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scribbleseas · 2 years ago

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XIV: The Queen’s Guard Dog

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, kissing

CHAPTER WARNINGS: plenty of combat, shooting, detailed description of violence, pain, and gore, nasty corpse described in detail, suicide briefly mentioned

Author’s Note: Happy Halloween, dear readers! I actually didn’t plan on a chapter coming out today, but things just worked out that way! Anyways, think of this chapter as the start of this fic’s “Act 2″ and just know I wrote most of this chapter to my Spotify playlist entitled “stop checking your phone, he didn’t text you.” So I took out the deep shit lol.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

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MASTERLIST

. . .

APRIL 3RD, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“There is nothing to make work, Your Highness.” Ciel’s blunt words, haunting you, refused to stop echoing in your head. They reminded you that from some corner of his twisted, dark, and somber mind, there was no remote possibility that you could be together, romantically or as you were.

You couldn’t live with him, making believe the night prior never took place, silently breathless while you fixated on his every word. Especially not while you were supposed to kill him. Even if you could channel all your rage and mortification into a bloodthirsty craving to commit murder, it wouldn’t be enough to force you to follow through.

It was cowardly, but this was the only action you could take. Much like Elizabeth ending the engagement because it would cause the least harm to the three of you, you were stuffing your belongings into a small leather suitcase and leaving to cause the least amount of harm to yourself and Ciel. There were no palatable ways you could see the next several weeks playing out if you stayed; you couldn’t force the Earl to want you, and you wouldn’t.

You never needed anyone besides yourself. Degrading yourself by chasing after an emotionless man would betray every skill Baxter left you. You’d sooner die than commit such a fallacy.

The scent of smoke washed over you as you pulled the conman’s chestnut jacket over your arms. You dressed down for the sake of riding and returning to your life, sporting a plain beige petticoat with a navy bodice. Clumps of assorted necklaces and rings weighed the deep pockets, jingling at the slightest movements. Perhaps they were better packed into the suitcase, with your previously hidden weapons and few personal effects.

Doña supplied everything else you brought, luxury gowns and all sorts that a princess would need with her. She purchased the jewelry, but you’d need it to pay your way to the States and food for the next several months.

After all, once Princess Marie was declared missing, there would be a rigorous international search for her. You would need to stay in hiding for a long time, and the royal-free United States would be your best chance at anonymity. You didn’t have the liberty of disappearing as the unpopular German princess again.

You pensively surveyed your quarters one last time as if you could commit every detail to memory, though the room was disheveled. You were keeping all of your belongings well hidden, and digging them up somewhat destroyed the room’s graceful ambiance. For instance, you had the final porcelain salt shaker jammed underneath the floorboard by your nightstand. Now, it sat in your petticoat while the floorboard leaned against the wall, pried away from its brethren.

As you left the manor, you invested all your accumulated knowledge about its layout. The best route to avoid Ciel’s quarters was the servants’ rooms, whose minuscule parts of the wooden floor complained the loudest when you stepped over them. You refused to take any chance. After all, if someone saw you, it would be impossible to maintain your ruse.

Most likely, you would need to kill them.

You slipped through the servant entrance at the manor’s side, opposite Ciel’s room. The moment you shut the heavy door behind you, you took a grateful sigh, trudging along the side of the building until you found a decent cluster of bushes.

Although thallium sulfate was a marvelous poison, it would be unwise to carry it onto a steamship. Though odorless, a trained officer knows the signs of disguised poison: indiscriminate containers, tasteless, carried by a suspicious character. A young woman traveling alone was bound to catch a few eyes in the first place. You were too tall to hide behind cargo boxes this time.

Thus, you unscrewed the salt shaker’s cap, and after kicking a patch of dirt away with your heel, you poured the white substance. If it killed the plants, which you doubted it would, Sebastian would simply replace them.

“Poisoning the plants seems rather cruel of you, wouldn’t you say so?”

Speak of the devil.

You paused, turning around so quickly you might’ve fallen over if you weren’t careful. Did you not check behind you? No, you did. You had to have.

