"I don't know what's going on, but there's one thing I'm absolutely certain of: Sebastian Michaelis is not human, and I have no clue of what his intention are or what he's capable of doing. "
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Bleak.
That, she determined, had become the word to sum...
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22 April 1889 1,221 days of service
As a creature whose span of life is infinite, one becomes accustomed to a mundane sort of livelihood in the servitude of humans despite the entertainment they provide through their perplexing nature (humans are blighted by their selfish passions, so fragile yet so full of hope that I shall never exhaustively apprehend their motivations; however, in turn, it provides me with a form of pastime in these contracts, some more prolonged than others).
Though still quotidian, my days spend under the serfdom of Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen's Watchdog despite his being only thirteen years of age, are comparatively more tolerable than my previous contracts despite the way in which my hunger for a soul becomes increasingly voracious each passing moment I desist my appetite. At times, I may chance to admit that I enjoy my role as a butler – I certainly had attuned to the butler lifestyle over the two years I have been at his side.
Still, I must suppress my impulses for however long I must endure this purgatory, forced to allow the burning of my famine cultivate the final satisfaction I shall receive once I consume him. I must often interrupt my fantasies of how I will savour each moment of his demise with immense delectation in order to prevent myself from breaking our contract. As a demon, I find no obstacle I find no obstacle in the completion of my duties as head butler, a modest title since the manor is fully managed by myself, and scantly find myself surprised.
The late morning on the twenty-second of April in the year of 1889, however, marked the day my bleak existence and predicted days experienced a shift that would indefinitely end my ennui.
The sun had only risen, yet my day had already been unwontedly thrown off its course for matters that I, seemingly for the first time in the eons I have lived, had neither the foresight of nor a clear solution for. I regrettably admit that this unforeseen occurrence might have left me baffled, for it managed to slip past my typically keen notice entirely. Upon waking my young master at seven o'clock, it came to my attention (disgracefully after I was informed by he, who had noticed moments before I) that the child's ring, previously belonging to the late Earl Vincent Phantomhive, was nowhere to be found, leaving my master – and in later moments, myself – rather peeved.
Naturally, I took it upon myself to ease his mind in order to finish dressing him while he took his breakfast, escorting him to his study still without the emerald-cut sapphire which usually resided on his small thumb. Though I had envisaged to embark on my own morning duties and ensure the three bumbling baboons who erroneously called themselves servants (troublesome they may be, they serve their true purpose when the manor is under attack) would not bring about more trouble than is usually expected before I began my tedious search for the invaluable heirloom, my master had other orders: I was to find this precious ring before I proceeded to do anything else, and this did nothing to ease my vexations.
