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tothelasthoursofmylife · 4 months ago

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Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

There was a clock in this room. He could not tell where it was; all he knew was that its ticking reverberated through the entire room, echoing through the walls, the furniture, the ground, and pulsing through the air.

The clock hands were moving, gliding over the clock face with every second, every minute, every hour with a soft, deafening tick, tick, tick.

All while his time had frozen still.

He could not move; he could not think. His limbs were lead; his mind congealed.

He could not tell whether he was holding her hand or whether she was holding his. Was he anchoring her, or was she anchoring him? He only knew that their hands were clutched together, that she wasn’t answering him, that her chest was weakly moving up and down, and that the tick, tick, tick was engulfing everything, even eclipsing the havoc outside.

And that he did not know what to do.

She was bleeding out on a table, and he had no idea what to do.

A scream broke through the unrelenting ticking; it did not come from outside, but from within, beckoning him to do something do something do something…

But he was frozen still. They were in an empty café who-knew-where in Paris. There were no medical kits. There was no help. He didn’t know the way to anywhere. And his mind was blank besides the scream, the scream that was getting louder and louder, but there was nothing here that could help…

Except…

Cedric tightened his grip on Cloudia’s hand as the ice shattered around, reached for her pocket as the world came back.

The receiver.

Cloudia had never returned the receiver and had only retrieved Yvette’s transmitter, not Townsend’s. It must still be on his body – which was now being taken to Cecelia’s house.

Cedric held his breath as he let the screen flare to life and only exhaled when he saw the blinking stationary dot – and the blinking moving one.

Milton had said that the range of his transmitters and his receiver was not much, even with the supplementary stations Quentin had set up, and Cedric and Cloudia had separated from the others so long ago. Still, one dot was dancing over the screen, in a messy zigzag but clearly visible, clearly there. And showing them the way to safety, to help.

“Countess,” Cedric said and squeezed Cloudia’s hand, energy floating back into his body. “Please hang on. I will get you to help; I only need you to hang on.”

She stirred softly in response, and his heart ached at the sight. The pain deepened when Cedric let go of her hand, the loss of her touch sending a cold shock through his system even though their hands could not have been clasped together for that long. With newfound strength, Cedric shuffled hastily through the cabinets and drawers again, procuring some towels at least. He held one of them beneath the tap but an image of blood running, running, running into water blurred his vision momentarily when he reached for the handle. He pulled his hand back instead, turned to Cloudia, pressed the dry towel to her wound, and wrapped others around her. They made poor makeshift bandages, especially on a gaping wound, but it was better than nothing.

Cedric glanced at the receiver beside Cloudia. Townsend’s dot still hadn’t disappeared from the screen, but there was no time to waste; it was only a question of time until it did – just like it was a question of time until Cloudia…

Cedric shook his head free of the thought.

No, no, no.

With the receiver showing me the way, I would get Cloudia to safety.

Today was not the day she would die; not when I had any say in it.

Cedric gently lifted Cloudia into his arms. When her head rolled against his chest, he resisted the urge to drop a kiss on it and whisper into her hair that everything would be all right. He thought it instead, again and again and again, as he stepped outside, back into the riot-filled streets of Paris, even if he couldn’t touch the skull pendant necklace now and he knew that none of his thoughts could reach Cloudia. They were more for him, he supposed, the reassurances that he strung in his mind like pearls along a thread while he followed the way the receiver drew out for him. Still, part of him hoped that they did somehow reach Cloudia; and when she began to mumble softly, too softly for him to make out any words in the noise around and with his heart beating as rapidly as it did, Cedric considered it a sign that they had.

It was difficult to follow the blinking dot at times. The chaos was not ebbing away, only increasing, and it became harder and harder to navigate the streets. It did not help that Cedric did not know them and found himself now and then face-to-face with a dead end, or that there were people everywhere – fighting, running, building barricades. Every new road, every rounded corner offered a new challenge; it had been like that earlier too, only now Cedric could not let anyone get too close to Cloudia, lest someone grazed her, stumbled against her – made her injury worse than it already was.

He wished he could jump over the roofs again, but he did not dare to try.

But what was worse? Losing the signal and any way to find Cecelia’s house or a potentially minor worsening of Cloudia’s wound?

Cedric clenched his teeth together as he navigated the dense streets, dodged flying objects, and manoeuvred around people, all while holding tight to Cloudia and gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles came out white. Sweat was running into Cedric’s eyes. He had no hand free to wipe it away. The dot was skimming the edge of the screen, almost fading out of it. And there were so many people, so many dead ends, so many unfamiliar turns and streets. And so, so much blood seeping out of Cloudia.

“Hold on tight,” Cedric whispered to Cloudia and jumped. The breeze cooled his sweat slightly, and the higher he got, jumping from balcony to balcony, the more at ease he felt. The air was permeated with gunpowder, smoke, blood, and tears, even so high above; still, it felt fresher to him than below on the crowded street.

Cloudia groaned softly when Cedric reached the roof. “Are you okay, Countess?” he asked, his voice full of worry and his mind ready to scold himself for undertaking this reckless behaviour, but her mumbling response stopped the tirage because, this time, he could hear her: “I am,” she said. Tears welled in his eyes to hear her speak clearly, albeit weakly; it hadn’t been too long ago that Cedric had feared he might never hear her voice at all anymore.