“I’m sorry?” You asked intelligently, staring down at the full salt shaker in your hands. You blinked slowly, perplexed. Seconds ago, you poured the thallium into the dirt, yet it was back in its casing. The white substance managed to stare at you.

“Surely you must know what happens to those who ingest large amounts of thallium sulfate,” Sebastian said. “Would it be fair of me to presume you intended this rather agonizing death for my master?” he asked, although he very well knew the answer. The butler smiled, but his eyes were venomous, almost glowing as they reflected the rising sun.

Your head swam, looking for something to say, something to do, a way to escape, but you failed yourself. Sebastian was a man who could catch bullets and return them the same speed a gun initially launched them. It didn’t matter how experienced or clever you were, he could kill you. And by the murderous joy in his eyes, he would, given a chance.

The sharp inhale you meant to take in felt like a desperate gulp of air, as if you were sinking in an ocean, slowly letting the waves consume you before taking one final, parting breath. Was this how your sister felt? Or did Doña’s men have mercy and put a bullet between her eyes before capsizing the royal steamship?

“If you let me leave, I will never come here again. I won’t so much as remain in this country,” you couldn’t recognize your voice. It was ragged, pained, cornered like a lion in a cage, tamed by a whip. “Please, Sebastian. I have everything I need with me now. I will go.” This was how your voice sounded the morning Baxter died.

But you knew how that morning ended: four dead men, a mistreated girl, and a big crime scene to clean.

Sebastian was a lot of things; eloquent, graceful, and intelligent. But he was not merciful in any sense of the word.

“As much as I would enjoy that, my Lord has another way he wishes to…handle you,” the butler said as if he were referring to a common rat. “Please empty your pockets and allow me to take your bag.” It wasn’t the placid request he dictated it to be, and you knew better than to refuse.

So Ciel knew.

“Very good. Follow me.”

Complying would give you the best chance at survival. When you couldn’t use force, that merely meant you could rely on your mind. Surely some arrangement would allow you to leave free or even keep you alive long enough to find a way to escape on your merit.

Mey-Rin and Baldroy waited at either side of the doors of Ciel’s study, exchanging a stiff nod with Sebastian.

Neither of them looked at you, and neither of them was visibly armed, of course not. Mey-Rin could hardly handle dressing you, and you could work a furnace better than Baldroy. Still, you were outnumbered.

“After you,” Sebastian allowed you to open the office doors yourself, revealing Ciel, well-dressed in navy. He set his angular jaw, glaring in the same look he sent when he glowered at his enemies, Frances, Finley, and Arthur Randall.

Now, it was your turn. Being the target of such a look was like enduring a bullet to the chest.

“Your Highness,” Lord Phantomhive spat your pretend title like a curse, like the lie it was; a far cry from his usual fond sarcasm. “You don’t understand, I know,” he said gravely, looking at you as if you’d committed a crime. All you did was allow your feelings to grow too deep.

Now you understood; Ciel wasn’t referring to knowing your feelings. He was referring to the truth. From his shift in behavior, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the supposed call from Scotland Yard informed him, no, led him to the truth. You would have understood if you hadn’t been such a fool, tangled by your useless feelings. And you would have let take his toast.

“Leave us, Sebastian,” Ciel ordered, ignoring Sebastian’s easy yes, my Lord, to fixate on you again. He only spoke once the door shut behind you.

“Now, let me explain how we will proceed, Your-” he faltered before he could retain the curt look he was trying to emulate. “Or shall I refer to you as Y/n behind closed doors?”

“Y/n,” you responded, his attitude fueling a growing rage within you, your vulnerability hardening like a callus.

“I would imagine at this stage of your life; you would prefer Y/n,” Ciel ignored you, “well, no matter what you choose to call yourself, we are to be married,” he said, pulling a velvet box out of his suit pocket. You might have thought he was joking if he hadn’t brandished the box like a weapon, you might have thought he was joking. He was torturing you before trying to slit your throat.

