...te and he strode briskly down the hall to wake his master.
He amused himself with his own flowing patter about breakfast and tea; really, it was no surprise the British of this generation were dabbling about calling his kind; they had a natural, or perhaps national, talent for ritual. He slid on Ciel’s shoes, stifling a snort at the childish way Ciel rubbed the sleep from his eyes. How many among the English underground, he wondered, would be afraid of Earl Phantomhive if they saw him yawning around his fist in the mornings?
Fortunately, the child did not have ascendancy in his latest master.
"And, of course, Lord Randal will be here this afternoon to speak with you about the smuggling through Kent." he finished.
Ciel stood and Sebastian’s eyes widened, drinking in the change as the light of Ciel’s soul flared and focused, hard as sapphire.
"Yes." All trace of petulant laziness was gone from Ciel’s voice and his eyes were sharp and bright above a faint smile. "We must receive him properly." That smile gained a malicious curve for one breath. "See to it."
Sebastian’s mouth curled in answer and he bowed deeply before Ciel’s bared edge. "Yes, my lord," he murmured, not to the order, which was a given in any case, but to acknowledge the appearance of a master worthy of his contract.