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Chapter 18
BathThe fine hairs on Giles' hands and the back of his neck stood straight up. His scalp—tingled—from the building power. Entering the living room felt like standing exposed on the top of a hill as lightening was about to strike. He cleared his throat.
“If we're not working on a specific spell, could we perhaps turn it down a notch or two? It's becoming quite uncomfortable.”
Three guilty faces and one puzzled one turned to him. Willow, Bernard and Althenea spoke their apologies at once.
“Oh, Giles, I'm sorry . . . we didn't realize—”
“I beg your pardon, Rupert, it was not intentional—”
“Forgive me, Rupert. I should have been more aware—”
The smell of ozone was strong in the air, but Giles no longer felt buffeted by the rising power.
Pilar appeared shell-shocked.
“What was that?”
Bernard patted her hand. “That, my dear, is what happens when four people, each holding great power, are so happy to see each other they let their emotions run away with them and forget to keep a lid on it, eh, Rupert?”
“Oh, but I don't have any real power . . . not like Willow.”
Althenea smiled at Pilar. “Not like Willow, no. Willow is unique. Although Bernard is rather unique, also. I merely offer all that I am for the Goddess to use how she will. I am at the stage of life where the Mother aspect is most powerful—nurturing, helping others to grow, to bloom, to develop . . . and you, young Pilar, have unplumbed depths.”
“O-o-o, 'unplumbed depths'. I like the sound of that!” Willow grinned.
Althenea kicked her in the ankle and gave her a mock frown.
Willow took Pilar's hand, lacing their fingers together. “To make a long story short . . . you have power you didn't know about. Maybe you haven't tried to use it yet, but it's there. Bernie and I haven't seen Althenea in awhile and she hasn't seen us. We all like and miss each other and we all felt happy and excited and let our powers sort of run free, merrily skipping across Giles' living room . . .” She glanced at Giles. “Sorry again, Giles.”
Bernie patted Pilar's other hand. “I believe your grandmother was aware of your gift and that it was time to learn how to use it.”
“But why had she not said anything to me about it? If she thought I had . . . power . . . why didn't she tell me?”
“These things can't be forced, child. Our gifts develop as we grow and develop and come to us when we are ready. I believe your grandmother knew you were ready and also knew you could be of help in our work. So she sent you to us at this specific time and place and no other. Trust your grandmother, child, and trust yourself.”
Pilar nodded. “Gracias, Tio.”
“Uncle?” Willow was puzzled.
It was Bernard who answered. “An honorific title given as a sign of respect and affection in Pilar's culture. Thank you, I accept with gratitude. And we will dispense with the 'Senor Addison', yes? From now on, I will respond only to 'Tio Bernardo'.”
Pilar smiled and leaned over to lightly kiss his cheek.
Bernard glowed with happiness. “Muchas gracias. Rupert, if I'd known you had such a cadre of charming friends, I'd have foisted myself on you long ago!”
They all joined in the laughter.
“You know,” Willow suggested. “I think this calls for a celebratory trip to the pub!”
She pulled Pilar to her feet and threw an arm around her shoulder. “You'll love it! It's sort of like a cantina, but they have the most wonderful thing called 'pickle' . . .”
In comradely high spirits, the group repaired to the pub.
**********
Quebec
Will decided he had never felt better in his life. He felt relaxed and happy and whole and—ravenously hungry! When was the last time he had eaten? He'd had some soup and bread sometime . . . yesterday? Anne had said something about going for groceries . . .Will was in a dilemma. There was nowhere on earth he would rather be than exactly where he was now—curled up with Anne in front of a crackling fire on the living room floor, her satiny skin—. His stomach growled loudly and made hollow rumbling sounds. Anne was dozing, and she looked so peaceful, a smile curving her lips . . .
Will carefully slid out from under her and pulled his jeans back up over his hips, zipping them. He didn't bother to button his shirt; after gently draping the afghan over Anne, he hurried to the kitchen before his rumblings and grumblings awakened her.
He checked the backpack for provisions. Milk, bread, eggs, cheese, ground beef, onions, sliced turkey for sandwiches, four oranges, a jar of Kool-Aid mix, a box of cocoa with mini-marshmallows and two chocolate candy bars. He grinned—so this is what Anne considered essential.
He began chopping an onion and melting butter in a pan. He added the onion to sauté, and opened a can of mushrooms. He wished he had some ham, but this would have to do. He started the coffee and whipped up five of the eggs. As he put the remainder of the eggs, milk, meat and cheese away in the fridge, he remembered the wedge of Stilton he had tucked away. Unwrapping it, he quickly sliced some and added it to the eggs.
The onions were soft and translucent, so he poured in the cheese and egg mixture. Getting out the very useful cookie sheet, he stacked cups, cream, sugar, napkins and utensils on it and carried it into the living room.
He turned his omelet and ran two of the stoneware plates under hot water to warm them, quickly drying them, and then transferred half of the omelet to each plate. He carried the plates and coffee carafe into the living room as Anne began to stir.
“M-m-m-m . . . food. Yum. I'm starving,” she said as she stretched like a cat. She opened her eyes and smiled at Will. “Good morning . . . buffy. And you brought me breakfast!”