You scoffed instinctively. “No. No, that simply will not stand. I know what you do to your enemies before you dispose of them. You hurt them so much that they wish they were dead! You intend to torture me before you kill me.”

Despite your own words, you knew he was serious. You could see it on his face.

“I have to say, that's a rather short-sighted perspective. You have a competent mind; try to apply an inkling of logic here,” Ciel said, but you understood him well. He did intend to torture you by forcing you to live at his side for the rest of your life. As Marie for the rest of your life, a thought that now made you tempted to beg Sebastian for your thallium to drink yourself. While the idea seemed reasonable last night, it was when you thought you would have an understanding partner to be as you could manage.

“You are now Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein. The powers that be know what you did with your sister. How you disposed of her. Nevertheless, Her Majesty believes her living granddaughter is in my care. I cannot allow you to die or vanish under my watch,” he explained. “All the while…you can rot as the German princess for the rest of your life. It shall be your penance for your attempts on my life. Our union will ensure I enjoy the advantages of being a part of the royal family. Understand?”

Beyond rage and vile hatred, there was nothing in his face. He looked like a marble statue of a vengeful god, hauntingly handsome but brutally cruel.

Your face felt hot as a result of your anger, making the room feel hot. It made your head pound, your heartbeat indignantly thumping in your chest. Doña was correct; the Lord Ciel Phantomhive was a malicious and sadistic man. You should have ridden the world of him weeks ago, seeing how easily the Queen’s Guard Dog eclipsed the man who bandaged your finger and read you philosophy to coax you to deep slumber. The man you could fall asleep next to.

“Your hand, if you will?” Ciel ordered, opening the box to reveal an engagement ring. The ring was annoyingly beautiful. And annoyingly you. It was a black diamond cut into a circle, the band ornate rose gold with accenting sapphire and emerald gemstones within the swirling gold patterns. Sapphire and emerald indicated the union between the royal line and the Phantomhives.

“Y/n?” Ciel prompted, waiting for you to offer your hand a moment longer. At your refusal, he huffed impatiently, taking it upon himself to take your hand. The movement caused you to spring into action, wrapping the very hand he tried to grab around his palm. You put all your strength into squeezing Ciel’s hand, twisting it, so his thumb faced the outside of his body.

“Damn it! Let me go!” he demanded, spitting each word into staccato notes. His face tightened with pain. You weren’t twisting his wrist enough to break it, but enough to cause immense discomfort. He was lucky; if his loyal servants weren’t waiting outside the door, you would take a pen from his desk and plunge it into his carotid artery. His free hand raised as if he wanted to slap you, but he thought better.

With a glare, you obeyed, releasing him. “I can do it myself,” you snapped, picking the box up from the floor to slide the ring onto your left hand’s fourth finger. You wanted nothing more than to shove the ornate piece of jewelry down his throat, but for the time being, you could wait.

You would wait.

. . .

If you had the opportunity to take your supper in your room, you would have.

Instead, you were sitting through a thinly veiled interrogation, your asparagus risotto tortuously sitting in front of you. Yesterday, you were Atlas, the world's weight your shoulders, when Lizzie gave you her blessing to be with her cousin. Today, you were Tantalus, starving in many ways, with everything you wanted just out of reach.

“To be clear, you are the former Princess Helena-Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein,” Ciel confirmed as if he was still trying to come to terms with the fact that you had been lying to him for nearly four months. He had a pen and paper at the side of his plate, prepared to take notes. His bruising wrist sat on a sack of ice.

Your eyebrows knit together as you gave Ciel a dubious look that said: obviously.

“Y/n Y/l/n fits this stage of my life,” you smarted, reciting Ciel’s words from earlier that day. Not that you were particularly regal during your time undercover, not having to be perfect and in character lifted somewhat of a burden. You rolled your eyes as he scribbled down your name in his loopy script.

“How did you manage to get away? At ten. And live?”

“How do you manage to be so irksome? At eighteen. And not get murdered before I came along?” you shot back.

