Closer to Midnight

Part One

Chapter One

October 2010

Buffy arrived on such a dull and dreary day that she wondered if coming had been such a good idea after all.

It had sounded perfect: a week away from the stresses of home, work, and, most of all, Liam’s incessant phone calls. Now, however, as she stood shivering in her light cardigan waiting for the ferry to dock, she wanted nothing more than to be back home, or at least somewhere warm.

She’d been reluctant when her mom had first suggested it, this second-hand vacation booked months ago, before Joyce had fallen ill. Her mom was better now, in remission and recovering well, but hadn’t felt up to taking the holiday. And when the dates coincided with time off from her job, well… Buffy couldn’t really say no.

Now, the ferry juddered to a halt, and the ramp was lowered with a clang. They let the foot passengers off first, before the cars, so Buffy rolled her suitcase down the ramp and stepped off the boat.

There was a misty drizzle in the air, and Buffy regretted not bringing an umbrella. Tightening her cardigan around herself, she moved towards the café and hoped that there wouldn’t be a long wait.

A man in a bright red cagoule stood near the railings of the café, hood up to protect against the rain and a laminated sign—‘Wight Ghost Tours’—held close to his chest. Buffy bit her lip and walked towards him, wondering again if coming on this trip had been the best of ideas.

“Mr. Simkins?” she asked when she came to a stop in front of the man.

“Yes, that’s me.” He peered down at her through milk-bottle thick glasses, and a kindly smile lit his lined face. “Part of my group, are you?”

Buffy nodded. “I think so.”

“Wonderful,” Simkins replied. “There are five more meeting us here, so I’ll wait to take your name until they turn up, and we’re on the bus out of this dreadful weather.”

“Mind if I wait inside?” Buffy asked and indicated the café. “I could do with a hot drink.”

“Go ahead. I do hope that the others were on this boat.” Simkins frowned, before muttering to himself. “Perhaps I should have taken mobile numbers…”

Buffy excused herself and went into the café, the lure of a cup of hot coffee quickening her steps. The queue was short, and in no time at all she had seated herself at a table near the window, just left of where Simkins was standing. In her absence, he had been joined by three more people, all elderly women, and Buffy shifted uncomfortably, already feeling out of place.

The second sip of her coffee tasted bitter on her tongue, and she pushed it away with a sigh. Moments later, a knock on the window made her jump, and she looked up to see Simkins waving frantically and beckoning at her with a gloved hand.

The rest of the group had to have arrived.

Buffy stood and went to join the small crowd outside, trying not to wince at the sudden blast of cold air that hit her when she opened the café doors.

“And you must be Ms. Summers. So we’re all here!” Simkins shouted jovially. “Follow me, everyone!”

He led the way past the lines of cars waiting to board the ferry and towards the back of the port, where a battered, white minibus was parked.

Buffy’s attention had been caught by the two latest arrivals: a young man with shockingly bleached hair and a tall, willowy woman, bundled up in a fur-lined parka—his girlfriend, presumably. On the one hand, Buffy was glad that she wasn’t the only person under the age of thirty in the group. On the other, something about the girl unnerved her.

The man turned his head suddenly and met Buffy’s eyes. His gaze was piercing, and he smiled at her slightly, lips curving sweetly. Buffy returned the smile hesitantly before she found herself holding her breath, unable to look away from his intensely blue eyes. Several long, heart-pounding moments later, he turned to mutter something to his companion, and Buffy finally let out her breath in a long whoosh of air.

Shaken, she stepped onto the bus and sat down at the back, alone.

***

The hotel sat atop an imposing cliff overlooking a wide shingle beach. They’d arrived just moments before, pulling up on a gravelly drive to give everyone their first view of the hotel.

Buffy had spent the journey in silence after giving Simkins her name and other details. Unease had settled over her, made worse by the looks the dark-haired girl in the parka had kept sending her. In the end, Buffy had turned away to stare resolutely out of the window and watch the countryside roll by.

She found herself dragged back to the present by Simkins loud, booming voice. “Do whatever you like tonight, folks,” he said. “The hotel restaurant opens at six for dinner, or there are a couple of very nice pubs down in the bay. We’ll reconvene in the lounge tomorrow after breakfast.”

Six heads nodded their assent and Buffy took her place in the queue for room keys that had formed in front of the reception desk.

***

Buffy was tired but filled with a restless energy and so, once she’d unpacked, she washed her face, combed her hair and changed her shoes, intending to go out for a walk along the beach. Perhaps she could check out one of the pubs Simkins had mentioned, despite the dreary weather not having let up.

The hotel corridor was quiet as she walked down it, the only sound the ticking of the tall grandfather clock at one end.

A floorboard creaked behind her, and Buffy jumped, turning swiftly to see the dark-haired woman, now sans-parka, standing behind her. The woman was dressed oddly—a loose-fitting, blood-red dress in a style long-since gone out of fashion draped over her lithe form. Her feet were bare, her hair untied, and her whole appearance sent a shiver down Buffy’s spine.

It wouldn’t do to be impolite, though, so Buffy smiled and said hello.

The woman gave no response, but a grin lit her face and her eyes widened. She lifted her hands and cupped Buffy’s cheeks between her palms.

“Lovely. So lovely. I told him, my dear William. I told him you’d be here. It’s why we came, you see. Now everyone has an invite to the party!” The woman took her hands away from Buffy’s face and clapped them together in glee. “Oh, it shall be so wonderful!”

Too stunned to say anything, Buffy simply stared at the woman who was now humming lightly and had turned away, her eyes wide, and bright, and no longer focused on Buffy.

Nothing happened for several long moments, both of them held in a strange sort of suspense until the moment was broken by a shout from the staircase.

“Drusilla!”

The woman jumped, broken from her trance, and turned towards the voice. “William! Come here, look who I’ve found!”

Buffy turned to see the blond man who had looked at her so strangely back at the ferry port striding towards them, a grim frown on his face.

“Dru! I told you not to wander off.”

“Sorry.” Drusilla pouted. “But look who it is, William!”

The man—William, apparently—looked towards Buffy as if realising for the first time that she was there. “Oh, um, hi.” He squinted, his forehead crinkling in confusion. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy replied.

“You’ll have to excuse my sister,” he said, and Buffy felt a strange weight, one she hadn’t even known was there, lift off her chest at hearing the two were not a couple, like she’d thought. “She—she’s not well.”

“It’s all right. She wasn’t bothering me.” Buffy lied with a forced smile, but found something compelling her to continue the conversation. “You’re here for the ghost week, right? I’m Buffy, by the way.”

“Yeah, I am. Dru practically forced me to come along. And I’m Spike.” He offered her his hand, and she shook it, shyly. “Well, William. But I hate that, so call me Spike, please.”

“Nice to meet you.” They stared at each other, and Buffy felt her palms tingling and sweat pricking on her brow. Her heart began to pound and, in the back of her mind, she knew that something about this wasn’t right. This entire situation, from Drusilla’s strange behaviour to the feeling she couldn’t shake that she knew this man somehow, was off.

“Isn’t this delightful!” Drusilla interrupted. She spun away towards the clock at the end of the hallway. “All the pieces falling into place. Tick, tick, tick. It’s getting closer to midnight... Oh, I’m so excited!” A moment later, she had danced off down the stairs, her long dress floating behind her like wings.

“Oh, bollocks.” Spike looked worried. “Look, I’ve got to go, but… would you be interested in having dinner with me later? Seven? In the restaurant?”

Buffy found herself agreeing before she’d even really considered the question but, when Spike had left to chase after his sister, a deep-seated excitement filled her, and she walked towards the beach with a small, secret smile on her face.

***

The hotel looked so small from where Buffy stood. She had crunched her way across the stony beach and up towards the cliff path, walking some way before she’d stopped and turned to look back over the bay.

The weather had brightened up a little, the rain having stopped and the wind now a light breeze that pleasantly ruffled her hair. There was no one around, everything quiet save the continuous rolling of the waves and the occasional roar of a car on the road behind her.

Leaving the hotel and the stifling atmosphere created by being around a group of strangers, had allowed her to put some things into perspective. Drusilla’s strange behaviour in the hallway had been nothing more than her illness and perhaps a lack of knowledge of how to react to a new situation. The odd connection Buffy had felt with Spike... well, that was just strong attraction to a good-looking man.

Her fish-out-of-water feelings were harder to shake, however. That type of vacation would have been far better suited to Joyce, who’d always had an interest in the supernatural. Buffy didn’t believe that ghosts existed, and Simkins would have to work hard to convince her otherwise.

The afternoon wore on, and Buffy found herself enjoying the peaceful silence and the complete nothing she had to do. The occasional dog-walker strolled past, and she greeted them with a smile and a ‘hello’, until the calm environment was interrupted by the harsh ringing of her cellphone.

The display flashed an unknown number, and she answered with some hesitation. “Hello?”

“Buffy.”

Her heart sank and she rubbed a hand over her suddenly tired eyes. “Liam. What do you want? How did you get this number? I told you I didn’t want to speak to you.”

“Your mam gave it to me. I told her it was an emergency.”

“And is it?” Her patience had already been worn thin by Liam many times over in recent weeks, and she was seconds away from hanging up on him.

“Um, sort of. I think.”

Buffy switched the phone to her other ear with a sigh, listening impatiently to Liam’s Irish lilt as he spoke to someone in the background. “I haven’t got all day.” She contemplated telling him about her dinner date with Spike but decided against it. Not like he’d care, anyway.

“Sorry. It’s just that you might be in trouble. Cordelia said—”

“What makes you think I want to hear a word of what Cordelia has to say?” Buffy spat, angrily. “There is nothing—”

“Buffy! Will you just listen? Cordy’s Uncle Doyle—he’s... well, he’s a bit odd, but he sees things. Visions, the future, you know?” He paused. “Jaysus, this sounds insane, doesn’t it?”

“Just a bit,” Buffy said drily, yet unable to stop the sudden shiver that tingled its way down her spine. “What—what did he say?”

“He said it was vague, but he saw you in a garden, with a man in a top hat. That… there was a dark energy around you, and that you were in danger. And—twelve. Something about the number twelve.”

Buffy gripped the phone a little tighter. “Is that all?” She tried to keep her tone light, unconcerned.

“Yeah. Look, I know it’s crazy, but Cordy really believes in this stuff, and she was worried about—”

“Ha!”

“—worried about you. So just be careful, okay? Don’t go into any gardens. Where are you, anyway? Your mam said you’d gone away.”

Buffy stood up, her cell still clamped to her ear, and walked closer to the edge of the cliff. “I’m by the sea. Liam, I have to go. Please don’t call me again.”

***

Chapter Two

The phone call put Buffy in a foul mood. So much so, that, when she returned to her hotel room she didn’t put nearly as much effort into getting ready for dinner as she normally would have.

Pulling on a black skirt and pale-green top, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. Damn Liam! She should have thrown her cell into the ocean as soon as she’d recognized his voice.

She heard the clock on the landing chime a quarter to the hour and took a final glance in the mirror, hoping that she wasn’t making a mistake in going to dinner with Spike, a man she barely knew.

The restaurant wasn’t particularly busy when she arrived, with only half of the tables occupied. She instantly spotted Spike sitting near a large bay window, his white-blond hair shining in the low-lighting. He stood up when he saw her, a nervous smile on his face.

“Your sister not joining us?” Buffy asked once she’d sat down, for she’d half-expected the girl to be there. Not that she minded the privacy.

“Not tonight,” Spike replied. “She’s asleep. Besides, I invited you to dinner with me, not me and Dru.”

Buffy blushed. “Right, sorry.” After that, the conversation was stilted, the uneasy talk of two people who didn’t know one another very well.

Spike stared at her, his eyes taking in her face and outfit, while she droned on about something inconsequential. “You look beautiful,” he said, throwing her off.

“Oh, um, thanks.”

There was silence again, the background hum of the restaurant keeping it from getting too awkward.

“Want to look at the menu?” he asked, some moments later and Buffy nodded, the movement jangling her earrings.

***

The wine flowed, and talking to him became easier. There were moments of tense quiet but they were offset by a sudden rush of familiarity, of comfort when he spoke. His eyes danced with light and happiness as they spoke, and she knew that the same feelings were reflected in her own gaze.

“So,” Buffy said, spearing a piece of chicken on her fork and fixing him with an inscrutable stare. “The name Spike. Explain.”

“It’s not a very interesting story, love,” he said, but relented when she pouted. “School disco. Put a little of my dad’s whiskey into the punch and got half of Year Nine drunk. Let me tell you, a class full of fourteen-year-olds with a hangover isn’t a pretty sight. Teach gave me a right rollicking, an’ the name just stuck after that.”

“You’re right,” she said, amusement in her voice. “That wasn’t a very interesting story.”

“Hey now!”

“What? You said it yourself. You could come up with something really awe-inspiring to tell people, you know. Like, you got attacked by a maniac with a railroad-spike, and that’s how you got the scar in your eyebrow.”

Spike raised said eyebrow. “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?”

“I try.” Buffy sipped her wine and ducked her head, surprised at how much she was enjoying herself. She’d thought the phone-call with Liam might have dulled her fun, but Spike was sexy, smart, great to talk to and she was having a really good time.

“All right, love?” he asked, a moment later. “Gone a bit pensive on me.”

“Sorry,” she said and carefully placed her fork next to her knife on her empty plate. She pushed the plate away and leaned into the table, looking for all the world like she were about to impart some great secret to him. Spike mimicked her actions, coming closer, and the air was suddenly charged with anticipation. Buffy licked her lips before she spoke. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Spike let out a quick burst of laughter, and leaned back in his chair. “Thought you were gonna set the world to rights,” he said, then smirked. “Or at the very least give me a kiss.”

Buffy blushed.

“I dunno, really. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Me being here for this ghost week malarkey.” He paused, and frowned, thinking. “I don’t think death is the end. I think there’s something out there. Call it a ghost, call it a spirit, there’s something. But until I see it for myself…” He trailed off. “I’m sceptical, but open-minded, I reckon.”

Buffy nodded. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but something’s been bothering me since I got here, and then with Liam’s phone call…”

“Liam?”

“My ex,” Buffy said and was inwardly thrilled at the way Spike frowned and the muscle in his cheek clenched. “He called earlier, had some dire warning about a dark energy around me. Just made me wonder, that’s all. He didn’t know I was coming on this ghost week, and it all seems a bit coincidental.”

“You stick with me, pet,” Spike said, after a while of heavy silence. “I’ll keep you safe from all the evil ghosties.”

“Oh thank you, you big, strong man you,” Buffy said, dryly. “But I think I’m more scared of Simkins, than anything else!”

Spike chuckled and raised a hand for the waiter to come collect their dishes. “You up for dessert?”

Buffy nodded, feeling more content than she had in a while and not wanting the night to end.

***

After dinner, she and Spike had stayed in the hotel bar until last orders, when he’d walked her back to her room and left her with a chaste kiss on her cheek. Buffy had been more than a little tipsy, her skin prickly and hot with attraction, but looking back now, in the cold light of day, she was glad that a kiss on the cheek was all that had happened between them.

She dressed quickly, the bubble of excitement in her stomach growing as she thought of the day ahead. Simkins had some ghostly activity planned, details of which would be shared after breakfast, but it was seeing Spike again that had Buffy eager for the day to begin.

The restaurant was busier for breakfast than it had been for dinner the night before, and Buffy spotted several of the other people on the tour dotted around the room. Her eyes were immediately drawn to Spike, however, who was sitting at the same table they’d shared the night before. Drusilla was with him this morning. Although Buffy knew she should have expected his sister to be there, she still felt slightly disappointed not to have him to herself, and more than a little unnerved by Dru’s presence.

She shook the feeling away and moved towards the table, her face lighting up when she saw how pleased Spike seemed to see her. “Morning!” she said brightly, hovering awkwardly next to the table for a moment before choosing the seat to the right of Spike rather than opposite him.

“Morning, love,” Spike said, and the warmth in his voice made her shiver.

“Hello.” Drusilla spoke loudly and clearly and with a certain curiosity to her voice. “William tells me you had a lovely dinner last night.”

“We did,” Buffy replied, meeting the girl’s wide-eyed blue gaze for the first time, then directing her next words at Spike. “I had a great time. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Great, thanks.” Buffy lied and blushed as she remembered how hard she’d found it to drop off to sleep, her mind filled with thoughts of Spike.

The set breakfast was served a few moments later: a full plate of bacon, sausage, eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, toast and something that made Buffy shudder—black pudding.

“You know,” she said, pushing the offending item to the side of her plate in distaste, “I’ve lived in England for eight years now, and I still haven’t gotten used to how gross some of your food is. Blood sausage first thing in the morning? Yuck.” She wrinkled her nose.

“S’not that bad,” Spike said. “Besides, it’s not like you Yanks don’t have your fair share of nastiness. Like… meatloaf. Is it a meat, is it a loaf? No one knows!”

“Point,” Buffy conceded, but she didn’t touch the black pudding, and at the end of the meal it was still there on her plate.

***

Simkins gathered all the members of the group in the lounge after breakfast. In addition to Buffy, Spike, Drusilla, and the three elderly women they’d met at the ferry port, there was a youngish couple with a teenage boy, two middle-aged gentlemen, and a grungy-looking, long-haired man. It was an eclectic mix.

“Osborne House,” Simkins shouted, without preamble. “Perhaps the most famous of the island’s attractions. Why, Queen Victoria herself holidayed and even died there. It’s said to be one of the most haunted places on the island—not the most haunted, of course—we’ll see that one in a couple of days’ time. Now—” He stood and clapped his hands together. “I’d like us ready to leave in half an hour, please. It’s a rather long drive up to Cowes. Sensible shoes only,” he added, eyeing the heeled boots Buffy had put on to go to breakfast. “The house is large, and the grounds larger.”

Buffy followed Spike and Drusilla back upstairs, where she excused herself to go to her room, feeling slightly put out that she’d been singled out for her choice in footwear. She pulled off the offending boots and changed into a sensible, and not at all sexy, pair of sneakers.

She busied herself with touching up her make-up and pulling a brush through her hair, and finally checked the contents of her handbag: purse, cell, keys, and all the other essential accoutrements.

Despite her reservations about the trip, she found herself quite excited about the visit to Osborne House. It would be a lie, though, if she said it was anything other than the prospect of a day out with Spike that had her most looking forward to it.

Ready at last, she locked her room and made her way downstairs.

A high-pitched wail stopped her in her tracks, and she turned towards the noise. Spike and Drusilla were half-in, half-out of the door to their suite, with Drusilla holding onto the doorframe, petulance on her face.

“I won’t go! You can’t make me!”

“Dru.” Spike’s voice was patient, but Buffy could sense his rising annoyance. “Come on.”

“No. I’m tired; I want to rest.”

“You’ve been looking forward to this holiday for ages!” Spike said. “Dragged me along, too. Stop being stupid.”

“No! I won't be the gooseberry!” Drusilla said, then laughed. “You’ll thank me later. Besides, Miss Edith and I don’t like Victoria at all. We shan’t go to her house.”

Spike sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “Fine, do what you like. Just be careful if you go out, okay? And don’t come crying to me later, when you wish you’d come on the trip.”

“Oh, I won’t go out,” Drusilla said. “You have fun! Look, there’s Buffy.”

With a wink and a smile to her brother, she retreated into her room, and left him standing in the corridor with a bewildered look on his face. He turned to see Buffy and gave her a little shrug. “She can be difficult,” he said apologetically.

Buffy had no doubt that Drusilla was, in her own way, trying to play matchmaker. She kept quiet on that matter, however, and led the way downstairs, feeling intensely thrilled when she caught Spike staring after her.

Chapter Three

Osborne House was impressive looking—grand not only in stature, but in design, too. The palazzo-style building was a chalky-cream colour and looked very majestic indeed against the backdrop of the bright blue sky.

Buffy had been a little apprehensive on arrival; to reach the house you had to walk along the sweeping driveway and through the gardens, and Liam’s ominous warning rang in her head. Don’t go into any gardens. She shook the feeling off with a shrug of her shoulders and followed the group up the steps and towards the visitor’s entrance to the house.

Simkins waited until everyone was gathered near the welcome desk before starting the tour, and Buffy put all thoughts of Liam and his ridiculous premonitions out of her mind.

As their guide, Simkins took them around the house, telling tales of the ghostly Queen Victoria haunting the upstairs corridors, mourning the loss of her husband. The mysterious sound of bagpipes was often heard in the garden late at night, he assured them.

Despite not truly believing in the supernatural, Buffy couldn’t help but get caught up in the rich stories Simkins told, as he weaved together the pieces of a ghostly patchwork that stretched back generations. She was enthralled.

The tour took up most of the morning, and, when it was finished, Simkins set them free to explore the grounds and gardens on their own, recommending the cream tea at the café. Reminding them to be back in the car park by four, he settled himself down with a picnic blanket and a book.

Buffy didn’t even have to ask Spike if he wanted to go with her; he fell into step almost immediately, and they stared at one another shyly.

The gardens were beautiful even now, so late in the season, and as immaculate as any Buffy had seen. She said as much to Spike.

“You ought to see Kew in the summer,” he said. “Breathtaking.”

“I should try and visit more places,” she replied, with a sigh. “Giles used to be all about taking us around the museums and stately homes when we first got here. I kinda miss that.”

“We? Giles?” Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Oh! Sorry. Dawn—my sister—and I. And Giles is my step-dad. Mom moved us over here when she and Giles got married.”

“How’d they meet?”

“He used to be a curator for the British Museum, and my mom owned an art gallery. There was some kind of a charity benefit going on at the gallery, and that’s where they met. Giles said it was love at first sight, but my mom is always saying that it was love the first time she heard him talk.” She shot Spike a sideways glance. “She’s always been crazy about the British accent.”

