They could have laid there forever, in a comfortable pile before the fire
had they been allowed. Ian was enjoying the sight of her lying there next
to him in the firelight. "Seeing you here like this, Sara, it makes me
want." he stopped, a little uncertainly.
"Want to what?" she asked softly as her heart sped up just a little, something in his tone, his eyes making her breathe a little faster.
He leaned down and kissed her slowly, just a brush at first, enjoying the feel of her lips against his, the taste of her. Part of him wanted to spend forever, slowly exploring those lips, learning every contour, every inch of her soft mouth, while another part was urging him to hurry, press closer, let go. The dichotomy bothered him only briefly as the thought was driven from his mind by the feel of her hand slipping up, releasing his hair from its confines and running her hand through it before cradling the back of his head gently, urging him to continue. A knock on the door brought them all up, suddenly, waking the dogs from their doze and breaking the two of them apart suddenly like guilty children. "Come," Ian said, standing and offering Sara his hand. The noise and the movement roused the dogs, which milled around their feet, as the gentleman who had greeted them entered.
"Sir, the doctor, returning your call. I put it through upstairs."
"Very well," he said, and went up the stairs, leaving the two of them standing, staring at each other. Sara had no idea what to say to this impeccably dressed stranger who was obviously some kind of butler or something, and who had known Ian much longer than she had. She ran a hand self-consciously through her dog tousled hair and tried to figure out how not to look so out of place.
Henry Wilson watched as her discomfort grew, knowing that he should do something to ease her. She was after all, the one who brought him home, the one who seemed to have shaken him out of his depression and urged him on with his life. While he was not entirely sure she could be trusted or should be, their interaction with one another and the happiness on Ian's face gave him hope. He walked over to her. "Miss?" he asked, finally. "May I get you something to drink, perhaps? Mr. Nottingham should not be long."
"Uh, yeah sure, Mr.?" she reached for something, anything. Just standing face to face to someone who called Ian Mr. Nottingham in that tone of voice was hard for her to get used to.
"Wilson, Miss, just Wilson."
"Ok, Wilson," she said, not particularly sure what the protocol was, this was just not part of her upbringing and they both knew it. "A glass of wine, maybe?"
"Yes, Miss, shall I choose for you?" he asked.
"Uh.Yes.whatever you think."
"Miss?" he said, walking a little closer. "You are welcome here." He turned to leave as Ian came down. "Sir, I was just getting the lady a glass of wine, would you.?" he asked.
"Two," Ian answered him, walking over to where Sara stood a little uncomfortably by the fire. Wilson was brought up a little short by the request. Just seeing the way he moved over to be with her, hair loose, gloves missing, was a bit of a shock, something that he had not even noticed when he entered.
"Sir?" He knew that Ian had been forbidden to drink while Irons was alive, another change in him then.
"Two," Ian said again, turning his back on the man, the dismissal clear. He was managing to sound more confident than he felt. It was better; he was finding it easier to find the control, the confidence.
"Yes, Sir." "We will have dinner shortly, I think perhaps the dogs should be let out," he told Sara. She looked down at them a little sadly, sorry to see them go, but she could see the point in not having puppies under foot during dinner. Ian smiled and gave the command to the adults, who started to follow Wilson out, the puppies trailing along behind. Except for little Maria, she moved slowly and kept looking back at Sara. It was hard, to see the look in those little brown eyes and she was resisting the temptation to run over and grab the little creature, or ask to let her stay. Ian laughed and picked her up, putting her on the other side of the door as they all left and closing it after them.
He led Sara to the couch and sat down with her. "Was that a suitable surprise? I am still new at planning such things." There was a hopeful look in his eyes that reminded her an awful lot of the puppies, all excitement and curiosity.
"You did it perfectly," she told him reassuringly. "It was wonderful, helped to take our minds off things. This room is very different now." There was a note in her voice, something distracted that made him want to explain, make her forget what had happened here.
"Yes, It is the room that we always spent the most time in. When I was young I would fall asleep on the floor in front of the fire with the dogs, listening to my father tell me stories," he told her, wishing he could tell her all the things that this room meant to him, and what it meant to finally have her here, after so long, without conflict, without police business, just here with him.