You didn’t understand why any of this was necessary to discuss. It was so far behind you, you hardly remembered it. Sure, you recognized the general culmination of your early teenage years. It was winter in the city, conning the rich with Baxter, summers in Alfriston, working and enjoying the countryside. Learning was year-round. Baxter was not educated in the sense a noble would appreciate, but he was the best teacher you’d ever have.

“Focus on the topic at hand, Y/n. I’m questioning you here.” Ciel said bitterly. “Who commissioned you to come here, then?”

Now, these were the sorts of questions you were expecting. The ones you’d prefer to answer. You would never sully the memory of your life with Baxter by telling Ciel about it. He was nothing if not similar to Baron Steven Wright.

“I’m not sure,” you said, silencing the beginnings of Ciel’s protest with a look. “She never told me her name. All I know is that she and her servants speak Spanish, she only wears beige, and she has a baby. And she is young.”

“I have never heard of such a person,” he mumbled, jotting down notes from your description. “Did she tell you why she wants me killed?”

“You killed her whole family. That is all she told me,” you explained before Ciel could pester you, “she never explained why, when or how.”

Clearly, the Earl didn’t believe you. If you were in his place, you doubted you would trust your words either. After all, you could very well be lying. But you weren’t that loyal to Doña. Not since she sent forces to the manor to attack you, intentionally putting you in harm’s way and calling it motivation.

Ciel set his pen flat on the table, taking a slow inhale. “Y/n, if I must, I can certainly find ways to jog your memory. Surely you have better recollection than what you’ve been telling me. Must I motivate you?” he asked, fingers meaningfully grazing the butter knife on his place setting.

You failed to fight the mocking smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. He was threatening you and all you could think about was how easily you could end him. Ciel Phantomhive was a spoiled Earl with a butler to wait on him and he thought he could challenge you, an experienced killer and successfully jog your memory?

“You could try, yes. But more likely, you would require your butler to carry out such a task,” you took a leisurely spoonful out of your risotto, shaking your head. The man across from you had a boundless ego; that was certain. “And that’s presuming you live long enough to wail for him. You’re a weak excuse for an Earl.”

To his credit, Ciel’s composure remained steadfast, despite your purposeful jab. “Allow me to remind you: you couldn’t bring yourself to kill me. You were too weak to carry out your job, and that is how you ended up in this predicament. Don’t you dare presume to call me weak, Y/n.”

“You are simply a pompous coward!” you exclaimed, his words igniting your veins as you rose from your chair. Ciel did the same, his fingers wrapping around the knife he was previously caressing. Your stomach twisted into embarrassed knots, manipulating you into feeling seasick.

Of course, he would weaponize your affection for him. That’s what unfeeling, heartless men did when there was nothing more to fault about a person. A low, predictable blow.

Yesterday, he held you close, leading you around the dance floor in graceful steps. Steps you taught him. Admittedly, under false pretenses but truly, Ciel knew it was still you, no matter what you lied about. And he was afraid of that.

You’d show him a low blow.

Before you could stop yourself, you drove the side of your hand, pinky first, into the bit of muscle neck to Ciel’s neck. He was taller, but not so much that your arm had difficulty reaching him when you pounced. You forced him to bend at the waist by taking your opposite hand and taking hold of his shirt. You used all of your body weight to pull him down in his pained haze, pinning him on the floor. His knife clattered to the floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ciel protested, breathless from the floor, knocking the wind out of his lungs. “You’re a bloody lunatic!” He thrashed under you, using his taller frame to shove you off. Against biological advantages, your training could only help you so much. Besides, floor combat was not your specialty.

“And what will you do, Ciel Phantomhive? Call for your butler to save you?” You taunted, fingers clutching either opening of his jacket to try to force his head to crash into the floor. You failed.

Instead, Ciel drove his kneecap into your stomach, causing a flare of pain to erupt in your abdomen. Despite his bad wrist, he managed to shove you away and take hold of his knife, which was close enough for him to reach without giving you time to recover. He used his taller frame to keep you pinned against the floor, pressing the butter knife’s rounded tip into your throat, right over your racing pulse. The silver instrument felt cold against your warm skin.

