A/N: The new beginning to 'A Rabbit in a Raven's Nest' now 'A Nest of Teeth'! I'm sorry for making you all wait so long, especially since I imagine the disappointment when we'd finally popped the lid in chapter 16, only to see the re-write. Rest assured, the story actually grew and expanded so much that it was necessary. It's been carefully thought through and I'm really excited to share it with you guys. So buckle up, you're in for a ride.

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Chapter I: That Rabbit, Prevaricating

"Children are like soft petals. One wrong pluck and they are damaged forever." - Nikita Dudani

(December 1st)

The moment Ciel Phantomhive had received his predecessor's title, he had sworn himself to the Queen.

To haunt all those who dared to blight polite society with the rotten dealings of the empire's underbelly⏤or those who could expose its ruler's own. The blueblood's ghost. The skeletal hand charged with dragging them back down into the pit from which they'd made the grave mistake of crawling out of.

And he had done so without fail.

Time and again, no matter who or what, with a demon under his control the boy had made a name for himself in that world. For what could strike fear into the hearts of monsters than a proper devil? Or so he had concluded; he would know.

It couldn't have been more than three weeks since the Whitechapel case had been closed that Ciel found himself gazing down at another letter from Her Majesty. The Watchdog eyed the stationery with a grim sort of air. So the London Daily Post hadn't been fabricating fantastical drivel after all.

"BLUEBEARD BUTCHER" PROWLS LONDON

EYES GOUGED OUT AND LIMBS TORN OFF

There was not a soul in London that hadn't heard of the horrific accounts of women being spirited away in the wee hours of the night. Gone for short periods of time⏤only to miraculously appear once again. Those who were unfortunate enough to come upon them were forced to watch them heave their last breaths. What could only be described as bloody lumps of what had once been human beings moaning for someone to put them out of their misery.

Bluebeard had slain his way through Suffolk and had now made his grand entrance to the heart of the empire.

"Most of the victims were workhouse inmates...so how would no one notice when they were taken?" Ciel leaned back in his chair, skimming through the letter.

There was also the fact that inmates were locked in at night. Unless the masters were involved, it would be difficult to contact, much less steal away the women.

Drugs were a possibility. The Viscount had made use of them to subdue victims for his auctions. Nevertheless, he had an inkling that this was not the work of humans. There was something inherently...wrong about the entire affair. He turned his attention to the Yard's report. Legs, arms, and eyes appeared to be the main target. Except for the last incident; the report claimed it was the bloodiest to date. Except no details had been included about the corpse's state. Only her name and basic information were provided. How very like Scotland Yard. The boy scoffed.

Lucille Anslow, wife of Marcus Anslow. Mother of three: Hugh Anslow, Matilde Anslow, and Benjamin Anslow.

The body was found by the maid-of-all-work, one Ms Mary Hargrove.

"Sebastian."

"Yes, my lord?" His butler's voice replied from somewhere to his left. Apart from general chores, earl and butler did not interact much apart from when they had Watchdog affairs to take care of. This was how they preferred it; Until they each reaped their gains from their damned business agreement.

"Ready the carriage. According to the police report, the newest victim is still at Undertaker's. First, we'll see what he has to say about the body." He stated without a single glance the demon's way. "I also need you to contact Lau. Have him see if there has been any unusual activity pertaining to the selling of human parts in the Black Market."

"It would appear London is no place for young ladies as of late." The butler's shallow smile held a tinge of mirth. "I will prepare everything immediately. When do you wish to depa⏤"

A familiar scream rang from somewhere in the manor, followed by an explosion. The demon's smile was brittle. He could not rely on those idiots for an instant. Chores always led to idling or destruction. Combat skills aside, these humans were unbelievably inept. His eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. How very little effort it would take him to stuff all three dullards into the oven.

Intertwining his hands on the polished mahogany, Ciel shot the man a smug look.

Sebastian's shoulders tensed under his coat. This bratty little whelp... He composed himself. A proper English butler unable to deal with difficult young masters was not worth his salt. Besides, this too would pass by in the blink of an eye.

"When would you like to depart, young master?" The raven-haired servant placed the empty teacup on the tray.

