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tothelasthoursofmylife · 1 year

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Side Story 2: Freebird

London, England, United Kingdom – June 1842

He was making her wait.

With her arms crossed in front of her chest, Cloudia leaned against a wall in a little side street, her eyes fixed on the back entrance of a certain ugly building of dark brown and red brick. Crowds of people were walking by, few briefly glanced her way before continuing along; still, Cloudia’s gaze was unbroken. Laughter reached her from a pub around a corner and clouds pushed their way in front of the already weak summer sun, making the temperature drop slightly.

She couldn’t believe he was making her wait. When Charles Rowan had insisted to hold their meeting in his office in Scotland Yard, Cloudia had agreed. The tradition might have only lasted for barely five years but until eight years ago, Rowan had always come to the townhouse or Phantomhive Manor for this meeting. Cloudia would have rather continued the tradition, but Rowan was nearly sixty years old and she had wanted to be charitable and leave a good first impression.

And now he was making her wait! She was standing here for almost twenty minutes, and with every passing minute, the urge to kick in the door became more and more intense.

The next time, this old man would come to me! He and Mayne could use each other as walking canes for all I cared.

Cloudia counted the seconds until another minute passed. Clifford was waiting with the carriage around the corner; if he saw her still standing here waiting, he must be wondering what was going on. Cloudia had expected that she would have to meet such despicable behaviour all her life, but she hadn’t considered the Police Commissioners would treat her like that on their first meeting and especially after Cloudia had successfully finished her first case less than a week ago. She had apprehended an enemy of the Queen and saved her life! That was not nothing. Still, Rowan was making her wait and Mayne wouldn’t even come today.

Thirty minutes after their initial meeting time, the back door finally opened. Cloudia strode across the street and walked inside. She kept her head low and only stole glances around the interior and at the policemen. She was wearing boy’s clothes, the simple blue uniform auxiliary messenger boys wore. The Metropolitan Police Service always kept a few on hand; therefore, nobody raised an eyebrow at a child following an officer upstairs and to the Commissioners’ offices. Cloudia would have loved to march through the building in her best dress with her head held high but, then, she could as well have hung a sign saying “Queen’s Watchdog” around her neck.

The officer closed the door behind her. Cloudia took off her cap and let her braid spill down to her shoulder. She unbuttoned her jacket and took it off as well, revealing a blouse and the blue Phantomhive ring she was wearing as a necklace underneath. Wordlessly, Cloudia sat down in front of Charles Rowan with perfect posture. She fixed her eyes on him. Rowan, who was clad in military red, was nearly sixty but his eyes still shone with such vitality and sharpness that he seemed younger.

“It is an honour to meet you, Police Commissioner Rowan,” Cloudia said with a smile. “I’m Countess Cloudia Phantomhive, the Watchdog of the Queen.”

“It is not mannerly for a lady to introduce herself first,” Rowan said dryly.

Her smile widened. “It is not mannerly for a gentleman to let a lady wait for thirty minutes. Punctuality does not seem to be a virtue you are familiar with, Police Commissioner Rowan. I hope this does not apply to everyone else working for the Metropolitan Police Service but then your task is to bring military discipline to the Met. The question is how can you provide discipline if you lack any yourself?”

Silently, they held each other’s gazes until Rowan said slowly, “I find it fascinating to see in which ways children are similar and different to their parents.” The mention of “parents” gave Cloudia a tingling sensation in her stomach and she eagerly expected a remark about her father but Rowan, disappointingly, just abandoned this thought. “Patience is a virtue, Mylady,” said Rowan. “I am a busy man, one of two police commissioners; there are many urgent matters I need to attend to, and many more may spring onto me without a care for my schedule.”

“Well, I am a busy lady and the only Watchdog,” Cloudia replied. “You may need a more capable secretary or better communication with Mayne. At any rate, the next meeting will be held at my place as is tradition. Now, Police Commissioner, isn’t there something you are meant to pass to me?”

Rowan looked at her for a moment before he retrieved a letter from his drawer and handed it to Cloudia. “Thank you,” she said and took it. She broke the seal open and fished out the piece of paper: the cheque from Queen Victoria.

My first cheque! I had to hold in a grin. Sure it was nothing but bribe money but it was still my first money. I couldn’t wait to show it to Kamden, Barrington, and Clifford!

Cloudia nodded and put the cheque into her pocket. Rowan mustered her. “The reason why I was late,” he said, “was that I had a meeting with Sir Peel that went on for longer than anticipated. There was a lot left to discuss for the soon-to-be-formed Detective Branch of the Metropolitan Police. I have high hopes that this will bring an end to the likes of you, Mylady.”

Cloudia smiled. “And still I was prematurely instated as Watchdog only a month ago. I’ve read the reports and seen the numbers. Except for about two years, the last eight years were, frankly, rough for Scotland Yard. Whatever you tried in those two years might have worked but it did crumble in the end, didn’t it? Who says the same won’t happen to this Detective Branch?

“At any rate, Police Commissioner, say, how are the final matters with John Francis coming along?”

***

An hour later, Cloudia, again in her full messenger boy disguise, stepped out of Rowan’s bureau. A young man of about sixteen or seventeen years with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a perpetually sour-looking face was waiting for her in the corridor; curiously, he did not wear an officer’s blue uniform but that of a messenger boy. His face turned even sourer when he saw her which piqued Cloudia’s interest even more. The young man wordlessly escorted her downstairs, but when they had left the building and were standing in busy Great Scotland Yard, he turned to her and murmured, “I know what you are.” His voice was brimmed with disgust. “It is unbelievable that he would do this again, considering what happened with the last one. I recommend leaving while you still can.”

“Well, he has no say in anything I do and neither do you,” remarked Cloudia icily. “And it is incredible how porous his security is that even some messenger boy without a fixed position at the Met knows about me. What’s your name?”

The man blinked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Arthur Randall,” he said eventually. “And I am a full-time and contracted messenger, not an auxiliary.”

