Chapter 9
Poison
It did not take long for the story to spread. Everyone at the palace was talking about Buffy in hushed voices behind closed doors, falling silent whenever she entered a room, which was ironic if you think about it, because the whispers were even more conspicuous. Drusilla no longer bothered to exchange a word with Buffy or any of the other girls of the serail, except Darla, and moved through the rooms like an angry and vengeful ghost, that is, in silent, careful, measured steps that conveyed her dark soul, and always looking daggers at Buffy whenever she deemed to see her.
Buffy knew she had made an enemy, but her mind was occupied with more important matters. She had been sure that Spike was going to ask for her, but again it was Harmony who was called to his chambers.
Thoughts of Harmony and Spike haunting her, yet still drowning in denial, Buffy lay awake the whole night, but Harmony did not return till morning. Two days after what was merely referred to as "the incident", the "old" gossip no longer holding their interest, Buffy was still expecting Spike to call her, or at least talk to her, but she was disappointed again. So, with an excited shriek, Harmony left the serial, once more.
On the third day, Buffy was getting annoyed. Who did he think he was? Did he expect her to sit all day just waiting for him to ask for her? It irritated the hell out of her when she realized that was precisely what she was doing.
Buffy so immersed in her own turmoil, that she never noticed the longing looks of Harmony when she went to Spike and the disappointment clearly written in her eyes when she returned. Harmony thought that listening to Spike's poetry every night was all very well, but she never got the action she hoped for; and Spike always kept his bedroom so dark when he was reciting that he never got to notice how pretty she looked, every grooming done in his favour.
And she was right, in the dim light of a single candle, it was unlikely for him to see more of Harmony than her shiny blond hair. She was secretly wondering what had happened to this passionate man in the few months between their first steamy encounter on her boss's desk back at the law firm and her arrival to his country. However, Harmony was too self-centered to make a connection between Spike's love poems to Buffy, her own superficial resemblance to the other woman and the badly lit room. So she pretended everything was perfect, that it was just a matter of time and that this was how things went around here.
When on the fourth day Harmony was again the 'chosen one', Buffy felt like smashing something, preferably Spike's skull. She tried not to let the others notice her hidden aggression, but she knew that it took merely a small stimulus to spark off a violent reaction, so Buffy tried to keep out of any conversation that threatened to break through her calm exterior. However, it did not take too long for someone to touch a nerve. As often, Faith was that someone.
"As I said, she's his new favourite," Faith sighed when Harmony floated out of the room in a very light dress - yet another shade of pink, and wondering how many could there be??-, casting a compassionate glance at the others.
Buffy, still sulking in a corner, did not reply.
"I hope she catches a cold or somethin', or else none of us will ever get any again, don't you agree, B?" She giggled. "Agree, B... I'm a poet!" She tilted her head. "Hey, Buffy!"
Buffy shrugged.
"Leave her alone, Faith," Kendra said warningly.
Faith ignored her. "Which reminds me, B, you haven't told us your side of the story yet."
Buffy blinked. "Story?"
Faith grinned. "Don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about. I mean, about you and Spike. How our friend Drusilla had you arrested for diddling yourself and Spike told her to sod off. Everyone's talking about it!"
"Then you don't need my version, I guess," Buffy said levelly. "You know what Spike said."
Faith sat a little closer to Buffy, speaking in a conspiratory tone. "So the show you gave us was just a 'dream', huh?" She indicated the quotation marks around 'dream' with her fingers, her expression and the sound of her voice implying she was not very convinced of that version. "Did he really say it was just a memory? Well, what did you remember? How come you haven't said a word? I thought he hadn't laid a hand on you yet! When exactly did this happen?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," Buffy said weakly.
"Come on, we want some details!" Faith insisted, "Did you do it right on the diwan? No, let me guess. Traditionally - the bedroom, with Spike on top."
Buffy's hands balled into fists. Her cheeks coloured. She rose and made to leave before she lost her temper.
Faith followed her, turning her around and pointing a playful finger at her. "Tell ya what I think. You were just fantasizing the other night. He never even touched you because he's gotten tired of your little hard-to-get games, and that's what pisses you off! He was just covering for you!"
