The parlor door opened and an older blonde woman stepped into the foyer. She seemed so fragile that she might fracture if a person so much as brushed against her. Her cream-colored dress brought out the paleness of her skin. She cast a quick glance toward Buffy and smiled tremulously before looking back toward Spike.

“William,” she said, wheezing. “And you’ve brought a guest? How surprising.”

Spike blinked. The look on his face was unlike any expression Buffy had ever seen him wear. His mouth hung open and his eyes shone brightly. Even in the dim light, she could see they were brimming with tears. He looked almost … broken.

“Mother,” he said, tilting his head toward her.

“Dear?” His mother’s small smile hung on her lips for a moment, then fell. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, I … I'm … quite fine.” Spike shook his head, as if he could toss the emotions from his mind.

“Are you certain? You look unwell.” She appraised her boy with a concerned glance. “Is everything …?” she trailed off.

“I’m fine, truly.” Spike swallowed. “Allow me to introduce Miss Elizabeth Summers.” He nodded toward Buffy and his mother’s gaze followed. “Miss Summers, this is my mother, Mrs. Anne Pratt.” Everything about Spike’s voice had changed: the pitch, the volume and most especially, the accent. If she’d closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to guess he was the same man.

Buffy was so stunned that for a moment she simply stared at him. Then she remembered her lessons and curtsied deeply, concentrating on not letting her knees poke out at odd angles.

“Miss Summers is the sister of a friend of mine from Oxford,” Spike said. “Mr. Edgar Summers of Boston. I’m sure you remember my speaking of him.”

Mrs. Pratt blinked and her smiled wavered a little, clearly remembering nothing of the kind.

“She was to meet her brother for the holidays,” Spike said, “but his voyage ran into difficulties, delaying him by several days. I happened to run into her just now and insisted she stay with us until Edgar arrives.”

“I wouldn’t want to be any trouble,” Buffy said.

“Of course not, Miss Summers.” Mrs. Pratt smiled sincerely. “We’d love to have you as our guest. Having company over the holidays would be such a treat.”

“Oh, thank you ever so much!” Buffy threw that ‘ever so much’ bit in because it sounded kind of Victorian inside her head. Once it was out there, lingering in the foyer, it had a distinctly Southern sorority girl vibe to it. Spike’s mouth twitched a little.

“I’ve taken the liberty to ask Mrs. McLaughlin to prepare the Rose Bedroom.” Spike rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Pratt said. “And we could have Jack bring your things up.” She cast a curious look behind Buffy.

“Miss Summers’ luggage has been delayed as well.” Spike reached up to tug on his hair. An odd gesture – one Buffy had never seen before.

“Oh, my. You’ve been quite cursed with poor luck, haven’t you, dear?” Mrs. Pratt said. “But then, happening to run into William, in Hampstead of all places, well that seems to be most fortunate, indeed.”

Rather than say the wrong thing, Buffy opted to nod.

Mrs. McLaughlin reappeared in the foyer and waited just outside their circle.

“Is her room ready so soon?” Spike gave Buffy an encouraging look. “The sooner you’re settled in, the sooner you’ll feel at ease.”

Buffy had to hold in a giggle. Coming out with little homilies like this was so very unlike Spike. Next thing she knew, he’d be urging her not to cry over spilt milk.

“I keep the all the rooms in excellent condition, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin sounded very affronted. “It won’t take Jenny but a moment to freshen it for our guest.”

“Oh, I don’t mind an unfresh room,” Buffy said.

Mrs. Pratt turned to look at her, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Perhaps you could show Miss Summers to her room now, then,” Spike said in his spanking new Masterpiece Theatre voice.

“Certainly, sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin nodded toward Buffy. “If you’ll just follow me, miss.”

Unsure about correct protocol in leaving Spike and his mother, Buffy threw down another curtsy just in case. Mrs. McLaughlin thudded up the wide central staircase and Buffy slipped in behind. Just as she reached the top landing, she could hear Mrs. Pratt speaking in an excited whisper.

“Oh, she’s lovely, son! And you’ve been so silent about her, and her brother as well. You must tell me all about them, dear.”

Buffy inhaled deeply, grateful to have escaped that particular line of questioning.

Following Mrs. McLaughlin down the hallway, Buffy couldn’t help but be impressed by the elegance of the house. The walls were covered in rich brocaded wallpaper and runners of expensive carpet lined the polished wood floors. Just before they reached the front of the house, Mrs. Laughlin stepped through an open door on her left. Buffy followed.

The room was bright and done up in pink and white, with rosebud wallpaper. A large brass bed was tucked into a corner where a plump, young girl complete with the traditional black and white Victorian maid garb, was busily stuffing pillows into fresh pillowcases. She looked up when they entered the room.

“Jenny, this is the guest I told you about,” Mrs. McLaughlin said. “Miss Summers, this is Jenny.”

