Into These Waters of My Soul

Ciel went for a walk with Arthur in the evening. “We’ll be making illustrations for that butterfly story.” But before that, he paid a visit to Sebastian; they were — ridiculous as it was! — praying again. For a short while this time. Ciel didn’t say a word about Emilia or his suspicions. He only said: “Your eyes still laugh when you turn to God.” “Do they?” “Go to the story. Write what feel.” “What I feel? Sincerely and frankly?” “This is why I came up with the contest. When praying, you laugh, but in writing, you may open up.” “You should have warned me that my story would be my confession. Will Arthur confess, too?” “Arthur is already open. He writes what he feels, and then again, he doesn’t need to.” “Then it was unnecessary to organise this competition. All you had to do was ask me.” “Are you afraid to lose?” “I’m just wondering why you need this.” “I’m leaving. Will you work on the story right now?” “Consider it written.” And so Sebastian was left alone. From the window, he watched Ciel and Arthur walk around the garden, both enchanted by the magic of cooperation. Sir Knight was gesturing without respite, and Ciel wouldn’t stop smiling; they were having a great, great time. The following day, Ciel also spent his whole time with Arthur on the hotel grounds. Sebastian only saw the young man at breakfast. His small mouth was indifferently devouring the scrambled eggs. Before that, the dish had been cruelly cut open with a fork, and bacon had been dipped into the yolk. Then it was followed by a crispy toast with orange jam and carelessly washed down with tea with milk. Sebastian envied the cook who was involved in the feast of such a charming creature. The man was possessed by fleeing and obtrusive dreams of the end of the world, in which only the two of them were left alive. He would become the only one to take care of Ciel. To provide for him and to protect him like the last person on Earth. To love him like the last person on Earth. The last and only one to be desired. The world has shrunk to useless decorations and trembles like a cardboard house in the wind. Everything is about to collapse; the demon breathes down his neck, and if he says what he has come for, it all will be over. The curse of Thanatos. Sebastian wants to take Ciel by the hand — a corrosive desire of gigantic proportions, outrageous and shameless. Irreversible, like hitting a gong. Like cutting of a carotid artery. Like breeding. Like a falling comet. Breathe in, breathe out. Death. Like a waxen statue, he has frozen on the chair and doesn’t dare to move. The paper figures —Vincent, Rachel, and everyone else — will come alive if he does what he wants. To get the treasure, he must steal it. This is the secret of success and interest. “Gabriel, darling, why aren’t you eating?” Rachel asked her son. The elder twin didn’t touch his plate and only took small sips of black tea. “I’m not hungry.” “Are you sick?” “Not at all. I have no appetite, that’s it.” “In this heat, no wonder…” “It’s fine. Ciel will eat for us both, right?” “Sorry, I can’t have any more.” “Then maybe you will offer it to your new friend?” “Why?” “Well… you know, he looks a bit… malnourished, like all these… poor artists and poets.” “Don’t say that, he is a good person. You shouldn’t judge him like that.” “Have I called him bad? Everyone knows that the path of a creative man is full of hardships in the material world. We should support them. Except for Mr. Michaelis, of course — he’s got his mind where it belongs.” “What are you saying?..” “Don’t you want to help your friend?” “He doesn’t need it. Don’t humiliate him, Gabriel.” “I didn’t mean to humiliate him; you’ve got it all wrong. But why do you think he mixes with you? You are naïve, my brother!” “Stop it!” One twin was glaring at the other until the latter lowered his eyes and started at his plate, his fingers searching for the edge of the tablecloth — that movement gave him calmness or a point of support. Ciel pursed his lip while his eyes were watering with helplessness. Sebastian chose to stay out of it, as did the others. Madam White was about to open her mouth, but then she changed her mind and looked at the brothers with sympathy — even with pity — especially at Ciel. “You give them food,” continued Gabriel, “and they give you poems, or whatever it is that he tells you…” Ciel rose silently and, without looking at anyone, walked away. Gabriel shrugged. Vincent sighed: “What’s gotten into you, Gabriel? Ciel has a new friend, and all you do is grumble instead of being happy for him.” “I’m taking care of him. As soon as I am sure about this friend, I’ll be happy for Ciel. He needs someone to watch over him.” Rachel found the solution: “I think we should invite Ciel’s friend for dinner. Tonight. If you are taking care of him, Gabriel, then be so kind to invite him yourself.” “I’ll go with you,” smiled Miss Elizabeth. Madam White asked, wiping crumbs from her mouth with a napkin, “Is it really so bad? Is he so poor? Here?” She was talking more to Mr. Michaelis than anyone else. “Honestly, I haven’t asked him about it, and I don’t think that it matters.” Mrs. White snorted and gave Sebatian a surprised and disapproving look, as if he were a foolish youth. “Ha! It matters a lot in our world! There are so many fawners and fraudsters these days! They are always looking for someone to fool. And our Ciel is a nice and kind boy.” Since when did he become yours? Sebastian thought gloomily. “If this is what you mean, I don’t believe that Mr. Wordsmith is a danger.” “And I believe that all of us should meet him!” exclaimed Madam White, so energetically that the Great Dane lying at her feet woke up.