“No; I can handle an imposing girl on my own,” Ciel growled, digging the point into your flesh threateningly. Your knees squirmed under his straddle, hindered by your heavy skirts. His non-dominant hand kept your arm in place with a steely grip that dug into your forearm, leaving your arm bent at the elbow, a 90-degree angle.

For a moment too long, Ciel watched you uncertainly. He seemed undecided on where he wanted to train his gaze, the knife imprinting in your skin (yet to cause any bleeding) or your lips. The latter seemed to be winning, to your twisted amusement. At the end of the day, Ciel Phantomhive was a man, and it wasn’t like the fatal, magnetic attraction between the both of you could disintegrate in two days.

But this was a matter of survival.

“And I can handle a spoiled Earl!” you grunted, using the heel of your free hand to drive into his nose. Your revelation fueled the sudden burst of adrenaline you used to power your arm, using his confusion to twist your body and force his dead weight to the side.

Ciel cursed, grumbling an unabashed host of unflattering names directed towards you. His hands instinctively flew to his bleeding nose, trying to figure if it was broken or not. “You are just out of your mind!” he exclaimed, “an unruly loon!”

“No more so than you are,” you responded, rising to your feet with the help of a chair. Your stomach complained, pained by the sharp kick it took, but you ignored it. With the Earl distracted with his new injuries, you could make a reasonable shot at escape. “Now, seeing as you simply cannot handle this strong woman, I will be making my leave! Try and stop me if you still think yourself capable!”

Ciel’s yell for his servants sounded far away as you bounded down the corridor.

What could they do? Mey-Rin could hardly handle your evening tea; Baldroy seemed to be most keen on playing with his flamethrower before all else, and Finny was about as innocent as a child. Your focus needed to be on evading Sebastian’s inhuman strength and agility.

“Stop this instant! You will pay dearly for your insolence!” Ciel’s footsteps followed you, but you ignored them. He was a distraction, and if you heeded his words, you would lose your lead.

Thankfully, the Earl surrendered to his fragile constitution. Breathing heavily, he stopped chasing you, his asthma likely irritated by the initial brawl you started in the dining room and the sudden chase. Even your lungs burned, but you couldn’t afford to slow. Sebastian always pounced when you let your guard down.

You pushed the servant’s entrance open, letting the heavy doors slam behind you. The sound echoed through the cellar, but at least you managed to get outside. The sky was clear, the sun beaming.

It only took a few paces before you suffered from your mistake: looking up, rather than where you were going. Novice mistake, seeing as you only made it a few paces before slamming into someone.

“Um, Your High-- Y/n, you really shouldn’t be out here,” Finny said, frowning anxiously. His white gardening gloves tugged at his work shirt, fiddling. The sun made his blond hair shine as if Rumplestiltskin wove it from pure gold. He looked guilty even though you were the one on the run.

“Step aside,” you ordered, truly having no desire to harm an innocent man such as the Phantomhive estate gardener. “I have no grievances against you, Finny. Allow me to pass and I will let you live,” there was more confidence in your voice than you felt, Sebastian’s looming threat crawling up your back, turning your bones to lead.

The gardener was unconvinced. “No, Miss, I’m sorry, but that just won’t do. My master said that you have to remain on estate grounds….”

You pulled your lips into a tight purse. There was no time for this debate.

Without wasting another moment, you pulled Finny’s skinny body close by his shoulders. Inspired by Ciel, you jammed your knee into his abdomen with all your strength; right under his ribcage on the right side of his stomach. You could hit someone in the liver blindfolded; you were lucky Ciel wasn’t as trained as you were. Such a blow was brutal. And dirty.

“Ow!” The gardener cried out and crumbled to the ground, the impact against his ribs sending a shock through his body. It decreased his blood pressure to make him black out.

Ow was correct. You surely bruised your knee with that blow, but you didn’t have time to care about that or the morality of hurting an innocent. While Finny wasn’t visibly armed and had a child’s disposition, you didn’t know the full extent of his capabilities. You weren’t a success in your field because you acted according to your initial estimations.