“Miss,” Jenny curtsied deeply. Buffy returned the curtsy, remembering to throw in a subtle head-tuck, mimicking Mrs. Pratt’s gesture.

“I have dinner to attend to, Miss Summers. I will leave Jenny to acquaint you with the room.” Mrs. McLaughlin turned to aim a steely glance at the young maid. “It shouldn’t take you long so don’t dawdle. You’re needed in the kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jenny said.

“Miss Summers.” Mrs. McLaughlin nodded toward Buffy as she left the room.

As soon as the severe housekeeper had stomped down the hall, Buffy sighed in relief. She heard Jenny giggle. When she looked up, Jenny quickly stifled her laughter and shot Buffy an apologetic glance.

“Mrs. McLaughlin makes me a little nervous,” Buffy confessed. “Does she have that effect on you too?”

Jenny nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, miss.” Jenny finished with the pillows, then stepped toward the bureau. “If you’d like, I can help unpack your things.”

“I am thingless,” Buffy said. Upon seeing Jenny’s puzzled expression, Buffy elaborated. “I don’t have any luggage.”

“I see.” Jenny paused for a moment. She gave Buffy a look that was full to bursting with curiosity. “Are you … an American, miss? Excuse me for asking, but your accent is so unusual. Mrs. McLaughlin is always on about me being too familiar with my betters but I–”

“Your betters?” Buffy interrupted. “Please.”

Jenny beamed a grin.

“Yes, I’m an American and to tell you the truth, all this ‘miss’ stuff is getting on my nerves. Why don’t you just call me Elizabeth?”

Jenny’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh no, miss. That wouldn’t do at all. I believe Mrs. McLaughlin might boil me in oil if I were to do such a thing.” She cast a nervous glance toward the door as though the bad-tempered woman might be lurking, oil-filled pot in hand.

When she turned back toward Buffy, her expression lightened. “I’ve never met an American before.”

“Today’s been chock full of firsts,” Buffy said. “Hopefully we’ve seen the last of them.”

Jenny blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t quite seem to be following you.”

“Its okay, Jenny. Even Americans have a hard time following me.” Buffy gave her a reassuring grin.

“Is it very grand living in America? It seems an adventurous place.”

Buffy nodded. “I guess so.”

“Tell me,” Jenny snuck another peek at the doorway, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen red Indians? Are they truly bloodthirsty?”

Immediately, Buffy thought of the Chumash tribe and their little skirmish over the Thanksgiving table. It would have felt unfair to mention that, however. To say nothing of freaking out poor Jenny. She concentrated instead on the guy who'd coached her through Algebra. “I knew a guy who was half-Cherokee. That should count. He sat next to me in high school. He wasn’t savage at all, but was very good at math.”

“Math?” Jenny gasped. “You’ve studied mathematics?”

“Well, study might be stretching it. I took a class.”

Jenny shook her head in wonder. “Quite unusual.”

Buffy wasn’t sure if Jenny was referring to ‘red Indians’, Buffy in particular or math generally, so she said nothing.

“We weren’t expecting company for the holidays,” Jenny said. “Not that we mind at all, miss. It is just so wonderful to see Mr. Pratt in the company of such a young lady as yourself.”

It took Buffy a second to register that Mr. Pratt was the same person as Spike. Not quite sure of what to say, she nodded noncommittally.

“I suppose you’ve been friends a while then?” Jenny blushed slightly. Buffy didn’t have to be knowledgeable about Victorian customs to know that maids weren’t supposed to question their guests over such personal matters. Still, Jenny’s interest didn’t feel gossipy. She simply appeared to be delighted for ‘Mr. Pratt.’

“My brother went to school with Mr. Pratt. I mostly know him through my brother, Edward. Or Edwin.” Buffy stammered. “Eldridge?”

Jenny raised her brows and bit her bottom lip.

“I … erh … have a lot of brothers,” Buffy stammered.

“I should be going.” Jenny edged toward the door. “Mrs. McLaughlin will be wanting my help in the kitchen and wonder where I’ve got to. Should you need anything, miss – anything at all – just ask.”

“I’ll do that, Jenny. Thank you.”

Jenny curtsied, a fluid, graceful gesture that looked nothing like Buffy’s own, then scurried from the room.

~*~

After pacing around her room for half an hour or so, Buffy was relieved to hear footsteps in the hall. They slowed when they reached her room and she looked up to see Spike. Or William. There was very little of Spike in him now, all dressed up in his gentleman's costume. He didn’t talk the same. He didn’t even walk the same. Where Spike would have swaggered up to the door and leaned against the frame, hips thrust out, William stood primly in the doorway, hands clasped together. He wore a concerned expression.

“Did things go all right with Jenny?”

“Well enough, I guess.” Buffy shrugged. “She mostly wanted to know about Indians and was curious about where you and I met. How did things go with your mother?”

He smiled. “Quite well.”