***

Arthur was sitting between Ciel and Mr. Michaelis, opposite Gabriel. “What do you do?” asked Mrs. Phantomhive. She and Vincent were extremely friendly with their son’s new friend. For them, Arthur was like a link or a float swimming in the waters into which it was impossible to plunge. Those waters were too calm to suspect them of dangerous depths, and that was why one needed to keep their distance. A paradox. Sometimes, it seemed to Michaelis that Vincent was afraid of his own children. They were like two poisonous ivies intertwined with each other and growing fast. “I’m an ophthalmologist. I work in a shop of my uncle.” “My eye is twitching, by the way; I bet it is the climate change!” complained Madam White. Arthur offered to examine her at daylight, but he wasn’t promising a proper check-up due to absence of tools. “A very useful job,” nodded Vincent. “It wouldn’t hurt for Ciel to have his eyes checked too,” said Gabriel. By dinnertime, his appetite had returned to him, and Ciel’s was gone. “We see the same,” answered the younger brother. “Not anymore. You always read in the wrong places: in the bright sun or under the blanket with a lamp. Like a child.” “I have a right.” “To think of it!” Gabriel snorted. “People will distinguish us by glasses.” “Don’t worry, I have no need for glasses.” “You are not an ophthalmologist to draw hasty conclusions. You squint already. Mr. Wordsmith, tell my brother, as an expert, about the rules of reading. Am I wrong?” For a moment, Arthur was confused — he looked like a stray puppy being shared by two children — then he smiled, both friendly and guiltily. “In fact… you are right. Certain rules must be followed; prominent p-professors already write their articles about it.” When Gabriel expressed his satisfaction with the answer, Sir Knight gave Ciel a doubtful look: did he do the right thing? That look was enough for Sebastian to see that Arthur knew a thing or two about Ciel’s twin. The boy had told him something. “Professors who hunch over their tables with lamps and wear glasses!” snorted Madam White. “What can be said about these professors!” Arthur answered with a genuine but muffled laughter, and continued: “The way we read affects our eyes. We need to take care of them.” Gabriel caught the phrase and gave his twin a patronising nod. “You see, Ciel, I’m right.” “Mr. Phantomhive may not need to wear glasses yet,” said Arthur. “I do! I certainly need glasses,” Madam White noted hot-heartedly. She even put a hand against her heart, her massive chest rising and falling heavily. “Sometimes I take my dog for my handmaiden. It can be so comical!” “Wearing glasses isn’t pretty,” Miss Midford crinkled her nose. Arthur nodded knowingly and said: “I would like to say that they make more and more interesting frames nowadays. Even some ladies of fashion find that glasses… how do they say it… ‘add some uniqueness and charm.’” “Is that true?” The girl looked at the doctor writer with a slight suspicion. He assured her: “My uncle likes to compare them to uniforms. Glasses are like shields, swords, or armour.” “What an odd comparison!” snorted Madam White. “Swords and amour can also serve as decoration, in addition to their primary functions, of course.” “That’s right,” said Vincent. “And nobody would think of calling them ugly.” “Exactly!” Arthur agreed with him happily. He was inspired by the given support; it even seemed that he was ready to talk about glasses throughout the evening. “All you need is choose the armour — I mean the glasses — that you find to your liking.” Miss Elizabeth shrugged; she didn’t care if it was armour or a shield — it wasn’t pretty anyway. Who if not she, a fiancée of the future earl, could know about this better? “Shields, swords, amour… These aren’t for ladies.” “Then how about umbrellas? Or…” “No, no! You won’t change my mind! This isn’t pretty.” “Too bad,” Arthur smiled. “I mean, it’s good that you don’t need them.” “Is that why they call you Sir Knight?” smiled Gabriel. “You always speak of swords and armour.” “Ah, this…” Arthur hesitated. Sebastian intervened: “Mr. Wordsmith holds to high ideals in his work. And he defends them so ardently that comparison with a knight rolls off the tongue as a matter of course.” “Thank you, Mr. Michaelis,” said the man in embarrassment, “but, honestly, I don’t think myself worthy of this comparison…” “High ideals are less and less in demand these days,” said Madam White. “And this, I will tell you, is not good. My second cousin has once read a newfangled novel — all capital was reading it — and what is it about? Counterfeiters, swindlers, and thieves! Or let’s take another