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Chapter Text

7 July 1787

I can scarce hear mine own thoughts for the violent beating of my heart. My whole frame trembles as I set down these words, and my hand scarce obeys my command, so unsteady is my script. Yet I must endeavour to commit to paper the occurrences of this day, for I dare not speak of them to any living soul. Let these pages bear witness to my folly and my rapture, and may my cipher remain forever undeciphered.

I have oft declared my abhorrence of the Marlboroughs’ summer garden party. One can scarce move amidst such a press of tiresome acquaintances, each striving so mightily for notice that I marvel they do not all burst with the effort. Edward Walsh was, as ever, my shadow—faithful, importunate, and dull. Indeed, I half expected his tail to wag when I permitted him to sit beside me whilst we observed a game of croquet—a concession made solely to appease my mother. She has long cherished the notion that I shall one day become Mrs. Edward Walsh. Perhaps, until this very day, I had resigned myself to that fate. But after what has passed, I can think of Edward only as an affliction.

Whilst Edward was discoursing upon some uninteresting subject, my attention was caught by a face quite new to me—a young lady whom I had never before seen. This alone was remarkable, for I am well acquainted with all persons of consequence in the district and could not imagine how she had escaped my notice. Curiosity overcame my habitual reserve, and, seizing my opportunity, I excused myself from Edward’s lamentable company and followed the stranger as she walked towards the stables. There, after a moment’s mutual surprise, we were introduced. She explained that she and her brother had but lately taken residence at Hatherfield, Sir Clifford’s estate. I recollected then that my mother had spoken of the new heir, and, as is her custom, had hinted that I should make his acquaintance. I daresay he is a fine gentleman who will make some fortunate lady an excellent husband—but my interest, alas, is entirely with his sister.

From her first words she won me. She confessed, with a charming frankness, that she detests large assemblies, and had fled to the stables for refuge, despite her avowed terror of horses. How could I not be amused—and enchanted? We spoke long and freely, on subjects far removed from the usual trifles of polite discourse. W— (for so I shall call her) possesses a mind both quick and penetrating, and she spoke with a spirit and animation I had thought impossible in our sex. Yet it was not merely her intellect that held me captive. I found myself entranced by the turn of her countenance, the graceful motion of her lips, the light that danced in her eyes as she spoke. Every word seemed to flow from her as naturally as breath itself. 

How long we conversed, I cannot tell. The dusk had gathered unheeded about us, and still we lingered. I thought not of Edward, nor of propriety, nor indeed of anything but her. It was only the onset of darkness that at last compelled us to return indoors. But ere we quitted the stable, she leaned towards me, her gloved hand brushed my cheek—and then her lips were upon mine. So gentle, so sweet was that touch, I scarce knew whether I lived or dreamed. I knew well that such conduct was most improper, that I ought to draw away, yet every sense conspired against reason. I yielded—oh, most willingly I yielded—and even now, as I set down the memory, I feel my face burn with the recollection.

What we did was forbidden. Yet I find I cannot repent it.

Mid-October 1897

London

“Good gracious!” Willow Rosenberg whispered upon seeing her clock.

The day has not even begun and already I am behind! she thought in exasperation, mentally chastising herself. She was running desperately late on a day where she simply could not afford to be late.

She swung her legs onto the cold wooden floor of her little flat and took a moment to compose herself. Willow exhaled loudly in the calm before the storm. With a huge exertion of willpower she tore herself away from her warm bed to attend, as briskly as possible, to her morning toilet.

Her cramped bedroom was scarcely more than a closet leading off from the main room. It ought, by rights, to have contained relatively little owing to its size but a washstand, wardrobe, and a duchess surrounded the narrow bed jammed beneath the window. Almost every available surface was claimed by some object of interest – although their usefulness could have been questioned. Every inch of wall space was covered by framed photographs, newspaper cuttings, pages torn from magazines and pencil sketches and watercolours done in Willow’s own hand. There was no one constant subject that held her fascination; everything was represented on her wall - from Petrie’s latest Egyptian dig, to Oscar Wilde being released from prison, and the astonishing news of Marconi’s experiments in telegraphy without wires. 

Willow’s tiny flat occupied the upper floor of a narrow townhouse on a quiet side street off Camden High Street. The rooms were small but bright, with a dormer window that overlooked the canal and let in the pale London light when the fog permitted. Her sitting room doubled as a study, the desk by the window perpetually buried beneath papers, half-read volumes, and the odd artefact. A narrow iron stove kept the chill at bay in winter, and the faint scent of ink and dust seemed permanently lodged in the air. Though the wallpaper had begun to peel at the corners and the plumbing rattled like an asthmatic ghost, Willow loved the place—it was hers, paid for by her own salary. A fragile symbol of independence.

