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Part 3
1860
"I’m so glad you could come!" Alyssa exclaimed, ushering her one good friend
into the drawing room for tea. Emily Lord was at the moment experiencing
her second Season, not having had much success with her first, and also the
only person besides Stephan that knew about Alyssa’s life. The only reason
she knew (as Stephan would certainly not have allowed Alyssa to tell her)
was that she had been staying with Alyssa and her parents when Angelus
attacked and killed the Richards’. Emily had almost been killed as well,
but Stephan had come, and with his help Alyssa had driven Angelus away.
Emily had demanded an explanation, even as Alyssa had, and received it at
the same time.
"So am I. I missed you so ‘Lyssa!" Emily cried. "Are you going to come out this Season? It’s been dreadfully flat around here without you."
"I want to, but I don’t know if Stephan will let me. I’m wearing his down though, or at least trying to. Angelus and William the Bloody are here though, and I think it’s working against my cause," Alyssa explained, motioning for Emily to sit. The other young woman did so and Alyssa sat opposite her, carefully smoothing her skirts out.
"Are they really?" Emily breathed. "How horrid! You really must do something about them Alyssa."
"Oh, I’m trying. There’s to be a perfect opportunity soon though. Angelus is hosting a ‘party’ for his newest addition to the halls of darkness. I’m invited. If invited is really the word. It’s simply infuriating that even a vampire gets a coming out ball and I don’t! You must tell me all about the Season, I’m dying to know," Alyssa said, changing the subject abruptly.
"It’s . . . hard to describe. It certainly has it good points, but I’d rather be applying myself to my studies. I don’t see why I must get married right now. I think Andrew should marry an heiress—he wants to marry nearly every girl he sees, after all—and support me and my studies for the rest of my life. Oh, by the way, Andrew sends his fondest greetings and says he hopes very much that you will be able to come out this year," Emily said, doing a fair imitation of her brother. Andrew Lord was a very nice young man, but had never made a secret of the fact that he liked Alyssa in a rather more than friendly way.
"I heard that he was courting Cecilia Townsend," Alyssa said, suprised.
"He is, but neither he nor Cecy is entirely resolved to the fact. The truth is, they are head over heels in love with one another, but they squabble constantly and Cecy is always going on about how much of a fop Andrew is. Which is probably true—he never does anything, you know, not really—but whenever she says anysuch thing he says she’s a spoiled heiress that throws a fit when she doesn’t get what she wants. Which is true as well, but not really what courting couples usually say to one another. I do believe they will marry though, and Andrew has told me that he is planning to go to her father very soon," Emily said, leaning in to tell her confidentially. Alyssa smiled and clapped her hands lightly.
"I’ve only met Cecelia a few times, but from what I saw they shall have a very interesting life together. I think they fit perfectly though. They’ll do each other good," Alyssa pronounced.
"I think so. And Cecy is an heiress, so if they do marry, perhaps Papa will leave me alone for a little while," Emily said, sighing.
"Isn’t there someone you fancy in the ton though? Who was that young man you wrote me about? The musician?" Alyssa asked. Emily blushed brighter than her hair (a lovely auburn color—her hair, that was).
"Geoffrey," she murmured.
"Well?" Alyssa demanded.
"Papa doesn’t approve of him," Emily said softly. "He’s the most wonderful piano player and he writes the most wonderful compositions! You should hear his waltzes! But Papa doesn’t think he’ll amount to anything, and his family is not particularly good, and he doesn’t have any money just yet. I see him at balls sometimes though, and he’s asked me to dance!"
"Forget what your father said! If you want to marry him, do it! That is, if he wants to marry you. Does he?" Alyssa asked. Emily’s blush deepened.
"I-I think he would. He is very sweet and kind to me . . ." Alyssa clapped her hands again.
"How delicious! I shall have to see what I can do about it! Oh, here’s our tea," Alyssa said, as one of the maids entered with their tea on a silver tray. She set it down and began to pour, but Alyssa waved her away.
"I’ll do it Bridget," she said. The maid bobbed a curtsey and turned to leave. "Wait," Alyssa called. Bridget stopped and turned back. "Where is Mr. Murdock?"
" ‘E went out this morning but ‘e said ‘e’d be back in time for tea," Bridget said, bobbing again.
"Thank you Bridget," Alyssa said. The maid turned and left the room, closing it firmly behind her. Alyssa sighed and turned back to Emily.
"He’s late again! Oh I do hope I can convince him to let me come out. Now, tell me all the gossip, I’m dying to hear all the scandals!" Alyssa cried. Emily laughed softly, and sipped her tea properly before beginning. Alyssa sat back to listen in enjoyment, forgetting for the moment Angelus, William, Drusilla, and even Stephan.
