William leaned against the wall, his skin as pale as death, dark duster wrapped around his still frame. He looked so much like Spike that it was hard for Buffy to breathe.

“What’s a Watcher?” William asked, tilting his head at Oscar.

The Irishman looked at her and raised his brows, clearly unsure of his place in this husband-wife dynamic.

“Remember when I explained about Slayers working for a council based in London?” Buffy asked.

William nodded, but he still didn’t look at her.

“A Watcher is a guy who works for the council. It’s his job to train the Slayer, to oversee her work. Each Slayer gets one, and Mr. Wilde, apparently, is mine.”

“Oscar, please,” the Irishman interjected.

After a moments awkward silence, Oscar spoke again. “Perhaps we could find a better location for our conversation. Might either of you be interested in breakfast? Surely there is a dining establishment nearby.”

William nodded. “There’s a café just across the street.”

“Let’s go,” Buffy said.

William pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against. It was only then that she noticed how badly he was trembling, and she reached over to take his arm.

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern,” he said, easing away from her with stiff formality.

Oh, god. Was it really as bad as all that?

They threaded a path through the jostling crowd. Every time someone bumped against her husband, she tensed, prepared to catch his body as he crumbled to the ground; each time, even though he teetered, he remained upright and propelled himself forward.

‘Rock Springs – Food’ was designed to serve quick meals to the trainloads that passed through town. It was a large structure with a row of windows lining the front; bright orange tablecloths adorned the rows of crudely fashioned tables. Since the most recent arrivals to town were still milling about the depot, the three of them practically had the place to themselves.

“I’m Clara,” the waitress proclaimed as she led them to their table. William collapsed into his chair like a bag of wet sand. The three of them were so sleep deprived, they all agreed to the daily special without bothering to ask what it was. Buffy focused on folding and refolding her napkin and tried not to stare at William, who wobbled unsteadily in his chair.

Clara returned momentarily, stomping over to the table as though she held a serious grudge against the floor. Her arms were laden with chipped porcelain plates which groaned under the weight of eggs, sausage, ham, bacon and some other kind of unidentifiable meat. It was ultimate protein overkill, but probably the perfect thing for William.

“This looks splendid, Clara. Veritably, a feast for kings.” Oscar beamed. The girl wilted a little under his approval. “I suppose it would be too much to hope for that you might have a pot of Earl Grey about?”

Clara stared into the distance thoughtfully, deciphering the meaning of his words. “Not sure if I know that fella. Stinky Stan’s got a brother named Earl, but their last name isn’t Grey. It’s Schlegal.”

“Tea,” Oscar clarified, looking mournful. “You wouldn’t happen to have tea, would you?”

“We might! I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

Clara clomped towards the rear of the building, leaving them to eat in silence. Buffy was relieved to see that at least William’s appetite was hearty, and by the time they’d finished, his color seemed more natural and his hands no longer trembled so badly.

He still didn’t look at her, though.

When Clara returned, she bore a coffee pot and several cups.

“Real English tea,” she announced, setting the coffee pot down with a flourish.

“I am … quite without words. Thank you, Clara,” Oscar said, and the girl bustled off to greet the press of new customers who had just come in from the depot.

“Percolated tea. I believe this shall be a first for me.” Oscar eyed the coffee pot as though it were a crime scene, then began to cautiously pour. The liquid was thick and syrupy. “I’m not sure if I should try to drink it or hold a wake in its honor.”

Once he’d poured tea for the little group, he raised his chipped cup. William smiled at the gesture, raising his in return.

“Cheers,” William said.

Oscar sipped, then shuddered. “I don’t believe the East India Tea Company has anything to fear from Stinky Stan. Still, nothing like a bit of home, and Clara is a dear for trying. Mrs. Pratt? If I may be so bold, I’d suggest six or seven spoonfuls of sugar might make it more agreeable.”

“Thanks. Please, don’t call me Mrs. Pratt, though. You can just call me Buffy. Or Elizabeth, if you want.”

“Of course. And, as I said, please call me Oscar.”

“So, I have to ask, Oscar, how you ended up here. You were just out in the middle of nowhere looking for a slayer?”

“I was attending to a newly called slayer. Henrietta Shumway – a young, very young, Mormon wife who lived in Utah.”

“And she died?”

Oscar nodded, but did not speak. A squall of emotions crossed his face, and he stared at his tea for a few long moments.