At that moment, Willow did not feel like a professional woman. She was hopping around on the rag rug trying to lay her hands on necessary items of her attire. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of her only clean shirt lying crushed behind the door. She had of course forgotten to iron it and smoothing the wrinkles out with her palm was completely useless. Willow shrugged and tugged it over her undergarments, deciding that the shirt would be fine if she kept her jacket and vest on.

A few moments later Willow stood in the middle of her rug and glanced down at her outfit. A plain matching jacket, vest, and skirt. Thankfully her un-ironed shirt was largely hidden. Willow moved like a whirlwind through her flat. She did not have time to even make a cup of tea on the little spirit stove in her tiny sitting room. Instead, she snatched up her essentials - her pocket watch, her lunch – sandwiches prepared the evening before - and satchel containing her papers.

Following a brisk walk and a tram ride spent checking her watch every minute, Willow jumped out at her destination. She took one last look at her pocket watch, groaned audibly, and jogged up the steps.

The sign beside the door she entered read:

British Museum – Employees Only Entrance.

As she hurried through the endless corridors that burrowed through the bowels of the British Museum, Willow attempted - quite ineffectually - to review the large stack of papers in her hands. She was busily scribbling pencil notes in the margin of one particular page when she turned a corner and collided with a cup and saucer filled with tea. The liquid splashed over her papers and down the front of her jacket; the cup and saucer fell to the tiles and shattered with a decisive crash.

Willow’s jaw dropped as she looked up at the culprit.

A young man stood before her, brown hair flopping forward over a boyish face, eyes wide with horror—his expression a perfect mirror of her own. Jasper Evans was nominally employed as a runner, the lowest of the Museum’s white-collar staff, tasked with fetching, carrying, and attending to any errand required. In practice, however, Willow had never observed him perform such duties for anyone but herself. He had attached himself to her as an unofficial assistant, appearing invariably at the most inconvenient of moments.

“Oh dear,” Willow murmured, dabbing ineffectually at the damp patch on her jacket with her papers. “Of all the days for you to strike, Jasper! I am late enough already.”

She then realised that her improvised cleaning implement consisted of her crucial notes, and froze, staring in dismay at the inky blot spreading across the top sheet.

“I’m so—so sorry, Miss Rosenberg!” the lad stammered.

Jasper produced his handkerchief and, with more gallantry than sense, began dabbing at the wet patch across her jacket—entirely unaware that his attentions were straying into territory rather more intimate than was proper. Before Willow could protest, he seemed to realise it himself; his cheeks flamed crimson and he snatched the handkerchief back, diverting his efforts to gathering the shards of broken crockery instead.

“It’s quite all right,” said Willow kindly, crouching to help him collect the fragments into the sodden handkerchief.

“I really am sorry,” Jasper murmured, his face still glowing. “I only thought you might like a spot of tea before your meeting—seeing as you never take breakfast and all—but it had gone cold anyway because you’re-”

“Late!” Willow finished for him, leaping to her feet. “I truly must go, Jasper; the Director will be waiting.”

“Good luck!” Jasper called after her retreating figure.

Willow did not stop running, even when she reached the impressive oaken door that marked the entrance to the Director’s offices. She pushed it open at full tilt and came to an abrupt halt inside.

“Miss Rosenberg, you are late,” said a cold voice at once.

The speaker was an exceptionally prim young woman who managed to look down upon Willow through her spectacles, despite being seated behind a desk. Her brown hair was coiled immaculately atop her head; her cosmetics were applied with precision; and her dress—adorned with a modest amethyst brooch—was perfectly fitted. A small brass plaque upon the desk read Miss Emma Carrington. Willow did not doubt that Miss Carrington had been at her post, composed and faultless, for several hours already. In fact, did she ever leave?

“Good morning to you too, Emma,” Willow replied breezily.

Had Willow been of a less well-bred disposition, she might have muttered a retort—or at the very least scowled. Instead, she inflicted her mortification in another manner, turning to the full-length mirror that Emma had positioned opposite her desk. The reflection revealed a decidedly shabby young researcher with tea-stained papers, a wrinkled blouse, and a look of mild despair.

Miss Harris gave a soft, disdainful snort, her view of herself momentarily obstructed by Willow’s image. The situation might have grown still more uncomfortable, had not another woman entered the room at that very moment.

Gratefully turning her back on the mirror, Willow smiled to see her colleague and friend, Miss Faith Winters, enter the room. Yet one glance at Faith’s expression made her wish she might return to conversation with Emma instead. Her friend’s face was a gathering storm—dark, clouded, and full of impending thunder. Like Emma, she was neatly attired, though her matching skirt and jacket were plain to the point of austerity; not a lace trim nor brooch adorned her person.

“Willow—dash it all! I’ve been searching for you these past thirty minutes!” the young woman growled in place of a greeting.

“And a very good morning to you too, Faith,” Willow replied, beginning to feel rather like a pincushion.