Faith realized too late that she had overdone it. Buffy lunged at her and slapped her hard in the face. Faith was stunned for a moment, then her eyes flashed briefly, and she hit back. Kendra jumped to her feet to separate them. "Girls, what are you doing? Are you insane?"
"She hit me first!" Faith protested.
"You had no right to..." Buffy began.
"What? To tell the truth?" Faith finished the sentence.
"Buffy, Faith, please..." Kendra began, but she found she was unable to form a thought. She suddenly felt really sick, her steps were unsteady; she was touching her sweaty forehead, swaying dangerously. She looked pale.
"Kendra, are you alright?" Faith asked, her voice suddenly full of concern.
Kendra's eyelids fluttered. "I'm not sure," she whispered, "My head's spinning..." She tried to sit down, but stumbled. Buffy was by her side in a second, steadying her.
"I'm alright, just a little dizzy," Kendra said, trying to stand on her own. Suddenly her legs gave way under her. Buffy caught her just in time.
"She's unconscious," Buffy said in alarm, "Get help!"
Faith nodded and ran out.
*
"I need to be in there with Kendra," Buffy told Willow, pacing restlessly in the garden.
"There's nothing we can do at the moment, the doctor's still with her," Willow replied, but her voice was very small and shaky.
"It's my fault," Buffy reproached herself, "If I hadn't attacked Faith..."
"It's probably nothing," Willow said, "In this climate it just happens, sometimes you don't get enough fresh air, it's hot, or you don't eat properly, maybe it's that special time of the month, and wham! You faint. Who knows? There could be so many other aspects. Don't blame yourself." She ended her speech with a pat on Buffy’s shoulder, trying to give her some reassurance and comfort.
Buffy shook her head. "Kendra has got an excellent constitution, she works out regularly, and she's used to the climate. She doesn't just faint. Maybe she ate something wrong. What did Kendra have for breakfast?"
"She didn't have breakfast with us," Willow reminded Buffy, "She went down to the bazaar for some shopping with Dru and Darla and some of the guards very early in the morning. I guess they had breakfast in town together."
Buffy's eyes widened. "Dru and Darla went to town with Kendra? Thought they were an exclusive little club?"
Willow nodded. "Yeah, I was a bit surprised too. Kendra and Dru don't seem to get along well."
"Did they invite her to come along?" Buffy inquired.
"I'm not sure," Willow admitted, "Maybe they were just being nice..."
Buffy frowned. "Dru and Darla?"
Willow looked at her insecurely. "Are you hinting at something?"
"I'm not sure. But it was Kendra who stepped in on my behalf when I tried to run away," Buffy said slowly, "And Dru was very upset she didn't get to see a public punishment. Kendra is my friend. Drusilla hates me!"
"Yeah, but..." Willow said helplessly. Then she realized that Buffy was about to draw an unbelievable conclusion. "Buffy, you don't think..."
Buffy's gaze traveled around the garden. Willow followed her gaze and spotted a couple of deadly nightshades. She had paid attention in her biology classes. These berries were extremely poisonous and could intercept the signals of your neural system. The first indications of belladonna poisoning were cold sweat, sickness, and finally... unconsciousness.
Buffy's expression was full of determination. "That sick bitch!" She headed for the palace.
"Buffy," Willow gasped, hardly keeping pace with her friend, "Wait!"
"Dru put something in Kendra's food!" Buffy said angrily. "Now she's gone too far! We are exposing her evil plans once and for all!" With secure steps, Buffy made her way back to the harem.
The women were still gathered in front of the door to the bedroom where Kendra was being examined by a doctor. While the others were wearing worried expressions - Kendra was very popular with the group - , Drusilla sat in a chair, smirking, almost bored, as if the whole situation did not concern her at all. She hardly acknowledged Buffy's presence when she burst into the room and stood before her with murderous rage in her eyes.
"What have you poisoned her with?" Buffy fumed.
While there were surprised and shocked little sounds from the others, Drusilla just smiled coldly. "What have you been smoking, Buffy?"
"Stop that, I know what you're up to," Buffy yelled, pulling Drusilla to her feet. "If you want to get your own back on me, don't take it out on Kendra! But if you mess with my friends, I'm gonna kick your ass!"
Drusilla shrugged levelly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The women were staring at them.
