Part One - In A Blink Of An Eye
"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-wimey... stuff." –The 10th Doctor
Guildford, 1875
Buffy woke to the morning chill with a strangled gasp. She pulled her knees to her chest in a futile attempt to preserve the last bit of warmth from her blanket. Beneath the thin fabric, her feet were like blocks of ice. She must have kicked off her night socks sometime during the night. The fire from the hearth had long died out, and Buffy was certain it was just as cold in her small room as outside.
Damn Victorians, she grumped silently, conserving the warmth of her breath rather than surrendering it to the frosty air.
No matter what the weather was outside, they all insisted on keeping the windows open year-round to ward off carb poisoning or something. How is keeping the windows open related to carbs? Buffy would never quite figure that one out. In the year since she was blipped back in time by those weird weeping space demons, Buffy was still trying to figure the 1800s out. She wondered if "inventing" the keto diet would make a difference.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed, signaling the start of her day. Reluctantly, Buffy sat up and looked around her cramped quarters, the dim promise of the coming sunrise casting an eerie glow over the room. As a scullery maid at the Ellingham estate, her quarters consisted of a small room with a bed, a worn-out dresser, and a rickety chair. There was also a small mirror on the wall above the dresser where she kept her washbasin and a few other small trinkets. This had been her home for the past three months.
After a series of failed jobs, Buffy finally got a maid position through a friend she had met while working in London. The girl, Charlotte, had vouched for her, and thankfully, Buffy was given the job. It didn't pay much, but she had a roof over her head, three meals a day, and she was warm—warm-ish. Warmer than she'd been on the streets, and safer too.
"At least I have a home and food," Buffy whispered as her mind drifted back to those three miserable weeks when she had been homeless. It was an experience she never wanted to have again.
Even when she had run away at seventeen to L.A., she hadn't experienced that level of poverty. And living on the streets of 19th-century London was very different than staying in a crappy apartment in Los Angeles in the 90s… err, 1990s, that is. It was crazy that she had to make that distinction now. Buffy shivered at the memory of sleeping huddled near a shopkeeper's door, her empty stomach aching as she shivered from the cold. Between the criminals and the police, she wasn't sure how she had managed to stay alive, let alone gotten enough sleep to navigate the unfamiliar streets and customs. Thank goodness for Charlotte helping her find suitable clothes and showing her the best places to beg for—or steal—food.
But that was in the past. She was warm now—relatively—and fed. It didn't matter that she had to wake up every morning at 5 a.m. to start her day. She was alive. That had to count for something.
Buffy slipped her feet back into her night socks and walked to the basin. She had filled it with water the night before, so she knew it would be chilly, but she had almost gotten used to it—as used to it as a California girl could get. With quick hands, she lathered her washcloth as best as she could with a coarse bar of soap and commenced with what everyone called the "standup and wash."
Washing up in the cold water, she was reminded that, nope, there were no hot showers or baths for Buffy. Each cold splash was a stark reminder of the comforts and people she had left behind in her time. And while she was adapting to the "roughing it" lifestyle of this era, thoughts of Spike always tugged at the edges of her consciousness. How had he managed in this world? How had he faced each day and night? Well, after he'd been turned, she supposed it would've been easier, but he'd been human first; he'd grown up in this… this Dickens novel. It was beyond Buffy's capacity to imagine how.
She paused, the image of her vampire lover coming unbidden to her mind's eye, stirring a mix of longing and heartache. It wasn't just the pain of missing him that hurt, but the finality of it. At first, she'd held out hope that her friends would figure out where she was and somehow get her back, but that hope had slowly, painfully faded as the days, weeks, and months crept by. Being sent back by a weeping angel had anchored her in this era, making her a fixed point in time. Their paths, once so intertwined, would now never cross again. Thinking of him was a raw wound that refused to heal, so she tried her best not to. But sometimes, like now, he just slipped through the cracks of her defenses.
Buffy closed her eyes, welcoming the image of his face. Now that her mind had conjured him, she had no choice but to allow herself to indulge in the memory of his smile. His eyes. Spike's laughter. His biting humor and sarcasm. His love. God, she missed it all. She missed him.
"Spike," Buffy whispered, speaking his name aloud. It was another indulgence she rarely allowed.
Buffy knew that somewhere in London, there was another Spike out there—or rather—a Mr. William Pratt. But he wasn't her Spike. This William was just some guy. Or maybe he was a vampire by now. Buffy couldn't recall when Drusilla had turned him. Either way, her Spike was gone forever. And Buffy hoped she would never come in contact with the Spike—William—of this time. She still didn't know what she would do if she saw him as a human or a vampire.
Buffy blinked away the images of Spike. Delving into those memories risked evoking memories of Dawn, Giles, Xander, Willow, and even occasionally Andrew. Recalling her past life and loved ones was overwhelming, a burden too heavy to bear in the light of day. As she tidied her hygiene supplies, Buffy thought she'd indulge in those memories later that night after her patrol.
After she finished her brisk wash-up, she dressed and donned her maid's uniform. Buffy thought about her real clothes. She had held on to them even though she'd never wear them in public again. They were tucked away in her drawer, and sometimes, Buffy put them on. Especially her underwear. She had no idea that women went commando in ye olden times. But they sure do know how to layer, she thought, recalling the first time she had put on a chemise and "drawers." Which were supposed to be underwear but amounted to little more than two separate leggings connected at the waistband, leaving her crotch wide open.