“And how about you?” Spike asked, lightly. “What accent sends you all a-quiver?”

“The Irish one used to make me all knee-shaky,” Buffy said. “One cheating ex-boyfriend later and I’m so not seeing the appeal anymore. In fact—” she shot him a sly glance “—I’m finding a lot more to like about the English accent lately.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Buffy said and let his deep voice roll over her. “Definitely.”

They passed under the shade of a wide-branched tree, and Spike paused. “Want to sit for a bit?” he asked, gesturing towards the ground.

She nodded and inspected the ground thoroughly for mud before sitting down. Satisfied that she wouldn’t get her jeans dirty, she tucked her legs beneath her and settled back against the trunk of the tree. Spike sat down beside her, his arm lightly touching hers, and they were quiet for a couple of moments, taking in the silent beauty of the place.

It was late in the season, so there weren't many visitors other than the group from the ghost tour. The grounds were quiet and peaceful, vibrant with colour and alight with the scent of a hundred autumnal flowers. It was warm, for England in October, especially after the dreary weather of the day before.

"Do you feel anything?" Buffy asked, after a while. Spike frowned, the colour rising on his cheeks, and Buffy blanched, realising how her question had sounded. "I mean, ghost-wise,” she hastened to explain. “Simkins said that sometimes you can tell when there's a presence around..." Trailing off, she plucked at the grass and waited for Spike to reply.

"Not really," he said, and reached across to still her restless hand. "Nothing ghostly, anyway. Have to say, I thought you were asking me something else for a moment there."

"And if I had been?" Buffy asked despite herself, her heart in her mouth.

"In that case," Spike said, slowly. "I'd say yes. I definitely feel something."

"Oh."

"You don't sound too happy," he said, and Buffy could hear a false light-hearted tone to his voice, as if he were trying to protect himself from whatever she would say next.

She hesitated. “I… just feel like I should know what form these feelings take, you know? ‘Cos we only met yesterday—but it feels like I’ve known you so much longer than that. We should take things slowly, right? There’s no rush. Or is there a rush? We’re only here for a week… Oh God, I'm babbling. Babble-Buffy, so not attractive—”

She looked up from the ground to see Spike staring at her fondly, before he leaned in and silenced her with a kiss on the lips. It was quick, barely more than a peck, but Buffy felt the effects all the way from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She pulled back and stared at him, wide-eyed. “What was that for?”

“Couldn’t help myself.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Been wanting to do that all day. Since last night, even.”

“You—you don’t think it’s too soon?” Buffy asked. She felt like it was, in a way, but at the same time she wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Spike and never let go.

She’d never felt this sort of instant attraction and deep connection with anyone before. Liam had been in her classes at university and he’d been her friend prior to becoming her lover. This was different. Spike was different. She’d never been one for taking chances or living in the moment. Perhaps that should change. She should Carpe the Diem.

Mind made up to trust her instincts, follow her heart, and see where things led her, she leaned back towards Spike’s questioning gaze and kissed him.

***

They rejoined the group in the car park, holding hands and grinning like silly schoolchildren.

As well as the kissing—and there’d been a lot of that—they’d talked, sharing stories to get to know one another. She’d told him how she’d just started work as a nurse after finishing her degree the previous year, how stressful but rewarding she found the job, and how this vacation was sorely needed, despite not being her first choice of destination.

In turn, she’d learned that Spike was a teacher, and that had surprised her. It wasn’t what she’d have pegged for him, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that it suited him. He’d talked a little more about Drusilla and her illness, and how he, along with their older brother Wesley, helped to take care of her.

By the time they arrived back at the minibus, Buffy believed she knew Spike far better than before and she felt much more comfortable jumping into whatever this thing was between them. She hoped he viewed things the same way. Precedence kept her from thinking too far ahead but she’d found out that they both lived in the suburbs of London—opposing ends of the city but close enough for a tube ride—should they want to take things further once the week was over.

Simkins eyed them with a knowing glint when they approached the bus, a smug grin on his face as if to say, “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Buffy blushed and, when she turned to look at Spike, she saw that he’d gone a similar shade of red but was smirking.

Simkins didn’t say anything, however, and they all traipsed onto the bus, settling in for the long, and inevitably bumpy, ride back to the hotel.

***

Nothing ghostly had been planned for the evening, but Buffy felt suddenly full of energy. After seeing Spike back to his room with a promise to join him and Drusilla for dinner, she returned to her own, but found herself too restless to settle down.

She left her room and wandered downstairs to the hotel lobby. Behind the reception desk sat a girl who looked to be around Buffy’s age, and for that Buffy was grateful. Had it been someone older—Simkins’ age for example—she’d probably be recommended the local church bingo.

“Hi,” she said approaching the desk and coming to a stop in front of it. “Do you know if there are any clubs around here?”

“Not many,” the girl replied. “There’s Bogey’s, that’s not far.”

“Bogey’s?” Buffy asked, incredulously.

“Colonel Bogey’s.” The girl nodded. “Know how silly it sounds, but it’s a bit of an institution—been around for years. It’s good for dancing.”

“Is it far?”

“About fifteen minutes by car. I can call you a taxi…?”

“That’d be great,” Buffy replied. “I just need to check in with someone first. I’ll ring down if I do need a cab.”

“All right. Just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said with a smile, then headed back upstairs and to the door of Spike’s suite. She knocked twice and waited. She heard footsteps from behind the door before it opened, and had to bite back a gasp at the sight that met her eyes: Spike, wearing nothing more than a towel, his hair and body damp from the shower.

“Um… hi,” she said, trying very hard not to stare.

“Buffy!” Spike sounded surprised to see her, and ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. “I thought we weren’t meeting till half-seven?”

“Yeah, about that…” she replied, her eyes following the path of a water droplet as it travelled from his collarbone, down his chest and stomach, and finally disappeared into the Vee of his hips at the waistband of his towel. She gulped. “I thought we could take a rain-check on dinner and go dancing instead? Dru, too.” She added as an afterthought, not wanting to exclude Spike’s sister. “I asked the girl at the reception desk, and there’s a club not too far away. If you’re interested…?”

“Why, Miss Summers,” Spike said, teasingly, “are you asking me out on a date?”

“We were already going on a date,” Buffy replied with a roll of her eyes, though she couldn’t help the smile that formed on her lips.

“Dancing it is, then.”

“Great! Meet you downstairs in about an hour?”

Returning to her room, Buffy showered in record time, excitement propelling her movements. She took a little longer to choose an outfit, eventually settling on a black dress, then did her hair and make-up.

By the time she was done, it was almost eight, so she made her way downstairs. There was no sign of Spike yet, but she did see Drusilla sitting on a chair in the lobby. Buffy approached her hesitantly; she was still slightly uncomfortable in the other woman’s presence despite the rapport she’d built with her brother.

“Hello,” Dru said, standing when Buffy reached her. “William’s forgotten his wallet. He’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

Drusilla hummed something under her breath before speaking again. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow?” Buffy asked. “Simkins hasn’t exactly been all that forthcoming with the itinerary.”

“We’ve got a vigil!” Dru seemed ecstatic at the thought. “In amongst the flowers. See if we can talk to any friendly ghosties.” She licked her lips.

Buffy looked away, not sure how to respond. She was saved by heavy footsteps on the stairs and the appearance of Spike, his cheeks flushed.

“Sorry.” He held up his wallet. “Forgot this.”

“It’s all right,” Buffy replied. “I don’t think the taxi’s here yet, anyway.”

Spike nodded and they fell into silence. Buffy wanted him to take her hand or greet her with a kiss—she’d even settle for one on the cheek—but it felt wrong to do so with Drusilla standing right there, staring at them curiously.

“Uh-oh,” Dru sang, suddenly. “Nursie doesn’t like me.” She sent Buffy a sharp look and a wicked smile, and Buffy shifted uncomfortably.

“Dru,” Spike interjected, “leave Buffy alone. She was nice enough to invite you tonight, wasn’t she?”

“All right, William. I’ll behave.” She pouted, crossed her legs primly and looked down at her lap.

Spike mouthed ‘sorry’ at Buffy, just as the hotel doors pushed open and a man entered the lobby. “Taxi for Summers?”

“That’s us!” Buffy jumped up—anything to get away from the strained atmosphere Drusilla’s comment had forced them into. She was starting to regret organising the night out.

They piled into the cab, Drusilla in the front next to the driver, Buffy and Spike sitting on opposite sides of the backseat. Buffy’s discomfort was slightly assuaged when Spike took her hand in his, and she thought that the night might not be a total loss.

***

Bogey’s turned out to be a lot like every other night club that Buffy had been to: loud, crowded and thrumming with life.

Spike had bought a round of drinks on their arrival, and Buffy sipped at hers now, watching Drusilla dance. The girl swayed alone, her movements long and slow despite the fast beat of the song.

Buffy felt her feet tap in time to the music, then her glass was taken from her by Spike, who held out his free hand.

“Dance?”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. They moved slightly awkwardly at first, his hands darting from her hips to her shoulders and back, finally settling at her waist. Soon, however, they found a rhythm and the dance began properly. The song had a low, sultry beat and their movements soon matched it perfectly.

They danced for some time, with Spike pausing every now and then to make sure Drusilla was okay but never leaving Buffy alone for long.

Eventually they slowed, until Buffy admitted defeat and returned to the table.

“I’ll get us some water,” Spike said, and she nodded gratefully. Her face felt hot and blotchy from the energetic dancing.

Spike was at the bar for some time and, in his absence, Drusilla returned. She sat down next to Buffy and sent her a bright smile. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m having such a good time.” She sounded more lucid than Buffy had heard her yet.

“I’m glad.” Buffy glanced at the bar, where Spike still waited in line, before returning her attention to the woman next to her. “Drusilla, listen, I hope you don’t feel like I’m imposing too much. I feel kinda bad that you’ve come away with your brother and he’s spending all his time with me.”

“Oh don't worry, pet,” she replied. “I’m pleased for you. Goodness knows William deserves some happiness. Besides, it's all falling into place. Everything is going as planned.”

Buffy raised her head sharply. “What did you say? What’s planned?”

“Hmm?”

“You said that everything is going according to plan.”

“Simkins plan, of course!” Drusilla looked away towards the dance floor. “Oh, look at all the lovely colours!”

Buffy sighed. She'd lost her; the lucidity of the past few moments had faded. Instead of trying to draw Dru back into conversation, Buffy sat back and waited for Spike to return with their drinks.

***

His kiss tasted of alcohol and chocolate, a heady combination. He had her pressed against the door to her room, and was giving her a very pleasant goodnight. It felt as if every inch of him was pressed to her, and his hands were never still, roving over her body without pause.

Buffy broke the kiss and let her head fall back against the door. She gasped for breath but barely had a chance before Spike captured her lips once more.

When she felt his hand slip under the hem of her skirt, she pulled back, set her hands on the firm planes of his chest, and lightly pushed him away. “Spike, stop.”

He pulled back, confusion mixing with the lust that danced on his face. “Something wrong? This not okay?”

“It's okay.” Buffy swallowed heavily. “More than okay. That's the problem.”

“I don't understand.”

“This.” She gestured between them. “I like you a lot and I don't want to ruin it by rushing into something we're not ready for.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I... couldn't exactly think straight and if we carried on...”

“I understand,” Spike said. “Feel the same way.”

“You do? You're not disappointed?”

“Gotta admit, a little bit. But I'd rather wait.” He smiled, then leaned in to kiss her slowly and languidly. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” she managed to reply.

***

Chapter Four

Like the previous morning, Simkins gathered everyone together in the lounge after breakfast, to reveal the day’s plans. “I bet you’re all wondering what the big secret is, eh?”

Buffy shot Drusilla a sharp glance, wondering how she’d known if it had been kept quiet until now. The brunette’s attention was riveted on Simkins, however.

“Tonight,” he continued, “we will be visiting Ventnor Botanic Gardens and conducting an overnight vigil. We’ll be joined by my Medium friend, Alison DuVall, who will hopefully contact some spirits for us! I’d recommend getting plenty of rest today, friends; we’re leaving at five o’ clock sharp and we won’t be back until the early hours of tomorrow morning. Dress warmly, bring supplies, and, most of all, keep your wits about you!”

A whispered murmur ran through the group, but Buffy paid it no mind. Was this what Liam had warned her against? A night spent in the dark with the aim of contacting ghosts was enough to give anyone a fright, but after what he had said…

Then again, she had spent all afternoon in the gardens at Osborne House the day before and nothing amiss had happened. She shook her head, dismissing the whole thing as nonsense for the last time and vowing to herself that she wouldn’t think of her ex anymore.

By the time she came back to herself, the lounge had mostly cleared, and only Spike and a couple of the other members of the group remained.

Spike tapped her hand to get her attention. “Was there anything you wanted to do today?”

“Um, not really,” she replied. “To be honest, I was expecting there to be something going on. I knew this trip was going to be slow-paced, but I didn’t realise we’d almost be going backwards.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, then yawned. “Although I could do with a rest. Late night last night.”

“Oh?” Buffy tried to hide a smile. “Go anywhere nice?”

“Well… I went dancing with the prettiest girl on the island. Had a few drinks, shared a few kisses.” He smirked before continuing flippantly. “Nothing special.”

“Hey!” Buffy hit the top of his arm lightly, biting her lip. “Prettiest, huh?”

“Oh yeah. By miles.”

Neither spoke for a moment, until Buffy realised that the lounge had emptied out and they were alone. “Where did Drusilla go?”

“Couple of the others were off to a little village—Godshill,” he said. “Dru asked if she could tag along.”

“You’re okay with that?” Her voice was light. She didn’t want to overstep her boundaries.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I… try not to smother her. Wes’d probably have a go at me; he never likes her going off on her own. But she’s not a child.”

“It must be difficult.”

“Definitely. Dad left when we were kids, and when Mum died it was just the three of us. I was sixteen—Wes was twenty-three, so he applied for guardianship. Had to fight for it, but he got it in the end. We’ve looked after Dru between us ever since.”

“You were so young,” Buffy said. “My mom… she was sick, recently. A brain tumour—cancer. She’s better now.” She added the last sentence hurriedly. “But God, if anything had happened I don’t think I’d have coped myself, let alone have been able to take care of Dawn.”

“There’ve been times when I wondered if it would have been easier just to let someone else look after her, then I just feel really guilty for even considering it.” He frowned and shook his head. “Bloody hell, this conversation took a turn for the morose.”

“I don’t mind,” Buffy said quickly. “We can talk about it if you like. Or not. Whichever.”

Spike suddenly leaned in very close, his eyes fixed on hers, his stare intense. “I like you, Buffy Summers.”

She swallowed, somewhat nervously. There was something so very familiar about those eyes… The moment was lost when he sat back in his chair and stretched.

“Feel like getting some hot chocolate and watching a couple of films with me, love? Snuggle down and see what they’ve got on the old pay-per-view?”

Buffy nodded. In that moment, nothing sounded better.

***

It was dark when they left the hotel, but the night was crisp, clear and—according to Simkins—perfect for contacting the spirit world.

The latter had dressed for the occasion, the combination of waistcoat, cape and walking-stick adding to his eccentricity.

Buffy had dressed warmly in jeans, sweater, and thick winter coat, and she buried her hands in the deep pockets as the bus trundled along the winding island roads. Leaning her head against Spike’s shoulder, she allowed herself to drift off slightly, Drusilla’s excited babble about her day out in Godshill strangely comforting.

It didn’t take long for the bus to get them to their destination. It pulled to a stop with a grumbling wheeze of the engine, jolting Buffy from her drowsy state. She followed everyone out of the van and peered into the surrounding darkness. The immediate area around the parking lot was well-lit, and a security light flickered on and off at the entrance, but other than that the darkness was absolute. She could definitely see the need for flashlights and she clicked hers on, aiming it towards the building to her left.

A flash of something—a vision of a much larger, more foreboding building, made of dark-red brick and with wide glass windows—filled her mind, making her stumble backwards. She jumped when warm hands caught her from behind.

“All right?” It was Spike.

“Y-yeah,” she said. “Just thought I saw…” She shook her head. “Nevermind.”

Simkins led the group over to the entrance of the gardens, where he climbed up onto a wall and cleared his throat, gesturing for silence. Before he could speak, Buffy’s phone rang, the jaunty ringtone sounding overly loud and harsh in the silence. She fumbled in her pocket and winced when she saw the display. Liam. Her finger hovered over the answer button, but she ended the call with a resolute glare. Turning the phone off, she put it back into her pocket sheepishly, all the while wondering why he had called again—and why now.

Simkins nodded approvingly and set an extravagant hat on his head before continuing to speak.

…he saw you in a garden, with a man in a top hat.

Buffy felt suddenly dizzy and she leaned heavily on Spike’s arm. He shot her a concerned glance, and she smiled back weakly, mouthing, “I’m okay.” It was a lie. She didn’t feel well and she definitely didn’t want to go into the gardens anymore. She didn’t want to participate in the vigil, but what choice did she have? She could remain with the group and find comfort in their presence, or stay in the parking lot on her own. It was an easy decision, so she focused her attention on Simkins once more.

“Before we begin, I'd like to introduce you to Ms. Alison DuVall, one of the most renowned Mediums in the country.” Simkins swept his arm to the side, the gesture so over-the-top that, teamed with the outfit, it lent him a theatrical air. Buffy found this relaxed her a little. “Alison,” he continued, “will try to focus our collective energy to enable us to contact the many spirits that haunt this site. Come; let us walk a little way into the gardens.”

He led the group through the entrance and into the gardens. Every so often, a lantern lit the way, and they followed the path until it opened out onto a wide courtyard with a decorative pond in the middle. A light flashed on from the visitor’s centre behind them, illuminating the area and lighting up Simkins, who had stepped onto the wall surrounding the pond, his own lamp held high.

“Let me take you on a journey into the past,” he began. “The year is eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, and construction of a revolutionary hospital has just ended: The Royal National Hospital for Diseases of the Chest. The hospital, as its name reveals, is built to receive and treat patients suffering from Consumption, and its location is perfect for its cause—” a wide sweeping gesture with both arms accentuated his next words. “—sheltered by the tall Ventnor cliffs and overlooking the English Channel, it provides patients with the optimal environment for their recovery.”

An obviously practiced glumness overcame his features and his voice turned grave. “Even that, though, is not enough. Despite their efforts and the quality of treatment they offer the patients, doctors and nurses are not infallible, and the medical science still has a long way to go—for every patient who recovers, several more die from the terrible disease. It is those poor souls who now haunt the gardens and its surrounding areas.” He paused dramatically. “Tonight, we will attempt to contact these spirits and perhaps help them to move on. If you will all follow me, we will see which of you can sense the Dark Entity…”

A hospital. Buffy saw again in her mind's eye that flash of the long, forbidding building, bleak in its intensity. Dizziness overcame her once more, and she reached out to touch the wall of the pond to steady herself. The cold stone centered her a little, and she sent a wobbly smile to Spike when he looked at her questioningly.

“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked, brow creased in worry.

“The atmosphere's getting to me, I think,” she said, not wanting to let on just how shaken she really was.

“If you're sure.” Spike took her arm, not very convinced. “We've fallen behind, come on.”

They hurried after the group, Drusilla's long trailing dress the only thing in sight, and caught up as Simkins came to a stop in front of a dense corner of trees.

***

Buffy found it difficult to concentrate on the rest of the tour. She felt as if she were moving in a haze, forcing her way through suffocating tar, and she clung to Spike’s arm as though her life depended on it.

Simkins showed them the old hospital incinerator, and a secret tunnel to the beach that had been used for disposing of medical waste, but she couldn’t find it in herself to get excited about any of it. Not even when one of the other members of the group snapped a photograph on their digital camera showing a blurred, misty shape in the background.

Eventually, the walk came to an end, and they gathered once more by the pond, where hot mugs of tea were handed around. The picnic benches outside the visitors’ centre were damp with dew, leaving everyone no other option but to stand and mill around the courtyard.

Buffy was content to keep to herself as her uneasiness had yet to dissipate, but Spike moved from person to person, chatting and laughing. She watched him, warmth filling her insides at the sight of his smile, the tilt of his head. She sighed. She was falling hard and fast, and she was helpless to stop it.

“Dunno about you, but I’m feeling a bit spooked.” Buffy felt Spike's words from behind her, like a rush of warm air in her ear, and his arms slipped around her waist. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with her restlessness of before.

She turned in his arms and tried to smile. “I know what you mean. There’s… something about this place.” She slid her hand into his, and he squeezed it reassuringly.

“Dru’s in her element though,” he said, nodding towards his sister, who was talking animatedly to Simkins. “Says she feels connected. God knows what that means.”

The sound of a throat being cleared turned attention to Simkins once more. “It's almost midnight,” the man said. “We must prepare for our vigil.”

“The witching hour,” Drusilla murmured, eyes alight. “I can’t wait.”

***

Silence descended on the group as they walked to the area Alison had prepared for the vigil. In an isolated corner of the gardens, surrounded by trees and lit now with an abundance of candles, she stood waiting. She held a book in one hand and a small pendant in the other; objects from the old hospital to focus the vigil.

The natural noises of the night echoed all around: the occasional shuffling of an animal in the undergrowth, an owl flapping its wings overhead, and the far off sound of waves crashing on the shore of the beach at the foot of the cliff. Buffy heard it all as though it were amplified, the sounds resonating deep within her bones, and she wondered if this was what Dru had meant when she’d said she felt connected.

