrist and twisted it until it broke – a body injured was no life taken after all – when he noticed someone rushing past them, escaping to the next wagon.

Yvette.

Cedric’s curses mixed with Stevens’ wails of pain. He punched him in the face, knocking him out, before he turned, ready to follow her. But she had already vanished in the carriage, making her way through it – and getting closer to Cloudia.

Go, Cloudia! Get her!

With a smile, Cedric dropped the unconscious man on the platform and quickly checked if this had not accidentally killed him and cost him his job and existence before he hurried inside. Adrenaline and worry pumped through him. There had been a gunshot, and he had no idea if the bullet had hit anything, anyone, and Maxime had been right behind Milton with a knife too.

The instant Cedric stepped into the wagon, he realised that his worry had been unfounded. Newman stood protectively before a shaky Jacques, and Milton stood above an unconscious Maxime. He was still handcuffed and although he was a bit dishevelled, Milton seemed perfectly fine when he turned to Cedric and said, “Kristopher! Are you all right?”

Cedric pressed his lips into a grim line and grabbed Milton by the shoulders. “What are you doing, you idiot!” he yelled and shook Milton. “I saw you climb around outside a moving train! Break through a window! Pawn yourself off and take a gamble tackling someone with a gun! What happened to keeping yourself safe?!”

He stopped shaking Milton and took a deep breath. Every conversation he had had with Anaïs and Aurèle about faeries, death, and Milton returned to him now. The possibility that Milton might be on the verge of death, his candle about to be blown out, the “complete” stamp pressed to his Dispatch file. A possibility that was both strengthened by all the nonsense Milton had done and weakened because he was still alive.

And in it all, all I could think of was Cloudia’s reaction to everything – his carelessness, his potential death.

When Cedric looked up at Milton, remorse was written all over Milton’s face. “I’m sorry, Kristopher. I didn’t mean to worry or upset you. I wouldn’t have done any of that if I hadn’t known I would be fine.”

“Have you gone mad? How on earth would you have known…” began Cedric but was cut off by Jacques wailing and hugging Milton from behind.

“Lord Milton! I’m so sorry!” he pressed out between sobs. “You got hurt because of me!” Abruptly, Jacques shrieked and jumped back. “Oh no! I got carried away! I’m so sorry, did I hurt you? Maxime stabbed you in the back after all… And the bullet must have hit you too…”

Cedric’s eyes widened. “What?” it slipped out of his mouth. “Why didn’t anyone say anything before I shook him like a rattle?” He swiftly turned Milton around to inspect the wound.

Only to find nothing. Solely his jacket was a bit chafed.

“I said I’m okay,” said Milton. Cedric could have sworn he sounded embarrassed. “I was stabbed, yes, but I am fine.”

Milton turned around, and Cedric stared at him. “The jacket,” Cedric said, dumbfounded. “I wondered why you chose to wear a suit jacket of all things for the journey. I thought you were maybe being a bit silly or forgot to pack enough practical stuff but that’s protective clothing?”

Milton smiled sheepishly. “A prototype. The test run has gone well, I suppose.”

“The test run? You chose to do a test run on a prototype now?”

“Well, it’s not the first test run…”

“And that should pacify me?!”

“… just the first one with the new amendments. It’s good to know it works well for stabs and cuts and if you’re grazed by a bullet. If I had been hit with it, the jacket wouldn’t have done anything; it’s not that far yet…”

Cedric ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “You have gone mad, most certainly. A test run! Don’t use an actual criminal hunt as a test run! And why would you even need to trial protective clothing in the first place?!”

“Your Grace,” said Newman and stepped forward. “Please calm down. Excessive shouting is detrimental to your health, and you are spooking young Mr Beauchene.” Cedric opened his mouth to protest only to close it again. Newman nodded at him before he turned to Milton. He gently lifted Milton’s hands, rattling the handcuffs. “This was a particularly reckless endeavour, Mylord,” Newman stated and rummaged in his pocket. “In my life, I have only observed my dear mistress acting in such a manner, equal parts brave and imprudent.” He procured a skeleton key and began to try opening the handcuffs.

“I am sorry, Mr Newman,” Milton said quietly, sounding oddly young. “Are you fine? Have you got hurt?”

“Not at all, Mylord. I apologise; I was unable to thank you before for endangering yourself for my sake.”

“You do not have to thank me for that, Mr Newman.” Milton’s voice was almost a whisper.

Confused, Cedric looked between the two. “What happened?”

“Baron Milton broke through the window because I failed to secure my back, and the door was jammed,” explained Newman. “You even suffered an injury for my sake; I deeply apologise for that.” He took the now-open handcuffs from Milton’s wrists. However, when he tried to turn Milton’s bloody left hand for inspection, Milton hastily pulled it back.

“It is only a shallow cut,” Milton insisted. “The blood crusted already. I am fine. And you really don’t need to apologise to me or thank me, or please, least of all, don’t feel guilty, Mr Newman. It was my own choice and doing. Now, could you give me the handcuffs?”

Wordlessly, Newman handed them over alongside the utility belt; the dagger he kept. Milton took the items, put on his belt, and knelt to Maxime. Cedric had completely forgotten that they were standing around his fainted body. He glanced around a bit then and discovered another body unconscious on the ground on the other end of the walkway; Newman’s large frame had hidden it from view before. Some passengers peeked out of their compartments, and Cedric recognised the agitated couple and the moustached man from before. That explained why a portion of the ground was wet.

Milton quickly let the handcuffs snap around Maxime’s wrists and stood up again. He shrugged off his suit jacket and placed it over Jacques’ shoulders. The boy’s eyes, red and poufy from crying, widened; his glasses made them appear even larger. “But, Lord Milton! I can’t take this!”

“Of course, you can,” said Milton gently. “It will help to keep you safe until we have all returned to the château. I will be fine without it too.” He smiled at Jacques. “Mr Newman? Would you be so kind and deliver Jacques to his brother or simply remain here until we have arrived in Paris?”

Newman bowed his head. Milton went to the windowed side of the corridor, stretched, and did something Cedric could not see that culminated in a flap clicking open and a row of short ropes falling out. “And if the right time comes, could you pull on these ropes?” said Milton to Newman. “Please pass this information on to the passengers here, thanks.”

With that, Milton strode to the door. Cedric, seeing red and realising that he was gradually losing his patience with him, shot out his arm and grabbed Milton’s. “I don’t think you should continue after the stunts you have just pulled and after Yvette found out that you could open the box. It’s best if you stay very far away from Yvette and Townsend, Milton.”

“I told you that I have to go on, Kristopher,” replied Milton adamantly. “There is no reason to repeat that argument; I will not budge. Regarding the box…” He was quiet for a moment. “They aren’t even sure if I can open it. And they only nearly had me because I freely handed myself over. I’ve never been kidnapped before.”

“This might be the worst situation for firsts, Milton.”

“It won’t happen.”

“Unless you’re clairvoyant, I doubt you can know for sure.” Cedric sighed. “You’re giving me a headache, Milton.”

“I’m sorry. We do have no time to argue though. It’s not long until we arrive in Paris now.”

Cedric sighed anew and glanced at Newman. “Please take care of Jacques, Al. It seems I need to take this one here through the train.”

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:41

Commotion, commotion, commotion.

The next wagon was a chaotic wreck too. Cloudia was tired of jostling her way through the masses and narrow corridors. Thus, when she finally spotted the woman who had caused all that, Cloudia wished she still had the dagger and didn’t have to cut her throat with an ordinary knife.

At least, when the woman spotted her, she turned in panic and tried to run – only to be held back by passengers.

She just reached the door when Cloudia slammed her against it, holding the cold blade against her neck. “Interesting, isn’t it? How things can turn out to be,” whispered Cloudia into her ear, first in French, then in English for good measure, before she slid the knife across her throat like a violinist drew a bow along the strings of their instrument. Instead of a melody, her action only coaxed gasps and screams out of the passengers who tried to pry her off the woman.

“Murderer, murderer, murderer,” they called her. Cloudia simply yanked herself free from their grips and wiped the knife on her clothes. Again, there was no sight of Yvette and Jacques. She wondered about them as she moved on to the next wagon, the last one before the locomotive.

***

~Cedric~

June 23

About 12:00

“Are you done here, Milton?” Cedric asked. Since they had left Jacques and Newman behind, they had managed to cross a wagon and were about to jump to their third. After that, there was only one carriage left between them and the locomotive which meant they had nearly caught up with Cloudia.

“Yes,” said Milton and stepped away from the windowed wall. Yet again, it was lined with the short ropes; this time, Cedric had managed to glimpse Milton plunging an odd, bi-coloured key into a small hole and turning it though.

Milton glanced at the passengers, and Cedric sighed. They had had to forgo easing the civilians back into their compartments in the last coach which had visibly pained Milton even if he understood.

“Milton, we don’t have much time. If we don’t catch them before the train enters the station, they will run off wherever,” Cedric reminded him.

Milton nodded, looking a bit absentminded. “Yes. Give me a moment, Kristopher,” he said and turned to some of the passengers to say something to them in French. He had done that in the previous wagon too, had done that throughout the entire train. Cedric had initially thought he was simply reassuring them that everything would be fine; now, he knew better.

“And if the right time comes, could you pull on these ropes?” Milton had told Newman. Cedric knew next to nothing about trains; before he met Cloudia, he had barely ridden on them before. There had not been any trains yet before he became a Grim Reaper, only wagonways. Afterwards, there had been little need for Cedric to take a train as he could transport himself wherever he liked on his own. Still, whatever Milton was doing unnerved Cedric, and he searched his memory, in vain, if he had ever seen such ropes in trains before.

Cedric wanted to ask. His body itched with the question; nevertheless, he kept his mouth closed. Something told him that Milton would either avoid answering if needed, or fall into rambling and mumbling, and Cedric really had no time to pry a proper answer from him.

“I’m done,” announced Milton and gave him a little smile.

This little gesture, so innocent and normal, paired with his earlier thoughts sent an unexpected shudder down Cedric’s spine. He had never wanted to admit it before, not to Cecelia, not even to himself. Only, with all the events of the last ten hours, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the indescribable unease that made its home within him whenever he was with Milton and write it off as mere jealousy.

***

~Cloudia~

June 23

About 11:46

Her heart beat faster when she arrived in the last coach before the locomotive.

Townsend and the others had to be here, or in the cab after all.

This wagon, unlike the previous ones, was quiet. No one stood in the passageways, wide-eyed and panicked and wondering what was going on. While Cloudia had only seen one very shoddy daguerreotype of Townsend, she could easily pick Yvette and Jacques out in a crowd. She was also confident that she could identify Florentin. The striking colour of his eyes might be dampened by his glasses, but Cedric had described them with as great care as he could.

It would be so easy to open each compartment until she found Townsend or Yvette so that she could drag them out and beat them up. It would be greatly satisfactory, though would certainly lead to yet another commotion, and Cloudia had no way of telling whether some of Townsend’s companions were here too. They might have decided for Townsend and Florentin to board alone so as not to deviate any attention to them, or for many others to board with him as to keep them safer.

However, if she stood here and waited for them to arrive in Paris, the civilians would file out of the cabins too, making it difficult to locate and reach Townsend and Florentin, Yvette and Jacques.

Cloudia clenched her teeth and turned the knife in her hand.

Beating them up would not do. She was not a barbarian but a lady after all. A clean cut would suffice, or a well-placed stab through ribs or guts.

