Memento mori

Kent County, January 1888 Cold rain tapped against the tall windows of Lord Kent’s mansion. The air in the drawing room, once luxurious, now carried the scent of wax, dust, and dampness. Portraits of ancestors reflected faintly upon the walls upholstered in dark burgundy damask — their oil-painted faces seeming to gaze down upon the neglect with silent reproach. The marble fireplace stood cold; the gilding on the carved mirror frames had dulled. The death of Countess Kent, found a week earlier with her throat cut in her own library, had cast upon the house not merely the mark of mourning, but of suspicious silence. It was here, standing on a stepladder with a cloth in hand, that Dolores Sinner heard footsteps. She did not turn immediately, instead finishing the delicate task of dusting the plaster angel adorning the cornice. Her movements were precise, economical: the wrist rotating at an exact angle, fingers wrapped in soft fabric cleaning every recess. She wore a simple gray maid’s dress, yet it fit her with such flawless elegance that it seemed tailored exclusively for her. Dark hair, gathered into a tight knot, revealed a swan-like neck. Her profile, illuminated by the pale light from the window, might have inspired the Pre-Raphaelites: a sharp line of cheekbone, full lips, a nose marked by the faintest curve that lent her features not softness but classical, sculptural finality. But her eyes — large, dark, the color of ripe chestnuts — held no poetic dreaminess. Only focused clarity. The footsteps halted at the doorway. “Miss Sinner?” The voice sounded young, cold, impeccably polite. Its intonation carried that peculiar, innate aristocratic hauteur no refinement could entirely conceal. Dolores descended slowly, turned, and executed a curtsey — perfect in form and utterly devoid of sentiment. Her gaze slid toward the figure in the doorway. Count Ciel Phantomhive appeared small, almost fragile. His dark blue velvet suit embroidered with silver emphasized status rather than youth. Black hair, tinged with blue, was styled immaculately. Yet two details captured attention above all: the black silk eyepatch covering his right eye, and the gaze of the single visible one — dark blue, piercing, utterly stripped of childish innocence. Within it dwelled a weary, adult intellect confined to the body of an adolescent. Upon his left thumb gleamed a silver ring set with a deep sapphire — the lone remnant of a legacy that had survived fire. “Yes, my lord,” Dolores replied. Her voice was soft, melodic, even. No fear. No servility. Not even the customary nervousness of a servant. “I am here on Her Majesty’s orders to investigate the demise of your mistress,” Ciel stated, unmoving. His tone suggested explanations were unnecessary — the authority of the Queen’s Watchdog required none. “My butler has already questioned the rest of the staff. You are the last.” From behind him, as though materializing from shadow itself, emerged another figure. Sebastian Michaelis. Tall, immaculate in his black tailcoat, with a face carved from marble and eyes the color of aged wine. He bowed — the gesture so perfect it bordered on the unnatural. “Miss Sinner,” he said, his voice deep, velvet-smooth, honed to perfection. “My apologies for the intrusion. May I ask you a few questions?” Dolores shifted her gaze to the demon. And nothing happened. Her face did not brighten with timid admiration. No blush touched her cheeks. Her breathing did not falter. She regarded him as one might regard an expensive yet entirely useless ornament upon a mantel — acknowledging existence without attaching the slightest personal significance. Her eyes met his crimson irises. And remained utterly empty. Ciel, observing her with cool curiosity, raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. This was new. Sebastian’s demonic presence, concealed beneath impeccable manners and devastating beauty, typically evoked reactions ranging from awe to instinctive unease. But never complete indifference. “Of course,” Dolores answered, returning her gaze to the count as though the butler were merely an extension of his will. “How may I assist you?” Sebastian stepped forward. “You were close to the late countess?” “I fulfilled the duties of a maid and occasionally those of a valet. Closeness implies mutual sentiment, sir. Ours was a strictly professional relationship.” Her reply was as exact as a report. “Did you hear anything unusual that night? Footsteps, voices?” “The house is large, my lord,” she said, again addressing Ciel while ignoring the speaker. “It is always full of sounds. Nothing beyond the ordinary.” A faint suggestion of a smile touched Ciel’s lips. He was intrigued. The dull routine of death and deception briefly receded. He noticed the subtle tension in Sebastian’s cheek — nearly invisible to human perception. The demon was irritated. His carefully constructed persona — his “charms” — had been disregarded. “Unusual,” Ciel remarked quietly. “My butler generally leaves… a stronger impression.” Dolores finally turned toward Sebastian, appraising him with the detached scrutiny of one evaluating a portrait. “Oh, unquestionably, my lord. Your butler is very striking. Impressive posture. Flawless features.” Her tone remained gentle, even. “He reminds me of a purebred stallion from the finest Newmarket stables. Excellent bloodline. Remarkable composure. Visually impeccable.” Silence descended. Dead, absolute silence. Even Ciel froze for a heartbeat. Sebastian’s crimson eyes narrowed for the briefest instant. Fingers within white gloves tightened almost imperceptibly. The demon — hunter, observer, superior being — had been reduced to the level of an animal. By a mere maid. Something sharp and dark flickered within Ciel’s chest. Amusement. Yes… this was amusing. “She calls you a stallion,” Ciel mused lightly. “You are most gracious, miss,” Sebastian replied, a faint steel edge now threading his velvet voice. He studied her not as a human, but as an anomaly. Dolores met his gaze with the same indifferent clarity. To her, Sebastian’s perfection was not human mastery, but something foreign. The cold emanating from him was not aristocratic reserve, but the chill of abyssal eternity. He was not frightening. Merely discordant. Like a false note disrupting the symmetry of her world. “Thank you, Miss Sinner,” Ciel said at last, snapping his pocket watch shut. “We are finished.” They departed. Dolores remained alone. She climbed once more upon the stepladder and resumed cleaning the angel. Nothing had changed. The count — a dangerous, intelligent boy playing at adult games of vengeance and power. The butler — a predator restrained. Both — elements of chaos. Outside, seated within the black Phantomhive carriage, Ciel leaned back. “Interesting,” he murmured. “She did not react to you.” “Indeed. Perhaps limited emotional perception. Or an exceptionally pragmatic mind.” “Pragmatic,” Ciel repeated softly. “Yes… but there is purity in it. Like a finely honed blade. No fear. No fascination. Only function.” “Shall I continue observing her, my lord?” Ciel paused. Remembered her empty eyes. “No. She is irrelevant.” The carriage rolled away. Within the silent mansion, Dolores Sinner descended to her small servant’s room. At last, an expression touched her face. A faint, weary boredom. She was tired of the meaningless performance. She was bored. Deathly bored.