Buffy's eyes sparkled dangerously. "You can't stand Kendra, so why did you ask her to come if it wasn't for a purpose? I'm talking about you luring Kendra to go to town with you so you could poison her breakfast!"
Dru blinked rapidly. "What?!!"
"Drop the act, I'm seeing right through you!"
Drusilla sighed. "Look. Kendra asked to join me and Darla, she wanted to buy some new clothes."
"Shut up!" Buffy's palm caught Drusilla's cheek. "What did you use? Belladonna? Was it in her drink, did you slip it in there when she was in the bathroom?"
Drusilla held a hand to her reddened cheek. "You'd better keep your mouth shut before pronouncing accusations you cannot prove," she hissed.
Buffy slammed her roughly against the wall. "Admit it! This is all your fault!"
Drusilla's eyes were furious. "If you apologize to me within the next ten seconds, I'm willing to forget that you said anything like that and pretend this never happened."
"How generous!" Buffy was panting. "I'm not done with you. Kendra dies, you die." She made to hit Drusilla again when the door to the adjoining room opened.
Spike was staring at them. "What's going on?" he asked, his face deadpan.
Drusilla straightened her shoulders and smoothed her dress with her hands. "She attacked me," she said simply.
"Yeah, but just because she poisoned Kendra!" Buffy replied desperately, seeking Spike's gaze for support.
Spike blinked. "She did what?"
"I don't know where she got that ridiculous idea," Drusilla replied coldly.
"Kendra broke down after she had breakfast with Drusilla," Buffy defended herself, "And Drusilla hates me! She was so pissed off after Kendra helped me, I just know this is her fault!" Buffy looked at his blank expression and felt her eyes swimming with tears. "If Kendra dies..."
Spike shook his head. "Kendra won't die. She just needs some rest, the doctor says she'll be up and about in no time."
Relief washed over Buffy.
Drusilla looked slightly disappointed.
Buffy glared at her. "Too bad she's gonna live, huh? But if you think that's the end of it, you're so wrong! You won't get away with it. I know you did this to Kendra!"
Spike looked from one to the other, then he put a hand on Buffy's shoulder. "Buffy?"
Buffy felt an electric current run through her body at his touch. "Yes," she replied.
"I'm afraid you're wrong. In fact, I did this to Kendra."
Buffy's head flew around, she looked at him in confusion. "You?"
That moment, the door opened once again, and Kendra, still pale and shaky, dressed in loose silk robes, walked in. "What is all that noise about?"
The women were staring at her, she could see in their faces that they wanted to rush up to her with questions and good wishes for her health, but they hesitated to do so because she looked so weak and frail. Kendra was a strong woman, she hated looking so vulnerable.
"You should go back to bed," Spike said gently, "Buffy and Drusilla just had a slight disagreement, but that's settled now."
Kendra smiled faintly. "Good. I wouldn't want any disharmony at the palace now..."
Only then did Buffy notice the room behind Kendra was full of flowers, cheesy aluminium balloons, stuffed animals and other gifts.
Spike walked up to Kendra and took her hand. "Have some rest, luv."
Buffy felt an excruciating pang when she saw the expression of warmth in his eyes and heard the soft tone in which he talked to Kendra. The affection and understanding between them ran deeper than words.
Kendra smiled. "Have you told them?"
Spike shook his head. "I didn't get to tell them anything yet," he replied with a side glance at Buffy.
"Then I'll do it." Kendra took a deep breath. "You're going to be aunts again!"
With a squeal of joy, the women rushed up to Kendra, kissing and hugging her.
Buffy stayed away from them, sank down to the floor and covered her face with her hands. She felt so stupid. "And again, I've made a complete fool of myself!" she murmured. Not voicing though the renewal of that sharp pain running through her that actually made her unable to stand up and neither giving it much thought, she should be happy for Kendra and Spike.
Spike sat down next to her, watching how the others congratulated Kendra, starting to make plans for the new baby, and gave her an amused smile. "Told you I was responsible."
"I'm so sorry," Buffy said.
"Why don't you go and tell Drusilla?"
Buffy stared at him in shock. "Don't make me!"
He chuckled. "I won't. Just an idea."
"Look at Dru," Buffy said angrily, "She looks like she's drunk a pint of lemon juice."
