Disclaimer: The characters of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions, Inc. No profit is being derived from the writing of this fanctiction.
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Rating: PG-13 for some violence.
Chapter Three
"Wine and Violets"
Written by Jen
It had been three weeks since Rupert Giles had visited with the coroner in London, three weeks since his brief conversation with Dawn and Spike, and three weeks of viewing mindless security tapes that showed him exactly what he expected and least wanted-nothing. Unfortunately, the nothing was troubling. Since his arrival in England, Penelope Evesham-Hewes had made it her mission to entertain Giles almost every night, and he'd tried to beg off this evening in order to give her some time with her children and grandchildren. As much as he loved the dear lady, the Watcher couldn't see making a nuisance of himself when the family most obviously needed one another, but she'd hear none of it. Giles was to be at the house promptly for tea, no debates. He hadn't yet voiced any of his suspicions regarding Sir Robert's death, but he knew he'd have to sooner rather than later. Of course, it had been Penelope who agreed that something was amiss. She'd found the idea of an accidental overdose preposterous, and so she'd asked Giles to check into the matter though he doubted Penelope thought anything as ghoulish as murder was possible. Still, her appeal, coupled with the vague rumors Quentin told him of before leaving Sunnydale, was more than enough reason for Giles to be wary.
Earlier in the week Philip Underwood, Quentin's personal lapdog and whipping boy, had come to see Giles. "Mr. Giles," his voice had been standoffish and oh so smug, "word has it you are running an investigation of sorts? It won't be necessary. It troubles Mr. Travers, and he is most concerned with the affect you could possibly have on Sir Robert's wife. This can't be good for her."
Outraged, Giles had somehow managed to keep his temper in check, "Penelope is well aware of my findings. I'm doing this at her request, Philip, this has nothing to do with you and little to do with Quentin, though he's expressed no concern over the matter."
"Yes, well, I see you're just as reasonable as when we last met in Sunnydale," the younger man had said snidely before slinking away from Giles. The idea that Philip, untried and untested as a Watcher and council member, thought he could bully Giles into dropping this matter was ludicrous.
While Giles busied himself with investigating, Quentin Travers gathered his own forces of support for the coming months of discussions. Discussions that would decide the Council's next leader dominated most conversations these days. Of course, Travers made it clear to anyone who would listen why he was perfect for the job. 'Annoying prat,' thought Giles, 'I just hope he stops badgering me.' Giles also thought he might head to the nearest Catholic church and light a candle to pray, correction, he would beg that Philip would not accompany Quentin in the rise to power.
Sighing and rubbing his overtired eyes, the Watcher decided he'd had enough for one day. It was time to stretch his legs, maybe converse with someone, and if he was lucky, find a decent dining companion. Just before Giles reached the main hall and staircase of the house, he heard voices arguing.
A hissing whisper reached his ears first, "You're certain there's nothing?"
"YES!" The other voice was decidedly nervous and shaken sounding, "I swear, there's nothing to find."
Intrigued, Giles moved a little forward to hear better.
"Keep your voice down, fool, if anything links this to us, do you know what will happen? I have no intention of taking the blame simply because--," at this point, the eavesdropping Watcher nearly tripped on nearby plant stand and was forced to catch himself on the closest wall, "What was that?"
"I don't know," answered the second and more nervous of the conspirators. An all too strained silence developed, "maybe it came from one of the offices? Sound carries here."
After a moment Giles heard, "True. Right then, I'd say we'd better make a showing of it downstairs?"
"Wait! What about him?"
"Leave him to me. Once it's all done, well, you know what will happen, and do not ever speak to me about this in the hallway again, you idiot." The voices began moving away from Giles who crept as quietly and quickly as possible, but he was moving much more slowly than the two people ahead of him. They were long gone when he rounded the corner.
Aloud Giles asked himself, "What is going on here?"
In answer, Lydia Chalmers who'd just exited her own office, replied, "I believe lunch, Mr. Giles," she smiled brightly, "Would you like to join me?"