And because Yvette must be here already, Townsend must be awaiting Cloudia. A commotion was inevitable anyway.

Cloudia was about to open the first cabin door when she saw a movement from the corner of her eye and whirled around to see.

A man had stepped onto the platform of the locomotive. He wore practical but pristine clothes, from what she could tell from afar. An easy smile decorated his face, and the midday sun kissed his gold-blond hair as he waved at her. Cloudia frowned; she had thought he had darker hair.

“Yvette Guilloux told me all about you,” said Nicodemus Townsend so loudly that his words were still clear across the howling wind and through the closed carriage door. “Miss Watchdog.”

Cloudia tightened her grip on her weapon but did not move. Every fibre of her screamed trap, the scream vibrating through her body with each heartbeat.

Thus, when a compartment door ahead opened and a gunman stepped out, she was ready. Charging forward, knife raised before he could even aim. Cloudia had intended to pierce his chest, but he had moved away at the last moment, and she cut his side instead.

He yelled out and fired, unwavering. Cloudia dodged, her heart racing and adrenaline singing through her veins. Blood dripped from Cloudia’s blade to the floor, splattered a bit through the air as she lunged again. The man blocked her knife with the pistol, thrust her back a bit. She stumbled back a step but quickly found her footing again and sent the knife flying. The gunman stepped aside, the blade grazing his cheek and lodging in the cabin door behind. Cloudia used this small window in which he was surprised, distracted, to procure one of the knives she had taken from the first assailant, the one who had shot at them and set the ball rolling.

She charged ahead. And when the man raised his gun, she stabbed him through the hand before he could pull the trigger. Cloudia ripped out the knife, coaxing a cry out of him. His body staggered back just as another rammed into her from behind.

The air was knocked out of Cloudia’s lungs. Before she could recover, strong arms took hold of her and crushed her against the ground. The wagon shook from the impact. Pain blossomed across her chest, even with the corset partially absorbing the shock. The knife clattered out of her hands, and she could hear it being kicked away.

Cloudia strained against the grip. Her attacker held on tight, holding her hands and keeping a leg pressed against her back.

“I would refrain from doing anything rash,” Townsend said, entering the wagon. He must have jumped when Cloudia was attacked from behind. He smiled again; up close, she could see it was a politician’s smile, wide and pretty but it did not quite reach his eyes. “You would not want anything to happen to the poor, innocent passengers on this train, do you?”

The gunman scowled at Cloudia, holding his injured side with his injured hand. He now held his pistol with his left hand, not with his right one, and waved it towards the row of compartment doors before levelling it at her head. Cloudia gritted her teeth together.

“I knew the Queen would send her rumoured Watchdog after me, of course,” Townsend continued. “Never in a million years, I anticipated that it would be a woman, and was stunned to hear Miss Guilloux’s report from Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Who would have thought! The underworld’s watchdog, a woman! Such a beautiful one too. An unheard thing, but then, we are undergoing times of change, times of revolution.” His smile widened; it made Cloudia’s blood boil. “Revolution brought us two together too, and I will bring revolution to the kingdom.” Swiftly, Townsend retrieved a box from his jacket. Cloudia stiffened momentarily at the sight.

The Queen’s box. Glossy black, engraved with eerie furrows that stretched across it. The object for which Cloudia had taken this long, long journey. And now, it was right before her, in the enemy’s hand.

“Oh, an object of legends! I still cannot fathom that I could behold it with my eyes, let alone with my hands.” Townsend turned the black box in his hand and his eyes lit up. “Two myths, two rumours in one train wagon. The Queen’s puzzle box containing something of national importance, and Her Majesty’s Watchdog. What a marvellous day it is, don’t you agree, Miss Watchdog?” He tilted his head. “Calling you exclusively ‘Miss Watchdog’ like unrefined French village girls do is rather rude, is it not? You know my name; am I not entitled to know yours too?”

“It’s hilarious that you care not to be perceived as rude as if one of your men wasn’t pressing me against the ground and another wasn’t pointing a gun at me,” returned Cloudia.

Townsend laughed. “The woman talks, how lovely! And it’s all very well for you to talk too. Have you not come to me with the objective of vicious murder?

“You will not believe it, but I do not blame you for that. You are merely a victim of the system, after all. Though not for long when the Clockmaker opens the box for me.” Townsend sighed. “All that could have been avoided if they had not kept rejecting our petitions. It is not our fault that we were driven to take such drastic measures.

“What did we demand? Secret ballots, that all men above twenty-one should be able to vote, that everyone should be able to become a member of the parliament, frequent changes of parliament, equal electoral districts, and payments for members of parliament! They even rejected the last point. We have done our best to make ourselves be heard peacefully. See? Our demands were not even outlandish; we did not want to see Queen Victoria dethroned and beheaded. We only wanted to be heard.” A grin spread across his face, and he gently ran his hand over the box. “And heard we will be.” He pocketed the box and put his arms behind him. “Do not worry, Miss Watchdog. We do not wish any harm; we only want things to be better.”

“Yes, and for that, you kill innocent workers and villagers,” said Cloudia bitterly.

“They died for a higher cause. If you killed me now and took the box from me, wouldn’t their sacrifices have been in vain? This, my dear, is true villainy.”

Cloudia heard the clack of someone landing on the metal platform and cursed under her breath when it was not immediately followed by a shout or a gunshot or anything. Where was Cedric?

“Oh, my, there we meet again, Miss Watchdog,” Yvette said as she squeezed around Cloudia to stand before her.

“Where is Jacques?” Cloudia demanded to know.

“Ah, did you assume I fled to the front? I took little Jacques with me and went towards the back of the train after Maxime noticed you in the train station. It was a pain to make Jacques jump; thankfully, Maxime was with us too.

“Your friends are just as obnoxious as you are, do you know that? They got Jacques back, and if it had not been for Maxime, they would have caught me.” Yvette bent down to Cloudia and grinned. “All the more satisfying to see you caught.”

Yvette stood up again. “A few minutes until Paris now. They will crawl out from everywhere to chase us then; we need to be vigilant and escape on time.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Townsend. “Let’s head to the locomotive, Miss Guilloux,” he continued and something about the way he said that and Yvette’s smile in response bothered Cloudia. Yvette jumped first, and Townsend waved at Cloudia again before he followed her.

His henchmen, of course, stayed behind.

Cloudia was beginning to feel sore in this position. She knew she would be covered in bruises despite Wilbur’s special corset.

“Do you think Townsend would mind it if we blew holes into her pretty head?” enquired the gunman and bent down to press the barrel against Cloudia’s head. “It’s not as if he has any use for her, right?”

“A waste of such a pretty thing,” replied the man holding her down. “But she is only trouble. It’s better if she’s dead.”

The gunman grinned and moved the pistol down to her side. “Dirty girl stabbed me in the side; maybe, I should return the favour in the same area,” he mused.

Now that the gun was away from her head, Cloudia was about to try freeing herself, driven by the need to knock out his teeth, when she heard a godly, lovely clack.

The gunman yelled out in agony, his pistol flying out of his hand, just as the other man was pulled off her. Cloudia jumped to her feet, glimpsed Milton ahead of her by the end of the wagon, and fleetly rammed her knee into the gunman’s face. He was knocked out instantaneously, and she was maybe a bit too giddy to see that he had indeed lost a tooth or two.

Cloudia then looked around and saw Cedric uppercutting the other man into unconsciousness. She smiled watching him hastily check his pulse and place him on the ground with a sigh. She wanted to speak to him, to him and Milton both, but there was no time for that yet.

Unholstering her gun, Cloudia ran along the walkway to the front.

She was about to jump – and staggered back right before.

Townsend and Yvette had decoupled the locomotive from the rest of the train.

Yvette stood in the cab, happily waving at Cloudia as the gap between them widened.

Taking a deep breath, Cloudia took a run-up, bracing herself to make a longer jump than she had to do before when, suddenly, an arm was slung around her waist, pulling her back into the carriage. She yelled out, protested. The door was kicked shut. A terrible sound rang through the train. Milton shouted, “Kristopher! Pull on the ropes!”

Everything rattled and tilted – the wagon, the ground, Cloudia herself. If she had not been held, she might have fallen. The wheels shrieked like banshees, piercing her ears, echoing terribly through her skull.

And then the train came to a halt.

Right before an explosion sounded in the distance.

***

June 23

About 12:07

What on earth? Cloudia thought breathlessly as her mind and body slowly adjusted to the world calming down.

The hand on her waist was pulled away. In her periphery, Cloudia noticed Milton gazing through the door’s window. Her ears were still ringing from that hellish sound and the shrill wheels. Cedric appeared next to her. He said something that she could not make out. A brief wave of dizziness washed over her. Nonetheless, Cloudia forced herself to stumble to the window too and see for herself.

Their wagon and the rest of the train were standing still. The locomotive was several metres ahead of them and giving off unusual amounts of smoke.

What on earth? Cloudia thought anew and rubbed her ears awake.

“Are you all right, Countess?” she finally heard Cedric say. This time, she knew to nod. Passengers came out of the cabins, their voices hammers that punched against her bruised ears.

Someone emerged from the cloud of smoke outside too, running away.

“Countess?” said Cedric behind her just as she kicked open the wagon door, jumped out, and ran.

***

London, England, United Kingdom – May 1843

~Cloudia~

After the tense conversation in her father’s office, Barrington had insisted that he would remain in the Phantomhive townhouse. Cloudia did not exactly mind having him around even if he could be a handful; only the circumstances and the length of his stay made her stomach churn.

Barrington was rooting himself in her townhouse to keep an eye on Oscar, and he would only dislodge when Oscar was gone again. This did not refer to Oscar eventually passing away (Barrington would have preferred if it did, particularly if Oscar died in the foreseeable future; Cloudia would rather kill them both than live with them for decades) but to Oscar’s moving date. The Queen had provided him with a secret house because Oscar could not stay with Cloudia forever after all.

Cloudia might need to watch over him, but his constant presence in her homes would prevent her from receiving visitors and fulfilling any of her societal duties. In the brief time Cloudia had known Oscar, she was rather sure she could tell him to stay in a room with an adjourning bathroom and not come out, and he would obey with no protest or difficulty. He would likely survive being locked up like that. It felt horrendous though, to retrieve Oscar from a cell and throw him in another. His movements were limited now already, restricting them even more to a single room seemed too much.

But then, as Barrington had drilled into her, Oscar was a serial murderer who did not deserve anything at all.

The day had stretched itself long and thin due to all the hostility Barrington had brought with him. They had taken lunch all together; throughout it, Barrington had been on the verge of cutting Oscar’s throat with a steak knife. For dinner, Cloudia had simply sent Oscar to eat alone in his room.

Now, although Cloudia had done nothing all day as she was still recovering from her last attack, she was exhausted. When they had all retreated to bed for the night, Cloudia had been surprised that Barrington had not insisted on chaining himself to Oscar (with a chain long enough that they did not have to sleep in the same room, of course).

The Queen had said the house would be ready after a probation period of a month for Oscar. If this was what the first day of living with him and Barrington was like, I wished I could hibernate for the next few weeks. Perhaps, I could temporarily move in with Kamden.

Right after Cloudia finished a chapter of her book, Oscar knocked softly on her door before letting himself in. “You looked like you wanted to talk to me all day,” he explained. “I hope it is not too late.”

“No, I don’t think I could have fallen asleep with all these questions on my mind,” Cloudia said and put her book on the bedside cabinet. “You can sit down by the desk or vanity if you like.”