"I understand, it's your home, it's just very different. I feel out of place, I don't know how to act here." She said, choosing to ignore the other memories of this room, to concentrate on the now, on the problem that was at least more easily dealt with. It was a different kind of worry, like a shoe that pinches, an irritant that could just be ignored until she got used to it.
"Don't concern yourself with that, it means nothing to me. No one will ever make you feel uncomfortable here. I will not allow it. There are only a few permanent staff anyway and they have all been here since before I was born. They would not do anything to make you unwelcome," he told her, sounding once again a bit like Irons, in control and confident. As if he would not allow anything to interfere with his vision of how things should be. It was almost frightening to her, how fast he could change in and out of that world. "The rest are here only during the day or special occasions. My father was not comfortable with the idea of strangers in the house at night. I do not see many parties in the future; I do not have his taste for entertaining. I have always been.uncomfortable around crowds. Too many possibilities for danger."
Sara listened to him talk but the situation was nagging at her mind, no matter how she tried to push it away. So far they had been nice to her. They were obviously concerned for Ian, so why had they allowed Irons to treat him the way he had. Her mind spun around and around, trying to find a solution. Then again, Irons was a rich and powerful man, what could they do? Report him? Who would listen?
The whole situation was confusing. They obviously knew who she was, but she was expecting hostility, something, it was as if they did not know about her part in Irons' death. Had Ian not told them? But she really had no way to ask him, not without bringing everything up again, after he had gone out of his way to make her comfortable, maybe to forget himself a little. Ian was sitting beside her talking, probably the longest speech he had made in the time they had known each other. She realized that she had not heard a word that he was saying.
"I'm sorry, I faded out for a minute there. What did you say?" she asked him, trying to quiet her mind and just enjoy their time together, just like she had at home.
"I asked if you would like to see some of the rest of the house after dinner, maybe walk in the garden a little?" The questioning note in his voice pulled her attention firmly back to him.
"All right," she said as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of both their drinks and dinner.
After dinner, Ian began the tour with the Witchblade gallery; the room that housed most of the collection of art and artifacts Irons had collected over the years. They passed painting after painting, sometimes Ian would stop and tell her a little about one of them, a piece of the tale anyway. Standing in front of one, a picture of a strange warrior on horse back, a vision hit her: Irons himself, telling her some of the same stories, explaining, offering his help. Why? And why had she refused him, when he was trying to help her? It didn't matter; it was one of those alternate visions about things that never happened, like Danny's death, or Ian's. She shook her head at Ian, who had seen at least part of it. She put her hand on his arm, reassuring herself that he was all right and alive. It was too confusing and she didn't want to get into it right now. Like many of the little pieces, it just needed to be filed away for another time.
"Gabriel is going to be in heaven, we may never be able to get him back out again," she told him lightly, trying to change the subject to something a little lighter.
"I am sure. And what better place for an angel?" he said, amused at his own joke. "There are many people who would relish the opportunity he is being given. This has always been one of my favorite parts of the house. If my life had been different I think I would have wanted to be a scholar. It was part of my training, but I never had as much time as I would have liked."
"Maybe now?" she asked.
"I do not know what is in store for me anymore. But as long as you are here." he left it at that as they wondered on a little, content with just being together.
They passed into a connecting room containing the books and manuscripts which Irons had gathered from all over the world in the course of his obsession, an incredible collection that would have made any scholar drool at the least and offer up their eldest child at worst. Sara stopped when she saw a painting on the wall of the room, set apart from everything else in a large and elegant frame. It showed a woman who could have been Sara, or at least her double, sitting on the bench in front of a piano in an elaborate room, her emerald green gown flowing over and pooling on the floor at her feet and the Witchblade glowing gently on her wrist.
"Ian, who is she?" her voice was hushed, almost frightened. Ian cursed quietly to himself, having forgotten that she knew nothing of this and it was not his to tell. He decided on a limited answer, which as long as it was the truth was probably safest, as it always had been with his father.
"Her name was Elisabeth Bronte," he told her quietly, trying to find a way to explain it to her. There was a note of sadness in his voice. The name was familiar, something niggling in the back of her mind, something Gabriel had told her.
"A spy? Something like that?" she asked, trying to grab the thought but not really succeeding. He nodded. "She was the last true wielder of the Witchblade before you. She was also my father's one true love. He knew her after the war. They traveled together for a time, and he loved her very much." Sara noticed the pain in his eyes and knew it was for his father.
