centuries old love story brings Buffy and Angel closer together and forces
Giles to face his own reservations about Angel.
was wearing plain sackcloth, her breasts bound tightly to her chest. Her hair
was held back by a barbette, a piece of white linen pinned to her hair on
either side of her head and draped around her chin. Crude wooden beads were
looped around the belt which was tied at her waist. She was sexless, shapeless
and filled with such longing for the man standing in front of her, she thought
she’d split apart from the feeling.
shall wait for you, by the oak, but I beg you not to be late or I shall lose my
swear to God.
not to God, she said, her eyes filling with tears. We have forsaken him.
took her face in his hands and said, We have not, my love, we have only chosen
Buffy woke in the dark. The house was
silent around her and she lay for a few moments trying to get her bearings, to
calm the thunder of her heart. She reached out for the alarm clock beside her
bed and twisted it towards her: 3:17 a.m.
She needn’t have looked. For the past
few weeks she’d been waking up at the same time every couple of nights. Her
waking was precipitated by an image she couldn’t quite recall once she was
certain she was no longer a sleep. The feeling of being in the dream was
lost as soon as she was awake, but there was always the residual anxiety: a
feeling she didn’t know how to shake.
As on other nights, Buffy decided to go
down to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea. She would never have
imagined how comforting the hot beverage could be before moving to Westbury,
but now the thought of holding a hot mug in her hands was the only thing
keeping her from freaking out.
Each night the sense of dread which
woke her had become stronger and stronger and each night upon waking it became
more difficult to calm herself down.
Buffy reached for her sweater, a long
shaggy thing which hung mid thigh, its cuffs frayed and almost reaching the
tips of her fingers. As the nights grew colder, she’d taken up the habit of
wearing socks to bed, so she didn’t bother sliding into her slippers.
Buffy left the room she considered a
sanctuary and headed down the hall to the stairs. With so many Slayers bunking
out at Giles’s place, it was a miracle that she’d landed a room to herself, but
the thought of having to share space with any of the other Slayers made her
skin prickle. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; after all, she had a
lot in common with them. Sometimes she just felt exasperated by them. She
guessed probably that would change after they had a few apocalypses under their
A pale sliver of light leaked out from
under the kitchen door and Buffy hesitated. She didn’t want to enter into a
middle-of-the-night conversation with Sarah or Rona or try to make heads or
tails of what Elaine was saying. (What had possessed Buffy to ever think that everyone
in England sounded like the Queen?)
She pushed the door open and peered
inside. Across the room Angel stood, pouring boiling water into a tea pot.
Buffy stepped into the room.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
Angel turned and smiled.
“I was making this for you actually.”
“How did you know I’d be up?”
“Pretty much like clock work the past
week or so,” Angel said, bringing the pot to the table where he’d set two mugs
and a small pitcher of milk. “I see you from my window.”
“Oh,” Buffy said, slipping into the
chair and drawing her knees up to her chin.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Buffy said,
smiling as Angel poured milk into the cups and then added the tea. “Why do you
add the milk first?”
“Old custom, something to do with the
milk cooling the tea so that it doesn’t crack the cup. I guess that would have
mattered more two hundred years ago, when you only had a couple cups, huh?”
Buffy took a grateful sip. “I’ve been
having these dreams. No, that’s not right; they’re not even dreams. I feel as
though I’m there, part of whatever is happening but then when I wake up I can’t
remember anything, not an image, not a fragment, nothing. I just wake up
sweating and my heart is pounding and I’m all disoriented.”
“It’s not unusual for you to have very
vivid dreams,” Angel said.
“No, but usually I can recall them in
technicolor. It’s really creepy to know that you’re having this dream, that
something terrible is happening, but you can’t hold on to any part of it.”
Angel nodded. “Can I help?”
“You are,” Buffy said softly.
Buffy found Giles in his study early
the next morning.
A watery shaft of winter light slanted
in through the window, illuminating the ex-Watcher at his desk where he was
peering at a piece of correspondence.
“Whatcha doin’?” Buffy asked, flopping
into one of the chairs positioned across from Giles’s desk.
“For the love of God, doesn’t anyone
announce their arrival with a knock anymore?” Giles said without looking up.
“Door was open,” Buffy said.
Giles peered at Buffy over the top of
“I have to go to Essex,” Giles said.
“Essex...Wessex...not really all that
original with the names in this country, are you?”