“You’re so silly,” Cloudia murmured then.

Cedric chuckled. “I am, aren’t I?” He squeezed her gently before he moved along the roof and hopped to the next to catch up with the dot. It was quickly accomplished, and part of Cedric basked in the relief, but the rest of him urged him not to become careless now: Just because he had brought the dot of Townsend’s transmitter firmly into the screen again did not mean it would stay there.

And, indeed, when Cedric reached the river and saw the masses of people on and around the bridge, his heart dropped momentarily. He had to get on the other side to follow the transmitter, and he could not do it jumping from roof to roof.

“Hold tight, Countess,” Cedric said. This time, Cloudia grabbed his shirt. Her breathing was laboured, and her face was marked with pain, but her grip was still surprisingly strong.

“I’ll be careful; don’t worry,” he told her, though her action did not make him doubt his abilities at all; it only lit him up with hope and determination that everything would be fine – that she would be fine. Taking a deep breath, Cedric descended back to the streets. If someone had noticed them coming from the rooftops, no one cared enough in this turmoil to stare or enquire.

Holding Cloudia tightly, and she holding tightly to him, Cedric charged for the bridge. It was packed with people who were bound southward, either to try to escape the chaos north or let the fire expand. In the streets, one could be squished or trampled to death by the crowds; here, one could be pushed off the bridge, right into the Seine whose water horribly resembled the Thames’.

And there was it again; that image from earlier.

Drops, drops, drops of blood in the water.

Running longer and longer.

Colouring the river red and redder and…

Cedric pushed the image away, letting it dissolve in the stream of his memory. Forwards. He had to move forwards, not backwards. Towards the blinking dot on the screen, through the crowds of people, to the other side of this river.

It was a tight fit, with a few close calls when someone got too close to Cloudia, when Cedric ended up too close to the balustrade, but while he might not know how to treat a wound, how to save a life, he knew how to navigate places like this, situations like this. And he was so much more agile than he had been then.

Dodging people and objects; vision blurring because of the hectic movements all around; ears ringing because of the noise, the shouts, the shots, the screams and the cries. In the end, guards were trying to keep the people away and shepherd them back. Cedric swiftly evaded them too.

The bridge first led onto a small island in the Seine, and he had to take its second half to get to the other side of the river proper. The process for the second part was the same as the first. Cedric pushed through, and then he and Cloudia were fully across the bridge.

Euphoria rose in his chest. He would have jumped in joy if he hadn’t been carrying Cloudia. He would have raised a fist to the sky if his hands hadn’t been occupied. He would have, at least, let out one triumphant squeak if his euphoria hadn’t extinguished as quickly as it had risen.

Their dot was still blinking.

The second one was gone.

Cloudia mumbled a question that sounded vaguely like “what is wrong?” but the blood rushed into Cedric’s ears, and he could not be sure. He went, half-tumbled, to a side street that seemed refreshingly quiet. Leaned against a wall, took deep, gasping breaths.

The dot was gone.

It had been there only a moment ago. I knew it had been there only a moment ago. I had glanced at the screen right after passing the guards, and it had been there, blinking, beckoning – not at the edge of the screen even, but firmer in the middle.

And now it was gone. Vanished without a trace. What had happened?

Had something happened to Townsend? To the transmitter? To Milton’s towers? Was the receiver malfunctioning? Had Oscar and Barrington ventured to an area with no towers, with no signal? Had they boarded a carriage and rushed out of range?

But what did it matter what had happened to the signal. It was gone – and with it any chance of me finding Cecelia’s house and getting to the others.

Laughter sprung out of Cedric. It was not the joyous kind that came out whenever he was with Cloudia; it was darker, harsher – one that rattled both his body and his nerves. Cloudia tightened her grip on his shirt, dug her fingers into his flesh as strongly as she could; he paid it no mind as bitter, hysteric laughter took over him.

He felt so stupid.

He felt so useless.

He felt so lost.

Not much had changed then. It was still the same – I was still the same.

“What on earth happened?”

The question in plain, horrified English threw him out of his trance – and the voice made Cedric snap his head up.

Barrington Weaselton stared at them with wide, worried eyes. Cedric had never been so happy to see him.

“Oh, good Lord, Dia.” Barrington stepped to them, raised his hand to touch Cloudia’s face, maybe brush a lock of hair away, though he let it hover instead.

“She got shot,” Cedric pressed out. Hearing this fact out loud, saying this out loud, sent a punch to his stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

“How could you…” Barrington began but then shook his head. With this simple motion, he seemed to sharpen. His presence was always so loud already, but Cedric never quite understood how nebulous Barrington’s edges actually were until he laid down his usual coat for the one befitting a former knight and senior Aristocrat of Evil.

“Hand her to me, Kristopher,” Barrington demanded with the same force and authority as when he had spoken to Cedric at Phantomhive Manor a few months ago.

Cedric shook his head. “No.”

“Be reasonable. We have little time; Dia is bleeding out as we speak, and you can barely stand.”

“No.” Cedric held Cloudia tighter. “I can still carry her. I’ve carried her so far already, and I can get her to Cecelia’s house. Just show me where to go.”