The Witchblade swirled a little, warming her wrist. She was in a glowing ballroom, once again she was in the mind of someone else, experiencing their feelings. Music was playing and she found herself in Kenneth Irons arms as he held her close, spinning through the waltz. She could feel the interplay between them, the love they felt for one another as if they were the only two people in the room. People were watching them, the handsomest couple in the room, as he leaned to whisper into her ear.And she was back with Ian, staring at the portrait.
"What happened to her?" Her voice was faint, as she tried to recover from what she had felt, what she had seen through Elizabeth's eyes. "And why does she look so much like me?"
"She died in an accident while they were abroad. They fought over the Witchblade that day and then she died. He blamed himself for her death. I don't think he ever recovered from it. She was everything to him." That she knew, it was hard, to see Kenneth Irons as a man, a human being, instead of the monster he had become. At least she had more to think about now. Not that she really wanted to, she had never had any desire to understand the man who had made Ian, maybe she needed to. But not right now, right now she needed the answers to other questions. Philosophizing would get her nowhere now and she did not need the added stress.
"But why does she look like me?"
"Because you are of the same bloodline. You will notice in the paintings that several of them resemble you." He looked at her, outwardly calm, hoping she accepted the answer. Sara meanwhile, had had a horrible thought.
"Ian, is she." she couldn't say it, couldn't bring herself to. Not without knowing what being of the same bloodline meant as far as that was concerned.
"No," he said sharply. He continued, a little more reflectively. "Perhaps it would have been better for him if she were, and for me. No Sara, we are not related, at least not like that." Sara breathed a sigh of relief and Ian smiled at that. Her feelings for him were complicated, but intense, and the idea that they might be related, that was just weirder than she really wanted to think about. She certainly did not want to have to view him as a relative, at least not a blood relative. She put her hand on his arm, making sure that he was back with her, and anchoring her to him, to this reality. She was not up to another Witchblade induced trip through the looking glass.
"No, it would not be better, because then what is between us." she left it there, letting him do the math.
"Thank you, Sara. You keep shedding a little more light into my darkness. Maybe someday it will be gone altogether," he said sincerely, giving her a kiss. The kiss was gentle but there was a look in his eyes that made her melt a little. With that they left the room and continued to tour the house. More explanations could wait, for now.
After the tour, Ian suggested a brief walk on the grounds with the dogs. The weather was a bit chilly and the gardens were dead for the year, but it was a clear night and beautiful in its own way. They wandered the grounds in companionable silence, the dogs at their heels, enjoying the night for a moment free of their worries. It was peaceful here, not like the city, and completely safe. Not, she thought, that Ian and I are ever really in any danger in the city, but at least here we will not get interrupted by anything happening. We don't even have to be looking out for trouble. She wondered what it would look like in spring, when everything was in bloom. Would she be here to see it?
She was enjoying the walk, arm linked with Ian's, watching the dogs chase each other, when something began niggling at the back of her mind. She found the thought and put it together, but it didn't add up.
"Ian, you said that Irons and Elizabeth met after the War? I assume you don't mean Vietnam."
"No, I do not," Ian told her quietly.
"And she was a spy during World War II."
"Yes." "Just exactly how old was your father?" she asked, a little confused.
"How old do you think he was?" He answered her question with one of his own, a smile playing about his lips that she couldn't read in the dark. Sara thought about it for a moment. In the vision he looked the same, exactly as he had the day she met him. But from what Ian said, she was long dead, and Sara was sure that she was not much older in the vision than in the painting.
"Well, he looked like he could be anywhere from late thirties to maybe fifty, I couldn't really tell for sure. He would have to have been at least fifty considering your age or very precocious."
"Perhaps a bit of both, knowing him," he said, voice caught between reflection and amusement. He raised an eyebrow in a very Irons-like expression. "Actually he was ninety-six when he died." Sara gaped at him and he laughed, hastening to explain. "The Witchblade gave him a longer life, Sara, along with the other gifts. Although whether it was a blessing or curse, I don't know, nor do I think he ever did either, really. There again, perhaps a bit of both." Once again that note of sadness, just a hint, as he looked at her, reassuring himself that his lady was beside him and he was not alone. He slipped his arm from hers and slid it around her, pulling her a little closer in the cold as they continued to walk through the dead moonlit garden.
