Author’s Note: We made it through the dark, lets lighten things up just a little bit for a moment.

WARNING: This chapter contains… uh… adorableness.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science

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Chapter 58

The North Wind

It's the change in light that gets my attention. One minute we're still somewhere in South America at night, and the next...

It's daylight, I’m alone, and I'm in a graveyard.

I might as well be home.

It's cold, but not snowing, the sky a bright, incredible blue that almost hurts the eyes. The trees overhead are just starting to come into leaf, so I guess it's close to spring. The cemetery is old, way older than even some of the ones in Sunnydale which seem to go back almost impossibly far sometimes, considering that California isn't all that old. The nearest gravestone is weather beaten and pitted from exposure to the elements and claims to be for "Mary, 1561" which means I'm probably somewhere in Europe; I'm just not sure how far back.

My Slayer sense tells me that Spike is somewhere nearby.

I put the spike in one of the duster's deep pockets and start walking, glad to be using my muscles again to get around, rather than being poofed everywhere. I have to remember to tell Whistler that, next time, I want the walking tour of history rather than Wonka's Great Glass Elevator. God, I hope I'm nearly done with this, I'm so ready to fight something my fists itch.

At the top of the hill I pause to look down at the cemetery below. There's a small group of people gathered around an open grave near the bottom of the hill. They're dressed... well, I'm not sure what came before Victorian, but it might be that. Only they're all in black. The women even have on little black bonnets. I come more than a hundred years through time and I still end up in graveyards at funerals.

Sometimes it sucks being the Slayer.

Spike, or more likely William, is somewhere down there in that group. I don't want to intrude, though. It looks... private. Instead I sit down on one of the nearby headstones and wait. I can't hear the minister too well, but it doesn't matter. The tone of the words is familiar as a lullaby. I could recite them from memory, I think.

For a moment, I miss my mom so much I can't breathe, and tears burn my eyes. It could be her funeral, down there, except for the weird clothes. It hurts to think that, when I get home, she won't be there, waiting for me.

"She loved you, very much," says a gentle voice. I brush the tears from my eyes and turn to face the owner of it. A woman stands beside me, dressed in a flowing white gown with a soft looking robe over it. Her hair is long and curly, a sort of sandy blonde streaked with gray, and her features are delicate and really beautiful. She's older than my mother, but there's something about her that reminds me of mom. Her eyes are blue and oddly familiar, though I know I've never seen her before in my life. She looks, I think, like an angel.

"Hello," I say, not sure who she is or why she's here, but I figure it's probably better to be polite. "I'm... looking for William."

She nods. "You've come a very long way, my dear," she says. Her voice is softly accented, English like Giles or William. "But there is not much farther to go, to find what you seek. He is lucky to have found someone like you. I had worried..." She looks off into the distance. "He still has so far to go, but he will have you there to guide him."

"Who are you?" I ask, curious. Then I blush. "Sorry, that's probably rude."

She makes a delicate sort of gesture. "Manners change with time," she says. "As does fashion. Sometimes most peculiarly." Her eyes hold a great deal of curiosity and warmth as she takes in my clothes. I can't help but feel self-conscious, even if she does look like she's wearing a nightgown in public. Still, I'm mostly matchy if you don't count the duster.

"It's Sp—I mean, its William's. The coat, that is," I say, fingering the worn leather.

"I know, dear," she says, not unkindly. "I've watched over him for a very long time."

"Are you his... um... do vampires get guardian angels?" I ask, confused.

She laughs. "Not under normal circumstances," she says. "You may call me Anne."

"That's my middle name," I say, smiling.

"Not nearly as original as Buffy, I dare say." She smiles and I fiddle with the coat some more.

"My mom liked it," I say. Her fingers are cool as they touch my cheek.

"Come," she says. "There's still much to see."

I glance down at the gathering below. It's started to break up, people drifting off. Many of them stop to speak gently to a woman standing near the grave. The widow, maybe? I follow Anne down the hill, though we pause several feet away from the mourners. Eventually they all wander off, except for the priest, the woman in black, and a little boy that I didn't see before, hidden as he was by all the big skirts and dresses.