Giles sighed. “Did you want to come?”
“Is it work?” Buffy asked hopefully.
Perhaps a new case would take her mind off her lack of sleep and general
“It’s work-related, but we haven’t been
hired by anyone.”
“Can Angel come, too?”
Buffy leaned back in the chair and
crossed her arms, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. “When are you going to
forgive him, Giles?”
“This isn’t about forgiveness, Buffy,”
Gilkes replied peevishly. “Essex is a good four hour drive. Would you suggest
Angel hunker down in the back seat with a blanket over his head for the entire
There was a moment of silence and then
Buffy said: “I’ll just get my coat.”
“So, what’s in Essex?” Buffy asked,
sipping coffee from the thermos Giles had brought.
Giles shot Buffy a sideways glance.
“Actually, it’s known as the most
haunted place in Britain.”
“Seems to me that just about every
other spot on this island is the most haunted place in Britain.”
“Well, Borley has a right to its reputation
if the legend is to be believed.”
Buffy turned her head and watched the
patchwork landscape of the countryside roll by. Before they actually got on the
main highway, the road wasn’t much more than a narrow lane, but Giles drove the
Land Rover as though he had no fear of encountering any other vehicle.
When Buffy had first arrived in England
she had stood in the middle of the road that ran beside Gile’s house,
stretching her arms out to see if she could actually touch the hedgerows on
either side. She couldn’t of course, but she could never get over the feeling
that two cars couldn’t possible pass each other on the narrow lane.
“So, what’s the deal on this place?”
“There’s some pictures in my satchel in
the back seat,” Giles said. “Have a look.”
Buffy twisted and reached for Giles’s
battered brown leather bag. Unlatching the buckle, she reached inside and
pulled out a cream-coloured manilla envelope. Careful not to spill the last of
her coffee, Buffy fished out the contents of the envelope.
The first was a picture of a house, two
imposing peaked roofs at its front. Buffy traced the front of the picture; the
gloomy facade was strangely familiar.
“Is this where we’re going?”
“Well, the house is no longer standing,
actually,” Giles said, merging onto the M 3 towards London.
“It burned down round about 1939, but
it left quite a legacy.”
Buffy put the picture of the house on
her lap and found herself staring into the face of a very somber looking man.
“Who’s this?” She tipped the picture
“That’s Captain Gregson, I believe,”
Giles said. “He was the last occupant to live in the house before an oil lamp
mysteriously toppled over and set the fire which burned the dwelling to the
Buffy added the picture of Captain
Gregson to her lap and peered at another picture of the house, this time from a
“The house doesn’t look scary,” she
“Well I suppose not, not in the
Hollywood sense of the word,” Giles said agreeably.
Angel was uneasy about Buffy’s
nocturnal awakenings. The vague dreams which were plaguing her concerned him
more than any of the vivid dreams she’d had related to him over the years that
they had known each other ever had. He’d always been able to figure out what
those portents of doom had meant; had, in some small way, managed to scratch at
their sharp edges, make them seem less ominous. But he couldn’t fight what he
Every other night or so, as he’d sat in
his loft over the garage keeping watch over the house where she slept, he could
sense something reaching out to her, some presence. His skin would tingle, a
strange enough sensation for a vampire, but certainly one he was used to: if
nothing else, Buffy always made his skin vibrate with life.
On several occasions, Buffy would
appear in the kitchen and Angel would watch her fill the kettle and settle at
the table to wait while it boiled., grabbing for it just before it began its
shrill whistle. She’d make a pot of tea and then sit, facing the window, her
eyes hollowed out, her shoulders hunched.
The first time he almost headed out
across the short stretch of ground that separated them, but he had talked
himself out of it in the end. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to be
alone together in the middle of the night.
But then last night he was certain that
a shroud of malevolence hung in the air and before he could censor himself, he
slipped out of his apartment and in through the back door, using the key Giles
kept under the flower pot.
The tea was already made by the time
Buffy had made her bleary-eyed appearance.
She didn’t know anything or she wasn’t
telling him anything, but he was sure he’d seen relief in her eyes when she sat
across from him at the table. It was enough to make him feel hopeful: Buffy
still needed him.
Sometimes he didn’t recognize this
woman who was sharing space with him here at Giles’s place. She was tougher
than he’d remembered her being, although he certainly couldn’t say it was a
surprise. She’d endured so much: lost so much.