“Well, then, Mr Randall, full-time messenger,” said Cloudia, ready to write a letter to Rowan and Mayne about this leakage in their roof, and turned to leave. “I hope we won’t meet again.”

With a sigh, Cloudia fell into the carriage seat and took off her cap after Clifford had closed the door. The carriage slowly rattled away and through the busy London streets while Cloudia massaged her temples.

This had been so exhausting! It had been so hard to keep up my composure, and, multiple times, was so very close to faltering and yelling. I knew this would be annoying but I had miscalculated how annoying it would be. I could not believe this would have to continue for who-knew-how-many years.

Cloudia looked out of the carriage window and when she saw the city flutter past, the annoyance she felt was replaced with excitement. She had become the Watchdog only a month ago, and this feeling of freedom was still so very bright and new to her. She had mastered her first mission, earned her first cheque, had her first meeting with Scotland Yard – and there was nothing that forced her to return to the manor and stay there. Cloudia could go wherever she wanted now without Barrington or anyone having to petition for visits and outings. Nothing was confining her. She leaned back, capturing the city outside and filing away potential places for her to explore.

***

It might be slightly undignified to get changed inside the carriage, but Cloudia did not want to wear her messenger boy uniform anymore. Before she and Clifford arrived at their destination, Cloudia closed the curtains and took off her jacket, folding it neatly and putting it on the seat opposite her. Then, she stood up and lifted her seat, revealing the luggage compartment underneath and the change of clothes inside. Quickly, she exchanged her trousers for a skirt and her shoes for boots. Grabbing a bonnet, she closed the lid again and sat back down.

When Clifford later opened the carriage door for her, Cloudia stepped out feeling more like herself – though she did shiver a little; the sun was still blocked by the persistent clouds. Wrapping her arms around herself, Cloudia followed Clifford into the Sainteclare Bookstore.

The small bell rang at their entrance and Kamden immediately turned to look from behind the counter. His black hair was tousled, and his blue eyes must not only look like Cloudia’s at this moment but shine like hers too when they saw each other. Kamden put down the notebook he had been holding and rushed to embrace Cloudia. Laughing, Cloudia returned the hug; she felt much warmer now.

“Now, children,” said Clifford with a smile, laughter lines appeared around his eyes, “beware that you are still standing in front of the door.”

Kamden released Cloudia but took her hand. Cloudia gently pulled him away from the entrance. “I’m so-sorry,” said Kamden.

“It is all right, Mr Kamden. Would you like me to take over while you head upstairs with the Young Lady?”

Kamden shook his head. Only if it was absolutely necessary, he allowed anyone to helm the bookstore in his stead – or even help out; Cloudia had offered again and again and had been refused all but once in the last four years. “Plea-please just taaake a look a-around, Mr Cli-Clifford,” Kamden said, and Cloudia squeezed his hand. So far, Kamden had only been able to go a few times to the Universal Dispensary for Children and see Charles West as West was a busy man and Kamden’s sister a busy girl. With the decoration and the assassination now being in the past, Cloudia hoped Kamden would put himself first for once and see West more often. She knew how much his stutter bothered Kamden no matter how often Cloudia reassured him it was fine, he could take all the time he needed to speak. Until Kamden’s sessions with West had come far enough that he felt better about himself, Cloudia had silently promised to make everyone who ridiculed him for his speech regret it. It was the least she could do with Kamden, despite her protests, pushing his own life in the back for her and she was now free to do all she wanted; she had to take full advantage of that.

Clifford bowed his head before he vanished between some bookshelves, and Kamden drew Cloudia with him behind the counter. She let go of him and sat down on the cushioned stool that was always behind the counter. They chatted a bit about everything and nothing whenever no customer was at the counter with a question or a book or multiple they wanted to purchase. The presence of the cheque in her pocket weighed on Cloudia and she was eager to tell Kamden but she restrained herself and waited. Today, the bookshop would close early and Barrington would come over after all; then, she would have the opportunity to talk about this achievement all she wanted.

But how she nearly exploded with excitement!

Kamden packaged up a purchase of five books for a man and then went on to help a woman who sheepishly enquired whether Description of the Skeleton of an Extinct Gigantic Sloth was already available. Cloudia loved watching Kamden work. He was only twelve like she but had been running the store almost all on his own since he was seven after his parents succumbed to their illness. He rarely talked about those months between their deaths and the day Cloudia came into the shop. Would the Sainteclare Bookstore even still exist if Barrington had not taken Kamden in as his ward? Kamden was so diligent and took his work so seriously to keep his parents’ shop alive, but he was only a child and there was only so much he could do on his own. Of course, there had been Dr Alan, though he had also not been able to help much.

“How is Dr Alan? I almost forgot to ask,” said Cloudia after another satisfied customer left the store.

“He-he’s well,” Kamden replied. “Buuusy with, with wo-work.”

“He sure is busy a lot.” Cloudia leaned back. “You and Dr Alan should come to the townhouse for dinner one of these…”

Before she could finish her sentence, a man burst into the bookstore, his hat in his hand and his green suit a bit dishevelled – even his moustache was tousled.

Why on earth had he been running?

“Dia! Kamden!” Barrington cried and hurried behind the counter. His loud entrance garnered him a few odd looks from patrons but he did not seem to care and went to hug Cloudia. She did care though and held out her hands to hold him back.

“Barrington, what’s the matter with you?” she asked.

Pouting, Barrington took a step back and fixed his clothes a bit. “I was simply excited to tell you and Kamden about something.”

Get in line, thought Cloudia. She crossed her arms. “What could be so important that you come here like that? Kam’s still working.”

“Well, not for too long.” He pointed to the clock that hung above them. “Barely twenty minutes until the store closes for today,” Barrington said, raising his voice to ensure that the customers heard him.

Having enough, Cloudia got up from her seat and grabbed his hand. “We’ll be waiting upstairs!” she told Kamden before she dragged Barrington up the stairs into Kamden’s home.