"William," I breathe. He's standing by the grave, dressed somberly in black. He’s got on these funny little shorts on with black stockings over his lower legs and someone has made an effort to slick his sandy colored curls into some semblance of order. It's not really working well, though. He's probably only about seven, maybe eight, thin and small for his age. Still, I can see the faint echoes of Spike's face there, just starting to emerge. The high cheekbones aren't so prominent, but the mouth and the eyes are all Spike.

Somehow I never pictured him as a child. I guess he's been a man for so long it seemed like that's what he must have always been, even as a human. But this... he's just a little boy. A sad, lost little boy staring down into a grave, silent and still. The woman comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. His mother, I guess. It takes me a minute to wrench my eyes away from William to look at her. Most of her features are hidden under a long black veil, but from what I can make out...

"She's you," I say, surprised. "You're William's mother."

"Yes," she says.

"The... grave, was it...?" I'm not sure how to ask.

"His father," Anne says softly. "James."

William is trying hard not to cry, struggling to hold back tears. His mother notices and squeezes his shoulder. "There's no shame in tears shed in pain or grief, darling," she says, clearly crying herself.

He looks up at her, his eyes already too old. "Why did father have to die?" he asks. "I don't understand."

"None of us do," she says.

"It's not fair," he says, tears spilling down his cheeks. "We were going fishing next week, and he...he was going to help me learn to ride. He promised."

"Shhh," she says. "I know. But God has his plan for all of us, and... though we will miss him greatly, he is in heaven now."

"I'd rather he were here," William says, unhappily.

"I know, darling. But... we must be strong and brave. It is just the two of us, now." She smoothes his curls with a gloved hand. William's face hardens.

"I will take care of you, mother," he says. "I promise. I am a man now. Father said... father said a gentleman always takes care of the women he loves." He sounds so serious.

She smiles a little, behind her veil. "So young," she murmurs. "We shall take care of one another."

She takes his hand and they both return to staring at the grave for a few minutes.

"What happened?" I ask the ghost of William's mother. "How... how did he die?"

"He had a headache," Anne says softly. "He took a nap. He didn't wake up."

Goosebumps go down my spine. They didn't know much about medicine and stuff back then, I think. They wouldn't have known, if it were cancer, and wouldn't have been able to do anything about it, even if they had. Still, it seems too much like my mom.

"He never mentioned it," I say.

"It was very long ago, for him," she says. "Very long ago. It's doubtful he even remembers."

It's quiet then, but for the breeze in the tree branches and the sound of birds chirping in the distance, and the soft sounds of William's quiet sobs. After awhile his mother takes his hand and leads him away.

"Come," Anne says. "Let us find a happier memory."

"Happy," I say, thinking back over all the moments of Spike's history I've gotten to live. "Happy would be a nice change."

***

Maybe Anne knows I'm in need of movement, or maybe she is, but we get to actually walk to our next stop. Time ripples so smoothly around us I barely notice the transition from graveyard to garden. I do notice the house. "Oh," I say, stopping to stare.

Whoa. Big.

I don't think it qualifies as a mansion but... it's pretty darned close. There's more windows just on the front of the building than in my entire house, and the stairs up to the front door are not handicapped friendly. Ivy literally swarms up one whole side of it and has started an invasive push to take over the front of the building, too.

As houses go, it's pretty damn impressive.

"Um... was William, like... a lord or something?" I ask, not sure what the proper term is.

Anne smiles. "Oh, no. Just a gentleman. We only had a few tenants, but the land was good, and William's father was not a spendthrift. We were quite fortunate, really," she says. I have no idea what half of that meant, but I guess it means they weren't poor. Still, big house.

She leads me through several gardens, one of which actually looks like they use it for vegetables and stuff and not just lots and lots of flowers. There's an open door at the side of the house and we wander in to the biggest kitchen I've ever seen. Outside of a restaurant that is. There's a stove, but it's really old, black and clunky, and the heat coming off of it makes me glad we're all the way across the room. Copper pots and pans hang from the ceiling, along with a lot of drying herbs. The counters gleam with polished dark wood. Something smells really amazingly good.