Barrington mustered him. “If you falter once,” he said insistently, staring right into his eyes, “you will hand her over with no protest, do you understand me?”

Cedric tightened his grip and nodded his head. Barrington held the gaze for one moment longer before he turned, unsheathed his sword, and beckoned Cedric to follow.

The fighting hadn’t quite reached this part of the city yet. They had left the epicentre of it all when they had crossed the bridge, but bits and pieces of the chaos flared up here too before they vanished entirely when the buildings became grander and nicer.

Cedric asked his question earlier though, a mere two steps after they had left the quiet little side street.

“Where are Milton, Oscar, and Townsend?”

“We split up,” Barrington said matter-of-factly.

Cedric nearly stopped in his tracks, only his subconsciousness telling him that it might hurt Cloudia to stop so suddenly urged him forward. “You did what?”

“Oscar suggested that I turn around and try to get you. After all, you don’t know Paris and might get lost.” Barrington rammed the handle of his sword against the temple of a man who came too close to them and reeked of trouble. It was an eerily casual move, and it unnerved Cedric how it did not seem to faze Barrington at all. “I hate to admit it, but Oscar was correct in his assessment.” Barrington glanced at Cedric. “I cannot believe I am glad to have listened to him.”

“But how could you leave Milton with…”

Barrington silenced Cedric with one glare. “This is not the time to care for the Salisbury boy. Just be quiet and follow me. We must be quick.”

Cedric pressed his lips together. Cloudia murmured something he couldn’t make out. That she was making a noise let a little smile appear on Barrington’s face before he shoved some people away and led them down a few more streets until the sounds of fighting and rioting turned into mere background noise. The sudden change, the dissonance between this part of the city and the one they had left behind, was so stark that it left Cedric momentarily disoriented.

A few men and women in fine clothes traversed through the roads, and some polished carriages rattled through the streets here. People stared at Cedric, Barrington, and Cloudia, taking in their battered appearances, and turned to whisper amongst themselves. Barrington had sheathed his sword again, and when a man approached them clearly to try to send them away, Barrington merely placed a hand on the hilt, straightened his back, and stared at him. Without a word, the man turned around and quickly moved away.

Barrington then guided Cedric into the side streets, and they walked through its web until, finally, they arrived at the back entrance of the Williams family’s Paris townhouse. Cedric briefly looked at it but took nothing in; all his attention was on Cloudia and getting up the stairs without falling. How pathetic it would be to drop her now, mere metres before their destination.

Barrington knocked against the door – short, long, long, short –, and it immediately flew open at the last knock. Newman stepped before Cedric and tried to take Cloudia out of his arms. However, because Newman’s appearance had been so sudden, Cedric stiffened for a moment and didn’t let go. Only when Newman assured him that she would be fine, Cedric let go. He nearly tipped over when Newman lifted Cloudia out of his arms. The balance was off now; it was as if someone had ripped a limb from his body. He felt so hollow, and everything felt so strange and wrong that Cedric could only hover before the door. Barrington gently pushed him into the house.

The door closed behind them.

The lock was turned.

And exhaustion and pain crashed upon Cedric.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His knees nearly buckled; he staggered against the door.

I was here. I had made it to Cecelia’s house. We had made it to Cecelia’s house. Cloudia. Cloudia.

Cedric shot out his arm, caught the end of Barrington’s jacket before he could leave. Barrington turned around, and though Cedric had no energy to speak anymore and could only huff, his sight must have been ghastly enough for Barrington’s edges to soften again. “It’s been a long day,” he said softly. “Kam will take care of Dia – and you should get yourself cleaned up and get some rest.” He let his gaze wander over Cedric and grimaced. “Really, you should get yourself cleaned up before Cecelia comes here and lectures you on ruining Michael’s great-great-great grandfather’s Persian rug or something.”

“It’s his great-grandfather’s Persian rug, not his great-great-great-grandfather’s. Don’t you ever listen?” Cecelia said as she appeared by the back door. “And I would indeed lecture you about that, Not-Kristopher, if I wasn’t so astonished that the Bookstore Boy’s hunch has been right.” She folded her arms in front of her chest with a grim expression on her face. “He dropped a plate all of a sudden and began to prepare a room as if possessed. Didn’t even pick up the porcelain pieces, and it was part of Michael’s great-great-aunt’s good tea service too.”

“That’s good to hear. The part with Kamden and his preparations, not the part with the plate,” remarked Barrington and patted Cedric’s hand that still held on to his jacket. “Kam was even ready beforehand; there is no need to worry, Kristopher.”

“Regarding this…” Cecelia glanced at Cedric before she shifted her eyes back to Barrington. “As Cloudia was severely injured, there are some things that need to be discussed, Barrington…”

Cedric tore his hand free from Barrington’s jacket at her words and stormed away before he could hear another piece of their conversation.

Cedric didn’t clean himself up, not properly at least. Wandering unsteadily, aimlessly through the stately house, he did eventually find a bathroom. However, when Cedric had turned on the tap, his intestines had made a flip, and he had had to turn it right off again. He had rubbed his hands and face with a dry cloth, though it helped little to scrub out the blood. Cloudia’s blood. Cedric dropped his face in his hands.

It had barely been ten minutes since Newman had taken her from him, but he missed her already, missed her scent, her warmth, her weight against his body.

