Mute (A Black Butler Fanfic)

Chapter 2

I walk outside, taking the shortcut through a small patch of trees to get to the stables. I wonder if Dahlia had her foal during the night? Had everything gone smoothly? Is he-or she-healthy? I know we have someone to take care of the horses, but Mother sold most of them after father died, having no need for them. I managed to persuade her in her grief to keep Dahlia, Flint and a few stallions, but Flint passed not long afterward and the stallions were never properly trained, so no one rides them. I always see them in the pasture grazing or trotting around each other. One must be the father, but I don't know which.

I jog through the door to Dahlia's pen. She perks her head up as I approach and sniffs me delicately. I look into her big brown eyes, petting the white blaze on her muzzle. A Thoroughbred, her walnut coat gleams and her hair falls in my face, making us both snort. She tosses back her head as I unlock the pen door, guiding her to the grooming area and properly cleaning her hide.

It was a bit of a tight squeeze, her bulging belly taking up the majority of the little room, not leaving me a lot of space to work with. But I managed and replaced the hay in her pen before leading her back into it. I just sat there with her for a little while, stroking her head and breathing in the heavy scent of the barn.

I've known her since she was a foal, growing as my horse. I got into the habit of coming every day to take care of her. It took some hard work but she accepted that I can't speak to her and have to rely on her instincts as well as my own if we take a wrong turn or get lost on a trail. It's never happened before, but I still had to learn to guide her without my voice. She learned to be constantly aware of the reigns and now turns at the slightest movement of my hands.

Of course I had to leave eventually but I made her a silent promise to be back tonight incase anything happens.

I went to my favorite place that only the butlers and myself know about. A special clearing to practice our shooting. I stand in the middle of the clearing, bullseyes on every side and pull out my handgun. A .45 Adams Third Model, introduced just a few years ago. I checked to make sure all six cartridge holders in the barrel were full before raising my gun and aiming at the first target, 3 yards away. I took a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders and tightening my grip, and pulled the trigger. I fired in quick succession, hitting the inner ring each time. I reloaded the barrel with six more cartridges and spun around, aiming now for the 5 yard target.

I repeated the process until I was facing the 9 yard target. Anything past 9 yards wouldn't be considered an immediate threat, so this is just to hone my aim. I hit within the first four of six rings, with one stray bullet landing in the fifth ring. I filled my gun with three cartridges, slid it into my waistband and walked around, examining the bullets permanently stuck in the trees from years of practice. The butlers and maids all come here at least three times a week, honing their aim and the speed at which they can fire. We all have either an Adams II or an Adams III, so the guns can be fired by anyone.

Satisfied with my work, I took a detour through the gardens so it was past lunch when I got back. Dana was absent, so I assumed she had already left. I passed the kitchen to see Henry cooking a feast. I smiled and continued on towards the game room. The only games are some checkers boards and worn decks of cards. I amuse myself with a few rounds of solitaire, winning only once.

I'm halfway through the fifth round when the door creaks open. I turn to see a mountain of boxes stumble unsteadily through the door. I rush forward, taking some of the boxes to lighten the poor person's load.

"Who? - Oh! MC, it's you! Thank you dear. What are you doing in the game room by yourself?" It's Henry's wife, Grace. She works as a maid here. She's only forty, Henry's age, but her personality is that of a grandmother. I think she likes to imagine me as her granddaughter or something.

I push the boxes onto a nearby table and point to my unfinished game of solitaire. She wipes some sweat from her brow, glancing at the table. "Ah. Solitaire. A game played solo. I did hear Dana wouldn't be here tonight, going on some business trip your mother put her up to. I didn't realize that'd mean you'd be alone . . . would you like to help me with some chores? We can play checkers or assist Henry afterwards."

I nod enthusiastically. Anything is better than just sitting here by myself.

We mop the floors, polish the windows, clean the silverware, and dust the curtains. It wasn't too difficult but I'm sure she had gotten most of it done earlier that day. She talks a little about how she met Henry and the engagement and wedding. I found it to be quite entertaining! I learned a bit about her and Henry, and I liked the way she'd glance at me to see if I wanted to ask a question or was getting bored. It made me feel more . . . understanded. Is that the right word to use?

We enter the kitchen to see Henry atop a stool trying to reach something on the highest shelf. I tug on his pants, waiting until he climbs down before jumping on his back. Henry grunts and Grace chuckles, scowling when he attempts to climb the ladder with me on his back.

"Henry, be careful ! If you slip, she's going down with you!" she shouts worriedly. Henry, impatient to get the spice he needs, shouts down at her, "If it makes you feel better, there are some flour bags in the corner on your left. Surround the ladder or something to cushion our fall. Not that we're going to." he mutters the last part under his breath.

I'm at the top of the ladder now. I reach up, just able to reach into the cupboard. I grope around, trying to find the spice. My fingers brush against the little bottle, pushing it farther back. I'm having to really stretch now. I feel it. I can get it! I just need to . . . got it!

I lean backwards, pulling the spice out and clenching it tightly in my hand. But I've leaned too far and Henry starts to topple over. We sway on the edge for one heart-stopping moment before he loses his balance and we fall to the ground.

I land on a hard pillow, the impact ripping the bag and a large cloud of flour surrounds me. The spice is still tightly clenched in my hand as I sit up, coughing and attempting not to breathe in the flour-filled air.

"Henry, what were you thinking? MC could have gotten seriously hurt. You could have gotten hurt!" Grace frets, dusting flour out of his hair and into his eyes. "Hey!" he shouts indignantly, grabbing a handful of flour and flinging it onto Grace's shirt. She gasps, smirks, and dumps a fresh bag over his head.

And so we proceed to throw flour at each other, lodging it in our hair, mouths, clothes, basically everywhere. It was the most fun I've had all afternoon. .

But we had to clean up afterwards, which wasn't quite as fun. Grace instructed me to get some clean clothes on so if Mother came in she wouldn't think I had anything to do with it. I left, changing into those black pants and lavender shirt Dana had picked out for me earlier today, but I kept the jacket, dusting it off the best I could. I left the flour in my hair, liking the whitish-gray streaks much better than the usual brown.

I'd just finished, when the door swung open and Mother entered the room.