A thin, older woman with iron gray hair stands at one of the counters, rolling out pastry dough with a wooden rolling pin. We move a little closer and I watch her take some cookie cutters and start to cut out stars and moons and sun shapes. She looks up at a scuffling sound coming from the door we just came through.

It's William, a little older now, and no longer in short pants. He's maybe twelve or thirteen, and his curls are mussed and wild. He's also got a black eye, his nose is bleeding and his knuckles are scraped up. For some reason this only makes him look more like Spike.

"I thought you said this was a happy memory," I say, dryly. Anne just smiles.

"Watch," she says.

"Master William," the cook says, stopping her cookie cutting. "Whatever happened?"

William grins through the blood. "Michael gave me a boxing lesson," he says, proudly. "I blacked his eye."

The cook's eyebrows raise. "You're bleeding all over my kitchen," she says.

"My apologies," William says. "It's not that awful, though, honestly. I'm sure it looks worse than it is. It barely hurts."

"Well it's nothing compared to the state you were in last month, that's for certain," she says, wetting a cloth at a porcelain sink with a weird looking faucet. She leads him over to a stool near the counter top and starts dabbing at his face. "But we should get you cleaned up before your mother sees. Whatever possessed you to take up boxing?"

He frowns and winces a little as she cleans around his eye. "I'm tired of the other fellows having a go at me," he says. "I thought it might be a good idea to learn to defend myself. It so upsets mother when I come home bruised."

"That it does," says the cook, looking at his nose critically. "Well, it's not broken this time, at least. You had such a lovely nose as a boy, though I daresay it's a bit more patrician now."

"He didn't mean to actually hit me," William explains. "It was only an accident."

"If Walters gets wind of this, he'll tan Michael's bottom."

"I'll explain it," William says. "I asked him to teach me, after all. It wasn't his fault."

She pats him on the head fondly, ruffling his curls. "Just don't turn into one of those ruffians like young Lord Chetworth," she scolds. "Or I shall tan your bottom myself. You're not too old yet, for all you've been Master since you were just a wee lad."

"I won't," he promises. "I just thought it was important for me to learn to defend myself. If not for my sake, for mother's. What if I should have to protect her?"

"I hardly think you'll be required to resort to fisticuffs," the cook says. William gets a faraway look, though.

"I never really understood fighting before, but... I think I should have quite liked being a knight. Like in King Arthur... riding about, righting wrongs, protecting the weak?" he says.

"More like sitting about, drinking yourself into a stupor and falling asleep in the pigsty, if Sir Pembroke is any example," she says, grabbing a towel and pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. "He's lucky he's not set himself on fire yet, the way he passes out willy nilly. Only the worst of men drink to such excess, and they always get what's coming to them, mark my words."

"I shall," he promises, sniffing the air. "Don't I get a cookie?"

"May I have a cookie," she corrects him with a sniff. "And I don't give cookies to hoodlums."

"Then it's a very good thing I'm a gentleman, isn't it?" William says, teasing. He flashes her a very familiar, very boyish grin.

"Flirt," she says, but she puts a cookie on a small plate she pulls out of a cupboard and passes it to him. He picks up the sun-shaped cookie and takes a bite.

"May I have some milk?" he asks. "I've read it's good for strong bones."

"Well, that head of yours needs all the help it can get," the cook says. "There's a bottle in the ice box, help yourself. I need to get the next batch in, in time for tea."

William excuses himself and heads into a small room off the kitchen.

"He's... still Spike," I say with a frown. "Only... not."

"Did you think he wouldn't be?" Anne asks.

"I... I don't know. I mean, I know Whistler said that a lot of the human remained but... I never really gave it a lot of thought, really," I say. "I always thought... I guess I thought that they'd be more like opposites. I thought the demon sorta twisted the human. But he likes fighting."

"Not for the same reasons," she points out.

I frown. "Not exactly, no. I guess William was more into books than fighting, huh?"

"I'm afraid I read to him a great deal when he was just a child," she says. "But he was a lonely little boy, and books were ever good company. I coddled him more than I should, rather than leaving him to the care of his tutors and governess. Had his father lived..."

"Fathers aren't really all that," I say. "Trust me on this one. I'm sure his dad was probably a great guy but...male role models? Kinda overrated."