In the living room, Cloudia beckoned him to sit down. Everything about Kamden’s flat was small and cosy, and the furniture in the living room was close together, with only a bit of space available to traverse through the room. Still, Barrington managed to fall onto a sofa without upsetting anything else in the room.

“Ship voyage to Japan in 1825,” he answered her unspoken question. “That I was a nobleman’s son didn’t matter on this tiny ship. There had been an error and too many tickets were sold which made the trip bothersome but also cosy if you like being shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. I’m just glad the ship didn’t sink because of the overcapacity.” Barrington put his hat on a side table and stretched out on the sofa like a cat. “Don’t forget, Dia, I’m a veteran, world traveller…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Cloudia cut him off. “How could I ever forget? You keep repeating it.”

A while later, she heard Kamden and Clifford coming upstairs. Clifford went to the kitchen to make tea, and Cloudia pulled Kamden with her onto another sofa. “Now, say, Barrington, what did you want to tell us so urgently?” asked Cloudia.

“Oh, right!” Barrington said as if he had forgotten to tell had Cloudia not reminded him; maybe she should not have said anything. “Kam, Dia, I was at Weston College today. It’s June 4th – the day of their annual cricket tournament. At first, they didn’t even want to let me in…”

“You broke into a school?” Cloudia said, and Kamden’s eyes widened.

“It’s not some school; it’s my alma mater! I have every right to attend one of their cricket games,” replied Barrington. “Still, they denied me! Can you believe that? I used to be a star cricket player for Green Lion, was dormitory prefect, and became the Head of the British Knights after graduation! They should be sending invitations to me to come to these events.”

“Maybe they don’t want you there because you’re not the Head of the British Knights anymore?”

He huffed. “I didn’t leave in disgrace, Dia.”

“Sir Barrington, didn’t you blow up the west wing of the Green Lion dormitory after the graduation ceremony?” said Clifford when he entered the living room with a tray carrying tea and sweets. He calmly arranged everything on the side table and put Barrington’s hat away while Cloudia and Kamden stared aghast at Barrington.

“Is-is that… that true?” Kamden asked.

Barrington waved his hand about. “Not intentionally, don’t worry. My parents paid for the repairs and nobody was hurt except for, perhaps, a stray squirrel; I do feel bad for it but it was, overall, not a very eventful explosion.”

“How did you even manage to accidentally blow up part of your dorm?” Cloudia wanted to know.

“Dia, it’s an old story.”

“Usually, you never shy away from telling us old stories.”

Barrington glanced at Clifford who was calm as always. “You won’t let me go now, will you?” asked Barrington.

“Never,” Cloudia said.

Barrington sighed. “Thank you, Old Ted. You’re much appreciated 364 days in the year at least.”

“This is more than enough for me, Sir Barrington, thank you,” replied Clifford, bowing his head a bit.

Barrington murmured something Cloudia couldn’t hear before he said louder, “Si got some things from his father’s, your grandfather Percival’s, workshop, Dia. He snuck into Green House which was, of course, audacious even on our last day as he was in Blue House and all dorms are bitter rivals. Naturally, someone caught us and took the little apparatus from Si. That idiot ran off with a stolen object full of highly explosive fluid. I ran after him and when I got to him, he threw the object and it rolled next to a burning candle; we had knocked over a candelabra in our little brawl. I grabbed that moron and hauled him away right before the entire west wing blew up. Thankfully, your father had already left the building by then. As I said, only that poor hypothetical squirrel died that day; may it only ever haunt that fifth-year idiot in his hypothetical dreams and not me. Nobody was even injured. It was a non-event and certainly nothing they should hold against me twenty years later! I wasn’t even the one who messed up; it was that other Green Lion student. What was his name again?”

“Leonard Vabsley,” Clifford said.

“Right! That’s the buffoon. They’re letting him on school grounds without a check-up, can you believe that? I saw him today with his family.”

“Could it be…” started Clifford, and Barrington looked at him.

Cloudia’s ears perked up. “Could it be what, Clifford?”

“364 days in a year, Old Ted,” Barrington said, exasperated.

“It was a very honourable thing to do, Sir Barrington, and nothing to be ashamed of,” Clifford said.

Barrington crossed his arms. “Last day or not, I couldn’t let anyone find out that Si was at the Green Lion dorm, so I said it was me who brought the object to school.”

Cloudia blinked at him, and Barrington sat up. “It’s yesterday’s chip paper. At any rate, I was the Head of the British Knights for eight years and my nephew goes to Weston. They should have let me go to that damn cricket game. When they kept refusing, I snuck into the premises to watch it: Green Lion won which was expected. That’s what I wanted to announce before everything was derailed.”

“You really did break into a school,” remarked Cloudia. “For a cricket game, of all things.”

“It’s very important to Weston College culture and I became nostalgic.” He sighed. “Next year, Kamden can get into Weston and then they can’t refuse me anymore. He’s my ward.”

Kamden sat up very straight, and again, he and Cloudia stared at Barrington.

“Kamden will go where next year?” said Cloudia insistently.

“I-I wiiill be se-sent, sent to school?” Kamden said, confused.

She took his hand. “Kammie, you’re not going anywhere you don’t want.” Cloudia narrowed her eyes at Barrington. “Kamden is not your ticket to some school’s cricket tournament, Barrington.”

Barrington held up his hands. “I know! I know! I didn’t want to sound as if that was my intention. It’s simply that he will be thirteen next year and old enough to enrol. Weston College is the United Kingdom’s most prestigious school, and Kamden is an intelligent boy. It doesn’t matter that he’s not born a nobleman. He’s my ward. All doors are open for him, and it is the opportunity of a lifetime.” He turned to Kamden. “Kam, I’m sorry: I didn’t want to bring it up so early. I very much intended to sit you down with Dr Alan and me and discuss this. It’s over a year away until you could even enrol; there is still so much time left, and, of course, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s only a suggestion.”

Kamden went still beside Cloudia, and she squeezed his hand. “I hope this conversation will involve me too, Barrington,” said Cloudia.

“Of course, Dia.”

