No time for fb tonight, want to get the update to you.
J
~5~
Don’t Think
(the bonds of blood are tightest)
Willow made her way down the stairs with a slow and steady stride before emerging back into the poppy den and around the semi-comatose patrons. Their faces were composed of smoke and shadow, lined with ancient pains. Their eyes followed her passage as she wove herself through them. If they dared, they would ask what happened upstairs.
Willow felt strangely silenced and bereft; she had no words for them, no way to quantify the experience she just had, no way to explain the welter of her emotion. They had no rights to her words, no power to make her surrender this experience to their greedy and addictive ears. They were all fools, anyway.
(as I am a fool)
She was still stinging from Tara’s rejection. She felt pummelled, abused. A mongrel dog compared to the infinite cold beauty of the Apothecary.
She didn’t give a damn about the money. Plenty more where that came from.
Willow understood that she had borne witness to a most curious metamorphosis. First there had been the incomparable and coveted beauty of the Apothecary, she with dizzying and terrifying insight. Then there had been the vulnerable and weary woman who emerged from behind the curtain, bearing a dream in her empty hands, her whole body meek and exposed. Willow felt her heart fly into her throat as she looked at the change in hair colour, as she realized the depth of Tara’s need.
And then that kiss.
It must have been the kiss that catalyzed the last horrific transformation. Willow should have kept it neat, utilitarian, basic. It was the only way to get her dream, and she would have her dream no matter the cost.
Money she expected. This tribute of lips, of heat, of fascination and curiosity was vastly unexpected. Willow thought she was being high-minded, comforting the strange woman, giving her what she needed. She told herself the kiss was only pretence, only fake.
(the hell it was)For something that began with innocence, the kiss certainly ended with an indescribable feeling of possession and delight. She actually deluded herself into thinking that Tara responded to her.
Truth now, Rosenberg. She kisses everyone like that. Everyone.
And what else did Willow really expect afterward? Murmuring lullabies of unending love? Protestations of delight and desire, some grand door opening into a future of more kisses, more silk-clad skin, more honey-coloured hair?
(I am a fool)Tara had backed away with nothing but contempt in her eyes, mocking her with that singular beauty of hers, and Willow thought back to the days of her youth when she had been forced to change and shower in the locker room with the other girls after gym class, how they would cast those same awful glances her way, mocking her with their own haughty beauty, she with her second-hand clothing and her dollar store jewellery and the kitchen haircut.
Willow looked down at her clothing, her gold watch, and these pitiful wretches sprawled along pillows and low divans here in the poppy den. To have the shameful poverty of her childhood brought back into this place made her stomach churn with bitterness. She could feel their eyes on her as she walked through the den; feel the judgment of their gaze, mocking her with every step.
Shame broiled on her face, and she stumbled over an outstretched leg, and caught herself apologizing to this person who had no right to her words, no right to her apologies. The smoke from their pipes clung to her clothing, scouring away the scents of Tara’s parlour. The alluring jasmine, the solid leather, a whiff of dark deliciousness from the Apothecary’s very skin; all would be gone before she emerged on the street.
Thick curtains kept away the bright August afternoon sunlight. Willow looked straight ahead now, tempering her spine, grounding each foot-fall. She would not look into the corners of this dark space where the mahogany bled into the ceiling with ripples of ornate workmanship. Hopes, wishes and dreams were all captives to this space, released in the smoke of the dragon and sent to the ceiling where they hovered until they died.
Discreetly hidden in the corners of the room were nearly a dozen vid cameras. Willow had studied their readouts while hacking into the blueprints of the building, long before making her first foray. She wondered if Tara was watching her even now, congratulating herself on another victory, marking her down as another conquest.
(why did she shut herself away?)Willow passed by the blonde-haired operator of the den without looking at her. She paused at the exit to wrap up all these mutinous thoughts into a tight package to seal it up in her mind. She would not reflect on this experience again until she was safe at home and alone.
Finally Willow burst through the door into the brash and exuberant sunlight of a California summer afternoon. The light hammered on her dark-tuned eyes, sent spikes of visual overload into her brain. She rapidly fished in her purse for her sunglasses, but before she could shimmy them on her nose she felt the solid frame of her Steward beside her.
“Your car is this way, Miss Rosenberg,” he said quietly.
Willow nodded, sliding the glasses into place. The overbearing and extravagant sunlight thus tamed Willow could see her sedan at the curb with its sleek lines and its polished exterior. It looked as out-of-place as Willow herself in this neighbourhood that was surprisingly unkempt. There was actually refuse along the curbs, and illicit weeds grew between the cracks in the sidewalk.
Lounging on the hood of the car, smoking a cigaret, was her new driver. At her steward’s sharp cough the woman straightened and pinched out the cigaret before throwing it into a nearby garbage container. Before she could stop herself, Willow whispered, “Black cat, black cat, bring me luck. If you don’t I’ll tear you up.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Rosenberg?” her Steward asked, just beyond her elbow.