Oscar shook his head. “I prefer to keep standing. What do you want to know after you spoke to Weaselton?”

“Did you ever do anything personal to Barrington? He hates you so much; it makes me wonder whether you spit into his tea once.”

“No, not at all,” Oscar replied and went to stand by the window. The drapes had been pulled across it, blocking out the world beyond. “Weaselton has always disliked me for the same reasons as everyone else does. It’s unsurprising that this dislike intensified into hate. I did murder plenty of people after all, though I never spit into anyone’s tea, no matter how annoying they were. Trudy’s best friend tended to be rather bothersome, and my old partner knew very little about personal space. I have become quite accustomed to this type of person because of them. I suppose I did not mind Simon’s company because he was the opposite.”

“I see.” Cloudia dug her fingers into her blanket. “Barrington does not trust you.”

“This is very obvious to everyone, yes.”

“His distrust is not baseless though.”

“Of course. Now you are asking yourself if you can trust me?”

“Yes,” said Cloudia firmly.

Oscar leaned against the windowsill and crossed his arms. “This is something you have to decide for yourself,” he said. “I cannot make you trust me. Any plea of mine will fall on deaf ears if even a part of you simply does not want to place any confidence in me. I have no desire to make any plea though; I do not care if you believe in me or not.

“However, I remind you that this current situation is of your own doing. You do not need to trust me for us to work together, but you must figure out if the distrust you harbour for me impedes our cooperation and makes you lose confidence in your own choice. I can only say that I have neither any desire nor incentive to betray you.”

“And do you have no desire to kill anyone too?” Cloudia enquired Her heart raced at the question.

“I have no desire to kill anyone unless I must.”

“Really? Was it like that with your victims too?”

Oscar looked blankly at her. “Yes,” he said, making her shiver. “I hope you are well aware that I cannot impart any details of my crime to you.”

“Yes, of course.” Cloudia hesitated before she asked, “Do you think you must kill the person that opened your basement door?”

Oscar did not flinch, did not stiffen; he only became very, very still, and it was more than enough of a sign that Cloudia had caught him off-guard. She could not believe she had managed to do that. The implication of it, however, prevented her from rejoicing internally. She only tightened her grip on the blanket, her blood running cold.

“No,” Oscar said ultimately. “I have never had the desire or even the thought to kill or harm that person.”

Cloudia blinked at him. “Truly? Barrington was certain that you plotted to take revenge since you were imprisoned and would now wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.”

“Weaselton has nothing but a lively imagination. As I said, killing that person has never crossed my thoughts and it never will.” Oscar looked at her. “You do not need to worry about the wellbeing of a person you do not know and likely never will. If you do not take my word for this, I’m afraid I can only offer Rowan’s as well.” Like the last time, he had mentioned the police commissioner, a shadow crossed Oscar’s face. “There are not many who know about that person’s identity and know that I would not do what Weaselton is theorising.”

“Only Rowan? Not Mayne too?” Cloudia wanted to know.

“Yes. They may be joint police commissioners, but Rowan has always handled everything connected to me. Although Mayne surely knows some things about my crimes and imprisonment, the details are only privy to Rowan within the Metropolitan Police.”

“I’ve been wondering,” said Cloudia, “why you don’t seem to like Rowan. Not because I believe he is someone so pleasant it would be shocking if someone did not like him but because I know you have known him since your military days. He recruited you to Scotland Yard too. I assumed you, at least, tolerated each other until your imprisonment and was surprised to notice that you cannot even say his name without looking like you’re about to vomit.”

“Well observed,” Oscar said dryly. “You are right. I’ve known Rowan since I was fifteen years old because we were both part of the 52nd Oxfordshire Regiment of Foot. At first, he was the regiment’s second-in-command, and he became my commanding officer when we were sent to Ireland years later. As such, Rowan became one of the few people I ever told about Trudy as I had to ask him for permission to get married. I wish we had delayed our wedding a little because he retired from the military not long afterwards. Things might have turned out very differently if Rowan had never known about Trudy, and Trudy had never known about him.”

“What… what do you mean?”

Oscar’s eyes darkened. “We have spoken about trust. Harm lies in both baseless distrust and misplaced faith. I told you what Trudy was like. She was the most wonderful, intelligent person with a heart full of trust, though she never gave away her trust freely. However, because Rowan was the person who had, in her words, ‘looked after me’ since I was a teen and I had no family left, she reached out to him to give him a chance. He attended our wedding; he knew about my children.”

Even though Oscar grew quiet, Cloudia could see that he could barely restrain his feelings. She might not have known him for too long but, to her, Oscar was someone who was mostly calm and collected; someone who did their utmost to conceal their emotions, or who had difficulties expressing them plainly and openly. Most of the time, he seemed oddly subdued, and it was very difficult, albeit not completely impossible, to read him. His mask had cracked before though. Unbound feelings had broken through his surface when Oscar had spoken about his family in that inn after Cloudia had retrieved him from the asylum and in the parlour a few days earlier.

The gentleness and plain love that had found their ways in the tone of his voice and the lines of his face had startled her then; now, the pure loath that seeped through with every word Oscar spoke as he went on did too.

“I do not care for my own life, Lady Phantomhive. I am not thankful that you saved it; you will, however, have my deepest gratitude for preventing my execution and making Rowan seethe. He must have counted down the days until I was finally dead, and he could wash himself free of me. Only he could not have foreseen what you had planned. Now I am still alive, and Rowan cannot do anything about that unless he can prove that I violated the terms of our contract, Mylady.

“I’ve known Rowan for most of my life and, still, I have not realised until recently how despicable a man he is, and it brings me great joy to know that my existence continues to haunt him and that I can now work for you, his despised Queen’s Watchdog, and against him.”

#watchdog of the queen #main chapters #kuroshitsuji #cloudia phantomhive #undertaker #fanfiction #ANOTHER CHAPTER AFTER 84 YEARS!!!#I anxiety wrote and edited it #please cross your fingers for me that uni people will answer my emails next week #I'm dying orz #anyway #this chapter does not have over 30k words #I couldn't have done that anyway and the last and only 30k chapter still haunts me #it ended up being almost 15.5k because I last-minute decided to add the 1843 section #that one's for you A-chan! XD #I also noticed that next chapter is the 30th MAIN chapter and omg #500k in 30 (main) chapters would be it!#'just' 20k to the goal orz (kill me)

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tothelasthoursofmylife · 9 months

Text

“Who wouldn’t be confused?”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

Even casting up her eyes hurt.

Cloudia had arrived at the Morrow townhouse in the dead of night and immediately fallen asleep. It had been a long drive, and Cloudia wished she had simply checked into an inn for the night, even if it had meant potentially exposing her disguise (neither her aunt Felicity’s carriage driver nor Keegan’s butler had known). At least, then the drive – part of which had been rough because of the bumpy road – would not have worsened her state, and Cloudia might not have felt as sore as she did now. Alas, she was an idiot. With a hearty groan, she rolled to her side and closed her eyes again.

She could simply stay in bed and sleep all day to recuperate.

If she had not promised Kamden to visit today.

With another, louder groan, Cloudia sat up in her bed and rubbed her eyes. Of course, she could send Kamden a note to let him know that she could not come to the bookstore today, but he was an endless worrywart and would immediately think she was seriously wounded, not just sore with a few scratches. Her scratches had been treated back at Beaumont Manor on Cadell’s insistence though, and after a bath, she would look nearly as good as new – even if she certainly did not feel like it.

I didn’t feel like I had been inside a carriage but that one had repeatedly driven over me.

And if I didn’t go to Kamden today, everyone here would fuss over me. I would rather have one person bothering me instead of an entire household.

Just when Cloudia had managed to sit on the edge of her bed, the door was flung open, and Lisa entered, carrying a tray with tea. “Miss Countess is finally awake, I see,” she said with a grin on her face. “It’s past twelve o’clock; did you amuse yourself so much with the disguise I helped with? I suppose this means it went well and nobody found out you’re a fraud?”

Nobody except Milton ran through Cloudia’s mind, and a weird tingle went through her when she thought of him.

I wondered if Milton had returned home fine. Was he as sore as I was? I hoped he was not doing worse than me. We had been treated separately, and I didn’t know the full extent of his injuries. He had seemed fine, had been adamant to the Disaster Trio that he was perfectly well, though he could be downplaying his state. Milton seemed hellbent on not wanting anyone to worry about him, after all.

And even if he was not physically wounded, the incident had definitely taken a toll on his nerves.

I could feel his arms around me when I recalled the memory, the almost mechanical grip with which he had held me, his warm body against mine, the tears raining upon my jacket. Oddly enough, my heart did a flip and ached when I thought of that.

“Thank you, Miss Greene, but I don’t want tea right now. I just want a bath,” said Cloudia and stood. She clenched her teeth when her feet touched the ground. It was as if someone had rammed a hundred pin needles into her flesh, and Cloudia wondered if that was how the mermaid from Andersen’s fairy tale had felt when she gained her legs and feet.

Lisa rolled her eyes and put the tray on a commode. “As you wish, Mylady. It sure took you long to answer though. Were you thinking of someone?” She grinned, and when Cloudia only blinked at her, wordlessly, Lisa sighed and vanished into the adjourning bathroom. A few moments later, Cloudia heard water rushing. By the time, Cloudia had slowly walked to her wardrobe and selected a simple day dress, the bath was prepared.

“That’s rather plain,” commented Lisa, raising an eyebrow at the dress. “Another disguise?”

“Yes,” Cloudia replied. “I need to be inconspicuous for the errand I have to run today.”

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

“No, I will be perfectly fine on my own,” said Cloudia. “You can go now, Miss Greene. I will call if I need your help getting dressed.”

“If you say so,” said Lisa and left the room. When Cloudia heard the click of the closing bedroom door, she exhaled, took off her robe, and stepped into the warm bathwater; its scent was almost unbearably sweet. It had been a year since she employed Lisa, but Cloudia simply did not feel comfortable undressing in front of anyone, even if it was another girl her age.

Cloudia took a deep breath and then sank underwater.

***

The warmth of the bath and whatever Lisa had put into it had helped, but every movement still hurt. Cloudia and Kamden had not arranged a specific time for their meet-up today, and she had decided to leave now; after all, the sooner she went to Kamden, the sooner she could return to the townhouse and her bed.

This state was truly dreadful. I would only wish it on my enemies. Hopefully, Milton fared much better than I did.

Cloudia touched the walls as she walked through the corridor; an unforgivable crime in any of her aunts’ houses, but nobody was around to see and scold her, thankfully. Just as she reached the staircase, she heard voices drifting out of Ceara’s room. Keegan must be with her, trying to entertain his sister while she fought off the rest of her sickness. And although this was a common event – Keegan had done so ever since Ceara had become sick; in the beginning, he had carefully stood in the doorsill – the sound of Ceara’s voice made Cloudia stop. Only yesterday, she had sounded stuffy and coughed terribly; now, her voice sounded clear, and Cloudia even heard her laugh, free of rattling and phlegm.

Collecting all her strength, Cloudia walked over to Ceara’s room and peeked inside. The room was decorated in a rather simple manner: flowery red wallpaper, a large, heavy bed of dark wood and a wardrobe, desk, and vanity of the same material. A few books were stacked on the desk, and a single painting hung on the wall right above it: It showed a ship caught in a storm. It was void of knickknacks or a hint of any hobbies; this was not only because Ceara liked her room clean and free of clutter but also because the Morrows spent little time in their London townhouse. Cloudia wondered how Ceara’s – or Keegan’s or her aunt and uncle’s – room looked like, her true room in Ireland; she had never been able to visit them there.