“You better not forget.” She brushed over her skirt, straightening it. “As you know, I met Charles Rowan today,” Cloudia said. “He left me waiting.”

“That bastard,” remarked Barrington.

“Beware of your language, Sir Barrington,” Clifford told him.

“Old Ted, I’m sure these children know every insult under the…”

Clifford threw a scolding glance at him, and Barrington cleared his throat and said, “Old Charlie didn’t change, hm? He hated Si too from the very beginning. With the establishment of Scotland Yard, the Watchdog, he thinks, has become ‘obsolete.’ It’s an ‘archaic’ tradition that should be buried, he would always say. Si and I met Old Charlie and Richard after they were sworn in; that was sometime in late August 1829 if I remember correctly. There we were, Si and I, twenty-five years old and in our prime, getting told by two men twenty-two and eight years our seniors that we were the archaic institution.” Barrington grabbed a chocolate from the tray and threw it into his mouth.

Clifford sighed. “Table manners, Sir Barrington.”

Barrington swallowed before he apologised. “They are very good though,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

“From a little market at the edge of the city,” Clifford told him.

“Please write down the address for me; I need to raid that place. Kam, will you come with me?”

“Oh, uhm…” stammered Kamden.

“I take that as a yes; we’ll ride at dawn next Saturday.” Barrington rubbed his fingers together to get rid of the chocolate stains, and Clifford wordlessly handed him a handkerchief. “Thank you, Old Ted,” he said and cleaned his hands. “Anyway, both the Met and the Watchdog are needed because, while their work may be similar, they are also fundamentally different: The Met is for the people, and the Watchdog is for the Crown.”

“What is for the Crown is also for the people,” Cloudia replied. Barrington was quiet. “At any rate, I met Rowan today and I must say he’s rather unpleasant, taunting me with the Detective Branch that will be formed soon. As if it would change anything.”

“Old Charlie has always been like that,” said Barrington. “He hates the Watchdog and Aristocrats of Evil with a passion but is surprisingly nice to his subordinates. Richard, however, hates you and is abrasive to everyone else too. I still hope that Secretary Philipps from the Home Office will strangle him one day in a surge of rage. Dia, Kam, trust me when I say that you do not want to be in the same room as Richard and Philipps. Old Charlie is the diplomatic force of the Met – can you believe that?”

Cloudia sighed. “Can I finally continue?”

“Sorry, Dee.”

“Rowan was annoying but I did get my first cheque,” she said proudly. She took out the envelope and held it up. “Youngest Watchdog in history and not even a month in the position.”

“Con-congraaatulations, Cloudie,” said Kamden and hugged Cloudia. She happily returned the hug, and Clifford smiled. “To celebrate, how about we go out, Young Lady, Mr Kamden, Sir Barrington?”

***

Cloudia pulled the blanket back and beckoned Kamden to come. He hesitated before he laid down next to her in the spacious bed, his hair still wet and messy from the bath Clifford had drawn him. They had been at a very fancy restaurant earlier and had got changed for the occasion: Kamden had a few extravagant clothes Barrington had given him for such outings; otherwise, he would stick out like a sore thumb. It had been four years since Barrington took him in, but Kamden still needed a while until he relaxed being in places reserved for the affluent. Today, he had been a bit more on edge than usual; however, when Cloudia had offered to find another restaurant, Kamden had only shaken his head and ensured her and Barrington that he was fine. At the restaurant, Kamden had also avoided Cloudia’s gaze which had alarmed her. He was keeping something from her, and she had waited all evening for him to tell her; he never had.

Now, Cloudia covered Kamden with the blanket and laid down too. Sleepovers had been a near impossibility before, and in the last few weeks, they had spent almost every night together. Apart from the first day, Kamden had never hesitated though. He was still not looking at her.

“Kammie,” Cloudia said. “You’ve been odd since we left the bookstore, and don’t try to deny it! I know something is wrong; you cannot even look me in the eyes.” She took his hand under the blanket. “Please tell me, what is the matter?”

“I… I…” Kamden took a deep breath and finally met her gaze. Cloudia’s eyes widened when she understood what was going on even before he said the words out loud: “When Ba-Barrington sa… ta-talked aaabout the school, I… I… I thi-think I would, would, would liiike ttt-to go.”

Kamden at Weston College?

That place was a fortress: No visitors were allowed except for the cricket tournament. Students could only leave the premises on weekends or with special permission, and then this was only authorised for second-years and older. I couldn’t possibly pretend to be a boy for so long and enrol myself. Unless I broke into the school, I wouldn’t be able to see Kamden for a year.

Just when I had finally broken free.

“But what would become of the bookstore?” Cloudia asked. “If you go to Weston, they won’t let you return in the afternoons. It’s a boarding school, Kam; you will need to live there.”

“I-I know,” said Kamden. “I… I could-could fiiind some-someone for, for the shop.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “I… I wwwant to go. But, but I doon’t want to lea-leave you.”

“I…”

I didn’t want him to go to a place where I could not follow.

But…

But I knew that feeling, of wanting something so dearly and being denied it.

Cloudia pulled Kamden into a hug so that he could not see the tears glistening in her eyes. “Kammie,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could, “if going to Weston is what you want, I will support you – even if it means that we are apart. We can write to each other and when you become a second-year, we’ll meet every free weekend. And then there’s the cricket tournament. Barrington might be denied but I will certainly go. They can’t stop me.

“And we still have over a year until you can even start school! We’ll make the most of that time and I’ll help you with your speech lessons. You will be fine. We will be fine.”

Kamden held her closer and rubbed her back. “Tha-thank you, Cloudie.” She felt him exhale and he was tense when he strained to say, “I love you.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened and, in her surprise, she forgot to hold back her tears. They ran over her cheeks as she replied, “I love you too.”

***

It was Sunday, and Cloudia, Kamden, and Barrington had a late and casual breakfast until Barrington had to take Kamden back to the bookstore. The shop might not open today but there was still some work to do – tomorrow, a large delivery would come – and Cloudia could not spend the day with them anyway: She had been invited to afternoon tea.