The look of contentment on her face made his knees go weak. She patted the cushion on which she was reclining, and he carried the food over to her and dropped down beside her. She had called him 'buffy' this morning, also. It had a very familiar sound to it—it must be an American expression, like 'honey'. He had probably picked it up without awareness in LA—because he realized that he had been thinking of her as his buffy for some time.
She clasped her hands behind the back of his neck, pulling him over for a kiss. She giggled, “I was going to say 'Good Morning' again, but I guess it's definitely afternoon by now and I am absolutely starving, so . . . let's eat!”
Will handed her one of the plates and bent to drop a quick kiss on the top of her head before picking up his own.
“Mmm . . . this is so good. You can cook! Oh! I charged the groceries to your account—I hope you don't mind. I . . . I didn't have any money.”
“Of course. That's exactly what you should have done. Thank you so much for thinking of them in the first place and going to get them and everything and you know I'm in love with you, right?”
Anne's fork dropped to the plate with a clatter. “But . . . you don't even know who I am!”
He reached out and touched the side of her face. “Wrong. I know exactly who you are. I may not know who you were, but I know who you are, and I love you.”
She looked at him searchingly. “Have you ever been in love before?”
His fair skin blushed again, but he strove to answer honestly.
“I thought I was. I met a girl in—Chaucer, I believe it was—and thought I was in love with her. I spent the entire term pining for Cecily to notice me . . .” Will laughed. “She never did, and I'm quite relieved. She was very class conscious—thought I was beneath her—and if we'd ever gotten together, I have a feeling life would not have been very pleasant. Then there's my fantasy 'dark princess' . . . For as long as I can remember, I've had dreams—frequently nightmares—about a slim, dark-haired woman in old-fashioned dress. She's not anyone I've known in this life; perhaps I knew her in a past life?
“Sometimes in the dreams, I'm madly in love with her and sometimes she terrifies me. The look in her eyes when she says I'm not through with you yet, William . . . I'm your 'destiny', after all, makes me shiver, so . . . excepting fantasy women and university crushes, you're the first actual flesh-and-blood woman I've ever loved.”
“I love you, too, Will. I don't know if I've ever been in love. I could have had a long-term boyfriend . . . I could even have been married . . . but I don't feel any kind of . . . remembered happiness. I know that sounds stupid, but I guess I just think if you were in a good relationship with somebody, even if you lost your memory, you'd still remember the feeling, even if you didn't remember the events, you know? When I think about love, all I feel is a . . . loss . . . a sense of sadness, so if I did love somebody, I think they either left me or they died or something.”
Anne grinned. “So, looks like you're stuck with me.” She leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the forehead before scrambling to her feet. “First dibs on the shower,” she called, disappearing into the bathroom.
Will leaned on one elbow, propping his head in his hand. He lifted the cup and took a sip of coffee.
Anne was definitely . . . mercurial. If he spent the next fifty years with her, one thing of which he was certain was that he'd never be bored.
**********
The small library's hours were posted on a card thumb-tacked to the front door. Winter hours: Open 1-4 PM. It was now close to six, but Lucien paused outside the building, opening his senses to make sure he was alone. The elderly volunteer librarian usually left right at four o'clock to walk home before dark, but if there was anyone still inside, he didn't want to startle them with his sudden appearance.
Ascertaining that the building was unoccupied, Lucien turned into a fine mist and drifted through the crack under the door.
Recorporealizing inside, he surveyed the lay-out of the library. He was standing in a foyer that opened into the reading room. Newspapers and periodicals were neatly stacked on shelves. Floor lamps stood next to two wing chairs and a long, glossy table was surrounded by eight wooden chairs. A small desk in the corner supported an ancient computer.
An arch led into the second room, which was apparently the library proper. Bookshelves on three sides held a variety of hardbacks and paperbacks, most probably donated. An old-fashioned card catalogue stood beside a desk with a green blotter and a lazy-susan that held a variety of stamps and an ink pad. A lavender cardigan was neatly draped over the chair behind the desk. The door at the end of the room was marked “Employees Only” and he assumed it led to kitchen and bathroom facilities.
Returning to the reading room, Lucien settled down to work. He selected the Toronto, Montreal and Quebec papers for the past month and rapidly skimmed the hospital admissions and death notices. There was no one listed that even remotely resembled the woman he could not get out of his mind. He was handicapped in his search by not knowing her name, but he refused to give up.
Turning on the computer, he waited for it to load and connect to the server. He tried several key words—news article, Quebec Province, girl injured, past 30 days. Five long minutes later, he had a list of articles that had appeared in all of the Quebec papers. He sighed. This could take all night.
After plowing through half of the articles, which seemed to take forever to download with the library's dial-up service, he decided to refine his search. He added 'memory loss' after 'girl injured'. His new search resulted in only three articles.
A teen-aged girl had suffered a head injury after a car accident near Montreal; a 4-year-old girl in northern Quebec had fallen through the ice, was rescued and revived but suffered memory loss; and an 11-year-old had taken pills she had found in her older brother's room and was now in a coma. He said a brief prayer for all three girls, then slammed his palm against the desk in frustration. None were the girl he wanted.
The dawn would be coming soon and workers with early morning jobs would be out and about. It was time for him to leave.
Lucien turned off the computer and pushed in the chair. Dissolving into mist, he flowed under the door to the pine tree in the yard. Shifting into his favored owl form, he winged his way home.
He'd try again tomorrow night.
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