/sigh.

Hunting parties.

A group of men flock together and arm themselves, sit astride their horses and drive the weak from their homes into the open to be slaughtered. They become braggarts and children for the day, boasting of their accomplishment, flaunting each bloody corpse as a trophy. At nightfall, the survivors emerge to gaze at the bloodstains on the forest floor. The men feast.

— And the women, too, of course.

Another shot rings out some way to Vincent's left and he sighs. That's fourteen. Fourteen for his sister. His sister.

"Another fox, girl?" His father's voice, deep and gravelly and grave. "You'll be putting yourself in coats, at this rate."

"Nonsense, Father. I've put myself in coats. These are for Vince."

"Hey!" Vincent barks it from across the grove, and hears them both chuckle. He sighs and steers his horse a bit roughly away from them, deeper into the trees.

"Honestly. Ridiculousness, this is. As if I can't shoot my own game?" The sweet-tempered dapple grey mare nickers in reply. "Took the words right out of my mouth."

The next report, some minutes later, is much further away. He reins his mount in for a moment to listen, but he can't hear their voices. He hadn't realized he'd gotten so far from the rest of the party. He should return, he's sure, but it isn't dark yet. There's still time to catch up to his hellhound of a sister.

But to be honest, his heart just isn't in it. He keeps glancing up at the bits of sky he can see through the canopy, stopping to listen to the songbirds when they feel brave enough to whistle, watching the squirrels chase one another in crazed squirrel circles around the trees. His mind is far from him this afternoon.

His mind is in a sunkissed gazebo draped in ivy, with a bowl of raspberries and sugar and two cups of Ceylon tea in the Durless family's finest china.

He's about to sigh dramatically at the absence of the girl — the girl with amber hair and sapphire eyes and the sweetest brand of mischief in all of England — when he realizes he's being utterly ridiculous. Why should he be sulking like a spurned boy?

He has a horse and an evening, after all.


The ride there is thrilling, both for the prospect of the end and the sleek movements of the horse beneath him. She clears fences and stonewalls and brooks, narrowly misses a carriage or two on the roads and Vincent hopes to hell they're going fast enough that no one recognized him.

It's nearly an hour before the Durless manor comes into view. Vincent slows his ride and breathes in the gardenias at the gate. He's sure Rachel's father will think him too bold, to have come calling without any notice, and to have ridden the whole way to arrive in riding clothes with a rifle. For a brief second, he considers turning back. It's still not too late to make it back before the hunting party is over; his father need never know he was gone.

But then he spots her near the west edge of the property, perched on a stone bridge in the garden with her feet in the water and a flower in her hair, and all thoughts of leaving are snatched away on a tiny, giddy breeze.

She looks up before he's made it all the way around the fence, and just like that, she's on her feet and at the iron bars, beaming up at him as his horse approaches.

"Vin— Earl Phantomhive!"

A laugh escapes him. "I wonder, would it be too forward to ask you to call me Vincent?"

"Only as forward as it might be to ride here to see me unannounced."

He should say something sharp and witty, something about having come here to see her father instead, but his mouth wants to do nothing but smile. Instead, he holds out his hand.

"Can you slip through the fence?"

She glances to the house, half-uncertain, half-excited, and reaches out to place her (tiny, delicate) hand in his, stepping sideways between the bars. In just her sundress and her bare feet, she's coming with him, and his heart's never raced so fast. He helps her onto the saddle in front of him, her legs over his lap, and her arms are around his neck and this is probably too forward, but he puts an arm around her waist, anyway.

She doesn't seem to mind.

They ride a slow canter, back along the roads because he doesn't want to jump with Rachel in his lap. She spends much of it watching the countryside pass, and his heartbeat slows until it keeps time with the horse's gait.

When he eases the mare down to a walk for a spell, a soft, warm weight comes to rest on his shoulder, stopping his breath in his chest.

"This isn't too forward, is it?"

Once he can breathe again, he answers, "Just forward enough, I should think."

They ride like that for the remainder of the journey, until they approach the gates of the Phantomhive estate, when she straightens up and glances around.

"Why, Earl Phantomhive, have you kidnapped me?"

"I thought I told you to call me Vincent," he chides, slacking his grip on the reins and on her. The horse knows her way to the stables, and after today's run, that's where she's headed. Vincent would be hard-pressed to direct her anywhere else.

Rachel laughs. "Have you kidnapped me, Vincent?"

"Yes."

This makes them both laugh, and they're still laughing when the mare sidles into the barn, where the hunting party is waiting. Only Frances' mount is still out of his stall; he stands restlessly beside his rider, who is just as restless. The moment she sets eyes on her brother, she hands the reins forcefully off to a nearby man and comes stalking over.

"Where have you been?" she demands, all sharp edges, completely ignoring Rachel.

Vincent sombers up, but only barely. He's been anticipating this question all evening.

"Hunting," he answers simply.

"Hunting?" his father demands, considerably less amused than his son. "You went to see the Durless girl?"

"I went to hunt the Durless girl," Vincent corrects. His friends, and even his father's, are hiding their grins. "And I caught her."

"Why isn't she hog-tied, then?" Diederich wants to know. Rachel makes a scandalized sound, but Vincent has to scramble desperately not to laugh.

"This is ridiculous," Frances interrupts. "You abandoned the hunting party; we were about to go out looking for you."

Vincent leans down from his horse to kiss his sister's forehead, and he doesn't lean back in time. She grabs the front of his shirt.

"What was your final count?" he asks her pleasantly.

Her scowl deepens. "Twenty-one. Thirteen birds, five foxes and three rabbits."

His smile broadens. "I win."

The laughter breaks, then, and even Vincent's father can't stop it. He frowns at his son, but resigns himself, while Frances releases her brother and shoves him. Rachel's hands on his shoulders steady him.

"I think he's right," says Diederich, coming forward to hand Rachel down from the horse. "Tomorrow night, men, we should chase bigger game."