Something was pulling deep within her, leading her down a path she didn’t understand and, whilst it should have scared her, it instead caused a profound calm to settle over her. She turned to Spike, wanting to share this strange realisation.

One look at him and the serenity slid away, panic taking its place. He’d turned ashen, his face devoid of all colour and his skin clammy. Buffy touched her hand to his forehead and her eyes widened. He was burning up. Spike shook his head and backed away, his body suddenly wracked with coughs. He collapsed to his knees, one hand splayed across his chest.

He met her eyes. “Buffy. Hurts… can’t breathe.”

She fell to her knees beside him, her hands running all over his body but never settling in one place for long. She didn’t know what she could do to help him; all her nurse’s training and knowledge had become a scattered mess in her mind.

Spike coughed again, the spasms seemingly never-ending. Buffy could hear worried shouts and murmurs all around her, see hands that were not her own touch Spike’s shoulders and arms, but they seemed hazy and far away.

“You’re all right,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “You’ll be okay.” He shivered uncontrollably and coughed again, and Buffy was horrified to see specks of blood around his mouth.

Vaguely, in the distance, she heard someone talking, asking for an ambulance. Another voice kept exclaiming over and over that a spirit had got in him, that he was possessed.

But it was Drusilla’s voice that rang out loud and clear over the panicked din, her tone measured and lucid. “It’s time.”

From somewhere far away, a church bell struck twelve, and its clanging chimes were the last thing Buffy heard—a harsh ringing in her ear—before the air around her shuddered, and everything went dark.

***

Part Two

Chapter Five

May 1888

It was funny how things worked out sometimes, William thought.

If anyone had asked him a year, or even six months ago, what he’d wanted to make of his life, he’d have had an idealistic answer ready: married to Cecily, the woman he’d loved for as long as he could remember, perhaps with a child on the way, his scribblings worth something more than the paper they were written on.

Not, as he found himself now, alone in the world, on his way to what he inwardly feared would be more like a prison than a hospital.

He’d promised his mother, though. Her dying wish had been for her son to be well again. To be free of the disease that had claimed her life. And so, when Dr. Grey had suggested he become a patient at the Royal National Hospital for Diseases of the Chest, William had felt he couldn’t refuse.

The news of Cecily’s impending marriage to Charles Letts had only hastened his decision. Besides, it would do him good to get out of London for a time. Away from the smoke and smog, yes, but also away from his peers, those who had so cruelly mocked him for daring to have an interest in poetry.

William sighed and turned his attention once more to the approaching view. It was... green. For a man who had rarely left the city, it was a sight to behold. He stood, moved closer to the railing, and tried not to look down at the waves churning around the boat. The island approached ever more hastily, until finally the ferry made port with a bump that nearly shook him from his feet.

Here we go.

William had lost everything in London: his family, the woman he loved, his dignity, and his health. He could only hope that by going to the hospital, he would gain the latter back, and become well again.

Perhaps coming to the Island would give him, too, some of Tennyson’s luck with poetry.

***

The hospital looked a lot less like a prison than William had imagined and it was certainly grander than he'd thought it would be, with its deep red brick, large glass windows, and the most wondrous view of the sea. Dr. Grey, who had accompanied him from London in order to take up a position at the hospital, took him around to the back of the building, and the sight almost took William’s breath away: verdant gardens ablaze with colourful flowers, picturesque cabins nestled between trees, and—best of all—that fantastic ocean view.

William looked back towards the hospital, surprised to see patients sitting out on verandas in the open air, nurses bustling between them.

“Are you sure this is a hospital?” he breathed, turning to Dr. Grey, his eyes alight. “I've never seen such a beautiful sight.” His palms itched with the urge to capture the view on paper.

Dr. Grey chuckled. “Don’t be fooled, William. The location helps, certainly, but you mustn’t forget that you're here to recover.”

“Yes, well.” William paused, hit by a sudden pain in his chest, and he didn't know if it were a true symptom of his illness or caused by the power of suggestion.

“Come on,” Dr. Grey said. “We’ll get you sorted out, and perhaps the matron will find someone to take you around the gardens.”

The doctor left him with the stern looking ward matron, who very nearly managed to get William into a wheelchair for his tour of the hospital grounds.

“I am a fair woman, Mr. Pratt,” she said, her lined face creasing earnestly, “but I do insist that all new patients see the gardens in a chair. Some of the paths are steep, and the walk can be quite a strain on the chest.”

“I assure you, Ma’am, that I am fully capable of walking these grounds myself.”

Perhaps the matron had seen the determination in his eyes, because she sighed and relented. “Very well. I’ll have one of my senior nurses take you around. Wait here.”

The matron exited the room, leaving William to recline in the hard-backed chair. She’d left the door ajar, and he peered out into the corridor, the silence of the hospital not quite what he had expected. He could hear the sound of footsteps on floorboards and the occasional shouted command, but nothing like the hustle and bustle of his pre-conceived notions.

When the matron returned, he asked why the hospital seemed so quiet.

“New ward,” she said briskly. “You’re amongst the first of the patients under my care, Mr. Pratt. I expect we’ll be busier come autumn. Now follow me, please.” She led the way outside, where a nurse waited meekly in the hallway. “This is Nurse Lewis,” the matron said, turning her attention to the other woman. “Lewis, no more than one hour outside. Mr. Pratt will need to get settled in properly this afternoon.”

“Yes, Matron.” The nurse bobbed her head and glanced at William. She was a scrawny thing and looked close to sixty, though William imagined she’d be much younger in reality. Black hair streaked with grey peeked from under her cap, and the stiff, starched folds of her uniform dress rustled when she moved. “Come along then, Mr. Pratt, or Matron will have my hide for dallying.”

William nodded and followed her outside. It was a lovely sunny afternoon and, as he walked amongst the flowerbeds, he thought that he should find Dr. Grey and thank him for bringing him to the island. He was feeling better already.

Nurse Lewis didn’t say much but pointed out that the little chalets dotted around the gardens were for the patients to rest in, should they feel ill when out and about in the grounds.

Coughing slightly when they came to the crest of a small hill, William asked if he could rest a while in one of the chalets. There he sat and let himself relax a little. Overlooking the sea, watching the waters glint madly in the afternoon sunshine, he once again longed for paper and pen.

A sudden clattering sound drew his attention away from the ocean, and he turned to see a hunched figure dressed in a nurse’s uniform, bent over a wicker basket and picking up scattered shells and pebbles from the ground.

“Did she trip?” William asked. “Should we help her?”

“Leave her to it,” Nurse Lewis replied after glancing at the girl, disdain on her face.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The answer was firm. “See? She’s finished now. Better left to her own devices, that one.”

William watched as the girl stood up and balanced the basket on her hip, swiping back a strand of dark blonde hair that had escaped from her bun. She looked to him suddenly, her eyes wide when they met his. Colour filled her cheeks, perhaps at the thought that someone had witnessed her fall, and she hurried along the path towards the hospital.

“She’s a nurse?” William murmured, following the girl with his eyes as she retreated.

“She’s the niece of Sister Maclay,” Nurse Lewis said stiffly. “Odd girl and the clumsiest nurse I ever did see.” She stood, and gestured to the path. “Enough gossip. Do you feel well enough to return to the hospital? Matron will want to see you settled in with one of the ward sisters.”

“Yes, of course.” William rose too, his mind still on the young nurse. “Nurse Lewis,” he said, earning a ‘tch’ from the older woman. “What does she do with the seashells?”

“She takes them to the patients who are too ill to leave their beds,” the nurse replied. “Odd, as I said.”

William nodded thoughtfully but said no more and followed her back to the hospital.

***

A dancing light
Upon crashing wave,
Glimmers softly
‘Twixt night and day
A lonesome smile
Hark! The bluebird cries

“Blast!” William threw his pen down with such force, the ink spattered across the page, rendering the words illegible. Screwing up the paper, he added it to the ever-growing pile at the edge of the desk. Never mind the spill, the poem had been unreadable even before being covered in ink.

In his mind, the lines were fully formed, the stanzas perfect representations of the beauty he wanted to describe. When he tried to put it on paper, however, he ended up with a horrible mess of words that made no sense whatsoever.

Stretching, he stood up from the desk and moved to sit in the chair by the window. It was raining outside, otherwise he’d have been sitting on the veranda, enjoying the view. He rather liked that the doctors and nurses considered that a treatment; every day, presuming that the weather held, all patients would be escorted onto their balconies for a lungful of fresh sea air.

He shared a room with only two others, though there was space enough for eight. Daniel Osborne, a fellow Londoner, and Alasdair Anderson from Scotland, also suffered from Consumption and were at a similar level of ill-health as William.

Both men were of comparable social standing to William, but then they’d have to be to afford the level of care at the hospital. Given their status, William had been rather reluctant to let on about his enjoyment of poetry—remembering the reactions of his peers back in London—and almost two full weeks had passed before he’d felt comfortable enough to write in their presence.

They had been curious but polite, and for that William was thankful. From then on, it seemed that his writing tools rarely left his hands.

The sound of clipped footsteps met his ears, and he sighed. Sister Maclay doing her rounds of the wards. William looked to the door of the room, and, sure enough, the ward sister entered a few moments later. He was surprised to see that she was not accompanied by Nurse Lewis, as usual, but instead a young nurse with dark-blond hair. She seemed familiar to William, but it took him a few moments to place her… the seashell girl!

He blushed as he remembered a scribbling from early on in his stay, where he’d cast the girl as a mythical creature in the beginning of an epic poem. He had started it on a whim, not expecting to see her again.

Eerily she dances
In night time’s ebony gaze.
Wings of fine gossamer…

William was snapped from his remembrance of the lines by a touch to his hand, and he glanced up to see Sister Maclay frowning down at him. “Honestly, Mr. Pratt, stained hands again? Am I going to have to confiscate your ink?”

“No!” William said in alarm, feeling much as if he were a child again. Sister Maclay had that effect and rather reminded him of his own mother. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

“William’s a poet,” Sister Maclay said, turning to address the young nurse. “Maybe one day he’ll be famous, and we can say we knew him, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, no. I’m not—I’m no good.” William stumbled over his words as the nurse—Elizabeth—looked over and he realised she was beautiful.

“Perhaps you’ll consent to read us some,” Elizabeth said, and William was sure he detected a smile in her voice. “One day soon.”

He wanted nothing more than to gather his papers together and clutch them to his chest, but he couldn’t allow himself to be rude to this girl. “Perhaps,” he said, with a tight smile.

Elizabeth left Daniel’s bedside and joined Sister Maclay by the window. “It’s brightening up,” she commented. “We’ll be able to get the patients outside after lunch.”

“Yes.” Sister Maclay nodded and turned to address the room. “Gentlemen, Nurse Lewis has unfortunately been taken ill. This is Nurse Summers, my niece. She’ll be helping me from now on.”

“I didnae think she could,” Alasdair said, sceptically. “Young lass like her, on the men’s ward. Not done, is it?”

“Needs must, Mr. Anderson. We’re short-staffed as it is, and Elizabeth is a good worker. She has earned my trust.”

William submitted to Sister Maclay’s examination silently, coughing when she said so, flinching when her cold hands tested the temperature of his forehead. Elizabeth kept back, observing.

“Nurse Summers will be along with your lunch shortly,” Sister Maclay said finally, on her way out of the room. “Then we’ll see about getting you all some fresh air.”

***

The sky looked as if it had been washed clean, the bleak grey of the morning rinsed into a bright blue with fluffy white clouds.

William leaned against the veranda’s wooden railing and took a deep breath. Doing so didn’t pull at his chest as it had done in London. Perhaps there was something to be said for sea air. Daniel and Alasdair had chosen to take their ‘treatment’ in the grounds, with a walk through the gardens. He had opted to stay, wanting to try and finish a poem.

He moved back into the room and to the desk in the corner. Matron had been reluctant at first to allow him to keep his books and writing implements, saying that writing was work, and work was not conducive to rest. William had argued that he found writing restful, and eventually she had relented. It seemed, though, that his stores had come to an end—he was out of paper. If only his compositions turned out well straight away, he wouldn’t have to waste so much…

He went to the door and pushed it open slightly, peering out into the corridor, hoping that Sister Maclay was nearby.

No such luck, but he soon spied the back of a retreating nurse. “Ah—excuse me?” he called.

The nurse turned, and he saw that it was Elizabeth Summers, Sister Maclay’s niece.

“Mr Pratt? Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, no. I ah—just wondered if you could ask a favour of Matron for me. I’ve run out of paper. For my writing, you see.”

“Tell you what,” Nurse Summers said, after a moment’s thought, her eyes twinkling and her cheeks going pink. “I’ll be going into the village later. I could pick up a journal for you, if Matron allows it. You’d be able to keep your work organised, and it’d be more difficult to throw away. I saw your pile of scrap.”

William’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected such sass. He chose to ignore her last comment and cleared his throat. “If you’re sure it won’t get you into trouble with Matron or Sister Maclay, I would be very grateful.”

“It’ll be fine,” Nurse Summers said. “Besides, you’re my aunt’s favourite patient.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and you’re fast becoming mine, too,” she said. “When I brought your lunch I happened to see your poem about the seashell girl.” She smiled knowingly. “Now, you’d better get back outside; we don’t want Sister Maclay to say I’ve been letting you neglect your treatment.” With a wink she turned on her heel and strode down the corridor, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll bring a journal with tomorrow’s lunch.”

William gaped after her, standing in the corridor for several long moments even after she’d gone. Eventually, he returned to the veranda, mind racing and cheeks hot.

Chapter Six

True to her word, when Elizabeth brought their lunch the following day, she had with her a simple but nicely bound journal. She nodded to William and placed the book on his desk, but said nothing as she retreated from the room.

Daniel and Alasdair were too engrossed in eating to have noticed, for which William was grateful. It was silly, but he wanted to keep it to himself, a secret between himself and Elizabeth. Well, Matron too, but that was beside the point. He longed to begin writing in the journal, knowing immediately what—or, rather, whom—the first poem would be about.

With that in mind, he hurried through his lunch, scraping the plate clean though he didn’t have much of an appetite. Meal finished, he leapt up from the table and moved swiftly to the desk. Daniel had fallen asleep, and Alasdair was idly flipping through the morning’s newspaper; a cursory glance at both showed that neither was paying him any mind. Good.

William opened the journal, savouring the unique new-book smell. Ink-pen at the ready, he felt the first words of a new poem bubbling forth and flipped to the first page.

There, he was startled to find a short paragraph already written in large, but neat, handwriting.

28th June 1888

Mr. Pratt,

Forgive me for being so bold as to write in your new book. I simply couldn’t help myself. I hope you’ll put this journal to good use and write lots of lovely poems (which you will share with us, you know!) Did you realise that we already have a famous poet living here on the island? As Lord Tennyson himself put it:

“Where , far from noise and smoke of town
I watch the twilight falling brown,
All round a careless-ordered garden,
Close to the ridge of a noble down.”

He wrote it about Farringford, of course, but I find it rather fitting for our own gardens here in Ventnor. (I had to look up those lines in my aunt’s book, by the way. I don’t want to put any false illusions of my knowledge in your head!)

I’d be much obliged to read a finished composition of yours, one day.

Yours,

Elizabeth Summers

With a smile on his face, William did the very thing she had told him not to do: he tore a page from the journal to write his reply. Dipping his pen in the ink, he paused for a moment, then began writing frantically.

28th June 1888

Miss Summers,

First, let me thank you for the journal. I’m sure it will be home to many compositions, though how many of them will be read by eyes other than my own remains to be seen!

Secondly, yes, I did know of Tennyson’s occasional residence on the island. Though, ‘All round a careless-ordered garden’ hardly applies here! I’ve never seen such beauty. I do wish I could take a trip to the beach, but I doubt that Matron would be receptive to such an idea. Perhaps when I’m well again I’ll make my stay on the island an extended one.

I’ll leave off here; my writing awaits and I do believe it’s almost time for Sister Maclay’s rounds.

Sincerely,

William Pratt

***

The days progressed in much the same manner as they had since his arrival, with one slight difference. When Nurse Summers brought their meals, she would either pick up the piece of paper left on the desk, or discreetly slip one of her own under William’s pillow.

The notes were of silly, inconsequential things: she would talk of the weather, or of how many shells she’d collected that day and to which patients she’d delivered them. Sometimes she wrote about her family, how strict her father was, and how her work at the hospital was a welcome escape.

In turn, he told her about his life in London—leaving out the embarrassing parts, of course—and for a girl who had never set foot on the mainland, his tales were always a hit.

The letters started out as short, impersonal exchanges one would have with an acquaintance or distant relative. Over time, their words became friendlier, more carefree, and soon William felt that he could write anything that popped into his head, and she would enjoy reading it.

The one thing they never wrote about was the fact that they were doing this in the first place. William knew that it was wrong—he dreaded Matron or Sister Maclay finding out—but couldn’t help himself. The notes from Elizabeth were the bright spot of his day, and he awaited each one with an eagerness that surprised even himself.

Then again, he had always been ruled by his heart more than his head, so perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise after all.

***

It felt like the last day of summer. The air had a harsh edge, a chilly bite that pierced through the thick coat William was wearing.

How much longer would the nurses allow the patients to roam the gardens? Or would the winter air be considered good for the lungs? William had given up on trying to understand how medicine worked; he was a man of words, not science.

So lost in thought, he didn’t notice he had company until she spoke. “Hello.” It was Elizabeth, who grinned when William jumped and turned his head to her. “I shouldn’t be out here,” she said, then paused. “Or rather, I shouldn’t be out here with you.”

William smiled and nodded. “Yes, it’s quite improper. You should return to the hospital at once.”

“And I shall, when I’m finished collecting shells.” She held up her basket.

He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied for what to say next. How was it they could exchange letter after letter, him pouring his heart out in words, but he was unable to say a thing in her presence?

“Are you all right, William?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “You’ve gone red.”

Her mention of his blush only made his cheeks flush harder, and he turned away, embarrassed. William hated the silence that stretched on awkwardly and cursed his social ineptness.

“You’re a long way out,” Elizabeth said eventually. “Most patients don’t like to come this far into the gardens.”

“I like it,” William said, gathering his courage, determined to talk to her. It was rare that he had the chance to speak to her without anyone else around. “It’s quiet,” he continued. “I like that I can think here. Without Daniel’s snoring or Alasdair’s bawdy sleep talk.”

“Bawdy?”

“Oh, yes.” William exclaimed. Then added, teasingly, “But such things are not for a lady’s ears.”

Elizabeth pouted. “I hate that: being excluded for being a woman. It’s the same with my parents! If I were a man, they’d have allowed me to leave for the mainland by now.”

“I—I’m sorry.” William stammered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I was joking, mostly,” Elizabeth said, laying a hand on his wrist. He shivered at the touch, though her palm was warm, and a small part of him wondered: what’s happening here? What is this thing between us? Their eyes met and held for some time, until Elizabeth looked away and put her hand back in her lap. She continued talking as if nothing had happened. “I really would like to leave, you know. Go somewhere exciting… like London!”

William chuckled, his discomfort at the previous moment passing. “London’s not exciting, believe me.” He frowned. “Or perhaps it is exciting and I’ve just led a terribly boring life. That sounds more likely.”

“You’re not boring, William.” She said it absently, as though remarking on the weather, in a way that he supposed meant she thought it was true. “Fine, then. Not London. But… Paris! Don’t you think it would be wonderful in Paris?”

“I’ve been,” he said. “It was when I was a child, so I don’t remember much. It was before my father died.”

“Can you speak French?”

“Un peu,” he replied, biting back a smile.

“Say something else.”

“Tu es très belle, Elizabeth. Je pense… je pense que je t’aime.”

Her eyes lit up in delight, though William knew that it wasn’t because of the meaning behind the words, but the sound of the French falling from his lips.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Oh—nothing. Inconsequential things. ‘The weather is beautiful and I love… the view’.”

“I wish I could speak French,” she said. “Or something more than English. You see? This is why I hate living here.” She sighed. “I used to dream, you know? Dream of a handsome stranger come to take me away. Someone who’d see me for me and not the obedient nurse or dutiful daughter.”

“Perhaps it will happen,” William murmured, feeling a pang in his heart that he was neither handsome nor in good enough health to whisk her away.

“Perhaps.” Elizabeth agreed, frowning. She stayed quiet for a moment more and then stood, smoothing out her skirt and stooping to pick up her basket. “Well, I’ve spent longer talking to you than I should have. There’s no time now to go to the beach.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t complaining! I’ve enjoyed your company.”

“Me too,” William said. “Your company, I mean.”

Elizabeth smiled, but then her expression turned fearful. “William… you won’t say anything to anyone, will you? I could get into a lot of trouble…”

“Of course not!” William was quick to answer. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“All right. Thank you.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment before setting her face resolutely. She leaned over and kissed him briefly on the cheek, flushed bright red, and turned to run from the cabin, her empty basket in hand.

William stared after her, his eyes wide and the skin of his cheek tingling. He touched his fingers to the spot, blinked, and smiled.

***

2nd September 1888

Dear Elizabeth,

Your last letter had me wishing once again that I could see more of the island and less of these four walls. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t begrudge my time here if it will get me well again, but I admit to tiring of the same view day in, day out.

I’m sure my mother would laugh to hear me say such a thing. I wasn’t the adventurous type back in London (preferring to spend my days inside, writing) but now—what I wouldn’t give to actually see the sea, to feel the sand beneath my bare feet, and to hear the waves lapping at the shore! It is one thing to see it from afar, but it must be another altogether to experience it up close.

There is no hope of that until I am rid of this disease, I suppose.

