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Chapter 19
BathGiles leaned back in the booth at the back of the pub and stretched his long legs into the aisle. He sipped his pint of Guinness and realized, with some surprise, that he was happy. He was content in a way that he hadn't been in . . . years.
For the first three years of his tenure as Buffy's watcher he had felt fulfilled. He was doing important work—work for which he had been trained. Work in which he believed. His firing by the Council did not mitigate his own sense of purpose. The work remained the same, even if no longer performed under the aegis of the Council.
And then Buffy had also quit the Council. She moved on—developed new friendships and new mentors and he had felt superfluous. She hadn't even felt it necessary to inform him of the information she discovered about the commandos—she'd actually joined their bloody organization, leaving him completely out of the loop. He had begun to question his effectiveness . . . his purpose. He had lost his sense of belonging—both with the Council and with the Scoobies. He was no longer needed. He was . . . obsolete.
The final blow came when he buried his Slayer. He had failed. He had killed an innocent with his bare hands to save the world—to protect her—but it hadn't been enough. She had thrown her life away to save . . . a mystical construct—a chimera. He had never truly seen Dawn as a real person, and Buffy knew it and was . . . disappointed with him.
He had betrayed her through his initial decision to go along with the Cruciamentum; he had disappointed her through his willingness to sacrifice Dawn, and ultimately he had failed her.
He had failed to save her from death and he had failed to save her from being brought back to life. Those impetuous . . . children had flouted all the laws of the universe and brought her back to life and he had done nothing to stop it. Bloody hell! He hadn't even known about it! She had come back so . . . broken in spirit, she was barely a shell of herself. His guilt and sense of failure had been so great that he could barely stand to look at her—or the others, for what they had done to her.
He was a coward. He looked at himself in the mirror and didn't like what he saw. He should have stayed—helped her put the pieces back together—but he hadn't. He left. He abandoned her. He withdrew from all their lives . . . for his own protection. His emotions were such a jumble of guilt, failure, depression and . . . resentment, that he needed to distance himself from them. From her.
No more. He had spent quite enough time wallowing in self-pity, thank you very much! He had closed himself off to avoid the painful feelings, but building self-protective walls also closes off the necessary feelings. Friendship, love, camaraderie—they require an openness of spirit that he had long denied. He had been living a half-life and hadn't even noticed. That wasn't living—it was merely existing.
Althenea placed her hand on his and gently squeezed. He turned to smile at her with true affection. She was a beautiful woman, radiant with an inner spirituality. The lines on her face were those of good humor, carved by a very different tool than had scored his own. But it was never too late to grow and change. One had only to look at Bernard to see that age was no barrier to openness of mind and heart.
“Rupert—” Bernard's voice broke into his reflections. “I'm getting flashes of something that may be important. I hate to break up this lovely party, but if I could return to your house and meditate, I may be able to get a clearer picture.”
The group scrambled to put on their coats and Willow snatched a last piece of pickled cauliflower to savor on the way home.
**********
TorontoDru stood outside the building housing the SRPB offices. She had been there for the past two nights, waiting for William. She sighed. He hadn't come . . . again.
Returning to her hotel room just before dawn, she went straight to Miss Edith and picked her up, looking deeply into the doll's glass eyes.
“You have a silly mummy, Miss Edith. She'd forgotten that her William no longer needs the shadows to come out to play. He can walk in the light where his dark princess can't follow. We must think of something else.”
Dru tilted her head, continuing to stare into the doll's eyes. She slowly nodded her head.
“Yes. You're quite right, Miss Edith. It's a very good plan. Would you like Mummy to hurt you, now?”
**********
The following day was overcast, with the smell of snow in the air. Dru parted the heavy drapes and looked out as the first flurries appeared. They were so beautiful—like fairy dust.
She danced around the hotel room as she dressed in a mid-calf length suede skirt, boots and a raspberry turtleneck sweater. She threw her sable over her shoulders and went to look out the window again. The snow was falling heavily, so she asked the concierge for another of the yellow cars that would take her anywhere she wanted to go.
A block from her destination, she signaled the cab driver to pull over. She hadn't had breakfast yet and her tummy was all rumbly. She waited in the back seat until he finally got out of the car and came around to open the door for her. She imperiously extended her hand.
The cab driver rolled his eyes. Who the hell did she think she was, the Queen of England? He'd better get a big tip for this! He helped her out of the cab and then he saw her face. What was the matter with her face? It hadn't been like this when she got into the cab; he'd have rememb—
Dru placed a hand on his chest and shoved. He tumbled into the back seat and she shut the door. No matter. The concierge seemed to have an unlimited supply of the cars.
She tucked her sable more closely around her throat and began to walk, occasionally turning her face up to catch snow flakes on her tongue.
**********
The receptionist looked up as the double doors opened. It was only 8:45, and most of the editors didn't come in until well after nine. The slender, dark-haired woman gliding toward her must be a fashion model. She was rail thin and had that haunted, drowned, heroin-chic look about her eyes . . . and the way she carried herself and that gorgeous coat—obviously she wasn't a member of PETA!
The receptionist glanced through her appointment book to see which cover they were shooting today—probably one of the vampire ones. Odd. She couldn't find the scheduled shoot. It was probably Gervase's—he was notoriously bad about letting her know his schedule. Oh, well, she'd get things straightened out as usual—and in spite of Gervase. She smiled at the model.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, please. I'm looking for your new author, William Winter.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Winter isn't here. He's out of town working on the re-write and I don't know when he'll be in.”