And then, it wasn’t like being in
England removed her from any of life’s dangers. It seemed like there was evil
everywhere, even without a Hellmouth to contend with.
To see her as she’d been last night:
exhausted, vulnerable, fragile: it was almost more than he could bear, but he
had no choice. And he’d had years of practice, hanging in the shadows, watching
and hoping he was close by when she needed him.
He just wondered when that wouldn’t be
Giles pulled into the parking lot of
the Duck’s Feather and parked.
“Again with the names,” Buffy laughed,
shaking her head. “So, what are we going to this place for?” She asked as she
climbed out of the Land Rover.
“A couple of days ago I got a call from
someone near Borley saying that he had something that might be of interest to
the Watcher’s Council,” Giles said. “I thought we could have lunch before we
meet with him. Mr. Winston, that is.”
“Sure,” Buffy said. “I could eat.”
It was just after lunch and the Duck’s
Feather, a dark-timbered, lop-sided pub with a welcoming fireplace and a
red-faced inn keeper was almost empty.
“What’ll you have, then?” The barkeep
said, arriving with a wet cloth in hand to wipe away some imaginary crumbs from
their table near the fireplace.
“I’ll have half a bitter,” Giles said,
reaching over to the table beside theirs where someone had left a menu.
“Just a coke, thanks.”
The bartender nodded and went to pour
“So, Mr Winston, who’s he?”
“I don’t know him. He called the
Council and said something about having found an item with close ties to the
Rectory, something he thought the Council should have for safekeeping. He’ll
meet us at the grounds at 2 p.m.”
“Okay, not that it makes any difference
at this point, but why would you drive all this way to pick up some mysterious
item?” Buffy asked. “It hardly makes sense from a time management point of
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Giles said.
“The thing is, Buffy, I volunteered to make the journey and I invited you along
because I thought, perhaps, you needed a breather.”
“You can say that again. Those girls
are driving me...”
“Not from the Slayers,” Giles
Buffy felt her cheeks heat up. She
paused before launching into a reiteration of the facts surrounding Borley
“So, the Rectory is built on the
grounds where a monastery once stood,” Buffy said. “The Rectory’s builder,
Reverend Bull and his wife and children lived there for quite a long time.”
“Yes,” Giles said, allowing Buffy this
diversion. “The house was built in 1863 and the good Reverend died in 1892 in
what was known as the Blue Room. His son died in the same room in 1927.”
“Coincidence?” Buffy said, taking a sip
of the coke the bartender had delivered to the table. He stood there
expectantly, waiting for their lunch orders.
“I’ll have the steak and kidney pie,”
“Fish and chips.”
“The son’s death in the same room
could, of course, be a coincidence, but this Blue Room was certainly the site
of several strange occurrences.
“So after the Bull’s left the house
stood empty, right?” Buffy said.
“Yes, empty until Reverend Smith moved
in about a year later,” Giles confirmed.
“And that’s when Harry Smith did his
investigation,” Buffy said.
“That’s right. He saw a small story in
the local newspaper about the apparition of a nun seen at the Rectory and he
decided to investigate,” Giles said. “By this time, of course, all manner of
strange phenomena had been reported at the house and on the grounds.”
“The usual haunted house stuff?” Buffy
“Yes, typical stuff mostly: strange
lights and phantom footsteps, whispering, apparitions of past residents
including Mr. Bull and a nun, who is often seen gliding, not walking, through
the garden, her head bent in sorrow.”
“Legend has it that the house was built
on a site previously host to a monastery built by Benedictine Monks in
1362. The story goes that one of the
monks from that monastery eloped with a novice nun from the Bures nunnery
located about seven miles away,” Giles paused and looked carefully at Buffy.
“The legend says that they used the secret tunnels that were built between the
monastery and the nunnery to meet and then make their escape in a carriage
driven by a couple of local men. Sadly, they were caught. The monk was hanged
and the two carriage drivers beheaded.”
“What happened to the nun?”
Giles sipped his drink and took a
breath before answering. “It is said the nun was bricked alive in the nunnery
walls to repent and die.”
Buffy shivered. “That’s kinda
The bartender arrived with lunch and
neither Buffy nor Giles spoke for several moments as they tucked into their
Giles lifted a gravy-laden mouthful of
steak to his mouth.
Buffy sprinkled some more vinegar onto
her chips and waited.
Giles swallowed and cleared his throat.
“Angel mentioned that you’ve been
waking up at night and having vague, disturbing dreams.”