Yours,

William

***

23rd October 1888

William,

I’m in a hurry so this note will be brief. My parents have returned from Southampton and wish to spend some time with me. Such a chore! I will undoubtedly have to listen to tale upon endless tale of whatever boring activity they got up to for the entire weekend.

Until Monday,

Elizabeth

P.S.: Check the cabinet beside your bed. It isn’t much, but should hopefully tide you over until you are recovered!
P.P.S.: ‘Tide’ pun in last sentence entirely intentional!

***

William’s heart sank on reading that Elizabeth would be gone from the hospital over the weekend, but he brightened considerably when he looked in the cupboard and found a seashell sitting on the shelf.

It was quite large, the twisted, pointy kind that hermit crabs carried on their backs, and it had another small note attached to it with string.

W,

Hold the shell to your ear.

E

Curiously, William did just that, a look of childish delight passing over his face when he realised that he could hear the rushing, roaring sound of the sea coming from within. He examined the shell, turning it over in his hands, before he returned it to his ear and listened again.

“How odd,” he said to himself, but a slow smile crept across his face and his heart fluttered slightly. He had complained that he wasn’t able to visit the beach, so Elizabeth had brought part of the beach to him.

Footsteps interrupted his musing, and he jumped, trying to hide the shell and the note behind his back but not succeeding very well. It was Daniel, coming back from a turn around the gardens. The other man frowned at William and then pursed his lips, looking as though he was debating whether or not to speak.

In the end, Daniel walked to his bed, sat down, and started to remove his boots. William took the opportunity to return the seashell to his bedside cabinet, before sitting down at the desk, where he took out his journal and ink.

Daniel was the first to break the silence, after a few long moments. “You should be careful, you know.”

William paused and set his pen down on the wood of the desk. “I don’t follow.”

“Your letters to Nurse Summers,” Daniel said. The man rarely spoke, but when he did, it was with a directness that William wasn’t used to. “Though I’m sure the notes are well-intentioned and perfectly innocent.”

“I—” William stumbled on his words, unsure what to say. He didn’t think that their exchanges had been noticed.

“I won’t say anything,” Daniel continued. “And it’s not in my nature to pry. But you should be careful.”

William nodded automatically, his mind racing even as he scribbled down the opening lines of his next letter to Elizabeth.

***

The weekend seemed interminable without word from Elizabeth. William hadn’t realised how reliant he had become on her daily missives until they stopped.

Daniel’s words played heavily on his mind. He had known that their communication would be frowned upon and would earn both himself and Elizabeth more than a stern reprimand, if it was discovered, but he hadn’t truly stopped to consider the consequences, or how it could look from an outside perspective.

She was young and unmarried. It wouldn’t look good at all. Especially after what had happened between them in the garden the week before…

He hadn’t thought anything of continuing the correspondence, hadn’t thought about whether it was a friendship they were starting up, or—and his mind hesitated over the word, but he couldn’t deny that his feelings towards Elizabeth weren’t strictly platonic— if it was a courtship.

Sighing, he tried to clear his mind. It is what it is. He had no intention of stopping the letters but he would just have to make sure he and Elisabeth were more secretive about exchanging them.

As evening fell, he opened his journal to a fresh page and began to write.

Ruled by heart and not by head,
I do not know where I am led.
Something strange and something new,
My mind is filled with thoughts of you.
What to do? the lines are blurred,
The only escape through our words.
Alone, I stare at the stars above,
As always, a fool for love.

***

Chapter Seven

When Sister Maclay arrived alone for Monday morning’s rounds, William was disappointed but thought little of it. Perhaps Elizabeth had decided to spend longer with her parents than originally planned.

When she didn’t show on Tuesday or Wednesday either, he began to worry. Was she all right? Had she, like Nurse Lewis, been taken ill? Or perhaps she’d been reassigned to another ward, though if that were the case she surely would have found some way to let him know.

He wanted to ask Sister Maclay, but Daniel’s words lingered in the back of his mind and he was hesitant to show too much of an interest.

Tomorrow, he thought. If she’s not back by tomorrow, I’ll ask…

It didn’t come to that, however, because Elizabeth followed Sister Maclay into the room the following morning. Her head was ducked and she stayed close to her aunt.

William felt his heart skip a beat when she eventually looked over at him, and he tried to convey how much he had missed her with a smile. Strangely, she bit her lip and looked away for a moment before hesitantly returning his smile.

William frowned, realising that she looked tired: pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes. What had happened? Perhaps she really was ill.

He frowned and longed for Sister Maclay’s examination to be over so he could scribble down a quick note for Elizabeth, ready to give her when she brought lunch.

In time, the nurses left the room, their footsteps still lingering in his ears as he scrambled for his ink. He could feel Daniel’s gaze heavy on the back of his neck but he ignored it.

His worry for Elizabeth made him more abrupt and less guarded than usual.

My dear Elizabeth,

Are you well? I worried when you did not return on Monday.

I missed writing to you.

William

As usual, William left the note on the corner of the desk, and when Elizabeth brought lunch she pocketed it almost immediately.

William ate his stew and potatoes slowly, forcing the food past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Elizabeth returned to take away the empty plates some time later, and William’s unease was reinforced when she kept her head down and her face grim—nothing like the bright, breezy girl of only a few days prior—and swept the crockery away without a word.

She did, however, slip a note under his pillow and William was suddenly eager for Alasdair and Daniel to settle down for their after-dinner nap. He didn’t have to wait long; the meal had been large and hearty and, truthfully, he could have done with forty winks himself. He made the pretence of yawning and climbed into bed. Rolling to one side, his body shielded his hand as it crept under the pillow. He pulled out the paper hidden there and read the words greedily.

30th October 1888

Mr Pratt,

I’m well, thank you. My absence was prolonged by my parents’ wish to spend more time with me. There is nothing to worry about. Thank you for your concern.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Summers

William read the note once, twice and still the words remained the same: cold, impersonal and nothing like the girl he’d come to know.

He was glad to hear that nothing was wrong, but where was the laughter, the zest for life that had shone through so brightly in their previous correspondence?

He stared at the note until his eyes glazed over and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

***

Elizabeth’s strange behaviour continued on into the next week. She didn’t speak during her rounds, except to sullenly answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when Sister Maclay asked a question.

It was frustrating for William; he didn’t know why she’d had the sudden turnaround in personality and change of heart regarding their letters. It couldn’t be that anyone had found out, otherwise he’d have been on the receiving end of a telling off, surely.

He tried to leave notes out for her, but she didn’t take them. Didn’t look at them, except once, the day after she’d returned—she’d seen the note on the desk and her face had filled with more sorrow than William had ever seen, before she’d resolutely set her mouth in a hard line and looked away.

Saturday saw the advent of November and with it a horrible, dreary day. Rain lashed against the windows, and the wind howled eerily around the building.

William couldn’t see very far out to sea but, from the vantage point of his window, he could see the water churning a boiling froth, the horses riding the waves no longer white but a dark, angry grey.

He supposed that such weather was a good inspiration for verse; he could hear the opening lines echoing in his head…

When darkness fell a morning clear,
Waters rising, thunder near

…but he simply couldn’t muster the energy to write it down. Later, perhaps.

His musings were interrupted by the now familiar sound of a nurse’s footsteps on the cold tiled floor of the hallway outside the room. William perked up a little; perhaps it was Elizabeth and the sight of her would make the tedious day that little bit brighter, even if she was being curiously standoffish.

It wasn’t her. Sister Maclay entered the room alone, greeting the men with a smile and hello. She went to Daniel’s bed first, and William turned away disinterested to stare once more out the window. Soon, the nurse came to stand by his bedside and he listlessly allowed her to examine him.

“You’re doing well, William,” she said. “It won’t be long until we have you fully recovered.”

That news should have made him happy, but he shrugged and didn’t reply. Frowning, Sister Maclay rearranged his bedclothes and then moved away to see to Alasdair.

The man’s soft Scottish brogue was pleasant to listen to, and William found himself drifting off, his eyes drooping as tiredness caught up with him. He came to full wakefulness when he heard Alasdair mention Elizabeth’s name, and all his attention turned in that direction.

“And where’s that bonnie Nurse Summers?” Alasdair asked. “Seems you’re alone more often than not these days, Sister.”

“She’s off over in Bembridge again, visiting her parents. She’ll be away most weekends, now.” Sister Maclay sighed. “And we simply don’t have enough staff to cover absences. It’s a wonder we manage as we do.”

William took no notice of the rest of the conversation, the others’ voices nothing more than a hum in the background of his thoughts. So Elizabeth had gone home to her parents again. His mind raced. Maybe her mother or father had taken ill and that was why she’d come back looking so drawn.

He wished he knew.

***

William hoped that, when Elizabeth returned on Monday, she would be back to her usual self. He had prepared a letter and decided that he would make sure she took it, no matter what.

He smiled to himself when he saw her following Sister Maclay into the room, but his hopes were dashed at the sight of her: still pale and tired-looking, and thinner than she had been. He felt his heart pounding loudly in his chest as he tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at him.

The nurses completed their morning examinations quietly, with Sister Maclay murmuring that perhaps a turn around the garden would be nice after lunch, now that the weather had calmed.

As fortune would have it, both Alasdair and Daniel decided to head out for a walk immediately after their meal, leaving William alone in the room with the empty plates and dishes. He began to pace nervously, his hands agitating the paper in his hand, so much so that it crumpled and started to resemble one of his scrapped poems.

The sound of a muffled gasp made him turn mid step and he saw Elizabeth standing in the doorway, surprise on her face. She paused for a few moments before ducking her head and entering the room, to make a beeline for the table. She stacked the plates and dishes and was about to pick them up when William caught hold of her wrist.

“Elizabeth,” he said, voice low, aware that the door was still open and anyone could walk past at any given moment. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

She lifted her chin defiantly but made no move to release herself from his grip. “There’s nothing wrong, Mr. Pratt. I already told you that I’m well.” Her voice was strong but William detected an undercurrent of something in her words. What was it?

“I thought… I thought we were friends,” William replied, his fingers unconsciously brushing the soft underside of her wrist. “You could at least do me the courtesy of explaining your sudden change of heart.”

“I—” she paused, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “I don’t want to… can’t—don’t want—please, William. Don’t make this harder than it already is. Please.”

“What is it?” he asked, his heart full and ready to burst with sympathy for whatever plight she was going through. “Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t help.” She tried to pull herself away but he held on, and she glared at him through unshed tears. “Let me go. I have work to do.”

“I want to help you. Let me help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do!” her voice rose, and she tugged herself from his grip. Angrily, she brushed the tears away from her cheeks and picked up the stack of plates, before turning and glaring at him once more. “Leave me alone.”

Elizabeth left the room without another word, and all William could do was stare after her helplessly.

***

Chapter Eight

Don’t make this harder than it already is.

What had she meant by that? William’s mind had replayed her words over a hundred times since their conversation and he still couldn’t make any sense of it.

There’s nothing you can do.

He ached with the knowledge that there was something wrong—she had all but confirmed that—but he couldn’t do a thing to help her. Not if he didn’t know what had happened.

It was frustrating, but what could he do? He had tried talking to her, and she had pushed him away. She wouldn’t take any of the notes he left for her. He couldn’t ask Sister Maclay or the matron without rousing their suspicion over his motives.

There was nothing.

William often felt Daniel’s eyes on him, quietly disapproving and perhaps also a little sympathetic. William didn’t want the sympathy; he wanted to find out what was wrong with Elizabeth.

He knew that it was turning into something of an obsession. He thought of her constantly—he could barely sleep for thinking of her. He hadn’t written a poem in weeks, though the words tumbled through his mind.

He could think of nothing but Elizabeth and he was making himself sick with worry. Two weeks ago, Nurse Maclay had said his condition was improving, but he felt weaker than ever.

It had to end.

***

The nurses had finally ruled that walking out in the gardens would do the patients more harm than good. They were still allowed to spend some time out on the verandas, and late-afternoon on a Tuesday in mid-November found William doing just that.

His roommates were inside sleeping, and he had found his mind consumed again with thoughts of Elizabeth. Annoyed with himself—she had clearly put him out of her mind, why couldn’t he do the same?—he pushed open the veranda doors and stepped outside.

It was cold. There was a harsh chill in the air that made William wish he’d put on his coat, and the railings were sparkling with frost. He gripped the edge of a railing, the ice piercing through his skin and turning it red. He didn’t mind; it was a distraction from his thoughts.

A sudden blur of white from down in the garden caught his attention, and he gasped when he saw that it was Elizabeth dressed only in her shift, her hair loose and flowing down her back. As he watched, she swiped at her cheeks and he knew then that she was crying.

She weaved through the paths of the garden, heading dangerously close towards the edge of the cliff, and William’s heart leapt into his mouth. He tried to call out to her, but the words were stuck in his throat and, besides, she wouldn’t hear them anyway, now little more than a white smudge on the landscape.

A rush of relief flooded through him when she turned at the last moment and started the descent of the steps that led to the beach, only for panic to fill him seconds later. It was so cold; she would freeze! Why was she out wearing nothing but her shift in the first place? Why was she crying?

Without thought, he hurried back into the room and tore his coat and scarf from the stand by the door. He took only a minute to check that no doctors or nurses were in the corridor before he all but ran to the nearest exit.

It seemed to take hours, though only a few minutes had passed, but he eventually came to the top of the steps to the beach. He paid no mind to the way his heart pounded, or to how his pulse raced. The breaths he drew were laboured, and he coughed as he made his way down the stairs.

He didn’t care. His only thoughts: find Elizabeth; help Elizabeth.

William came to the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the sand. The beach looked bleak and desolate, the waves crashing angrily on the shore, rocks and stones dashed haphazardly all around. He didn’t immediately see Elizabeth, but a flash of her white shift soon caught his eye from where several large, seaweed-covered rocks almost hid her from view.

He hurried over, shrugging out of his coat ready to drape around her shoulders. She had her arms around herself, and he could see goose flesh on her skin. She didn’t look up when he put the coat around her, or when he wound his scarf around her neck. It was only when he crouched down, took her hands between his own, and tried to rub some warmth back into them that she raised her head and met his eyes.

“I’m sorry, William. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, shh.” He stood up and moved to sit on the rock next to her when she shuffled over slightly to make room. “Tell me what the matter is. Please.”

“You’ll hate me,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’ve been so horrible to you in the last few weeks, and with what I have to tell you… how could you not hate me?”

“Never,” he said and took her hands in his again. “I could never hate you, you hear?”

She laughed, quick and short. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“Elizabeth, tell me… how can I help if you don’t tell me?”

“I thought if I ignored you it would make it less painful… make it hurt less when I had to go. But I’ve just made it worse, haven’t I?”

“You’re not making any sense. Go? Are you leaving? Is that it? Is that what you’ve been so afraid to tell me?”

She nodded. “Do you remember when I first went to see my parents a few weeks ago? I left you a shell.”

“Of course I remember.” He smiled and patted his trouser pocket. “I treasure that shell.”

“That weekend, my parents had just returned from the mainland. They’d been to Southampton—my father had business there. They… they brought someone back with them. A man.”

William’s blood ran cold when he realised what she would say next.

Elizabeth turned away to stare out to sea before she continued. “He’s a business associate of my father’s and a widower. He was looking for a new wife.” She raised anguished eyes to William. “He’s wealthy, and my family isn’t well off. My father said I was ‘of marriageable age and reasonably pretty’ and so they settled it. I am to be wed this Saturday to Mr. Ethan Rayne and I shall have to suffer all that that entails. So, you see, you can’t help me. No one can.”

William stared at her, his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. He opened and closed his mouth several times, not knowing what to say.

“But William—oh! He’s hateful. I’ve been forced to spend time with him and he’s the most repulsive man I’ve ever met. And so old.” She sniffed and took a deep breath, swallowing back tears. Her voice was a whisper when she next spoke. “I don’t want to marry him.”

“So don’t!” William had stood up and was pacing along the beach, when a sudden, fanciful idea struck him. “Don’t marry him, Elizabeth.” He hurried back to her side and dropped abruptly to his knees in the sand. “Marry me instead.”

Her eyes filled with the tears she had been trying so hard to keep at bay. “I wish I could, William. But it’d be impossible.”

“No!” he said, jumping up and beginning to pace again while ideas formed in his mind. “The wedding isn’t until Saturday, and your family will expect you to be at the hospital working until then, I’m sure.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Until Friday morning, at least. That’s when I’m meant to return home to prepare.”

“Two days, then. Plenty of time to get across to the mainland. We can head to Scotland, to Gretna Green; they don’t question hasty marriages there. It’ll be a long journey, but we can do it. We can!”

“You make it sound so easy,” Elizabeth said. She stood up and caught his wrists in her hands. “You really do. But what if it goes wrong? What if someone catches us before we leave, or on the way? Ethan’s a wealthy man, William. He could make things very unpleasant for you.”

“We’ll be careful. We can go back to the hospital now and leave when everyone’s asleep. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get to Cowes from here; we can catch the first ferry to the mainland tomorrow morning.” His face turned fearful. She’d already said she wished she could, but maybe he was just the lesser of two evils. “That is… if you want to marry me? I don’t want to take you away from one forced marriage and press you into another.”

“If we can make it away...” she replied, slowly, “if we can get to Scotland, then yes, I would like nothing more than to marry you.” She ducked her head, a shy smile creeping onto her face. “I would much rather marry for love than for any other reason.”

William’s breath caught in his throat, and he wondered if he had heard her correctly. He had known there were more-than-friendly feelings on her side too, but to hear her declare them as love sent a bolt of pure happiness through him. “Do you mean that?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I know it’s sudden, but I do. I’ve fallen in love with you, William.”

He found he couldn’t say anything, too lost in the joy of the moment to respond in kind.

Elizabeth bit her lip. “You’d better say something soon, because I couldn’t bear it if—”

William shook his head, took her face between his palms, and pressed a sudden and unexpected kiss to her lips, interrupting whatever it was she’d been about to say. “I love you too.”

She looked surprised by the kiss, but when he spoke the shock turned to delight, and she pulled him towards her by his shirtsleeves to kiss him again. It was uncertain to begin with, the kiss of two people who’d never experienced such a thing before. Soon, though, it felt more natural and the kiss turned languid and slow, until they were both breathless.

William broke away, feeling a thousand emotions and more course through his body: love, desire, need, happiness… it was almost too much. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, loving the way her body moulded to his own. He no longer cared about propriety—not when the woman in his arms was to be his wife.

“I feel like I could fly,” she whispered.

William chuckled. “You’re going to freeze if we’re not careful,” he said, realising how cold she was. “What possessed you to come out here in only your underthings, anyway?”

“Oh, it was silly,” she said and blushed, pulling his coat a little tighter around herself. “I was changing my clothes and one of the other nurses was talking to me, telling me how excited I must be about the wedding. I just… snapped. I couldn’t stand to hear her talk to me as though I were a bride in love, so I ran. I had to get away.”

William nodded. He looked to the sea, surprised to see how far the tide had crept in without them noticing. The sky had darkened, and evening was drawing in, early now that it was so late in the year.

“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth asked. “When we get back to the hospital, I mean. Are we leaving straight away?”

“As soon as we can,” William replied, his mind forming a hasty plan. They’d leave the hospital and walk into the village, where they’d be able to hire a coach to take them to the ferry port. “We’ll gather our things and wait until everyone is asleep. What time does Sister Maclay retire?”

“Late,” Elizabeth replied. “After her evening rounds she eats and then catches up on correspondence. But it won’t matter—there’s a service door near the back of your ward. We can leave through that, and it’ll take us out closer to the road to Steephill. There’s an inn on the outskirts of the village. We should be able to find a carriage.”

“All right.” William nodded. “Daniel and Alasdair usually fall asleep by nine after the last set of rounds. We’ll leave then.”

Hand in hand, they made their way back up the steps. Excitement and nerves bubbled in William’s stomach, and, all the while, he prayed that nothing would go wrong that night, that they’d be able to escape without problem.

He had the unsettling feeling that things wouldn’t go quite to plan.

***

Chapter Nine

William managed to slip back into the hospital without anyone noticing. Elizabeth had given him back his coat and scarf despite his protests, saying that it would look odd for her to turn up in the nurses’ quarters wearing them.

Reluctantly agreeing, he went back into his room and hoped that his absence hadn’t been noticed. No such luck; Daniel looked at him reproachfully when he returned, and William flushed, wondering if the other man somehow knew where he’d been.

Neither said anything, though, and William went over to his desk to get his papers in order. There wasn’t much he could do in the way of getting his clothes packed; he’d have to take what he could and buy more when they stopped somewhere suitable. Worthless though he thought they were, his poems were the most important thing he had with him on the island and he wouldn’t be leaving them behind.

When Elizabeth brought dinner at seven, he couldn’t help the bright grin that lit his face and she returned it with one of her own. They smiled stupidly at each other for several long moments before realising they weren’t alone—Alasdair and Daniel were looking on curiously.

“Uhm thank you, Nurse Summers,” William said. “This looks lovely.”

“You’re welcome.” She went to the door but, before she left, she caught William’s eye and winked.

He blushed and busied himself in eating his dinner, glad that she was all right after earlier, and that their plan was seemingly on track. He barely tasted his chicken. He wanted to be away already, away from the hospital and heading towards the mainland.

Glancing at the clock, he sighed. Still a while until Alasdair and Daniel retired; after dinner they often played a game of chess. The next hour was going to be endless, he knew.

The minutes ticked by so slowly he began to wonder if the clock was broken. Mentally, he made a list of where all his belongings were, so that he’d be able to find them quickly when the lamps were extinguished. That didn’t take long; he had very little with him. He was glad that he’d chosen to keep some money with his things, rather than give it all to Matron for safekeeping.