The noble played with the sapphire ring on his thumb, "Tomorrow morning. The sooner we start on this case the better. We'll visit the workhouses in Lavenham in the next coming days."

"Right away, young master." He checked his pocket watch. This would require some changes to his schedule for that afternoon.

Busying himself with paperwork, Ciel ordered. "Off you go. Before Bard has a chance to wipe out more than just the kitchen."

Ah.

What a truly unlikable master.

. . .

"My deepest condolences, Anslow." This and many other traditional sentiments were all the newly widowed father of three had been subject to that peculiarly tepid December afternoon. Each word of comfort only served as a constant reminder that he was not enjoying a quaint family picnic in those open fields. Try as he might he could not avert his gaze from the freshly turned earth behind him.

He skimmed over the attendees, gripping the brim of his top hat with a tense hand. It appeared no one had been exceedingly suspicious of the closed casket funeral service. Lucille would be cremated, and he would attend the event alone. No one could ever know. This went against everything he'd wished for her, but there was little he could do where the Yard was involved. Oh, Lucy.

In his mind, Marcus had always been prepared and accepting of the fact that he would be the first to go. Having married as an older man, and to a much younger woman, he was not ignorant enough to assume he would live to see grandchildren. Especially when he'd become a father far later in life than he would have liked.

"Poor dear, God bless her soul..." His older sister, her eyes wet from tears, embraced his larger form. He was doing his damnedest not to cry, but the simple hug was enough to render him incapable of dissimulating much longer. Margaret could do little more than hold the distressed man.

Apart from the group of mourners, and farther away from the little church, sat Mr Anslow's children.

Hugh, the eldest at seven, crouched a few feet away, observing an anthill with the intense curiosity befitting of a child his age. The sole daughter was busy, picking purple hyacinths to take home with her.

"Tillie!" The boy ran toward his sister, his eyes bright with glee. "Look what I found." Opening his fist, he displayed his prized catch. The fattest, hairiest little spider he had found.

A horrified shriek ripped from the little blonde. Instantly bursting into tears, she scrambled up and away, only for the lad to pounce on the opportunity to chase her, the bug in hand, with an impish grin. "No, Hughey! STOP IT!"

His game was cut short, however, when his sister saw the help.

"Mary!" Matilde cried, and all but tackled the older girl. Burying her teary face into the fabric of her coat, she clutched her skirts and, unable to speak from how intensely she blubbered, resorted to simply pointing a pudgy finger at her tormentor.

"There, there, Miss Tillie. It's alright. You don't want to scare Master Benjamin, do you now?" The maid-of-all-work patted her head soothingly, gesturing to the sleeping babe in her arms. To her relief, the blonde shook her head and quieted down, a few shaky hiccups escaping her chubby cheeks now and then.

Careful not to jostle the youngest of her charges, Mary lifted Tillie's fallen toy, tapped it against her thigh to dust it off, and handed it back to the merchant's daughter. "Here you are. Poor Mister Rabbit should be the one crying after you dropped him."

"Th-Thank you, M-Mary." The older girl wondered if she would ever become accustomed to hearing them call her that instead of her own name (Mary Hargrove). Still, she knew very well why that name ought to not be uttered aloud. Her mind wandered and her skin crawled at the thought that slithered out to greet her.

No, no. It was no time to dwell on that.

With the two girls distracted, the boy turned, ready to high-tail out of there. He would have, if not for the hand that quickly snatched him up by the back of his coat. He paled, and his breath hitched. Oh no.

"Master Hugh."

"Mary, you look very pretty today." He chirped pleasantly as though completely unaware of the situation. A common occurrence in the Anslow household as of the last few months. He knew flattery was pointless with the girl and waited for the all too familiar scolding when he'd been up to no good... Yet nothing happened. Though he could still feel her hand grasping at the fabric of his back.

Why hadn't she?

"She loved you very much, Master Hugh."

Brown eyes widened. The hand let go. He went cold in the afternoon sun.

Silence.

"Whatever you heard, whatever she said in between fevers...That is not how she felt about you. Not in the slightest. People say hurtful things when they are suffering."