“How disappointing. I was so looking forward to seeing him today. Oh, well. Where is he?”
“I'm sorry, I can't give out that information.”
“But I'm a very old friend. Something terrible has befallen my William and he needs his princess.”
“I'm sorry . . .”
“Look at me, dearie. Look into my eyes. Where is my William?”
“He's staying at Ms. Parker's cottage in Quebec.”
“That's right. Look at me. Be in me. May I have the address?”
“I'll write it down for you.”
“Thank you. You've been very helpful. Miss Edith was quite right about you.”
Dru slid the piece of paper from under the receptionist's hand and swept out of the office suite.
The receptionist blinked. She had felt dizzy for a moment. Must be low blood sugar. She glanced at the clock. The editors would be arriving soon—better grab something before she got busy. She slipped into the kitchenette and poured a cup of coffee, picking up a banana-nut muffin before heading back to her desk.
**********
Bath
Bernard had retired to his room to meditate and the others had gathered in the living room. Althenea offered to make a pot of her special herb tea that she promised would bring both physical relaxation and mental clarity. She briefly touched Giles' shoulder on her way to the kitchen. Pilar was sitting cross-legged on the couch, with Willow on the floor in front of her, and Giles was seated in his usual chair. Willow stretched out her leg and nudged Giles' foot with her toes.“She likes you.”
“Hmm? Oh, Althenea. Of course she does. We've been friends for some time.”
Willow's toes nudged his ankle again.
“No. I mean she likes you. In that 'oh, Giles, we've known each other for years and you've never really noticed me—men are so dense' kind of way.”
Giles made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I'm sure you're wrong—we're just friends.”
“How do you know? Did you ever ask her?”
“Ask her what?”
“Ask her out—ask her to a movie, a play, dinner—it's called a 'date', Giles. Surely you remember dating?”
“I remember I wasn't very good at it! The last actual date I went on involved monster tr—” He broke off as a shadow of pain flickered in his eyes.
“Oh, Giles. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up . . .”
“Jenny?”
“Yes. But you had to have gone on dates since Jenny died. Oh! What about that woman? Your orgasm friend? What was her name?”
“Her name was—and still is—Olivia and must you all continue to refer to her as my 'orgasm friend'?”
“Well, Anya said it first, but we all thought it was kinda cute and I guess we all started thinking of her like that, but if it makes you feel any better, Xander thought it was pretty creepy.”
“Oh, yes, Willow. That makes me feel much better. Xander casting aspersions on my . . . intimate relationships cheers me right up!”
Pilar's brow furrowed. “That is sarcasm, yes?”
Willow giggled. “Yep. Definite sarcasm.”
Althenea came in with the tea, and Willow desisted from further teasing. She leaned back against Pilar's legs and sniffed Althenea's special blend. It smelled like summer—sunshine and fresh laundry hung outside to dry and ripe tomatoes and . . . Willow couldn't identify the rest of the scents, but it evoked long, sunny summer days and just the scent was relaxing. She'd have to get the recipe from Althenea later.
Giles sipped his tea and was disconcerted to realize that he was sneaking surreptitious glances at Althenea every few seconds. Was Willow correct? Was she interested in him? How could that be? He'd known her for years and she'd never shown any sign . . . Ah, but all those years he'd known her, he'd been emotionally distant. It was only recently that he had recognized how closed off he had been, and wanted to be no longer. Maybe when this current crisis was over . . .
The door of the spare bedroom slammed open with a bang, and they all jumped. Bernard was framed in the doorway.
“I know what he wants,” Bernard's voice was raspy, “and we must stop him.”
**********
Quebec
Will was sitting on the couch watching the fire, when Anne came out of the bathroom. She dropped to the floor in front of the sofa and handed him his own hairbrush. Anne unwound the towel from around her damp hair and tossed it aside.“Will you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with a quick nod at the brush.
He ran his fingers through her hair first, trying to untangle the worst of the knots. Anne leaned back against his knees and sighed happily.
“Mmmm. That feels wonderful. I took one look at this mess and knew I couldn't face it. Having you deal with it is much nicer.”
“Well, I've had a bit of experience dealing with unmanageable hair. Not an experience you'd know anything about, so it's good you came to the expert.”
He slowly worked his fingers from her scalp to the ends of her hair and then started on a new section.
“Maybe I should just cut it all off!”
“Oh no! Please don't do that—my little Goldilocks.”
Anne laughed. “Does that make you the bear? 'Cause hafta admit, I haven't noticed bear-like qualities in you. You're much too nice to be a bear. Or, did you mean Goldilocks in the sense that I just sort of came over and slept in your bed and ate your porridge—”
“No! I love having you here! Having you here is quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Anne briefly leaned her cheek against his knee. “That really means a lot to me, but I should probably go soon. You have work to do and the Sisters will be worried about me . . .”
“Mrs. Hatcher said she'd tell them where you are. They'll understand that you're on a mission of mercy, helpin' the helpless . . .”
“You are probably the least helpless person I know! You have such a strong sense of . . . I don't know . . . who you are, maybe? I think that no matter what happened to you, you'd stay strong, and caring and . . . open—to new experiences, new people . . . I know what I want to say, but it's not coming out right!”
He dropped a light kiss on the top of her head.
“It's full dark now. Stay the night at least. We can discuss your going back to the convent tomorrow, if you wish, but I'd really like you to stay.”
The fire blurred as she stared at it through the sheen of tears in her eyes. And they weren't caused by his careful detangling of her hair! It was nice to feel safe and wanted and cared for and loved. She wondered if she'd ever had that feeling before.
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