Surprised but relieved she didn't seem suspicious, Giles realized Lydia wasn't quite as unwelcome as she'd been when he arrived, "Thank you, sounds good."
She rewarded him with another high voltage smile and the two descended the front stairs together.
In the front hall, several juniors stood about chatting and gossiping office politics amongst one another. Cheryl, who was on the telephone, waved casually at both Lydia and Giles. Unhappily, with so many people milling about, Giles would have no chance to discern who the unknown speakers had been let alone to whom they'd been referring. Before heading to the dining room, Cheryl hung up the phone and called, "Mr. Giles! Sarah Giles called about thirty minutes ago. Sorry I didn't call upstairs, but she asked me not to bother you while you were working. Anyway, she'll be here day after tomorrow and wanted me to let you know."
"It's quite all right. Are you positive she said Sarah Giles? Little Sarah?" Confused Giles asked, "It's hard to believe she's even old enough to drive."
"I'm sure she said Sarah Giles," was Cheryl's reply.
"You don't keep in touch with your family, Mr. Giles?" Lydia wondered curiously.
"Her father's been in Russia for two decades now, Ms. Chalmers, and I was so busy with my own studies when he was last in England. I'm afraid I've somewhat lost touch with the entire family. I send the girl gifts for her birthday every year, but it doesn't seem possible that Sarah would be old enough to gallivant across the continents alone. Is her father coming, Cheryl?"
"No, not that she said anyway. Though last I heard it, she was studying here in England. Maybe she decided visiting her kin was a good idea," Giles found himself warmed by the head housekeeper's drawling accent, "Y'all will know more tomorrow I expect."
Giles thanked the older woman before turning to the younger council member, "Well, what's good in the dining room these days? I remember eating the most wonderful mutton stew the last time I was here."
"The new cook still makes mutton stew, but she won't until it gets colder. Plus, she's more modern in her approach to cooking which means many of us have suffered through many a plate of grilled fish and chicken simply because an inordinate number of the older men here are on low cholesterol and low salt diets, but most of them will dine early. The more flavorful food is often gone by one o'clock since many of them ignore medical advice.
"You know," Lydia continued, "Sir Robert was one of those who never cared much for eating what his doctor said he should," she giggled a bit, "his last lunch was filet mignon, a twice baked potato, ambrosia salad and creme brule."
"You're joking?"
"No! Really, I sat with him that day along with Mr. Travers and Philip. In fact, we were talking about your slayer and all the past trouble she's caused. Sir Robert did love to hear of her antics," Lydia smiled fondly at the memory, "he was very good to me."
"I'm not surprised. He was very good to everyone," Giles responded, "But now you've made me curious, how on earth did Buffy come to be the topic of conversation?"
Lydia laughed, "Sir Robert decided it's time we moved forward in light of technology. He'd arranged to have all the Watcher's diaries cataloged and scanned into the computer-all except yours. It's been a point of contention in the ranks, but you've made it clear your privacy is yours to keep," she spoke freely and seemingly without guile, "I think most of the members would like to see you and Buffy gone. They claim she's a loose cannon. Roger Wyndhm-Price has done most of the pushing where this matter is concerned."
"Wesley's father? I had no idea he wasn't supportive of Buffy or me."
"You have to understand, Mr. Giles," Lydia confided, "the allowances made for you and her have become a sticking point. You see, no one wants to admit that the Slayer does any of this for any other reason than it's right. She's got money and power backing her, but she sees none of it, and I know for a fact that Sir Robert wanted that changed. Not everyone approves of the way slayers are used."
"I'm sorry, but Sir Robert never mentioned any of this to me."
"He didn't want you upset by the matter," Lydia certainly seemed to know a lot, "He told Mr. Travers quite plainly that no one was to hassle you or the girl needlessly. He was facing a lot of opposition simply by discussing the possibility of paying her a salary."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Honestly? Friendly concern," she kept her voice low even in the noisy dining room.
"I suppose I should thank you for that much," Giles told her as he grinned, but she still appeared worried beneath her smile.
