Chapter Nine

The days leading up to Christmas passed uneventfully. Slowly, it seemed to Buffy, the long hours dragging with a tedium that made her want to scream. Yet, as the sun went down on each one, she felt a pang of fear, the ache in her chest growing just a little tighter. Because another day had gone, and there was no sign, not the smallest indication, that her friends were bringing her home. She tried not to worry about it; worrying helped nothing anyway. She took care of Anne, performing each of her tasks with a precision that would have impressed the most rigid hospital director. Each morning when she woke, she peered out the window in expectation of seeing the snow Anne promised, but although the weather remained bitter cold, there were no picturesque white drifts or lazily falling flakes. Instead, there came a day and a half of unending sleet, when gray sheets of icy water lashed at the windows, obscuring the view.

In spite of the chill and dampness, Anne remained in good health and good spirits. She confided to Buffy that she had secretly been dreading this holiday, the first that she would spend as an invalid. Normally, there would have been parties and dinners, church and caroling. She had feared the absence of these things but admitted that the peace of this Christmas was not an unwelcome one. And it wasn’t as though they were completely without tradition. There was the tree.

Buffy had not realized that Christmas trees even existed in 1879, so she was surprised to find out how fashionable the custom actually was. Apparently, their popularity had soared when, early in her marriage, Her Royal Highness, the Queen Victoria, adopted the German custom to make her husband feel more at home in his new country. The Queen’s tree was adorned with priceless hand-blown glass ornaments, but the decorations on the Hartley's tree were mainly edible: popcorn and cranberries being joined by nuts, candies, and even little cakes. However, there were also small wax figures and stars fashioned out of metal. And, of course, there were the candles. Purposefully setting a dead tree on fire seemed like a bad idea to Buffy, but when she verbalized this concern to Anne, the lady merely laughed and explained that this was why they would be placing a pail of water beside the tree. They would be safe as houses.

As safe as the Towering Inferno, maybe.

Still, in spite of her concerns, Buffy could not help but be impressed by the effect when, on Christmas Eve, William used a rush to light every small candle. The effect was prettier than electric lights, and the warmth of the tiny flames caused the evergreen to emit a wonderful, spicy odor. The entire parlor looked like an illustration of the perfect Victorian Christmas and she felt, for the first time, a twinge of holiday spirit.

That evening all of the servants were welcomed “upstairs” to receive their Christmas bonuses of a half-crown each and—for the men—a taste of some very fine brandy. Although it wasn’t fitting for the Hartleys to socialize with their help (they faded into the background once the money was distributed), for Buffy it should have been acceptable. That night, there was a party in servants’ quarters with food and drink, even music and dancing. Buffy never really had the chance to get to know the other servants, and she would have enjoyed the opportunity to join them, if for no other reason that to break the monotony of the days. But for some reason, both Hartleys vetoed this idea. Instead, she spent the evening in the parlor, listening to Anne read aloud the pertinent chapters of the Bible and trying not to yawn.

William was standing before the window, staring out onto the darkened lawn. Ostensibly, he was also listening to the retelling of Christ’s birth, though Buffy had her doubts. His eyes had a decidedly glazed look about them, and she suspected that he was just as bored by this as she was. It startled her when he abruptly straightened up, coming awake with a sudden, eager gesture to the windowpane.

“Look!”

Expecting to see a gang of vampires ascending the walkway (okay, so she’d lived on the Hellmouth too long), Buffy left her seat to join him at the window. Standing just beyond the gate, on the brick walkway, was a small group of people. All of them were well bundled over their finery and huddled together against the bitter December wind. They were singing Christmas carols—Buffy could tell by the hymnbooks they clutched in their hands, the unified movements of their lips. In fact, when she listened carefully, she thought she could hear it, very faintly, through the glass.

