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tothelasthoursofmylife · 1 year ago

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“Who wouldn’t be confused?”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

Even casting up her eyes hurt.

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

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

If she had not promised Kamden to visit today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

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

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

Cloudia took a deep breath and then sank underwater.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a nod and another bow, the footman vanished.

“Which Marchioness?” asked Keegan and frowned.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you so insistent to know?”

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

Cloudia felt a few degrees colder. “Cecelia–”

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

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

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

Cloudia rubbed her face and groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know for sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Finitely charming, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cloudia blinked at her. “Pardon?”

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

“I am not infatuated with him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cecelia.”

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

“Cecelia.”

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

“Cecelia.”

This conversation really had gone on for far too long.

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

Cecelia grinned. “You’re welcome.”

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

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

Without a word, Cloudia left the parlour.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grinned. “What a lovely simplistic name.”

“It’s Elise,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

After all, Cloudia’s father had died here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only she could not do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I would find a way to meet him.

***

London, England, United Kingdom – May 1843

Yelling woke her up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cloudia shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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cedric-k-rossignol · 2 days ago

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In trying to explain to a friend the plot of black butler via the iceberg meme, I've become so convinced that I've figured out Cedric K. Ros-'s (aka Undertaker's) last name that I've rejoined this site to scream into the void.

At least, I haven't been able to find anything on the English/French speaking internet suggesting this theory has been floated before.

Placing my bets now that Undertaker's last name is Rossignol, the French word for nightingale.

Of course, this is assuming you subscribe to the Cedric K. Ros- = Undertaker = Undertaker x Cloudia affair = Grandtaker pipeline. And, that you think he is of French/Breton origin (more specifically, I think he's from Plouha, Brittany...but that's a different post).

Important to note that dates and numbers are important in Black Butler's story, both within the fictional narrative and in connection to real historical events (emphasized with the first arc lining up with the actual 'Jack the Ripper' murders). Some examples of this;

1819 is the year in which the real Queen Victoria (and her cousin-husband Prince Albert) were born. 1819 is also the year in which the name 'Cedric' first appears in the novel 'Ivanhoe'. Within the story, this is also right around the time that reaper 136649 attacks Reaper HQ.

1837 is the year in which the real Queen Victoria ascended the throne. In Black Butler, this is year in which Molly G., the first chronological locket on Undertaker's chain, died. 1837 would also be right around the time that Undertaker is noted as having absconded with his death scythe, officially deserting the organization...20 years after a workplace shooting (he must be union).

Vincent Phantomhive is born on Friday June 13th, 1851. Cloudia Phantomhive dies on Friday July 13th, 1866. She is 36 years old when she dies. If you believe that Undertaker's reaper serial number 136649 means he died in the year 1366 (an interesting time period in Brittany, what with the Breton War of Succession, the Hundred Years War, the Black Death...), this would mean Cloudia dies 500 years after he unalives himself.

Prince Albert dies on December 14th, 1861, in the real world. The Phantomhive twins are born on December 14th, 1875 - the 14th anniversary of Prince Albert's death. Vincent is 24 years old when he becomes a father. The manor is attacked on December 14th, 1885 - the 24th anniversary of Prince Albert's death. Vincent is 34 years old when he dies. There's speculation that the story will end on Friday December 13th, 1889 - the twin's last day of being 13 years old, before they turn 14 years old on December 14th, 1889, the 4th anniversary of the attack on the manor.

TLDR, dates matching up with historical events/publications is not coincidental. Yana pays attention to her numbers.

Now, back to Cedric K. Ros-

I've read speculation that the 'Ros-' must have something to do with roses, since Phantomhives are so often associated with roses (and their thorns). Guess what little bird is very commonly associated with roses? Whose song is often associated with melancholy, longing, and mourning? Who so often seems to unalive themselves on thorns?

"the nightingale...can also be seen to provide a link to something, opening out onto something beyond the self. Heard but not seen, the nightingale represents an intangible presence; a longing that can be either terribly earthly, in the guise of sexual desire, or soaringly spiritual, as when the nightingale represents the soul, rising above."

Some fun facts about nightingales;

Female nightingales are mute, only male nightingales sing - though historically people thought the opposite, so many of the nightingales in literature are female.

It is one of the only birds that sing throughout the night (name means 'night singer').