A maid helped Cloudia into a purple dress her aunt Joanna had gifted her. Joanna was having a tea party for the women of England’s social elite at their townhouse, and Cathleen was hosting the corresponding tea party for the invitees’ daughters, granddaughters, and nieces. With Ceara still in Ireland and Constantia – and Celeste for that matter – in Bath with her parents, Cloudia was the only cousin who would be attending Cathleen’s party. She had given Kamden her support and she would not rescind her words but the fact that Kamden would go to Weston College next year still dampened her mood. Thus, the fact that neither Constantia nor Celeste would come was more than welcome; Cloudia didn’t think she could bear an afternoon with them. An afternoon with Cathleen and Clarissa would be more pleasant – even if there would be many other girls and Clarissa would be especially talkative because of last month’s derby (which she had missed to attend Cloudia’s decoration as Watchdog) and the upcoming royal ascot.

Cloudia turned around in front of the window, inspecting herself from all sides. Her hair spilt mostly freely over her shoulders, but two strands of her hair had been braided back with violet ribbons. The dress was not simply “purple” or “violet” but iridescent: When she whirled around, the light turned the dress orchid, mauve, or lavender depending on the angle it caught the fabric. Cloudia had to ask Joanna where she had found this fabric; not even at Wilbur’s shop had she seen anything similar. Maybe she should have a thorough walkabout on Savile Row one day.

Cloudia pulled at the hem of her dress. She still had a nasty bruise on her upper thigh from her mission and was glad that the dress was long enough to cover it even when she sat down. The problem with injuries and clothes was not something she had given much thought to before, but now, Cloudia looked forward to when she was old enough to wear floor-length gowns.

She thanked the maid and went downstairs to meet Clifford and drive to see her aunt and cousins.

The Woodward townhouse was only a few blocks away from the Phantomhive townhouse. The building was less imposing and grand but better kept; Joanna and Jonathan’s rose garden in the front and backyard was a dream, and they even cultivated their own varieties and presented them at fairs. Thus, when Cloudia stepped out of the carriage barely fifteen minutes later, the familiar scent of hundreds of roses greeted her. She was always amazed by the fact that there were so many different varieties and their fragrances still perfectly harmonised with one another.

Cloudia and Clifford went up to the front door, and he knocked. A footman opened and guided her upstairs whereas Clifford went to help the Woodward servants with final preparations.

Cloudia heard lively chatter floating from the playroom. There was only one drawing room which had large glass doors that opened to the back garden; Joanna and her guests would be there. For Cathleen’s party, the playroom had been rearranged. Cloudia had been informed of that beforehand but she was still stunned when she stepped inside: All signs of childhood had been scrubbed from the room. Gone were Cathleen’s doll collection and Clarissa’s horse miniatures. The toy tea service and table had been replaced by proper tables and fine china, and the walls were void of the childish drawings of old; instead, they bore copies of famous paintings and some photographs of the family and nature.

Cathleen had always seemed so very ladylike to Cloudia since they were little. Now, while she was still wearing a short dress like most of the attendants – hers was of a lovely pale pink – as she was only fourteen, Cathleen looked even more grown-up as she walked up proudly to Cloudia to greet her. “Cloudia! I am so happy that you could make it,” she said softly and took Cloudia’s hand; it was such a feathery light grip.

“I’m happy too. Thanks for inviting me, Cathy,” said Cloudia and gently pressed her cousin’s hand.

A smile appeared on Cathleen’s face and her grey eyes shone. Then, Clarissa appeared in a dark green dress. She pushed up her glasses and said, “There you are finally” although Cloudia was not late.

Clarissa hooked her arm with Cloudia’s. “Come, cousin. I’ll introduce everyone to you; it’s a rather rude lot, I have to say. I’ve been trying to tell them my analysis of the Epsom Derby and my predictions for the Gold Cup and nobody even bothers to listen – as if they were not two of the social events this summer.”

Cloudia glanced at Cathleen. “Will you be fine on your own?”

Cathleen smiled. “Yes, of course. I’m the host. Please enjoy yourself. And Clare? I’m sure Beeswing will win just as you think.”

***

This was my first formal touch with high society since the disaster that had been the Queen’s wedding. It might only be the “junior” branch but it was still the elite, and since this morning, nervousness had lain over my heart. Until now, the only girls my age I had known were my cousins, and I had only been able to see them now and then. These kinds of gatherings, this group of people were my future, our lives forever connected by the class and status we had been born into.

The nervousness was persistent and trying to weigh me down, but I ignored it, pushed it away, as best as I could while Clarissa acquainted me with the other girls. I greeted Mary Louise Kent, Eloisa Bainsbridge complimented my dress, I praised Emily Griffin’s hairdo, and engaged Harriet Treadway in conversation – which had been a grave mistake. Harriet was one of the few older girls here, seventeen years old and standing out with her long dress and tall stature, and she seemingly had no qualms to tell unfamiliar twelve-year-olds her entire life story. It was not even interesting, but I still smiled and nodded until Clarissa pulled me away to introduce me to the more reasonable Evelyn Anderson. Clarissa was usually the one to scold us for tactless behaviour; Harriet must have really annoyed her.

I talked about embroidery, plans for the Season, history, and the latest fashion. And everything was pleasant enough until the last guests arrived and we all sat down for tea and cake. As soon as we were seated around the room, I suddenly felt very hollow. Cathleen was a brilliant host, the cake delectable, the tea fantastic, and the company better than expected; still, something felt wrong.

It took a while until I realised that I was this something. I was the one piece that did not quite fit in this picture of a perfect tea party.

Barely a week ago, I had run after an assassin and caught him after brief combat. A month ago, I had pledged myself to Queen Victoria, to be her Watchdog, to be her executioner and shadow. All my life, I had been trained and educated for this very purpose.

When I accepted the Watchdog duty last month, I had lain my old dream of a normal life, of a “happily ever after,” to rest forever.

And now, here I was: Pretending to be something I was not. Indulging in something I could never truly have.

