Have you ever took a blade to your wrists?
I found it difficult to believe that the severity of my injury was so much so that I had been out for two days. But I realized that this when I was inside the hansom cab that would take us back into London town, and less than two minutes down the road, my head was spinning again.
Ciel was wrapped up in a high necked, double-breasted coat, the navy colour contrasting beautifully against his creamy skin, and he was wearing an apprehensive expression. Deep blue eyes regarded me warily, as though I were a ticking time bomb. "Are you alright?"
"I feel a little dizzy," I replied, gripping onto the edge of the door. Sebastian, who was seated opposite me, let the shade over the window up a fraction so that a sliver of icy air blew into the cab. "That is much better, thank you."
"Celeste, you and I will be interviewing Herman Greenhill, while Sebastian will be seeking out Lawrence Bluer."
"What of the other two?" I asked, trying to suppress my nauseous groan. Oh, Lord, take me now.
"Edgar Redmond has disappeared without a trace," Ciel answered, "And Gregory Violet committed suicide. We feel that Bluer and Greenhill are the pair most likely to talk, anyway. Sebastian will leave at Charing Cross, and we will continue onwards to Compton Avenue. Are we clear?"
"Crystal –" I began to speak, but cut myself off with a tiny whimper as the carriage rolled over a pothole. "I am never willingly stepping foot in one of these things again."
"It's only a hansom," he replied dryly, arching a sarcastic blue brow. "One would swear you had been forced to ride bareback across the North York Moors."
"May as well have been," I muttered, pushing my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket, and burying my face in the collar. This helped me to ignore the rocking motion of the cab a little easier, quashing my nausea.
We came to a grinding halt at where I could only assume was Charing Cross, and Sebastian climbed gracefully from the structure; I could hear the splash as his expensive shoes came into contact with muddy street water. Beautiful, although it was hard to imagine anything he wore becoming filthy for more than five minutes; everything about him seemed immaculate.
"Were you staring at my butler's rear end?" Ciel asked dryly.
"What?" The bizarre question yanked me out of my thought, before I realized that we were moving again.
The teenage boy sat opposite me with an expression that I had seen him wear a handful of times – a malicious, curling smirk. Playful animosity glittered behind his pellucid blue eyes as he waited for me to respond.
"I most certainly was not," I shot back, crossing my legs and folding my arms across my chest – which was, in fact, quite difficult considering my ample assets. "How dare you accuse a lady of such a thing?"
"You're not a lady, you're a whore," he replied cheerfully. I opened my mouth to respond, to try and protest; but after the way I'd had Sebastian treat me in the drawing room, I wasn't exactly in a position to defend myself.
"And you are a salacious little man-child who holds absolutely no regard in the matter of social standing and manners!"
"Touché, Miss Bennett, you have excellent conversational skills." He was grinning widely, baring snow-white teeth.
"Are you comparing me to the protagonist of Pride and Prejudice?" The woman who happened to nearly run off with every man she saw?!
"How astute of you; and you can read, what fun!"
"You complete and utter ass."
"It's still your move, whore." Ciel beamed back at me, his gloved hand resting atop his walking stick. I could hardly believe that this slim, seventeen-year-old boy was behaving like such an infant. "And you were. You were admiring him, I could see you."
"You mustn't say anything. It would really be considered quite rude." God forbid I should pull out my handkerchief now and start to fan myself with it. Upon seeing the look still in his eyes, I leaned forward. "Lord Phantomhive, please."
"Please, what?"
"I... I don't know. I want to help you catch this man – this Reaper, this Undertaker. Oh, how I do. But once this 'case' is closed, or whatever – I'm finished. I am completely through with the occult. I wish to have no part in any supernatural business for that moment on – it is not healthy, sir. It is simply not healthy." Why, why, why, why had I decided to trust a demon again?
There was a long pause. "If you perform an adequate job," he said after a moment, "I will assist you in your disappearing act, and destroy any remaining evidence tying you to criminal activity. However, if we get wind of any sort of paranormal incidents involving your name, we will come and find you. I can swear to you on that."
"That sounds completely fair." I held out my hand and he took it, fingers curling.
"We have a deal, Miss Celeste."
"Lord Phantom'ive! We have arrived at your destination," the cabby shouted from the roof, and Ciel rolled his eyes.
"So coarse." Pushing the door open with a fistful of leather, he stepped out; door swinging open, he held out his hand for me to take. I accepted his aid down the stairs, wincing slightly once my feet left the steps and sunk a good two centimetres into the muddy London ground. "Number 243, Compton Avenue. This is the right street address."