Sister Maclay came at half past eight to check on them and to dim the lamps. She bid a quiet goodnight to the three men, and William wanted to say something—a proper goodbye. She had been kind to him. Perhaps one day, when the dust had settled, he and Elizabeth would return to the island and he’d see Sister Maclay again.

His roommates began to settle just before nine, and William made the mimicry of getting ready for bed himself, hoping that neither man noticed that he had worn his nightclothes over the top of his shirt and trousers.

William waited until he was sure they were asleep. Alasdair’s heavy breathing and Daniel’s loud snores indicated that they were, and he hopped off his bed and went towards the wardrobe. He’d left the door open earlier, knowing that the hinge squeaked, and it only took him a few moments to pile the clothes he was taking with him into the bag. He double checked that his money was still in the inside pocket—yes, it was there. Good.

Padding to the desk, he slipped his journals and writing tools into the bag. Finally, he went to the coat stand and pulled off his pyjamas, putting his coat and scarf on instead. His shoes he held in one hand, knowing that he would have a better chance of getting away unnoticed without them.

Heart pounding, he grasped the doorknob and turned. He was hit with a sudden urge to laugh—what would his peers back in London have to say if they could see him now? Stealing away in the dark of the night to run away with a woman betrothed to another man. It sounded absurd even to himself. His rational side knew that he could walk away from the hospital in the morning without question and meet Elizabeth on the mainland, but he didn’t want to be without her for any longer than necessary.

He stifled the urge, however, and, breath held, slowly pushed the door open, hoping that it had been recently oiled. The door swung open easily, and he could breathe again.

A sudden rustling of bed clothes from behind him made him pause. He peered backwards over his shoulder, and his eyes widened when he saw Daniel sitting straight up in his bed, staring at him.

“What are you doing?” Daniel’s words were a harsh whisper in the quiet of the room.

William stood frozen, unable to say anything. He had half a mind to simply flee, but who knew what kind of ruckus Daniel might cause if he did that without at least trying to explain. “I’m leaving,” he said, eventually.

“With Nurse Summers. Am I right?” Daniel’s tone was not accusing, but William couldn’t help but feel he was facing his judge, jury and executioner. “Alasdair may be blind as a bat, but I saw the way you were looking at each other earlier. You’re taking a mighty big risk.”

“I know.” William sighed and set his bag down on the floor, meeting the other man’s eyes in the light from the corridor. “She’s being forced into a marriage she doesn’t want. And I love her, Daniel. Yes, we’re leaving together. I won’t be ashamed of that.”

Daniel stared at him, before lowering his head. “Go,” he said. “I saw nothing and heard nothing.”

“Thank you.” William bent and picked up his bag before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Finding the service door Elizabeth had mentioned, in the dim lighting, proved more difficult than he’d thought; he took several wrong turns before finally locating it. Once there, he slipped his shoes on, worried that she hadn’t appeared yet.

He didn’t begin to truly panic until he heard the hospital clock strike the half hour. Where was she? Had another of the nurses prevented her from leaving?

William felt sick with anxiety and had just decided to try and find Elizabeth when he saw her coming towards him. He stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, arms raised and ready to embrace her, when he realised with horror that she wasn’t alone.

Sister Maclay hovered behind Elizabeth, and William gaped at them both. Was this it? Were they caught before they’d even left?

To his surprise, Elizabeth giggled. “Don’t look so horrified, William,” she whispered. “Aunt Tara’s helping us. She knows someone in Steephill who can get us a carriage, and he won’t ask any questions.”

William closed his mouth but could do nothing more than stare at the older woman. “Why?” he asked eventually.

“When I was Elizabeth’s age, I was forced to marry a man I detested,” Tara said, her voice flat. “The years I spent with him were the worst of my life. I won’t let my niece suffer the same fate. She’s said she loves you, and I know you’re a good man. You’ll look after her.”

“I will,” William said. He reached out and took Tara’s hand in his own, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now come, let’s go before anyone comes along. It mustn’t get out that I helped you leave.”

“Of course.” William grasped Elizabeth’s hand and picked up their bags.

They left the hospital silently, Tara leading the way.

Rounding the corner of the road outside, William felt almost sad to see that chapter of his life come to an end but when he looked to Elizabeth at his side he knew that a far better one was just beginning.

***

Elizabeth’s head rested gently against his shoulder, the rocking movement of the carriage lulling her to sleep.

It had all happened so fast. The journey to Cowes would take a while and would allow William some time to think. He couldn’t quite believe that they had managed to get away from the hospital with such ease.

Glancing at the girl beside him, he felt his heart swell with love for her. Even in sleep, she was beautiful. Dark lashes fanned on soft skin, and her cheeks were lightly flushed from the brisk air. Her blond hair was coming loose from the severe bun she’d worn it in, and its golden tendrils tickled his cheek and neck every time she moved.

How had he been so lucky to find her? To fall in love with a woman was one thing—he dimly recalled having feelings for Cecily Underwood, though they paled in comparison to how he felt about Elizabeth—but to have her return his feelings was another thing completely.

She shifted in her sleep, leaning against him more heavily, and her mouth falling open a little. William grinned to himself, thinking that this was the sight he would be waking up to for the rest of his life. The thought thrilled him.

A jolt in the road rocked the carriage, and Elizabeth sat up, startled. “What—? William, are we there?”

“No,” he said and leaned over to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her cheek was red from where she’d been leaning on his shoulder, and he laid his palm against it. “I haven’t a clue where we are. I hope the driver knows better than I do!”

Elizabeth went to the window and peered out, but it was too dark to see anything. “It’s a wonder he can find his way,” she said, nodding towards the front of the carriage. “My father used to have a trap, and I tried to drive it, once. It’s more difficult than it looks.” Her face fell slightly. “I wonder what they’ll say when I don’t go home on Friday. My parents, I mean.”

“You’re not regretting this?” William asked. “I—there’s still time to turn back.”

“No! Of course not. I think that I’d have run away anyway, if you hadn’t suggested it, though I probably wouldn’t have got very far. And I’d rather be with you than alone.” She bit her lip. “No, I’m just worried about my mother… and what she’ll say when she realises I’ve gone. She’ll be so disappointed.”

William slid his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him. “It will all work out,” he said. “Once we’re married and settled, we can make plans to return to visit your family.”

He felt her nod against his arm. “They’ll like you, I think.” She sighed. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts until they both fell prey to slumber.

***

It was still dark when the carriage came to a complete stop. William jolted awake first, rubbing his bleary eyes and blinking sleepily. Pulling his watch from his pocket, he saw that it was close to five in the morning.

He could hear the driver moving around outside, settling the horses. Soon enough, the door opened and the old man’s grizzled face appeared, along with a blast of cold air.

“Here we are then, Sir.”

“Thank you.” William paid, then helped a sleepy Elizabeth down from the carriage, before turning to take their bags from the driver. With a nod and a tip of his hat, the man hopped back up to the front of the carriage and hurried off into the night.

William turned a tremulous smile to Elizabeth and gripped her hand within his own.

“This is it,” she whispered, casting a glance towards the ferry port.

William followed her gaze; it wasn’t open yet but there was a bench outside the ticketing office. “Come on,” he said. “It shouldn’t be long before they open up. First sailing is at six.”

***

Chapter Ten

The crossing had passed by uneventfully. The paddle steamer had struggled across the choppy waves of the Solent, but had made port in good time and, when they stepped off, the hustle and bustle of the day was already in full swing. The Southampton docks were busy even at that early hour, workers criss-crossing here and there, and cabs with their horses waiting in lines to one side.

Tiredness had caught up with both William and Elizabeth now that the adrenaline rush of the night before had settled. William spoke through a yawn so wide, his jaw clicked. “We’re both too exhausted to go much further today. Let’s find a room somewhere and we can continue on to London later tonight or tomorrow.”

Elizabeth nodded warily. William knew she was worried about her family and Ethan catching up with them—Southampton was, after all, where the man lived—but the lure of sleep was too strong, and she went with him willingly to the nearest carriage. They found out that there was an inn not too far away, and so William paid the driver and they were on their way.

He kept Elizabeth’s hand gripped tightly, squeezing when she stared behind them at the sea, though the island was no longer visible. “We must pretend to already be married,” he whispered when the carriage came to a stop, a frown on his face.

“All right.” She smiled. “You look at me like that’s such a hardship, William. I’m happy to pretend. In a few days’ time I really will be your wife, so it hardly matters.”

“I didn’t like to presume—”

“Presume away.” She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Now come, Mr. Pratt. Your wife is sorely in need of sleep.”

Heart lurching to hear her call herself his wife, he followed her out of the carriage and to the entrance of the inn, hoping there were some rooms available.

***

“It’s not going to bite,” Elizabeth said drily from her position on the bed, looking at him with one part amusement, two parts annoyance. “Get in.”

“It’s just… I hadn’t thought of the practicalities…”

“You make it sound like such a chore.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and William gulped. Her thin nightgown was unbuttoned at the neck, and her movements gave him a very pleasant view. Why had he not thought of that? Pretending to be husband and wife was all well and good in theory, but he’d forgotten all it would entail. He stared at her helplessly.

She sighed. “Am I really so scary? Repulsive perhaps?”

“No!” He hurried to the side of the bed and knelt on the mattress, making it dip inwards, in his haste to reassure her. “You know that’s not the reason.”

“Well what, then?”

“I fear…” William began. “That I would be unable to resist you if I were to share your bed.” He blushed a furious shade of red. “Just kissing you last night was enough to—” He broke off, clenching the sheets in his fist, his head bent.

He soon felt Elizabeth’s warm palm on his chin as she turned his head. “You’re silly,” she declared. “We’re to be husband and wife. There’s nothing wrong in it. Besides, I’m too tired to even think about anything other than a goodnight kiss. Now get into bed, for goodness sake. You’re shivering.”

He shuffled under the covers, holding himself rigid when he finally lay down. He exhaled shakily when Elizabeth curled into his side, her body warm and pliant against his.

“Relax,” she whispered and kissed his neck. He shuddered. “Sleep now. Tomorrow’s the start of the rest of our lives.”

William let her words wash over him, the truth in them finally allowing him to calm down. He turned onto his side and slid his arm around Elizabeth’s waist. “Goodnight,” he said, though he didn’t know if she heard, because she already had her eyes closed.

Moments later, however, he heard her murmur, “Goodnight.” Then, a few seconds after, in a voice so quiet he barely heard it: “I love you.”

The words still thrilled him. “I love you, too.”

He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

***

William must have been more tired than he’d thought; when he awoke it was starting to get dark outside. He sat up straight in the bed as soon as he realised that Elizabeth was no longer beside him, but let out a breath of relief when he saw her standing at the wash basin.

“I asked a maid to bring us some hot water,” she said, gesturing to the jug. “You should wash while it’s still warm.”

William nodded and climbed out of bed, struck by a sudden shiver when the cool air of the room hit him. They washed together silently, William lost in the complete domesticity of the scene until he felt a spatter of water droplets land on his face. Shocked, he looked up to Elizabeth.

She bit her lip and let out a loud and sudden giggle. “Oh, I’m sorry William,” she said between laughs. “But you just looked so serious. She grinned mischievously and lowered her hand to the basin once more, and flicked water at him again. This time, it landed across his chest.

He felt a burst of laughter building within and turned away, not wanting to let her see. Adopting a stern expression, he looked back at her. “That was very bad of you, Miss Summers.” He gripped the side of the bowl innocently. “Very bad indeed.”

Holding her gaze, he dipped his cupped hand into the water before bringing it out with a splash and dumping the contents onto Elizabeth’s head. Her surprised face was a sight to behold, and he let out a very ungentlemanly laugh.

Elizabeth pouted, then swiftly returned her hand to the bowl. She flicked her fingers upwards, sending a fountain of water onto William. He grinned and raised an eyebrow when she shrieked and turned away from him. She tried to run, but William caught her around the waist and spun her in his arms. “Got you,” he said, smile wide as her giggles subsided.

“Looks like it. Now, whatever shall you do with me?”

“Oh I rather thought perhaps I’d start with this,” William said, leaning down to kiss a trickle of water from her cheek, before bringing his lips to hers. He kissed her softly, tangling his fingers in her hair.

“Mmm,” Elizabeth said when they pulled apart. “I like doing that more and more each time.”

“In that case,” William said with a wink. “We should do it as often as possible.”

“I like the sound of that.” She was about to say more when a loud growl emanated from her stomach. She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror, turning bright red and sinking to sit on the end of the bed.

William paid her embarrassment no mind, instead focusing on his negligence in not realising that Elizabeth would be hungry. He pressed a hand to his own stomach and realised that he too was in need of food. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. “They’ll be serving meals I’m sure.”

They dressed quickly and hurried down to the main room of the inn. Sure enough, a hearty stew was on the menu, and William ordered two portions. It was a good thing they would be back in London soon; he was running out of money and he knew Elizabeth didn’t have much either.

After he’d finished his meal, William asked the barkeep if he knew the times of the trains to London, and if they did in fact run into the evening. It would be better to be underway as soon as possible.

“Last one leaves at seven,” the barkeep said. “Other than that, your next one’s not till morning.”

“Thank you,” William said, glancing at the clock above the bar. It was half-past five. They would have plenty of time to make it to the railway station.

Packing up their things took barely any time at all—they’d hardly unpacked. William noticed a curious thing when looking through his bag, however: one of his poetry journals was missing.

“Perhaps you left it at the hospital,” Elizabeth said, “and if that’s the case Aunt Tara will look after it for you I’m sure.”

“I hope that if she finds it she doesn’t read it,” William said. “I… wrote some poems of a rather delicate nature in it.”

“Delicate nature?” Elizabeth asked, then her eyes widened when she understood what he really meant. “Oh! About… um. About me?”

“Of course,” William said. “You were my only and constant muse, Elizabeth.”

“Well I hope she finds the journal and keeps it safe. I’d rather like to read these ‘delicate’ poems of yours. Or you could write me some more.”

“We’ll see,” William said, running his hands over her hips. “I’ll not be short of inspiration; that’s for sure.”

“Charmer. Come on, if we’re going to get that train we should pay up and leave.”

Nodding, William lifted the bag and left the hotel room with Elizabeth at his side.

Another coach-ride later—and William was rather tiring of all the to-ing and fro-ing by carriage at this point—they arrived at the railway station with plenty of time to spare.

Elizabeth stared wide-eyed around her, at the engine idling on the platform, ready to receive its passengers and at the broad variety of people wandering around the station. She turned a smile to William. “I’ve never had cause to ride on a train, before,” she said. “There was never any point on the island; it was always easier to take a horse and carriage.”

“It’s not the most comfortable experience,” William replied. “We’ll be jostled and jolted every which way during the journey.”

“Perhaps I should have brought a pillow,” Elizabeth said, tucking her arm in William’s after they had purchased tickets. They walked onto the platform ready to board the train. “Or I could just lean on you.”

“Yes, do that.” He chuckled.

There were a fair number of people gathered on the platform waiting to be given the go-ahead to board the train, but it wasn’t busy by any means. William was rather glad; he had experienced crowded trains before and it wasn’t pleasant.

“At this point, I just want to be there.” Elizabeth sighed when they still hadn’t boarded the train fifteen minutes later. “I’m tired of all this waiting. I want to get to London and then on to Scotland and be married to you as soon as possible.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just click my fingers,” William said and paused to demonstrate, snapping his fingers together, “and we could be there, dressed in our finery and ready to be wed?”

“It’d be wonderful,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “You’ll come to find that I’m a very impatient person, William.” She frowned. “Isn’t it strange to think that it’s only been twenty-four hours since we decided to leave the island? And only a few short months since we met. It feels like I’ve known you lifetimes.”

“In a good way, I hope?”

“Yes.” She leaned against his arm, smiling against the wool of his coat. “A very good way.”

“You’re right though. To think that yesterday morning I thought it was just going to be another day at the hospital.” He bent to tuck a strand of Elizabeth’s hair away from her face. “Has it happened too fast, do you think?”

“Others might say so. Someone on the outside looking in would say we were mad to be doing this. But if it feels right to us…” She shrugged. “Then that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

The train bellowed suddenly, a cloud of steam rushing from the chimney. There was a shout from the other end of the platform: “All aboard!”

With a glance at one another, William and Elizabeth picked up their things and boarded the train. Every mile the engine ate up and the further it took them away from the coast, William felt things becoming more and more real. The journey so far had passed hazily, like they had been in a very pleasant dream.

Now, heading towards his home and the life he had left behind, he found himself hoping that reality wouldn’t intrude too much, and that they could make it up to Scotland in the next few days without any mishaps.

***

Chapter Eleven

“I wish it were light out,” Elizabeth said, peering out the carriage window. “To be in London and not be able to see it properly is incredibly frustrating.”

“You’ll see more of it tomorrow, when we set off for Scotland,” William said. “And when we return I’ll show you so many sights you’ll grow bored.” He sighed and looked out the window himself, before commenting wryly, “Such lovely weather for your arrival.”

Rain lashed heavily against the roof of the carriage and progress to his house was much slower than usual. The wind could be heard whistling outside and, combined with the wet weather, it seemed as though a storm was brewing.

Eventually, the carriage came to a stop, and they could hear the driver moving around outside, quieting the horse when it whinnied loudly.

The door opened moments later and the worried, rain-streaked face of the driver peeked in. “Sir, the gates are locked. Can’t go no further.”

William frowned. He had sent all his staff away when he’d made the decision to go to the hospital, leaving instructions for his head of household to check on the property once a week. At all other times, it would be closed up.

He had a key for the front door in his belongings, but not for the gates.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

“We can’t get in. I don’t have a key for these gates. Damn and damn again!”

“What about a hotel or another inn?” she said and placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

“There’s not enough money left,” William mumbled. “I knew something would go wrong, I knew it!”

“Oh.” Elizabeth bit her lip. “I have a little. Perhaps—”

“Sir!” the driver appeared at the door again. “The side gate is open. Cab can’t get in, but you can.”

“We’ll be drenched,” William said and sighed again. “Oh well, it can’t be helped, I suppose.” He turned to Elizabeth and assessed her. She was bundled up warmly in coat and gloves, but had no hat to cover her hair. “I’ll take the bags; you walk as fast as you can towards the house,” he said.

“All right.” She nodded.

William paid the driver, who helped unload the luggage and then helped Elizabeth to step down. The rain was falling so hard they were both soaked within seconds. “Let’s go,” he shouted, pointing towards the house with his free hand.

Elizabeth hesitated for a second before hurrying to the open side gate and making her way towards the house—no more than a big black shape on the landscape. William followed her more slowly, their heavy bags weighing him down.

His drive had never seemed so long as it did at that moment, with the rain lashing painfully on his head and back, the wind whistling eerily, and the threat of thunder and lightning in the air. He could see Elizabeth up ahead, her hands above her head to try and protect herself from the worst of the rain.

Finally, he reached the house and where Elizabeth was waiting for him underneath the awning. She looked like a drowned rat, and he imagined he looked much the same. “All right?” he asked and set the bags down on the ground. He bent down to rifle through his case in search of his keys, hoping that he hadn’t somehow mislaid them.

A clink of metal settled the thundering of his heart when he located them, and he pulled them from the bag with a triumphant grin. Elizabeth smiled back, her eyes alight despite the less than perfect circumstances of their arrival.

It was strange to walk into his house after having been away for so long, and stranger still to find it cold and quiet. When his mother had been alive there had always been activity: visitors calling, the staff working at all hours of the day. The house had life. When she had died, things had been quieter but there had always been someone besides himself there, like Stephen, the head of staff, or Mary, the cook. Now, it lay empty, and William found that peculiar, but there was also an air of anticipation when he looked at Elizabeth. Now she was here with him, perhaps the house would have life once more.

He led the way up the stairs, cursing the darkness but not wanting to take the time to light the lamps.

“Your house is very big,” Elizabeth commented as they rounded the corner at the top of the stairs.

“Our house,” William replied absently. He opened the door to his room and set their bags down on the floor just inside. “It’s our house now.”

He moved around the room and lit several candles, as well as the gas lamp on the wall. The fireplace was empty, but he knew there was some firewood downstairs. “Get settled as best you can,” he said. “I’ll try and get a fire going. You should get out of those wet things before you catch your death of cold.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me out of my clothes, Mr. Pratt,” Elizabeth replied, with a wink.

“Perhaps I am.” William smirked, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. He stopped just outside the door to try and catch his breath, breathing hard at just the thought of Elizabeth in his room changing out of her wet clothes. The William who had left London back in May would never have believed it.

He blushed when he thought of what had happened on the train. The locomotive had been almost empty, so they had had the pick of seats and managed to secure a car to themselves. Elizabeth had been full of smiles and laughter at finally being underway, and her mood had been infectious.

Somehow, she had ended up on his lap with her arms looped around his neck, and then they’d been kissing again and again until they were both breathless. The kisses were unlike the chaste pecks they had shared before; they were hot, and open-mouthed, and left William panting for more.

His hands had wandered, exploring the soft curves of her body, and Elizabeth hadn’t been shy in touching him, either.

Descending the stairs to the kitchen, he wondered how far things would have gone had the door not rattled to signal the arrival of the ticket conductor. They had sprung apart as though burned and had exchanged sheepish glances, while the conductor checked their tickets, a look of disapproval on his face.

William managed to get a fire going in the kitchen and set two large pans of water to heat on the range—Elizabeth would want to wash before bed. He collected another armful of firewood and picked up the box of matches before making his way back upstairs.