“Pretty,” she remarked, though this was more a comment to the fashionable turnout of the group rather than their performance. She could hardly hear them singing, but by the light of their lanterns, she could see clearly the fur capes and muffs of the women, their pretty dresses underneath. The sleet had stopped some hours earlier, but the frigid cold remained and the carolers’ breath came out in white puffs. All of them were red-cheeked from the sharp wind.

Buffy was so busy watching them that she did not realize William was watching her until he spoke.

“Would you—would you like to hear the singing?”

While not exactly her idea of a rollicking good time, it certainly was a more exciting idea than sitting before the fire, listening to scripture, and Buffy nodded enthusiastically. Then her face fell.

“We can’t open the window, though…” She jerked her head toward Anne. They couldn’t risk her falling ill by letting in the dampness and cold.

“Yes. Well…I thought…” His face reddened. “Perhaps, we could go outside?”

Buffy didn’t understand why this would be a cause for embarrassment, nor could she comprehend the slightly disappointed look his mother shot him. She chalked it up to regret that the carolers should be more interesting than the Good Book and quickly dismissed it.

“I’d like that,” she told him.

William smiled diffidently, but Anne frowned.

“Oh, William! Surely, you cannot mean to go outside in the winter darkness and lead Elizabeth to do the same. You’ll both catch your deaths of cold…”

“It is only out onto the doorstep, Mother, and I shall see to it we bundle ourselves.”

This answer he gave with the same gentle tones he always used with his mother, but Buffy detected something else underneath, something that did not want to be reckoned with. Anne must have sensed it too, for she did not argue the matter further but instead turned back to her Bible with a sigh and a shaking of her head at the foolishness of youth.

Deliberately choosing not to see her employer’s disapproval, Buffy followed William out into the foyer. He assisted her in putting on her coat and muff, before seeing to his own attire. Even though she knew her feminist mind should be revolting at the idea, she could not help but enjoy the way he insisted on helping her with little things she could easily do for herself. Her entire young adulthood had been spent caring for everyone around her; it was nice, for once, to let someone take care of her. And when he opened the door and took her elbow to lead her out…well, she liked that too.

Outside, the air was so cold it felt like a fist to the chest, and Buffy gasped with the shock of it—something she immediately regretted as the frosty wind stabbed at her lungs. She glanced at William, whose coat was unbuttoned, but he did not seem uncomfortably cold. If anything, he looked a little flushed as he helped her pick her way down the ice-slick steps.

They did not go far, just down to the foot of the steps and off the walkway onto the lawn, (the bricks were glazed with ice and too slippery to stand on). At first, Buffy shivered with cold, but she soon grew used to it and began to enjoy the clear, sweet tones of the singers. She didn’t recognize the song they sang, but it had a bouncy, happy beat she could appreciate.

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day in the morning!

“They are very good,” she whispered. Mostly to herself, although William heard.

“Members of the choir at the local church, most of them,” he answered. “They have a good choirmaster.”

She looked at him with surprise.

“Do you go to church?”

“Yes…well…I did at one time. Not anymore.”

Buffy didn’t have to ask him why not anymore. She knew. It was in his eyes and in his tone. He was angry about Anne’s illness, and who better to be angry at than the Almighty? If He was real, then He could do something about it…and wouldn’t. If He was not real, then what was the point of all those Sundays wasted? It was a feeling she understood well.

“I’m sorry,” she told him sympathetically. “About your mother, I mean. I’m sorry she’s sick. I know how hard it must be for you.”

“Let’s not talk of it just now,” he quickly replied, his eyes still fixed on the carolers. “Let’s not…talk of anything sad.”

They did not talk about anything at all for a little while after that. However, the silence was not an uncomfortable one. In fact, there was something oddly restful about standing in the winter evening with him. It was the same sort of strange affinity she’d once felt with Spike as they sat on her back porch steps in the moonlight. A brief moment in time that seemed longer past than it actually was…and that she remembered with some bitterness for the betrayals that eventually followed it.