“Can’t vampires keep anything to
themselves?” Buffy grumbled around a mouthful of fish.
“He was worried.”
“And he came to you?”
Giles set his mouth in a straight,
narrow line. “Well, we do have at least one thing in common: your well-being.”
Buffy set her fork down and wiped her
“I’m a big girl, Giles. Look,” she
said, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers. “No hands.”
“I’m not sure I understand...”
“I don’t need training wheels on my
bike, someone to tie my laces or anyone looking out for me.”
“I’m sure that’s not what Angel
intended,” Giles said. “He...”
“Worries, I know,” Buffy said. “Do you
have any idea how hard that is?”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Giles said.
“Look, I’m not going to discuss this
with you. It’s pointless.” Buffy speared another piece of crispy haddock and
shoved it into her mouth, but the once delicious fish was now tasteless. She
couldn’t discuss Angel with Giles and she couldn’t discuss Giles with Angel and
sometimes that was so annoying it made her want to scream.
“You said there was more,” she said
“It’s the time you’re waking up at
night that piqued my interest,” Giles said. “During the course of my research
about Borley Rectory in anticipation of meeting Mr. Winston I came upon an
interesting bit of information. It turns out that the nun and her monk were caught
on the road to Cambridge at precisely 3:17 a.m. Surely that’s not a
Mr. Winston was a small man with a high
smooth forehead and a thin, pointed nose. He stood beside his car, nervously
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, at the end of the lane which
lead up to what little remained of the Rectory.
The day was clear and cool, nearing the
end of November. The sky was pale blue, long wispy clouds trailing overhead
like deflated balloons.
“Mr Winston?” Giles said, approaching
the man with an extended hand.
“Yes. And this is my colleague, Buffy
Mr. Winston smiled knowingly.
Colleague, indeed, his expression seemed to say.
“Hi,” Buffy said.
“American?” Mr. Winston said. “Are you
“All Americans are,” Buffy said, with a
“She’s joking of course,” Giles said.
“Of course,” Mr. Winston said.
“Do you mind if I go up to the house?”
Buffy asked. “Unless you need me for this.”
“No, go on. Be careful though.”
Giles watched Buffy head through the
gate and up the lane before he said to Mr. Winston: “So, what have you got that
you think the Council might want?”
There wasn’t really much left of Borley
Rectory upon close inspection, but the grounds were quite beautiful and after
being cooped up in the car for the last several hours, Buffy was quite happy to
walk under the canopy of trees.
She could see the outline of the
house’s foundation. She walked along its edge and tried to imagine the house as
it had appeared in the pictures Giles had shown her: tall, forbidding.
Certainly not a cheery place for Reverend Bull to raise his fourteen children.
Still, it seemed sad that there had
been a house here at one time; a house full of secrets and, apparently,
specters and now all that remained were a few bricks and some well-trodden
Buffy settled on a patch of grass,
tipped her face up to the pale sun and closed her eyes.
“I have in my possession the Locked
Book,” Mr. Winston said rather smugly.
“Surely not,” Giles said, reaching into
his pocket for his handkerchief and taking off his glasses. “That book has been
missing for half a century.”
“Yes, sold to an American in 1953, I
believe.” Mr. Winston said ‘American’ as if the word were sour.
Giles polished his lenses thoughtfully
and said: “How have you come by it?”
Mr. Winston leaned forward
conspiratorially. “You’re not going to believe it, but some yob sold it on
Giles couldn’t prevent the bark of
laughter which escaped from his compressed lips.
“Surely you’re not serious?”
Mr. Winston nodded. “Too right. Of
course, the poor sod didn’t know what he had and I hardly paid a thing for it
except for the blasted shipping.”
“If you know how valuable it is, why
are you offering to us?”
“Thing is, Mr. Giles, ever since I’ve
had the book strange things have been happening to me. I hear voices and see
things. Once I was tossed from my own bed. I’ve lived in these parts my whole
life; I know the story of the Rectory and the people who lived here. I believe
in the spirits and their malevolence and I don’t want any part of it.”
“May I see the book?” Giles asked.
Mr. Winston shrugged and opened the
back door of his car, where what was obviously a book lay wrapped in brown
“There you go,” he said, pointing.
“Surely you’re not that superstitious?”