"It's very different, for a young man," she says. "Especially then. There were so many things I couldn't teach him..." She looks sad for a moment.

"I'm sure you did a great job," I tell her. "I mean, even though he ended up becoming a demon and... you know... the whole kil—." Good job, Buffy. Remind the nice, old Victorian lady that her son grew up to be a mass murderer and slaughtered a good chunk of Europe. "I mean... he's not such a bad guy, for a vampire. Pretty good, actually. So... you did something right."

Her lips twitch. "I know what became of him," she says. "I've watched over him for a long time. You needn't worry about upsetting me."

"Oh," I say. "Right." Because really, what do you say to that?

***

Time shifts around us again, but it's so subtle I almost don't notice. A few things in the room change places, the light in the window moves. The herbs growing in little clay pots along the ledge get taller. The paint on the walls fades a bit.

Anne leads me out of the kitchen and up a short flight of stairs to a dining room big enough to feed all of my friends with arm room to spare. Then down a hallway that changes somewhat more drastically as we go. By the time we turn the corner into a massive foyer, I'm fairly sure we're not in the same house any more.

If William's house was a mansion, this is a palace. I can't imagine what it would cost to keep this place clean. The walls seem to go up forever and the stairs gleam with polish. It'd probably be easier to see if it weren't for the absolutely massive number of people, most of whom are wearing huge dresses that make moving around pretty difficult. The women, I mean. The men look kind of like penguins with their funny shirt fronts and black tails.

Somehow we manage to get through the mess and find the ballroom. Anne leads me around the edges to an area that's set aside with chairs and overstuffed lounges. The floor is crowded with young people, but this seems to be the preferred hangout for the older set, far enough back that they won't be in the way of the dancers, but close enough they can watch.

William's mother sits among a small number of women, looking a little out of place in her black dress and shawl. She's older now, and thinner than she was at the funeral, but not as old as her ghost. William appears at her side, carrying a glass of punch.

He looks incredibly handsome in his black and white. Not like a penguin at all. His shirtfront isn't as starched and puffy as some of the other men we passed, and his hair isn't as greasy and slick, though he's made some effort at taming his curls. He's also pretty young. Twenty, maybe twenty-two at most. "I'm sorry, Mother," he says, handing her the glass carefully, so as not to spill any of it on his white gloves. "I'm afraid they've run out of the cucumber sandwiches. Would you like some cake, instead?"

"No, thank you, William," she says with a smile. "I shouldn't like you to wait on me all evening. Surely you'd prefer to dance."

He glances at the floor, longingly. "Yes, well, ah, most of the ladies were engaged already, though I've hopes that Lady Hurst might find one or two lacking a partner. She promised to inquire. In the meantime, Mother, I'm entirely at your disposal." He bows to her.

"I hear you've done quite well this year at Cambridge," says one of the older women beside his mother. She's dressed in a gown of vivid, eye gouging pink. "Top of your class, was it not, Mr. Pratt?"

William looks flustered. "Ah, yes... quite," he says. "Though, it was rather close..."

"I don't hold with too much education," says another woman, with a sniff. "Whatever would one do with so much extraneous information cluttering up one's mind? Even should you live a hundred years it is doubtful you will find much cause for it."

"Knowledge is its own reward," William says, quietly, but neither of them pay him any attention. Instead they devolve into an argument over modern standards of education, though it doesn't sound like either of them have any clue what they're talking about. William's attention drifts back to the dancers, a look of longing on his face. I can't see why, the dances are sort of lame. Still I know how obsessed Spike is with dancing and... he's damned good at it. If he was even half that good when he was human I can't really understand why no one would want to dance with him.

"What do you think, Mr. Pratt?" asks Mrs. Pink Lady, startling William back into the present.

He flushes, embarrassed to have been caught not paying attention. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "The noise, madam, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the question?"

"Eton, dear boy. You attended, did you not?"

William nods, confused, then remembers his manners. "Yes, indeed, madam."

"What do you think of the headmaster's opinion on the morality of young boys?" she asks. "I have heard that he subscribes to the belief that morality is not innate, but rather learned through the actions of one's family, teachers, and peers, and that without such guiding influences young men are quite in danger of being soulless. Do you agree?"