"You...How would you know?"

He swallowed; lips pressed together.

Soft and quiet, her voice reminded him of a plume of fog from warm lips. "She was very ill, and she could not play with you much, but there was nothing she loved more than hearing all about your adventures when I brought her, her tea. I'd never seen her smile so brightly as she did then."

When the first droplet fell to the grass, she stepped forward. He would not run. He couldn't; not with trembling knees. Tentatively, she reached out, placing a slender hand on the boy's shoulder. More tears slid down his tilted face until stifled sobs met her keen ears. How tightly he squeezed her hand between his little fingers. She allowed him to hide his face in her skirts, much as young Tillie had done before.

Through the grief, and the pain, she could feel his relief. The guilt that had nestled itself in the pit of her stomach loosened up the tiniest bit.

A subtle frown found its way onto her young face as she rubbed gentle circles onto her charge's shaking back. Her gaze drifted down to the purple blooms.

Oh, how she hated to lie.

"I'm so sorry."

Yet it seemed "Mary Hargrove" was nothing if not a liar.

. . .

"Papa saided we're staying with Auntie," Tillie utters quietly. She chances a look over her shoulder at the help. The older girl blinks, halting her washing of the middle child's hair. Steam floats around them, curling and twisting in the air.

Knotweedthe house spritemunches on a biscuit from his perch on the servant girl's shoulder. She didn't mind as long as he didn't pull on her hair.

"Close, but not quite. Said, not saided." The maid-of-all-work smiles playfully and taps the blonde's nose. The bubbles coax a small sneeze from the child, followed by a giggle.

"Papa said we're staying with Auntie." Tillie remedies with a questioning look.

Mary nods, "Very good." Her hands continue their gentle scrubbing. No charge of hers will be seen mucky and unkempt. She's thankful the Anslow home has running water. Though she still makes sure to boil it. One can never be too careful, especially with little ones.

The brownie, being the surly little thing that he is, rolls his eyes at the exchange. Not that either girl can see him do so, being invisible at the moment.

"She has a big garden with lots of flowers and Auntie said she sees rabbits sometimes. Real rabbits! I can keep a pet in the country, can't I Mary?" The blonde bounces excitedly, "We can play outside, and go on picnics!"

Here the brownie chortles, "You haven't told the little squirt? Oh, that's funny." Sharp little teeth snap off another bit of his treat, and Mary's nose twitches when she sees crumbs fall to the bathroom floor.

The young Anslow girl tilts her head curiously, "Did you hear that?"

Mary clears her throat and quickly draws Tillie's attention away from the naughty creature. Knotweed relaxed a tad too much when she was around.

"Close your eyes, please," she rinses the blonde off and wraps her in a towel. Another spiel of giggles fills the air as the maid playfully dries the child's hair in such a way that it's left looking like a small cloud.

The dark-haired girl is unsure of how to feel seeing the little miss smile so brightly after losing her mother. The complex and oftentimes nonsensical rules of British society bleed their way into everything. To know that Tillie and Hughey are expected to mourn their lost parent a year when they had spent only half-an-hour a day with their mother...It's ridiculous. And since the late Lucille Anslow fell ill, even that was stolen from them. Her eyes became downcast, brushing out her charge's blonde locks after dressing the child in a clean nightgown.

"Mary."

"Yes?"

"What did it mean when they said Mama is now in ete...e⏤ter⏤nal sleep? When will she wake up?"

The maid feels Knotweed shift position and then climb down her back. The brownie scurries off to the kitchen; probably to go sulk in his designated drawer. He wants nothing to do with the conversation, and she can't blame him. Both creatures are still dealing with leftover stress after the...incident.

It may also be due to the fact that he knows she'll leave in the very near future. Not that the smart-mouthed being would ever admit it.

The maid silently thanks the stars that all the mirrors in the house were covered to quell superstitious fears. The sombre nature of the question is not lost on her, but she can't help but grin at how clever children are. Her slight correction in Tillie's grammar is now utilized to ask even more questions. She sighs, setting the brush down on the vanity.