“Nothing, Giles,” Willow replied.
Street urchins were staring at them, also smoking cigarets, and Willow wondered if her new driver had simply given them away or made them play a game to win them. The children were unwashed and reeking, hooting as they played leapfrog over the parking meters and threw stones at the rats. This untidy and questionable neighbourhood seemed to embrace them like a matron; Willow and her entourage were the unwelcome ones here.
Thank goodness they always brought the sedan, not the Rolls, though her driver was more than capable of keeping the looky-loos away. Faith Lehane had more than one dagger secreted on her person, and had been hired to be more than just a driver.
(I never needed a bodyguard before
before)Giles opened the back door for her and she slid onto the leather seat. The windows were tinted and shatterproof, intended to keep out more than overfriendly rays of sunshine. A moment later both her Steward and her driver got into the car and then waited for her instructions.
Willow made them wait while she looked out the window, taking off her sunglasses to stare at the mean exterior of the building. It was one of the oldest buildings in Sunnydale, of brick and mortar construction, flat-faced and stark, nothing about it to entice or enchant. All the windows were blinded with heavy drapes, masking the dangerous wonders within. Tara’s parlour itself had no windows – it had been one of Giles’ main concerns when she made up her mind to go.
It was he who insisted upon procuring the blueprints and studying the layout of each floor, from basement to the fourth. They knew exactly how Tara’s floor was laid out, the kitchen and living space, the small bedchamber and washroom, the unnamed and large workroom along the back. There were no windows in that room either.
Willow could smell cigaret smoke in the car and she was suddenly angry. She sniffed her blouse and could smell nothing but burnt poppy and tobacco and her heart sank. Looking out the window again, Willow told herself not to touch her lips, not in front of the hired help.
It was apparent that the memory of her kiss with Tara would be the only tangible evidence of her transaction today. The kiss, and the memory of the Apothecary’s tortured eyes. What had this world done to her, to have her effect such transformation? What defence mechanism had been activated, what contingency plan enacted? Surely there had to be a reason, a real reason.
(maybe it was a bad kiss, Rosenberg, you think of that?
maybe you’re lousy at kissing
you’re certainly out of practice)Her staff waited while silence grew thick and oppressive in the car. They waited for her gesture, her word that would release them back into known spheres of existence, as if they could erase the last few hours of her life. As if to render them meaningless, just silly Willow-delusions.
They didn’t know what happened above the poppy den, and they never would.
Faith looked restless but Giles was still. He was used to her moods, her peculiarities. Perhaps too much so.
A year ago Willow never would have entered a place like the poppy den, unless she was there to acquire information. Back when Buffy was alive and Xander was home and life was as close to normal as it would ever get.
Before Persia.
A year ago they had stood together under sunlit trees and watched Buffy exchange vows with Riley, her face radiant, happiness blooming from her very skin. Before Xander lost his eye and Giles was struck with shrapnel and it was all Willow’s fault, everything that happened in Persia and everything after.
A year after that storybook wedding, and Giles didn’t look at her the same anymore. When she started frequenting the poppy den the disappointment on his face was almost enough to make her stop.
Almost.
But then she might never have known of the existence of the Apothecary, nor become party to the woman’s strange gifts. Willow’s desire had been so strong, her designs so perfect, her plans incorruptible, and only Buffy was on her mind, the loss of Buffy some aching crevasse that only widened and deepened with time. Gone was the camaraderie, the laughing, the joking, the eating of Oreo cookies and the flicking of popcorn at Xander and how was it possible for Willow to lose everything she loved so incredibly fast? What wrong had she ever perpetrated to merit such a perverse punishment as this?
Only Giles remained, and her Steward represented the last bastion against the madness and guilt that crept up her skin. She loved him even as she despised what he stood for; looking at his face was like looking into the greatest mistakes of her past. From time to time she wished she could fire him and get him out of her life, just so she wouldn’t have to be reminded of that night, the night of the scimitar and the rose garden, the night of the well and the Mongols. She could fire him, just so she wouldn’t have to face the disappointment in his eyes.
Such thoughts were meaningless. They were bound to each other now.
(the bonds of blood are tightest)Willow touched the cracker jack ring on her finger and almost asked Faith to drive around the back of the building and into the alley, just so she could look up at the windows that opened into Tara’s living space.
However, self restraint was very Willow these days, as it had rarely been before.
“Take me home, please,” Willow said instead.
Faith nodded, her dark hair cunningly drawn into her driver’s cap, her lips fiery with lipstick. She managed to wear the uniform with sultry grace, transforming the plain black and white cloth into the stuff of fantasy. As much as Willow would have preferred to come to this appointment alone, she was too valuable to go almost anywhere without her staff.
That was proven a month ago, when her car had been hijacked and her previous driver killed. Willow managed to dispatch her assailant herself, not without a bullet wound and significant blood loss.
