Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, follow or favorite. When I first started this story, I had assumed it would just be a collection of vignettes, but at some point it took on a life of its own as I discovered new depths to the characters. I wanted to end this one on a climax, but that doesn't mean I'm done writing Kuro fic. If you liked this, please leave a review to let me know! Thanks again for sticking with me this far.

ETA: As of 6/20 I made some tweaks to the final part of Chapter 7, per Kimberly T.'s helpful comments in the review section.

7 - The Chopping Block

"There's a trick to all this, right?" whispered Bard, grin faltering as he hesitated on the dining room threshold. "You've got a whole fleet of desserts waiting in the wings, don't you Sebastian? Any moment now they'll ride out to save the day like the bleedin' cavalry. You're just playin' a little joke on me."

"I never joke." Sebastian set a hand on Bard's back. The chef flinched—the touch was icy, even through his jacket and the butler's glove. "Why would I steal your limelight? You hardly get any as it is." And he gave Bard a firm shove through the door.

As Bard approached the table, he had an inkling that this dinner party was not the typical decorous Phantomhive affair. There was a smell of cigarettes and spilled scotch in the air—two substances usually restricted to after dinner in the smoking room. Voices in heated argument rose above the stained tablecloth, then fell to whispers as the speakers noticed Bard. They seemed anxious not to be overheard by a mere servant. The chef glanced over his shoulder. Sebastian stood in the doorway for a moment, but at a signal from the young Earl of Phantomhive, he disappeared.

Bard cleared his throat. Immediately the dozen pairs of eyes—eleven and a half to be precise, counting the earl—swiveled to focus on him. Somehow he managed to push aside thoughts of inevitable catastrophe. Being the center of attention, even now, perked him up somewhat, as if he absorbed energy from the stares. He made his bow and placed a hand on his hip. Too jaunty, too casual, yes yes damn it all. Best to just get it over with. So what if he Sebastian gave him trouble for his attitude later? He was going to literally catch all nine circles of hell anyway.

"Your Lordship, today's dessert will be a crème—"

The young Earl of Phantomhive, an elfin lad of thirteen, held up a hand. The boy wore, in addition to his usual eye patch, all manner of lace, velvet, ribbons and Bard didn't know what else, along with an air of utter blasé.

"What happened to you?" The earl gave Bard a long, suspicious look.

"To me, young master?" Bard let his eyes flit to the side, unsure if he was the one being addressed. The room had grown mostly quiet, though some of the guests still muttered among themselves.

"You have a lovely bruised eye. Did a batch of particularly mutinous ingredients rough you up?" asked the earl with an impish grin, raising a nervous chuckle from some of the guests.

"Something like that, my lord." Bard had nearly forgotten about his shiner. Of course he wasn't about to rat out Mey-Rin, so he shrugged uneasily instead. "As I was sayin', today's dessert is a crème anglaise—"

"Well perhaps I've changed my mind," interrupted the petulant young earl. "I'm bored stiff and I promised these gentlemen here an interesting game of sorts." His single blue eye appeared to rove the room for a moment, then settled back on the chef. "Though perhaps I could use you as well. I order you to stay for our game, Bard."

Bard took a deep breath and forced an indulgent smile onto his face. While he revered the Earl of Phantomhive, he doubted he'd ever grow accustomed to jumping at the every whim of a mere kid. He moved to the earl's side, lowering his voice so that the rest of the party wouldn't hear. "With all due respect, my lord, I'd like to get this dessert off my back first. Then you can chop off my finger or what have you, I'll get to go to bed before ten o'clock, and we'll all be 'appy. Right, sir?"

The young earl gave the chef a look as if he'd just changed into one of Lady Elizabeth's frilly confections. "Don't be ridiculous, Bard," he said softly. "I'm not going to chop off anyone's fingers."

"You're not, my lord?"

"Certainly not."

"Well that's a relief. Mr. Sebastian kept dropping these rather obvious hints…" For a second Bard fantasized strangling the butler with the man's own silk cravat. Maybe he had been the butt of a joke after all.

"Who could look at me and think me capable of such a thing? Such barbarity is supposed to be beneath me." The young earl pressed his fingers together the way he often did while pondering whether to move his knight next, or his rook. "But it's not beneath you, now, is it? That's why I need you to stay for our game."

"Wait, what?!"

"I've been boasting all evening about the unwavering loyalty of my servants. I know you don't want to disappoint me, Bard."

"No, my lord, I…" the chef pretended to smooth his apron as if it might somehow mask his agitation. The guests were starting to stare. "Can I ask what exactly you promised 'em, sir? That I'd chop off my own finger, or someone else's?"

"Well now. That depends on the outcome of our game, doesn't it? Stop acting so dense. Didn't Sebastian send you up with the chopping block?"