"Want to what?" she asked softly as her heart sped up just a little, something in his tone, his eyes making her breathe a little faster.
He leaned down and kissed her slowly, just a brush at first, enjoying the feel of her lips against his, the taste of her. Part of him wanted to spend forever, slowly exploring those lips, learning every contour, every inch of her soft mouth, while another part was urging him to hurry, press closer, let go. The dichotomy bothered him only briefly as the thought was driven from his mind by the feel of her hand slipping up, releasing his hair from its confines and running her hand through it before cradling the back of his head gently, urging him to continue. A knock on the door brought them all up, suddenly, waking the dogs from their doze and breaking the two of them apart suddenly like guilty children. "Come," Ian said, standing and offering Sara his hand. The noise and the movement roused the dogs, which milled around their feet, as the gentleman who had greeted them entered.
"Sir, the doctor, returning your call. I put it through upstairs."
"Very well," he said, and went up the stairs, leaving the two of them standing, staring at each other. Sara had no idea what to say to this impeccably dressed stranger who was obviously some kind of butler or something, and who had known Ian much longer than she had. She ran a hand self-consciously through her dog tousled hair and tried to figure out how not to look so out of place.
Henry Wilson watched as her discomfort grew, knowing that he should do something to ease her. She was after all, the one who brought him home, the one who seemed to have shaken him out of his depression and urged him on with his life. While he was not entirely sure she could be trusted or should be, their interaction with one another and the happiness on Ian's face gave him hope. He walked over to her. "Miss?" he asked, finally. "May I get you something to drink, perhaps? Mr. Nottingham should not be long."
"Uh, yeah sure, Mr.?" she reached for something, anything. Just standing face to face to someone who called Ian Mr. Nottingham in that tone of voice was hard for her to get used to.
"Wilson, Miss, just Wilson."
"Ok, Wilson," she said, not particularly sure what the protocol was, this was just not part of her upbringing and they both knew it. "A glass of wine, maybe?"
"Yes, Miss, shall I choose for you?" he asked.
"Uh.Yes.whatever you think."
"Miss?" he said, walking a little closer. "You are welcome here." He turned to leave as Ian came down. "Sir, I was just getting the lady a glass of wine, would you.?" he asked.
"Two," Ian answered him, walking over to where Sara stood a little uncomfortably by the fire. Wilson was brought up a little short by the request. Just seeing the way he moved over to be with her, hair loose, gloves missing, was a bit of a shock, something that he had not even noticed when he entered.
"Sir?" He knew that Ian had been forbidden to drink while Irons was alive, another change in him then.
"Two," Ian said again, turning his back on the man, the dismissal clear. He was managing to sound more confident than he felt. It was better; he was finding it easier to find the control, the confidence.
"Yes, Sir." "We will have dinner shortly, I think perhaps the dogs should be let out," he told Sara. She looked down at them a little sadly, sorry to see them go, but she could see the point in not having puppies under foot during dinner. Ian smiled and gave the command to the adults, who started to follow Wilson out, the puppies trailing along behind. Except for little Maria, she moved slowly and kept looking back at Sara. It was hard, to see the look in those little brown eyes and she was resisting the temptation to run over and grab the little creature, or ask to let her stay. Ian laughed and picked her up, putting her on the other side of the door as they all left and closing it after them.
He led Sara to the couch and sat down with her. "Was that a suitable surprise? I am still new at planning such things." There was a hopeful look in his eyes that reminded her an awful lot of the puppies, all excitement and curiosity.
"You did it perfectly," she told him reassuringly. "It was wonderful, helped to take our minds off things. This room is very different now." There was a note in her voice, something distracted that made him want to explain, make her forget what had happened here.
"Yes, It is the room that we always spent the most time in. When I was young I would fall asleep on the floor in front of the fire with the dogs, listening to my father tell me stories," he told her, wishing he could tell her all the things that this room meant to him, and what it meant to finally have her here, after so long, without conflict, without police business, just here with him.
"I understand, it's your home, it's just very different. I feel out of place, I don't know how to act here." She said, choosing to ignore the other memories of this room, to concentrate on the now, on the problem that was at least more easily dealt with. It was a different kind of worry, like a shoe that pinches, an irritant that could just be ignored until she got used to it.