Keegan was leaning against the desk, his arms akimbo, and Ceara was sitting up in her bed, surrounded by a ring of pillows which was definitely Keegan’s work. Cloudia’s eyes widened when she spotted her. Only yesterday, she had been pale, and her hair mussed; now, her cheeks were rosy again, and her hair was shiny albeit messy. There was not even a hint of sickness hanging in the air anymore.

“Ceara,” said Cloudia, and she was sure she must be looking like a fish. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine, and, Cloudia, stop standing in the doorsill and come in,” Ceara said and rolled her eyes. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

The ensemble I had chosen was plain – a grey blouse and a long dark skirt – and while it might be too simple for a noblewoman’s day dress, it was not rags sewn together! I had no idea why everyone found fault with it. My body might be stiff and sore, but my mind was still clear; I didn’t choose blindly. I also couldn’t have put on my clothes the wrong way because Miss Greene had helped me.

“I’m off to yet another undercover mission soon,” said Cloudia, stepping into the room. Every step hurt and she wished she could have remained by the doorframe; instead, she forced herself to walk to the vanity and sit down on its chair. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you more about it.”

“That’s fine,” Keegan said. “How was spending a day with the Disaster Trio?” He grimaced as he asked the question.

“They were exhausting, but not as much as I had feared,” Cloudia replied. “They mostly ignored me, thankfully.”

“But did you win the hunt, Cloudia?” Ceara wanted to know, now even a glint sparked in her eyes when it had been such a strain only yesterday.

“Nobody won the hunt. There was some chaos, and it was eventually decided that no winner would be chosen,” Cloudia told her. Nothing she had said was a lie, but she was already preparing one in case her cousins asked what exactly this “chaos” had been; after all, Cloudia could hardly tell them about Domino throwing her off and the bandits. Instead of enquiring further, Keegan and Ceara only nodded.

“Of course, a hunt with the Disaster Trio wouldn’t go smoothly,” said Ceara.

“I knew going on a hunt with those people would be a waste of time and nerves,” remarked Keegan and scowled. “I am sorry, Cloudia.”

Geoffrey, Cadell, and Falk’s reputation was useful for something after all.

“It’s all right,” Cloudia waved away. “I’ve experienced worse. Let’s hope they don’t invite you to a redo hunt then, Keegan. This time I will not go for you.”

Keegan looked as if he had swallowed an entire bag of lemon drops. “I will refuse the invitation.”

“And what if Bentley accosts Uncle Aiden anew, and he agrees again?”

“Make an excuse, say that I am sick or busy.”

“Or leave England and never come back,” Ceara proposed, and Keegan nodded. “Or that. It is very practical that we primarily live in Ireland.”

Her cousins kept talking about other possible excuses, one more outrageously silly than the other, while Cloudia let her gaze wander through the room in boredom. She frowned when she spotted a familiar-looking box on Ceara’s bedside cabinet. “Ceara?” she asked, and Keegan and Ceara interrupted their conversation and turned their attention back to her. “Did you eat my cake?”

Ceara’s eyes widened. “That was your cake?” She scowled at her brother. “You said I could eat it!”

“I didn’t know! Mother said she got you a cake, and I thought this one was yours,” said Keegan, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry, Cloudia.”

“It’s all right,” Cloudia said and suddenly realised that she felt sad at the prospect of never even having had the chance to taste one of those orange muffins. Partially because she would have loved to find out what was so special about them – and maybe try to recreate this specialness – but also because this particular muffin had been a parting gift, and Milton had looked like it had been rather difficult to make her this present, even.

It had been such an odd scene yesterday. Milton had looked so nervous; what could be so reprehensible at giving such a banal gift? Someone had been even watching us, unless my tired brain had conjured a person in the shadows that had not been there at all which I very much doubted.

But who had observed us? Wentworth had been my first choice, but why would Milton be distressed by his butler’s presence? Anyone from the Disaster Trio could be excluded for the same reason. Maybe, Milton hadn’t wanted anyone to see us together, only for some servant to spot us, nevertheless. This didn’t ring true to me, though Milton might simply have still been jumpy from our encounter with the bandits.

“I hope you liked that muffin, Ceara,” Cloudia continued. “Flanagan and Bentley were on the verge of murdering each other because of them yesterday.”

“It was very tasty,” said Ceara, uncharacteristically sheepishly; it must gnaw on her that she had unwittingly eaten Cloudia’s cake even if it was such an inconsequential matter. “You can have the cake Mother bought me in exchange.”

“It’s fine, Ceara. I’m not in the mood for sweets anyway,” Cloudia replied. She could see that her cousin was about to retort something – likely something along the lines of “I insist” or “I will repay you at another time then” – when a footman carefully rapped against the doorframe and drew everyone’s attention to him. “Lady Phantomhive?” he said with a bow. “You have a guest; she is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

“Who would…” began Cloudia before it dawned upon her. There was only one “she” who would visit her at her family’s townhouse and only request her. “Please tell the Marchioness I will see her immediately.”

With a nod and another bow, the footman vanished.

“Which Marchioness?” asked Keegan and frowned.

Ceara sighed. “Her chaperone, of course, Kee. Marchioness Cecelia Williams.”

“Right. I always forget that Cloudia has a chaperone even if it is normal to have one; after all, Cloudia often walks around on her own.”

“My chaperone does not like to walk around at all,” said Cloudia and added mumbling, “but annoying people she sure loves.”

***

Only Cecelia and Barrington would ever seek her out at one of her relatives’ houses and ask solely for her. That they did, however, was rather unusual. Not only was it an unspoken rule for her Watchdog associates, her Aristocrats of Evil, to stay away from Cloudia’s relatives as she wanted to keep her family as distant as possible from her Watchdog work (Barrington might be a longtime family friend and Cecelia her chaperone but both were currently Aristocrats of Evil first and foremost) but also because neither Cecelia nor Barrington wanted to engage with her family unless they absolutely had to. Barrington did not seem to enjoy her aunts’ company and often appeared outright uncomfortable in their vicinity, and Cecelia simply did not care for them and rarely left her house anyway.

Oscar was, of course, an exception to this “rule”: After all, he was a legally dead man, a legally dead serial murderer even. If he ever showed up at one of my aunts’ doorsteps, the situation must be seriously dire. If this horrible case ever came up, I could only hope that none of my relatives had ever heard a description of the Yard Ripper. Or had met Oscar when he was still working with my father.

That Cecelia had personally come to the Morrow townhouse must mean that she either had something very important to tell Cloudia – or that she was very, very mad at her.

I wanted the former to be the case. But what could be so important for Cecelia to seek me out at my Aunt Felicity’s? We were not investigating a Watchdog case; and if we were, I would be the first to know about it. Cecelia would never classify a complaining session about yet another unfortunate run-in with Adrianne Royceston as a matter of high importance, even if Cecelia did love those sessions. The only thing she would categorise so highly was her husband’s murder case.

Michael Williams’ murder five years ago, one day before his wife’s twenty-fourth birthday, was the reason Cecelia had employed herself as an Evil Noblewoman after all. Still, the only hint Cecelia had managed to uncover was a kind of code: FT43. She had not figured it out yet, and neither had I or anyone else we had carefully consulted.

But maybe Cecelia had finally figured it out – or found out something more about it, at least. Perhaps we had been missing another letter or number all along? Yes, another clue for this mystery would certainly make Cecelia come to my aunt and uncle’s house.

Content with her hypothesis, Cloudia slowly descended the stairs. Surely, by the time the little mermaid had to climb stairs with her new, aching body for the first time, she must have regretted that contract.

After what felt like an eternity, Cloudia finally arrived at the parlour. And right after she stepped inside it, she ripped her hypothesis into pieces and set fire to it: Unlike Ceara’s room with its strong colours, the drawing room of the Morrow townhouse looked almost drained. The seating was pearl-coloured, the furniture made of light wood, and any accent of colour was pale; even the light from the chandelier was duller than the light from the lamps in the corridor. The other rooms had been remodelled over the years, but the parlour had always retained its colour scheme. Cloudia always felt a bit cold when she entered the Pale Drawing Room; today, the coldness that washed over her did not only come from the icy feel of the room but also from Cecelia’s smile.

A servant closed the door behind Cloudia, and the sound of wood hitting wood echoed through the parlour for a bit too long.

“Dearest Cloudia,” said Cecelia, her voice sugary sweet. She looked painfully out of place in this near-colourless room with her black mourning dress, though her attire still felt fitting for the occasion. “Please sit down.”

Cloudia sat down on the sofa opposite Cecelia. The table between them bore not only a bottle of wine but also a tea set and a plethora of sandwiches and cakes. Cloudia itched to tell Cecelia that it was too early for teatime, but said instead with a sigh, “You know this is my uncle and aunt’s house and not yours, do you?”

“The Viscount and Viscountess of Morrow are currently at a luncheon at the Kents’,” said Cecelia. “I am your chaperone; in the absence of an elder relative of yours, I am essentially in charge of you.”

“Only ‘essentially,’” Cloudia retorted. “And this certainly does not extend to my cousins, let alone to you coming here uninvited.”

“It does now.” Cecelia poured wine into her glass and energetically set down the bottle; Cloudia was astonished it didn’t break. “Cloudia, dear, do you want to continue this irrelevant thread of conversation, or do you want to tell me what you were doing at Beaumont Manor yesterday?” She glared at her, her blue eyes glacial. “No, you do not have to tell me anything, my dear. I already know what you did. Isn’t it lovely that the wanted criminals that had been hiding in those woods were caught the day you were at Beaumont Manor? Right after I told you there were any bandits in the woods at all?”

“I don’t know why you care so much,” said Cloudia and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “The bandits are caught and imprisoned now; nobody was hurt, and the world is a little safer.”

“I care,” Cecelia replied, her expression darkening even further, “because I gave you all that information and you promised you would not do anything with it.”

“I promised that I would stay away from Scotland Yard – and I upheld that promise. I haven’t been there since, and Beaumont Manor is not in London and, thus, not under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police. I haven’t even crossed paths with any local police officer yesterday.”

“No, Cloudia, you promised to stay away from Scotland Yard and take a break. Going out and catching a group of thieves is not a break!” exclaimed Cecelia with such intensity that the wine in her glass vibrated. Cloudia was sure the furniture had shaken too.

Cecelia downed her drink and then leaned back and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have never been so glad that I never had any children myself.” She let her hand sink and fixed her eyes on Cloudia.

“I didn’t go to Beaumont Manor specifically to search for the bandits,” Cloudia replied. “My cousin Keegan was invited by Geoffrey Bentley to join him and his friends at that manor for a hunt. He didn’t want to go, and I offered to in his stead.”

“You went on a hunt,” said Cecelia hollowly. “And Geoffrey Bentley and his friends were fine with you substituting for your cousin?”

“Not quite. They didn’t know it was me because I joined the hunt disguised as Keegan.”

“How lovely. What will you tell me next? That the Disaster Trio gallantly helped you defeat some criminals while you were meant to be on a hunt?”

“No,” Cloudia said. “They didn’t help me. They know nothing about the bandits.”