"That he did, sir, but—"

"Well, go get it then. Place it here on the table where I can see. Sir Percy, pass up that napkin, won't you? And you, Mr. Hiram, bring over that bucket of ice. Just set the champagne aside. I'm sure it's flat by now, anyway."

Bard had little choice but to bob his head and comply. As he bent over the trolley to retrieve the same wooden board he usually used for slicing raw meat, Sebastian returned holding a napkin-draped silver tray in his hands. Sebastian's brought out the cavalry, Bard thought, nearly giddy with relief. What did he have under there? Madeleines or petit fours?

"Thank the blazes you're back," hissed the chef. "The young master is so set on some sick game of his, 'e won't even let me hand out dessert. Maybe you can talk some sense into 'im." Bard didn't really expect the butler to take his side, but Sebastian seemed to treat him more coldly than usual, if that were possible.

"What did I tell you about minding your tongue? A finger or two will be the least of your worries if you fail to conduct yourself like the humble servant you seem to continually forget yourself to be." Sebastian whisked the cloth from his tray to reveal the largest, sharpest santoku knife the kitchen had to offer. The chef himself had whetted it only the day before.

Bard tried and failed to meet Sebastian's coal-glow stare, dropping his gaze to the floor so quickly he thought his eyeballs had seared. He wished someone would tell him what was going on, as clearly some very important facts were being kept from him. At the very least he wished Sebastian, or the earl, or someone would just shout at him already for trying to pass off a tray of garnishes as dessert. If this "game" was some sort of staged punishment, why were they dancing all namby-pamby around the issue? But there the sugar cages still sat on the trolley, forgotten for the time being.

At the sight of the knife on the butler's tray, the boisterous party recovered to its previous volume. Some of the inebriated men had even started singing, though they didn't seem to agree on the tune or words. Sebastian, meanwhile, had cleared the bottles and glasses from an area near the head of the table where the Earl of Phantomhive sat. He directed Bard to set the chopping block to the earl's immediate left.

Sebastian placed the santoku knife in Bard's hand.

"Just hold it and stand there," said the butler in a low tone.

"That's all?" Bard's voice quavered. "Does this 'ave something to do with dessert?"

"Obliquely, perhaps. If more is required, I'll be the first to inform you."

Bard stood still, aware that all eyes were on him and the blade. The butler stood slightly behind him, so that the chef barely had to move his head to catch a glimpse of his shadow across the shoulder of his white jacket.

Meanwhile, the Earl of Phantomhive had risen to his feet. He raised a spoon to his glass and tapped it twice. The room fell instantly silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen. I hope you all enjoyed your dinner, served in the grand Phantomhive style."

Scattered applause rose from the guests, some of whom had loosened belts and cravats.

The earl paused until the noise died away, and continued. "I've gathered you all here because you have something in common with one another. Something quite intimate, you might say. More so than a general fondness for braised beef, champagne and scotch."

There was another collective chortle from the good-humored guests.

"I do hope you all like games. Because I like games. Do you? Yes? Good. But before I get to that, let me tell you a story which I heard from a close associate of mine. In the country of Japan there was until the last decade a class of warrior nobles called the samurai. These samurai had a code of ethics, rather like the chivalry of our English knights. When a samurai dishonored his superiors, instead of being punished, he had to apologize and punish himself."

Bard felt a prickle as the hair rose on the back of his neck. He could feel Sebastian's presence close behind him, and wondered if the it was a breeze, or the man's own cold breath. He tried to focus his mind on the earl. As the earl spoke, his single eye flitted about the audience, settling on one guest at a time, and eventually landed on the chef. Bard blinked. Looking into the boy's eye, he might as well have stared down the barrel of a gun.

"Apologies are all well and good, if they are sincere. But sometimes groveling is just not enough. Which leads us to yubitsume. Cutting off the tip of the little finger. Which, you might guess, is a very effective game indeed."

Bard shuddered at the cold hand on his shoulder.

"Hold up the knife, Bard," whispered Sebastian. "Ensure every last one of them gets a good look."

Bard flexed his fingers and squeezed the knife's handle. He wished he had a cigarette to settle his rising nausea, and sucked down wisps of second-hand smoke that had settled like a canopy over the table.

The earl had paused to allow his words to sink in. "Yubitsume is the ultimate apology, and actions speak louder than words. A samurai relies on his fingers to balance his sword. A swordsman without a fingertip places himself at the mercy of his betters. You have all been called here today because I am the Queen's Guard Dog, and I am not pleased. Everyone here should know the particulars of his or her own case. You owe her majesty—and myself, in her stead—an apology."