But she should be with Kamden now. It was better if she was with him than with me. He could patch her up after all.

I only got her shot.

I should have been there. I should have been there. Instead, I had lost my damn glasses and let her go after Yvette alone.

Cedric ripped his spectacles off his face, flung them away. They rattled against the ground or the wall or a cupboard, he did not care, just as he sunk to the cold bathroom tiles. He drew his legs in, hugged them to his body, and rested his forehead on his knees. He hadn’t dared to look into the mirror, knowing that it would be a frightful sight. His body was sore, every bit of it howling in agony and strain from all the fighting and all the running. He had lost his hair tie on the train, and his long hair must now be tangled and dirty. He reeked of sweat and blood, and his clothes were sticky with it.

And most of that blood was Cloudia’s.

Cedric’s heart tightened in his chest. She will be fine, she will be fine, he kept repeating in his mind and hugged his legs even tighter. Before he had turned on the tap, he had put the receiver into his pocket, and it was now poking him in the side, nudging him to remember its existence.

With a jolt that let him cry out in pain, Cedric lifted his head and fumbled the receiver, Milton’s receiver, out of his pocket.

Barrington had split up from Oscar, Milton, and Townsend earlier, but had they returned too by now?

Cedric turned on the receiver. He held it close to his face to read the screen as it lit up. The dot for the transmitter in Cloudia’s pocket did too. Milton and, or Quentin must have set up towers in this area as well.

Then, where was the second dot? The one for Townsend’s transmitter?

Awkwardly, Cedric got to his feet, pulling himself up on the washbasin. He cursed as he felt around for his damn glasses for a second time that day. He wished he could move around this house at least without them, only he had never been there, and he doubted anyone would want to function as his eyes and guide him around – and he himself did not want this either. Eventually, Cedric found his spectacles again and put them back on; they were still intact, and he wondered for a second how much of a beating they could take until they shattered before he pushed the thought aside and stepped out of the bathroom.

He wandered around a bit. Everything about this house’s interior screamed exquisite, from the floors and walls to the decorative pieces filling up the rooms and corridors. Cedric, with his bloody, torn clothes, must look painfully out of place here. He did not care for it, however; the only person who might care was Cecelia, and he was not looking for her.

He was looking for Oscar and Milton, and when he couldn’t find them anywhere, he sought out Barrington.

“Didn’t you say Oscar went ahead with Milton and Townsend?” Cedric asked when he found Barrington in a small sitting room.

“Didn’t I also say you should clean up, change, and get some rest?” replied Barrington and put down his sword; he had been sharpening it until now.

“Milton, Oscar, and Townsend are still not here yet,” Cedric continued, ignoring Barrington’s response.

Barrington frowned. “Are you sure? We weren’t far from here when he separated.”

“Didn’t you check if they were here?” Cedric asked, panic and anger flashing within him.

“I cannot say that Oscar and the Salisbury boy are my favourite people in the world. And with…” He glanced at Cedric. “… everything going on right now, they slipped my mind.” Barrington was silent for a moment. “You don’t believe Oscar ran off, do you? Discarded Townsend and Salisbury somewhere and escaped? Oscar practically begged to be on this mission, yes, but I doubt he did that so that he could flee and not live as a convict anymore.”

“Maybe. But what if…” Cedric ran a hand through his hair until it got stuck in a tangled knot.

The signal.

The second blinking dot had vanished after Cloudia and I had crossed the river – and not long before Barrington had stumbled across us. Could it have disappeared right after they had gone their separate ways?

“What… what if Oscar kidnapped Milton and Townsend?” asked Cedric, feeling sick at the possibility. “What if he wanted to come along so badly because he also wanted to get his hands on the Queen’s box?”

Barrington blinked at him. “What would Oscar even want with it? He doesn’t even have it; Dia does, or you do, don’t you?”

“The Countess has it, yes, but Oscar now has the person who managed to find and steal it and someone who could open it and…” Cedric stared at the object in his hand, the receiver that should not exist – yet. Cold washed over him. The Salisbury Trading Company was known for its state-of-the-art machinery and swift deliveries; it was not beyond the realm of possibilities that someone might figure out that their machines were beyond contemporary. Just like Townsend had. And even if Oscar hadn’t figured it out beforehand, Townsend might have told him in an effort to wager for his freedom. Point at the unconscious man in their midst, spill his secrets, hope that it would entice Oscar to reconsider his orders.

But Barrington was right. Why would Oscar do something like that? I doubted a man like Oscar would do anything for money alone; one could easily become rich with Milton’s works – just as easily as one could wreak great havoc with them. And what else was there besides fast ships, radar technology, and prototypes of protective gear?

What else was there that could bring danger and chaos?

And for what?

I didn’t think it would be havoc for havoc’s reason.

“It is troubling and worrisome that they haven’t arrived yet,” Barrington said slowly while keeping his eyes fixed on Cedric. “And I have the lowest opinion of Oscar Livingstone; out of all people in this building, I’ve known him the longest too. You could ask every stone in Great Britain, and each of them would know how much I despise that man, but why on earth would he kidnap the Salisbury boy and Townsend? Or try to get his hands on the Queen’s puzzle box? It makes very little sense to me, I’m afraid, Kristopher. Oscar was also carrying Salisbury like an egg; he is taking the word he gave Dia very seriously, and I doubt he ran off with him for whatever reason or dumped him in the Seine.”