Cecelia raised an eyebrow. “Cloudia, dear, I know you’ve been training since you were a child and that the former head of the British knights and the infamous Scotland Yard Ripper are schooling you, but I doubt even you could fend off a dozen bandits on your own. Unless my source was not only inexact but blatantly exaggerating.” She leaned a little forward, the look in her blue eyes intense.

“Who helped you?” Cecelia asked, and Cloudia pressed her lips thinly together. “I doubt it was your burly butler. After all, you went to the hunt as your cousin; it would have been odd to bring your own servant under this circumstance. If you had asked Barrington for help, he would have done anything to stop you and confronted me for telling you about the theft and murder. The Bookstore Boy can also be ruled out; you are too protective of him, and I don’t think he would be of any use in such a situation – unless he was pelting the bandits with books and apprehending them with binding glue. There are not many other people you could have asked for assistance.” Cecelia tilted her head. “And, despite your absurd actions, I doubt you would have been idiotic enough to involve Oscar. Unless you wanted civilians to accidentally stumble over a notorious murderer who officially died three years ago.”

“I went to the hunt only with Keegan’s butler,” Cloudia told her. Her arms were still crossed, and she dug her fingers into her arms; hopefully, Cecelia would not notice this. “No one besides Keegan, Ceara, and my servants even knew I would be there.”

Cecelia clapped her hands together and her eyes sparkled in delight. “Another guest! Who else was at that hunt, Cloudia?”

“Why are you so insistent to know?”

“Because I am me, and for that reason, I think I will search for the answer myself and then,” Cecelia grimaced, “ask Oscar for a favour. After all, whoever helped you saw you fighting off a group of bandits – and no wig would stay on in such a skirmish. And considering that you are not still wearing one, I suppose you did not consult the Bookstore Boy and his binding glue after all.”

Cloudia felt a few degrees colder. “Cecelia–”

“Your helper, thus, knows that not Keegan Morrow was at the hunt yesterday,” Cecelia continued, ignoring Cloudia, “but Cloudia Phantomhive. There are many, many rumours regarding the mysterious Queen’s Watchdog – and some of those rumours even connect that figure to the Phantomhive family. If it gets out that a certain Lady Cloudia from exactly that suspected family disguises herself and hunts criminals, what do you think will happen, my dear?” Cecelia stood, and Cloudia’s body temperature dropped even more. “I abhor Oscar, but he is frighteningly protective of you to a degree, and he would certainly agree that it is better to find your helper and have him be killed before…”

“Don’t even think about it!” exclaimed Cloudia. She might have even jumped out of her seat if her body had allowed her. “Under no circumstance, I will allow you to ask Oscar to go after Milton…” Cloudia immediately clamped her mouth closed but the damage was already done.

While she cursed herself eternally, an impish grin appeared on Cecelia’s face. “Haven’t slept well, have you, dear? After all, the local police arrived to arrest the thieves rather late in the evening, and Beaumont Manor isn’t very close to here.”

Cloudia rubbed her face and groaned.

Dumb, dumb, dumb. How could I fall for this idiotic trick?

“I really should have stayed at an inn. Then, you wouldn’t have followed me there,” said Cloudia.

“Under these circumstances, even I would chase you to the end of the world,” Cecelia replied sweetly and sat back down. “I would rather that you stayed closer by because travelling is a nuisance, but I will travel if I must. Now, to this mysterious ‘Milton.’” She tipped a finger against her chin. “It can be both a first and a last name, but let me guess, it’s a first name in this case, isn’t it?”

Despite her best effort, something on Cloudia’s face must have given it away because Cecelia’s smile broadened. “Oh, you scandalous girl! Calling a man by his given name! There aren’t many nobles with the first name ‘Milton’ that are around the age of the Disaster Trio…” Cecelia’s eyes suddenly widened. “Milton Salisbury?”

Cloudia groaned again. “How on earth did you figure that out?”

“I remembered something,” she replied quickly before she poured herself another glass of wine. “Milton Salisbury,” Cecelia repeated as if the name had bespelled her. “I didn’t know he could fight.”

“He can’t,” Cloudia said automatically, and she was surprised by the quick lie. Milton didn’t want anyone to know what they had done yesterday; and while Cecelia had found out on her own, there was no reason for Cloudia to feed her any details that might give away any of Milton’s secrets. After all, he, hopefully, kept hers too; it only seemed fair and right not to expose him. “Milton just helped a little. And although he does not look or seem intimidating at all, his sheer presence helped.”

“That’s interesting. But do you know what interests me even more?” There was a glint in Cecelia’s eyes that sent chills down Cloudia’s spine. “It was an amateurish attempt, but it is still fascinating that you would shield anyone as you did, Cloudia. That’s so very unlike you after all.” She raised her glass to her lips and her eyes sparkled even more when she mustered Cloudia. “Cloudia, dear, could you have fallen in love?”

Cloudia stared at Cecelia in bewilderment. She had never been fond of alcohol, but Cloudia felt herself itching for a glass of wine too – if only to cover one bad taste with another. “No, of course, not,” retorted Cloudia. “We had two conversations, Cecelia.”

“Sometimes, it only requires one look, my dear. And two conversations?”

Now I wished I had fallen badly from Domino. Kamden had told me about the dangers of a comatose state; however, I couldn’t imagine it being significantly worse than conversing with Cecelia when she was particularly insufferable.

Cloudia clenched her teeth and got to her feet. A prickle ran through her body, but she ignored it. “I need to leave now. Goodbye, Cecelia.”

Cecelia propped a cheek on her hand. “Oh, don’t be like that, Cloudia! I’m simply intrigued by your two little meetups with Milton Salisbury, though I have to say that it is peculiar that you managed to meet him at all. Leland only died in December; Milton should still be in mourning, even if mourning rules are laxer for men than for women.”

“He was…” began Cloudia and then stopped herself. She and her damned, tired brain. “I’ve been wondering about that too but…” She halted again, her stupid brain catching the implication in Cecelia’s words only now. “Did you know his father?”

Cecelia swirled her glass. “Yes, I did, my curious girl. I’ll tell you all I know about Milton Salisbury and his family if you sit down again.” She presented Cloudia with her impish smile yet again, and after weighing it out, the curious part of her won, and Cloudia sat back down.

Cecelia, an amused expression on her face, took a sip of wine before she started: “I first met Leland Salisbury in the Season of 1836. Michael and I had got engaged only recently, and I had moved to London.

“Leland was a thoroughly pleasant man, endlessly polite and charming. He lived far away from London and even during the Season, he only visited the city for a week before he would leave again. I – and the rest of London Society – thought it a little odd because who would snub the Season? Still, nobody thought much of it, and everyone was very surprised when Leland moved back to London not alone but with a wife and child. No one had known he was married and had a family before that.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened. “No one had known?”

Cecelia nodded. “No one had known. They came to London because they were expecting their second child, and Milton’s mother was, apparently, a rather frail woman and they feared complications. I suppose they must have lived somewhere in the countryside?”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“Yes,” Cecelia admitted and sighed. “I considered Leland a friend, and at that time, I already collected information, though for a different purpose. I had embellished my past a bit before I arrived in London; Michael, of course, knew my true background. However, British upper-class people can sniff out social climbers and the nouveau riche as if they are the world’s finest bloodhounds. There is nothing that people who can trace their family trees to the Norman Conquest loathe more than commoners pretending to be them.” Cecelia took another sip and then placed her glass on the table. “A commoner could marry a prince and become a princess in every form but address; still, a lowly-titled lady or lord of an old noble family will ridicule you at any given opportunity.

“Thus, I collected information predominantly on the worst of bloodhounds so that I would be untouchable in case they managed to sniff me out and try to reveal my heritage to everyone. Leland was a friend though; even if he found out, I was certain he would never tell. He was great at keeping secrets and possessed strong morale,” said Cecelia. Cloudia almost smiled at her words, Milton’s words from yesterday echoing in her mind: “Another person’s secret is not mine to share.”

“You could not get anything out of the man if he did not want to,” Cecelia continued. “Leland might not even bend under torture. Therefore, I neither had the want nor the need to pry into his affairs – especially not after he had gone to such great lengths to protect and hide his family – and, thus, know only a little. But,” her eyes lit up, “I could look further into Milton Salisbury if you want, Cloudia.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Cloudia said, glaring at her. “I might have broken my promise and might not be in the position to make you promise me something, but Milton is an outsider and shouldn’t be caught in this crossfire. I don’t want his privacy breached because of me.”

Cecelia laughed. “Milton Salisbury must be as charming as his father after all for you to fall for him within two conversations. I heard he was rather awkward. I was either misinformed, or he is only charming to you, maybe, my dear?”

“I haven’t fallen for him!” bristled Cloudia. “Stop repeating that nonsense.”

“Come on, Cloudia, it is perfectly normal to have romantic feelings, to have wants – and yes, this includes the Queen’s Watchdog.” Cecelia brushed a loose strand of her honey-blonde hair from her face. “It is also perfectly normal for a girl your age to have such feelings. So far, you’ve never given any indicator that you are even interested in the opposite sex, or anyone at all. I’m ecstatic to have received this crumb.”

“This is no crumb. It’s nothing at all.” Cloudia sucked in the air. “Could you please just continue? I do actually need to be somewhere.”

Cecelia grinned. “Of course, my dear,” she said in a honeyed voice. “Sadly, despite the precautions they must have taken, Milton’s mother passed away in childbirth. To make matters worse, Milton’s sister only lived a few months. I think she might have been born frail and then died of an illness. I am not certain,” Cecelia added, gritting her teeth.

“Her hair never got to grow long enough,” Milton had said yesterday. This implied that his sister had died young, but I had thought she might have passed away when she was one or two, not when she was a few months old. Losing his mother and sister in such a short timespan… it must have been so hard for Milton – and now, his father was gone too.

“Does Milton have any living family left at all?” asked Cloudia carefully.

“Yes,” Cecelia said, and Cloudia internally sighed in relief. “His stepmother is still alive, but she hates him.”

Cloudia’s heart dropped again. “She hates him?”

“Yes. Do you have difficulties wrapping your head around this concept, Cloudia? Just because you find him endlessly charming does not mean all of us do…”

“I don’t think he’s endlessly charming,” Cloudia replied, frustrated.

“Finitely charming, then?”

“Cecelia.” Cloudia rubbed her face, wondering if she should not rather leave right now when she still had some sanity left but, alas, her curiosity would not let her. “Why would someone marry a person who outright hates your children? It sounds absurd to me. Or has his stepmother not always hated him?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Cecelia. A shadow hushed over her face upon admitting that; she hated not knowing something. “I would say she has always hated him. Elvira Salisbury loathes her stepson to such an extent; I doubt it has ever been different. Leland loved his son which makes his marriage even more paradoxical. You would have to ask Elvira herself why Leland married her anyway, but I warn you: She’s very tight-lipped when it comes to Leland and will immediately quit the conversation if you mention Milton. I’ve never done it myself, though I’ve been there when others tried. After all, the Salisburys might not be old nobility and, thus, draw some people’s ridicule because of that, but one might not forget that they are also very wealthy, and there are various noble families with financial problems. Milton Salisbury is, despite everything, quite coveted; I would not be surprised if a fight breaks out as soon as his mourning period ends. You should secure your chances before someone wins him before you, Cloudia.”

“God,” said Cloudia, ignoring Cecelia’s last few sentences, “what could make her hate Milton like that?”

“I don’t know.” Cecelia sighed. “If you ever find out, Cloudia, please let me know. Or if you would rather that I investigate this matter further…”

“No, definitely not,” Cloudia said immediately, and Cecelia rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, my dear.