The chamber had grown so silent and tense that a fork dropped on the thick carpeting caused most of the party to jump. Bard realized then that no one in the room paid him any attention whatsoever. They all gaped in horror at the knife, but by the guilt-stricken looks on their faces, they all imagined the loss of their own personal fingertips. No one gave a shit about the chef except the chef himself.

"So this is our game," pronounced the earl with a flourish of his hand. "Do you, my guests, wish to leave this room? And in what state? The chopping block is here, but only for the idiotically brave. Cash may be used to cover what groveling cannot. While you ponder your next move, my chef will serve up the dessert."

The point of Sebastian's elbow nudged Bard in the back. "Your cue. Leave the knife."

Bard swung the knife so that the blade stuck into the wood, holding it fast. He lurched for the trolley in a fog of nicotine withdrawal. Behind him the guests clamored for the earl's mercy or offered up escalating sums of sterling to pay off their guilty consciences. The plates rattled on the trolley as the chef pushed it forward with too much force, but he didn't much care.

"Today's dessert will be hypothetical crème anglais with meringue islands and lit'ral sugar cages." Bard doubted anyone even heard him.

He set a pair of plates down between two lady guests, who glared first at the sugar cages, then at him with confusion and contempt on their faces. A grizzled man with thick muttonchops and a gaudy red cravat choked on a rude name, apparently remembering at the last minute that he was in mixed company. He grabbed hold of Bard's apron and held him fast.

"What is the meaning of this? Who do you think you are? Baldroy, was that your name? Has your master been made aware of what you're trying to pass off as dessert?"

Bard had trouble enough maintaining a formal demeanor during the mildest of public appearances, and by this point felt he had little to lose by dropping the whole sham.

He cast a black look down at the thick-set man with the muttonchops. "It's Bard. I only let people holding guns to my head call me Baldroy. With one exception." He tilted his head in Sebastian's direction. "An' if you don't unhand me, sir, I'll break your nose."

The butler had observed this exchange. He held a gloved hand to his temple and shook his head at the chef in exasperation.

Neither could Bard ignore the single, saucer-wide eye of his young master.

"What the devil is going on there?" cried the Earl, at the rise of complaints among his guests.

A hush fell on the room. Bard prayed for spontaneous combustion. Then a broad smile spread over the earl's face and he began to speak in the same easy, measured manner as before.

"Ah, my dearest guests. The dessert you are being served by the Phantomhive Household is a calculated symbol of what will happen to you, should you fail to make amends to the Queen and her Guard Dog. Behold the cage. That is where the rotten lot of you belong, and where you'll end up if you don't appeal to my mercy." A flick of his finger signaled Bard to continue handing out the plates.

The earl himself was served his parfait glass by Sebastian. As Bard passed near him and the butler while making the dessert rounds, he overheard a snippet of their exchange.

"—brilliant idea with the cages, Sebastian, but at least give me a better warning next time. I don't always extemporize as well as all that."

"Yes, my lord."

Eventually the last of the guests had departed, most of them shamefaced, quivering with the relief of having escaped with intact hands, and with their wallets thousands of pounds sterling lighter. Sebastian hovered over the young earl while Bard cleared the mess of plates, glasses and flatware from the table. The santoku knife still stuck blade-first in the chopping block. Not a single guest had dared to touch it.

"Sebastian," said the earl, loudly enough for Bard to overhear. "The custard tastes different than how you usually make it."

"It was a…slightly different recipe, my lord," replied the butler.

"I don't like it. Take it away."

Bard, still gathering the plates and shards of sugar cage onto his trolley, froze before the chopping block . He grasped the santoku knife's handle almost without thinking. With one deep breath he raised the blade until its spine touched his shoulder. He pressed his curled left hand, knuckles-down, onto the scored wooden board with his pinky finger stretched out like a worthless bit of carrot top.

The earl's voice echoed in his ear. "Make me a new one, Sebastian. The old way. Whatever this is, I don't want it."

"Yes, my lord."

The falling blade flashed in the candlelight before Bard's eyes, like lightning before the thunderclap.

"It were only a bit of eggs, milk, and sugar." Mey-Rin crouched at Bard's side and painstakingly wrapped his hand in strips of old cloth napkins. "Stop being so dramatic."

The chef slumped forward in his chair. After she tied off the ends of the bandage, he was handcuffed to the leg of the kitchen table for the third time that day. Though he'd sustained a nasty gash in his palm, he'd kept the finger.

"It's for your own good," said the maid. "So you don't go senselessly harming yourself or setting things on fire." She ran a tentative hand through Bard's hair but retracted it quickly when Sebastian returned, and turned all her attentions to him instead.