“I’d only just met the girl before she was taken. It appears that two vampires have recently arrived in Ogden. I believe she was their first victim. I found her when I …” He coughed, trying and failing to mask a quaver in his voice. “I had gone to her cabin, but she had expired by the time I arrived. The only thing to be done at that point was to assure her child was taken care of.”

Buffy dug her teaspoon into the sugar bowl and added another heaping spoonful into her tea.

Oscar continued. “When I heard of the riot in Rock Springs and the rumors of the girl, the ‘good bakguai,’ who defeated enemies with only her fists, I thought perhaps I’d found the next slayer and came up to investigate.”

“How is it that a poet such as yourself would come to train slayers?” When William spoke, Buffy was so surprised that she sloshed a little tea onto the orange tablecloth.

Oscar smiled widely at William. “I had booked a lecture tour in the colonies, but found the funding for it to be well beyond my means. An old classmate from Oxford came to me with a proposal. He claimed to be a member of a council who were willing to fund my entire trip, as long as I would agree to a small favor for them.”

“The favor was to be a watcher?” Buffy guessed.

“Yes and no. They’d never had a Slayer in America before, you see, and weren’t expecting one to be called while I was here. They were more concerned about the unusual amounts of activity from various potential hellmouths in the area. I was to investigate these areas while I was on my lecture tour. Naturally, I thought their tales of slayers, vampires and hellmouths to be quite fanciful, but I thought it would provide an interesting experience to write about at the very least.”

Oscar sipped his tea and grimaced. “Man can believe the impossible, but can never believe the improbable, I suppose. And I was quite desperate enough for money to sign on.”

“Which potential hellmouths were you looking into?” Buffy asked.

“There are several, well, for lack of a better word, promising locations. Cleveland, Ohio; the Ozark Mountains; southern California; and Provo, Utah. When the Council found the newest Slayer had been called in Utah, they assumed that was the one which would open. I was instructed to introduce myself to the Slayer and train her to the best of my abilities, until a proper Watcher could arrive.”

Clara reappeared. Sensing the rather somber mood at the table, she cleared their plates as quickly as she could.

“I only arrived in Utah ten days prior,” Oscar continued, once Clara had departed. “I’m new to all of this as well. As I said, I assumed it was the imaginings of bored men. To find that it was true has been the biggest adjustment of my lifetime, but I suspect you both know what that’s about.”

He turned to William. “When did you discover your wife was a Slayer?”

“About ninety minutes ago,” William said.

“Dear lord.”

“Quite,” William agreed.

“What’s next?” Buffy said, unsubtly working to change the topic. Both men turned to look at her. “I mean, getting a train to Ogden would be a good idea, wouldn’t it? Our luggage, hopefully, is there. And William and I are expected in California.”

Oscar shot her a questioning glance.

“Napa Valley, California,” she clarified, firmly. “We’re going to our winery, our future. Not L.A. Not to any of the potential hellmouths. Just so you’re clear on that.”

Oscar lifted his hands. “If you’re looking for a strong-arm representative of the council, you’re looking at the wrong man. I assure you, I’m the last sort of person to bend you to my will. I’m not even certain what my will is in this matter. I’m as new to this as you are. I suspect I may be even newer.”

“William? Does that sound okay to you?” She felt as though she was pleading with him. “Continuing onto California?”

His ice blue eyes met her gaze, at last. “I should very much like to leave Rock Springs.” Which wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped to hear, but it would have to do.

“Allow me,” Oscar offered. “The depot is extremely hectic, and it would be simpler for me to arrange things. I must warn you, some of the accommodations might be quite primitive. You’re amenable to this?”

Buffy nodded. “Anything to get out of town.”

Oscar agreed with a nod and stood, leaving William and Buffy to wait in uncomfortable silence.

~*~

Buffy stood on the hot railway platform craning her head to look at the long line of railroad cars curving past her line of vision. “They should have room for us, anyway.”

Oscar raised his brows skeptically. “I think you might be surprised at the amount of humanity that can be compacted into a car on an immigrant train. Are you both quite certain you don't wish to wait for a proper train tomorrow?”

“This will be fine, Mr. Wilde.” William mumbled.

“Oscar, please,” the watcher said. He stepped forward and handed their tickets to the conductor who eyed them curiously, then shrugged.

“You’ll have to leg it down a few cars to find a men’s car,” the conductor said. “The lady can fit into this here family car. Should be room. You’ll have to get your own luggage.” He slid open the door to the car. Buffy was immediately overwhelmed with the stench of too-warm humanity.