example…” Here she began to list the books that somebody had ever read, all of them wretched, of course. Sebastian felt someone push him with a shoe. Stubbornly, lightly, and persistently. He moved his leg away to see a feigned disappointment crawl across Gabriel’s face. However, it could also be attributed to the madam’s complaint about the blasphemous trampling upon goodness that fictional characters were losing all as one. If it wasn’t Gabriel, it could be Madam White. “Literature is in decline! That’s why I’m on your side, my dear,” the madam finished her tirade in a deep voice. She even gently patted Arthur on the hand, finding him a fine and obedient boy. And the young man was indeed looking like a boy. He blushed so hard that even his ears turned red. “It’s… n-nice to hear,” he uttered, stuttering a little. “I hope that I won’t let you down.” For heavens’ sake. Sebastian rolled his eyes and caught a laughing look of the blue ones, whose owner was sitting in front of him. Gabriel turned to Arthur: “What are you working on now?” “On fairy tales. Christmas stories.” “I see! Ciel and I have always loved Christmas storybooks. What is it about?” “I’m going… to describe a town of butterflies and moths in a hollow tree. “Moths?” Elizabeth twisted her lips; she found it less pretty than wearing glasses. Arthur hastened to convince the girl. “The story is about how butterflies spend the wintertime in a hollow tree. They can’t see sunlight, and they live in darkness, but even here there is a place for fantasy. Their life is interesting and similar to ours. They wear shoes…” “And glasses?” guessed Miss Midford. “And glasses! Moth ladies wear handbags, and gentlemen have suits and briefcases.” “How funny!” “The butterflies and moths are waiting for Christmas. This will be a series of stories about the life of their society.” Arthur finished his explanation. Rachel and Elizabeth found the idea to be unusual and sweet. Vincet remarked that selling children’s books was quite a profitable business, as long as parents liked the books themselves. Madam White shook her head. “Well, I don’t know if I would buy a book about the life of insects before Christmas for my girls… It sounds… it sounds odd! Why not rabbits? Or ducklings?” “This niche has already been taken,” said Sebastian. “You will agree that you have never seen this idea before. It draws attention, at the very least. I suppose the main work should be done with the illustrations, which is what Mr. Wordsmith is going to do, as far as I’m aware.” Arthur added: “With Mr. Phantomhives’ help.” Gabriel decided to tease him: “Which Mr. Phantomhive?” “Me.” Ciel cast a dark look at his brother from under his brows. “It was him who helped me come up with this idea, and he’s helping me with the illustrations,” said Arthur. “My brother knows how to inspire those in need for inspiration. He has it about himself.” Gabriel smiled and turned his head to the second writer: “And you, are you working on something, Mr. Michaelis?” “I’m not writing for a while.” “Writer’s block? Ask Ciel if so. He will help you. He likes to do charity work.” “I have no need for charity. But I wouldn’t mind a fresh view from the side. I will definitely ask him.” Elizabeth wanted to know more about the butterflies’ clothing: “Will they have hats?” “I haven’t thought about it, but now that you say it… it is a brilliant idea!” Phantomhive’s fiancée brightened. “I know, I know, they can also have gloves!” “But butterflies don’t have fingers,” smirked Gabriel. “Then let them have them! Or lace mittens, at least.” Everyone left after dinner. The spouses of Phantomhive went for a walk, Madam White left to treat her feet with the balm that Rachel had bought for her, and Elizabeth insisted on promenading with Gabriel. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Wordsmith,” Vincent said before leaving. “I hope you will join us again.” “Oh, of course. With pleasure. Thank you. I had a great evening.” “We, too, had a very good time.” Sebastian, Arthur, and Ciel were left alone. Apparently, the boy and Sir Knight were eager to continue their work on the project, but Michaelis suddenly decided that he wouldn’t go anywhere until asked. Arthur didn’t like Sebastian’s presence, due to their different ways of seeing things, but he would rather eat his hat than admit it or show it. There was an awkward silence. “A wonderful evening,” smiled the black-haired man. “Do you remember how you mentioned church to me the other day, Ciel? I made inquiries about a curious one. Unfortunately, it is old and abandoned, but I thought it might be interesting for you to visit it.” Ciel