Anne frowns. "Such a dreadful topic for a ball," she murmurs, "but then she ever did speak her mind."

"I... I ah—," William suddenly looks terribly uncomfortable. "I confess that, at—at times it may seem as if young men are... not at all conscionable in their actions, and that...the guidance of an exemplary role model may, in time, teach them those ethical and... and moral behaviors that may guarantee them acceptance in society that they might otherwise be denied."

"Where did you reside, at Eton, Mr. Pratt?" asks the pink lady, staring down her nose. A neat trick, since he's standing and she can't be more than my height, though much fatter.

"I-in the Long Chamber, madam," he says, going very stiff through the back and shoulders. "I'm sure you've probably never—"

"My husband was a graduate of the same," she says. "I can only assume, since you stand here and retain all of your limbs and faculties, that it was as educational an experience as the entirety of Cambridge."

"What's she talking about?" I ask Anne. "What's the Long Chamber?"

"Someday, perhaps, you should ask him," she tells me. "Perhaps in another hundred years."

"That bad?"

"I believe you live on something called a Hellmouth," she says. I nod. "Much like that. Only worse."

William bows to the women. "If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I see Lady Hurst beckoning for me. Mother." He bows again and moves away before the Pink Lady can ask him any more questions.

We trail after him, through the masses of skirts and tails. This time, I don't envy them so much. For one thing, the ballroom is hot, and the idea of wearing all that silk and taffeta and tulle makes me kinda sweaty and itchy.

"Ah, Mr. Pratt," says a woman who I assume to be Lady Hurst. She's an older woman, starting to tend toward fat, with a bird perched on her head. It takes me a minute to realize that it's dead and she's put it there on purpose. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Goneril Smythe. Miss Smythe, Mr. William Pratt." William bows. The girl does something that might be a curtsy... if curtsies are usually done with the grace of a drunken, three legged giraffe.

Miss Smythe would probably be called something polite like... er... plain, in William's day. In mine, we'd just call her unfortunate and in need of serious medical help. Her eyes are actually kind of pretty, if you ignore the fact that one of them sort of wanders off to the left all on it's own. And... her skin might be nice if she spent some serious time with Cordelia and a whole regime of skin cleansers. Her dress is... well, very green. Painfully green. The color of pea soup.

She smiles, and I really, really wish she hadn't. William blinks very slowly, and I watch him swallow hard. "A pleasure, Miss Smythe," he assures her with another bow. She giggles.

Hyenas sound more attractive.

"I've taken the liberty of penciling you in for Miss Smythe's next two dances, Mr. Pratt. I know how much you love to dance," Lady Hurst says. She draws him aside and murmurs in his ear, out of the girl's earshot. "Try to keep her moving to the right. I'm afraid the darling girl has something of a clubfoot, and she tends to list a bit to the left. Please, don't mention it, however, as it pains her to discuss."

William swallows again and jerks his eyes away from the girl's hemline, which, I can see, is purposefully hemmed higher on one side than the other. "My lips are sealed, Madam."

"I knew I could count on you, Mr. Pratt. Oh, there's the quadrille!" She all but shoves the two of them together and onto the dance floor.

"Abominably rude woman," Anne says, her lips thinning to a line. I get the feeling that, if if she could, she'd slap her.

"Right there with you," I tell her.

As soon as William and the girl are on the dance floor, a young man moves up to Lady Hurst's side. "Bravo, mother," he says. It takes a minute for me to recognize him, since he's missing the ugly mustache and the sideburns. This is one of the guys that was picking on William at that other party... the one that won't happen for another few years. The one where Cecily will break his heart. The one that will get him killed.

"It would be remiss of me in my duties as hostess if I failed to make every effort to ensure that all the young ladies who wished to dance had an opportunity. Your friend, Mr. Pratt, was quite convenient," Lady Hurst says, primly. The man laughs, but not nicely.

"Hardly a friend, mother," he says with a sneer. "William Pratt is a fop and a fool. How an utter scug like him managed to finish at Cambridge..."

"Careful, Henry," his mother says through a smile. She nods at several people as they pass her. "This is hardly the place to air such things."