By this time finished with the first song, the carolers had launched into their next, and this one Buffy found she did recognize.

The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown
Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown…

“I know this song. They used to make us sing it in the chorus, when I was in junior high. None of us could get our voices up that high, though. Actually…none of us could really carry a tune. I think cats started wailing whenever we tried.” Buffy sighed and shook her head. “No wonder I only spent one semester in chorus.”

“You know it is a pagan custom.” William seemed eager to share this information, but Buffy could not help tormenting him just a little. She pulled a confused face.

“Junior high school chorus?” she asked.

“No…decorating with holly and ivy. It was a tradition when celebrating winter solstice. When people became Christians, I suppose they were reluctant to give up the old customs, so they found new meanings for them such as the representation of Christ’s blood and crown of thorns in the holly berries and prickles.”

“I always thought that was a weird line, the berries being as red as blood. Not exactly cheery in the traditional holiday sense. Still, it is a pretty song,” she conceded. “I’ve kind of missed having music to listen to.” No CDs in the nineteenth century, of course.

“Sometime—if you would like—perhaps we could go to a concert at one of the music halls, the Oxford or the Canterbury. St. James' Theatre often has operatic performances…”

“I’m not really into opera,” said Buffy, remembering the boredom of her last trip to St. James.' “But a concert would be nice. Are you sure that it would be all right for Anne, though? I know she enjoyed the play, but I wouldn’t want to risk her getting sick again.”

“It—it wouldn’t be proper to go alone.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound regretful of this?

Buffy stared at the little knot of singers without bothering to answer. There was a pretense of thoughtfulness in her expression, but what she was really doing was consciously ignoring the fact that William was inching himself closer to her. Her Slayer senses told her his body was just a few centimeters from brushing against her own; she could almost feel the heat coming off his skin. She could feel his attraction like that, too: waves of it tickling her flesh like an unseasonably warm wind. And for the first time in days, she felt as if she had come fully awake, her nerves tingling and attentive, her heart thumping in rhythm to his quiet breathing. She fixed her eyes on the carolers and waited.

“Perhaps…when the weather turns…Mother would be fit to accompany us…” His breath stirred the locks of hair on the back her neck, and she shivered at the unexpected sensation.

The thing was…although she knew she should do everything in her power to discourage it, Buffy could not help being flattered by his attention. She had never had anyone admire her this way: distantly, worshipfully. And as much as she had been trying to hold herself aloof from him, William was actually kind of growing on her. The more she talked to him, the clearer it became that he was not just some foppish, Victorian version of Spike. He was weird; he was almost painfully shy; and he was so reserved made Giles look like a party animal. But he didn’t seem to be a bad man. Actually, when he wasn’t stuttering and blushing and behaving all spazzy, he was pretty good company. And if he was attracted to her, and she got some vague pleasure out of it…it didn’t mean anything. Of course, it didn’t. All women liked it when men found them attractive.

Didn’t they?

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




The following morning, the breakfast table was set with extra care. There were red candles decorated with holly lit at each end of the table and gold-rimmed china and leaded crystal instead of the “everyday” tableware. Each setting included a small paper Christmas cracker, but there was something extra at Buffy’s place. A narrow, flat box was nestled between her empty plate and cutlery. She looked at Anne with confusion. While gifts were already a decades-old staple at Christmas in England, Buffy knew the Hartleys considered it a tradition for children, not adults. And so much had already been done for her in the way of clothing and gifts, Buffy would not have expected a present even so.

“It’s all right.” Anne smiled. “Open it and tell me what you think of what is inside.”

Buffy pried open the hinged lid and peeked at what lay within. There, pillowed on a small bit of velvet, was the prettiest bracelet she had ever seen. It was a half circlet of heavy gold, just the right size and shape to curve over the top of her wrist. Small, dark red jewels clustered together in groups of seven, so that on the circlet, there appeared to be a row of eight red flowers. The bracelet was held closed by a fine gold chain that fit against the bottom of the wrist and was adjustable. Ignorant as she was of antique jewelry, Buffy could tell the object was handmade and probably very expensive.