The structure was certainly not as grand as Phantomhive Manor, the house which I had become accustomed to, but it was still absolutely breathtaking. Almost seeming to groan at the seams, it was chock-full of grey brickwork, and set with incredibly wide windows. As some of the curtains were drawn, I could admire the rich green fabric from which they were made; a shade which matched the glossy paint on the front door perfectly.
"After you, Lord Phantomhive," I murmured. He nodded and started up the steps, slow and leisurely; his gate was that of a man at least twenty years older, like he walked with an aged stroll.
I clambered up meekly after him, my head bowed; stomach churning with sick excitement. If what Ciel had told me was true, we were about to meet a murderer.
His fingers curled in the knocker (which was, most curiously, the shape of a lion's head) and he tapped, three times.
"Is he expecting us?"
"I dare say he isn't. The poor fellow would have tried to run away if he had any brains at all."
The door in front of us creaked open, exposing the form of a slim maid, pale in every respect. Wispy, white-blonde hair, watery blue eyes, and paper skin; it was almost as though she were not there at all.
"We're here to see your Master," Ciel said straight away, with no preamble. Well, at least he was direct.
"Of course, sir. May I ask who is at the door?" She curtseyed, and opened the door wider so that we could enter. As Ciel stepped inside, I followed after.
"Ciel Phantomhive and Lady Celeste Ashdown, for Sir Herman Greenhill." He cast off his coat and handed it to her; I shrugged off mine, folding it neatly. The maid seemed to be almost frightened by Ciel, and I couldn't blame her one bit. He really was quite intimidating.
"Of course, Lord Phantomhive. Please, right this way." Coats draped over her arms, she crept into the narrow, forest green hallway. The skirting, ceiling, and floorboards were white, to match the rest of the wooden doors. As we came further into the house, I spotted the gold outline of fleur-de-lis stamped into the wallpaper.
At the end of the corridor, the maid knocked very quietly on a set of double doors.
"Yes?" A low voice came from behind the pale wood.
"Master Greenhill, I have guests for you." She'd opened the door a crack, and was speaking very quietly through it. I could see the flickering of the fire dancing against the wall; throwing the shape of a man, warped and twisted, over the room.
"Who is it?" He sighed, sounding completely defeated.
"Lord Ciel Phantomhive and his female companion, Lady Celeste Ashdown."
There was a pause. A pause that seemed to be loaded with anticipation, before he said finally: "Send them in and have Mrs. Quinn prepare some tea."
"Of course, sir." The maid opened us up to a wide sitting room, furnished with plump couches, low tables, and wide-based lamps. In the centre of the room was a magnificent white fireplace -- flames were roaring in the hearth.
Herman Greenhill rose from his chair. He wore the uniform of a police official, black with a line of double breasted silver buttons, and a chain; his leather shoes were scuffed, and muddy. If he had been wearing his hat, I wouldn't have been able to see his hair, neck length and the most odd shade of grey-blond. This was contrasted by his youthful face. He could have been no more than twenty two, really. And as for his eyes – his hard green eyes, set in the middle of his proud face like icy cold emeralds.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Lord Phantomhive?" He spoke, and his voice was tired; tired and cautious, like a weary, cornered animal.
"We have business to attend to, Greenhill," Ciel replied, pulling his gloves off by the tips of his fingers and abandoning them on a table. Greenhill nodded, before his eyes swivelled over to me; they softened, but only a fraction.
"Lady Celeste, I don't believe I have ever had the privilege of meeting you before this night." He held out a hand, and I saw for a moment, the brief flash of something silver underneath his sleeve.
I took his fingers, and he brushed a kiss across my knuckles softly. "Please, Mr. Greenhill, the privilege is all mine." Judge a girl for saying so, but he was very attractive –
This man is an accused murderer. Do not stare, Celeste, do not stare.
"Please, sit. Refreshments should arrive in a moment." Greenhill took his place again, and I sat myself down on a chesterfield. Ciel perched directly opposite him.
At a glance from the young earl, I pulled out my little black notebook, and a fountain pen, dating the top of a page carefully.
"I'll make short work of this," Ciel said, placing a leather binder on the table between himself and Greenhill. Upon opening it up, I could see some of the photographs of the women that he had shown me in his office, that first night; the ones with the green borders. Oh, that made sense, now. "We have witnesses stating that they saw you in the company of these five women, all within the period of two years. These same women now happen to be on the missing persons list. Would you call this a coincidence?"