He kicked his bedroom door open with his foot and almost dropped the wood, his breath catching in his throat at the vision before him. Elizabeth had taken a seat at the dressing table. Dressed only in her shift and corset and with her long hair loose down her back, she was more alluring a sight than William had ever seen.

As quietly as he could, he stacked the wood in the fireplace and came up behind her. She had a brush in her hand and was teasing it through her wet hair. William took the brush from her and set it down on the dressing table. He pulled her hair to one side and bent down to press a soft kiss to her neck, making her shiver. She was cold, and his kiss raised gooseflesh on her skin, so he wrapped his arms around her. “Shall I draw you a bath?” he whispered. “I’ve got some water heating in the kitchen.”

“Yes please,” she said quietly, turning in his arms. “I’ve gone suddenly very cold. You should bathe too, afterwards.”

William swallowed heavily, then nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“I’ll build the fire up,” Elizabeth said as he left the room.

William started to go back downstairs but hesitated when he passed by the door of his mother’s room. He hadn’t been in there since she’d died, not even to sort through her things, but now… there was something he needed.

Slipping the item into his pocket, he descended to the kitchen. The water he’d set to heat wasn’t overly warm yet but it would have to do, and he hoped that Elizabeth wouldn’t mind its tepidity. He heaved the heavy pans upstairs and back into his bedroom, where Elizabeth had managed to get a fire crackling in the grate.

She followed him into the bathroom and watched while he poured the water into the bath. “Here you are,” he said and turned to fetch out soap and a cloth for her from a cupboard. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No,” she said, touching him lightly on his arm. “Stay, please.”

“I—ah. Okay. I’ll be back in a moment.” He returned to his room and set the box he’d retrieved from his mother’s room on the dresser, before picking up a small stool. When he went back into the bathroom, he was relieved to see that Elizabeth had settled herself under the water of the bath, and he could see very little beneath the surface in the dim lighting of the room.

William set the stool next to the bath and sat down. It was quiet—the only sound the occasional ripple of water—but the silence was not uncomfortable. The candles he’d lit cast a warm glow around the room, and he didn’t think he’d seen Elizabeth look more beautiful.

He felt truly content and hoped that she felt the same.

***

Chapter Twelve

When William awoke the following morning, he was elated to find Elizabeth nestled into his side. To think that this would be how he would wake up every morning from then on was amazing.

A glance out the window showed that the weather was no better; it was still raining and the sky was overcast and gloomy. He would have a few errands to run before planning the next leg of their journey. He wanted his staff back in the house to make it ready for his and Elizabeth’s return as man and wife, and he needed to take out some more money at the bank. Not to mention finding some food for them both.

A quick look at the clock showed him that it was almost midday, and he sat up suddenly. The movement made his head pound, a low ache just above his neck, and he frowned, wondering if it was a side effect of sleeping so late. How had they managed to sleep half the day away? A mental flash of the night before brought a blush to his cheeks and he realised just how it had happened.

Elizabeth whimpered when he slipped out of the bed and away from her, but William couldn’t bring himself to wake her, late though it was. Perhaps they could delay their plans by a day. He tucked the sheets back up around her shoulders and smoothed the hair back off her forehead.

Moving to the desk, he found a piece of paper and his ink and scribbled a quick note to let her know where he had gone, before heading into the bathroom for his morning ablutions and to dress.

One brisk walk later and he’d withdrawn enough money from the bank for the trip to Scotland. William then decided to kill two birds with one stone—he’d visit his cook and reenlist her services and hopefully get something to eat in the process. Then, he’d bring her back to the house to make some food for Elizabeth.

He was sure Mary would be able to send one of her sons to find Stephen and inform him he was needed back at the house.

The rain still fell heavily outside, and William knew it was bitterly cold, but when the carriage came to a stop outside Mary’s tiny terraced house, he found himself unwinding his scarf and stuffing it into his pocket—he was far too hot.

“Wait here for twenty minutes and I’ll pay double,” William said, striking a bargain with the coach driver. The man nodded, and William climbed down, careful not to slip on the wet pavement.

He hadn’t had cause to visit his cook’s household very often; and it was rundown yet homely, as he remembered it being. Her daughter, Catherine—one of William’s maids, in fact—answered the door and gasped. “Mr. Pratt! Oh, you look terrible. Come in, come in. Ma! Look who it is: Mr. Pratt!”

William felt slightly offended—terrible? But he followed Catherine through to the kitchen where he saw Mary hovering over the stove.

“Mr. Pratt!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here? Thought you were off getting well at that posh hospital? Don’t look like it worked. Look like death warmed up, you do.” She handed him a swiftly-poured cup of tea.

“Ah, thank you, Mary.” William said, with a frown. Did he really look that bad? Perhaps he should have taken the time to look in the mirror before he left. He tugged ineffectually at the collar of his shirt. It really was much too hot. “I have returned to London, actually. To stay, so I find myself in need of your services again. I was rather hoping you’d start today.”

Mary smiled and began to reply, but William could barely hear her. The room was swimming and, damn it, it was simply too warm! He stood up, intending to go towards the window to open it, but he had taken no more than two steps when he swayed on his feet and the room spun away.

***

William knew what was happening from the moment he woke up. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and his bones ached in a way that only indicated illness. He’d caught a chill then, from being out in the rain the day before. He swallowed against the roughness in his throat, hoping that it was only a chill and not anything more serious.

He could hear shouting from outside his room, and it was then that he realised he was in fact back in his own house when, what seemed like moments before, he had been in Mary’s kitchen.

He heard the shouting again and, this time, he could make out words and recognise the voice: Elizabeth. “Let me go! Unhand me at once!”

William jumped up off the bed, stumbling a little as another wave of dizziness overcame him. Hurrying to the door, he opened it to see Elizabeth, her arms held on either side by Mary and Stephen, her expression angry, and eyes furious as his cook and butler frogmarched her down the hallway.

“Stop whatever you are doing!” he called out, leaning against the doorframe for support. He’d intended for his voice to be strong and commanding, but it came out weak and feeble. His words had the desired effect however, for his staff stopped and turned, bringing Elizabeth with them.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked, speaking at the same time as the cook.

“Mr. Pratt!” Mary said. “You should be in bed.”

“William!” It was Elizabeth’s voice he focused on, turning his worried eyes to her. She was barely dressed; she stood in her shift and corset, a robe draped awkwardly around her shoulders. “They think I’m a thief! A—a whore. They took my ring, William, and said I’d stolen it.”

Fury like he had never felt before descended and he set his mouth in a hard line. “You’d do well to let my wife go now, Stephen. Mary.”

Eyes wide, they released Elizabeth, and she ran to him and buried her head in his neck. He brought his arms around her and took pleasure in the scent of her skin and the beating of her heart against his own.

“Stephen, I’m feeling a little unwell. Send for a doctor, please. Mary, find us something to eat.” When neither of his staff moved, William barked, “Now, if you want to keep your jobs!”

Mary nodded and curtsied awkwardly before running off, but Stephen stayed, looking a little shell-shocked at seeing this commanding side to his employer. “I’ve already sent for Dr. Harding,” Stephen said. “But his wife said he’s all the way over in Cockfosters, so he may be a while.”

“Very well. Have Mary bring our food up when it’s ready.”

Bobbing his head, Stephen retreated down the corridor and left William and Elizabeth alone. William brought his hand up to cup his fiancée’s cheek. She was shaking. “Come on,” he said, drawing her back into the bedroom with him. “Let’s sit down.”

“I woke up and you were gone,” Elizabeth said, when they had settled themselves on the bed. “I thought perhaps you’d gone out for food, so I didn’t worry too much. And then, halfway through dressing, those people brought you in—oh, you looked terrible, William! So pale and poorly. I don’t think they saw me at first, but when they did they accused me of breaking in to steal from you.” She paused and a blush filled her cheeks. “I think I may have kicked Stephen in his, um, his…”

“Privates?” William suggested, biting his lip to keep from laughing when she nodded. He hugged her into his side and smiled. “Oh, Elizabeth. I do love you.”

“You should have seen his face!” she said. “I don’t think he knew quite what to do, a tiny girl like me besting him even just for a moment.”

“I’m sure it was a sight,” William replied, finally allowing the laughter to escape. He chuckled, imagining how Mary and Stephen must have felt to find a half-dressed woman in their master’s room. The man he had been before leaving for the hospital would never have even contemplated bringing a woman to his bed.

He laughed until his chest protested, a sharp pain hitting him behind his ribs and making him cough. He pulled away from Elizabeth’s embrace and turned away, covering his mouth with both hands as his coughing turned his throat raw and made his head pound.

Suddenly sober, he felt Elizabeth’s hands on his forehead. “You’re far too hot,” she said. He felt her hands pushing him backwards into the mattress, the coolness of her palms feeling wonderful against his burning skin.

“I don’t suppose we’re going to Scotland, then,” he said, when the coughing fit had passed.

“Not until you’re better,” she replied. “Until then, we’ll have to continue our dastardly deception of your staff.”

“Dastardly indeed,” William said, smiling. “To want to pretend that we’re already married.” He tutted and shook his head. “Dastardly.”

“I hope it’s not your consumption returned,” Elizabeth said worriedly, bringing her knees up onto the bed and lying down next to William. She laced her hand in his. “The last time I read your notes at the hospital, you were almost well. I knew it! We should never have left. What if—”

“No.” William rolled onto his side to face her, so he could look into her eyes. “Don’t think like that. I wouldn’t give up the last few days with you for the world.”

“I can’t believe how little time has passed since we left the island,” she commented. “I feel so changed.”

“For the better?”

“Yes.” Closing her eyes, she frowned. “Tomorrow’s Friday. They’ll find out that I’ve run away. William, I’m worried that Ethan will come after us, if he finds out. My disappearance coinciding with yours will look a little suspicious, won’t it?”

“I have faith in Sister Maclay,” William replied. “I’m sorry, love. If I hadn’t fallen ill, we could be on our way to Scotland by now.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said, quietly. Plucking at the sheet, she continued. “If only I were a few months older! We won’t find anyone to marry us without my parents’ consent in England, will we?”

“No.” William sighed and turned onto his back. “I knew something would go wrong! Maybe we should head up to Scotland anyway. I don’t feel too bad.” He sat up and made to move from the bed, only to be overcome by that damned dizziness again.

Elizabeth helped him lie down and smoothed his hair back. “You concentrate on getting better,” she said. “Rest now. I’ll see what’s keeping Mary with our food.”

Nodding, William let his eyes drift shut, listening contentedly to the sounds of Elizabeth moving around the room.

***

Getting better seemed to be a gigantic feat that he would never overcome. William didn’t know whether hours had passed since he’d woken up feeling like death warmed over, or if it had been days. He drifted in and out of consciousness, one time waking to see Dr. Harding standing over his bed.

“…pneumonia. Exacerbated by the consumption. Keep him warm and make sure he drinks plenty of water… a few days…”

Elizabeth was a constant presence and he always seemed to know when she was near. She sat by his bed and held his hand or lay down next to him with her cheek nestled into the crook of his neck. There were times when he was sure he felt tears falling from her face onto his skin, others when he heard her cursing her ineptitude as a nurse.

When he woke up it was dark, and he felt more alert than he had in a while. Elizabeth was dozing next to him on the bed, and he sat up slowly, trying not to wake her. He managed to make his way out of the room and down the hallway to the top of the stairs, where he had to pause for lack of breath. A sound from behind startled him, and he turned to see Stephen, a candle in his hand.

The other man took William by the arm and helped him down the stairs and into the front parlour, where William collapsed into the armchair by the hearth and tried to catch his breath, whilst Stephen stoked the fire.

“What day is it?” William asked when the fire was lit and roaring, and Stephen had seated himself in the chair opposite.

“Saturday evening, Sir.”

William nodded but remained silent for several moments, before levelling his gaze at the other man. “Tell me truthfully, Stephen. What are my chances?”

Stephen had been with the household too long to mince his words, and his reply was frank. “It’s bad, Sir. Dr. Harding said it would be a miracle if you survived the week.”

William sucked in a breath, the sudden expansion of his lungs making his chest hurt. He had expected the answer, had known it was coming, but it was still a shock to hear it put so plainly. “Does Elizabeth know?”

“I made sure Dr. Harding did not speak his diagnosis in her presence,” Stephen said. “But she’s not stupid and she’s a nurse. She knows.”

William closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He felt shivery, but sweat pricked his brow, and his breath came in rapid pants. The quietness of the room felt oppressive, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be back upstairs in bed with Elizabeth, but there were things that needed to be sorted out. “She’s not really my wife,” he said eventually.

“I did wonder,” Stephen replied. “Who is she then?”

“The woman I love. We’re going to be married.” He paused and felt tears fill his eyes. “Were going to be married. It’ll never happen now. Paper dreams, blown away on the breeze.”

“Still a poet, I see.” Stephen smiled.

“I haven’t changed that much,” William replied. He sighed and settled back into the chair. “Fetch a ledger and some ink. There are things we need to discuss...”

***

His solicitor came to the house the following morning and made it all official. Elizabeth hovered at the edge of the room as the papers leaving her William’s house and all his worth were signed, and when the man had left, she came to sit next to him on the hard-backed sofa, her eyes wide and full of sorrow.

Neither spoke but William took her hand and held it as tight as he could. She hadn’t wanted to be his beneficiary, protesting that she only wanted him and not his possessions, but William insisted. “It had to be done,” he said after a while.

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth turning downwards as she tried not to cry. “We can’t give up; we have to keep fighting. Once one resigns oneself to something, it is inevitable. We can beat this, William. We can. You’ll be well again, I know it.”

Shuffling backwards until he was half-lying down, he drew Elizabeth with him and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and smiled. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how our future happens.”

“After we’re married,” she began in a halting voice, “we return to London for a few days. We lock ourselves in our room and make love over and over until we tire each other out. And then, when we’re too sore to move, we make love again, and it’s wonderful. You show me the sights of London, as promised. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament! The river Thames on a bright, sunny day. Christmas shopping in Harrods. We have such fun, William!”

“It sounds magnificent,” William said, feeling drowsy. “Tell me more.”

“We live in London for one year and we’re so happy. You take me dancing and to parties and the opera, and we have the time of our lives. But nothing makes us happier than when we discover I’m expecting a baby. You tell me that London isn’t the place to bring up a child, so we decide that it’s time to return to the island.”

She was speaking through tears now, wetting the material of his shirt but it didn’t matter, because he was crying too as they imagined the future they’d never share.

“We buy a house in Bembridge, so we’re near to my parents. They’ve forgiven us for all that happened, and they’re thrilled at the idea of a grandchild. Our house is big and beautiful and overlooks the sea, and every morning we wake up and make love, the sun shining through the window, even when I’m as big as the house itself.”

“You’re lovely,” William said, seeing everything she said as a bright, vivid image in his mind’s eye. “I love you.”

“I love you too. More than anything. Please don’t—” She broke off, biting back a sob.

William slowly shook his head. “Shh. Shh.” He managed to lift his head enough to reach her lips for a kiss. It was slow and languid, and he tried to pour everything he felt for her into it. “I love you,” he said again when they broke apart.

The dam broke, and she fell against his chest, crying uncontrollably. William’s heart ached that he was the cause of this pain, but he could do nothing but hold her hand. “Shh,” he repeated. “You didn’t finish the story.”

When she spoke, her words were muffled because she kept her head pressed into his chest, one hand resting above his heart. “Our baby is a gorgeous little girl, and we think the world of her. You spoil her, and she’s a definite daddy’s girl. I bring back shells from the beach, and she likes to line them up…”

William listened, content to imagine this future she had dreamed up for them. He could feel the pounding of the waves on the shore, smell and taste the salt on the breeze. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the happy laughter of their child as she played in the sand.

And there, in the distance, he could see himself and Elizabeth standing together with their hands linked, watching as the sun set and the day’s light died.

***

Chapter Thirteen

November 2010

He sat up suddenly, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. A beeping noise invaded his ears, annoying in its intensity. His mind raced as he tried to work out where he was, who he was, why he was.

The room he was in was dark, but a bright light filtered in through half-closed blinds. Looking around revealed that it was a spartan, bare place, and that he was lying in a bed. There was a machine with lots of complicated looking buttons on it, and it was from this that the beeping emanated. A hospital, then.

In one corner a man sat slumped on a chair, snoring lightly, a coat draped around his shoulders.

He closed his eyes and tried to understand what was going on. Two deep breaths later and he had a name—William! Or… wait. Was he William? Wasn’t he sometimes called something else?

It was frustrating not to be able to remember one’s own identity, or why one was in the hospital. The man in the corner snuffled and the coat draped across his form fell to the floor. William—or whoever he was—watched as the other man came awake slowly, stretching and standing up.

“Spike! My God, you’re awake!” The man sounded English, his accent rich and cultured. “We should fetch a doctor.”

Spike. With this, everything unlocked and fell into place. Memory returned in a sudden tidal wave of information.

He was Spike. He was William. He saw everything and understood nothing. He remembered his life as William Pratt: his father’s death, his mother’s illness, leaving for the island, meeting Elizabeth. With heartbreaking clarity he saw himself held in her arms as she talked of a beautiful future. He felt himself die.

At the same time he recalled everything about Spike that had brought him to this moment, but most especially Buffy. He didn’t question for a moment whether what he remembered was real or not. It felt real and that was all that mattered.

He stared at the other man, knowing now that he was his brother Wesley.

“Wes. Buffy, where is she? Is she okay?” He had the horrible feeling that something had happened to her.

“She’s been in the same predicament as you,” Wesley replied. He moved towards the side of the bed and helped Spike to sit up. “Quite extraordinary that you both fell into a coma at the same time. The doctors were at a loss to explain it. Spike, I really should call for a doctor.”

“She’s here then?” Spike said, ignoring his brother’s last words. “In the hospital?”

“Yes. Just down the hallway.” When Spike leapt shakily from the bed, uncaring of how the heart monitor pulled from his skin, or how his legs wobbled from lack of use, Wesley made a move to stop him.

Spike found a robe hanging on the back of the door and wrapped it around himself to save his dignity in the open-backed gown, before leaving the room and blinking into the bright light of the corridor.

“This way.” Wesley was behind him and directed him to the right room.

Peering in through the window, Spike saw Buffy lying in a hospital bed. She looked small and pale, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow. She was alone in the room, and he pushed the door open quietly. He went to the edge of the bed and sat down on the mattress next to her. He took her hand and brushed his thumb over her soft skin. “Has she had any visitors?”

“Yes. Her family came as soon as they heard.” Wesley came all the way into the room and shut the door behind him. “What happened Spike? What caused this?”

“I wish I knew,” Spike replied. He stared at Buffy and wondered if she had experienced the same thing he had—if she had fallen into this coma and lived out her life in another time and whether she would remember Elizabeth and William when she woke up.

A thought occurred to him and he turned to Wesley, one eyebrow raised. “Where’s Dru?”

“Dru?” Wesley frowned. “Dru who?”

“Drusilla? Our sister.” Spike stood up, setting Buffy’s hand gently on the covers. He leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek, before indicating to Wes that they should leave the room. He led the way back to his own hospital room, where he sat down on the bed. “Seriously Wes, where is she?”

“I don’t know whom you’re talking about,” Wesley replied, and a cold shiver wound its way down Spike’s spine. “I don’t know and have never known a Drusilla.”

“But I—” Spike broke off. He remembered his sister with absolute clarity. Dark-haired and slim, wide-eyed at every new discovery. A little crazy, but he loved her that way. “My stuff. My wallet, clothes. Where are they?”

“In there.” Wesley pointed to the cupboard next to his bed. “But Spike—”

“Shh.” Spike opened his wallet to the back where he kept pictures of his family. There was the one of his mother and father; another of Wesley, looking awkward as he posed, but his photos of Drusilla had disappeared. The picture of all three siblings now only showed Wes and himself, smiling for the camera. “I don’t understand. Wesley, we had a sister. We did.”

“Perhaps you’d better get some rest,” Wesley replied. “I’ll fetch the doctor. I should have done that when you first woke up.”

“I don’t need rest!” Spike stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been resting for how long already?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks! Two weeks and I’ve lived a whole lifetime. I’ve lived and I’ve loved and I’ve died. I died, Wesley!” He laughed. “How many people can say that? Who else can say they know what death feels like?” He sobered suddenly and sat back down on the bed, burying his face in his hands. “I left Elizabeth behind, and God knows what happened to her. What’s happening to her right now because I’m awake and she’s not. She should be awake! I need… I need books. And records.” He frowned, something niggling the corners of his memory. “Simkins! Has he been here? I need to talk to him.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Wesley said. “I’ll call the doctor.”

“I need to talk to Simkins.” Spike insisted again.

“I don’t understand—”

“No, you bloody well don’t understand. Something happened to me, Wes, and he’s the only one I can think of who might be able to help me. So get him, okay?”

Wesley backed up, his hands held out in a gesture of retreat. “All right. I’ll call him. But first, I’m fetching a doctor or nurse. God knows what’s taking them so long.”

Spike nodded and lay back against the pillows, trying to make sense of things. It was a strange feeling, being two persons at once. He was William and he was Spike, but they were both part of him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stop thinking, but it was futile; the questions raced around his head nevertheless. Where was Drusilla? If he and Buffy were somehow linked so that they would fall into a coma at the same time and share a past life together, why hadn’t she woken at the same time as he had?

He groaned. Nothing made sense.

The door creaked open and Wesley stepped through, a white-coated doctor hot on his heels.

“Mr. Price, it’s good to see you awake.” The doctor smiled and came to stand at the foot of the bed.

