Little Dove

The Puppet on Strings

Build it up with wood and clay,
Wood and clay, wood and clay,
Build it up with wood and clay,
My fair lady.

Wood and clay will wash away,
Wash away, wash away,
Wood and clay will wash away,
My fair lady.

Build it up with wax and stone,
Wax and stone, wax and stone,
Build it up with wax and stone,
My fair lady.

Build it up with iron and steel,
Iron and steel, iron and steel,
Build it up with iron and steel,
My fair lady.

What was once a nursery rhyme for children had become a haunting melody—twisted, corrupted. It lingered in the air like smoke, turning sweet lullabies into warnings of death. It infected the city like a plague, whispered in alleyways, sung by street urchins who didn't know the horror behind the tune.

And the disappearances continued.

Elizabeth Midford was only the beginning.

One by one, girls vanished—swallowed by the shadows of London's underbelly, never to be seen again. My heart sank with each report. Was Lizzie still alive? Would she be the next body found discarded in the Thames?

Ciel was livid. The Queen's Guard Dog would not sit idly by. He vowed to find her, and Sebastian and I matched his determination. We knew who was behind it all: Drossel Keinz. A twisted puppeteer hiding behind his porcelain façade, and he would kill Elizabeth if we didn't act quickly.

"Don't be reckless," Sebastian warned Ciel in a calm but firm tone. "Anger clouds judgment."
"I don't care," Ciel snapped. "I'm going to find her."
"Then you're not going alone," I said, stepping beside him.

Sebastian dispatched Pluto to help us. The demon hound's strength was immense—his sheer force nearly pulled Ciel and me off our feet as he tore down the cobblestone streets. We clung to his leash with everything we had.

My hands burned from the friction; I knew Ciel's did too. Heeled shoes were a terrible choice—I cursed them with every stride. We barely kept up, breathless, panting, but determined.

Eventually, Pluto skidded to a halt. We collapsed against a lamppost, heaving for air. The city seemed to still around us.

Ciel straightened his coat, his voice ice. "If you're like a dog, can you track scents?" he asked Pluto coldly.

The demon hound tilted his head and wagged his tail—eyes blank with a twisted innocence that belied his monstrous power. No answer came, only silence.

And then—

A swish of red.

A clack of heels.

A voice like honey laced with arsenic.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Phantomhive siblings~," came the familiar purr of Grell Sutcliff, his wicked grin shining in the moonlight. "Looking for a damsel in distress, are we?"

He leaned on his death scythe like a cane, red eyes glittering. The last person we expected to help was the same Grim Reaper who once tried to destroy us.

And yet... in a twisted turn of fate, Grell Sutcliff would become our most unlikely ally.