Faith was of Willow’s age, and the two worked in the same department of the Museum; but there the resemblance ended. Faith was the very image of vitality and sensual grace, almost exotic in her dark features. Where Willow was scholarly and prone to clumsiness, Faith seemed born to action—her every movement poised and deliberate, even as she threw up her hands in disgust.

“You promised you’d be on time this morning!” Faith snapped, eyeing Willow up and down with disapproval.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Faith. I was up till late reading those fascinating new texts you brought back from your last trip to the Near East—”

“And what in heaven’s name is that mess down your front?” Faith gasped, pointing at the dark patch spreading across Willow’s jacket.

“Er… breakfast,” Willow replied, dabbing ineffectually at the stain. “Courtesy of Jasper.”

“That young man is disaster upon two legs! You’re as bad as each other,” Faith huffed, reaching for Willow’s jacket and beginning to peel it from her shoulders. “Turn around.”

Obediently, Willow turned, while Faith muttered under her breath about the incompetence of those with whom she was compelled to work. Once the jacket was free, Faith tossed it—without ceremony—across Emma Harris’s typewriter, effectively silencing its clatter.

“Hang that up, would you, your Highness?” Faith said sweetly, winking in response to Emma’s glare of glacial murder.

It was only then that Willow realised she was now standing in her waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Her eyes widened as she glanced down at each arm in turn, remembering precisely why she had intended to keep her jacket on. Her sleeves were wrinkled beyond redemption.

“Pray don’t tell me you’ve spilt something on your shirt as well?” Faith groaned, seeing Willow’s expression. But Willow’s quick shake of the head brought a sigh of relief. “Good. Otherwise you’d be going in to see Croft in your undergarments. Come along—she’s been waiting for almost an hour, and she’ll be in no mood for further delays.”

Willow halted and caught Faith by the elbow. “Do you think she’s found fault with my work?”

Annoyance flickered across Faith’s face, but it vanished at the sight of Willow’s earnest anxiety. Her friend’s grip on her arm had tightened with near-panic. Gently, Faith prised Willow’s fingers open. Looking sheepish, Willow folded her arms across her chest.

“Your work is perfect—as always,” Faith said firmly. “You’re indispensable, and she knows it. She won’t dismiss you, however furious she may appear this morning. Keep a stiff upper lip, Willow, and you’ll be fine.”

“She’s a monster,” Willow muttered, glancing nervously towards the door. “Truly, Faith, I think I must find new employment—somewhere I need not fear for my life whenever I’m summoned to a meeting.”

Faith arched an eyebrow. “Croft isn’t so bad—and besides, haven’t you always wanted to battle the forces of darkness, uncover the secrets of the netherworld, and keep mankind safe and blissfully ignorant of the terrors that surround it?”

Willow considered this gravely for a few seconds. “Not particularly… no,” she replied at last.

Faith gave a small grunt of exasperation, though a smile tugged at her lips. It was impossible for her to remain angry with Willow for long, no matter how trying the morning. She stepped forward and rapped twice upon the Director’s door.

A voice called from within – beckoning them to enter. Faith turned back to Willow with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Methinks you fear something other than the Director’s bristly demeanour,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Something rather more along the lines of her full lips and ample bosom?”

Before Willow could respond, Faith whipped open the door.

As a result of Faith’s unexpected remark, Willow’s face was frozen in a tortured expression—one that was, unfortunately, in full view of the Director of the British Museum. Faith compounded the embarrassment by placing a hand in the small of Willow’s back and propelling her forward into the room. Willow stumbled a few paces before recovering and straightening herself before the extraordinarily large, highly polished desk.

The desk set the tone for the rest of the office: rich, oaken wood everywhere. Heavy bookshelves stretched upwards to the ceiling several yards above. Hung at intervals along those shelves were a collection of savage-looking wooden death masks, their feather adornments browned with age. It was rumoured that they had been taken from tombs the Director herself had once raided in her youth. Visitors to the room often found themselves glancing over their shoulders to be sure the masks did not move. The atmosphere was further shaped by the light filtering through partially closed velvet drapes, which cast narrow slits of sunlight across the desk and down onto the luxurious Turkish rug upon which Faith and Willow now stood.

A figure sat behind the desk, her body entirely in shadow. Little more than an outline was visible until she lowered her feet from the desktop with a decisive thud.

“Winters and Rosenberg,” came the voice—calm, low, and dangerously composed. “Given that both of you are fully aware of my regard for timeliness, it strikes me as exceedingly odd that you should choose to be tardy.” She flipped open a pocket watch with a sharp click. “One hour tardy, to be precise.”

The speaker moved forward into the sunlight, revealing an exceedingly beautiful woman’s face. Like Faith, her features were darkly striking—exotic, even—and her bearing enhanced them further. Strength and confidence radiated from her posture. Her brown hair was drawn up in a sleek plaited arrangement from which not a single strand dared escape. Her lips, though full, were presently compressed in clear displeasure. While fashion dictated the utmost modesty in day dress, her gown was cut daringly low, revealing the curve of an ample bosom—precisely where Willow was trying her best not to look. She dragged her gaze back to the Director’s piercing eyes.