smiled and moved his head vaguely. The silence fell again. It was Mr. Wordsmith’s turn to speak: “Miss Elizabeth had a good idea. It’s worth paying attention to the clothes. Children will be interested in looking at tiny details.” “I think so too,” Ciel answered with a little smile. “Children will compare butterflies to humans. This will… bring them closer to nature.” They were silent once more. Ciel’s hand, not at all tanned in all days, picked up a branch. The ornate patterns began to appear on a loose patch of ground, absentmindedly and a little bit stubbornly. Arthur was walking nearby, along the rhododendrons, and thought about his fairy tale. Sometimes he murmured something under his breath. Sebastian took advantage of the moment when he turned away and whispered in the small ear, which felt miles away. “Is it taking you so long to choose, or?..” A quick, incriminating glance was cast at him. Then Ciel stood up from the bench he was sitting on. He wished to go to the garden, for it was especially nice there in the evening. Once they found themselves amidst the rose bushes and the freshness of the evening fountains, the young man asked if their stories were ready. Arthur answered in the affirmative. So did Sebastian. “In this case, there is no point in waiting for tomorrow. I suggest you bring them to me right now. I will read them and…” “Someone will lose their head?” Sebastian narrowed his eyes. Ciel ignored the jest. “I will wait here.” “I’ll be right back.” Arthur looked at his watch and straightened the hem of his jacket. “It’s strange, but any thought about a competition excites me. It’s been like that since I was a child.” He giggled like a little boy and made his way to the hotel, his pace energetic and a little bit nervous. Sebastian lingered by Ciel’s side. He needed to ask him something. “What are you thinking about? Besides the competition and the stories about the butterflies in the hollow tree?” Ciel cupped a flower bud in his hands. It was black like a coal. A large, furry caterpillar was crawling along a petal. It was black, too. “About the wrong butterflies. No, not from Arthur’s story. Look at that insect over there.” It took Sebastian some effort to see the insect as he followed the finger that pointed at it. It was sitting on the ground, on a tiny stone. Its wings were shaking. They were wrong-shaped, their edges torn and stuck together. “It happens, unfortunately,” the man summarised his observation. “It will never fly, will it?” “Most likely not.” “It is defective. It should have never been born, but it still hatched from the cocoon, exhausting its resources in the process. What has it done that its wings are so ugly and useless?” “It’s a matter of chance.” “It was given the same resources as its kin. They are the same.” “Nature has laws of its own, Ciel, we are only her witnesses.” “It’s foolish, but I feel like this butterfly,” uttered the boy. Somewhere behind his back, there was not one, but at least two identical, empty cocoons. It wasn’t even a butterfly caught in a web. The story was much sadder. “If truth be told, you do look like a butterfly,” agreed Sebastian. “One of those you want to catch or hold in your hand for a while.” He was too candid and walked on the edge, but the young Phantomhive just smiled bitterly. He pushed the caterpillar off the flower. It fell right next to the defective butterfly. “You haven’t answered my question about the church,” Sebastian hurried to change the talk. “First, I want to read your story. Will I like it?” “If you think about the wrong butterflies, you may.” “What does it mean?” Sebastian needed to choose his words wisely. He stepped a little closer, and his careless movement urged the butterfly to fly away. But the poor thing couldn’t. Even the caterpillar was crawling faster. “I’m trying to make you see that singularity doesn’t have to mean that someone is defective. Perhaps you just found yourself among the wrong kin. Your cocoon was carried away by the wind. Or perhaps you are not a butterfly at all.” “Then who?” The man bowed down, their faces opposite each other. Curiosity and excitement were splashing in the dark blue eyes, and the bottom of their pupils were covered with violets. It hypnotised. It paralysed. The butterfly wasn’t as defenceless as it seemed. Sebastian felt a slight chill and a desire to touch the tempting lips. “Flowers are like butterflies, too. They just can’t fly.” “Here I am!” Mr. Wordsmith was back. He had even decorated his work with silk ribbons. Ciel quickly looked away and distanced himself from the man. “Go,” he waved his hand at him, “I’ll start with Arthur’s story.”