“If I were you, I’d take that book to
Council Headquarters and lock it up proper,” said Mr. Winston.
had no worldly possessions; she’d given everything up when she’d entered the
convent at 15. So, she was coming to him with nothing but herself. He said that
tunnel from the nunnery to this place was black, the floor slick with sludge
and slime, the walls covered with mold and moss but she would have traveled
through the gates of hell to meet him here.
stood by the oak, fingering the cross her parents had given to her when they
had chosen this life for her, a life they felt was better than the one they
could offer despite their relative wealth.
two years she had been pious and obedient and then, one day while she had
wandered away from her Sisters while in the woods picking mushrooms, she had
he had seen her.
wouldn’t have known what to call the feeling only to say that it was stronger
than the feeling she had when she went to vespers; stronger than the feeling of
devotion she felt towards the convent and her Sisters. This feeling shot
straight up her spine.
a long moment they watched each other across the cool forest. She was too
frightened to move when he came towards her and knelt at her feet. He shouldn’t
be kneeling; she wasn’t worthy.
mushrooms,” he said, his voice a prayer. “You’ve dropped them.”
watched his long, strong fingers pluck the mushrooms off the forest floor,
brushing away the dirt that clung to them and placing them gently back into the
basket. For a moment she forgot to breathe; he looked like an angel.
monk, yes, from...” he lifted his arm and pointed through the woods.
Benedictines,” she said, careful not to meet his eyes.
he said. “A man of God who feels quite Godless at this moment.”
was a scandalous thing to say and she felt the hot flush of colour she’d felt
under his scrutiny drain from her cheeks.
must find my way back,” she said, reaching out for the basket he held in his
thumb scraped against her knuckle and at her throat, her cross burned.
she was waiting at the spot where they had first met for him to come so they
could give up their devout lives and begin new lives which they would devote to
hair was carefully braided; her shrift plain and clean, her cross (which she
hoped to be able to sell for a good price in Cambridge) was clenched tightly in
her hot hand.
was well past midnight and the world was silent, peaceful.
felt him before she saw him, his pale face and dark eyes, his typical robe
abandoned for crude pants and a rough linen shirt.
first he didn’t say anything and then he whispered: “Anne.”
she sighed his: “Liam.”
was the first time they had ever spoken each other’s names.
Giles was sitting in the Land Rover
when Buffy came down the path from the Rectory.
The afternoon had cooled down and Buffy
shivered in her coat.
“Ah, there you are,” Giles said.
“I fell asleep,” Buffy admitted,
reaching up to remove a crumpled leaf from her hair.
“Really? How extraordinary.”
“Not getting much sleep at night,
remember?” Buffy climbed into the seat beside Giles. “Is that what we came
“This is The Locked Book.”
“Doesn’t look locked to me,” Buffy
said, running her finger along the book’s edge.
Giles smiled. “When Harry Price came to
do his paranormal research at Borley Rectory he put an advertisement in the
local paper asking for volunteers to come out and record data. One of the first
people to sign up, for what many considered a foolhardy mission given the
house’s unusual past, was Sidney Glanville. He spent about a year at the
Rectory collecting information, recording events, making drawings and tracings
and taking it all very seriously. At the end of the year, he presented Mr.
Price with everything he’s accumulated in a book he’d entitled ‘The Haunting of
Borley Rectory- A Private and Confidential Report.” Price had the book bound
and fitted with a lock and he used Mr. Glanville’s observations along with his
own to write his first book about Borley Rectory, ‘The Most Haunted House in
“What happened to the book?”
“I believe it stayed in Mr. Price’s
personal library for many years until his death, when the book was bequeathed
to the University of London. Round about 1948, Mr. Glanville turned up and
asked if he might borrow the book to re-examine his notes. Apparently, he never
returned the book to the University, but instead gave the book to Trevor Hall
who, in turn, sold it too someone in America. If you can believe this, Mr. Winston
said he purchased the book on E-Bay.”
Buffy laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“Did Mr. Winston know what the book
was? I mean did he know it was important?”
“I believe he did, but he also
indicated that while the book was in his possession he experienced several
unusual occurrences and decided that the book would be better off in safer
“Do you believe Borley Rectory was
haunted, Giles?” Buffy asked. “I know, stupid question. It just seems, you
know, we’ve spent all this time fighting things that go bump in the night, a
straight-up haunted house just seems kinda...tame.”
“It wouldn’t have seemed tame to Mr.