Sebastian had suffered the worst of Bard's mutilation attempt. As the chef had swung the heavy blade at his outstretched digit, the butler appeared as if from nowhere and, by what martyr's instinct Bard couldn't begin to guess, caught the blade on his own outstretched hands.

Mey-Rin hovered over the butler with her bottle of iodine, but he shrugged her off and ducked out of the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later he wore fresh, clean gloves. Blood was already seeping through Bard's bandages. His nose dripped splotches of red onto the tile from when the butler had wrestled him to the dining room carpet. Sebastian, however, had no trace of blood visible on him anywhere. Not anymore.

"I'm quite capable of patching myself, Mey-Rin," insisted Sebastian. "Please leave us."

The flustered maid bobbed a curtsey and withdrew.

"I failed the young master," said Bard as soon as they were alone. He pressed his forehead into the surface of the table and screwed his eyes shut to avoid having to look Sebastian in the face. "I disgraced the entire household. And you."

"You didn't fail, Baldroy. Not entirely."

"I should 'a lost that finger. At least I'd have proved something. If I can't do anything else for the young master, I want 'im to know I can do that. You should 'a let me follow through."

Bard thought back to the dining room. The butler had slammed him face-first into the carpet. Sebastian then dug a knee into his back and wrenched his arm at an unholy angle until Bard dropped the knife, slippery with blood.

"Really, Bard?" came the sound of the earl's wry voice, and the chef strained his neck to look up at him. "Do you expect me to think you're a samurai?"

Bard could only grind his teeth in pain. He glanced from his master to the unfinished crème anglais on the table, and the earl followed his eyes. When he looked at Bard again, he spoke in a softened voice. Even the cynical line of his mouth had lost some rigidity.

"Instead of a trooper who's only now learning to cook?"

At the scratch-hiss sound of an ignited match, Bard opened his eyes. Sebastian leaned over the kitchen table, pinching one of the chef's pre-rolled cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger.

"Here."

Bard accepted the cigarette between his lips. He leaned forward when Sebastian lowered the match, then took a long, exhausted drag.

"Maybe you set me up fer failure," said the chef once his heart rate had returned to its normal, nicotine-regulated rate.

"Neither the earl nor myself wished for you to fail. I merely needed you to succeed to the absolute minimum required. What we wanted most was proof of what you are made of. And how far you are willing to go." Sebastian bent down leaned his smooth, menacing face so close to Bard's that the chef pulled back for fear of setting the butler's collar on fire with his cigarette. "I told you earlier, Baldroy. I've had you eating from my hand all along."

Sebastian then straightened and turned as if to leave, but Bard strained at his handcuffs and shouted after him.

"An entire day wasted, slaving in this wretched hole! One crème anglaise, perfect beyond description. And 'e didn't even want it. It just gets to ya."

Sebastian spun slowly to face him. "Despite his rather adult manner of speech, the young master has what we might call an immature palate. Basic custard is familiar to him, and when crème anglaise with meringue islands takes him by surprise, he retreats to what he knows best. But that doesn't mean that yours was not adequate."

"Well, was it?" The words rushed from Bards mouth on a cloud of smoke. "You're the one that took it away. The dessert, I mean. Perhaps you…tried it?" He raised his eyes to Sebastian's, and waited.

The butler hesitated, as if unsure how much information he should disclose. "It tasted most distinctly," he said at last, "of your blood, sweat and tears. There are some people who would find the evidence of such an effort most delectable."

"I'm sorry about your hands, Mr. Sebastian."

"If it would make you feel better, you can replace my torn and bloodied pair of gloves from your wages. And if you do decide to throw yourself at my feet, an appointment would be appreciated. You know how busy I am."

Bard nodded absently at this, more concerned with the tingle of nicotine in his bloodstream than the conversation. Suddenly he snapped back into himself when he realized Sebastian had brought out a bottle of whiskey and was measuring out a scant finger of the stuff into a glass. The butler placed the tumbler on the table in front of Bard.

"Here's to the Chef."

"I…" Bard badly wanted to raise the glass to his mouth, but the handcuffs held him fast. "Huh?"

"Oh, of course, how remiss of me." Sebastian pulled a red-and-white striped straw from his waistcoat pocket, bent its flexible neck in the same quick movement he might have used to snap the spine of a cornish game hen, and stuck it into the whiskey tumbler. "I will see you at zero dark thirty tomorrow morning, then. That will give you enough time to shower and clean up before breakfast preparations begin. Perhaps I'll even let you flip the pain perdu."

Sebastian departed for the night, and Bard realized he'd left behind an official-looking sheet of paper along with the next day's menu. At the top, by the light of his cigarette end, he made out the words "Application" and "London Culinary School" and his own name written in pen along one of the lines. And there at the bottom was the signature of Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive.

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