Cedric lifted the receiver. “This is a machine Milton made; it’s used to track certain objects. One of them is now with the Countess, and the other one is with Townsend – should be with Townsend. I used the apparatus to track him; that’s why I managed to get as far as I did. However, after I crossed the bridge, Townsend’s signal suddenly vanished. That would have been not long after you split up from Oscar and the others.”

Barrington mustered the object with a raised eyebrow. “This is concerning timing, yes, but are you sure that this thing isn’t just malfunctioning? I knew a tinkerer-type person, and his inventions tended to explode or not function as they should all the time. One of them even blew up a building’s entire west wing. There wasn’t an explosion of this calibre in this area, as far as I know, though that doesn’t mean that this thing didn’t just break. It could have broken down differently. Quietly. Or maybe it’s not whatever you’re holding that’s broken; maybe it’s whatever that is with Townsend.” Slowly, Barrington stood up and walked up to Cedric. “It’s been a long day,” he said and put his hand on Cedric’s arm. “You’re tired and worried; I understand it. I’m worried sick for Dia too, but you won’t help anyone if you don’t go and get some rest and lose yourself in wild theories instead.”

Cedric ripped his arm free. “I’m not making up stuff because my nerves are frayed and I’m tired,” he bellowed. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? If anything happens to Milton too, it’s your fault!” With that, Cedric turned around and stormed out of the sitting room. Barrington followed him. He tried to grab him, but Cedric’s anger at Barrington’s inaction gave him enough strength to push his tired body to dodge each of his attempts.

Barrington swore under his breath and mumbled that he couldn’t believe he was doing this as he chased Cedric to the back door. “Kristopher, you need to lie down and get some sleep,” he called after him. Cedric ignored him and simply kept on going. He rushed down the stairs, and…

It knocked at the door before he arrived there.

Short. Long. Long. Short.

It made Cedric halt, his surroundings growing still for a moment while everything within him was in turmoil; his heart was beating too quickly, all fibres of his muscles ached, and his mind was scrambled.

After a pause, the knocking began again, in the same sequence as before. This time, it shook Cedric awake, made him hasten forward, unlock the door and pull it open and…

Oscar Livingstone stood before him. His clothes were slightly more battered than they had been before, though he was still carefully cradling an unconscious Milton in his arms while somehow simultaneously dragging Townsend and a man Cedric had never seen before after him.

Cedric blinked at Oscar in bewilderment. Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Could you let me inside?” he asked right before Barrington arrived and pulled Cedric out of the way.

“He’s… he’s a bit out of it,” Barrington explained and hushed Oscar forward. “He’s very tired and… there’s been a situation with Dia.”

“What’s the purpose of dancing around this situation?” enquired Oscar as he stepped inside.

“She got shot in the abdomen,” replied Barrington and closed the door. The instant the lock clicked shut, Oscar kicked Townsend and the other man to the ground. They were both tied up and gagged and wiggled around in vain to get back up.

“Why not say that from the beginning?” Oscar said. “I suppose Sainteclare is looking after her as we speak.” Without even waiting until Barrington had affirmed or negated his words, Oscar continued calmly, “I will lay down the boy; bring those two somewhere secure for detainment.”

Without another word, Oscar vanished into the corridor, carrying Milton with him. It was quiet for a moment by the back door; for a second, the men on the ground even ceased groaning.

“He’s back,” Cedric said in astonishment, having re-found his voice at last.

“Yes, he’s back, and the Salisbury boy seemed perfectly fine,” replied Barrington with a sigh. “I will get Townsend and the other one to the basement. And, Kristopher, please get some rest, you hear me?”

Cedric didn’t get any rest. Instead, he followed Oscar to a drawing room and watched him lay down Milton on a sofa. He took off his jacket and shoes, struggled with the weird utility belt before he managed to open it. He put every item away neatly, searched the room for a blanket, and draped it over Milton. Cedric was mesmerised by the scene in front of him. Oscar did everything with such gentleness, such care that he could not fathom that this was the same man who had sent him and Cloudia to the Witch’s Castle.

“Should I treat him like a ragdoll?” asked Oscar abruptly, startling Cedric.

“No, of course not,” Cedric was quick to say. “I’m just… surprised.”

Oscar looked at him for a moment. “I gave my word that I would keep him safe,” he said at last.

“I didn’t know your word had any weight.”

“I will quickly get washed,” said Oscar, ignoring Cedric’s words. “Do not wake him.”

Oscar left the room. Cedric fell into the armchair next to the sofa, stared at Milton lying on it, watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, and searched with his eyes for any additional injury on his body but discovered none.

I should be more relieved than I was to see him well. To have him here, a living, breathing proof that I had been wrong. Oscar had never kidnapped him at all; Oscar had never been a danger to him at all.

But still.

But still…

“Milton has been unconscious for quite a long time,” remarked Cedric when Oscar returned.

Oscar gently lifted Milton’s left hand and felt his pulse. “His heartbeat is steady, and he has no major external injuries, nor any internal ones from what I can tell. He must simply be exhausted; he will be fine,” Oscar stated and put down Milton’s hand as carefully as if he believed Milton to be a porcelain doll. And lying there looking perfectly serene with his gold-blond hair fanned out over the cream pillow and his skin as pale as ever, Milton did look like one.

Sleeping Beauty, Cedric thought in spite of himself and immediately pushed the thought away.

“Why should I take any of your words at face value?” Cedric challenged Oscar.

“You can come here and check his pulse yourself,” retorted Oscar and fussed with Milton’s blanket. “He’s alive and well. You engaged in a long chase through a city under siege. He must have crashed from sheer exhaustion. You look like you are on the verge of it too, Underwood.”

“Milton wasn’t that tired beforehand,” Cedric protested. “Yes, sure, we ran through the woods, the train, and Paris in short succession, getting chased and chasing, and I cannot remember if he got any rest before our five-hour-long ride to Creil. At any rate, Milton was holding himself together surprisingly well. Though his nerves had begun to fray when we arrived in Paris…”

Oscar turned to look at him, and Cedric sighed. “Yes, okay, okay, it’s a miracle that he didn’t crash earlier. Nonetheless, I think it’s concerning that he hasn’t woken up yet, even if only for a brief moment.” He narrowed his eyes at Oscar. “It doesn’t help that he was with you.”

“As I said, I gave my word to keep him safe,” Oscar replied dryly. A moment later, Barrington burst into the room. “Oscar,” he exclaimed, “who is that other man, and why were you so…”

Oscar glared at him with an intensity Cedric had not seen before, and he had been on the receiving side of Oscar’s death glares multiple times before. Barrington stopped talking instantaneously.

“Weaselton, I believed that you would have at least the decency to speak quietly when someone is asleep,” Oscar said in a lowered voice, but he could have just as well been yelling. “I suppose I have been too lenient with you.”

“Oh, you are…” Barrington began just as loud as before. Oscar glared at him, and Barrington continued quieter: “…not someone who should lecture others on decency, Yard Ripper.”

“Nevertheless, I seem to be more knowledgeable about common etiquette than you, so I am indeed qualified to lecture you,” Oscar replied. “And now please say what you want to say. I want you to leave before you wake him.”

Barrington glowered at Oscar before he cleared his throat. “Who is that other man you brought with you, and why were you so late, Oscar?” asked Barrington, keeping his voice low.

“He is most likely one of Townsend’s comrades,” Oscar answered. “After we split up, that man suddenly attacked me and tried to free Townsend. It was a hassle to capture him while making sure that Townsend didn’t run away, and that the boy would not get hurt. The operation took a while; that’s why I was late. I suppose Townsend must have had his base of operations close by, and that’s why I could and did run into one of his men.”

“See, Kristopher?” said Barrington and patted his hand. “A perfectly logical explanation for why Oscar was tardy. Now, you can sleep peacefully. Please do; please rest peacefully, you look horrendous.”

Cedric scowled at him, and Oscar tilted his head but did not say a word.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Kristopher,” Barrington said. “You had a delirious fit earlier. You look like you’ve been run over by a train or a squirrel that barely survived an encounter with a speedy carriage. I’m sorry but ‘horrendous’ is a mild descriptor in this case.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” replied Cedric intently. “Not before I know the Countess is well.”

Barrington groaned. “You stubborn idiot, can’t you understand…”

Milton stirred a little at Barrington’s raised voice. Immediately, Oscar patted his arm to ease him back to sleep. He then delivered a glare so fatal at Barrington that he fled the room without protesting before Oscar had even followed it with a “Leave” that was hissed with such force that a shudder ran through Cedric’s body despite its ill-treated state.

Thereafter, Oscar slightly adjusted Milton’s blanket and then sat down on the ground, leaning against the ottoman opposite the sofa Milton was lying on. He pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife out of his pocket. For a while, Oscar and Cedric sat in silence, with the only sounds permeating the room being metal on wood, Milton’s soft breathing, and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock. Cedric tensed at the latter sound.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

The grandfather clock’s ticking mixed with the ticking of the café’s clock, pulsing within my head in canon.

Cold sweat broke out over my body. My breathing was uneven. My heart beating too quickly.

Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…

So much could happen from one second to the next.

I didn’t know how Cloudia was doing.

I had stumbled across her room while searching for Milton and Oscar. Newman had been staying sentinel and taking and bringing objects from and to the room. I hadn’t asked. I couldn’t ask. I had simply turned on my heel and resumed my search.

Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…

My clothes were so heavy on me, her blood on them pulling me down.

It was… it was so hard to breathe…

“You should rest, by the way,” Oscar said. His words came out of nowhere; he did not even look up when he said them. Still, they made Cedric flinch and pushed him back to the here and now. It took him a moment longer to realise that Oscar had said those words with an oddly soft edge to them. His tone made Cedric’s ears ring as Oscar continued with the same softness, “There is no reason for you to sit in this room. Your presence here helps no one. You can just go and find a room to sleep in.”

“I’m here because I can’t leave you alone with Milton,” replied Cedric, irritation rising within him.