“At any rate,” she continued, “I daresay Milton Salisbury might have made a fantastic faux Earl of Phantomhive.”

Cloudia blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“Yes, you heard me correctly, my dear. Milton Salisbury is a rather mysterious man. After all, no one even knew he existed until eight years ago. Even now, barely anyone knows him. He is a very private person from what I have heard and spent the last few years travelling. If you could adjust anyone’s history to make it fit your purpose, Cloudia, Milton would be an ideal choice. That’s part of the reason why I am so enthralled by this possible infatuation of yours. Your heart led you to the best possible match.”

“I am not infatuated with him.”

“That’s why I said ‘possible.’” Cecelia sighed. “Unfortunately for you, Milton Salisbury is the only Salisbury by blood left. The title and company were meant to pass to his cousin, but he died years ago, making Milton the heir. If this hadn’t happened, nothing would have stood between you and your very hypothetical romance. He might ‘only’ be a baron, but his company makes him too prominent a member of society.”

“Well, I could not care less for this ‘hypothetical romance’ you are hallucinating, but…” Cloudia frowned. “… you said you remembered something regarding the Disaster Trio; that’s why you figured out Milton was at the hunt too. They appear to be friends, and I wondered how they could have befriended one another. Milton seems significantly younger than them and was travelling in the past few years, as you said.”

Cecelia tilted her head. “Could it be… that you don’t even know how old he is? Or are you being hypocritical by saying that ‘three to four years’ are ‘significantly younger’ when you and Milton Salisbury are seven years apart?”

“Wait, he’s seven years older than me?” asked Cloudia, aghast, and stared at Cecelia. “He looks barely older than me! I thought he was eighteen or nineteen, maybe.”

“Milton Salisbury is rather elusive. I’ve only seen him once or twice but that was years ago. He looked younger than he was then already. His youthful appearance would help too if you had to fabricate a birth date…”

“Cecelia.” Cloudia rubbed her eyes. “Also, didn’t you just tell me I cannot marry him anyway because he’s the only blood Salisbury left? Why are you even continuing this nonsense then?”

“Because companies go bankrupt all the time,” said Cecelia with a straight face. “If that happens, he is essentially free. And the Salisbury family is not an old noble family; Milton Salisbury is only the sixth baron. Do you even know which numbered countess you are, Cloudia? No? See? The Salisburys are insignificant in the eyes of the nobility and gentry. They have been looking down on them forever; marrying you would be an enormous elevation and a great honour.”

“But didn’t you also tell me that Milton is twenty-two? Don’t you think he could be too old for me?”

“And? Your own parents were six years apart in age. There are, of course, vile, sickening people who specifically only take interest in much younger people – children, really. As long as Milton Salisbury likes you and not the fact that you are fifteen and impressionable, it should be fine. Especially considering that you will most certainly not marry anyone anytime soon, Cloudia. You don’t want that for yourself, and even if you were to get poisoned with foolish passion and attempt to marry, let’s say, within a year, Barrington, Oscar, and I would do our utmost to lock you up in a basement that is very, very far away from any altar or priest, do you understand?” Cecelia said and then shuddered. “I want to be contrary so that I’m not on their side, but I cannot be in this case. This may be the one aspect we can all agree on; I feel sick. At any rate, if you somehow still manage to marry someone before you are at least twenty, the least you will do is make Barrington cry which will be amusing. The most you can cause is the Yard Ripper taking his first victim in nine years.” She paused. “That we know of.”

“Oscar hasn’t killed anyone since his arrest,” Cloudia said.

“That we know of,” repeated Cecelia. “I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again and again until the world dries out: Blind trust does not suit someone in your position. Especially when it is blind trust for someone like Oscar Livingstone. I’m also teasing to a certain extent. After all, until you are twenty-one, you cannot marry on a whim anyway: You need your guardian’s approval, and despite her distance, I cannot imagine that your mother would agree to you entering a wedded union at your current age.

“However, if Milton Salisbury does turn out to be vile and sickening, you know how to use a knife. It’s good that you always have your father’s dagger with you; he would certainly want you and your honour to be protected.”

“Cecelia.”

“And as I often say: If a man cannot keep it in his trousers, it is nothing but kind and forthcoming to ensure that this will be a permanent state.”

“Cecelia.”

“For this case, always keep in mind that men are at a disadvantage; everything is dangling freely and vulnerably in the front. One, maybe two, good cuts and…”

“Cecelia.”

This conversation really had gone on for far too long.

Taking a deep breath, Cloudia stood. This time, it barely even hurt. “Well, I really need to head out now. Thank you for this utterly exhausting conversation; you have outdone yourself, Cecelia.”

Cecelia grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Cloudia sighed and then walked to the door. Just when she was about to turn the knob, Cecelia raised her voice again, making Cloudia whirl to her. “Cloudia,” Cecelia said, and the subtle softness mixed with her stern tone startled Cloudia. “The Watchdog operates under the monarch’s orders and investigates specialised cases regarding the underworld and the general wellbeing of the empire. They do not seek out cases themselves, let alone such ‘low’ ones like petty theft or the accidental killing of a common maid.

“I know what you are doing and why, but it has been so long, and you are not doing yourself any favours, Cloudia. I would even say that if you continue this, the consequences will be more than unpleasant. You know where you would end up.”

Without a word, Cloudia left the parlour.

***

The carriage rattled through the London streets which were bursting with activity today despite the February chill. And while even the sheer thought of having to push through the crowds in her state exhausted her, Cloudia, nevertheless, told Newman to halt three streets away from the Sainteclare Bookstore. The plainest carriage Felicity and Aiden possessed still had “rich” written all over its wood, and Cloudia did not want anyone to see her step out of it and go into Kamden’s store.

“Shall I accompany you to Mr Sainteclare’s bookstore, Lady Cloudia?” enquired Newman while Cloudia climbed out of the carriage.

“No, I will go there by myself,” she replied and adjusted her cloak and bonnet. “You can drive around the city or even return to my aunt’s townhouse. I will be at Kamden’s home for hours, and I would not want you to get bored waiting – though you are also welcome to stay here and wait if you want to; I hope you brought something to read at least.”

“I did,” Newman said, a little sheepishly. “I dared to be so free to pack some books when you informed me about your visit. I thought it might be preferable if I stayed close by, Lady Cloudia. One can never know what emergencies might arise.”

Cloudia smiled. Newman had been in her employment for two years now, and though his sight sometimes pained her, she could not imagine not having him around. “That’s very considerate of you, thank you, Newman. Please sit inside the carriage and help yourself to the blankets stored under the seats. It is horribly cold today.”

The little bell above the door jingled and signalled her freedom from the dense crowd outside as Cloudia entered the Sainteclare Bookstore. As always, the store greeted her with its warmth and the smell of new and old books and polished wood. The first time Cloudia had come here, she had been astonished by the sheer friendliness the bookstore emitted despite its rather bleak state at the time – though she had not been able to dwell on this fascination; after all, no sensation was comparable to finding your doppelganger.

Despite the many years that bridged that event to the present, Cloudia’s mind still retraced those same thoughts, still noted the same sensations, whenever she came here. Though, by now, something bittersweet had mixed itself with these sentiments of old: If things were as they had been meant to be, Cloudia might not have come here today. After all, the bookstore was rather far away from Weston College, and a meeting place closer to the school would have been a better choice.

But, alas, Kamden had dropped out of Weston after his first year.

His decision had caught Cloudia and Barrington by surprise. Kamden had wanted to attend the prestigious boarding school and had put a lot of time and great effort into preparations so that he would not seem out of place despite his commoner’s background. Barrington and Cloudia had even visited him for June 4th, and all had seemed fine then; they could not fathom what had brought about Kamden’s change of heart. Cloudia had asked him again and again, but Kamden had refused to tell and always avoided her eyes whenever she raised the question, for she could read his eyes like an open book. Kamden had only assured her that she was not the cause of his decision, and Cloudia knew that he had told the truth because he had held her gaze when he said those words.

Cloudia and Barrington had eventually stopped enquiring. If Kamden wanted to tell them, he would one day.

And if he had had a bad experience at school, I could certainly sympathise.

Cloudia spotted Kamden behind the counter. A girl with a friendly smile and freckles all over her nose was standing in front of him, and Kamden blushed while he talked to her and sorted her books and shifted through the cash register. He seemed perfectly caught in the conversation; nonetheless, as soon as Cloudia entered, his eyes wandered to her and lit up. Cloudia smiled at him and gestured that she would browse for a while. Before Kamden could say anything, she vanished between the shelves.

Although Cecelia had spoken a vast array of nonsense earlier, she had been true about one thing: Cloudia had never been interested in anyone romantically. While love had always been a popular topic amongst her cousins (except Keegan who was not involved in those conversations), the subject had exploded in frequency and evolved in the last few years. What had once been vague became concrete; fairy-tale-like fantasies made way for realistic expectations and prospects as they grew older and began to attend balls and mingle with society. Suddenly, her cousins had opinions regarding boys and men beyond simplistic notes whether they were annoying and bothersome or not. Constantia could fuss over a boy for hours, and everyone – even Clarissa who had always been more interested in horses than people – could partake in that conversation while Cloudia could only numbly nod along and try, in vain, to steer it elsewhere.

She had always had difficulties talking about “normal” subjects, but she had been schooled to be able to say something on any topic at least. However, not even the – frankly humiliating – talks Cloudia had with Cecelia about “adulthood” had helped. Not only had she spoken about matters Cloudia never encountered at gatherings, but Cecelia had also talked about them as if they were something you simply had to know inherently to a certain extent. Whatever shift her cousins (and presumably most other people) had gone through, it had completely eluded Cloudia.

Kamden, on the other hand, it had hit with full force.

Whereas Constantia’s crushes could last for months, Kamden’s were fleeting: They were frequent (it was as if he had a new infatuation every week) but always intense and all-absorbing – that he was shy by nature and his stutter returned whenever he was nervous did not help to ease his agony. And it did seem to be agony to hold all these feelings within yourself and be unable to act on them, let alone vocalise them. Last year, Kamden had had a long-lasting crush, and it had been disastrous. Calliope had, as many others before and after her, walked into the bookstore one day and right into Cloudia’s brother’s heart; unlike anyone else so far, Calliope had dwelled there.

And she had been a lovely girl – her golden hair matching her golden personality – and she had clearly been as interested in Kamden as he had been in her. Calliope would return to the bookstore nearly every day until she had become a constant in their lives. Even though Cloudia had never befriended her, after several weeks, she could not imagine Calliope not being there, mostly because Kamden and Calliope got along as if they had known each other forever from the beginning. Because of his stutter and his precarious situation after his parents’ death, Kamden had a difficult time finding friends, with Cloudia having been the sole exception for years, and it had been a delight to see Kamden interact with Calliope. They were birds of a feather, both so shy and passionate and kind, and had become a heart and soul from the moment they met.

However, in the four months (thinking back, it always seemed as if it had lasted longer) they had spent together, they had danced around the matter; neither of them ready to say out loud what they had known since the start.

And then Calliope’s father had found out about them.

Her father was a wealthy middle-class merchant and learning that his only daughter was in love with a poor, lowly bookstore owner had sent him in a rage. He had intervened immediately: He had sent Calliope away to her aunt in India and stormed into the bookstore at peak time to yell at Kamden for “manipulating his child to steal her money”; he had even damaged part of the shop. Calliope’s father should be thankful that Cloudia arrived after he had already left. She had been full of fury while she helped Kamden pick up thrown books and sweep away broken shards. Despite everything, Kamden had insisted on not doing anything, on not making the behaviour of Calliope’s father public or pressing charges. Cloudia and Barrington had reluctantly agreed.