Willow watched as Faith rolled down the window to shake her fist and yell at the urchins to get out of her way. Giles scowled at the young woman and then looked back at Willow. Willow nodded, feeling almost nauseated with loneliness, and a dark panel lifted between the front and back seats, effectively cutting off Faith’s cursing and the sickly smell of the neighbourhood.
Even then Willow could not allow herself to rest. By long tradition Giles would not look at the vid screen that could display the trunk, the front and back seats, the undercarriage and the immediate surroundings of the car. That didn’t stop the cameras from always rolling, capturing every moment on her servers. Just in case.
Caution was a lesson hard earned. Another lesson from Persia.
Willow would not allow those cameras to capture her unguarded or weak with emotion. She had for so long trained herself to show as little emotion as possible. She would not relax until she was home, and training was complete, and she could read a book and play with her puppy.
When night came with all the new promise that night now held, she could slide between the satin sheets of her over-large bed and dream the dream the Apothecary created for her, a dream of Buffy, a dream of saying goodbye.
And if sleep eluded her for any length of time she could indulge herself in other imagining, other dreaming; memories composed of grey silk and imperial jasmine and incomparable lips.
This time it took considerable effort to shut those memories away, but Willow finally accomplished it. If she thought of the kiss she would have to think of the Apothecary, both before and after.
So Willow looked out of the window instead and saw the streets of Sunnydale pass by. The university, three different cemeteries, a park or two, streets filled with houses and people who hurried along their miserly little lives, caught in the grand delusion of the universe.
(maya)Then they were speeding through Miller’s Woods, and finally emerged at the guardhouse and entrance of her estate where Giles and Faith submitted to retinal scans to gain admittance. The gates opened easily and without sound, the roadway lasers temporarily deactivated, and they drove up the long and beautiful lane marked by sentinels of ancient trees, all tall and vibrant in the summer sun.
Practically before the car even halted at the front entrance to the house Giles jumped out to open Willow’s door. Willow slowly pulled herself out of the car; she could feel Faith emerge from the driver’s seat and stare at her. Her mouth drawn in a straight line, Willow swivelled her head to stare at the girl. Faith’s cheeks coloured slightly, but she kept on staring right back at Willow, too impudent to stop when caught.
It was the most damning trait Willow had observed thus far in her new driver.
Giles fussed at Willow’s elbow. Willow released Faith’s gaze to look at her driver instead. The afternoon sunlight was not nearly so kind on his face; the rather deep scar he sported on one cheek created puckering shadows and pulled slightly at one eye. It looked so out of place on his studious face, a face more accustomed to reading and study than warfare.
Willow secretly found great comfort in his Briton ways, his accent that curled over certain words, his immaculate shoes and his fondness for fencing. Until today he had been the master brewer of all teas.
(don’t think of that, either)Willow knew that everyone underestimated her Steward and the vast skills he brought to her household. Just because his face looked more at home in a library than a battlefield didn’t negate the fact that he was one of the most skilled warriors she had ever known. He could have trained her himself, but he must have had some reason for hiring an Armsmaster.
(who is also a Briton but certainly not a Steward)Giles’ tweed clothing and spectacles were as much a disguise as her own designer clothing and ill-suited watch.
(why had Tara never organized her books?)He stayed a pace behind her as she ascended the steps to her front door. Her home was more a mansion than a house and used to belong to some billionaire who lost all his money as precipitously as he had gained it and died penniless and raving at the White House in Los Angeles. Buffy had been with her the day they toured the estate four years ago, riding in golf carts because of its vast nature. Willow had always thought the entire place a tad extravagant but Buffy had begged her to buy it.
(my mom is never around anymore
I need a place to come home to, Will)The driveway extended to the back of the building, where the sloping lawn had created a walk-out basement and garage. Along the west side of the house was a narrow covered walkway that connected the main house with the staff quarters, several wings radiating out from a common living space and kitchen. Within the expansive lawn beyond the house was a swimming pool and meticulously kept patios, beyond which were reflecting pools and fountains and numerous paths that led throughout the vast treed grounds.
The perimeter of which was wired and guarded for security, using means both technological and magical.
The sun was a warm glow on her back now as it raced to the horizon for the end of the day. The warmth penetrated her cream-coloured blouse, but it still seemed and thin and fake compared with other warmth she had felt earlier this day.
(not yet, Rosenberg, get a hold of yourself
embrace the now)She cleared her throat and Giles immediately spoke. “Your armsmaster will arrive in forty minutes, Miss Rosenberg.”
Willow paused on the top step to look back at him, and then beyond him to Miss Lehane. Giles must have lectured her on the way home; she did not light a smoke nor did she lounge on the hood. She stood by the car instead, stiff and cold in the anvil heat of summer, her lips that brilliant shade of red and defiance writ all over her face.
Too impudent to stop when caught.
Willow smiled a grim little smile, feeling reckless and challenged. “See to it that Faith joins us this evening.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
~
To be continued (hopefully) this Sunday with Chapter Six: Poverty
Jen