“The trip should take approximately six hours,” Oscar reassured. He reached over to pat her arm, catching himself midway through the gesture and looking embarrassed.

“Hold up!” a familiar voice interrupted. Buffy looked over to the station doors to see the grizzled barber working his way toward them, clutching a parcel in his grip.

“Hoped I’d catch you afore you left town,” Stephen flashed a gap-toothed smile and thrust a package into Buffy’s hands.

She pulled open the filthy cloth to find several dark chunks of an unknown substance. Not entirely certain what it was, she went with a generic “Thank you.”

“Jerky. Cured it myself. Thought you ‘n William might need something for the trip. And I wanted to wish you bon voyage.”

“Stephen! You spoke actual French!” She leaned over and hugged the old man, tightly. She could feel his discomfort immediately, however, and eased her hug into an awkward handshake. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Wasn’t much,” he mumbled, as he reached to shake William’s hand. “Take care a that head, William. Sorry them bastards done you that way. Pardon my French.”

A ghost of a smile crossed William’s lips. “Thank you, Stephen.”

The old man nodded and shuffled toward the door. He was quickly swallowed by the crowd.

“Well, then,” Oscar declared before being interrupted by a hoot from the steam engine. “Now that we’ve bid adieu to our multi-lingual friend, nothing prevents us from boarding the train.”

Buffy looked at William, hoping for a smile or a nod. Some sign of warmth. He turned and Oscar followed; the men walked down the track toward their car.

With a sigh, Buffy boarded the ‘family car’.

The accommodations were like the other cars she’d traveled on, in that it was rectangular and had four wheels attached at the bottom. All similarities ended there, however. The floor and walls were made of unfinished planks, and rough wooden benches were scattered around the interior. She could see boards and straw-filled mats stacked up against a far wall, which she supposed they made up themselves when night came. It reminded her of a kind of Human Ark.

In the far corner a pot-bellied stove was bolted to the floor. If engineers gathered together to design a death trap, they’d be hard pressed to come up with something worse.

There were at least fifteen women and easily three times that number in children – and they all looked at the new arrival with curiosity. Buffy gave an awkward smile and a wave, settling herself on an unoccupied bench and trying to look inconspicuous.

The train gave a final hoot and lugged away from the Rock Springs station.

~*~

They arrived in Ogden at six o’clock. The station was little more than a collection of nondescript wooden buildings which were packed to capacity. A hectic sea of humanity, baggage and even some livestock strained against the thin, wood-planked walls.

She was shoved out onto the platform by the surging tide leaving the car. Though she’d hoped to find William and Oscar, the crowd was having none of it, and she was pushed to the front of the station before she could break away from the effluvium.

It wasn’t long before she spotted Oscar, a head taller than the rest of the crowd. He gave her a wave of acknowledgment, and the men quickly made their way to her side.

“How was your trip?” She looked directly at William.

He nodded. “Fine.” His voice was polite, detached. She’d hoped that distance and a short time apart would help normalize things between them, but it was not to be. She was so screwed.

“Before we find a hotel, we should get our luggage. Well, try to, anyway,” she said.

Oscar made a ‘lead the way’ gesture with his hands, and she wove through the crowd to the ticket counter.

After a brief wait in line, she stood before a bald clerk. He looked to be in a bad mood, so she went straight to it, hoping that she sounded authoritative. “I would like to claim luggage for William and Elizabeth Pratt.”

The clerk motioned for them to follow him, and they trailed after the man until they came to a small stack of luggage against a wall in the back. Buffy spotted their trunks quickly; they were stacked together in a tidy little pile on the side. A small envelope had ‘Elizabeth Pratt’ neatly lettered upon it and was attached to Buffy’s trunk with twine

Before she had a chance to say anything to the clerk, William went over and lifted his trunk from the pile. She couldn’t help but wince, seeing him lift so much weight; the white flag of a bandage on his head reminded her how much he’d bled the previous night. She knew better than to say anything, however.

It appeared to bother Oscar as well, and he hurried to William’s side, collecting Buffy’s trunk before William had a chance.

“Would you please have them sent to the Uintah Hotel? Name of Pratt.” William deposited some coins into the clerk’s hand.

“Certainly, sir.” Baldy beamed a smile. His customer service skills grew considerably at the flash of coin.

Buffy reached over to her trunk and slid the envelope from beneath the twine. She opened it and began to read as they made their way out of the train station.