You had warned him, after all.

But just when you thought your exit to the forest line was free, a gunshot echoed throughout the vicinity. It was a gunshot, unmistakably, it came from behind you, but when you turned your head, no one was there. It wasn’t until you looked up that you realized where it came from.

There was a single individual perched on the roof of the manor, difficult to spot in the light but unmistakably there. They sent another shot your way, but they narrowly missed; an incredible feat given the distance between you at ground level and the shooter at the peak of the building. You jumped, instincts forcing you to move to the side and give one last look in an attempt to discern who your next enemy was.

They had a feminine figure, clad in black and white. A…maid’s costume.

Your blood ran cold. It couldn’t be. Mey-Rin? The silly maid who broke tea set after tea set?

She had no qualms about shooting again, this bullet piercing a hole through your petticoat, centimeters from your skin. The gunshot rang throughout the estate once more, cracking with the same power you heard when Doña sent those men. At least you weren’t the only undercover killer. You had to admit; it was clever of Ciel to keep a skilled sniper about his manor at all times.

But it wasn’t enough. She had a good shot because you were out in the open, nearing the treeline as you ran once more. Every bit of your body complained, feet aching from your heeled boots. Ciel pressed hard enough to draw blood, considering there was crimson blood dripping down your neck.

You used your anger to fuel each step, but after you passed the forest line, the bullets only grew more rapid, as if another marksman joined Mey-Rin. You refused to waste time and look back, but a lucky shot gave you no choice, grazing your side, the combined force and pain tripping you.

Who could manage such a shot?

Nobody human, that was for sure.

You fell to the ground panting and just as involuntarily as Finny did. Your trembling hands tried to cover the raw wound on your right side. Even your ankle throbbed, insinuating that you twisted it in your fall. Excessive dryness overwhelmed your mouth and tongue, the desire for cold water more consuming than the searing heat the bullet caused. All you could smell was a combination of blood and your own burnt flesh.

“Whoa,” you hardly heard yourself, “ouch.” The destruction the grazed bullet left made your stomach turn, showing off red, turgid flesh. Rolling onto your back, you tried to guide your shaking hands back over the wound, but it only stung.

“Get up, Y/n,” Baxter urged from the back of your mind, but it was no use. How you wished you could tell him so. “You can do difficult things. Get up. Use what’s around you, girl. God put a brain in that skull for a reason.”

You used your non-dominant hand to touch a tree’s coarse bark and press against its sturdy trunk. By putting your weight against the sturdy trunk, you rose to your feet, but the second you tried to walk, you would have fallen back to the forest floor if a set of arms hadn’t caught you.

“This game of chase is quite a silly waste of time, wouldn’t you think so?” Sebastian’s shadow loomed over you since he caught you from behind. Ironically, like a childish trust exercise. “You were much easier to manage when all you preferred to do was read, if I may be so blunt,” he mused, quickly scooping you into his arms.

“I hate you,” you seethed, only causing Sebastian to chuckle.

“I’m not so fond of you, either, Miss Y/n. You are alive because my master wishes for it. Mey-Rin could have easily shot a bullet through your heart, much like Finny could have crushed you like an insignificant ant. In the same way, I could snap your neck with my bare hands. You live per my Lord’s wishes; please do keep that in mind,” Sebastian said jovially, applying firm pressure to your wound. Your blood soiled his white gloves, formerly pristine.

Sebastian’s eyes glowed in the sunlight as he walked you back to the estate’s clearing or because he wasn’t human.

“What are you, Sebastian?” You drawled, ignoring the threatening overtones in his voice. “No one is this perfect.”

He didn’t seem taken aback by your question in the slightest. Instead, it only made his smile deepen.

“Why, I’m simply one hell of a butler. There is no need for flattery when you so clearly detest me, Miss. I have no use for your compliments.”

. . .

“And she isn’t dead?” Your closed door muffled Ciel’s question. By the time he came to check on you, recovering from his own injuries, Sebastian had your side bandaged tightly. No stitches needed. A sack of ice sat on your ankle. At his demonic butler’s confirmation, he mumbled a nearly indiscernible good.