The awful bruise under my pretty dress stung and my family ring was cold against my skin as I stood up and excused myself to the bathroom.

Cloudia hurried in the direction of the bathroom so that anybody who watched her leave would not be suspicious but she had no intention of actually going there. Instead, she walked past the bathroom and went downstairs, suddenly gripped by the need to get some fresh air. The door to the drawing room was slightly ajar, and Cloudia hovered in front of it, debating whether to go inside or not. Aunt Joanna was there; she could simply say she had come to give her greetings as her niece. Her hand was almost on the doorknob when she heard what the women sitting closest to the door were talking about:

“How long has it been since that man was arrested?” said a woman, surprising Cloudia with the choice of conversation topic.

“Almost five years; it will be five in November.”

“What terrible news that was! That man was supposed to protect us from criminals but he was a criminal himself in the end.”

“Did he have any children?”

“God forbid, no. He was unmarried and childless, thankfully.”

“Thankfully. I agree, my dear. Imagine if there were any of that man’s children roaming around. What a horror that would be! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.”

Cloudia dropped her hand and turned around on her heels, walking in the direction of the music room. The corridor in front of it was empty, and Cloudia leaned against a wall and closed her eyes. From everywhere, she could hear muffled voices and when she heard steps coming closer, her eyes snapped open and she stepped away from the wall.

“I think I need to work on my light-footedness,” a woman remarked, her blue eyes shining with mischief. Her curly honey-blonde hair was intricately pinned up and was alongside her eyes the only speck of colour as her skin was pearl-white and she was clad in black mourning attire. “Rather lovely tea parties, aren’t they? But so stuffy. I simply had to step away for a moment or I feared I would combust listening to Adrianne Royceston for one more minute. I hope her granddaughter Harriet is more sensible.”

“She is… all right,” said Cloudia hesitantly, startled by the woman’s appearance and familiar chatter.

The woman smiled. “You must be Joanna’s niece by her sister Penelope, aren’t you? Cloudia Phantomhive?”

Cloudia nodded.

“Oh, how brilliant! I heard so much about you!” The woman stepped in front of her, leaned down and whispered, “Countess Phantomhive, as a newly created Watchdog, I suppose you are currently in search of Aristocrats of Evil?”

***

My blood froze in my veins.

What had she just said?

Cloudia narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Who are you?”

The woman stepped back a little and held up her hands. “Marchioness Cecelia Williams. And do not worry, Countess Phantomhive, your secret is safe with me.” She smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity, you have to know. I’ve been looking for the Watchdog for nearly a year now, and you don’t know how glad I am to have found you and learned that you were just instated. I know this is sudden and you must be furious that someone discovered you already but I swear no one else knows and no one else but me could know. I have to say that I am rather exceptional with my skillset.” The woman, Cecelia Williams, looked around before she fixed her eyes on Cloudia. “I need to talk to you but it cannot be now and here.”

“Why should I agree to this? I could have you killed.”

“Then, your secret would be exposed, my dear. I am the only one who knows about it so far. This could change at any given moment as I arranged some ‘safeguards’ before coming here.”

Cecelia retrieved a piece of paper from her sleeve and pressed it into Cloudia’s hand. “I’m sorry, my dear, but this matter is of utmost importance to me. And I promise you, I will be helpful to you too.”

***

The Williams townhouse looked like a little palace: It was made of white stone and marble and its size was so enormous that it towered over its neighbouring buildings even here in Belgravia. Maybe calling the property a “townhouse” wasn’t the most accurate description, though Cecelia had called it that in her note herself.

Cloudia got out of the carriage and asked Clifford to wait for her there. The note had said she should come alone but not to the main building: Her destination was the guest house on the other side of the garden.

I had looked into Cecelia Williams. She was the widow of Marquess Michael Williams. They had been married for three years and had no children. The current Marquess was Michael’s younger brother Richard. I couldn’t find out a lot about Cecelia on such short notice as she used to live in Ireland until her engagement to Michael six years ago. She didn’t like to talk about her past but had quickly assimilated into English society.

Michael had been murdered last summer, and Cecelia had said she had been looking for me for a year. She must need my help in finding her husband’s murderer. No wonder she had spoken of a matter of “utmost importance.” This and the despair I had caught in her eyes for a split second were, apart from my general curiosity, the reasons why I had decided to come. “Safeguards” or not, I was the Queen’s Watchdog and could have got Cecelia killed without exposing myself in the process after all.

The sun was shining brightly today, and Cloudia shielded her eyes from the light as she walked to the guest house.

First Arthur Randall. Now Cecelia Williams.

Within two days, two people had told me they knew I was the Watchdog. A horribly damning circumstance.

But Randall knew because of Rowan and Mayne and their carelessness, not mine. Cecelia knew because she had been actively searching for me in the hopeless hope that I could help her.

I hadn’t done anything to give myself away. A relieving thought; still, I could not help but feel angry at myself.

Cloudia opened the door to the guest house like Cecelia had told her to; as she had written, it was unlocked and left slightly ajar. The interior of the guest house was shockingly simply furnished but each piece was elegant and evidently carefully picked. No indulgence in an overabundance of useless décor, no heavy furniture that would only collect dust, no objects that were solely there to display wealth.

Cloudia went to the drawing room where Cecelia was waiting for her. She was in mourning clothes again which was to be expected; after all, a full year had not passed since her husband’s death yet.

“Countess Phantomhive,” Cecelia said with a smile. “I am happy to see that you could find time for me. Please take a seat.”

Cloudia sat down, and Cecelia poured her a cup of tea before she seated herself and filled a glass with wine. “I hope you do not mind that I drink a little.”

“Not at all, Marchioness.”

“Please call me ‘Cecelia.’ After all, we will be the closest of friends from now on.” Cecelia grinned at her. Cloudia didn’t return it.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“Some humour would be a good start. I know you are unnerved by the fact that I know you are the Watchdog – and do not worry, no one is here except you and me; we can speak freely – but you are twelve years old, aren’t you? You should have some humour in you. You’re still young.”