Elizabeth:

I placed your luggage in the care of the station in hopes that you’d come along. We only had an hour to change trains and I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but just letting it go seemed even more foolish.

I hope you and William are well and so wish that we’d had the opportunity to get to know one another better. Perhaps when you’re out in California you can look us up. Dunn’s Emporium, on Bay Street.

Whatever it was that caused you to leap from the train in such a fashion – well, I do worry you’re all right. Please send word and let me know.

Your friend,

Mary Dunn

p.s. I must confess something to you. After you leapt from the train, well you can only imagine how scandalized Mother was. I told her that your jumping off was clearly due to her incessant questions. That a person can only take so much prying before they simply cannot take it any longer. I’m not sure if she believes herself to blame, but she’s been much less vocal – so I thank you for that!

M.D.

~*~

The hotel was adequate. A bed, a bath, a roof over their heads. White walls, crudely painted mountain scenes. Buffy kept her mind focused on the task at hand. Healing the wound she’d caused in William.

They’d declined Oscar’s offer to dine. William had declined, actually. She’d gone along smilingly. See how easy I am to get along with, William?

God, she was pathetic.

Her hands were still damp from her bath, and she fumbled the key in the lock. Beneath her gown of white and green stripes, she wore the ivory set of underthings he’d bought her so long ago. When their love was a forbidden delight. She wondered if he’d remember that moment. She wondered if he’d see her undressed again, tonight or any night.

She unlocked the door.

William stood before the washstand in the corner, his back to her. When she entered, his eyes flicked over to her image in the mirror, but he didn’t slow his actions. Methodically, he continued to unwrap the bandage around his head.

She attempted to remain casual, forcing her eyes from his reflection as she placed her clothes in her open trunk before settling down on their bed. He placed the soiled bandages in the garbage. Then, instead of rebandaging his wound, he turned to face her.

His scar was not quiet. It was loud and demanded absolute attention, an angry, sideways ‘y’ that crawled across his brow like an accusation.

“Buffy,” he said, his voice soft and low. “I’d like to talk with you.”

“Okay.”

William rubbed his hand along his stubbled jawline. He hadn’t shaved in two days and it showed.

“Why?” he asked on a sigh.

“Why what, William?”

“Why? The only why that another could ask in this situation. Why would you lie to me? I can’t come close to understanding it.”

“I didn't lie. Not exactly. I'd planned on telling you.”

“When?”

“Soon. It was just … difficult, William. To find a way to begin that conversation.”

“Difficult? You landing in my life from more than one hundred years in the future – that was difficult. My uncle's manipulations, the scorn of society? Those were great difficulties. Buffy, we faced monsters, mobs, even death. When a demon rose against us and murdered George, we met that difficulty, too. And we faced it together.”

“This is different.”

“It's not.”

He lifted his hand to his head, tugging on his hair in his nervous habit; the stitches along his eyebrow pulled and tugged with the movement.

“I gave you all of myself, without reservation,” he said. “From the moment you first landed in my house to now. Mrs. McLaughlin full of her suspicions, and during our voyage – so many convinced you were mad, but I stood by your side. I knew better. Knew you better, I thought.”

A thick tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t have pride enough to wipe it away.

“Even when you couldn’t remember who we were, I held on, knowing you’d return one day. And you did.” He smiled bitterly.

He was close enough that she could reach out and touch him, and so she did. Her fingertips slid along his rough cheek. The warmth of his skin felt like a balm to her hand.

She felt his jaw clench in response to her touch and he pulled back to lean against the wall. “Buffy, in the past, even when you were in my employ, I have worked to treat you as an equal. Would you agree?

She nodded miserably.

“Have you done the same to me?”

She stopped to truly consider his words – she owed him that much at the very least. Had she treated him as a partner or had she made decisions for him? Like a parent would make for a child. Or, she realized with a chill, like Angel had made for her so very long ago. Tears began to flow down her cheeks at her realization of how she'd treated him.

“No outside force could have destroyed us, my love. I was a fool to not consider our undoing would come from within. From you, tearing apart our foundations.”

She finally found her voice. “I did it … for you. To spare you heartbreak. We had so many plans, and I couldn't stand to take those dreams away from you. I didn’t keep the truth from you selfishly, William.”

“I know that, darling. What I don’t know is … if that fact makes us more or less damned.”

“William, please.” She reached and placed her hand on his damp cheek.

