Chapter Text

That Lady, lying

The rain hadn't softened in the slightest by the time Emma found herself back among the remaining guests. The grand dining hall had long since emptied—laughter and conversation scattering through the manor like drifting embers. A group had migrated to the billiard room, their voices rising with each clack of cue against ball, while others had chosen to linger in the lounge, where the air was thick with cigar smoke and lazy amusement.

Emma sat with Lau, Ran-Mao, and Karl Woodley on a velvet settee by the fire. The flickering glow painted their faces in amber and gold, the low hum of conversation blending with the patter of rain.

Lau was lounging with his usual careless grace, one elbow propped along the backrest, a glass of red wine dangling from his fingers. “You English,” he said with a grin, “never tire of your rules. Forks for this, glasses for that. A banquet should be a celebration, not a lesson in restraint.”

Karl laughed, swirling his own glass. “Ah, but without restraint, there would be no dignity. That’s what separates us from chaos.”

“Chaos,” Lau echoed, amusement glittering in his eyes. “I rather enjoy chaos. It keeps the world interesting.”

Emma, reclining slightly with her own untouched glass, smiled faintly. “No wonder you're getting along splendidly with my brother, then. He’s quite fond of a little well-placed chaos himself—so long as he’s the one causing it.”

Ran-Mao said nothing, but her eyes flicked toward Emma, a small knowing curve to her lips that said she found the remark amusing.

Karl raised his glass toward her. “Then allow me to toast to your brother—and to you, Miss Phantomhive. I must say, you’ve handled this evening with remarkable composure. Few could manage such… eccentric company.”

Emma inclined her head with a practiced smile. “Years of surviving family dinners have prepared me for worse.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. She's been here barely five months.

They laughed, the kind of laughter born from expensive wine and mutual boredom, and conversation drifted toward lighter things—business, foreign markets, the Queen’s latest gala. Karl spoke animatedly about industrial expansion and trade, while Lau countered every claim with effortless mischief and vague allusions to “more profitable” ventures he refused to name.

Emma listened, contributing when required, her words smooth and measured, the way Ciel would have wanted. She took only the smallest sips of her drink, the taste still too sharp, too dry. Wine and champagne had always felt more like performances than pleasures. Better, she thought, to stay clear-headed.

At some point, Karl gestured to his empty glass with a mock sigh. “Ah, tragedy strikes. We’re out of wine.”

Lau’s grin widened. “Then summon your miracle worker. What was it he called himself again? Ah yes — one hell of a butler.”

Emma’s smile tugged wider despite herself. “Indeed.”

She leaned over, rang the small silver bell resting on the table beside her, the clear chime cutting through the murmur of voices.

Moments later, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, candlelight catching against the silver of his tray. “You called for me, my lady?”

“More wine, please,” Emma said, tone light but steady. “It appears we’ve exhausted the current supply.”

“Of course,” he replied with a bow. “I’ll bring a fresh bottle immediately.”

As he straightened, his gaze flicked briefly to hers—a barely-there glance that said more than words ever could. The faintest curve touched his mouth, one corner lifting in a private acknowledgment.

When he returned, he moved with that same flawless precision, pouring fresh wine for each guest with unhurried grace. His gloved fingers brushed hers when he set her glass down—fleeting, deliberate.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” she murmured, voice softer than intended.

His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, red glinting faintly beneath the illusion. “Always, my lady.”

Then he was gone again, the faint echo of his steps swallowed by the hall beyond, leaving behind only the scent of candle wax and the warmth of his touch still lingering against her skin.

Lau watched her for a moment over the rim of his glass, smile knowing but wordless. Emma, unbothered, simply raised her glass and took another careful sip—cool, measured, perfectly sober.

The fire crackled. Conversation resumed. And though the night stretched on lazily around her, Emma’s thoughts were already elsewhere, aware that the quiet between storms never lasted long in the Phantomhive manor.