The two took their seats and, in honor of Sir Robert, ordered the richest and most fattening dishes the menu had to offer. By the time he was finishing his cheesecake, and cursing every New York Jewish deli and Italian eatery in America for ever discovering the joys of cream cheese and sour cream, Rupert was certain he'd have to roll himself up the stairs. The meal made him realize how tired he was. Lydia had been kind, charming, sweet and very funny. She talked some about her first days with the Council and laughed at her own mistakes on her first assignment.
All in all, Giles couldn't have asked for a better companion, and it seemed even Quentin Travers approved of the arrangement. The man had actually smiled warmly, almost affectionately, at the couple while he dined across the room. His dining companion appeared ill at ease, and Giles had to wonder what on earth Philip could be worrying over this time. That young man, tall, almost gangly, his large nose overbearing on his face, had to be the most ingratiating and irritating fool Watcher's Council ever had the displeasure of hiring. Still, Travers took stock in the young man who, for all outward appearances, seemed entirely devoted to Quentin and his causes.
Finally, meal ended, Lydia asked, "Are you still viewing the security tapes?" Her tone was light and soft.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," this wasn't a topic Giles wanted to discuss.
"If I might make a suggestion, access the sound files too, Mr. Giles, there's a digital camera system as well as video system. Only the digital security system is set up to pick up sounds."
"No one told me there were two systems!"
"I'm telling you now," Ms. Chalmers smiled brightly, "Those bumbling idiots in security won't always give a person information unless he knows to ask for it."
Giles looked at her incredulously, "Thank you for the tip," and he meant it. Who knew the Council was taking so many precautions these days? In all their conversations, Travers had never mentioned the computerized system. That too was curious.
"Mr. Giles, people talk. Frankly, I think everyone from Quentin to the housekeeping staff knows you must be looking for something. You've been with Sir Robert's family almost every night since you arrived, and all your days are spent viewing the tapes from the day he died and week prior. Take my advice, check the computers," with that the young woman rose from the table, "Thank you for a lovely lunch, but I really must run. I hope we'll do it again soon?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Giles told her. Lydia smiled and left the table.
Contemplating the woman's remarks about security, Giles failed to notice Nigel Daarsha approach, "So, Mr. Giles, how are you feeling today?"
"Quite well, thank you," Giles didn't bother asking after the man's health. Nigel was simply an annoyance to avoid, but apparently the pesky weasel had other ideas.
Narrowing his dark brown at eyes, Nigel asked in that gratingly over formal voice Giles loathed, "Is anyone sitting with you?"
"I've had my lunch, thank you, you're more than welcome to the table," Giles moved to leave.
"No, by all means, stay. How is the charming and effervescent Miss Summers these days?" It was apparent that Nigel did not find Buffy's effervescence charming.
"She's quite well." Simple and short answers should shut the man up, Giles hoped.
"Any news of Faith? Still in prison, one presumes," Nigel's irritating voice sandpapered across Giles nerves.
"Yes, that's generally where people who confess to First Degree Murder stay."
Laughing a polite and oh so false laugh, Nigel went fishing for information, "Ever get tired of being away from home, old man? Don't you miss England?"
"Sunnydale is home, Nigel, and, no, I'm not looking at retirement at any point in the near future. You'll just have to wait for Faith to die to get your greedy little hands on a slayer." Angrily, the Watcher stood, spilling wine across the table onto Nigel's suit, and stormed from the room leaving the stunned Watcher-wannabe at a loss for a reply.
Giles spent the rest of his afternoon getting some badly needed sleep before he drove out to Lavender Hall. Thank goodness for Penelope and the normalcy she had to offer the weary man.
Penelope waited anxiously for Giles that evening. The storm outside rattled against the old manor, wind screeching, and the elderly woman would swear she could hear her husband's voice in it. When her butler showed Rupert into the drawing room, she felt herself relax, "Thank goodness! I was worried about your driving these roads in this ghastly weather."
"Penelope," Giles hugged her, "you used to worry about us wandering around during the nicest weather."