“I would rather you tell me immediately and not engage in any unnecessary chit-chat.”

Cecelia sighed. “As you will, Countess.” She leaned back, swirling her glass in her hand. “I suppose you know – or, rather, found out in the last week; I know you barely know anyone – that I was married. ‘Til death do us part’ the vows and laws may say but I consider myself forever married. Michael’s not dead until I give up on him.” Cecelia took a sip and looked at Cloudia with hard eyes. “Last year, he was murdered in the main building of this residence; that’s why I live in the guest house. I was there after his death and when I searched the townhouse brick by brick and found nothing of note, I realised I could not return. I have not stepped into the main building since. There is nothing to be found there. I can stare at the ground where his corpse had lain all I want; it won’t tell me anything. All the answers I need are outside. Only the ‘outside’ is such a terribly big place, isn’t it? And that’s why I need you.

“Ever since I arrived in England, there was this small, small rumour about a person who was the Crown’s executioner. I have always had a way with information. I used to listen to everything solely out of boredom; there was not much to do if you grew up like me. People often don’t expect someone would listen to their conversation who is not a part of it, but I did. I soon learned there is something to gain from every piece of information, no matter if it came from loud conversations, sideways gossip, or murmured exchanges. No matter if it was the truth, a lie, or a rumour. They don’t only tell something about the subject but also about the speaker. I learned so, so much from simply listening.

“When Michael died and the Met could not find his murderer and refused to let me know anything about the investigation, I went to work, weaponising the skills I had honed all my life. I’ve been in England for six years now and know how to get any piece of intelligence I desire. But all the doors to the only piece of information I truly ever needed are closed to me. I’ve looked for a year now and have nothing. Nothing.” Cecelia finished her glass and poured herself a new one. “And while I searched for my husband’s murderer, I also perked up my ears for any information on you. The rumoured Queen’s Watchdog. How odd it is that I could find you but not a simple murderer, isn’t it?”

She put down her glass without having taken a single sip from it. “I do hate being dependent on anyone; however, I have to admit I’m at my limit. Whoever has killed Michael has buried every lead so deeply that my range doesn’t cover it. If I dig any deeper, I fear I will only get myself killed without getting any answers. But if I work for you as an Aristocrat of Evil, I would get some protection, wouldn’t I? Having your title attached to me in any capacity would make me feared too, I would hope.”

“So you only want protection to be able to search further into your husband’s murder?” enquired Cloudia.

“Indeed. In return, I would offer you my skills and abilities. I have already proven to you that I am not a crook. If you need to know anything, I will find it out for you. This will greatly aid you in your investigations, I would say. I would even teach you if you want.” Cecelia leaned back. “You don’t have a female teacher, do you? You have many female relatives but none of them can help you in your situation, can they? You only have that one disgraced knight by your side, and, from what I’ve heard, he’s hardly qualified to raise a girl properly. Or anyone for that matter. Michael and I never had any children, but I would be honoured to pass all my knowledge on womanhood to you, Countess. The world is a cruel place, especially for people like you and me. We need to support one another to survive. And with you slowly entering society, you certainly need a chaperone too. And here I am, a respectable married woman.

“What do you say, young Watchdog? With your tenure having now started, you need allies; will you accept me as one?”

Cloudia took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Cecelia. “Who are you?”

Cecelia blinked at her, clearly caught off-guard by her question which Cloudia happily noted. “What do you mean?”

“Allies know one another, don’t they? If we become allies, we should know each other too. You already know all about me but who are you?”

Cecelia laughed. “Part of me had hoped and wished that you were only a naïve little girl. That was the laziest part of me, I have to clarify. You would have only bored me if you were naïve and easy to shape. Now, I’m even more certain that it was the right decision to seek you out. However, beware, Countess, my history is not particularly interesting or important.”

Cloudia smiled. “Didn’t you say every piece of information is important?”

“Touché,” said Cecelia and chuckled. She lifted her wine glass again and took a sip before she started. “There are two versions of me: The one before Michael and the one after. The one after is the me you see in front of you, a refined, brilliant noblewoman who desires nothing more than to slit the throat of whoever cut her husband’s.” Cecelia drank more from her wine. “The one before is truly no one of note because no one let her be. A bright girl from Ireland with a simple background. My mother died when I was very young. My father never remarried because I was such a terror and scared everyone away. No one wanted to get close to him, let alone marry him.” Cecelia laughed. “Which is good. I wish I had the chance to ask my mother what she had seen in that man. My father was a difficult man, stubborn to a fault. He staunchly refused to listen to me even if it meant we would be ruined. He tried to marry me off at every opportunity. You must have noticed my beauty but everything else shooed the suitors away. It didn’t matter to me, though it enraged my father.

“I met Michael because my father would, once again, not heed my advice. I was nineteen and Michael was a year older than me. He was visiting some family friends with his siblings, Richard and Arabella. Those family friends were wealthy landowners to whom my father owed money; in fact, the land on which we lived belonged to them.

“One day, my father found a bit of a treasure, a nugget of gold, in our soil. I advised him not to give it away in this state – I told him to exchange it for money first so as not to raise any suspicions – or, at least, not to tell where he had found the nugget. Of course, he did not listen to me and went to the landowner – who promptly imprisoned him when he would not give up the ‘rest’ of the treasure which, obviously, did not exist. And if this matter had not threatened my likelihood too, I would have let him rot in prison.

“Thoroughly annoyed, I went to the landowner and explained to him the situation and my father’s folly. I mentioned that I warned him and this piqued Michael’s interest in me. He was there too at my little ‘audience’ if you can call that meeting one. My little remark would have gone by the board if it had not been for Michael. He vouched for me, and I do wish a little he hadn’t spoken out and simply quietly helped me out afterwards because what followed was rather mortifying.