It was Mey-Rins' screams that lured them away from the lounge, easily followed until they reached Siemen's room for the night. All of them, save for Ciel and Tanaka, had gathered in front of the closed door already, and Emma, Lau, and Man-Rao arrived just in time to watch Sebastian kick in the door. While everyone rushed inside, she stepped next to Sebastian, who threw a glance her way, one eyebrow raised in silent question. She gave the barest nod, confirming that what he was sensing was right; Yes, Lord Siemens was indeed still alive, only pretending to be dead. 

Still, Sir Arthur came to the conclusion, simply based on the bloodstain across the lord's chest, faked with wine, as she was well aware.

“What the hell is going on?“ Ciel's voice cut through the chaos of gasps and words of denial, Tanaka right behind him. He stepped into the room, dressed in his nightslippers and robe, the white eyepatch hiding his right eye, coming to a halt next to her. His eye went wide as he saw the apparent corpse before him, before his gaze flickered up—first to Sebastian, then to her. 

As if on instinct, Arthur began deducing the cause of death, and Emma wanted to roll her eyes at that, since he hadn't even touched Siemens to figure that out. She was glad that the author hadn't, though. Otherwise, this farce would've ended long before it had even begun.

To protect the “corpse“ from the blazing heat inside the room, Finny and Tanaka brought it into the cellar, while the rest already started mumbling and speculating. It was obvious that, save for a few exceptions like Irene and her boyfriend, nearly everyone in the room had witnessed a corpse, murder, or similar gruesome event once before in their lives, as basically no one seemed fazed at all by this. Not even Ciel was pretending anymore.

The Yard would be no help, as it would take them simply forever to arrive in this storm, and so it not only became apparent that no help would arrive anytime soon, but they were also all trapped here with the murderer, nonetheless.

Just as Finny and Tanaka returned, the first accusations flew across the room, along with the explanation of a locked-murder-mystery, easily possible in this case with a simple thread and needle, as Ciel explained to his guests. 

Emma wondered whether he knew he'd be framed and wanted to add some fuel to the fire, or if it was just a plain coincidence that he managed to make himself look even guiltier, since it didn't take long until alibies were established. Each and every one was confirmable and easy... Except for that of her dear brother.

Although Emma knew it was fruitless, she did try to defend him just a little, saying the typical things along the lines of “he'd never do that“, “he's just thirteen,“ and so on. Of course, she knew he hadn't done it, and it was vital to the timeline that everyone believed he had done it, but she was his sister—there was no way it'd be believable if she wouldn't have at least tried to defend him.

Across the room, Sebastian’s gaze slid to hers—unreadable, sharp, amused, and assessing all at once.

The game had begun. And Emma, like the storm outside, knew there was no stopping what was coming now.

As much as she knew this was necessary, Emma hated this part of the plan. Every second of it.

If she hadn’t known that Arthur Conan Doyle was a decent man at heart—gentle, thoughtful, and far too honest to harm anyone—she would have torn this whole farce apart herself.

To hell with the timeline. There was no universe in which she’d stand by and watch Ciel suffer again.

But this was different. She reminded herself that Arthur had a younger brother about Ciel’s age, and he’d never let harm come to a child, certainly not one handcuffed to him. Even so, the sight before her made her jaw tighten.

She stood near the door, arms crossed, watching with a grim expression as Sebastian buttoned Ciel’s nightshirt with meticulous precision. The faint clink of metal was steady, rhythmic—the iron shackles linking Ciel and Arthur glinting dully in the candlelight.

“Ugh, this really has become troublesome,” Ciel muttered, his tone all irritation and weary pride.

Emma’s lips twitched. “That’s one way to describe being accused of murder.”

Ciel shot her a sidelong glare, unimpressed and exhausted. “I don’t recall asking for your commentary.”

“You never do,” she said mildly. “You get it anyway.”

He huffed, and for just a moment, he looked his age again.

When Sebastian finally finished, Ciel climbed into bed with a stiffness that betrayed more fatigue than he’d ever admit. Arthur sat gingerly on the other side, the chain between them clinking as he adjusted. The air felt close, too many unspoken words, too much pretense between duty and affection.