Price and his supernatural detectives,” he said. “Listen to this:
this time manifestations were heard in the living rooms over the stables which
were entirely separate from the house. The groom-gardener and his wife were
disturbed night after night by knocks, thuds and sounds of breaking crockery,
although nothing was ever found to have been broken or even moved. They put up
with these conditions for three years and then left.
is a hard core of evidence given by reliable and intelligent persons as a
result of their own experience and observation which cannot be shaken by
examination and questioning. For instance, Lady Whitehouse, who had known the
Rectory and its successive residents for many years, assured me that on one
occasion when she was helping to nurse Mrs. Foyster she saw a medicine bottle
leave the mantel-piece and float through the air, coming to rest on the floor
beside the bed. She not only assured me of the complete truth of this incident
and many others but voluntarily offered to swear an affidavit confirming them
if I wished her to.”
“What about the nun and her monk?”
“It’s all here, in the book,” Giles
“Nice light reading,” Buffy said,
They stopped in London on the way back
to Westbury. Giles took The Locked Book into Council Headquarters while Buffy
waited in the car. The Council still made her uneasy, even though she liked the
organization’s new head, Benny D’Gioia just fine.
“Benny says hello,” Giles said as he
slipped back into the Land Rover. “She invited us for dinner but I said you
wanted to get back. You do, don’t you?”
“I do. Thanks.”
Giles maneuvered through the busy
London traffic. Once they were back on the M25, Buffy turned slightly in her
seat and said: “I dreamt about her.”
“The nun. I didn’t know it was about
her until I saw the pictures, until I heard the story and saw the place, but
then, while you were talking to Winston, I felt her, saw her.”
“You didn’t say,” Giles said, turning
to look at her, his glasses reflecting the head lights of passing cars.
“Before I heard the story it didn’t
mean anything and anyway, all the images were gone as soon as I woke up. But
back at the Rectory I had a waking dream and I saw this fast-forward replay of
how they met and I saw them just before the coach came to collect them.”
Buffy closed her eyes for a moment and tried
to recall what she had seen that afternoon while sitting near the foundation of
“The thing is, Giles, in the dream it
was me. Me and Angel.”
Giles made a clucking sound with his
Buffy sighed. “You can’t keep doing
“Dismissing him. Dismissing us.”
“I do no such thing.”
“You do. You don’t...”
“If you say I don’t understand I shall
pull this car over immediately and...”
“Well, I don’t know,” Giles said. “I do
know that I can’t abide...”
“Him. That’s the truth of the matter,
Giles was silent. Up ahead was the neon
sign of a motor way station and he put on his signal light and crossed two
lanes of traffic to pull in. He rolled into a parking spot and turned the ignition
“I don’t know why I was dreaming about
the nun, Giles, but I don’t dream stuff for nothing. And I don’t know why Angel
came back or why I survived when so many others didn’t. I’m trying to work
through it all, just like you are. Just like he is.”
“Buffy,” Giles said.
“No, wait until I’m finished. In the
dream I was that nun and Angel was that monk and I was able to feel all these
things I’ve pretended I don’t feel and it was horrible. She gave up everything to have her chance and
I stood there and felt the way he looked at her and I know that feeling. I know
it. I can’t pretend I don’t.”
“I’m not asking that you pretend,”
Giles said quietly. “I know none of this is easy.”
“And you’re not making it any easier.”
“I will admit that Angel isn’t exactly
on the top of my Christmas card list.”
“Understatement much?” Buffy said.
“We have a complicated relationship,”
Giles said, smiling.
Buffy rolled her eyes. “That’s a joke,
“Perhaps,” Giles said, indicating just
how small a joke with his thumb and finger. “I’ll try.”
It was late when Giles pulled into the
drive way at Westbury.
Buffy got out of the Land Rover and
arched her back, stretching out the kinks from sitting too long.
Up over the garage, a small light
burned in Angel’s apartment.
Giles followed Buffy’s gaze and shook
his head. There was no way on earth he’d keep those two apart. For Angel, Buffy
was a benediction. In this life, in the next: in all the lives to come, there
was something holy between them.
“Go on then,” he said.
Authors Notes: The story of Borley
rectory is true. There are wonderful sites with information on the web, all of
which tell the fascinating of the Rectory complete with the tale of the novice
nun and her monk. I have imagined their relationship as there are no details.
The work of paranormal investigator
Harry Price can be found here. http://www.harryprice.co.uk/index.html
Other interesting sites can be found at: