Chapter Three

Lady Whitney awoke to find the man from the ball sitting in a chair beside her bed, watching her intently. “Good morning,” he said.

        She rubbed her weary eyes. “What are you doing here?”

        “You summoned me, my lady.” He replied simply.

        Her mind waded through wine-soaked dreams to find her memory of the night before. The candle and goblet still stood peacefully on the floor beside the crumpled white paper she had picked up at the ball.

        “I…” she began, but did not know what to say. She had no specific purpose for doing what she had done. She had simply done it.

        “I have a proposition for you.” He moved the messy hair from his face. “You see, there is someone I want dead. And I believe you do as well, a sort of mutual enemy so to speak. I cannot do the task myself, but I can help. In exchange, I can offer you something which will end your sorrow forever.”

        Gwendolyn looked at him curiously. “Who is this enemy?” she asked.

        He gave her a twisted smiled. “The Queen’s Serpent."

Fenris crept through the shadows of the manor, down the stairs to the kitchen where the remnants of a fire were glowing in the brick hearth.  He gazed into the embers.

He did not have to wait long before he heard the familiar voice behind him.

           “Good evening, my young master.” A tall man in a black suit, with black hair and red eyes stood before him.

           “Good evening, Sebastian.” Fenris said. But as he said it, he seemed to change. His adult form diminished, and with a flickering of shadow, a boy was left in his place.

           “Ah, Ciel. I see you have returned to your true form.”

           “I no longer have a true form.” The boy said.

           “Of course, sir.” Sebastian replied. “May I inquire as to your motives for answering Lady Rowan’s call?”

           “You may,” Ciel answered coldly, “but my motives are my own.” He turned his back, facing the dying flames once more.

           Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “You are above all of this, if I may say so. You are noble; you should not be serving this… lady... Please sir, I implore you, return with me to your rightful position."

           Ciel narrowed his eyes. “I am a demon now, the same as you. I now know what it means to crave a soul, to desire it more than life itself, and certainly more than condemned, pointless eternity… This is the soul that I wish to cultivate and consume. I trust you won’t deprive me of the same pleasure you yourself pursued…”
           “Yes, master. I only meant-“

           Ciel turned sharply to face him. “Did you think I wanted to stay a child forever? And with you? I saw her passion, her anger, her desire for revenge, and it drew me in because it echoed my own. I will not be commanded by my servant. If I wish to serve a noble and worthy mistress, it is within my rights as nobility to do so.”
"She may have been born noble, but she has common ways.”
“Don’t you see that’s why I want her? I told you once that my body had been shattered and reborn. This is the same. I was a dog, chained and leashed to a domesticated cause. Now, I am a wolf, free to do as I please.”
Sebastian lowered his eyes, “Of course, my young lord.”

Cassandra awoke with a start. Her body was shaking in a cold sweat and she felt strangely numb. She had dreamed that a poisonous butterfly was leading her through the peaceful, dark night into a den of thorns. Entranced by the beautiful creature, she followed, unable to turn away. Where was her faithful guardian wolf?

 

She arose and turned the wick of the oil lamp, creating a glowing orb of light. She took a deep breath. At some point, she would tell Fenris of this. But for now, she craved gentler company...  

A row of bells on the wall, connected by hidden strings to others around the house and designed for the convenient summoning of servants, was a fashionable installment in wealthy homes of Victorian England. Cassandra had never used hers, feeling it was degrading to summon servants like livestock, and that as people it was more respectful to call out their names when she needed them.
But it was so late… she knew Fenris would be prowling the halls, and didn’t want him to know what she was about to do.

She slowly reached out and touched one of the bells, ringing it as gently as she could. Her heart beat faster, never slowing from the rush of the nightmare. Within moments, she heard a gentle knock at her door. She opened it quickly.
"What is it, Mistress?” Clara whispered. Her amber eyes were hazy and concerned, her golden hair falling in glowing tendrils around her face. She held a tiny candle against the manor’s eery darkness, and for a fleeting moment, she seemed a sort of stoic angel to Cassandra… who then remembered Fenris may be lurking just around the corner. Without a word she pulled Clara inside, closed the door, and kissed her.

The night was cold. The misty rain clung to Lady Cassandra’s cloak as she roamed listlessly through the darkened backstreets of London. She knew Fenris was not far behind her.
She had come to escape her sorrow... Or to find it, she wasn’t quite sure which.
Somehow, the compulsion to immerse herself in this dreary darkness made her own sadness seem less overwhelming. Her tears mixed with the raindrops and diluted the pain until it was no more than a faded feature blending into this muddy, melting watercolor backdrop. Each dirty, decaying alleyway brought her a fleeting sense of beauty and blessing.

As she turned a corner, a huddled mass of shadow caught her eye. It was small, resting on the ground against the brick wall. As she drew near, she heard frail sobs and sniffles. She approached quickly and knelt before the tearful subject. “Please,” she said. “Tell me what is wrong.”

 

The figure raised its hooded head and she saw it was a young woman. Her face had been badly bruised, and there was blood on her mouth and rusting her golden hair. Her eyes were blackened, but a new pain flooded Cassandra’s heart from their amber-colored depths. This girl had known suffering like her own, perhaps even greater, and yet these were not the eyes of one jaded by the hardship of life. They were the eyes of an abused angel.

“Please,” she said again, moving closer to the girl. “Tell me your name.”
The girl sniffed, lowering her face once more.  “Clara,” she murmured.
“Clara.” Cassandra repeated, “A lovely name for a lovely girl.” She reached out and gently touched her bloody hair. “Who hurt you, Clara?”
Clara raised her eyes again, meeting Cassandra’s icy gaze. She could feel the girl assessing her as a mysterious, benevolent stranger, and knew the honey-colored warmth and sweetness of her eyes had been badly betrayed.
After a moment, Clara replied “I am a woman of the night, Mistress. If it pleases my clients to be cruel, it is no less than I deserve.” Suddenly,a fierce anger swept through Cassandra, shaking her to the core. Her own eyes filled with tears. Despite all the injustice and toil she had experienced, she had never been so furious in her entire life. With great effort, she held back a scream of rage. She would deal with the villain later.
“Darling girl…” She whispered, choking back a sob as she gazed on the broken seraphim before her. “You deserve no such thing.” Their tearful eyes met again and,as she helped the shaking girl to her feet, Cassandra recalled the tale of Brina from ancient lore. It was about a water-sprite who saved a virgin from a fate worse than death… At first she had thought Brina was the virgin.

But no... She was the savior.