The severity of the moment was punctured when Faith smirked.

“Our reasonable explanation is simply that Willow is being Willow—she has no conception of time.”

“I do too!” Willow protested, turning upon her friend. “I am punctual, efficient, and entirely reliable… even if the present circumstances might suggest otherwise.”

“Indeed,” the Director replied serenely. “Your statement appears to be at odds with your tardiness…and your appearance.”

Willow folded her arms in an attempt to conceal her shirtsleeves and silently wished herself through the floorboards to her basement office. Faith, of course, looked thoroughly entertained by the whole affair.

The Director sighed—a sound suggesting that Willow was a hopeless case—and pressed her palms together.

“Well, we have lost quite enough time as it is. I am due to meet with the Greeks at eleven—something about wanting their marbles back. Do sit down, and we shall begin.”

Willow and Faith each took a chair before the desk. Faith crossed her ankles demurely, while Willow sat with her knees apart and elbows braced on them, fidgeting almost at once. Her restless hands reached for the dusty name plaque upon the desk. She ran her fingers across its brass surface, revealing the inscription beneath:

Lara Croft, Director.

Willow looked up—and found Lara’s gaze fixed firmly upon her. She winced, hastily tried to replace the plaque, and succeeded only in dropping it with a heavy thud. When she at last restored it to its rightful spot, both Faith and Lara were watching her with identically raised brows.

“Perhaps we ought to begin?” Willow suggested helpfully. She sat back in her chair and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though by imprisoning them she might prevent further mishaps.

“I have read through Miss Rosenberg’s research,” Lara began, her gaze lingering upon Willow for a moment before turning to the papers spread before her. “And I am inclined to think that this may at last be the information for which we have been searching.”

She lifted her head, and a small, approving smile curved her full lips. Willow’s face drained of colour at once, and her clasped hands began to pick nervously at the wooden arms of her chair.

“It was merely a matter of cross-referencing several known documents—nothing remarkable,” Willow murmured with modest haste. “I am certain other scholars would have reached the same conclusion… eventually. Still, without a first-hand exploration of the monastery, it remains speculation. One may learn a great deal from books, but nothing quite compares to gathering data in the field.”

“And yet everything you write argues the contrary,” Faith observed, winking with infuriating amusement.

Willow glared at her friend, though the accusation was perfectly fair. It was common knowledge within the Department that Miss Rosenberg would rather face an eternity of catalogue work than venture into the field. The wider public might be blissfully ignorant of the true evils lurking beyond the veil of reason, but Willow knew better. Every folktale, rumour, and whispered superstition held some grain of dreadful truth. She had long ago decided that such dangers were best observed from a safe distance — preferably from within the comforting walls of the British Museum. Faith, by contrast, took unseemly pleasure in throwing herself into peril and returning with notes that were, at best, a disgrace to the profession.

Lara ignored the exchange with the patience of a woman accustomed to wrangling eccentrics. “Which is precisely why the Trustees and I have agreed that Miss Winters will depart for the ruins of the monastery at Tîrgşor without delay.”

Willow, only half-listening, had picked up a small sixteenth-century Dogon horseman from the corner of the desk and was making it trot along the polished wood. She did not notice the Director’s increasingly glacial expression as the priceless artefact clopped merrily past a stack of papyri.

Faith’s eyes brightened, her mind already racing ahead. “Dracula’s library,” she murmured with relish. “No doubt an exceptionally powerful guardian keeps watch.”

“His name was Vlad—Vlad Țepeș,” Willow interjected at once, unable to resist correcting the historical inaccuracy. “And to the best of my knowledge, there is nothing guarding the library at all.”

“Just as there was nothing guarding that burial cave in southern France last year?” Faith retorted, reaching out to snatch the Dogon figure from Willow’s hand.

“How was I to know a daemon hound had taken refuge there?” Willow protested, indignant.

“A bloody great wounded daemon hound,” Faith emphasised, setting the artefact back upon Lara’s desk with exaggerated care. “The beast was starving—and I very nearly became its supper!”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Lara interjected smoothly, just as Willow opened her mouth to launch into a defence certain to confirm Faith’s every word. “Your objectives, Miss Winters, are as follows…”

As Lara resumed her briefing, Willow seethed in silence. Faith’s version of the incident in the French cave had become a favourite tale in the Department - how she had battled the wounded creature armed only with a table fork. Faith would have had the head mounted, no doubt, had it not been necessary to burn the carcass and scatter the ashes to prevent its resurrection at the next full moon.

Before long, Willow’s attention wandered entirely from the discussion of travel plans and local contacts. Her eyes roved about the Director’s office—over the familiar rows of books, the gleam of artefacts, the heavy drapery. She lingered on none of it for long. The ghastly masks that hung upon the shelves drew her gaze again and again, and each time she looked away with a faint shiver. For one in her profession, such a reaction to a mere death mask was not something to be readily confessed.