“The stones are garnets,” said Anne, thereby answering Buffy’s unspoken question. “And the setting is gold, of course. I thought that it might look nice with that wine-colored dress Mrs. Simms worked for you. She finished it already, did she not?”

Buffy, who had endured a dress fitting just the morning before, nodded dumbly. “And she said she’d use the holiday as an opportunity to work over. She thinks she’ll have a least two done by the next fitting. Oh, but Anne…” Her eyes widened with sudden recognition. “I can’t accept this.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because…it’s too much. You’ve done enough as it is…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. No one is taking a tally of who is doing what for whom. If they were, I am sure we would come out well matched. But this is just something I thought would bring you pleasure on your first Christmas in London. A trifle…”

It looked considerably more expensive than a “trifle.” Buffy hesitated.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Anne anxiously. She cast a sidelong glance at her son, who looked away.

“Oh, yes. I love it. It’s beautiful! I just don’t want you to feel like—like you need to do these kinds of things…”

“Of course I don’t think that! This is a gift given out of love…not obligation.”

Her eyes filling at this motherly reassurance, Buffy slipped the bracelet over her hand. It complemented her slim wrist perfectly, and she knew it would be an ideal accessory for the wine-colored dress. She flexed her wrist right and left, so that the garnets sparkled and the gold gleamed in the candlelight.

“How does it look?”

William had not said a word during this exchange, but presently he looked across the table at Buffy and smiled.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

“Isn’t it?” she asked delightedly. It did not occur to her that his comment was in regards to something other than the jewelry—or that perhaps he had not meant to be overheard.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




After breakfast, William offered to teach Buffy to play chess as a way to pass the time. At first, she declined, saying that chess was a game for intellectuals and old men and insisting that since she was neither of these things, she would be too dumb to learn. However, he seemed to have been emboldened by their conversation the night before and wheedled with her until finally she agreed to try it. At least it would be something to do besides sitting and staring into the fire.

Truthfully, she was just as bad at the game as she feared she would be. She could never remember the value of the pieces, the result being that often she took too great a risk with her queen and rook, while refusing to sacrifice a pawn. She also frequently forgot the order in which each piece must move. William was constantly reminding her that the bishops could move only in diagonals, the rooks could not jump, and the pawns could only go forward. He harped on her for focusing all of her attention on one or two pieces, while leaving the rest vulnerable to attack. She became increasingly annoyed with the row of small black pieces that collected next to his elbow, while she herself had failed to capture even one of his white pieces. However, despite her shortcomings, Buffy ended up enjoying it so much that she challenged him to another game.

Anne sat crocheting by the fire while they played. She and Buffy chatted during the game, but William remained almost entirely silent save for giving tactful advice to help Buffy improve her game. His brow furrowed in concentration as he closely mapped each of her moves and carefully planned his own. At first, Buffy thought he was taking the game rather too seriously, but later she realized that this was not exactly the case. He simply wanted to impress her with his skill.

In that task, he succeeded admirably. While Spike was known for his impulsiveness, his quickness to anger and his reckless desire to win, William was much more calculated in the mock war of the game. He was sharp and quick, yet so thorough in his planning that even had Buffy been a more accomplished opponent, it was unlikely she would have found a crack in his armor. He won each game in a spectacularly short amount of time, but won with such grace that it was impossible for Buffy to feel anger over her loss. They continued to play late into the morning, Buffy alternately scowling and laughing at her own silly mistakes, William grinning shyly and curbing his own efforts so that she might think she was improving.

Anne smiled sympathetically when Buffy bemoaned her third loss of the morning. “I think you must learn to plan a strategy in your head first, Elizabeth. Chess is like war; you cannot send your troops blindly into battle and hope for the best. You have to anticipate!”