Her charge is quick to grab her prized toy⏤one of those toy rabbits from that company...Funtom was it? Then, as she has done since she was a tot, she settles into Mary's lap⏤eyes wide with curiosity.

The servant tucks a lock of hair behind the girl's ear, "Your mother was very sick...for a very long time. Her body couldn't work anymore, and it stopped." After a pause, "It was peaceful, like...a candle going out."

Tillie nods, but Mary wonders if she can really understand death at such a tender age. The little girl cried at the funeral service, but the servant suspects it was more of a reaction to the palpable grief around her. The subject switches to the book her charge wants to be read at bedtime; The girl complies. More questions will no doubt make an appearance sooner or later, but for now, they're smiling.

It had only been a day since the burial, yet Sir Anslow's decision to send the children away had been anticipated by the girl. What she had not expected was the rock-solid assumption of her charges that she'll go with them.

Little Matilde doesn't think it strange that she's read three more tales than usual that night.

. . .

(December 3rd)

With a quarter left to four-o'clock, the girl hurried through busy London streets. Hailing a hansom cab was a nightmare, but it was her need to restore some form of order to her thoughts that urged the small servant to walk to young Hugh's day-school. The young boy had insisted on returning to his studies, and come Monday morning, of he went. Merely two days after he'd witnessed his mother's grave be lowered into the cool ground.

Louise had been worried about her when they'd met on wash-day, claiming she was out of sorts since they'd found Lady Anslow. Mary sighed loudly, turning a few heads. She should have known better. Why had she thought things would be different this time? She bit her lip and tugged her bonnet lower.

No, Louise was mistaken. Gravely mistaken. The girl had been out of sorts for longer than that. She smothered a cough with the back of her hand. She'd known she would have to leave for a good while, but she'd convinced herself that she could handle just a tad more. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The children surely noticed her gradual change in behaviour, but with their recent misfortune, she willed herself to comfort them...Despite her own pressing issues. Her Gladstone bag was packed, she'd penned her resignation letter, and she'd be gone the moment the children were put to bed.

She wrung her hands together.

The children.

Was it too cruel of her to simply vanish? Without any sort of goodbye? Mary was taken aback by the violent urge to cry that assaulted her. No, no, no. Shaking her head, the maid cleared her throat. Then she smiled. The lack of control she had over her life was pathetic. Her eyes narrowed.

Selfishness would help no one. The quicker she left this place, the safer the Anslow children would be.

This time, she would leave, before it all went to He⏤What…

What was that?

The girl came to a full stop and ducked into a small alley. Her hackles rose. A sensation difficult to describe crawled up her spine. Horrid was the only word that came to mind. Dreadful. A dark, crushing mass that traipsed through a fragile human sea. A demon. Her hands shook uncontrollably; hidden in the pockets of her grey duster coat. Mary covered her mouth and doubled over to wretch, breathing hard.

It...It felt different than how she remembered it. Was it him? She wasn't sure. Had it always been this alarming? The girl was far too shaken to tell.

Instinct screamed at her to leave immediately and avoid any chance of running into the monstrosity. Until she focused and noticed where it was headed. She drew a sharp breath.

Hughey.

Mary held her head in her hands and let out a disbelieving groan. No, this was not happening. She wanted to flee. Her feet tingled with adrenaline.

Yet her jaw set when she sensed the monstrosity moving closer and closer to the little boy. Mary was not a temperamental creature, but the outrage that surge inside of her was unusually potent.

Four years. Fours years she had worked and toiled over those endearing little ankle-biters. Bathing, feeding, and teaching them⏤she may as well have raised them. She had been the one to insist on the elimination of adding borax to the milk and snuck the children fruits and vegetables between meals of reheated mutton and bread. Fruits and vegetables that came out of her own coin purse. Louise had entrusted the young Anslow's to her when she'd left to marry that dockyard worker with the boyish smile. Now a washerwoman, she did ask, but with little ones of her own, Mary was all they had.

Skin pulled taut over small knuckles as she clenched her fists. Yet her feet refused to move.

She needed to go get him⏤she had to.

Exhaling with a shaky breath, she bit the inside of her cheek.

"Come on, old girl."

...

A predator has found the prey's burrow.