“Michael’s family friend – a second cousin he told me when I later asked why on earth he kept such ridiculous company – was, frankly, an odd fellow. To prove my wit and confirm that I was telling the truth about my exchange with my father, I had to solve some idiotic riddles and only when I did that masterfully was he satisfied enough to let the matter go and free my father. The next day, Michael found me at the marketplace and profusely apologised for accidentally humiliating me; he didn’t think his friend would demand such things from me. I accepted the apology and thought this was the end of everything.” Cecelia smiled at the memory. “A girl realises when someone comes to a place they know you will be too. At least this is true in my case. Michael practically lived on the market for a week until he talked to me again, beet-red and stumbling over his words.

“His family friends had invited Michael and his siblings but ended up being very busy. Because of that, Michael, Arabella, and Richard had to entertain themselves a lot. Only they hadn’t been in the area before and they had grown tired of being at the estate all day. Michael asked me if I wanted to be their guide for their stay. Although I thought it was a strange request, I accepted it as I had nothing else to do anyway.

“I showed him and his siblings around and you cannot imagine my surprise when Michael told me he liked to hear me talk! I talked his ear off and he kept on smiling like a beautiful fool. He was often so immersed in what I was saying, Michael would forget to look where he was walking. He constantly tripped and I had to catch him, though this was not entirely my fault. Michael was a hilariously clumsy man and I was sometimes baffled by how he had even survived for as long as he did. I know Arabella and Richard were sick of us, but they had to accompany us for propriety.

“You are still so young, Countess, only a child despite your work, so you might not know the joy of having found love with someone you could be yourself with. No masks, no concealing, no hiding. Michael proposed to me before he was supposed to leave. He was a timid, reserved man but he sure was brave to ask me to be his wife regardless of what anyone else might say. That day, Michael came to my house and even asked my father for my hand, but, of course, the old man only laughed at the situation and told him not to bother before he walked off. I accepted, naturally, and went to England with Michael and his siblings. I haven’t been ‘home’ since then.” Cecelia glanced through the window to the main building. “But then home is a choice, isn’t it? And I chose Michael and he chose me.”

“And I choose you,” said Cloudia, and Cecelia turned back to her, her blue eyes wide, “as my Aristocrat of Evil.”

Cecelia smiled and, for once, there was no mischief in it. “Thank you, Countess. You will not regret it. I certainly won’t.”

***

Countryside, England, United Kingdom – August 1842

Cloudia tapped against the carriage wall. “Clifford, can you let me out?” she asked and a moment later the carriage came to a stop. She heard steps and then Clifford opened the door. “Young Lady, is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Cloudia said and stepped outside. “I simply want to walk the rest of the way.”

“Are you sure? We still have quite a bit left.”

“I am. Please go ahead with the luggage. I will come later.” She gestured to her leg on which she had fastened her father’s dagger. “And don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

“I know, Young Lady,” Clifford said softly. “But it is a butler’s duty to worry about his master.”

Cloudia smiled at him. “I promise I won’t need long. I’ll be at the manor before the sun goes down.”

He bowed to her before he climbed back on the coachman’s seat and waved her goodbye. She waved back and watched him rattle up the path with the carriage.

Cloudia took a deep breath and looked in the direction of the manor. It was still far but behind the thick trees, she could see bits of the roof and chimney. She stared into the distance for one more moment before she turned around and ran.

The wind whipped against her face, and tore on her hair and clothes; still, she ran. The ground was uneven and strenuous to walk on but she did not stop. She stirred up dust and earth, pushed against the wind, held her head up high against the sun. Even when her lungs began to burn and her legs got tired, Cloudia kept on running and running farther away and away from Phantomhive Manor.

I didn’t halt. I couldn’t halt.

How often had I dreamed to go out and run like that? Away and away and to wherever I pleased?

I closed my eyes and kept on running. The wind rang in my ears and pulled free a few strands of my hair. I must look like a mess but, right now, I couldn’t care less.

For as long as I ran with my eyes closed I was free.

Cloudia stopped at the outskirts of St. Lacey. Her face was flushed and she gasped for air. Each breath both worsened and relieved the burn in her lungs, and still, she smiled. When her body had calmed down a bit, Cloudia walked along the village border – she did not want to go to the village now – until she reached a long overgrown cemetery. Cloudia stood at the old iron gates. This must be the cemetery’s back entrance. It was forgotten by people and reclaimed by nature; the gate was firmly held shut by twines.

Cloudia retrieved the dagger and unsheathed it. She mustered it from all sides, letting the light illuminate the pattern of waves and drops on the blade as well as the unfamiliar script etched into the handle, before she cut through the tendrils and opened the rusty gate; it creaked in protest. She put back the dagger and walked through the cemetery, along the old, hardly-visible paths and amongst the withering gravestones. She tried to read some of the engravings but most of them were covered by plants or faded away. However, the farther she went, the closer she came to the main entrance that led to St. Lacey, the more well-kept the tombstones and graves became, though they were still slowly crumbling away. Someone must be trying to maintain this place.

When she was almost at the main gates, Cloudia stopped – and glanced at a nearby tombstone. Its inscription was still readable, and she was surprised to see that no names had been carved into the stone: “Here lie two lovers and my greatest shame. May you rest in the peace which I took away from you. ~ Augustus.”

A shiver ran along Cloudia’s spine when she read the words. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked right, where St. Lacey lay, and left, where the way she had come was.

Left, where the manor was.

The Season had ended and, after spending three months in London, it was hard to return to Phantomhive Manor. After all, Cloudia had left it as a prisoner and would return to it with her freedom restored.

But freedom was the ability to choose. Where should I go? Left or right? All my life, there had been no choices for me to make.

Now, all was different but still the same.

If I returned to my old prison by choice, could I make it my home?

The Phantomhive ring was warm on my finger. I closed my eyes when a cold wind came, but I still felt oddly warm.

When I opened my eyes again, I went left without looking back.

#Watchdog of the Queen #Bonus Chapters #kuroshitsuji #fanfiction #cloudia phantomhive #undertaker #if you wondered what happened to the drawing I mentioned #well I got very distracted XD #super surprise chapter for you and me heh

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