Emma approached quietly. “Move over a bit,” she told Ciel, who narrowed his visible eye at her but obeyed, scooting an inch.

She smoothed the blankets over him, a small, defiant gesture of care. “There,” she murmured, tucking in the edge near his shoulder.

“I don’t need—” he began.

“You do,” she interrupted softly, then smiled as his scowl deepened. “And before you say anything else, yes — I’m aware it’s undignified for an Earl to be tucked in. Consider it my revenge for all the headaches you’ve given me.”

Despite himself, a quiet huff of amusement escaped him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still my brother,” she said, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. The gesture drew a faint flush to his cheeks, though he didn’t pull away this time. Perhaps she was overbearing, pushing it a bit too far, but the urge to just grab him and run away from all the problems she knew were coming his way was so overwhelming at the moment, she had to let at least some of it through.

When she straightened, she found Sebastian watching, expression carefully neutral, though the faintest glimmer of fondness softened his eyes.

Satisfied—or at least as much as she could be—Emma gave Ciel one last look. “Try to sleep,” she said gently.

Ciel gave a short nod, his gaze flicking briefly toward Arthur, then back to her. “Good night… sister.”

The title, rare and quiet, pulled a soft smile from her. “Good night, Ciel.”

Sebastian opened the door for her, and as they stepped into the dim hallway, she glanced back once, at the faint candlelight spilling across the two figures in the bed, the chain glinting faintly between them.

Then the door closed with a soft click, and she exhaled.

The corridor was quiet now, that deep, echoing kind of quiet that made the manor feel half-asleep. Only the soft patter of rain against the tall windows broke through the silence, mingling with the whisper of their steps along the carpeted floor.

Sebastian walked beside her, his hand still clasped loosely behind his back, the candelabrum casting warm light that flickered against his sharp features. His calm was infuriatingly perfect, as always, as though even the prospect of his own death was just another tedious detail to manage.

After a moment, he broke the silence, voice low and laced with wry humor. “Am I right to assume, my dear, that I might be murdered tonight?”

Emma’s head snapped toward him, startled by his tone. But his eyes glinted in quiet amusement, the corners of his mouth curved into that knowing half-smile. He wasn’t guessing—he already knew.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then sighed. “You really are impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he said lightly.

She nodded once, almost reluctant. “Yes. You die tonight. Well—technically.”

He hummed as though she’d just confirmed the weather forecast. “As I suspected.”

That made her blink. “You suspected?”

“My dear, I’ve spent centuries cleaning up human messes. When the Queen sends her watchdog a party in the middle of a storm, there’s usually blood on the horizon.” His tone was teasing, but his gaze softened slightly when it met hers. “No need to look so grave. I’ve planned for this.”

She arched an eyebrow, aware. “Oh, have you now?”

He nodded once, precise and perfectly sure. “Every movement, every detail, every outcome—all accounted for.”

A small, incredulous laugh slipped from her. “As my memory recalls, your plan is so complicated that I barely remember half of it.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound smooth and warm, and stepped a little closer, close enough that the light from the candles painted the edges of his smile. “Then you must simply trust that I do.”

“I do,” she admitted softly. “I just hate not knowing.”

His free hand reached out, fingers brushing the back of her neck before sliding up into her hair—a slow, familiar touch that made her shiver despite herself. “Then don’t trouble yourself tonight,” he murmured. “When the time comes, act along with what you see. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“And my standing?” she asked, smirking faintly. “I know. I can’t exactly cry over a mere servant, being a Phantomhive and all.”

His thumb traced a line just beneath her jaw, tilting her chin up slightly. “Precisely. Though if you must feign sorrow, try not to overdo it. You’d give the whole thing away.”

She laughed quietly. “You really think I’m that sentimental?”

“I think,” he said, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed her cheek, “that if you thought no one was watching, you might be.”

Her lips parted—half to answer, half because of how close he’d come—but he only smiled, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing behind his eyes.

“Don’t look so startled, little one,” he said softly. “It’s rather endearing.”

