A Young God (P h a n t o m h i v e) [Kuroshitsuji 4]

Chapter V: The Gracious Husband

But do you feel like a young god?

And so, it became another one of my duties. Going up to the library at nine, making sure that everything was spotless, lining the grate with paper and firelighters and sticks, preparing the tea. Lord Phantomhive would enter at ten, as was agreed, and we would read in a companionable silence until eleven o'clock, where he would go to bed and I would extinguish the fire. It was something... ritualistic, nearly. For some unknown reason, beginning in his employ, I wanted to please this man as much as I possibly could. I would hazard a guess that it was because he seemed as though he could never be entirely satisfied.

Although we exchanged almost no conversation, a sort of... unwritten code began to develop between us. One particular night, he offered me tea. A silent gesture, his heavily ringed hand pushing a quiet cup towards me as he tore through his book. The next evening, I brought biscuits, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy; sweet and buttery shortbread that I had made myself, cut into the strangest fleur-de-lis pattern (it was one of several odd biscuit stamps that Bardroy kept in his pastry drawer). I set up the gramophone in the corner and we lost ourselves to the sound of Wagner.

These midnight readings began to become an almost... well, sensuous experience for me. The heat of the fire. The perfume of the tea and biscuits. The strange, heavy scent of Lord Phantomhive's cold cologne. The deep bassy sounds of classical German opera. The queerness of the situation – everything reminded me of the beginnings of one of the Bronte's epic novels. The question was, was that all there was to it? A reminder?

Of course. I was being completely ridiculous. We were just reading, for God's sake. The only person that was even remotely affected by this apparent closeness was I – Lord Phantomhive seemed completely unperturbed by my presence, and often issued short, sharp orders to me in a defiance of anything that I believed about a possible friendship blossoming. As was to be expected. Although, there was also the element that neither of us mentioned our little gathering to the mistress – the idea that she would be unhappy over it was wholly accepted by both of us. It was unorthodox. That much was true. I had heard of masters sleeping with their servants, or abusing their servants, but I had never heard of them starting book clubs together.

I also had never seen the master and mistress eat a meal together. I never seemed to prepare the dining room, and the few times I did, it was just Lady Elizabeth. Lord Phantomhive tended to sojourn in his study, have his dinner brought to him late while he was on the phone or writing frantic letters or quietly muttering with Sebastian Michealis. Something that he always made time to do was to read. According to Sebastian, the book, the tea, and the expensive Asian cigarettes relaxed him.

However, it seemed that he made an exception, one night in particular. Mey Rin had sheets to wash – as a punishment exercise, for bleeding all over them, I had been told (Bard had taken great delight in the act) – so I was serving the evening meal. And imagine my surprise when, of all people, the young earl strolled through the double doors of Lady Phantomhive's personal dining room that evening.

He sat, whilst I was stationed in the corner, and had the most marvellous look of distemperment on his elegant face. When I deemed it suitable to do so, I cleared my throat, folding my arms behind my back.

"Is everything alright, my Lord? You seem... distressed."

"Why my wife insists on dining in here, I do not know," he mumbled, reaching for the starched white napkin which I had folded neatly and shaking it out of its swan-shape. Lord Phantomhive tilted his pointed chin, bearing his taut neck as he ticked the lace in past his collar. "It's quite the eyesore."