“If chess is like war you’d think I’d be good at it!” Buffy sighed. She toyed with one of the beautifully carved knights discontentedly.

“And why is that?” asked Anne, looking much amused.

“Uh—never mind. Let’s just say that I’m just not as good at strategizing as I thought I was.”

Before anyone had a chance to reply, the gong sounded to announce lunch. William stood up, offering Buffy his hand.

“I think you are quite brilliant,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “You are simply new to the game.”

She might have felt better at hearing this, if Anne had not suddenly made a choking sound that very much resembled a laugh.

“Yeah, I get it! I’m not ‘brilliant’ at chess. At least I get credit for my enthusiasm, right?”

“Of course you do,” Anne said cheerfully.

She grabbed Buffy’s elbow with one hand and William’s with the other, and with her between them, they headed for the dining room.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Christmas dinner was so pleasant that it left Buffy feeling oddly hopeful. All right, so Willow hadn’t gotten her home yet; eventually she would. And there were certainly worse places to be than in a mansion. There were worse people to be with than the Hartleys. She went to sleep that night in a better frame of mind than she’d been in since she arrived in London.

Of course it didn’t last.

Oddly enough, the catalyst for such a rapid-fire shift in mood was a holiday she had never even heard of. In London—indeed in all of Britain—the day after Christmas was called Boxing Day. It was a day when the homes of the wealthy were opened to the poor, and the only day of the year when begging was not frowned upon. Droves of people knocked on the servants' door, each of them carrying a box half-filled with items of food and clothing. Throughout the morning and on into afternoon, Mr. Edward patiently distributed canned goods and a coin to each man, woman, and child that came. They received, as well, a small cake made and iced especially for the purpose, to eat on their way. In spite of their rough appearances, most of the beggars seemed polite, God blessing Mr. Edward and the Hartleys extravagantly before moving on to the next home and the next set of handouts.

Despite the day being centered on the generosity of wealthy men, the presence of wealthy men in their homes was not necessary. William had followed tradition and gone to the races that morning, looking for all the world as though it was a chore and not a pleasure. Anne, meanwhile, spent much of the day in her room, reading and resting. She gave Buffy the day to do as she liked, which seemed like a good deal at first. But without a job to do, Buffy quickly grew bored, and before long, she found herself wandering the house rather aimlessly. She went to the servants' kitchen, but the atmosphere there was too raucous for her tastes. All the hired help were still feeling of a festive spirit, and since neither the master nor mistress of the house wanted much in the way of service, the staff was allowed to spend much of the day in idle. Buffy was surprised to find that the decorum of the upper classes did not always extend to their servants. The under footman and the scullery maid, in particular, proved this when they were discovered carousing in a broom cupboard near the kitchen. Unimpressed by this lack of restraint (God, was she really becoming so Victorian?), Buffy left the servants’ kitchen almost as soon as she arrived.

She was just approaching the staircase, when a deep, pleasant voice called out in greeting to her. It was Matthew, the head groom and coachman, who had driven her to the house on her first day. He was sitting on a crate just outside the staircase’s wide landing, smoking a pipe and whittling what appeared to be a chain out of a length of wood. Buffy was surprised to see him; she thought he would have been engaged to drive William to the races that morning.

“Hello, Miss Elizabeth. It is not often we find you in the servants’ wing. What are you doing down here with the rabble?” His eyes danced at her, taking the sting from the words.

“Oh…just trying to find something to do, I guess. It’s as quiet as a grave in the house, and I felt like I needed to walk around or go crazy.”

Matthew grinned wryly.

“Not so quiet, I’d wager, with every tramp in two counties begging at the doorstep.”

“Yeah, well. Mr. Edward is handling most of that. Wil—Mr. Hartley is away somewhere and Anne is asleep in her room. And the other servants—” She faltered.

“Are having their holiday revelries, as I can plainly hear. Why do you not join them?”