“You look like hell,” you said upon Ciel’s entry, noting the bandage over his slightly swollen nose. There was some redness under his eyes, but you knew you didn’t hit him hard enough to break his nose. You regretted that, considering his maid of all people reduced you to this bedridden mess of a person.

“And you are quite fortunate I instructed my servants to fight to deter, not to kill,” Ciel settled on the desk chair at your bedside. He held ice against his wrist, stare flitting to the dressed cut on your throat and your bored expression.

“You are fortunate I decided to fight to deter, not to kill. Otherwise, both you and your gardener would be dead at this very moment,” you sighed, briefly wondering how Finny was faring. Sebastian told you Baldroy, and Mey-Rin were tending to him as he roused from his unconsciousness-- tired but not permanently hurt.

“Your pride will undo you, Y/n.

“You say as if you are the wiser,” you replied stubbornly. If he wouldn’t kill or release you, you intended to make him wish to. But as you watched him, his injured yet fully intact spirit, a question rose to your tongue: before you could stop it: “when did you learn the truth?”

After a long, reluctant look, Ciel’s resolve crumbled. “If you recall, it was the phone call I’d received from the Yard the morning before the wedding….”

APRIL 1ST, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Right, if it is a…dire matter, I shall tend to it. Of course,” Ciel ran his palms over his suit to wipe their perspiration, slowly forming from the exertion the waltz required, his mortification, and Princess Marie’s warmth. “Thank you, Your Highness. Sebastian, see to lunch preparations for after this call.”

After dipping his head to the flushed princess, Ciel quickly showed himself up the stairs, retreating slightly faster than the situation required. He couldn’t help himself; the butterflies in his stomach made him feel jittery. They made his face grow hot and red, like some fool who wore his heart on his sleeve. He wanted them gone.

He was Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen’s Guard Dog, for heaven’s sake! He couldn’t have felt like this for anyone, yet the princess permanently ingrained herself in his mind. It was a repulsive set of impulses, wanting to be around the same person, craving the sight of their smile, studying their person-- every word that slipped their lips, every subtly in their comments.

Ciel’s thoughts made him nauseous.

From the time he took to trudge up the stairs and slump at his desk, Ciel nearly forgot to pick up the phone. The Yard called again, and the ringing pulled him from his princess-induced stupor.

“Lord Phantomhive!” Fred Abberline’s inquisitive voice sounded over the line. The background murmuring told Ciel that the detective was not in his office alone. A higher-up must have requested he make the call. “We are re-opening the Amelia Dyer case. Please come to the station as soon as you can manage.”

“What could you possibly mean you’re re-opening the Amelia Dyer case? We ruled it an accident for lack of physical evidence, did we not?” Ciel asked, his fingers rubbing at the forming wrinkles in his forehead.

“We found her body, sir. It was floating in the Thames and preserved in the cold water all this time. She was murdered.”

“I will be on my way. I will be there within the hour,” Ciel said, wasting no time putting on a jacket and readying himself. He ordered Sebastian to watch over Her Highness and the estate; Ciel could handle himself in the city.

Amelia Dyer’s body was blistered, and a sickly green color, but her injuries were apparent: the intentional severing of both popliteal arteries, judging by the location of each clever cut. From each gaping wound, Ciel saw layers of adipocere developing or wax that forms in a submerged fatty tissue during decomposition in freezing water.

“She was indeed murdered,” Ciel agreed. No one could easily reach such vital points, and an average person would opt for an easier suicide. No average prostitute from a train station would know how to make such precise and vengeful cuts. This murderer conducted their crime with revenge as a focal point, slowly letting the baby farmer bleed out by severing the backs of her knees. “Leave me be, Abberline. I have to think.”

Staring into Amelia Dyer’s dead gaze, Ciel reviewed what he knew:

The woman murdered unwanted infants. A case in point, she murdered the woman in the train station’s infant because the prostitute’s husband had no desire to raise a bastard child. Aghast and vengeful, the woman begged Princess Marie to kill Amelia Dyer and return her child to her. She mistook her for her sister, Y/n.