"She's probably worried about Khari's future," he replied with a sigh, "Till now, he was my only heir."
Buffy blinked. "He's your first-born."
"Which doesn't entitle him to be the next sheik. In this country, I get to choose my heir from my whole family. It can be my son, a nephew, a cousin... any blood relation."
Buffy took in a sharp breath. "Oh." She looked at him doubtfully. "And will you choose Khari?"
Spike pushed a stray hair out of her face with his hand. "Why would you be interested in that?"
Buffy glared at him. "Yeah, right, I'm just a woman, why would I be interested in politics?"
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I said."
"Is that what you were thinking?"
He did not reply. His gaze drifted off, watching the women feel Kendra's belly, suggesting names or wondering about the baby's gender. He smiled. "To answer your first question, I have no idea. Khari's so young, it is impossible to tell if he would make a good sheik. Kendra's won't be the last baby at the palace. When the time comes, I'll hopefully make the best possible choice for my people. It won't matter who the mother is. It could be anyone." He locked his gaze with hers. "Even you."
Buffy backed away, getting some distance between her and Spike. "Not me. Because I'd throw myself from the highest cliff before I'd have your child."
Buffy had expected him to be offended. Instead, Spike sounded amused. "We're in the desert, Buffy. It's quite a far walk to the nearest cliff."
Buffy pouted to hide the smile that wanted to break through. "There are towers."
Spike looked back at her. "You wouldn't want to throw yourself off a cliff or a tower, Buffy. Not with your face."
Buffy shook her head in determination. "Cheap compliments won’t get you anywhere, mister, as far as I’m concerned. I know I'm pretty, I don't need to hear it from you."
Spike shrugged. "I said 'Not with your face'. I didn't say you were pretty."
Now Buffy let the smile out. "But that's what you were thinking."
Spike did not reply, but he looked satisfied nonetheless.
Buffy tore her gaze away from his blue eyes and spotted Drusilla, who stood a few steps apart from the others, sulking, glaring at Kendra like the statue of an evil goddess. "Poor Kendra," she said quietly, "Drusilla really hates her."
"Give her time," Spike said, "When she's had time to think it through, she'll be happy for us."
Somehow, Buffy doubted that.
Over the heads of the other women, Kendra waved at Spike, signaling him to join her for the congratulations. He nodded in her direction, giving her the warmest smile.
"Gotta go," he told Buffy.
"Congratulations," Buffy murmured.
"Thanks."
With a dark expression, Buffy watched as he walked over to Kendra, put an arm around her waist and pulled her close to kiss her. Suddenly she felt a little uneasy, as if someone was watching her. Drusilla was looking her way. Their gazes met. If looks could kill, Buffy thought with a bad feeling in her gut. She decided to keep an eye on Spike's first wife, hoping for Khari's sake that she was wrong in her assessment of his mother's character.
*
Kendra was still weak after her collapse, but shining with an inner light that seemed to make her more beautiful with every hour that passed. Faith had suggested having a party for Kendra and the baby, which had been welcomed by virtually all the women. Merely Darla and Drusilla had not followed the invitation. Spike excused himself for business matters.
Buffy was relieved she would not have to put up with his presence and realized she was eager to experience any kind of distraction. The party was very different from the wild parties Buffy knew from her college, but she admitted she had more fun than at all of those put together. She did not have to waste a whole day on styling herself for some idiot kappa delta men who arrived so drunk that they would not have noticed anything strange even if she wore a paper bag over her head. She was not deaf after spending an hour listening to what her college friends called music and her mother called attempted genocide, and the girls at the harem actually taught her the basics of oriental dance. What looked so easy, took up nearly all of Buffy's concentration and had her sweating more than a very good workout, just in a matter of twenty minutes.
She was a little out of breath, but for the first time since her arrival, her spirit was soaring when she sat down next to Willow.
"I need a break!" she gasped.
Faith, who was shimmying her hips like no one else among them and apparently without the least effort, joined them. "Tara, why don't you sing us a little song?"
The shy girl blushed, but finally complied with the pleading of her friends.
She sat down, her eyes closed, and began to sing.
"Ahiboki jidan wa arifo an al tarik illa al mostaheel taweel.
Wa arifo anaki sitol nisaa.