In Persian poetry, the nightingale is a symbol of a lover who is "eloquent, passionate, and doomed to love in vain" - the object of their affections is the rose, which "embodies both the perfection of earthly beauty and the arrogance of that perfection."

The oldest appearance of nightingales in literature goes back to the myth of Philomela, who was turned into a nightingale by the Gods.

In Shakespeare's poem 'Lucrece', the titular character is inspired to commit suicide when a nightingale leans their breast against a thorn to inspire a song and ward off sleep.

The nightingale also makes an appearance in Shakespeare's 'Romeo & Juliet', when Juliet mistakes the song of a lark for that of a nightingale.

I have read a ridiculous amount of poetry about nightingales recently (there is a lot of it), but I'm going to focus on one Breton piece from the middle ages and two English pieces from the 19th century because they have the most relevant dates (which as previously mentioned, are important).

Laüstic

There is the Breton lai 'Laüstic', composed in the late 12th century by Marie de France (Laüstic' is the Breton word for rossignol/nightingale). Breton lais are a form of medieval French romance literature that often involve supernatural and fairy-world Celtic elements.

"In most of Marie de France’s Lais, love is associated with suffering, and over half of them involve an adulterous relationship... In Marie's Lais, "love always involves suffering and frequently ends in grief, even when the love itself is approved.""

The lais of Marie de France explore courtly love, a popular theme in medieval literature that began with Troubadour poetry in southern France in the 11th century.

"The courtly lover existed to serve his lady. His love was invariably adulterous, marriage at that time being usually the result of business interest or the seal of a power alliance. Ultimately, the lover saw himself as serving the all-powerful god of love and worshipping his lady-saint. Faithlessness was the mortal sin...The courtly lover, while displaying the same outward signs of passion, was fired by respect for his lady."

Basically, courtly love emphasized the importance of a man's respect and devotion to their lover, and I don't think anyone could doubt Undertaker's devotion to his cause.

Sidenote: I think the French story 'Floire et Blancheflor', one of the oldest and most popular romances of the middle ages, is also incredibly relevant to Undertaker & Cloudia's love story. It also explores this concept of 'courtly love' (involving a fake tomb, a prince disguised as a merchant, and an attempted suicide, no less)...and the flowers associated with the lovers are red roses and white lilies...But I digress.

A plot summary of 'Laustic' from Wikipedia:

Two knights live in adjoining houses, in the vicinity of Saint-Malo in Brittany; one is married and one lives as a bachelor. The wife of the married knight enters into a secret relationship with the other knight, but their contact is limited to conversation and the exchange of small gifts, since a "high wall made of dark stone" separates the two households. Typically, the lady rises at night, once her husband is asleep, and goes to the window to converse with her lover; whenever her lover is home, she is kept under close watch. Her suspicious husband demands to know why she spends her nights at the window, and she says she does so to listen to the nightingale sing. He mocks her, and orders his servants to capture the nightingale. When it is caught he brings it to the lady's chambers, denying her requests to release the bird. Instead, he breaks its neck and throws it at her, "bloodying the front of her tunic just a bit above her breasts". After he leaves, the lady mourns the bird's death and the suffering she must accept, knowing she can no longer be at the window at night. She wraps the nightingale's body in silk, and embroidered with writing in gold thread, and charges her servant to deliver the bird and her message to her lover, who, in response, preserves the nightingale in a reliquary, a small vessel which he has encased with small jewels and precious stones, and carries it with him always.

From the Wikipedia on reliquaries;

"A reliquary (also referred to as a shrine, by the French term châsse, and historically also referred to as a phylactery) is a container for relics. A portable reliquary may be called a fereter, and a chapel in which it is housed a feretory or feretery." "Relics may be the purported or actual physical remains of saints...The term is sometimes used loosely for containers for the body parts of non-religious figures; in particular, the kings of France often specified that their hearts and sometimes other organs be buried in a different location from their main burial." "In Buddhism, stupas are an important form of a reliquary and may be buried inside larger structures such as a stupa or chorten."

Interesting, because the wooden grave markers Undertaker carries/uses to conceal his death scythe are considered to be a variant of stupa (as far as I can tell). The grave markers are sotoba inscribed with sutra - also interesting to note that in Japan, nightingales are considered a religious bird because "its song is reminiscent of the intonation of a Buddhist sutra", which in turn ties into the Buddhist prayer beads he wears around his neck.

The concept of reliquaries is somewhat similar to that of mourning lockets, especially if you consider that in the context of courtly love Undertaker was whipped likely worshipped the ground Cloudia walked on and would have treated her like a saint (good for her).

"Reliquaries are decorative vessels, often in the form of a hand, cranium, or other body part that contain the fragment of a saint or someone of holy importance. Some fragments could include remnants of a garment worn by the individual or even a piece of bone that was part of their body."

A famous reliquary is the Holy Thorn Reliquary, commissioned in late 14th century France by John, Duke of Berry (this dude has relevance to Brittany and the Hundred Years War) to house a relic of the crown of thorns.

"The jewels, which would have been keenly appreciated by contemporary viewers, include two large sapphires, one above God the Father at the very top of the reliquary, where it may have represented heaven, and the other below Christ, on which the thorn is mounted."

Sapphires and a crown of thorns are not new symbols in this story - imma leave it at that because I'm getting off topic and this is already ridiculously long.

The Nightingale and The Rose

The short story The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde (snake's snakes) was published in the book of bedtime stories The Happy Prince and Other Tales in May 1888 (which lines up pretty closely with when the first chapter of the manga takes place). This is a bleak tale about the selfless and sacrificial nature of true love.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. ‘Press closer, little Nightingale,’ cried the Tree, ‘or the Day will come before the rose is finished. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvelous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. 'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

The emphasis on the nightingale's song also brought to mind the Mother 3 theory and the importance of the music in that game - and the idea that the last names of Undertaker's lockets make a chord progression. IDK that much about Mother 3, so I can't say if there are any other further parallels to draw.

Also who would read this to a child as a bedtime story???

Undertaker. Undertaker would totally read this to Ciel as a bedtime story, who am I kidding.

An Ode to a Nightingale

Finally, there is the poem "An Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats (another one of snake's snakes).

There is a clear theme of death in this poem, and of life after death/immortality. There is also a sense of longing for death, of the relief death brings - very relevant for all reapers.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

The first stanza mentions 'Lethe', which is one of five rivers in the Greek underworld. "The shades of the dead were required to drink the waters of the Lethe in order to forget their earthly life. In the Aeneid, Virgil writes that it is only when the dead have had their memories erased by the Lethe that they may be reincarnated."

Afaik the only reaper to reference their previous life is Sascha, and there weren't many specifics. This could just be because speaking of their human life is painful, given they all made the choice to end it...Or is it possible HQ alters their memories?

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

The reference to Provencal song is once again a reference to the concept of courtly love (seen in Laustic) that began with Troubadour poetry in Provence, France in the 11th century.

Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

Stars and heaven reference (Astre/Sirius & Ciel), and a reference to the moon as in the Oscar Wilde story... The Queen Moon, on her throne...

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

A reference to May (we will come back to this), to musk-roses (symbolizes 'capricious beauty'), and to 'the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves'. As previously mentioned, Cloudia dies in July...

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

The suicidal ideation is strong here.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Immortality. The last few lines immediately brought to mind the theory that Undertaker drowned himself.

The last stanza has the poet bidding 'Adieu' - the French word for goodbye forever which translates literally as 'until God'. Gotta love how dramatic the French are.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

From Wikipedia:

"The nightingale described experiences a type of death but does not actually die. Instead, the songbird is capable of living through its song, which is a fate that humans cannot expect. The poem ends with an acceptance that pleasure cannot last and that death is an inevitable part of life."

And here's the thing...Keats composed this poem in one day after a nightingale built its nest near his home. Specifically, he wrote it in one day of May, 1819 - the same month and year in which Queen Victoria was born.

The rest might be me just grasping at straws but the connection to Queen Victoria's birth is what I find most convincing, since Yana has seemingly already sourced Cedric's first name from literature in 1819. I think the setting/plot of the novel 'Ivanhoe' and her name choice of 'Cedric' reveals a lot about Undertaker's past and his motivations, and I think the same could hold true for his last name. I am convinced his name is Cedric K. Rossignol.

God only knows what the 'K.' stands for.

#kuroshitsuji #undertaker #black butler #claudia phantomhive #cloudia phantomhive #Cedric K Ros #Undertaker theory #Undertaker x Claudia #Yana Toboso terrifies me #I've read more poetry in the last few weeks than in my entire life #I've learned more about medieval french history and literature than I ever needed to know #being bilingual is finally paying off #tw: suicide #Idk if this even makes sense

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