Tenderly, he removed her hand. Even in his anger, he was his Williamesque self, patient and kind.

He turned his back to her and opened the door, stepping into the hall.

“Where are you going?” Her voice was high and needy. She despised herself for it.

“Out.”

“No. We're not done here. You can't just walk out on this conversation.” Her sorrow was being rapidly replaced with righteous anger and she put her hand on his shoulder, tugging him around, so that he'd have to face her.

Something sparked inside his blue eyes at her gesture. There was a raw look in his eyes and it was as close to anger as she'd ever seen him. “Are you going to decide another thing with my best interests at heart? Will you stop me, Slayer?”

It was his using her title – Slayer – that crumbled her last defense. She dropped her hand to her side and stepped back into the room.

“I’m going to get very, very drunk,” William said. “Please don’t wait up.”

Though the latch clicked politely behind him, it felt like a door slamming in her face.

*~*

The saloon was dirty and impossibly hard to find. The clientèle seemed to be the worst kind of riff-raff. The floor was made of dirt, and their version of ‘whiskey’ would probably eat a hole in the glass, if William hadn’t been so busy emptying it. In short, it was exactly what he’d been looking for.

He lifted the dirty glass to his lips, yet again, savoring the burn as the alcohol warmed his throat.

He was still sober enough to sense a subtle shift in the atmosphere in the saloon, however, and he turned to look when he saw a large man duck under the doorway. The rabble all turned to gawk at the garishly dressed figure. He had long brown hair and wore a lime-green frock coat adorned with a large sunflower in the buttonhole. Oscar. He scanned the room and found William immediately, settling himself on the empty stool at William’s right.

“Barkeep? May I inquire which brands of Irish Whiskey might you have in stock? I have very simple tastes – the best of everything,” Oscar said, a pleasant smile on his too full lips.

The bartender responded by glaring at the pair of them.

“Perhaps I’ll just have a glass of this … amber colored liquid my friend is enjoying then.”

The bartender grunted and sloshed some whiskey into a filthy glass. With the bartender’s suspicious eyes still on him, Oscar held the glass aloft and said, “Cleanliness is next to godliness. Here’s to being a great distance from both.”

“Another, please,” William said. He might as well take advantage of having the bartender’s attention.

Feeling the pleasant buzz of lowered inhibitions, William turned to Oscar. “You write splendidly, you know.”

“I fear a great majority of critics would take issue with you,” Oscar demurred.

“’Ravenna’ was a true work of art. And … ah, the name escapes me. The one that made the rounds in the poetry journals. About destroying the thing we love. Splendid, that was.”

Oscar swirled his whiskey thoughtfully.

“Did my wife send you?” William asked.

“Yes, alas. I am far more transparent than this drinking glass, unfortunately.”

William drained his and called the bartender over for another. The men drank in companionable silence for a few moments before Oscar spoke. “She loves you a great deal, you know.”

The alcohol continued to embolden William. “You know this, how? Because she told you? It’s not what she says, Oscar. It’s what she doesn’t say. That’s our poison.”

“She loves you,” Oscar repeated. “In my experience a lady wouldn’t risk getting kicked out of saloons unless she cared a great deal for you.”

William winced. “How many?”

“I’m not entirely certain. Several, to be sure.” Oscar drained his glass, then signaled for the bartender to pour him another. Once the man stepped away, Oscar continued. “I suspect that getting physically ejected from a bar was not her most difficult task this night. I think the far harder hurdle for your lady was bringing herself to ask for my help. That was her real sacrifice.”

“That is Buffy, exactly. You’re a quick study.” William clinked his glass against Oscar’s and drank deeply.

The atmosphere of the room changed again. This was not the subtle shift when Oscar had first entered, however. This change was sudden and held a drastic force – as though a strong wind had just blown through the saloon. William turned toward the door.

A young man stood in the doorway. He had wild, unkempt hair beneath his black hat and he stepped through the entrance with a confident swagger. His companion followed directly behind him, a dark-haired woman in a tight crimson gown.

William froze, his glass halfway to his lips. For a heartbeat William couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Dru.

The creature from The Adriatic, the thing that had killed George. Her eyes sparked savagely as she strode purposefully towards them with a world-eating smile on her lips. The man who accompanied her had a grin just as wide; the look in his eyes was equally feral.

“Oscar, run!” William hadn’t intended to scream, but the image of George’s mangled body filled his mind’s eye and panic flooded him.