"I know, I know, but you children did get yourselves into some awful scrapes," she smiled, seeing the face of the boy she'd known so well in the man standing before her, "I've finally reviewed the records, Rupert, and I must ask because I can't stand thinking about it any longer. Did Robert kill himself or not? I know I asked you to look into it, but I have an awful feeling I know the answer." She cringed.
"No, nothing could convince me of that." She saw the hesitation in her friend's eyes, "I'm afraid I have to look at other possibilities...
"Did--," Giles asked as he removed his glasses and swiped a cloth over them, "Did Sir Robert have any enemies? Any at all?"
Penelope's eyes widened, and she felt fear trickle through her marrow, "No! You can't think-- No! It's not possible, Rupert, who would've disliked him so much they'd want him dead?" Her voice sounded high and almost girlish in her own ears.
"I'm not sure about anything yet, Penelope, but I have to go over every possibility, you see?"
"Of course, but I can't imagine anyone hurting my husband. He was kind to everyone-even the juniors! They'd come for advice and none were turned away. Not once."
Life was already so strange without Robert, but the thought that someone might have killed him left Penelope Evesham-Hewes terrified for the Council and herself. The rest of the evening was spent in stunned silence though Penelope insisted Giles take several old photographs with him.
"I promise, I will find out what happened to him."
"I know, dear, but how do I tell my children? My grandchildren? Giles if you're right, maybe none of us is safe." A note of cold fear rang between them. "It's...it's horrible mourning him like this, Rupert! But murder?" Penelope burst into fresh tears, and all Giles could do was help her to her room. He left after he was certain she'd be all right for the rest of the night.
Giles returned to Council Headquarters and noted the electricity was still out due to the storm. "Damn," he swore loudly. He'd hoped to get a chance to view the computer systems tonight. Penelope had gone over every possibility: vampires, watchers, family, and everyone in between. No real answer presented itself, and all Giles had told her of the tapes he seen was that there was nothing to see on them. He had yet to explain to anyone why that alone was enough to scare the hell out of him. Until he could view the films on the computer, he was stuck simply speculating. That wasn't much help. Perhaps he'd try ringing Buffy again, but he was fairly certain that too wouldn't work. He had no desire to use Council phones, and his cell was sure to be out in this kind of weather. Rather than sit by the fire reading, Giles opted to search Sir Robert's office for a clue, anything, the slightest indication of what on earth had happened to the man.
The hall was relatively dark though the safety lights did provide enough lighting for Giles to see the keyhole properly. Inside, the office was well cleaned and completely aired. No one would know it had been in disuse for nearly three weeks. A few papers were neatly placed across the top of the desk, but none of them held any promise. The old mahogany gleamed in the low light, and Giles had to admire the craftsmanship of the piece. Xander would've loved it. This was an office that was well loved, warmly kept, and furnished with tasteful English countryside oils. All the paintings captured daytime scenes, and each was artfully placed about the walls for maximum effect.
On the desk, pictures of Sir Robert's family and friends presided almost regally. There were even a few photos of Giles. One showed three young boys, all dressed for Easter Sunday, arm in arm with large cookies in hand. Another, taken at Giles' university graduation, showed the face of a worn yet earnest boy who'd seen too much in his younger years. The most startling photo of Giles was taken just before he left England for America to meet Buffy Summers. His father had just passed away the previous year, and Sir Robert, who'd stepped in to help Giles through his grief, wasn't about to let "Young Rupert" get away without a snapshot or two. The man had turned to him and said quietly, "Your father was so proud of you. He told me many times." Those words often sustained the Watcher during his more difficult times with Buffy, and when Joyce passed away, those words came back to him to offer someone else comfort, "Your mother was so proud of you, Buffy, she often said she couldn't be more pleased with the way her girls were growing." It was odd how one person could touch a man's life with even the briefest reassurances.