“Why don’t you?” she countered defensively.

“For the one thing, I thought I’d be driving, but Master William preferred the saddle to the carriage this morning so I was wrong about that. However, I’ve also got a wife who wouldn’t be fond of the idea of me drinking and carousing with the others. The drink doesn’t really agree with me, you see. I came in here from the stables to warm up a bit.”

“Oh. Well…I don’t really know them. The other servants, I mean. I went in for a little while, but it was…weird…”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I have noticed that the Hartleys have taken you on for a project. All the better for you, but it doesn’t make it easy to befriend the other women, I’d imagine. They’re all jealous, don’t you know.”

“Because Anne is so nice to me? She’s nice to them, too.”

“Yes, although in a somewhat different way. But I rather think it is Master William who has set those feminine hearts against you.” There was a note of mockery in his voice.

“William?” echoed Buffy, blankly. “What’s he done?”

Matthew tilted his head, studying his half-finished carving with a critical eye. It was a moment or two before he answered her question.

“He gave you that pretty bracelet, did he not? That’s reason enough for jealousy, I should think.”

“No, the bracelet was from Anne. She gave it to me as a Christmas gift…” Her voice trailed away as Matthew smiled skeptically.

“Is that what they told you? I did wonder. However, it was Master William who picked it out, and it was Master William who paid for it. I know, because I drove him to the jeweler’s in the coach and waited outside while he made his purchase. He put a great deal of thought into it, judging by how long he was inside.”

Frowning, Buffy shook her head. “But…that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why doesn’t it?”

“Well, why would he have given it to me? I hardly even know him.”

“He seems quite taken with you for all that.” Matthew grinned at her astonished expression. “Or, perhaps you haven’t yet noticed it. The rest of us, however…”

“Why did Anne claim it was from her, then?”

“Naturally, he wouldn’t want to offend you by doing something so improper as to give you an expensive gift. Moreover, he knew that you would not be able to accept it even if you were not offended. I imagine he asked his mother to give it to you for him.”

“What’s the point of doing that? If he wasn’t going to get credit for it, why bother?”

“Perhaps he merely thought of bringing you pleasure,” suggested Matthew. “And in that he succeeded, did he not?”

“Well…yes,” she said uncomfortably. “I mean, I like it. But it’s different if he gave it to me, instead of Anne. I don’t think I should keep it.”

“Why should you not?”

“You said yourself it’s not proper!”

“There’s many a man who would give a young woman an expensive gift, and then expect payment for it later. I beg your pardon for my bluntness, but it is a fact. Master William did not even let on he gave it to you, so I doubt you must worry about that. He’s fond of you and there’s no denying it, but I doubt you will have a problem with unwanted advances. He’s a good man, the Master. A gentleman. A great lot of the women working in this house would love to be in your place.”

She was fiddling with her bracelet almost without realizing it—a nervous gesture. “Why are you even telling me this? If he didn’t want anyone to know…”

Shrugging, Matthew tapped the cold ashes from his pipe. “I don’t mean to distress you. I just thought that perhaps you would prefer to know. In your position, it might be advantageous to allow his affections to develop.”

“Advantageous…how?” she asked.

Matthew shook his head at her ignorance. “For your own future,” he said. “Mrs. Anne is possibly the sweetest woman on earth, but she is very ill. When she dies…what becomes of you?”

She hadn’t thought of that. Still, to hear it put so baldly upset and annoyed her. She frowned at Matthew. “No matter what happens, I really don’t think I’d prostitute myself out just for the sake of staying here.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her bluntness. “I certainly was not implying illicit relations.”

“Well, I still wouldn’t sell myself out for non-illicit relations,” snapped Buffy. “And I don’t want him, or his ‘fondness.’ If I had known the bracelet was from him, I would never have accepted it, anyway.”