"Don't concern yourself with that, it means nothing to me. No one will ever make you feel uncomfortable here. I will not allow it. There are only a few permanent staff anyway and they have all been here since before I was born. They would not do anything to make you unwelcome," he told her, sounding once again a bit like Irons, in control and confident. As if he would not allow anything to interfere with his vision of how things should be. It was almost frightening to her, how fast he could change in and out of that world. "The rest are here only during the day or special occasions. My father was not comfortable with the idea of strangers in the house at night. I do not see many parties in the future; I do not have his taste for entertaining. I have always been.uncomfortable around crowds. Too many possibilities for danger."
Sara listened to him talk but the situation was nagging at her mind, no matter how she tried to push it away. So far they had been nice to her. They were obviously concerned for Ian, so why had they allowed Irons to treat him the way he had. Her mind spun around and around, trying to find a solution. Then again, Irons was a rich and powerful man, what could they do? Report him? Who would listen?
The whole situation was confusing. They obviously knew who she was, but she was expecting hostility, something, it was as if they did not know about her part in Irons' death. Had Ian not told them? But she really had no way to ask him, not without bringing everything up again, after he had gone out of his way to make her comfortable, maybe to forget himself a little. Ian was sitting beside her talking, probably the longest speech he had made in the time they had known each other. She realized that she had not heard a word that he was saying.
"I'm sorry, I faded out for a minute there. What did you say?" she asked him, trying to quiet her mind and just enjoy their time together, just like she had at home.
"I asked if you would like to see some of the rest of the house after dinner, maybe walk in the garden a little?" The questioning note in his voice pulled her attention firmly back to him.
"All right," she said as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of both their drinks and dinner.
After dinner, Ian began the tour with the Witchblade gallery; the room that housed most of the collection of art and artifacts Irons had collected over the years. They passed painting after painting, sometimes Ian would stop and tell her a little about one of them, a piece of the tale anyway. Standing in front of one, a picture of a strange warrior on horse back, a vision hit her: Irons himself, telling her some of the same stories, explaining, offering his help. Why? And why had she refused him, when he was trying to help her? It didn't matter; it was one of those alternate visions about things that never happened, like Danny's death, or Ian's. She shook her head at Ian, who had seen at least part of it. She put her hand on his arm, reassuring herself that he was all right and alive. It was too confusing and she didn't want to get into it right now. Like many of the little pieces, it just needed to be filed away for another time.
"Gabriel is going to be in heaven, we may never be able to get him back out again," she told him lightly, trying to change the subject to something a little lighter.
"I am sure. And what better place for an angel?" he said, amused at his own joke. "There are many people who would relish the opportunity he is being given. This has always been one of my favorite parts of the house. If my life had been different I think I would have wanted to be a scholar. It was part of my training, but I never had as much time as I would have liked."
"Maybe now?" she asked.
"I do not know what is in store for me anymore. But as long as you are here." he left it at that as they wondered on a little, content with just being together.
They passed into a connecting room containing the books and manuscripts which Irons had gathered from all over the world in the course of his obsession, an incredible collection that would have made any scholar drool at the least and offer up their eldest child at worst. Sara stopped when she saw a painting on the wall of the room, set apart from everything else in a large and elegant frame. It showed a woman who could have been Sara, or at least her double, sitting on the bench in front of a piano in an elaborate room, her emerald green gown flowing over and pooling on the floor at her feet and the Witchblade glowing gently on her wrist.
"Ian, who is she?" her voice was hushed, almost frightened. Ian cursed quietly to himself, having forgotten that she knew nothing of this and it was not his to tell. He decided on a limited answer, which as long as it was the truth was probably safest, as it always had been with his father.
"Her name was Elisabeth Bronte," he told her quietly, trying to find a way to explain it to her. There was a note of sadness in his voice. The name was familiar, something niggling in the back of her mind, something Gabriel had told her.
"A spy? Something like that?" she asked, trying to grab the thought but not really succeeding. He nodded. "She was the last true wielder of the Witchblade before you. She was also my father's one true love. He knew her after the war. They traveled together for a time, and he loved her very much." Sara noticed the pain in his eyes and knew it was for his father.