1998
Buffy was sitting on her father’s couch when her mother arrived later that
day. Joyce opened the door quickly and half-ran in, then stopped still when
she saw her daughter. Buffy looked up slowly, and met her mother’s eyes.
She didn’t move. She was almost afraid to, as if moving would make her
mother remember, and make her angry again.
"Oh, Buffy," Joyce whispered. "I was so frightened. Don’t ever do that again! Don’t ever do that again!" And then Buffy was off the couch and in her mother’s arms, crying. Her father had come in from the next room and watched them from the doorway. Joyce held her and Buffy cried.
"I’m so sorry mom!" Buffy sobbed. "I’m so sorry!" Joyce stroked her hair gently, holding her fiercely with the other hand, as if she would never let go.
"My little girl. I was so worried," she said softly.
"I know. I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry about everything, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help any of it. I had to . . . to do everything. I had to. I’m sorry!" They stood like that for a long time before Buffy finally pulled a little ways away.
"You didn’t by any chance bring extra clothes? I packed some but I wasn’t too lucid at the time and none of my outfits match at all," Buffy said, trying to get her mom to smile. It worked.
"By chance, I did. Willow came over and packed your favorite clothes, in case you were found somewhere. She was worried about you too, you know. Your friend Xander was nearly frantic, and that girl . . . Cordelia? was in tears! I’ve never seen the school librarian looking so frantic," Joyce said in her normal voice again. Buffy almost smiled. Cordelia . . . in tears over her? She certainly had changed a lot.
"I think I better change," Buffy said, looking down at her clothes. Joyce nodded and went outside to get her clothes. After Buffy took a shower and changed into clean, un-wrinkled clothes, she felt much better. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail and went out to face her parents. They were sitting on the couch, talking quietly. They both stopped and looked up at her as she came out.
"Buffy, we’ve been talking and we both think that maybe you need a little time away from home. School’s over now, and since you come out here in the summer sometimes anyway, we thought . . ." her dad said, trailing off.
"You think I should stay here for a while?" Buffy asked. Her parents nodded.
"It’s not that I don’t want you around, Buffy, because as far as I’m concerned, everything I said before was in the heat of the moment, and I don’t mean it. I want you to come back, but I agree that you might do better away from home for a little while. Plus, your dad hasn’t seen you for a while and it might be good for both of you," her mom explained. Buffy sat down in a large armchair, pulling her legs up beside her.
"I’ll have to talk to Giles," Buffy said slowly. "My Watcher," she explained quickly, seeing her father’s blank look. He nodded. "If things are really bad in Sunnydale I’ll have to go back. You know, sacred duty and everything. But I’d rather stay here and just forget about vampires for a while. All vampires." A small part of her protested that decision, clamoring about the man named Angel at a shelter, and the fact that she was the Chosen One. She managed to ignore that part. Mostly.
"I can understand that," Joyce said. "This is going to take some getting used to—you asking your librarian about where you can go and everything."
"I know," Buffy said, looking down and biting her lip. "I did it though. I mean, I’ve been doing it for a the last two years almost."
"Do you want to call him now?" her father asked. Buffy shook her head slowly.
"I don’t think I’m ready yet," she said quietly.
"I can stay for a few more days, but after that I have to go back to Sunnydale, Buffy, and I’ll need to know whether you’re coming with me," Joyce said. Buffy nodded.
"Just give me a little while. I just need a little while," Buffy said.
"Take as long as you need," her father said. Her mother shot him a look and he glared at her momentarily. Buffy glared at them both for turning this into one of their fights, and they both subsided, mumbling apologies.
"Oh, I almost forgot, this strange little man—the one that told us what happened—gave me something for you," Joyce said a second later, reaching into her purse. Buffy stiffened.
"What was his name?" she asked.
"He called himself Whistler, I think. He went to Mr. Giles, who called me. Here it is," Joyce said, fishing something out for her. It was a small envelope, with Buffy’s name on the front. In very familiar writing.
Buffy took it, her hands shaking, and turned it over, slowly opening the envelope. There was a folded piece of paper inside. She took it out as quickly as she could—which was extremely slowly because of the amount of shaking her hands seemed to be doing. Just as slowly, she unfolded it, her heart in her throat, fearing what it would say, but needing to read it anyway.
There was one word one the paper. One word, and it made her cry. It made her want to sing, and dance and shout and it made her sob because she did not deserve it.
Forgiven, it said. And it was in his writing, his familiar, old-fashioned writing. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. She knew who it was from. She knew what it meant.
Buffy sat on her father’s couch and cried, hardly aware of her parents’ cries of dismay, of their questions of what was on the paper. What it meant. She knew, and that was enough. He had forgiven her and that would always be enough. More than enough. Because she had done the unforgivable and he had forgiven her.
What her parents didn’t realize as they hugged her and asked her what was
wrong was that she was crying tears of joy.