Sitol nisaa. Wa laysa lazi badilon."
"When will I ever learn that language?" Buffy pouted. "It sounds so beautiful, but I have no idea what Tara's singing about!"
Willow was watching Tara with an entranced expression. "I love you so much and I know that the road to the impossible is long," she whispered absently. "But I also know that you are the queen of women./The queen of women, and no one can take your place."
"Oh." Buffy saw the look on Willow's face. Those two girls really were in love. She pitied them. Their love had no prospects in a world such as this one.
Tara opened her eyes as her song picked up speed. She looked directly at Willow:
"Ahiboki jidan, wa arifo anni aeisho be manfaa. Wa anti be manfaa."
Tears welled up in Willow's eyes. "I love you so much and I know you live in isolation, and I live in isolation," she murmured, more to herself than translating for Buffy. "And between you and I there is: wind and clouds and lightning and thunder and ice and fire./And I know that reaching your eyes is an illusion./And I know that reaching you would be suicide."
Buffy felt a chill. In California she would have thought it romantic and beautiful, no more than that. But she knew those words were more than just a sad love song here. It was the every day reality Willow and Tara were living in.
Willow broke off in her translation and kept looking at Tara lovingly, their eyes locking. She walked up to her and took her hand.
Tara squeezed it tightly as she finished her song, smiling at Willow, she herself on the verge of tears.
Buffy cast Faith an impatient look. "What's she singing now?" she hissed.
"And it would make me happy, /To tear myself to pieces for your sake, my precious one," Faith whispered back, "And I don't care if I escape from your love alive./And I don't care if I escape dead!" Faith rolled her eyes as the applause and cheering began and Tara thanked her audience with a polite nod of the head, glancing shyly at Willow. "Tara does that at every single party we have! Then Willow gives her the sad puppy look, and they stare at each other till dawn. Why can't they just give up on it?"
Buffy looked at them compassionately. "They're in love! It's only natural they want to shout it to the mountains! That's wonderful!"
"Yeah, maybe in America," Faith replied, "In this harem, it's death. People here don't have much love for lesbians. You saw what happened when you touched yourself, now imagine Willow groping Tara, and Dru catching them!"
"Spike covered for me when I got caught," Buffy commented without thinking.
"I knew it!" Faith exclaimed. "You didn't do anything with him!"
Buffy blushed and looked around anxiously to see if Faith's little outburst had drawn any attention, but the women were still focused on Tara. Buffy lowered her voice. "Can you yell just a little more loudly?"
"Sorry," Faith said lightly, "But I'm right! Right? Nothing happened?"
"No. At least... not yet."
Faith's eyes widened. "Ooh."
"That's beside the point," Buffy hurried to say, "I was talking about Willow and Tara. I'm sure he'll understand if..."
Faith looked at her in disbelief. "Just how clueless are you? Spike wouldn't give a damn about some smoochies going on between Wills and Tara, but there's nothing he could do about the laws. Got something to do with the code of honor. He has to be the one calling the shots. His own feelings are beside the point." Her eyes sparkled. "It's a shame, actually. I bet Spike would love to watch some Willow/Tara action."
Buffy wrinkled her nose, another wave of jealousy washing over her. "Thank you for that lovely image!"
"Any time, B!"
*
Joyce Summers had committed herself entirely to her work. The images of Buffy's abduction were still prominent in her head, she knew she would wake up at night screaming her daughter's name for the rest of her life, but she kept telling herself that the authorities were working on the case and were bound to find out something, anything!. Buffy was a pretty girl with blond hair and green eyes, she would certainly strike someone in a crowd of raven-haired, dark-skinned people. Joyce knew there was nothing she could do for Buffy at the moment, so she was working day and night acquiring expensive artwork for the obscenely rich customer she had not met in person so far, just in order not to dwell on what could befall a white young woman alone in a foreign country, or worse yet, not alone. Her customer had put a special emphasis on a beautifully sculpted Greek marble statue of the mythical nymph Galatea, who was currently owned by a private collector, an Englishman with a passion for the fine arts, who had made a fortune on the oil market at a considerably young age.
Joyce had made an appointment to see the owner at his villa at Cairo to make him an offer in the name of her client. One of the servants led her to a room which was called the Gallery and asked her to wait there for a few minutes and then he promptly left her to her musings.