“Endearing,” she repeated dryly, though her pulse was not nearly as unimpressed as her tone.

This time, it was he who leaned in first. The movement was slow, deliberate—the kind that left her just enough time to feel the shift in the air before his lips met hers. The kiss wasn’t hungry or claiming; it was soft, steady, the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything words couldn’t. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb resting just beneath her ear as if to keep her grounded there with him, in that fragile moment between calm and chaos.

When he drew back, their lips barely parted, just enough for her to breathe. Her eyes stayed closed, a faint smile tugging at her mouth as she hummed softly, voice a whisper against his. “I like this,” she murmured.

His reply came low, almost like a purr. “Then perhaps I’ve done something right at last.”

The faintest hint of laughter escaped her, quiet and unguarded. His gaze softened at the sound.

He let his hand fall away, gloved fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long against her skin before withdrawing entirely. Straightening to his full height again, he glanced toward the dim stretch of hallway ahead. “Now then,” he murmured, all composure once more, “I should prepare for my untimely demise.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Try not to enjoy it too much.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, already turning, that subtle grin tugging at his mouth. “Though I must admit—watching your reaction afterward may be the one delightful part.”

Emma shook her head, half exasperated, half smiling as she watched him disappear into the shadows at the end of the hall, candlelight glinting briefly off his hair before he was gone entirely.

For a moment, she stood alone, surrounded by the echo of rain and the faint scent of wax and smoke, heart beating just a little too fast for her own liking.

Then she exhaled slowly.

If Sebastian said he had it handled, she’d believe him.

But that didn’t stop the small, unspoken fear curling in her chest—that even immortals could be taken by surprise. It was irrational and stupid. She knew how this would unfold, knew everything would turn out right. 

Still, as she lay in bed that night, the sound of her heartbeat unnervingly loud in her own ears, she couldn't help but replay the memory of the coming morning—and how Ciel had screamed and cried on her screen, the sounds painful enough to force tears into her eyes.

Emma barely slept.

Every time her eyes drifted shut, the same image flickered behind them—Sebastian’s body sprawled lifeless on the floor, the black of his suit stark against pale skin and spilled blood. She knew it wasn’t real. She’d seen it before—drawn lines, painted shadows, a fictional death on a screen—but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach when she knew what was coming this time.

By the time dawn broke through the storm, she had abandoned sleep entirely. The sky outside was still bruised with rain clouds, the light weak and gray as it pressed through the curtains.

She rose quietly, pulling one of the long, modest nightgowns from her wardrobe—one she normally avoided like the plague. Its high collar and heavy sleeves made her feel suffocated, but somehow it felt appropriate now. The one Sebastian had crafted for her, with its scandalously soft fabric and daring cut, felt wrong this morning, too alive, too intimate for the kind of day that would follow. Besides, she couldn't go running out of her room like that.

The manor was still. Even the wind had quieted to a low moan around the eaves, and for a moment, that silence was worse than the storm had been. It was the kind of quiet that waited. Sebastian was waiting too, as she knew, lying in front of the hearth, iron rod in his chest.

Emma sat at the small vanity by her window, brushing her hair with slow, methodical strokes, anything to keep her hands busy, her mind distracted. The clock ticked on the mantel. Every sound felt louder than it should’ve: the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her feet, the faint hiss of the dying embers in the hearth.

Finally, she stood and crossed the room.

Her door creaked softly as she opened it, just a fraction, enough to see the empty hallway, the stretch of shadow broken by the faint glimmer of a lamp left burning somewhere near the stairs. She leaned against the frame, one hand resting lightly on the wood.

And then she waited.

Waited for the scream.

Waited for the crash of hurried footsteps.

Waited for the moment when this stillness would finally shatter, when the plan would lurch into motion and Sebastian’s perfect chaos would unfold.

The anticipation crawled under her skin, a slow, electric dread.

When the first muffled shout echoed down the corridor, she straightened, heart tightening in her chest, and whispered into the empty hall, more to herself than anyone else:

“Here we go.”