Summary: Ciel, Sebastian, and a party.
The queen's laughter ripples through the room. Above them hangs a chandelier, most of the candles blown out; across the room the mirrors are dark. And someone is whispering.
Buckingham Palace is different than he remembers, the ceiling is too high and the walls are too narrow and the windows are broken out. Ciel isn't a guarddog here. The music turns sour under all the laughter.
He sees Sebastian casts no reflection. He just stands by the door and stares, and Ciel wants to order him closer.
But someone walks close to Sebastian, and whispers in his ear. Ciel could hear the words if--
“--Don't you agree, Earl Phantomhive?” That's the queen. Ciel says nothing, he nods because his lips are stuck—no, that's not right, he feels and his face is as smooth and uninterrupted as the skin on his arms. His mouth is gone.
Look again, his butler is gone too, but he's never wandered far before. He's not supposed to, ever. Ciel excuses himself with a strangled cry. Forget protocol.
Everyone on the dance floor wants to talk, so they form a blur of fabric and vacant eyes. Sebastian is in the shadows, watching. Ciel pushes through their cries, but the people cling like cobwebs. Their skin rubs off on his clothes and he leaves skeletons in the ballroom.
Too late. The conversation is done, the mirrors are dark, the palace is silent. Sebastian is gone. Ciel is met with a cup of tea and a note.
Down, down, down.
I thought it was madness and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.
Will the fall never come to an end?
This Master must have secrets of his own.