“And why is that so?” Oscar finally took his eyes off his handiwork and fixed them on Cedric. “He is soundly asleep, and I have no reason to harm him. If I had any intention to do anything to the boy, I would have done it already, after I had told Weaselton to find you and the Lady. Why would and should I try anything now? In a house with so many people around when I had the perfect opportunity to do him harm earlier?” He tilted his head slightly, and the look in his pale blue eyes made Cedric squirm. “But you know that already, don’t you?” said Oscar softly. Cedric stiffened. “You are not here because you want to guard him.”

Cedric pressed his lips together, set not to reply, but the barrier slipped quickly. He had no energy to keep it up, and something about Oscar’s tone pulled at Cedric’s words, dragging them to the surface. “He is a very fidgety person,” Cedric said, at last, the words breaking out of him. “He’s always fumbling on his sleeves or pulling on them. I sometimes wonder if he’s constantly afraid of something with how he seems like he cannot find any rest.” He glanced at Milton’s still form, and his stomach churned at the sight. “Seeing him now, it feels so wrong because he’s just too calm. But, at the same time, it fits so well because Milton is also a very calm person and has an oddly soothing presence. How does that make any sense? I have no idea but that’s just how it is.”

Grunting, Cedric lifted himself out of the armchair and pushed himself to the sofa, made himself take Milton’s hand – the injured left one, not the right one as he didn’t like being touched there, and Cedric didn’t want to upset him even if he was currently fast sleep. Cedric checked Milton’s pulse. It beat steadily beneath his fingers, made his own heart follow its tune and stabilise and calm itself too from the sheer relief that Oscar hadn’t lied. “I suppose,” Cedric added quietly. “I want him to wake up because I just want to talk to him. But I won’t shake him awake for that, don’t worry.”

Oscar mustered him with an unreadable, blank expression on his face. “Now that you’ve reassured yourself that he is here and well,” he said, “you should go and rest yourself. He will wake up later than sooner, and you need to get yourself together before she wakes up.”

***

Everything afterwards passed as a blur. Putting Milton’s hand down, tucking him in properly. Leaving the drawing room. Wandering through the house like a ghost. Up and down, left and right. Moving without being able to feel my body; moving as if something or someone else was steering me. Like a wind-up doll one sets down to wander free and aimlessly.

Alfred found me eventually. I closed my eyes as he guided me gently to an empty room. He left quickly, apologising that he could not even fetch me some tea. But I was not upset. I knew that he was needed.

He smelled of her blood after all.

I opened my eyes again when I lay down on the bed. It was large and lush, and I felt out of place and small on top of it. I must be ruining the bedding, but the thought and worry did not take hold in my mind.

My mind was blank, and my heart was aching.

Somewhere in this house, Cloudia was lying and wrestling for her life.

Kamden could stitch up the wound, but he could not make it heal. He could wash away the blood, but he could not return it.

She was a fighter, but she had lost so, so much blood. And human life was so, so fragile.

A rattle startled me. It took me a moment to realise that I had instinctively reached for my chain of lockets. I pulled it out of my pocket, let it dangle in front of my face like a mobile. I hadn’t even told Cloudia about them yet, about the lockets that I had been carrying with me for nearly a hundred years.

Five lockets on a chain for five lives lost.

A friend, a child, a stranger, a partner, a…

I clasped the charm in the middle, held it against my chest. My eyes fluttered closed. I could feel her fingers on my head, could feel them running through my hair. I waited for her to speak, waited for her soothing voice to lull me to sleep.

But this time, Cesca had no fairy tale to offer, and I plunged into dark, dreamless sleep all alone.

***

London, England, United Kingdom – March 1846

The last tendrils of the sun had followed Cloudia on the way back home, and when she arrived at the Phantomhive townhouse, the sun had set, and the streetlamps had taken its place to illuminate the world. They were brought to life one by one by lamplighters and shone dimly but steadily, ready to keep the shadows at bay. By the time Cloudia passed through the townhouse’s gates, her street was lined by lights. And like the streetlamps, Cloudia felt set alight too.

She had been frustrated for weeks, and while she did not get any answers to her questions, a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders today, and she felt so light and alive. Thus, though she had walked for so long and so much, Cloudia felt oddly energetic all the way to the townhouse. Her exhaustion only caught up with her when she stepped over the doorsill and into the building. Her legs nearly buckled; her muscles cried out in tense agony. Because of her disguise, Cloudia had discreetly entered through a side door, and there was no Newman to help her. She stabilised herself on a small side table and then slowly and awkwardly made her way to the library as it was the closest room with places to sit and rest.

Cloudia immediately threw herself on a plush chaise longue as soon as she spotted it. She pressed her face into a soft pillow and groaned into it. Her body might have given up the instant she had crossed the threshold into the house, but she was still alight inside.

Today hadn’t gone as planned. I had been caught, arrested; I hadn’t been able to say anything I had intended to say, paralysed as I had been.

But all had gone well anyway.

I hadn’t scared Milton away; he had offered to meet me alone. We hadn’t talked much, but he had invited me to write to him.

I hadn’t been given anything to organise my thoughts or pinpoint the oddness I felt but a chance. And I nearly burst in eagerness to write to him now, as pathetic as it may sound, but my body, my aching, knackered body, gave me a firm “no” and a broad hint to get myself to bed.

If only I could get up this chaise longue.

“I haven’t seen you all day.”