Y/n was the former princess Helena-Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, confirmed by the Undertaker, the estate’s attackers, and there was no physical evidence supporting her death. It was presumed, after two weeks of searching.

As indicated by the Undertaker, she was an active and heavily experienced contract killer.

An experienced killer would know how to sever one’s popliteal arteries and do so vengefully, clearing believing they are serving justice.

Amelia Dyer died the night the prostitute confronted Princess Marie at the train station.

Princess Marie killed a man with a pen and knocked another unconscious. That could not be formal self-defense training. She could hardly stand upright on ice skates, a vital skill for a royal. Her dancing was laced with uncertainty. She never corresponded with her family. She first cared to ask about Ciel’s investigative endeavors after he observed the Dyer crime scene.

Y/n killed countless victims in numerous ways, most subtle enough to keep Ciel, the bloody King of the Underworld, unsuspecting.

Princess Marie was ill the day following Amelia Dyer’s death.

Now, Ciel was ill himself, sickened from his theory. He pushed past Abberline to return to his estate, needing to rifle through the dozens of German newspapers he possessed tucked away in his desk. Each headline mentioned Princess Marie in one way or another, and he needed to compare the most recent image to the girl imprinted in the front of his mind.

Newspaper-Marie: no cheekbone scar, frown lines, innocent smile, bright eyes.

Ciel’s Marie: cheekbone scar upon close inspection, deep scowl lines, caustic grin, observant eyes.

Ciel’s eyes stung as he took an impossible breath in. His intense grip on the printed paper in his hands tore it. He put all of his rage into crumpling the paper into a tight ball, lobbing the ball across his study.

The prostitute beseeched the correct twin. That was why Sebastian couldn’t locate Y/n. She was under their noses, posing as her sister. Making a fool of him. Teasing him. Lying to him…

On a mission. To kill him. He was Y/n’s next target.

“Sebastian!” Ciel all but screamed, salty tears forming in his eyes. The intensity, he stood up and knocked his office chair into the bay window behind him.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian entered, closing the door behind him. He was entirely too calm in the face of his vexed master. “I see you’ve put the pieces together. Excellent, sir.”

“You knew?” Ciel asked, his hands slamming on his desk. The demon didn’t even flinch. Instead, he chuckled.

“Not for certain, although I admit I had my suspicions.”

“And you said nothing?” Ciel shouted, fingers curling into a fist. Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n, Marie was Y/n.

Someone hired her to kill him. Everything they’d experienced together in the past several weeks was a lie staged by one of his enemies, orchestrated like a polished symphony, predictable like a play.

This was why he couldn’t find anyone who could threaten the crown: no one did. It was all fabricated to push Princess Marie into his care.

“It was not my place,” Sebastian said. “I am but a chess piece for you to move, my Lord. It has never been my position to accuse a princess of being an imposter. Certainly not as your lowly butler. That being said… how do you wish to proceed, my Lord?”

Ciel blinked rapidly. He would not cry. He refused. All humans lied; there was nothing different about this deception. Once again, he caught the actual criminal, and in the end, he was correct: finding Y/n would solve the case.

Ciel cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “We will proceed with the wedding as usual and make our move once it passes. The Midfords expect the princess to be present, and we shall not disappoint them. Our confrontation will have to take place the morning after. In the meantime, I need you to commission a specific ring….”

You cringed throughout Ciel’s recount of the day before the wedding. The call from the Yard, how he described Amelia Dyer’s body, and his thought process. How he seamlessly unraveled every one of your lies with this single clue.

“You did well,” you admitted begrudgingly, speaking to the very glittering on your finger. “Not many people would have been able to come to this conclusion,” you sighed, “truly a brilliant job, Guard Dog.”

If it weren’t for that phone call, you could have been on your way to the States, preparing to start anew.

You knew you should have allowed Dyer’s body to char with her cursed house.

. . .