While Willow’s thoughts had wandered, Lara continued her discussion with Faith.

“I want Mr Giles to provide you with all the appropriate accoutrements for this type of operation,” she was saying, “and I have already passed him a list of items you will require — including an ample supply of silver bullets.”

Ugh, weapons, Willow thought, wrinkling her nose. Faith, of course, was entranced. It was her friend’s favourite subject, and she was making additional suggestions with such enthusiasm that one might have supposed an entire regiment was being outfitted rather than a single woman.

Willow’s gaze, having nowhere better to settle, came to rest upon the Director herself. Lara Croft - as unaccustomed to flattery as she was to failure - possessed that rare beauty that seemed to command attention without seeking it. Even Willow, whose mind was more often on parchment than people, could not deny the effect. She loathed admitting it, but Faith was right: she did fear the Director’s full lips and ample bosom. The mere thought of either was enough to send her heart into an unseemly flutter.

Being who she was, Willow had naturally attempted to research the problem. The result was a small mountain of notes concerning the physiological and psychological manifestations of love and lust. Neither subject, however, had been defined in a manner sufficiently rigorous to satisfy her need for textual proof. After due consideration, she concluded that she was most certainly not in love with Lara Croft. Lust, on the other hand, was a plausible hypothesis — though she was at a loss as to how one might safely conduct the necessary experiments. Faith’s attempts to assist by asking a series of mortifyingly direct questions had quickly convinced her to abandon the inquiry altogether.

Officially, that was where her research ended. Unofficially, when the night was deep and the city silent, she allowed her mind to drift toward matters less scholarly. She would lie awake imagining that somewhere in the world there was someone meant for her - one whose presence she could feel, though she could not find their face in memory nor her name in any text. When she did eventually drift off to sleep, her dreams would be haunted by an unseen presence. She could sense someone and knew instinctively that they were important, but all she could see was shadows. Of late, these dreams had begun to trouble her; they felt less like fancies than premonitions. And anything that Willow Rosenberg could not explain, she considered profoundly dangerous indeed.

“Are we keeping you from something important, Rosenberg?” Lara asked archly.

Willow snapped back to her senses and realised she had been unconsciously drumming her fingers in a steady beat on the arms of her chair. She immediately stopped and gripped the wood as though to prevent herself from floating away.

“No, of course not…” she managed, her throat suddenly dry. “I mean, there’s nothing more important than a meeting with you, La—Director Croft. I’m sorry…it’s just that I’ve a huge pile of work to get through.”

“Now what she really means to say,” Faith cut in, “is that being in a crowd of three is getting to her, and she’d like to scurry back to her little basement office.”

Lara’s jaw tightened a fraction. She drew in a quiet breath through her nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a growl — and for a moment Willow thought the woman might actually throw them both out. Instead, the Director merely pressed her gloved fingers together and regarded them with the serene composure of a saint who has been sorely tested.

Willow shrank a little in her chair. Faith, of course, only looked more pleased with herself.

There was a long silence, filled by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Then Lara leaned forward, and the movement caught the sunlight, turning the dark fall of her hair to bronze. Her gaze slid from Faith to Willow and lingered for an instant too long. Willow felt heat rise to her cheeks; she had the absurd feeling that the Director could somehow hear the racket of her own heartbeat.

“Right then,” Lara said at last, her voice level but tight around the edges. “Since we are all finally of one mind, let us proceed.”

Willow nodded a little too eagerly, desperate for the conversation to move on. Faith smirked. And as the Director bent once more over her papers, Willow wondered if it was possible to die of mortification — or, worse, to survive it only to face Lara Croft again tomorrow.

“Faith, you are leaving for Eastern Europe tomorrow,” said Lara, her tone clipped enough to slice through the lingering awkwardness. “I suggest you attend immediately to your preparations. And you, Miss Rosenberg, may return to work and… do whatever it is you do. If Faith requires further information, see that she has it without delay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said together, and were on their feet before Lara could change her mind.

They escaped the office with unseemly haste. Willow, too flustered to look back, missed the quick, knowing glance Faith tossed over her shoulder — and the faint, secretive curve of the Director’s lips before the door closed.

Outside, the atmosphere was immediately less stifling. Emma Harris sat at her post, back straight as a bayonet, eyes following them as if expecting the two of them to upend a vase or knock over a suit of armour on their way out. Faith, never one to resist temptation, reached out and flicked a nearby painting. The frame tipped sideways on its hook.

“Feeling better?” Faith asked lightly, closing the door on the sound of Emma’s scandalised gasp. She nudged Willow in the ribs. “Or is your heart still racing from being in Her Radiance’s presence?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” Willow replied, far too quickly. “My heart palpitations are entirely normal! And really, Faith—Croft? She’s our employer. And a woman!”