Just like with whatever had induced Kamden to change his mind about Weston College, Kamden did not want to talk about what happened with Calliope. But, again, Cloudia had raised one final question:

“Why didn’t you tell them that you’re Barrington’s ward?” Cloudia had asked him one night. In the days after, she had moved in with Kamden, not wanting to leave him alone while he was heartbroken.

“What would it have changed?” Kamden had replied. “I am still only a shop owner.”

“Cloudie,” she heard a voice behind her, and Cloudia whirled around to face Kamden. He smiled at her, and, with the terrible memory still brushing her mind, Cloudia warmed at the sight of this simple expression. Back then, Kamden’s sadness had run so deep that Cloudia had feared it might stay. What a terrible thing love is, she had thought when Kamden had finally fallen asleep the day of the incident. To demand so much space and then leave one so empty when it’s gone.

Kamden opened his mouth to say something but then his smile vanished, and he mustered her, frowning. “Clou-Cloudie, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

“I was at a hunt yesterday,” Cloudia told him. “I’m still rather sore and battered from it; it’s nothing serious.”

“You’re ‘sore and battered’ from a hunt?” He blinked at her in confusion. “You’re usually only a bit tired afterwards. How long did it last? No, did you get hurt?” he continued, his voice full of worry and horror, and Cloudia sighed.

Kamden had become far too sharp when it came to identifying whether someone was injured. Since leaving Weston College, he had spent increasingly more time with Dr Alan. I was glad that he had found a new passion, though I had to admit that it was as handy as it was annoying.

Cloudia stepped forward and away from the shelf she had been leaning on – thankfully, her legs didn’t decide to be traitors and fold under her – and held her hands up. “The horse they gave me threw me off, but I am fine,” Cloudia said intently. Kamden didn’t have to know about the bandits, and Cloudia was suddenly glad that Domino had dismounted and given her the perfect half-truth. “I checked: Nothing is broken; nothing is sprained. I only have a few bruises and some minor cuts – which were treated already, do not worry – and I’m sore.”

“A horse threw you off?” Kamden’s eyes widened. He took her shoulders and made her look into his eyes. “Did you hit your head, Cloudie? Did you see a doctor?”

“Yes and no,” Cloudia admitted, sounding a little sheepish. “A servant treated me; it was so late, I refused to have a doctor fetched for nothing at all because, Kam, I am perfectly fine. I landed very luckily. I have no headache or am nauseous; it didn’t even hurt afterwards.”

“Still,” said Kamden and took her hand. “You weren’t properly examined. They should have sent for a physician anyway, to be sure.” He tightened his grip. “Cloudie, you should lie down. I’ll get Dr Alan.”

Cloudia sighed. “Very well,” she said, and Kamden gently pulled her after him to the staircase in the back that led to his upstairs flat, uncaring that there were still patrons in his shop. Handling her as if she was a porcelain doll (and slightly annoying her), Kamden brought Cloudia to his room. While she kicked off her shoes and took off her cloak and bonnet, he grabbed the books on his bed and placed them on an already precarious-looking tower of books in one corner of the room. She then laid down, and Kamden pulled a blanket over her. He turned to leave but ended up lingering in the doorsill, and although Cloudia reminded him that someone could be raiding the store right now as it had been left unattended, Kamden only returned downstairs with great reluctance.

Cloudia sighed again and drew the blanket to her chin, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood soap (every boy and man seemed to smell of sandalwood, even if the fragrance was only faintly present) and old and new books. Although Cloudia generally disliked clutter and dusty air, a wave of comfort washed over her in this room that was both endlessly cluttered and stuffy from dust.

Kamden was remodelling and -organising his office and, thus, had to temporarily move out all the books from there, storing them in every free corner of his small apartment. The last time Cloudia had visited him, she had opened a cupboard to search for biscuits and found a few old tomes stuffed next to his pottery. The office and its adjourning archive had not only hosted books and antiques Kamden had acquired for himself, but also numerous used, often rare books meant to be resold as well as decades’ worth of ledgers. And each of these hundreds – if not thousands – of books seemed to come with its own, years-old dust that was infuriatingly eager to infest the air. It made it hard to keep up with cleaning, and Cloudia’s annoyingly stubborn brother refused to get any help. This madness had been going on for a few weeks now, longer than planned because the manufacturer had accidentally mixed up the dimensions of the custom shelves and none of them had fit in the end. The correct shelves must have arrived by now though: The shaky book towers in Kamden’s room were smaller now than they had been a few days ago, and the corridor had been much more walking-friendly again.

Still, Cloudia liked Kamden’s overstuffed, dusty flat because it was his flat, and coming from the Morrow townhouse, which was almost uncomfortably sterile, this place was wonderfully warm and homely, though it made her yearn even more for the comfort of her own home. The repairs at the Phantomhive townhouse could not finish quicker.

“‘Of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and the wind together; set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black…,’” Milton had recited softly, absentmindedly yesterday. The memory popped up in her head so suddenly, it startled her. It must be the abundance of books around me, Cloudia thought and clutched the blanket tighter, and because of Cecelia, the sky had been about to turn red when she arrived at the bookstore. Books blocked her view through the window, though it would surprise her if it wasn’t dark outside already. Winter days passed so quickly after all.

Cloudia was about to douse when the sound of steps turned her wide awake again. A moment later, Kamden returned and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Dr Alan is doing a domiciliary visit across town and won’t be back for a few hours,” he said. “And I closed up the shop.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” asked Cloudia. “As I said, I’m all right; you don’t have to close the store so early if you don’t want to.”

“But I do. And there weren’t many people here anyway; earlier, it was just two couples, one gentleman, and E…” Kamden cut himself off and blushed.

She grinned. “What a lovely simplistic name.”

“It’s Elise,” he mumbled.

“An even lovelier longer name,” she said. Cloudia moved a bit to the side so that her shoulder brushed the wall. A few framed daguerreotypes hung on it. Barrington had made it a habit to drag them to a studio at least twice a year, but he was barely in any of the pictures on Kamden’s wall. Kamden rotated them; currently, most of them showed only Cloudia and Kamden although Barrington was in numerous photos they had taken that day. Cloudia patted the space next to her, and Kamden mustered her, concerned. “And you do feel fine so far, Cloudie?” he asked. “No blurry vision? No dizziness? No fatigue?”

“As I said, I don’t experience any symptoms related to head injuries,” Cloudia said. “I do feel fatigued but only because I came back from the hunt late last night and had a conversation with Cecelia today.”

“What did you talk about?” Kamden wanted to know, and Cloudia hoped the warmth she felt now was not rushing to her cheeks.

“Just some Watchdog-related things,” she said and tapped the bed again. Kamden hesitated before he climbed next to her. He had had this bed for years, and when they were younger, they fit next to each other without any problems. They were growing rapidly though, and now, Kamden knocked against Cloudia and the bedframe a few times and mumbled apologies while he settled next to her, on top of the blanket. At least, so far, neither of them had grown too large to make lying side-by-side impossible. Again, Cloudia was reminded of Calliope: Last summer, they had lain like this after that horrible day; back then, they had had fewer problems fitting into the bed.

In retrospect, it felt a little silly how much I had worried about Kamden at that time. Of course, he would have healed from it; he might have lost his first actual love, but we were still young and growing and had so much life ahead of us.

“What is Elise like?” Cloudia asked, craning her head to look at her twin who immediately turned red.

“She… she…” Kamden stuttered. “E-Elise’s nice but…” He shifted to his side, his tousled hair falling into his face, and sighed. “Today, she told me that she and her family will move to Glasgow. The books she bought are for the train ride.”

“Oh, Kam.” Cloudia grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“It’s all right. I haven’t even known her for very long,” he said softly.

“How do you even know when you like someone?” Cloudia asked absentmindedly before she froze, and Kamden jerkily sat up. He stared at her, his eyes wide and concerned. “Are you truly feeling well, Cloudie? Should I try getting Dr Alan here quicker?”

Cloudia’s face reddened, and she let go of his hand and crossed her arms. “I was just wondering about that,” she said, hating how unsteady her voice sounded.

Kamden mustered her, bewilderment now mixed in his expression. “You… wondered about that?”

“Yes,” she huffed. “Am I not allowed to?”

“Yes, of course. But… you… Cloudie, you...” He paused and then laid back down. “You have never asked before,” Kamden said softly. “I’m just surprised. I thought you simply were not interested in… uhm…”

“I am curious about everything,” Cloudia said, sparing him from finishing the sentence; she did not want to hear it anyway. “But I guess it might be awkward asking you that. I’m sorry, Kamden.”

Kamden looked at her for a moment before he said, “It is… it is all right. You can ask me.” He slowly exhaled and rolled on his back. “You know when you like someone when… when you, uhm, feel a little tug that draws you to them. Their face, their voice, their personality… You always crave… crave their company. You constantly want to be at their side and miss them even if they have, uh, only just left. You-you think of them at all times. You become more… more nervous around them and you blush uncontrollably. You feel warm in their presence and your, uhm… heart flutters when they are around and…” Kamden covered his face with his hands. “No, you’re right. This is awkward.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cloudia, pressing her face into the cushion. “But you did well, thanks.”

***

Three days later, the pipes at the Phantomhive townhouse were fixed. Although Cloudia had yearned to leave her aunt’s house and return to her own place and sleep in her own bed again, that yearning wasn’t strong enough to smother the uneasiness she felt whenever she was in the townhouse.

After all, Cloudia’s father had died here.

Ever since Cloudia had witnessed Simon’s death in the townhouse’s garden, she hadn’t been able to go out there. The garden was cared for, but even looking at it for too long made her stomach churn and her head ache. This unease extended, albeit lightly, to the rest of the townhouse; infuriatingly, her mind registered the whole building as Simon’s place of death, not just the garden. And whatever she did, this discomfort was always throbbing at the back of her mind.

Now, as Cloudia stepped over the threshold, disquiet washed over her, and she wondered if Milton had felt the same way when he had returned to his home for the first time after his father’s death.

It had been five days since the hunt, and Milton still found his way into her mind which was to be expected.

Weeks later, Cloudia still caught herself thinking of him which was unusual.

A month later the wintry cold slowly ebbed away, and she spotted the first spring flower – and her mind still dwelt on him, and she could not figure out why.

Two meetings, one proper conversation, barely a day in each other’s presence – she should have long forgotten him, ceased to care for him as soon as they had parted ways after the hunt. It was unnerving that she hadn’t. That, for some maddening reason, she couldn’t.

Cecelia’s and Kamden’s words always brushed her thoughts of him; they echoed in her mind, gnawed on her nerves but Cloudia refused to believe that she was in love. While her head might be betraying her, her heart was secure. It didn’t flutter, didn’t pump warmth through her body whenever she thought of him. Her heart was steady, even if it longed to see him again, to talk to him again.

Only she could not do that.

Milton was still in the first phase of mourning. He could neither pay nor receive any visits; the reception and the hunt must have been exceptions, though Cloudia had never learned why. Even if he was not in mourning, she would be unable to contact him. How could she as a lady write to an unrelated gentleman? Especially if she did not tell him beforehand or had a good reason.