Oscar stood and stepped toward the approaching pair. He was only able take the one step, however, before Dru grabbed him by the throat. She stopped the much larger man as though he was made of cotton.

When she turned to look at Oscar, she shifted, remaking her face into that of a monster. She smiled, her fangs glistening in the lamplight.

William leapt up, but an arm wrapped around his neck immediately.

“You’re coming with us.” William turned to see the cowboy that had come in with Dru. His face had also transformed into that of a monster. His yellow eyes danced as he grinned at William.

Bam! A strange popping sound filled the air and it took William a moment to identify what it was: a gun shot. He looked over to see the bartender standing a few feet away, a smoking pistol aimed at the chest of the demonic cowboy.

The creature only grinned wider as he gazed down at his chest, which now featured a large crater in the center.

“A duel!” the cowboy-monster cackled joyfully. “Oh, Dru. You can’t say no to a duel.”

“We haven’t time, William. And this place is too crowded for our party. Come along.” She spun around and walked toward the exit, dragging a struggling Oscar behind.

The creature reached out with one hand and twisted the bartenders head around cruelly – snapping his neck in an instant. The bartender’s face was a mask of surprise and disappointment as his body fell to the floor.

“Git along, little doggie,” the monster chortled in William’s ear. He tightened his grip around William’s throat and pulled him through the saloon door.

Dru waited by a pair of horses. She’d forced Oscar into a kneeling position and gripped his face in her hands. Leaning over until her mouth was only inches from his, she spoke in slow, even tones. “Tell the Slayer to come home. The place where she ended, once upon a time. The place where he ended as well. Tell her to come home to the hellmouth to collect what’s left of her William.”

With no more effort than it would take to brush away a fly, she flicked her wrist and flung Oscar against the front of the saloon, where he collapsed in the dirt.

Dru mounted her horse in an instant with legs astride in the fashion of a man and her skirts bunched up in the middle. “Give it here,” she commanded. The cowboy lifted William to Dru as if he were a doll. She placed one hand on the reins and wrapped the other tightly around William’s throat.

A crowd was gathering fast, and the pair had no time to waste. The cowboy-creature jumped onto his horse and gave Dru a nod.

“H’yaw,” the creature shouted, urging his horse into a gallop.

Dru followed the creature, spurring her horse to a run. She placed her lips next to William’s ear and whispered, “Did you miss me, William? I missed you.”

-------------------

Author's Notes:

Trust. You've trusted me with a great deal of your time and it feels like it's fair to tell you how much of this story is left. I've got the whole thing outlined, but sometimes I find a chapter will go longer than I anticipated. I had the Rock Springs Riot down for one chapter and it was two and a half. As it is currently framed out, this will go until chapter 36. It may go a little bit longer, depending on how some rather complex scenes are going to come together. I framed this out last summer and the ending hasn't changed. But ... it was a bit more epic than I thought it would be and I am not sure I'll ever tackle something so big again. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Your help shape the story. (You liked Mary Dunn and Stephen so I brought them in to say a quick hi.). It just helps in so many ways and I never take your feedback for granted. Science warns that I will get hate mail at the end of this one. I encourage you to bring it!

Prostitutes in Ogden needed to get the attention of potential customers from their second and third story windows. They would do so by dropping dried beans down on men who were walking by. I couldn't fit that in the story, but thought it was interesting enough to tell you.

Oscar Wilde. Below is a photo of him which captures his "Wilde Wild West" days. Isn't he gorgeous? He had fangirls in America who would wear bright colors and ginormous flowered hats. Oscar was quite the adventurer. He was lowered into a mine in Colorado on a bucket and read to miners until four in the morning. In San Francisco, when a bunch of his Irish countrymen thought they would get the 'dandy' wasted, he ended up drinking everyone under the table. For Oscar background, I used the biography by Richard Ellmann and 'The Masks of Oscar Wilde' by Joseph Pearce. All his words are by me except for two real quotes which I snuck in.

Last thing about Oscar (for this chapter!) His little sister died when she was nine, which devastated the family. When he was away at college, his two half sisters were involved in a horrible accident. While at a ball, one girl stood too close to a lamp and her crinoline caught fire. When her sister tried to smother the flames, she was badly burned as well. They both eventually died from their burns. Historical fiction never talks about stuff like this, probably because it's horribly depressing. I'd have ruined 'Pride and Prejudice' by having Mr. Darcy obsess about the working class and wondering how flammable ball guests were.

Holy crap. I'm shutting up already!