Faith arched an eyebrow. “I’m your closest and dearest friend, Willow Rosenberg. When are you going to open up to me and admit the desires of your heart?”

“I have no desires,” Willow said primly. “Other than returning to my work. I’ve just begun examining a fifteenth-century French translation of a Greek scholar’s account of what he thought were simply peculiar murders, but I believe it’s actually evidence of vampirism in Ancient Greece. Imagine—”

“Will, look.” Faith interrupted the rising gleam of scholarly excitement and seized Willow by the elbow, steering her toward the nearest window. “It’s a beautiful autumnal day. Look at that light!”

Willow squinted at the brightness spilling over the rooftops of Bloomsbury. “That’s… nice,” she said, without much conviction.

“Well?” Faith pressed. “Aren’t you going to go out and enjoy it? You sit in that little office from dawn till dusk, then go home to sit alone in your flat. You’re pale as parchment and twice as dusty. Take your lunch, take your camera, go for a walk—heaven forbid, talk to someone new!”

“Gracious,” Willow said, eyes wide in mock horror. “Meet someone new? I don’t think so.”

Faith gave a low, warning growl — the kind Willow had learned meant compliance was the safer course. Considering the number of concealed weapons Faith habitually carried, Willow decided to live another day.

“Good,” Faith said briskly. “That’s settled. Giles wants me in the lab—he says he’s got something new for me.” Her eyes gleamed with unmistakable excitement, like a schoolgirl on the verge of mischief. “Now off with you!”

Willow stood at the entrance to the rather brown-looking park, a faint trace of annoyance creasing her brow. In one hand she carried her little tin lunch box, intending to eat while still working with the other. At her side, nestled in its leather carrying case, was her beloved Kodak camera.

It took a few minutes of standing and staring before she realised why everything appeared so brown: autumn was in full swing. Leaves had fallen in droves, coating the green grass in a mottled carpet. Every so often a soft breeze would lift a few into the air, twirling them above the meandering paths and gardens which were largely bare. Willow spied an empty park bench and walked toward it, suddenly remembering how pleasant this park was in any season. Despite the promise of winter, the day was warm, and she did not miss her overcoat.

She ate with her head down, glancing furtively at the passersby. This pale creature who dared emerge from a basement office felt deeply exposed, as if any observer might mark her for daring to enjoy the sunlight. Only when she finished her lunch did she risk looking up to take in the park.

The crowd was diverse: men in bowler hats, umbrellas tucked under arms, women hurriedly walking between errands. Willow found herself studying them with increasing fascination, though she felt a twinge of guilt for lingering too long on particularly odd figures.

And then there was one she could not look away from. Across a small path stood a woman whose appearance suggested she was not escaping an office at all. Her figure was in profile as she gazed at an undefined point in the distance. Pale blonde hair trailed unbound down her back, obscuring her face. The hair fell over a black leather coat, sharp and elegant in its simplicity, that concealed the length of her body,

Willow shifted slightly to the right, straining to see the woman’s face. She caught a glimpse of full lips and a well-formed nose which made her pause. Instinctively, she removed her Kodak from its case. She lifted it slowly and lined up the stranger with the lens. A strange sense of familiarity coiled through her chest, a sensation so odd she almost lowered the camera before the woman turned.

Their eyes met. Brilliant, piercing blue, warm yet chilling — and Willow’s finger betrayed her, pressing the shutter with a loud click. Her cheeks flamed as she lowered the camera and found herself staring directly into those eyes.

For a moment, a braver person might have approached and introduced herself. Willow, however, waved a small, foolish hand, quickly regretted it, and attempted a graceful retreat. Her haste was ill-conceived: she tripped over her own feet, taking the first few steps of her exit in what could only be described as a circus act. She practically ran from the park, head down, clutching the Kodak to her chest. Her lunch box sat abandoned on the bench, forgotten.

With Willow out of sight, the woman crossed the path and lowered herself onto the park bench where the redhead had just sat. Her black coat fell about her with quiet elegance, concealing her form as she settled. She picked up the small tin lunch box Willow had abandoned, turning it lightly in her hands, as if studying a curious relic.

A faint smile curved her lips, tinged with melancholy and recognition — the kind one reserves for a familiar story read long ago, yet never quite forgotten.

The wind stirred the fallen leaves, sending a scattering of them swirling across the grass, and she murmured softly to the now strangely empty park, “You have not changed, Willow.”

For a moment, she remained seated there, still and silent, letting the late autumn sun fall across her shoulders, her gaze lingering on the path Willow had disappeared along.

Chapter Text

16 August 1787

Tonight unfolded as most of the season’s gatherings do. Sir John’s party was gay enough, to be sure; all the names were present, yet I was fearfully bored. Father has been detained in Plymouth this past week, so Edward escorted Mother and me with his customary approval. I must note that Father expects Edward to request my hand soon, and I am certain he shall give his consent, for it is indeed a very fine match. I cannot dwell upon it, yet I fear that by this time next season, for better or for worse, I shall be Mrs. Edward Walsh…though my heart yearns for another. One who is intelligent, where Edward is slow-witted; interesting, where he is dull; and so very handsome, compared with Edward’s homely features.

Oh, if only you could see W! Wonderful, precious W, whom I have not beheld for months. I was delighted to reacquaint myself with her this very evening at Sir John’s. The moment our eyes met, it was as though neither of us had forgotten the last lingering kiss we shared in the Marlborough stables that windswept spring day. I would have wished for nothing more than to resume that kiss, for W to draw me near and press her lips to mine. As we gazed upon one another, my bosom heaved as though the kiss were already reality, and I could scarcely keep from imagining the tender touch of her hands. I was lost in reverie.

It was Edward’s summons that broke the spell, and I awoke from the dream in W’s eyes. I scarcely had time to whisper a promise of a more private meeting before W, too, was compelled away by her brother, and I remained alone amidst the crowded room. All the while, we had not so much as touched, nor even drawn nearer, yet the memory of her presence pressed upon me as though it were tangible. 

When I returned to Edward, he inquired as to the subject of our discourse. “The state of the roads and the weather,” I remarked—both, indeed, have been most dreadful this season. 

If Edward suspected my deceit, he gave no sign, but continued in his tiresome manner, “W does look particularly well.” 

I almost choked at the absurdity of his words! 

“No,” I replied, in a moment of utter abandon, “she looks beautiful.”

Mid-October 1897

London

Willow Rosenberg was in her element. She perched behind a desk every bit as large as Lara Croft’s, though the wood had long seen better days. The desk’s current state seemed of no concern to her. Its entire surface was stacked high with books and manuscripts, arranged with no discernible order. Directly in front of her, paper towered to an almost perilous height. Occasionally she would pause, dip her pen into the ink jar balanced atop a precarious stack, and scribble with mad energy across the topmost sheet, before returning to the text cradled in her lap.

A loud rap at the door startled her. She jerked upright, one hand striking the edge of the desk. Had it been any less solid, ink would have puddled across priceless manuscripts. Shaking her hand furiously, Willow turned to find Faith standing in the doorway.

Faith squinted at the single bulb dangling overhead. “It’s a wonder you do not go blind, Will. How can you see anything in this gloom?”

Willow’s brow furrowed as she took in her tiny office, as though noticing it for the first time. A narrow window slit near the ceiling allowed only a fraction of overcast daylight to filter in. Walls of books rose to the ceiling, stacks covering the floor, leaving little else besides her desk and a threadbare rug. Artefacts Faith had collected from travels around the globe punctuated the clutter: a Native American dreamcatcher above the desk, wicked-looking African war spears in one corner, and a myriad of carved idols crammed into shelf nooks.

“I have excellent eyesight,” Willow replied quickly, eyes darting back to the manuscript. “What do you want?”

Faith arched an eyebrow. She knew precisely what that tone signalled: Willow had been engrossed, absorbed beyond all reason, and interruption was likely unwelcome.

“A better question,” Faith countered, “is what could be so important that you cannot come to see me off before I depart for the dark and mysterious depths of Eastern Europe, from which I may never return?”

Willow looked decidedly guilty. “I’m sorry, I forgot you were departing today…these texts…”

“Yes, yes,” Faith mocked in perfect imitation. “‘These texts are so fascinating I could not tear myself away to bid my dearest friend farewell.’” She wagged a finger at Willow. “You should be ashamed, Rosenberg. Now come, assist with my preparations to atone for your crime!”

Faith seized Willow’s wrist and hauled her from the chair. Willow protested only at the movement of her crooked and stiffened limbs. She was made to move far too swiftly for her comfort, yet Faith was wholly unbothered.

Although Willow’s office lay in the museum’s basement, there were levels even deeper—more secretive, more private. Faith led her through dimly lit corridors to the warrens where the their department was based, far removed from the museum’s day-to-day bustle. A solitary, black-coated man allowed them access to a rickety iron elevator at the corridor’s end. To any outsider, the place might appear a mere repository for rubbish. The department’s staff did little to dispel this impression, neglecting the rusty cage and one rotted wooden floorboard that all knew to avoid.

If anyone asked Willow or Faith what their department was actually called, they would simply reply, “The Department of Oddities,” and offer no further explanation. On one occasion, Faith had ventured a slightly more verbose description to a dismissive curator: it was the department of “phenomena that everyone else ignores.” Both women rather liked that explanation; it captured the truth of their world neatly. No one else wished to believe that creatures such as vampires, demons, and ghouls stalked the shadows. Faith had saved countless people from grotesque deaths, yet they remained blissfully unaware and not the least bit grateful. Once, when Willow’s research and Faith’s brawn had prevented the resurrection of the hell-god Ataxerxes—alongside the inevitable storms of fire and brimstone—the wider world had barely paused to notice. A single, small note in The Times referred to the wanton vandalism of an ancient Persian tomb, destroyed by Faith to forestall a repeat performance seven hundred and fifty years later.