But she had to. With every passing day, she grew more annoyed and frustrated with herself that she was powerless to expel him from her thoughts.

I could not go on like this. I would not go on like this and let this nonsense consume me. Rules were meant to be broken. My current life broke the rules – I was a broken rule personified. Simple mourning etiquette could not stop me.

“I will meet Milton Salisbury,” Cloudia said into the loneliness of her room. To herself. To challenge the world. To turn her decision into more than a silly thought.

Something was pulling me to him, but it was not love.

He was not a crush; he was a mystery to be solved.

And I would find a way to meet him.

***

London, England, United Kingdom – May 1843

Yelling woke her up.

It had been four days since her attack, and Cloudia still needed all the rest she could get. Groaning, she rolled to the side and pressed her pillow to her ear – in vain. She could still hear the shouts.

What the hell was going on so early in the morning?

Cloudia cursed under her breath as she drew back the blanket and hastily got dressed. The room tilted a little; still, she managed to be swift and not faint halfway through buttoning her dress. A maid arrived just when Cloudia strode out of her bedroom. She quickly apologised for nearly hitting her with the door before she hurried downstairs, fuming.

Her fury dissipated and was replaced by cold horror when she got closer, however, and could finally discern who was making such a ruckus. Oh no, she thought and quickened her pace, fainting risk be damned. Cloudia only came to a halt when she arrived at the final landing and everyone’s eyes turned to her.

“Dia,” sighed Barrington and lowered his sword. “You are alive after all.”

“Of course, she is. I’ve been telling you that for the last ten minutes,” Oscar said, and Barrington scowled at him. They were standing a few metres apart, Barrington with a weapon in his hand and still wearing his overcoat, and Oscar with his arms loose by his sides and looking thoroughly annoyed.

“Remind me since when you are trustworthy,” Barrington retorted, his voice full of venom.

Cloudia clasped her hands around the balustrade. She had never disillusioned herself that she could hide Oscar from everyone forever, particularly not from Barrington or Cecelia. However, she hadn’t expected Barrington to barge unannounced into the townhouse and find Oscar before she had the chance to explain herself. She took a deep breath and then said, “Where is Clifford?”

“Mr Clifford left half an hour ago. He said he had some errands to run,” Oscar told her, ignoring the daggers Barrington glared at him. “He intended to return before it was time for you to wake up.”

“I would bet money that you stuffed poor Old Ted under the floorboards,” hissed Barrington.

“Be my guest if you want to lose all you have.”

“Barrington, it’s all right,” Cloudia said, and Barrington stared at her. “It is all right? Dia, do you have any idea who this abomination of a man is?” he asked and pointed his sword at Oscar again; it left him unfazed. “I know you must have only woken up, but can’t you at least feel the evilness radiating from him? He’s a criminal, a serial murderer. A convict whose execution was in the papers only recently. He must have somehow escaped; we should call the police.”

“I know very well who that is.” Her heart beat loudly in her chest as she let go of the balustrade and walked down the stairs, her steps steady. “Barrington, I arranged for him not to be executed.”

Barrington’s eyes widened even more. “What?” it slipped out of his mouth before he glanced at Oscar. “Dia, did that man do something…”

“No, Barrington,” Cloudia cut him off. “It was my idea and mine alone. I searched for him and freed him; the execution was a lie.”

For a moment, it was dead silent in the entrance hall. Then, the sound of metal scraping leather filled the air as Barrington sheathed his sword. “Cloudia,” he said with rare finality. “We need to talk, in private.”

Cloudia was thirteen years old and a child, though she had never felt her age as strongly as she did now.

Barrington had ordered a footman to keep an eye on Oscar and then beckoned Cloudia to follow him. He had led her upstairs to her father’s office. When Cloudia had become the Watchdog, she had picked another room to work in. Not only because it felt odd to move and change anything in what she had always known as her father’s room but also because the windows opened to the garden. Despite his quiet rage, Barrington was merciful enough to draw the curtains.

After he had lit the last lamp, he sank into an armchair opposite her. He might have chosen the room, but, like Cloudia, he wanted to avoid sitting at Simon’s desk and had gestured for her to take place in the seating corner. It was a small, cramped space, and while Cloudia had never asked, she was certain that this area of the room had been a later addition, shoved into the office after everything had already been furnished.

“Dia,” said Barrington, and although he hadn’t raised his voice, had only spoken intently, Cloudia flinched. At least, he hadn’t terrifyingly called her “Cloudia” again. “How are you? I’m sorry I didn’t notice beforehand; that man is a plight. You had another attack, hadn’t you?”

“Yes,” Cloudia said and leaned back into the cushions, expecting to blow up dust even though she knew that the room was regularly cleaned. “I woke up four days ago. I’m only feeling a bit faint, still.”

Barrington sighed. “I’m glad you are all right. I only wished I had known sooner. But then…” His expression was grim. “… I haven’t been told about quite a lot of things, it seems. Dia, what were you thinking?”

“I found Father’s sketchbook,” it spilt out of Cloudia, to her own surprise. She had thought she might struggle to get the words out, but they easily flowed out of her, as if she was glad to finally let go of this secret that she had carried with her for a year. “One of them, at least; I guess he must have filled many. The one I found was full of pictures of landscapes and a village or small town. Father had only drawn one person clearly and in portrait. I had never seen him before and I wanted to know who he was. So, I conducted some research and eventually found out that he was Oscar Livingstone, the Scotland Yard Ripper. I read about his crimes, but he appeared to have been close to Father, and I couldn’t have him executed or rot away in an asylum before I had any answers. I talked to Her Majesty, and she approved his release, though it could only happen in secret due to the notoriety and severity of Oscar’s crimes. I got him out of the asylum, and Rowan ensured that his supposed execution would be in the news.”

“When you found Si’s sketchbook, why didn’t you come to me?” Barrington asked. His face was blank, his voice calm, and it unnerved Cloudia.

“Because,” she replied and could feel anger clawing its way up her throat; she swiftly pushed it down and away. No, she had to hold her ground, and she could not do this if she lost control of her emotions. Though reining them in in Barrington’s presence hadn’t been easy for years; not since Cloudia had spoken with the Queen and learned that the man who was meant to be her father’s trusty friend might be her father’s murderer as well. “Because until I found it, I didn’t even know that Father had been an artist at all. You barely talk about him, Barrington, and are reluctant to answer any questions I have. Would you have answered me if I had asked or brushed me away?”

“I would have answered you,” Barrington said with slight hesitation, “simply to prevent you from locating that man. Aside from the fact that I have always disliked Oscar Livingstone, he is a serial murderer, Dia. Your father and I have blood on our hands as well, but there’s a difference between killing because you have to and killing because you want to. I have no idea what caused Oscar to snap and murder all these people, though I was never surprised that it happened at all. Nobody knows – or did he tell you? Did you ask?”

Cloudia shook her head.

“At any rate, I don’t think it’s even of importance,” Barrington continued. “He murdered people for years while he was working as a police officer. They raided his basement, and whatever they discovered there had been so gruesome, the Met never disclosed anything and locked up or destroyed all information. Do you understand how difficult it is to ensure that nothing ever seeps through? Cecelia’s husband was murdered, and while all information on his death was buried as well, she still managed to dig out a piece. Oscar was found out and convicted over five years ago, and his case was widely covered and is discussed to this day. Still, we know absolutely nothing about what was in that basement. Oscar is not just a serial killer, Dia; he is a famous one who was and is very likely protected by Scotland Yard. His crimes did, after all, taint the police’s reputation.

“Now, do you really want to associate yourself with such a man?”

“Yes.” Again, the word broke out of Cloudia with frightening ease. “There are not many people, it seems, that knew Father well, and even fewer that are willing to talk. It’s not just you, Barrington. It’s my aunts and uncles and Clifford too. Father’s other Aristocrat of Evil, Theresa Dale, is in the States and I have no idea how to contact her. Oscar is the only other living person I know who was close to my father – and the only one who is willing to help at all. Father apparently distanced himself from Oscar a year before his death, and Oscar does not know why. What if it was part of the reason why he was murdered? And even if it wasn’t, Oscar worked with Father for years. Any bit of information I can get out of him would be helpful, and Oscar was the Met’s best man. He would be very helpful with Watchdog work too.”

Barrington mustered her for a moment in silence before he sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair. “This is my fault entirely, I admit it,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dia, that I don’t talk about your father much but…” He sighed again. “But Oscar Livingstone? I understand your reason and I hate to say this, but he could indeed be helpful with your work. That does not remove the fact that he is a murderer and a criminal. He’s not a stable person and having been locked up in asylums for years must have worsened him. What if something happens to you, Dia? He does not have to hurt you directly to harm you. What if he starts killing again? I doubt the Queen will be happy about that; I’m sure she only allowed you to free him under the condition that you keep a tight leash on him. Oscar wouldn’t even have to kill many people; what if he only kills one? I can think of someone I’m sure he would love to disembowel.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Cloudia, perplexed.

Barrington met her eyes. “The one who discovered his basement, of course. No one knows the identity of that person. Their identity is as well-kept a secret as the contents of Oscar’s bloody chamber. I would wager, however, that Oscar knows who opened that door and ratted him out to the police. Was it a servant? A colleague? An accomplice? A thief that broke into his house? Whoever it was, I hope they have already died. They might be feeling secure in England now that Oscar’s officially dead, unknowing that he is very much alive and might be plotting revenge as we speak.”

“He’s not going to kill anyone,” Cloudia insisted, though her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. What if? What if? What if he will? rang through her head.

“How can you be sure, Dia? Stare at him all day and night? Lock him up when you won’t need him? That might be a good idea, actually.”

“Why would he want to jeopardise his newly gained freedom?” she countered. “Getting revenge will mean his immediate execution if they find out it was him. Killing that person will promptly incriminate him; it’s too obvious a crime. And Oscar said he wanted to help me because Father was his friend.”

“Friend.” Barrington laughed dryly. “Did Oscar use this word?”

“It was ‘close acquaintance’ and ‘colleague.’”

“Still inaccurate descriptors, I would say.” He deflated against the backrest. “I… When I look into Oscar’s face, I gaze into the face of evil. Si never told me the full story of how he met Oscar; I only know he first met him while I was away on my travels. Do you know how confused I was when Si told me he knows someone at the Met who could help us get some information? I can’t even tell you what we wanted to know; the astonishment I felt back then erased everything else. Scotland Yard had only just come to be, and your father of all people already knew an officer? And not just from passing? It felt like a weird dream, a nightmare truly.” Barrington rubbed his face. “Si always had a terrible time making friends. That’s why he only ever made two: Tess and me, excluding Penny because he married her. And then he goes and makes another while I’m away and it’s the worst person on Earth. Of course, Oscar wasn’t already a murderer then, but he has always been a cold, shady-looking person. I voiced my concerns, only your father didn’t want to listen. He…”

Barrington took a deep breath. “I think that even if Si had genuinely liked Oscar – Heavens above, I cannot imagine that anyone does – he was mostly intrigued by him, weirdly drawn to him because he has always been drawn to odd things. And his curiosity might have clouded his judgement.

“What I want to say, Dia, is: Are you sure that you can trust Oscar Livingstone? Are you sure that he has not been lying and will not lie to you?”

#watchdog of the queen #main chapters #kuroshitsuji #cloudia phantomhive x undertaker #cloudia phantomhive #undertaker #an update! finally!#tumblr is being super messy right now >.<#anyway: I hope it's enjoyable ^^'

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