"Completely," Greenhill replied, joining both fingers together over his knees as he stared Ciel down. Those hard green eyes. "What can you be insinuating?"
Ignoring that, he launched into a list of pre-prepared questions -- what are your connections to so-and-so, where were you on this date, or that date; after a while, the line of answers began to get mind-numblingly boring, and I could see Greenhill's anger bubbling underneath the surface as he became more and more frustrated.
"Um... may I use your powder room?" I requested awkwardly, after Ciel had been at it for at least an hour. The back of my head was really starting to hurt, and I'd had my legs crossed for a good fifteen minutes (would you blame me? There was so much tea).
"Of course." Greenhill stood, and I placed my notebook on the table. Striding back to the double doors, he pushed them open, and gestured down the hall. "Just turn that wall, and to the right."
"Thank you." I bowed my head, and quickly exited the room, pretending not to notice Ciel's displeasure with me. I was quite desperate to use the bathroom, really.
It was as beautiful as the rest of the house, this small room; the walls were painted a light blue colour, and the floor tiled in a sort of deep marine which represented the sea. On the end of the chain was a little starfish; I giggled as I pulled, the water noisily splashing from the tank.
But as I was washing my hands, and the sound of the flush began to fade away, I noticed something – a strange scratching noise seemed to be coming from the ceiling, almost as if an animal were trapped upstairs.
That lion knocker, on the door – did Greenhill have a fondness for cats?
I grinned, wiping my hands on my skirt, and silently exited the room. I'd been much quicker than a regular lady; no one would notice if I simply slipped upstairs, to pet the cat. I hadn't seen such an animal in an age, although every so often, I'd catch a cat hair on Sebastian's lapel.
The stairs were soundless, carpeted to muffle my steps as I climbed. There were no candles or chandeliers lit in the landing, so I could not see very well; however, there was a light, spilling out from underneath a door. Maybe he had left the cat in there?
I crossed the wooden floor as silently as possible, and wrapped my fingers around the handle.
"Psh, psh, psh, psh," I hissed softly between my teeth, hoping to coax the creature out, but the scratching continued. Perhaps it was stuck somewhere? What if it needed help? "Kitty?"
I tip-toed into the bedroom and froze.
There was a woman on the floor, fingertips stained crimson and scratching listlessly at the wood. It appeared as though she'd started there, after she was finished on her arms – which were covered in rivulets and scars, some of which were fresh, others which were scabbing over. The nightdress she was wearing would have been pale purple all over, if it were not soaked with blood in some patches.
Her hair was the most beautiful colour; copper, twisted in soft ringlets and framing her pale face. Pale being the operative word – it was completely white. Large, silvery eyes sat in their sockets, completely dead.
She looked towards me, and a soft question slipped from her mouth.
"Violet?"
I knew her. I knew this woman. She was from Ciel's photographs.
"Violet?" She rose, her gaze wide, and stumbled, gripping onto the bed. I could see a ridge of scar tissue, slashed across her throat.
"I love you. I love you. Violet?"
Before I knew what was happening, I had screamed. A blood curdling sort of scream, loud enough to wake the dead – however, this corpse was already awake, and had no blood left to curdle. There was a clatter downstairs, and a crash, and I heard someone running from the sitting room as I stumbled backwards, out into the hallway.
"Ciel!" I shrieked. "Ciel!"
The dead girl shuffled out after me, blinking, confused. My head was pounding with the force of my heart, making my injury throb; I could see more black spots, creeping towards me again.
"Oh, God," I sobbed. "Ciel!"
"Celeste, look at me," Ciel's voice ordered from the bottom of the stairs, and I turned my head, shaking. His eye patch was missing, exposing his eye – and what an eye it was. The Faustian symbol glittered in place of an iris, matching that on Sebastian's hand perfectly.
"Stay perfectly still," he continued. "She's not going to hurt you, she's obviously passive. Stay still, and she'll stop coming towards you."
"I'm dead," Greenhill croaked beside him. "I'm dead. The Undertaker is going to murder me in my bed."
"More like, you are headed for the hangman's noose. Sebastian," Ciel finished, lifting his fringe from his eyes. "Come here. We have found what we are looking for."
I, of course, knew that ademon could be contacted by its master at any time, simply by exposing the sealand speaking their intentions. But Greenhill stared at him with a mixture ofconfusion and utter terror, and the woman just stared on, serene; seeingnothing else, but this violet that she was looking for.