Spike frowned for a moment, wondering why he was being addressed as Price and not Pratt, before remembering he was Mr. Price in this lifetime. He sighed and submitted to the doctor’s examination, remembering in his mind’s eye all the times he had had to put up with Sister Maclay’s prodding and poking, back in the Ventnor hospital.

“Everything seems fine,” the doctor said eventually. “You were a most curious case, Mr. Price. No prior illness, nothing that indicated why you had fallen into the coma. The symptoms you were suffering from when you were brought in disappeared after a couple of days. And now you’re awake, there’s still nothing to say why it happened. Most curious indeed. Well, we’ll keep you in overnight for observation but I see no reason why you can’t be discharged tomorrow morning.”

Spike nodded and Wesley thanked the doctor. As soon as she had left the room, Spike turned to his brother. “Did you call Simkins?”

“Yes, I did.” Wesley sighed. “I really wish you’d tell me why you need to talk to the leader of the local paranormal society.”

“Because he’s the bloody leader of the local paranormal society,” Spike said. “Look, I’ll tell you everything when he gets here. Don’t really fancy explaining twice.”

“All right.” Wesley seemed resigned. “Are you hungry?”

“Think I am, actually, yeah.”

***

The beep-beep-beep of the machine was annoying but it gave Spike something other than his thoughts to focus on.

A nurse had been by and had tried to get him to go back into his own room, but he’d stubbornly refused, clinging onto Buffy’s hand as though it were a lifeline. She looked so still, so peaceful. He wondered if she was reliving her past life as he had done. If she was lost in the past at that very moment, mourning William’s death.

It felt strange to refer to that part of himself as a separate entity, for William was now very much a part of Spike. He was both persons at once: the Victorian gentleman and the English teacher with an affinity for punk rock.

Simkins had said that kind of regression wasn’t a common phenomenon, but it had been known to happen before. When Spike had explained everything, Simkins had reacted with childlike glee—Wes with utter disbelief.

As Spike wove the tale of his past, he mentioned details that he would never have known had he not been there—names and places long since written out of history. Simkins had become even more excited when Spike had revealed William’s full name, and the other man had promised to return the following day with enough evidence to convince even the most hardened of sceptics.

Spike was glad that Simkins at least had seemed to believe him; he’d accepted it all as fact and not as a delusion brought on by the coma. Wesley seemed more inclined to believe it was all made up, and there was some small part of Spike that thought it all a fanciful daydream, too.

Sighing, he tightened his grip on Buffy’s hand. She lay as still as ever, even when Spike brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, keeping his lips pressed to her skin for several moments.

Releasing her hand to rest on the covers once more, he leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair and settled in for a long night of waiting.

***

Just as Spike was being discharged the following morning, Simkins returned to the hospital, a bag in his hand and an eager smile on his face.

“There’s a little café not far away,” Simkins said. “Perhaps we could go there to talk. It’s usually nice and quiet at this time of day.”

Spike frowned. “I dunno. I kind of wanted to hang around here for Buffy. And the doc said her family usually show up around midday. It’d be nice to meet them. To explain…”

Wes, who had been standing back and observing the conversation, suddenly spoke up. “Go on, Spike. You’ve got your phone; I’ll give you a ring when Buffy’s family turn up.”

Still unsure but needing to hear whatever it was that Simkins had discovered, Spike nodded. “All right. Call me as soon as they’re here, mind.”

Wesley nodded his head in agreement, and Spike let himself be ushered from the room. He followed Simkins down the hallway and out of the hospital, allowing the other man to lead him to the aforementioned café. It was tucked between a bookshop and a butcher and looked to be the kind of old-fashioned teashop that only seemed to exist in tiny villages or seaside towns.

A bell jangled as they entered, and a bespectacled woman greeted them with a smile and two menus. After ordering a pot of tea for two and a pair of rock cakes, Simkins levelled Spike with a shrewd look and reached into the bag he’d brought. He set a book onto the table and sat back triumphantly.

The book wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—a plainly bound journal, the pages warped and yellowed with age—but to Spike it spoke volumes. He reached out a shaking hand to touch it and, when his hand met the cover, he felt the last of the puzzle pieces click into place. “Bloody hell.” There was no doubt now that he had lived as William in the past, for this was his journal, the one he’d left behind at the hospital in his haste to leave. He remembered it vividly, recalled writing his soppy love poems and tearing out pages for his letters to Elizabeth.

“You recognise it, then?” Simkins took a sip of his tea and the rattle his cup made as it met the saucer sounded loud in the otherwise quiet tearoom.

“Yeah,” Spike said. “It was mine—uh, William’s. Where did you find it?”

“It’s been part of Carisbrooke Castle’s museum collection since 1934,” Simkins replied. “Donated upon the death of one Tara Maclay.”

“Elizabeth’s aunt.” William opened the book, careful not to tear the brittle pages within. There, on the first page, was Elizabeth’s first note to him. He traced the words lightly with the pads of his fingers, lost in the memories they invoked. He looked up at Simkins. “This is crazy. You know that, right?”

“But true,” Simkins said. He gestured to the journal with one hand. “Alison had planned to use that journal as the focus of her energy at the vigil, do you remember? The curator of the museum very kindly loans us artefacts every now and then. I believe that that, combined with being back at the hospital’s location is the cause of your regression.”

“And Buffy?”

Simkins shrugged. “Who knows? Divine intervention, perhaps. For you to fully understand the journey, she had to be there with you.”

“Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” Spike asked, turning the pages of William’s journal. He smiled when he came across the first of his poems.

“It’s obvious, surely?” Simkins said. “You woke up when your past life ended. She will undoubtedly do the same. I don’t think it will be too long.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers, photocopies of old records and printed typeface. “I spent the better part of the night at the county record office, searching for any mention of Elizabeth Summers and William Pratt. Here,” he paused and handed Spike a sheet of paper. “I had to put in a call to the Metropolitan Archives for your death certificate. Twenty-eighth of November, 1888, in London.”

“Sounds about right,” Spike replied. “Don’t remember much of those last few days.”

“You’re not going to like the next part.” Simkins rifled through the papers and frowned. “How odd. I’m sure I made a copy…” He paged through the pile once more, and then again one further time. “Most peculiar.” He met Spike’s eyes from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “I found Elizabeth’s marriage certificate, but it doesn’t appear to be here any more…”

“Marriage certificate?” Spike’s heart sank.

“Yes. It listed her as married to a Mr. Ethan Rayne on the fifteenth January, 1889, at Holy Trinity church in Bembridge.” Simkins flicked through the papers again. “I’m sure I made a copy of it.”

“She went back to the island, then,” Spike said, feeling numb. He’d wanted to find out what had happened to Elizabeth after William’s death, but now he almost wished he didn’t know. To think of her, his bright, beautiful girl, having to marry a man she detested… it made his heart ache. He swallowed down the last of his tea, uncaring that it was now cold. “Did you—did you find her death certificate?”

“I did,” Simkins replied. “But that seems to have gone walkabout, too. Nevermind. I have an excellent memory. It was almost a year after her marriage, on the 18th December, 1889. She died in childbirth, and the baby with her.”

“I—” Spike squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t need to be a maths whiz to know that the dates didn’t add up. It hadn’t been William’s child, but he still felt its loss like a fresh wound. He stood up, his sudden movement upsetting the table slightly. “I need a moment. Excuse me.” It was cold outside, and the biting November wind whipped the tears from his face as soon as they appeared.

The facts with which Simkins had presented him were distant, impersonal dates, but each one told Spike a story of Elizabeth’s fate after William’s death. He didn’t need details to know what had happened; he could imagine each moment as though he had lived it himself.

Elizabeth would have been afraid and alone in London by herself. She wouldn’t have known anyone, wouldn’t have known what to do, even with the assets William had left for her. Perhaps she had seen returning to the island as the only option. Once there, she’d been forced by her parents to wed Ethan Rayne. It had been a loveless marriage, and Spike could only hope that the other man hadn’t been too cruel to her. And then, for her to die at such a young age and in such a harsh way… it was a heart-rending end to the tale.

Spike took a deep, shuddering breath to compose himself, before returning to the table inside the café. He had to try and look on the bright side. If Elizabeth’s death had been such a short time after William’s, then it wouldn’t be long before Buffy woke up, and they would be able to start again. Circumstance wouldn’t be against them this time.

Simkins had a deep frown on his face when Spike settled himself opposite. “I was just on the phone to my friend at the records office. There’s no trace at all of Elizabeth’s marriage and death certificates. They’ve gone.”

“Gone? Has someone else taken them?”

“No. Gone, as in disappeared completely,” Simkins said. “It’s as though they never existed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No.” Simkins met his eyes, and Spike shivered. “Neither do I.”

***

Chapter Fourteen

When Spike arrived back at the hospital, he went straight to Buffy’s room. After all the talk of death with Simkins, he was desperate to see her. When he got there, he found Wesley hovering around outside, a mobile phone in his hand and a frown on his face.

“Spike, you didn’t answer your phone.”

“You didn’t call,” Spike replied, pulling his mobile from his pocket. The display was blank. “Bugger, the battery died.”

“Yes, well,” Wesley began, casting a worried glance to the window of the room behind him, where the blinds had been drawn, “Buffy’s family are here, but—”

“They in there with her?”

“No, they’re talking to the doctors. Spike, listen to me.” Wesley put out a hand out to stop Spike from going into the hospital room. “Her ex is here.”

“What?” Spike paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Why?”

“He came down with her parents when they heard the news,” Wesley replied. “He stops by every other day.”

Spike felt an irrational wave of jealousy and anger surge through him at the thought of Buffy’s ex-boyfriend sitting at her bedside. Well, bollocks to that. If anyone should be by her side, it should be him. He shook off Wesley’s calming hand and pushed open the door, only to be met by a harsh, herby scent, completely at contrast with the clinical hospital smell.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood over Buffy. One of his hands held a bundle of cloth to her forehead and the other was loosely grasped around her wrist.

Spike could see immediately where the strange smell was coming from—a bowl on the bedside table—but he didn’t understand it. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

The other man jumped and took a step back from the bed. “Hello.” He looked at Spike with pursed lips before setting the cloth down and wiping his hands on the side of his shirt. He held one out to shake. “Are you Spike?”

“Yeah,” Spike said, deliberately ignoring the proffered hand. “Who the hell are you?”

“Liam O’ Connor. I’m a, uh, friend of Buffy’s.”

“What were you doing to her?” Spike strode over to the edge of the bed, pausing for a moment to touch Buffy’s hand lightly before picking up the bowl and sniffing it. “What’s this?”

“A poultice. Look, I seem to have done something to offend you, but really, I mean her no harm.”

Spike sighed and sank down into the chair beside the bed. He put his face in his hands before slumping backwards. He knew he’d been rude. “Sorry, mate. I’m just worried about her.” He gestured to the bowl again. “What’s in this thing, then?”

Liam shrugged and sat down in the other chair. “Not really sure. My girlfriend and her uncle are into the whole spiritual thing and sent it down. It’s supposed to help guide her. Hell if I know what that means; it’s a load of rubbish if you ask me.”

Spike chose not to reply. He knew first hand now that the world was not as it immediately seemed, but he didn’t have the energy to explain everything all over again. He turned his attention back to Buffy and brushed her hair back off her forehead. “She’ll wake up soon,” he said.

“Yeah?”

Spike nodded. “She has to.”

***

Buffy’s mother and stepfather were lovely people but they seemed a little disinclined to believe Spike’s story. Spike supposed it was a bit much for them to take in and he wished that Simkins hadn’t mislaid Elizabeth’s marriage and death certificates, so he could at least have some tangible proof to show them.

Wesley had tried to get Spike to leave the hospital and go back to the bed and breakfast he was staying in, but Spike had refused. He didn’t know how long it would be until Buffy awoke, but he wanted to be there when she did. He wanted his to be the first face she saw as she’d undoubtedly be confused from her trip into the life of her past-self.

The lights in the hospital room had been dimmed, and a nurse had been round to check on Buffy. It was quiet, the only sound the beep and hum of the machinery, and a sense of peace had descended. Spike was in that strange place between sleeping and waking, his eyes half-closed, and his senses dulled.

It was no surprise, then, when he saw Drusilla sitting in the corner.

“Dru.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you. Where did you go?”

“Hello, William.” She smiled back and stood up, crossing the room so swiftly that Spike knew it had to be a dream. “Not a dream.” Drusilla shook her head. “Silly boy. Haven’t you learned by now that things might be exactly what they seem?”

“So you’re really here?” Spike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear the muffled feeling in his head.

“Yes and no. It depends on your definition of ‘here’. Am I real? No. But I am here.”

“I don’t understand.”

Drusilla chuckled. “I don’t expect you to.”

“I feel like I should be insulted by that,” Spike replied. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but his palm passed through her like she was made of smoke. “Gonna explain?”

“In time.” She began to hum softly, her eyes wide as they swept the room. Spike kept quiet, still unsure whether or not he was dreaming. Eventually, Drusilla met his eyes and smiled sadly. “I was never your sister, Spike.”

He had been expecting this, but it still hurt to hear. “No?” he said lightly. “Who are you then?”

“I’m a guide.” Drusilla stood and moved away a little bit. When she turned around, she wore the face of Sister Maclay. “I’m everyone who’s ever helped William and Elizabeth. Tara,” she paused and her face changed again and again. “The carriage driver who took you to Cowes. Stephen and Mary. Even the conductor on the train, who pretended not to see you kissing.” She returned to Drusilla’s form and took a seat once more. She leaned over and stared earnestly into Spike’s eyes. “Buffy’s in trouble.”

“How?” Spike had been unnerved by the sight of Drusilla changing into the faces from his past, but his attention was snapped back to the present by her words.

“She’s fading. Soon, she’ll disappear completely, if certain wrongs are not put right.”

Spike swallowed. “You mean she’s dying?”

“No,” Drusilla said. “She’s disappearing and soon, she’ll be erased from this world completely. She’ll fade and no one will ever remember that she existed.”

“I don’t understand.” Spike turned to look at Buffy on the bed, still so thin and pale with dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looked small, sunken in on herself, and Spike could easily imagine her fading away. But he didn’t understand why.

“You say that a lot,” Drusilla replied with a smile in her voice before her face turned serious. “Time isn’t linear. It’s more like… a ball of wool. Not a new one, but one that’s been lost in the bottom of grandma’s knitting bag, becoming more and more tangled as the years go on. Different strands weave different timelines. Do you see?”

“Not really, but go on.”

“The timelines are in flux. Your regression to the past has caused them to change. Buffy is disappearing now in the present, because Elizabeth made the wrong choice in the past. She chose to return to the island and marry Ethan Rayne, and then she died. The timelines don’t add up; the strands of wool are different lengths. For Buffy to wake up now, Elizabeth needs to make the right decision all those years ago and live a long, long life.”

“Okay,” Spike said, slowly. He tried to wrap his mind around what Drusilla had said. “I’m not losing her. How do we make this happen? It was over a hundred years ago.”

Drusilla smiled enigmatically and moved towards Spike. Reaching out a hand, she rested it on his forehead. Her skin felt cool and dry and not altogether human. “Sleep, now. Let’s hope it all comes right by morning.”

***

Spike looked around himself, puzzled. He was in the old Summer House at William’s home, but it looked nothing like it had the last time he’d seen it, in the months before leaving for the island. Back then, white dust-sheets had covered every surface and everything had been packed away.

Here, now, it was as he remembered it from boyhood: bright and open, the sun streaming in through the glass roof, books lined neatly on the shelves and vases of flowers on the tables. In the air lingered a strange but familiar scent, which Spike soon recognised as the smell of the poultice Liam had used on Buffy. Perhaps whatever he’d done had helped after all.

Spike’s eyes swept the room and landed on the small, huddled form of Elizabeth sitting on the largest of the settees. She was dressed all in black, at complete contrast with the bright vitality of the room, and her eyes stared unseeing at the floor. Curled up on her lap was a sleeping tabby cat, which she stroked absentmindedly every now and then.

He approached her, and, as he did, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. He was dressed in his customary black jeans and t-shirt, and his hair was brightly bleached. Spike hesitated, feeling out of place, his modernity completely at odds with the Victoriana of the room.

A shocked gasp caught his attention and he looked up to see a wide-eyed Elizabeth staring at him. She had gone very pale and swayed a little, dislodging the cat from her lap. Spike ran forward to steady her, holding her wrists as she closed her eyes for several moments.

When she opened them, she reached out to him almost immediately, and put her hand against his cheek. Spike stayed silent, relishing the touch and shivering when she moved her hand from his face to the nape of his neck. “Your hair,” she said, stroking the fine hairs at the back of his head. “It’s so bright. Why would I dream of you with such white hair?”

She thought he was a dream. Perhaps he was. The last thing Spike remembered was Drusilla telling him to go to sleep. Maybe this was her doing; maybe she had given them this time together in a shared dream that spanned the decades.

“You have such a vivid imagination,” Spike replied eventually, his accent falling easily back into William’s upper-class tones.

“And your clothes! Why…” She trailed off and closed her eyes once more. “I miss you.”

Spike felt his heart breaking all over again. “I miss you, too.”

“I don’t know what to do without you,” she said. She slid her hand down his arm and entwined her fingers with his, tugging him until they were curled together on the settee. “I feel so lost.”

“You’ll find your way,” Spike said. “You’re—” He stopped, remembering suddenly that no, she wouldn’t find her way. She would return to the island and her forced marriage and be dead within the year. He heard Drusilla’s words in his head: For Buffy to wake up now, Elizabeth needs to make the right decision all those years ago and live a long, long life. “Oh.”

“What am I?” Elizabeth prompted, when he fell silent. “William?”

Spike sat up quickly and grabbed Elizabeth by her upper arms. He turned her to face him and looked into her eyes. “You’re strong. You are,” he said, when she shook her head and bit her lip.

“I’m not. You don’t know… I’ve been so useless. I’ve left everything for Stephen and Mary to sort out.”

“That’s understandable, love,” he said. “Listen to me now. You mustn’t go back to the island. D’you hear me? You can’t go back there.”

“I—” Elizabeth began, but broke off without saying anything, guilt on her face. She looked down at their joined hands and whispered, “I don’t think there’s any other option.”

“Of course there is!” Spike stood up and began to pace. “There are a thousand things you could do instead.”

“I’m young and unmarried,” Elizabeth replied. “I have no chaperone. What can I do? Nothing.”

“I left you money. I left you this house. Go to Paris, like you wanted! Or America. Use your nurse’s training to help others. Take Mary and Catherine with you. There’s a whole world waiting for you.” Spike’s voice was pleading. “Just please, don’t go back to the island.”

“What use is the world without you in it?” she asked, turning tear-filled eyes to him. She sighed. “Besides, I hadn’t thought much about what to do next until you mentioned it. I’ve been living moment to moment ever since—”

Spike took a deep breath and dropped to his knees in front of her. He gathered her hands together and kissed her knuckles. “If we’re ever to have a chance at happiness, you must not go back there. Do whatever else you like but don’t do that. Please. For me.”

“Our chance at happiness has passed. You know that.”

“It hasn’t. I’ve seen it, we have a chance to be together again, far into the future, but it won’t happen if you go back.” Perhaps it was time to be blunt. “If you go back, you’ll die.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, William.” She chuckled. “I’m going quite mad, it seems. Just as well it’s only a dream and you’re only a figment. A happy memory.”

“No—please, promise me. Promise.”

“All right, I promise. William, you’re scaring me.” She frowned. “Why have you gone so pale?”

Spike felt himself begin to pull away from the dream. He heard the beep-beep-beep of hospital machines and the hum of electric lights. Still, he kept his eyes fixed on Elizabeth, even as the Summer House faded around him.

Suddenly, he woke up.

Chapter Fifteen

December 1888

The remnants of a strange dream lingered in her mind as she woke, but Elizabeth did not care to try and remember it. She knew William had been there, but then that was true of most of her dreams lately.

She had been living listlessly since he’d passed away, going from moment to moment in a haze of sadness and sorrow. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt before, a hollow ache in her chest, a constant sickness in her stomach, a numbness of her limbs.

Stephen and Mary had been wonderful, the former taking care of all the practicalities and the latter coddling her so much that Elizabeth almost felt smothered. Still, she allowed it. It was a comfort to them both, as Mary had been with the Pratt household since William was a child and she grieved him as a mother would.

Elizabeth dressed mechanically, her fingers stiff while she laced her dress, uncaring that the ribbons weren’t even lengths when she tied them. When she was ready, she went downstairs to the dining room, where a small breakfast of tea and toast awaited her. She ate without really tasting it, then moved aimlessly into the sitting room and sat down at the desk. Her fingers played with the writing implements there, she picked up and put down a pen several times, and then shredded a piece of paper, her mind elsewhere.

Her routine had been the same for the last few days, ever since the funeral. It had been a quiet affair, subdued and solemn and not at all fitting for the man William had been, Elizabeth thought. She had allowed Stephen and Mary to pull her along like flotsam on a drifting tide, and had been introduced to the few attendees as William’s widow. It was better to go along with that pretence than to explain the truth.

What happened next? She almost didn’t want to think about it, far preferring to stay locked in her mind and allowing Mary to guide her through her daily tasks.

Her hands flitted to the pile of books that Stephen had unpacked from William’s bag, a mixture of novels, poetry books, and William’s own writing. She recognised a couple of the books as the journals she had acquired for him back on the island, simple and plainly bound but clearly well-used. She hadn’t looked at them yet, hadn’t dared to, for fear of breaking down, but now she felt a compulsion to read the words he’d written.

He hadn’t had a chance to read them to her.

Shakily, she reached for the first of the journals and flipped it open to the first page. The first sight of his cursive writing made her breath catch in her throat. It was immediately clear that the poem was about her—about them—from early on in their correspondence.