"He's universally disliked, Mother. I sincerely doubt it would damage my reputation to say what everyone already says behind his back," Henry says, arching a brow.

"Time and place, Henry, are everything when it comes to appearances," Lady Hurst advises. She's watching the dance floor with a tiny little frown. "Ah, here comes Mrs. Smythe."

A short, pretty woman approaches and the two women greet each other politely. Mrs. Smythe curtsies much more gracefully than her daughter. "I wished to thank you," Mrs. Smythe says. "I so appreciate you finding an understanding partner for Goneril. The ball is all she's talked about for the last fortnight, and I worried."

"It wasn't any difficulty at all," Lady Hurst says.

"She's merely going through an awkward stage," Mrs. Smythe says. "I looked much like her, at that age."

We all blink. Mrs. Smythe is really pretty. If I squint though...

Beside me, Anne smiles. "Actually, she looked worse," she confides to me. I look at Mrs. Smythe again, very closely. Her hem is higher on one side, too, though she moves very gracefully. The woman turns to look at the dance floor.

"Isn't it amazing what a good partner can do?" she says with a happy smile.

We follow her gaze.

Wow.

She's right.

Goneril Smythe may be plain, but on the dance floor, weaving amongst the other dancers, she glows with happiness. Her smile is huge, her eyes bright and they're both focused on William who is smiling back at her kindly. He's careful of how he moves with her, to keep her balanced and graceful as possible. He adjusts his moves so that even her clumsiest steps look like they were done on purpose. They're even talking, though I can't hear what they're saying all the way over here.

It's... like magic.

Henry and his mother are trying not to look like fish with their mouths hanging open.

When the song finally comes to a close, William leads her back over to her mother, guiding her with a palm cupped at her elbow, and bending his head slightly to talk with her. They're both smiling. Introductions are made and William bows to the girl's mother, totally polite. "It was an absolute pleasure to dance with your daughter, madam," he says. "She tells me that you've taught her yourself. My compliments."

It's easy to see that he means it. Henry's face gets all thundery. Ha. Guess your plan backfired, Lord Hurls.

"Shall I fetch refreshments before the next set?" William asks. The Smythes are only too happy. The Hursts, not so much. William bows and heads off to find drinks, and we drift away from them, after him.

"That didn't go how I thought," I admit.

"William's father once told him that the measure of a gentleman was in how he treated others, particularly women. A man who could set a woman at ease, make her feel as if she were royalty with nothing more than a smile, who could be kind and gracious no matter the situation... he could count himself as a gentleman," she says. "He took it very much to heart."

And I think he kept it, as a vampire. Not that he's as polite or as well mannered, not usually. But I remember how attentive Mr. Gordo could be, and how Spike is with Drusilla. The way he guided me when I was blind... When we fight or dance... he adjusts so that we move together like we were always meant to.

And... that day in the car... the way he looked at me. The way he looked at me just before Louhi came.

There's me, there's the demon, and there's... whatever is left of the human I was...

William. Somewhere inside of him this somewhat shy, polite guy is lurking.

It makes me wonder how much of Spike was created to protect William. Angelus did his best to get rid of William entirely, but I think Spike is right. William's still there, like a slightly battered angel on his shoulder.

For a moment the temptation to sit down and pull out his journal and re-read it is almost overwhelming. Now that I know, now that I've seen, it all starts to make so much more sense.

"You're beginning to understand him, I think," Anne says.

"I think maybe I am," I say, wondering what that means for the future. What the heck am I going to say to Spike after all of this?

"Then there's only one thing left for you to see," Anne says, and in her eyes I see pain and regret.

---

Author’s (Non Spoilery) Postscript:
Most of this chapter is conjecture, obviously, however, some parts of it are true to the era in which Spike would have grown up. I did a lot of reading on Victorian life and houses and customs and balls and education. Incidentally, the conversation about Eton and the morality of young boys is based on an essay by Christopher Stone (published in 1909). Some people, at the time, really did believe that young boys had no moral conscience and that they had to be taught how to “play the game” (have a strong moral backbone). Obviously I moved the time period up by almost thirty years—but the belief was likely somewhat in place by then already. The references to bullying and the Long Chamber are also inspired by various essays on the topic.