Then there was the corset—which she hated worse than a vampire hated sunburn. It was confining and restricted her natural Slayer agility. Every time she laced it up, Buffy was sure that would be the day she'd fight some demon and fall over or get tangled in her petticoat. Why did these people have to wear so many clothes?
As Buffy tied the laces of her shoes, she felt the weight of the small stake she kept in a hidden pocket of her dress. Even in this era, evil lurked in the shadows. Guildford had its fair share of vampires and demons that only came out when the sun dipped below the horizon. No matter the century, her Slayer senses never dulled. Every evening, when the manor settled into silence, Buffy would sneak out into the night, patrolling the narrow cobblestone streets and graveyards, ensuring Guildford's citizens remained safe in their beds. Her role as a scullery maid provided her with the perfect cover, allowing her access to information and areas that would otherwise be off-limits. But the duality of her roles, the maid by day and the Slayer by night, was a constant strain. Sometimes, she wished she could hang up her stake and be done with it all. But then she'd hear a whisper about a missing person or the telltale sign of a vampire lurking nearby, and Buffy knew she couldn't just turn away. After all, she was the Slayer, and that duty transcended time and place.
Buffy brushed her hair into a tight bun, slipped on her cap, and tied her apron around her waist. First, she would light the fires in the kitchen, then fetch some water from the nearby well, clean the kitchen utensils, and help Cook prepare breakfast for the household. All of this would be done before 8:30 a.m. Then she would spend the rest of her day scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots—a task she wished she could escape—until it was time to help with lunch and dinner.
After she was done with her duties for the day, Buffy planned on following up on a rumor she heard about another missing person in the area—this time a young maid from Ridgeview Manor. It was the second rumor Buffy had heard about a missing person in the past few days.
Buffy sighed, wishing she could fast forward through the drudgery of her day and get to the slayage. Squaring her shoulders, she steeled herself for another long, hard day and looked in the mirror. "This is your life now, Summers. Deal with it."
"Lizzie, did you hear me?" The cook's commanding voice boomed over the clatter of kitchen noises.
"Uh, yes, I'm sorry, Pru," Buffy said, snapping to attention. Prudence, the estate cook, stared at her with a stern expression on her ruddy face.
"I've called you no less than three times. I swear, child, it's like you don't even know your own name."
That's because Lizzie isn't my name, Buffy thought. After a few mishaps, while introducing herself as Buffy Summers, she adopted the name Elizabeth since Buffy was supposed to be its diminutive. She had already spent much of her life correcting people who assumed her full name was Elizabeth anyway.
"Nope, it's just Buffy."
"Empty the slop bucket, and when you're done, dry the dishes."
"You got it!"
Pru raised a questioning brow.
Buffy winced. "I mean, yes, ma'am."
"Such peculiar American manners," Buffy heard Pru mutter as she grabbed the kitchen slop bucket and carried it out the door into the torch-lit courtyard, the sun having fully set some hours ago.
Outside, Buffy inhaled the chilly autumn air and emptied the heavy pail. A rustling sound near the stone wall caught the Slayer's attention, and she crept a few paces, sliding her hand into her hidden pocket. Vampires didn't usually venture this close to the home, but Buffy curled her fingers around the stake instinctively.
"Whatever you are, I gotta say, creeping around isn't your strong suit," Buffy said in a loud whisper and drew her stake from her pocket.
The rustling sound grew louder, and a moment later, a sleek tabby cat dropped down from a tree and onto the stone wall surrounding the garden.
"Oh, Jasper, it's only you," Buffy said to the feral cat. "Sorry, cat, no food for you today. Next time, send word if you're gonna call."
The cat narrowed its eyes at her before making what sounded like an annoyed meow.
"Trust me, I know the feeling." Buffy paused for a moment. "And now I'm talking to cats. I tell you, this whole getting stuck back in time thing is seriously messing with my cool factor. I'm like one step away from becoming the crazy cat lady. You know, the lady with a dozen cats and talks to all of them."
Jasper meowed again before scampering off.
"Fine, leave me all by my lonesome," Buffy pouted, watching the cat disappear into the night.
Buffy drew in another deep breath and looked up at the sky. If there was one silver lining she could find in all of this, it was the sky. Growing up in Los Angeles, Buffy had grown accustomed to the dense yellow smog that hovered over the city, making it difficult to see the sky. The smog wasn't so bad at night, but the light pollution made up for it, so there weren't nearly as many stars visible. Buffy admired the inky blackness darted with what seemed like millions of bright white lights. She had learned that each of those stars had died like a gazillion years ago, and what she was looking at were merely echoes. Buffy wondered if Spike was looking at the same dead stars that night. The idea brought her some comfort. It made her feel closer to him, a little less alone, although they were a hundred years apart.
The weight of the day's duties rested heavily on Buffy's shoulders as she settled down for the evening, but her mind raced with thoughts of the rumors she'd heard about the rash of missing people in the area.
As the household lights dimmed one by one and the world outside grew quiet, Buffy's anticipation grew. She knew she needed to tread carefully; the staff had a strict curfew, and the Ellinghams would certainly not appreciate their new maid venturing into the night.
Ensuring her room was in order, Buffy dressed in her most inconspicuous clothing and tucked a small dagger she had found into her boot then checked for the stake in her hidden pocket. She listened closely, her Slayer senses heightened. The occasional distant snore or creaking of the old house was all she heard.
She tiptoed through the dimly lit halls, avoiding the usual floorboards she knew to be noisy. As she reached the back door, she took a deep breath and stepped into the crisp night air. No matter where she was in time, she would always be the Slayer.