Joyce gasped when she saw the statue.
This was finest artwork, more than twenty centuries old, but not a scratch marring the precious marble from which the statue had been sculpted. It was the figure of a woman, naked but for the starfish and shells at her feet and in her hair, which was cascading down to her hips. It had been sculpted with a lot of love for details, fingernails, eyelashes.
"Take a good look," a male voice with a British accent said self-importantly behind her, "You will never get that close to the Galatea again."
Joyce frowned at the man who was transpiring a lot in his warm tweed suit. A tweed suit? Who wore a tweed suit nowadays? Let alone in Egypt. She decided to be polite in spite of his tone. "I'm Joyce Summers, of the Barnes and Summers Gallery in Los Angeles, California. And you are?" she asked curiously.
"Professor Rupert Giles," he introduced himself. "I am meeting Mr Pryce about the Galatea, which I am going to purchase for the British Museum. I am the curator."
Joyce regarded him with an amused smile. "As far as I know, Mr Pryce hasn't sold the Galatea yet. I am here to make him an offer, and truth to be told, I am quite optimistic."
Professor Giles chuckled derisively, as one would when an important person made an utterly unamusing joke. "I do hope you have not come all the way from North America for this, for I am afraid you shall be gravely disappointed. You shall understand that Mr Pryce, being English, prefers this jewel going to the British Museum instead of disappearing in the Arabic world. Mr Pryce and I have practically come to an agreement already, there are just a few terms yet to be determined, mere formalities."
Joyce drew in a sharp breath. Her hunter's instincts leapt to life. "We shall see."
He eyed her suspiciously. "You are not trying to acquire the Galatea for your gallery, are you? Who is your client?"
Joyce smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I can't give you that kind of information." The truth was that Joyce had in fact no idea about her client's identity, which was because she had been hired through her client's law firm in Los Angeles. But there was no need for Professor Giles to know that.
A few minutes and furtive glances later that were meant to try to size the other up, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce joined the two rivals in the Gallery, apologizing that he had left them waiting.
He cast the statue a longing look. "Isn't she beautiful?" he said quietly.
"Indeed, Mr Pryce," Professor Giles said, "We have chosen a very special spot for her at the British Museum."
"You haven't wanted to sell the Galatea for ten years. Why do you want to part with her now?" Joyce asked instinctively, only dimly aware of the fact that she might be ruining her business by reminding him that he might still change his mind.
A shadow fell over his face. "The sheik of Awtab-Rawad and several other collectors kept offering me obscene amounts of money for it, but I always turned them down. The statue brought me and my fiancée together in the first place. We rivaled for it at an auction, I won and invited her to dinner as a peace offer. She was Texan, her father an oil millionaire. That was how we met. My fiancée used to love the Galatea so much, and I never thought of giving it away. I wanted the sculpture to be my wedding gift."
An eight digit wedding gift, Joyce thought, but kept it to herself. "What happened?" she asked.
"When she went back to Texas to make the final arrangements for our wedding..." His voice trailed off, his blue eyes glistened with tears. "The plane..." He began to polish his glasses frantically.
"You don't have to say any more," Joyce said compassionately.
"No, no, I haven't talked about this in years," he insisted. "The plane... was hijacked. Winifred was taken hostage. They kidnapped her, vanished into the desert. I never knew what became of her. That was three years ago. So this sculpture, I'm afraid, is nothing more than a painful memory now."
Joyce thought of Buffy. She wanted to break down and cry with him. "I'm sorry about your loss," she whispered. Suddenly eager to escape the benign smile of the sculpture, the cold atmosphere of the villa and Professor Giles's impatient expression. "Thank you for your time, Mr Pryce," Joyce said gently, her voice cracking. "I believe this sculpture would be best kept in a museum. It doesn't seem to be very lucky."
Professor Giles gave Mr Pryce a pleased smile.
An hour later, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce signed the papers and sold the Galatea to a more than confused Joyce Summers.
TBC...
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Credits: The lyrics used in this chapter are from Kazeem El Saher, "El Hob El Mostahil". No copyright infringement intended. No affiliation or contact to the artist or the song whatsoever. I just loved the words, so I used them.