Giles sighed and resumed his search. If the damned lights would return, it would make his job so much easier! As he pulled the files from Sir Robert's desk, he decided to sit in one of the two leather wingback chairs near the fireplace. The candles he lit provided just enough light to read by. It seemed almost sacrilege to sit behind the dead man's workspace, and Giles simply felt more comfortable away from all those family photos. The old memories, sliding into focus, demanded to be sifted through, and, ultimately, put away on a shelf with a lifespan limited to his own mortality. Instead, he became engrossed in the files, and while the night sped toward morning, he realized how much honest respect Sir Robert did have for him and Buffy. Much of the paperwork had to do with old cases from Sunnydale, and Sir Robert's notes were often insightful as well as complimentary. Apparently the old man was quite impressed by Buffy Summers and her ability to think on her feet. The last file, still sealed, tempted Giles sorely, but he was so tired from his long day that he decided it might be best to simply go to bed. He could always save this one for morning when he was more alert.
Just as he was leaving the office, a sound blow crashed into Giles' head, and he crumpled to the floor without a word.
Giles squinted at the harsh light, "I'd ask what happened, but I know someone hit me."
"The cleaning staff found you outside Sir Robert's office," Quentin Travers shook his head, "What were you doing there last night?"
"Research. Good Lord! I'm so thirsty," Giles groaned in pain, "Am in hospital?" His eyes refused to focus or Giles would've recognized his surroundings.
"No, it was easier to treat you here. I'm just relieved I didn't have to notify the Slayer you'd been killed," Travers spoke quietly. "What sort of research have you been up to, man?"
"Quentin, didn't you find the files I was working on last night? I must have dropped them outside the office."
"Files? No, there was nothing, Rupert. Tell me what is going on," the older man demanded. "You've been evasive and avoided most of us for the better part at least two weeks; it's time to explain yourself."
Giles studied the man and weighed his options. With the files gone, he was now certain someone had murdered the Council leader, but as of now, Quentin was the most likely suspect. He'd certainly benefit the most by the man's death since Travers was the most likely candidate for the job, but surely he'd know that. Carefully considering the consequences, the Watcher decided to take Quentin Travers into his confidence, "I was looking for clues, Quentin. Sir Robert didn't die of an accidental overdose, and it most certainly wasn't suicide. We both knew suicide was never a real possibility. Those files I mentioned? One was sealed, and now they're all gone. I can't find any evidence of foul play on the security tapes, but the complete lack of information is more disturbing than the presence of some information would be!"
"Complete lack, what do you mean? My God, how could this happen?"
"Good questions, both. I can at least answer the first. When I say there's nothing on the tapes, I mean nothing. I've got hours of tape filled with empty hallways throughout this entire building on the day of Sir Robert's death. There's nothing wrong with the cameras, Quentin, I've viewed tapes from the past six months-there is one day's tapes that's been compromised. Now, unless the entire staff went on holiday while he holed up in his office, something is very wrong indeed. It's got to be witchcraft."
"It can't be! You know we've had wards in place against magic for centuries. Rupert, this is impossible."
"Impossible or not, someone wanted Sir Robert dead and all the evidence covered, and now someone appears to want me dead." Giles refrained from sharing the whispered conversation he'd overhead in the hall. A little information might help while too much could get him killed for certain.
A bright and cheery voice interrupted the two men, who fell silent, "Here we are, Mr. Giles, ice chips. How are you feeling? These came for you, along with a card from Sir Robert's wife." The young woman held up a planter filled with African violets.
"I've had better days, Ms. Chalmers," he smiled ruefully at the young woman.
"I'll be staying this evening to keep you company if that's all right," again she smiled, and Giles felt himself softening toward the young woman. He hated admitting it, but he was beginning to like her, "Perhaps I could read to you or we could play chess."
"I think chess is a little too advanced for me now," the injured man said. "A book would be good though. One of the classics, perhaps?"
"Good, it's settled," interrupted Quentin who looked fondly on Lydia. "Take care of him, Ms. Chalmers. Rupert, Elaine is expecting me early for dinner this evening, but I will be back tomorrow. We have much to discuss."
"Yes, of course, it's much later than I expected," he murmured.
Lydia spoke, "You've been unconscious most of the day. Oh! That reminds me, are you feeling hungry? The doctor was afraid you might be a bit nauseous since you do have a concussion. He said it's not too serious, Mr. Giles, and if you're feeling up to it, I could find something that might tempt you?"
Giles blushed, thinking to himself that she was an awfully tempting treat, 'Oh, dear God,' he thought, 'I really must stay the hell away from Spike when I get back to Sunnydale. That creature is rubbing off on me.' Instead he replied, "Some soup might be good, thank you."
Lydia left the room as Quentin said his good-byes, but Giles was concentrating more on her retreating figure. She really was a pretty young woman. The rest of the evening was quiet, almost homey, and Giles found he loved listening to Lydia Chalmers read. Her voice was animated and lively, and she was the sort of reader who enjoyed the telling of a tale as much as the tale itself. As Giles requested, she'd chosen a classic, but it wasn't one of the generally accepted and common English classics to his surprise. No Jane Austen or Charles Dickens for this young woman. Instead she chose literature that was serious, dark, and without the drawing room flair of centuries past: Franz Kafka's The Trial. Giles was enjoying every minute of it. Her voice lilted and danced through the story of a young man sent to trial for no apparent reason, and Giles could relate to the protagonist in many ways. While he wasn't facing any charges that no one would bother to name, he was facing his own tribulations in discovering Sir Robert's murderer. Like Joseph K., Rupert Giles felt this enormous urge to justify his own existence, his life, everything about himself and who he was, almost on a spiritual plane. Listening to the story made him feel as though he'd stepped through some metaphysical barrier, alone, bereft of everyone, denied explanations, denied information, and, above all, left to sink or swim on his own.
Of course, he realized he was dabbling in a little self-absorption, but even he couldn't avoid that bad habit now and then. Still, Lydia's voice, charming and soft, her hair glinting beneath the reading lamp, her skin reflecting a golden rose color in the firelight, was far more mesmerizing than the plight of Joseph K. Her legs, tucked beneath her, were shapely, and her knees just peeked out from under her skirt. It was a beautiful sight. So much more enchanting than Quentin Travers' face-what an awful thing to wake up to after being clocked in the noggin.
"Logic is doubtless unshakable," read Lydia, "but it cannot withstand a man who wants to go on living."
Giles sighed and Lydia looked up from the book, "Yes?"
"I disagree with that I think," the Watcher told her, "You know, logic isn't really as unshakable as people would presume."
"No, of course not, but I think the point Kafka was making," she leaned forward setting the book on the little table near her chair, "was that this one man wants so desperately to live that he'll simply ignore logic to the point of driving himself insane if necessary, and the insane have a logic they use only known to them. Though I suspect most of us would be driven quite mad in Joseph's circumstances," she chuckled.
"True, trials without charges and punishments without actual trials--Kafka's vision was an unforgiving one," Giles replied.
The young woman nodded her agreement and looked at her watch, "Gracious! Look at the time." Lydia jumped from her chair, saying, "I've been reading almost three hours, Mr. Giles, and Mr. Travers will have my hide. He said you should get some rest."
"Yes, I am getting a bit tired, and please, it's Giles or Rupert. Though I have to admit, I rarely hear Rupert anymore from anyone but Quentin or Penelope. Whichever you choose, and please never refer to me as G-man." He shuddered.
"G-man?" she frowned, "No, I think I like Rupert best if you don't mind, and it's Lydia."
"Thank you, Lydia, and thank you for reading tonight. I really do appreciate it-much better than watching telly."
"You're very welcome, Rupert." Again she flashed that brilliant smile, "Get some rest."
After she left, Giles said aloud, "If only I were ten years younger..." Light filtered through the window of the infirmary, and Giles wondered what on earth he'd ever done to deserve being placed beneath stained glass that faced the East. A riot of colors played across his arms and bed while it wreaked havoc with his already aching head. The doctor, a council employee, had long since left with strict instructions for Giles to get as much rest possible, enjoy some quiet activity, and refrain from leaving the grounds. Of course, he wasn't allowed to leave the medical wing without assistance. Giles understood the importance of caring for himself, but he didn't wish to be bothered with the mundane details of it all. Unfortunately for him, the attending nurse saw to it that Giles did stay put.