“Do you want to come in?” Buffy asked

“To your bed chamber?” He swallowed. “Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.”

Buffy burst into laughter.

Spike tugged his hair and cast a nervous glance down the hall. “We could retire to the library. It might be a more appropriate venue for a conversation.”

“Good god, you sound like you swallowed a thesaurus, Spike.”

“William,” he said through gritted teeth, finally sounding like Spike after all.

“To the library, then.” She shook her head. “Tally-ho and God save the King.”

Spike clenched his jaw in that way of his, then stepped back and waited for her to lead the way. It irritated her. She knew he had to bust out nineteenth century manners, but since she had no idea where the library might be located, his aggressive politeness was a little impractical. She walked toward the front of the house where three doors were lined up in a row. She paused.

“The center one,” Spike murmured.

She lifted the latch and stepped through the doorway. The library featured wide windows, but since the sun had set, it was difficult to see any details about the room. Spike reached up to a small box on the wall and withdrew a match. He struck it and lit the brass wall lamps.

The flickering gaslight illuminated a charming room which was completely lined with books. Blue floral carpet covered the floor and two bright green armchairs were tucked beside an end table in the far corner. Against the back wall, in the center of the room, a large desk was piled with stacks of papers and ledgers.

Buffy loved the room in an instant. It felt strangely familiar to her, but not in an uncomfortable way. It felt a little like coming home.

She walked to one of the green armchairs and settled in. Spike went directly to the desk and sat behind it. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the bottom drawer and fished out a bottle of amber liquid.

“No way,” Buffy said. “Some things never change.” She had to admit to herself that she felt a little reassured. Since they’d landed in this place, he’d seemed like another creature entirely. To see him take a tug from a bottle of whiskey would be a comfort.

He reached back into the drawer and pulled out a glass. After splashing a little whiskey in the glass, he knocked it back.

“Did you find out anything from your mom?” she asked.

Spike shook his head. “All Mother wanted to talk about was … well, you.”

“Yeah, I got the distinct impression from Jenny that William wasn’t in the habit of bringing home random women.”

“To say the least,” was all Spike said before pouring another, much larger, drink.

“Did you come any closer to figuring out what’s going on? If this is something conjured up by the First Evil or …?”

“Something worse?” Spike stared at his whiskey for a moment, then took another gulp. “I did not. The best that I can tell is that all is as it appears to be. We’re living Christmas Eve in London, 1879 exactly as I lived it. Well, as William lived it. With the addition of you.” He gestured his glass in Buffy’s direction, sloshing a little.

“So what should we do? Just keep pretending?”

“Don’t see as we’ve got much choice. For all we know, we really are back in time. Outing ourselves as a slayer and a vampire wouldn’t accomplish anything. We’d likely get tossed into the loony bin, as well as upsetting everyone here.” Spike swirled the whiskey around in his glass, looking thoughtful. “At least until we know what’s going on, we’d best play along.”

“So, if I’m going to be playing along, can you give me a preview?”

“What?” He pulled his eyes from his whiskey and tilted his head toward her.

“Can you tell me what’s going to happen tonight – since you already lived it and all.”

“Ah, yeah.” Spike stroked his chin. “We’ll have dinner and then Mum will unveil the Christmas tree. We’ll exchange gifts.” He thought for a moment. “Before she became ill, we would have gone to Christmas Eve service at the local Parish church. But by ’79 she’d been ill for some time and we hadn’t been to church for years.”

Tap, tap, tap.

A hammering sound came from the hall, but it was soft, almost surreptitious. Spike’s brows knit together and he slid out from behind his desk. He walked to the library door, then pulled it open to reveal, Jenny – standing on a step stool, completely blocking the doorway.

“Oh, excuse me, sir.” Jenny fluttered her hands at him. Considering she carried a hammer in one, it was a far more threatening gesture than she'd likely intended.

“May I assist you?” Spike’s voice had immediately lost its edge and had returned to the more cultured William version.

“Oh, no. I’m quite fine. I was just finishing decorating the house, sir.”

Buffy looked up to see a sprig of leaves hanging just above the door. They were tied with a bright red ribbon and hung down about six inches. They would be quite difficult to miss when walking in or out of the room.

“It’s mistletoe, miss.” Jenny grinned at Buffy and wobbled a bit on the stool. She grasped the door frame for support. “If they don’t have mistletoe in America, perhaps Mr. Pratt could explain it to you. It’s a lovely tradition.” When neither Spike nor Buffy said anything, Jenny’s smile broadened. “Just lovely.”

“Well … that's …” Spike swallowed. “Thank you, Jenny.” He closed the door firmly behind him, then leaned against it, as barricading the door against his maid. He looked more uncomfortable than she could recall ever seeing him.

“Whatever the reason we've been sent back here, we'd better sort it out bloody fast.” He strode to his desk where he poured another glass of whiskey, emptying the bottle.