Oscar’s voice sent a jolt through Cloudia’s body; she was sure that she had jumped in a lying position a few centimetres upwards too. With great effort, she rolled to her side and squinted. At the other side of this section, a small lamp had been lit, and Oscar was sitting by it, immersed in a book. He was so far away; still, Cloudia could discern from how he was handling the book that it was Paradise Lost again. Oscar had been in a particularly melancholic mood in the last few months and had been reading the poem with great intensity and frequency. Cloudia couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him reading anything else.

“It’s a childhood favourite,” Oscar had answered her a few years back, though Cloudia had never asked, only wondered about his love for that poem. “It brings me comfort to re-read it, even if I know it by heart.”

“A strange thing to say when you didn’t even look up to speak,” remarked Cloudia.

“That does not make my words any less true,” Oscar retorted. He flipped through a few more pages before he finally raised his head and fixed his eyes on her. They shone in the dim light like two pale dewdrops. “Did you do anything you wish to tell me?”

“No, but…” Cloudia considered him for a moment. She did not quite know if this was her exhaustion speaking or if she had been briefly possessed when she said, “You were married once, weren’t you, Oscar?”

Oscar straightened up in his seat. “Yes, I was. I am.”

“How did you figure out that you liked Trudy like that?”

The library was dead quiet for a few minutes before Oscar spoke at last. “I advise you to take all your questions to Williams, or one of your aunts and cousins.”

“I don’t want to talk to them about this,” Cloudia told him. “I’ve heard enough from Cecelia regarding this topic, and I would say that none of it was useful; it was mostly exasperating. I don’t feel comfortable speaking to my aunts about this, and I have talked to my cousins about this before – or, rather, I have listened to them converse about this. I also went to Kamden already. Nothing has helped me yet. I think I need more opinions on this because this is such an annoying state to exist in, and I suppose you’re better than nothing. After all, you have experienced love yourself.” As soon as the last sentence left her mouth, Cloudia wanted to take it back, take the entire conversation back and pretend she had never raised the topic, but then Oscar replied before she could.

“I am certain you can find someone else who is better equipped at this than me,” Oscar said and played with the edge of a book page. “My experience was, is, hardly considered normal.”

“Well, I don’t feel particularly normal about this either. So?”

He drew his fingers along the sides of his book but kept his eyes on Cloudia as he said quietly, “Because it was always only Trudy. I’ve never been in love with anyone before I met her, and I will never be again.”

Cloudia blinked at him. “What do you mean?” she asked and sat up quietly, settling herself properly into the chaise longue while she listened to Oscar.

“My mother gave her heart to my father, and it ate her from within,” Oscar continued haltingly. “I doubted I would ever experience anything like that myself, and I did not care that I would never. Growing up, I rarely had anything to do with children my age, but I would overhear conversations now and then. I never understood their infatuations, how they filled them with so much pain, and how people still couldn’t live without them.

“When I joined the army, I was surrounded by people my age and much older. I was often invited to go along with them to town, though I would always decline. I couldn’t grasp why they needed to be with people in this manner…” Oscar cleared his throat. “I certainly had no desire or understanding for it beyond the basics. I had never been drawn to anyone like that as they were.” He paused for a moment, and when he resumed to speak, his voice was soft and quiet even if his words only came out hesitantly. And while his gaze was directed at Cloudia, he was seeing someone else. “I was twenty-one years old when I first met Trudy, and it took a few more years until things changed. If I had never encountered her, I would have never got married, I would have never had any children. Meeting her was an anomaly that could never be repeated, a chance so small it was almost an impossibility. I loved her first, and I loved her last, and I will continue to love her even if she is not there anymore because she is the only one I can feel this way towards.”

Oscar gazed down at the book in his lap. “What I felt for her was so foreign that I could not tell from the start what it was. I told you before that her friend had to help me out. My experience was not like anyone else’s I knew, not like anyone else’s he knew either, but he could still identify it and make me realise that this was what it was. Just because my experience might have been… strange, it was not less correct than anyone else’s. There was one for me; there are many possibilities for others.

“Love, as I have come to understand, has existed since forever, and though its conceptualisation was transformed numerously with the changing times and societal evolution, it remained unexplainable and unbound at its core.” Oscar paused. “And I’ve done a lot of research back then, to understand.”

And then, before Cloudia could let his words sink in and say anything in response, Oscar abruptly closed his book and continued, “But I also know that one can be drawn to someone else for other reasons beyond physical and romantic ones, beyond familial and friendly ones too. I would investigate the source properly before acting upon anything thoughtlessly.”

“Well, that was my plan,” Cloudia said. She was too tired to consider what he said properly, though his words had made her head spin with thoughts that would have to be sorted out tomorrow. “I’ve been agonising about this matter for a few weeks now, and, thankfully, Milton is fine with me tal…” She clasped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say his name, not with Cecelia’s threat still so present in her mind, and it made her heart race that she had.

Oscar looked up again, peered at her through his shining, unreadable blue eyes. “Milton, huh?”

#watchdog of the queen #main chapters #cloudia phantomhive #claudia phantomhive #undertaker #kuroshitsuji #black butler #fanfic #I will add a cover image when I return in October #I simply didn't have time to do one but I DID finish the chapter #and that's the important thing I would say #happy (?) reading <3

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tothelasthoursofmylife · 10 months ago

Text

“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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