When the physician left, Giles called downstairs to Cheryl and asked if he'd yet gotten word from Sunnydale. Her reply was no, but she'd ring for him if necessary. Almost a month and no word from Buffy, puzzling, he reflected. Giles toyed with the idea that Dawn wasn't giving her elder sister phone messages, but what on earth could drive the teenager to ignore simple courtesy? Perhaps the siblings were simply too caught up in their own world, or as was most likely, too caught up in petty arguments. The entire situation was frustrating as hell.
By 8:00 am, Rupert Giles was ready to dig his way through the floorboards or simply give in and die of the boredom. A soft knock caught his attention, and the Watcher hoped it was Lydia. She was good company.
The nurse, a young man of about twenty-six, welcomed a startlingly pretty young woman into the room. Her hair, the golden shade of summer wheat, was pulled back in a single braid. She had a heart shaped face, high cheekbones, a small and pert nose, and a generous mouth. Her eyes, hidden somewhat behind glasses, were similar in coloring to his own but a deeper shade of green. She had the air of a student. Her jeans were loose, and her forest green sweater was at least two sizes too big. All in all, the girl looked downright fragile in the outfit. Too small for the world around her despite the fact that she was blessed with the height Buffy often mourned not having. She spoke in low tones while nodding to the infirmary attendant. Finally, she walked toward Giles, and the familiarity hit him. This young woman looked like a copy of his mother. Giles remembered the worn old family photos, and the girl's resemblance was undeniable. She even had his mother's walk, smile and thoughtful eyes. Giles tried not to think about too much his mother because he did miss the woman. Sarah Giles had arrived, and Giles would've sworn she was his own child if he didn't know better.
Born when he was already in his twenties, she was a late in life baby of his elder cousin. Giles remembered her christening. His mother, still alive, had made the christening gown, and his cousin, Stephen, had asked him to stand the place of godfather for little Sarah. She was a pretty baby, all round and dimpled. Giles remembered her smiling and laughing as she ran through the corridors of Council Headquarters once she'd grown some. After her sixth birthday, Stephen Giles was called away to watch after things at the Council's outpost in Russia. The family returned for visits at holidays, but Giles had been so busy working in the fields that he hadn't been around often to see her. Still, every birthday and Christmas he made a point of sending her something special that he'd found in his travels, and Sarah was one of those rare people who always wrote beautifully crafted and handwritten thank you notes in reply. It was all very formal and the product of being raised by stodgy people who were never really sure how to react to children. She was a part of his life he'd never shared with those in Sunnydale, and now he wondered why.
She stopped at the edge of his narrow hospital supply bed and said, "Rupert? Hi, Dad said you were back in England and I should visit you. Should I come back later?"
"No, please stay, Sarah. It's good to see you again after all these years," Giles spoke hesitantly, "How is your father?"
"He's well but misses London. He and mum are thinking of coming home."
"I'm sure that's good news for you since you're already here," Giles hated these tentative discussion between long forgotten family members, "And your mother?"
"Oh, she's aces. Tired of arguing with me I expect," Sarah continued, "So what happened?"
"A silly accident that resulted in a fall and concussion. Would you mind doing me a huge favor?"
"Um..sure I guess, what is it?"
"Well, I can't leave the infirmary unless someone is willing to spring me. Quentin won't be able to get up here for another hour or two, and that nurse over there, an employee borrowed from hell no doubt, is too strict for my own good. Would you mind?"
Sarah grinned easily at him, "No problem, we're out of here. I hate hospitals and medical facilities in general." Her demeanor had loosened up now. "Hey, what do you want today?"
"Take it easy I suppose, but I'd love to know why you're here first. I mean, you haven't seen me in years, Sarah."
"Can we talk about it later?" Her tone was irritated and sounded a little like Buffy's when she wanted to avoid distressing circumstances.
"Certainly, why don't we get out of here and make some plans?"
Sarah relaxed, and Giles got up so he could get dressed in the lavatory while she waited. This wasn't just about some young woman who was paying her respects to visiting family because her father had ordered it, and Giles couldn't help but recall that the young woman had stiffened further when talking about her parents.