Ruled by heart and not by head,
I do not know where I am led.
Something strange and something new,
My mind is filled with thoughts of you.
What to do? the lines are blurred,
The only escape through our words.
Alone, I stare at the stars above,
As always, a fool for love.

For the first time since William had died, she allowed herself to cry.

***

Life went on, much as Elizabeth wished it would stay still and static. She spent her days at the house, sometimes wandering into the garden for hours on end until the cold air forced her back inside.

The bed of pansies in the garden should have looked bright and vibrant, but Elizabeth only saw the flowers as a carpet of grey. Everything seemed to have lost its colour and become dull.

She knew she had to find something to do, find some purpose for her life, but she didn’t feel like it. What she didn’t do today could be done tomorrow, after all. Except that every time tomorrow came, she dismissed her ideas as whimsy. There didn’t seem to be any point.

Mary tried to interest her in preparing for Christmas, but the enticing smells of gingerbread and mince pies from the kitchen did little to pique her interest.

Elizabeth was in a stupor, and nothing seemed able to break her out of it.

Then, one day in mid-December, everything changed.

She had gone out into the garden, mindful of the slippery ice on the pathways, and seated herself on the stone bench by the small pond. It was quiet and peaceful and reminded her of the gardens at Ventnor.

Elizabeth watched as a robin flittered into sight and landed on the ground nearby. It pecked at the ground three times before taking flight again, a piece of twig clenched firmly in its beak. The sight made her smile, and the realisation of that shocked her; she had had very little to smile about since William had died.

Something so small and simple as a robin redbreast had lightened her heart a little and, whilst it still felt heavy and dark in her chest, it was a start. A sudden coldness on her cheek made her jump, and she looked up at the sky to see that snow had started to fall. It wasn’t heavy, not yet, but when it started to settle on the grass and flowerbeds, Elizabeth felt that it was time to go back inside. Perhaps Mary would do her a cup of tea and a mince pie.

She picked her way carefully back towards the house and the kitchen door. It was slightly ajar and she looked around; that usually meant that the kitchen cat had needed to go outside. Sure enough, Moggy was sitting underneath the bare twigs of the white-speckled rosehip bush.

Elizabeth left the cat to its business and was about to push open the door when she head a voice from within the kitchen that made her heart near stop beating. She flattened herself back against the wall of the house, out of sight of the window, and tried to calm her racing heart. Her father. How had he found her here? He must have got Aunt Tara to spill the beans.

“You’ve allowed her into London town by herself? Are you quite mad?”

“Of course not, Sir!” Mary sounded indignant. “She’s accompanied by the house butler, Mr. Walters. He’ll see no harm comes to her.”

God Bless Mary for covering for her!

“I see.” Mr. Summers sighed. “And what of this fellow she thinks herself in love with? Where is he?”

“He—” Mary paused and Elizabeth could hear the waver in the woman’s voice. She held her breath and awaited the cook’s answer. “He’s away on business.”

“That will make it easier for all involved, then,” Mr. Summers said. “I’ve come to take Elizabeth back with me. Her… association with Mr. Pratt is most unfortunate, but I don’t believe the situation is irredeemable. Mr. Rayne still wishes to marry her; no harm has been done.” Elizabeth heard the rattle of a teacup being replaced on a saucer and then the scraping of a chair on the floor. “Perhaps you have somewhere more comfortable for me to wait, Mrs. Rampton? I do find wooden chairs to be most unforgiving on the back.”

“Right this way,” Mary replied, her voice tight.

Elizabeth listened as the footsteps retreated further into the house. She slumped against the wall, the pounding of her heart so loud, she feared her father would be able to hear. A split-second later, she pushed away from the house, scooped up the cat, and ran towards the other end of the garden and the unused Summer House.

She shoved her way through the door, coughing a little when she disturbed months of gathered dust, and slammed it behind her. She had never been into the Summer House before, and she looked around curiously.

It was sparsely furnished, and white sheets covered everything. Weeds had pushed their way through some of the floorboards, and a thick layer of dust enveloped all of the surfaces.

Setting the cat down onto the floor, she tugged at the corner of the most likely-looking white-sheeted object, pulling it away completely when she saw that it was indeed a settee.

She sank down onto it with relief, smiling slightly when moments later a most disgruntled cat leapt up beside her. It had dusty paws that it set about cleaning thoroughly, after levelling Elizabeth with a suspicious stare.

“Sorry Moggy,” Elizabeth whispered. She sighed when she heard the tremor in her voice; she didn’t want to be afraid of her father. He had always been good to her—arranged marriage aside—and he was a kind man, but the shock of him turning up like that had frightened her.

He wanted to take her back to the island, back to the marriage she had run from, and she simply couldn’t allow that to happen.

She loved William.

But… he was gone. And the weeks alone had shown her that without him there, she was useless. Perhaps it would be better if she did go back to the island with her father, even if it meant she had to marry a man she hated.

What use had she in London? What worth here?

At least on the island, she was able to help the patients at the hospital. She had a purpose.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she leaned against the back of the sofa. The cat, having finished preening, leapt onto her lap and curled up with a contented meow. Elizabeth brought her hand to its head and petted it. Purring happily, the cat closed its eyes and seemed to be settling in for sleep.

“Oh, to be a cat,” she said, stroking its back. “Such a simple life, and nothing to worry about.” She laughed abruptly. “Oh, God. Wishing I was a cat. I’m going quite mad, it seems.”

A sudden flash of something half-remembered hit her, and she blinked. Had she spoken those words before?

Shaking her head, she pushed aside all longing to have the straightforward life of a feline and focused on the problem at hand. Her father sat inside the house, waiting for her to return with Stephen from an imaginary shopping trip.

She knew she couldn’t keep wandering aimlessly through life, as tempting as it sounded.

It was time to make a decision.

She could go back up to the house and see her father, let him take her back home. Or, she could— She sighed. There was no or.

She stood up, dislodging the sleeping cat that tumbled to the floor with an angry yowl. That flash of half-memory hit her again, and she stumbled backwards. There were no strong hands to catch her this time, and she half-fell against the side of the settee, the hard wooden arm digging painfully into her side.

“Ow,” she said, but the pain was short-lived as the half-memories became full memories, remembrance of a forgotten dream from several nights before.

William had been there, so strangely dressed in tight-fitting clothes and with bright white hair. They had been in the Summer House, and she had had the cat with her.

How odd that she should dream of that before it actually happened.

Looking around herself almost fearfully, she half-expected to see William appear, as he had in her dream. He had been so insistent about her not returning to the island. Scarily insistent.

Had she known in her subconscious that it would come down to this? Had she known somehow that she would soon have to decide?

Now she remembered it, the dream took on new life in her mind. It had felt so real. William had seemed so real.

“I left you money. I left you this house. Go to Paris, like you wanted! Or America. Use your nurse’s training to help others. Take Mary and Catherine with you. There’s a whole world waiting for you. Just please, don’t go back to the island."

Elizabeth stood again, brushing dirt from her skirts. She bent down and picked up the cat, nuzzling her face against his for a quick moment.

It was time to make a decision.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and made her choice.

***

November 2010

The flurry of nurses hurrying down the corridor towards Buffy’s room told Spike that something was wrong, and he dropped his empty coffee cup on the floor before racing after them.

A porter barred his entry to the room, saying something about giving the doctors room to work, but Spike was deaf to the man’s protests. He pushed open the door and came to an abrupt standstill when he saw the crowd of medical staff around Buffy’s small form on the bed.

Her gown had been pulled down, and two flesh-coloured squares put onto her chest. A doctor held the paddles of a defibrillator high, said something to one of the nurses, and brought them down onto Buffy’s chest.

She jerked up off the bed before falling back, and the sight of it made Spike feel sick. He was unaware of the single word he chanted through tight lips while the doctor repeated the procedure. “No, no, no, no.”

Spike felt his world start to crash down in slow-motion around him, when the monotonous whine of the heart monitor broke into his consciousness, and the doctor spoke to his colleagues.

“Let’s call it. Time of death, eleven-eighteen.”

***

Chapter Sixteen

Spike woke up from his dream feeling strangely well-rested. Being with Elizabeth, even for such a short time and in such strange circumstances, had been wonderful.

He only hoped that he had done enough to convince her. Sitting up from his chair, he looked at Buffy’s form on the bed and smiled. She looked the same as when he’d fallen asleep, but Spike felt optimistic and hopeful. She would wake up soon, he knew it.

Glancing at the clock on the wall of the room showed that it was well past midnight, and he yawned. He pulled his chair closer to the bed and laid his head down on the mattress next to Buffy’s hand. The dream might have left him well-rested mentally, but he still felt tired physically.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep.

***

Simkins stopped by the hospital the following morning, his excitable face lit by a grin. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand and asked Spike if he could talk to him over a cup of coffee.

“Really don’t feel like leaving Buffy,” Spike said. He explained briefly about Drusilla’s appearance the night before, and the dream it had invoked.

“Fascinating!” Simkins said. “All right, we’ll grab a cup of God-awful coffee from the machine in the corridor and sit out there for our chat.”

Spike nodded and fumbled in his pocket for change. He came up with a couple of pound coins and waited impatiently for the machine to declare the coffee ready. When both cups were done, he handed one to Simkins and sat down, looking at the other man expectantly.

“Right.” Simkins set his plastic cup down on the coffee table in front of them and shuffled through his papers. “I haven’t been able to rest for thinking about all this. Though your dream certainly explains why Elizabeth’s documents disappeared; I’m glad it wasn’t just me being a scatterbrain! I went back to the records office after our chat yesterday and got my friend to help with some more research. Do you know how many Elizabeth Summers there were in the world at that time? Too many, that’s for sure!”

Spike nodded, inwardly urging the man to hurry up and get to the point.

“Finding those first documents yesterday was easy enough; I was looking at the county records. But, with them gone, I decided to extend my search further afield. Took me a while, but I eventually found mention of a Nurse Elizabeth Summers at St. Thomas’ Hospital in Manchester. That was in, ah, 1890.”

“Two years after I died,” Spike muttered. He felt his spirits soaring. She had lived.

“Yes. She served there for six years.”

“Anything else?” Spike asked.

“Not so far,” Simkins replied. “I had some ideas for how to continue the research, but tiredness overcame me, I’m afraid.”

“No matter.” Spike grinned. “She didn’t go back to Ethan; that’s all I need to know. She’s going to wake up soon, I know it.”

“I expect so. Within a week, perhaps.” Simkins drained the last of his coffee and stood. “Until then, I think I’ll continue my research, I’ve become quite interested in finding out what happened to Elizabeth.”

“She’ll be able to tell you herself, soon.”

“Quite. I hope that, after you’ve both had some time to process the events of the last few weeks, you’ll allow me to record your experience.”

“Yeah, sure,” Spike said, nodding. “It’ll be—”

He broke off, the sudden flurry of nurses hurrying down the corridor towards Buffy’s room telling him that something was wrong. He dropped his empty coffee cup on the floor before racing after them.

A porter barred his entry to the room, saying something about giving the doctors room to work, but Spike was deaf to the man’s protests. He pushed open the door and came to an abrupt standstill when he saw the crowd of medical staff around Buffy’s small form on the bed.

Her gown had been pulled down and two flesh-coloured squares put onto her chest. A doctor held the paddles of a defibrillator high, said something to one of the nurses, and brought them down onto Buffy’s chest.

She jerked up off the bed before falling back and the sight of it made Spike feel sick. He was unaware of the single word he chanted through tight lips while the doctor repeated the procedure. “No, no, no, no.”

Spike felt his world start to crash down in slow-motion around him when the monotonous whine of the heart monitor broke into his consciousness, and the doctor spoke to his colleagues.

“Let’s call it. Time of death, eleven-eighteen.”

“No! No!” Time caught up with itself and, in a rush, Spike stumbled towards the end of Buffy’s bed. “Try again. She’s not dead—she can’t be dead.”

“Sir—”

“Please,” Spike begged, his voice breaking. “Please, one more time. She lived. Elizabeth lived.”

Perhaps the doctor took pity on Spike, because he nodded to his colleagues, and they charged the defibrillator again. “Clear!”

Spike gripped the top of a nearby chair so tightly his skin turned white. He held his breath, dreading the sound of the heart monitor flat lining again, while the doctor shocked her once more.

When he heard the regular beep-beep-beep of the machine, he sank to the floor in relief, buried his head in his hands, and half-laughed, half-cried until he felt hands on his shoulders helping him to stand and leading him away.

***

Three Weeks Later

Buffy’s condition had been stable but unchanging since her heart had stopped beating. Spike had half-expected her to wake up immediately after, but she had returned to her previous state and was still in the coma. He’d been worried until Simkins had reminded him that it likely meant Elizabeth was living out a long life in the past.

Spike spent most of his days by her bedside. Sometimes he went with Simkins to the records office and looked over the dates and events he remembered from his life as William. Simkins had found the patient- and staff-records for the hospital at Ventnor, and Spike was pleased to see that both Daniel and Alasdair had been discharged healthily in early 1889.

He went back to the Botanic Gardens on one of the days, and saw the grounds with a new perspective. If he closed his eyes he could see the long, monolithic form of the hospital, the chalets dotted around the grounds, and the spectacular view of the sea.

The latter was still there, of course, and he sat down on one of the benches in the garden to stare out at it. There was no menace there anymore. No peculiar feeling other than bittersweet memory. The landscape of the gardens might have changed dramatically in the last hundred years, but it still retained its feeling of peace, of tranquillity and happiness.

Spike almost felt the urge to reach for a pen and paper to jot down a poem, and the thought made him laugh. He truly was both men, past and present combined.

Some nights he joined Buffy’s mother and stepfather for dinner, and talked of his and Elizabeth’s past with them. They were more accepting now, more open to the idea, having seen the incontrovertible proof of documents and dates.

And still, Buffy slumbered.

Simkins hadn’t been able to find out any more information on what had happened to Elizabeth after her stint at St. Thomas’ in Manchester. Spike wondered if she had taken his suggestion and gone abroad, to Paris, maybe. If that had been the case, then they had very little chance of finding her with the resources they had available to them.

They would have to wait until she woke up, and hear the story first-hand.

He sat now at her side, a book open on his lap. He read from it aloud—a poem by Lord Tennyson. “The poet in a golden clime was born—dunno about golden clime, love, eh? London’s not so golden. With golden stars above; Dower’d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love.” He paused for a moment to stare fondly at Buffy before continuing. “He saw through life and death, through good and ill—well that’s certainly true. Been through life and death both. He saw through his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, an open scroll. Before him lay —”

Spike stopped reciting when he noticed the sudden twitch of Buffy’s hand. Quickly closing the book, he set it aside and leaned forward. Yes, there it was again: definite movement of her fingers.

He touched her hand lightly. “Buffy? Wake up, love. Open those beautiful eyes for me.”

She moved her hand again, and he felt her fingers curl slightly around his. A few seconds later, her eyes fluttered open and closed again almost immediately against the brightness of the room.

Spike hurried to close the blinds before going straight back to her bedside. “Buffy?”

She groaned a little and struggled to sit up. He helped her, raising the back of the bed up and rearranging her pillows. She blinked several more times before her eyes settled on his face. She frowned. “I—I’m confused.” Her voice was scratchy with disuse, and Spike handed her a glass of water, which she drank down quickly.

“Give it a moment, love. Takes a while for it all to come back to you.”

“I remember you,” she said and reached out a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. “William. No. Spike…”

“Both.” He smiled. “Remembering everything?”

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut once more and lay back against the pillows. “I remember Elizabeth,” she said. “She was me. But I’m Buffy. Aren’t I?”

“You’re Elizabeth and Buffy, both at the same time.” Spike sat on the side of her bed, grinning like a madman, unable to contain his happiness. “I can’t believe you’re awake. I’ve been waiting so long…”

“Not as long as I have,” Buffy said. She opened her eyes again, and Spike was relieved to see she looked a little more like her normal self, and less disorientated. “I—Elizabeth lived until she was eighty-nine and she missed you every single day of her life.”

Spike felt the tears rising, and looked away, only to feel Buffy’s palm on his cheek a moment later. She turned his head back to look at her.

“I’m still a little mixed up right now,” she said. “But the one thing I do know is that I love you. I love you so much, William… Spike.” She laughed through the tears now falling freely. “God, this is confusing.”

“I love you too.” He didn’t know which of them moved first but suddenly they were kissing. Gentle, soft kisses; he was mindful that she had only just woken up from a month-long coma. When they broke apart, she rested her head in the crook of his neck and sighed contentedly. Spike brought his arms around her and pulled her close. It felt so good to hold her again.

A few moments later she sat back and yawned. “I’m so tired.”

“You rest now. I’ll fetch a doctor,” Spike said. He smiled tenderly and pulled the covers back up around her shoulders. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Epilogue

August 2012

Like always after a storm, the day washed clear and bright. Fluffy clouds scudded across an azure sky, and pale yellow sunshine made everything look fresh and new.

The beach was empty; the last of the families on the island for the Bank Holiday had gone home the day before, back to their lives on the mainland.

Somewhere in the distance, a seagull squawked and the sound made Buffy jump—so intent had she been in her task. The final seashell completed the last letter of the name, the myriad colours of the stones and shells standing out starkly against the orange-yellow of the Bembridge sand.

“All done,” Buffy said, and pulled Rose onto her lap. “See what that says, Rosie? That’s your name.”

The baby clapped and smiled, babbling happily until she twisted away from Buffy’s grip and reached her arms out. “Da! Da!”

Buffy turned to look down the beach and, sure enough, saw Spike coming towards them. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and held a brown paper-wrapped parcel in his hand.

When he reached them, Spike tossed the parcel down onto the picnic blanket before bending down to pick up Rose. He brushed a kiss to the top of her head and then sat down himself. “There it is,” he said, and gestured to the parcel.

“You didn’t open it?” Buffy asked, leaning across to kiss him softly on the lips. “And morning, by the way. I barely had time to say hello before you rushed off at the crack of dawn.”

Spike ducked his head. “Sorry, love. Got a bit excited about fetching that from Simkins.”

Buffy looked at him expectantly. “Well? Open it!”

Spike let his daughter crawl from his lap and towards the stuffed bear at the edge of the blanket. He reached for the package and with a deep breath tore open the brown wrapping.

Buffy, with a glance to Rose to make sure she was all right, slid over to sit next to Spike. She slipped her arm around his back and watched as he pulled a plain cardboard box from a thin film of plastic wrap.

Spike squeezed Buffy’s hand lightly before picking at the end of the tape holding the box closed. He tore it off and scrunched it up in his hand, the noise attracting the attention of Rose who crawled over to investigate.

“Da?”

“Look what John’s sent us, Rosie,” Spike said.

“John.” Rose confirmed solemnly, before turning away to play with the discarded brown paper.

Spike opened the sides of the box and held his breath as he peered inside. He took out a few foam packing peanuts from the top of the box to reveal the contents. Leaning against his shoulder, Buffy watched as he pulled four items from inside: three books and a small wooden box.

“So strange to see them again,” she murmured, reaching out a shaking hand and picking up the first of the books. “I kept them with me all those years…”

She opened the book to the first page, tracing the familiar words with her thumb. The ink was faded but still legible, a tidy cursive spelling out verse that she knew almost by heart. She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she had seen these objects: in the drawer of the bedside table at her house in California, 1960, two days before she had died.

Buffy, and Spike too, no longer thought of themselves as separate from William and Elizabeth. Their past-selves were definitively a part of them, and it hurt almost physically to think of them in any other way.

The last two years had been at times confusing, at times disorientating, but, most importantly, they had been happy. A whirlwind engagement preceded a springtime wedding at the Botanic Gardens, their friends and family thinking them crazy for marrying so soon after meeting. Buffy had laughed it off; even the few months’ preparation for the wedding seemed too long after having waited one hundred and twenty years to be together.

Spike had been almost obsessive in recreating the honeymoon Elizabeth had dreamed of in those last few moments of William’s life. He took her dancing and to the opera, they went sight-seeing along the Thames despite each having lived in London for years. It had been a magical time.

A chuckle from Spike pulled her from her memories, and she opened her eyes. He had Rose seated on his lap once more and was paging through one of the other books. “What’s up?” she asked, sliding closer to look over his shoulder again.

“Just strange to think I wrote some of these,” he said. “I was a bloody awful poet.”

“I liked them,” Buffy replied with a shrug and a squeeze of his hand.

Spike snapped the book shut and set it down on the picnic blanket. He gave Buffy a quick smile before reaching for the final object from the parcel, the small wooden trinket box. “Can’t believe we finally have this,” he said. “Can’t believe John was able to get it.”

“Open it, then,” she replied.

“Give us a sec. Savouring the moment.”

“You’re silly.” She nudged his shoulder. “Come on! You know I’m not patient-gal.”

He opened the box slowly, his face breaking into a smile when the contents were revealed to him. The diamonds set into the gold band winked and glistened in the sunlight, and Spike pulled it from its bed of satin cushioning carefully.

“It’s still beautiful,” Buffy commented. She felt a lump form in her throat when Spike took her left hand and slipped the ring onto her fourth finger. He kissed her gently on the lips and his whispered I love you made her eyes fill with tears.

“Worth waiting for?” Spike asked. He had been bemused when Buffy had adamantly refused an engagement ring, insisting that, with Simkins’ help, she would be able to track down some of Elizabeth’s possessions and the ring William had originally proposed with. She had been right, although it had taken longer than they had thought to find.

Buffy nodded. She held her hand out and admired the ring, before she turned her gaze to linger on Spike and Rose. “Definitely.”

-END-