The Witchblade swirled a little, warming her wrist. She was in a glowing ballroom, once again she was in the mind of someone else, experiencing their feelings. Music was playing and she found herself in Kenneth Irons arms as he held her close, spinning through the waltz. She could feel the interplay between them, the love they felt for one another as if they were the only two people in the room. People were watching them, the handsomest couple in the room, as he leaned to whisper into her ear.And she was back with Ian, staring at the portrait.
"What happened to her?" Her voice was faint, as she tried to recover from what she had felt, what she had seen through Elizabeth's eyes. "And why does she look so much like me?"
"She died in an accident while they were abroad. They fought over the Witchblade that day and then she died. He blamed himself for her death. I don't think he ever recovered from it. She was everything to him." That she knew, it was hard, to see Kenneth Irons as a man, a human being, instead of the monster he had become. At least she had more to think about now. Not that she really wanted to, she had never had any desire to understand the man who had made Ian, maybe she needed to. But not right now, right now she needed the answers to other questions. Philosophizing would get her nowhere now and she did not need the added stress.
"But why does she look like me?"
"Because you are of the same bloodline. You will notice in the paintings that several of them resemble you." He looked at her, outwardly calm, hoping she accepted the answer. Sara meanwhile, had had a horrible thought.
"Ian, is she." she couldn't say it, couldn't bring herself to. Not without knowing what being of the same bloodline meant as far as that was concerned.
"No," he said sharply. He continued, a little more reflectively. "Perhaps it would have been better for him if she were, and for me. No Sara, we are not related, at least not like that." Sara breathed a sigh of relief and Ian smiled at that. Her feelings for him were complicated, but intense, and the idea that they might be related, that was just weirder than she really wanted to think about. She certainly did not want to have to view him as a relative, at least not a blood relative. She put her hand on his arm, making sure that he was back with her, and anchoring her to him, to this reality. She was not up to another Witchblade induced trip through the looking glass.
"No, it would not be better, because then what is between us." she left it there, letting him do the math.
"Thank you, Sara. You keep shedding a little more light into my darkness. Maybe someday it will be gone altogether," he said sincerely, giving her a kiss. The kiss was gentle but there was a look in his eyes that made her melt a little. With that they left the room and continued to tour the house. More explanations could wait, for now.
After the tour, Ian suggested a brief walk on the grounds with the dogs. The weather was a bit chilly and the gardens were dead for the year, but it was a clear night and beautiful in its own way. They wandered the grounds in companionable silence, the dogs at their heels, enjoying the night for a moment free of their worries. It was peaceful here, not like the city, and completely safe. Not, she thought, that Ian and I are ever really in any danger in the city, but at least here we will not get interrupted by anything happening. We don't even have to be looking out for trouble. She wondered what it would look like in spring, when everything was in bloom. Would she be here to see it?
She was enjoying the walk, arm linked with Ian's, watching the dogs chase each other, when something began niggling at the back of her mind. She found the thought and put it together, but it didn't add up.
"Ian, you said that Irons and Elizabeth met after the War? I assume you don't mean Vietnam."
"No, I do not," Ian told her quietly.
"And she was a spy during World War II."
"Yes." "Just exactly how old was your father?" she asked, a little confused.
"How old do you think he was?" He answered her question with one of his own, a smile playing about his lips that she couldn't read in the dark. Sara thought about it for a moment. In the vision he looked the same, exactly as he had the day she met him. But from what Ian said, she was long dead, and Sara was sure that she was not much older in the vision than in the painting.
"Well, he looked like he could be anywhere from late thirties to maybe fifty, I couldn't really tell for sure. He would have to have been at least fifty considering your age or very precocious."
"Perhaps a bit of both, knowing him," he said, voice caught between reflection and amusement. He raised an eyebrow in a very Irons-like expression. "Actually he was ninety-six when he died." Sara gaped at him and he laughed, hastening to explain. "The Witchblade gave him a longer life, Sara, along with the other gifts. Although whether it was a blessing or curse, I don't know, nor do I think he ever did either, really. There again, perhaps a bit of both." Once again that note of sadness, just a hint, as he looked at her, reassuring himself that his lady was beside him and he was not alone. He slipped his arm from hers and slid it around her, pulling her a little closer in the cold as they continued to walk through the dead moonlit garden.