“You’d never give it back?” There was the barest hint of amusement in his tone, and she knew he was just teasing her. But confusion and embarrassment had fired her temper, and she retorted angrily:

“Yes, I will! As soon as he gets home!”

“Ah, come on now.” Matthew’s tone had become serious. “Don’t do that; you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“I don’t give a damn!”

And that said, she turned on her heel and stalked upstairs.

By chance, William was just arriving home from the races when she was crossing the foyer, and despite her earlier determination to confront him, Buffy suddenly found herself overcome in a fit of awkwardness. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello,” he said politely. He looked cold and windblown, and when the footman took his overcoat, Buffy could see he was shivering. She felt her resolve suffer a tiny crack, and instead of throwing the bracelet back in his face as she had planned to do, she asked, “So…um…how were the races?”

Coward, she thought to herself. But he smiled appreciatively.

“Rather cold and bleak, if you want my opinion. But the rest of them seemed to enjoy it fine.” He paused. Then, “And what of your day? Was it nice?”

“Oh, yeah. Tons of fun. I think I spent half the day counting ceiling tiles. I never thought I would say I prefer work to rest, but you guys really are kind of lacking in the field of personal entertainment.”

William looked hurt by this.

“The library—” he began. He looked so anxious that the crack became a gap wide enough to drive a car through, and her heart softened.

“The library is great and all.” She gave him a hint of a smile. “But there is a limit to how much Charles Dickens a person can read, and I think I’ve hit mine. Anyway, hanging out with the three dimensional people can be kind of nice, too. I tried to get to know some of the other servants, but—”

“Oh, don’t socialize with the kitchen staff. They are coarse.”

“Yeah, I found that out the hard way,” she said ruefully. “You might want to have someone scrub out the broom closet downstairs, by the way. It has the unsightly reek of fornication.”

He blushed furiously at this and looked away. Buffy shook her head. There really were way too many taboos in this stupid century.

“Sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t mean that. Well, I meant it; that closet most definitely ought to be cleaned. But I guess I didn’t mean to word it that way.” She paused. “You like my bracelet?”

Okay, so it probably wasn’t the most subtle way of introducing the topic, but at least it’d get the job done. And was it her imagination, or did William have a suddenly guarded look on his face?

“I—I think it is very suitable.”

“Suitable?” she echoed. He swallowed.

“Lovely, I meant to say. Like yourself.”

Jesus help her, this was not the direction they needed to be traveling in. She tried to put more physical distance between them, at least, but found she was already standing with her back to the foyer wall.

“Very lovely,” she babbled nervously. “The bracelet, I mean. It’s—”

“Yes,” he said. He looked mystified by her anxiety. Or terrified by it. It was hard to tell.

“It was very nice of your mother to give it to me,” Buffy continued. “Anne, I mean. Your mother.”

He looked completely baffled. “Yes. Shall I tell her you said so?”

“Did she pick it out herself?”

“Well—”

“It wouldn’t mean the same to me if she didn’t pick it out.”

Low dig. She didn’t intend it that way, but he looked for a moment as if she’d struck him.

“Oh,” he said. Then, in the blink of an eye, that contrived, polite expression returned. He cleared his throat. “She picked it out.”

Lying bastard, thought Buffy. So, why did she suddenly feel like something that had crawled out from underneath a rock? Wasn’t she supposed to be shooting him down? It wasn’t like she needed to be encouraging any affection he might have. He was going to die; he was going to turn into Spike. It was…icky. Even despite this, she found, oddly, that all she wanted to do now was backtrack.

“It—it’s very pretty,” she stammered. “I like it a lot. I mean…it means a lot to me.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.” He looked so sad. The soft part of her cringed in shame, and she scrambled for a way to make it up to him.

“Would you like to play chess for a while? If you aren’t busy, that is. If you’d like to.”

“I…I should like that very much,” he said softly.

“So would I,” said Buffy. And God help her she meant it. She did.

She just wasn’t sure why.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~