The corridors two stories below ground resembled those above, though, naturally, they lacked windows. An array of paintings attempted to compensate for the viewless walls. While charming landscapes might have sufficed, most depicted stern, elderly gentlemen in rigid poses. One such portrait of the formidable Abraham Van Helsing caused Willow a shiver of dread every time she passed. “Old Abe,” as Faith called him, unnerved her greatly. Faith teased relentlessly about Willow’s supposed resemblance to the man; Willow could see little similarity save for their shared bright green eyes.

Passing old Abe now, Willow felt his painted gaze bore down upon her as always. She tilted her nose in defiance and gratefully followed Faith through a heavy door bearing a brass plaque inscribed: Implements and Inventions. Above the plaque, a tattered piece of paper bore the single name: Dr. Rupert Giles.

“Faith, Willow, come in, ladies, come in!” The very man himself greeted them warmly, though the room beyond was pitch-dark.

Willow shivered as the shadows pressed in, her unease causing her to edge toward the door and the corridor’s faint light. Icy fingers gripped her arm; she yelped. Spinning around, she saw Jasper’s outline, teeth flashing in an impish grin.

A sudden beam of light cut through the darkness, then a second. Willow shielded her eyes.

“Giles, what is that?” Faith asked, moving forward to inspect the source.

“Master Jasper, the lights if you please,” Giles instructed, waving the beam away from his own face.

Willow sighed with relief as the room was fully illuminated, revealing Giles perched behind his workbench, holding two metal tubes, each capped with a bulb. A flick of a switch and the bulbs dimmed to darkness once more.

“I call it a beamlight,” Giles explained, excitement warming his voice. “Some chap designed it as a decorative device for potted plants—would have made no money, of course—but I saw its potential! A simple tube, batteries, a bulb…the original zinc-carbon cells ran down too quickly, but I replaced them with my own alkaline-manganese design. Voilà: portable electric light for all those dark places.” He waved one of the tubes enthusiastically.

“Great idea…stupid name,” Faith commented as she accepted the pair of tubes Giles handed her.

“Here’s one for you too, Willow,” Giles said, passing another across the table.

Willow nodded, accepting the portable light with a small smile. For someone who was afraid of the dark, it was a thoughtful gift indeed.

She had always shared a close relationship with the inventor, thinking of him as a father figure, though she would never admit it aloud. In truth, she had spent more time with him than with her own father and had known him nearly her entire life. Giles had first been her tutor—or rather, her brother Alex’s tutor. Willow had hidden in the closet during lessons until an inadvertent sneeze gave her away. Rather than banish her, Giles had allowed her to stay, even standing up to her mother’s protestations that girls did not need the same education as boys.

From that point, Willow began her studies in Greek, Latin, and the Classics, continuing under Giles’ guidance until he was dismissed shortly after her brother’s death. He remained a presence in her life through correspondence, sending books on archaeology, puzzles, ciphers, and translation lessons to complete and return. While other tutors were appointed by her mother, her true learning had come by mail.

She did not see Giles again until she was seventeen, when he approached her parents with the suggestion that she attend Girton College, England’s first residential college for women. Willow never learned precisely why her father consented, and Giles himself remained close-mouthed on the matter. For someone who delighted in unravelling mysteries, it was a persistent irritation.

Girton taught women on par with men, though they could not receive degrees. Willow excelled in every subject and examination. Her path from Girton to the British Museum had been unexpectedly smooth, despite the societal obstacles faced by her sex. Once again, Giles had intervened, securing her a position in the Department of Oddities. The initial induction into the strange and occasionally dangerous work of the department had been daunting, but Willow soon discovered that it was still research—albeit far more fascinating than anything she had encountered before.

“Willow doesn’t need a bloody light!” Faith protested as Giles handed her friend the beamlight. “She doesn’t leave London, let alone travel to the dark places I do!”

“Faith,” Giles growled, “stop being ungrateful. Besides, I have several other items here that might interest you-”

While Faith was distracted by a self-loading crossbow that fired silver bolts, Willow and Jasper found immense enjoyment in testing the beamlight. The two acted like children, crawling beneath the benches and discovering all manner of discarded oddities with the portable light. Giles did not notice their antics until he had finished loading Faith’s bag with bizarre instruments almost half an hour later.

Glancing up, he saw Jasper and Willow poking and prodding at a glass jar containing a large, pink, gelatinous object suspended in clear liquid.

“You two, put that down!” he squeaked, practically leaping across the room toward the troublemakers.

“What is it?” Jasper asked in fascination, allowing Giles to take the jar from his hands.

“The heart of a Cretan Minotaur,” Giles replied. “He now stalks the halls of the British Museum as a ghost, slicing the hands off employees who touch things they ought not to!”

Willow giggled at the horrified look on Jasper’s face, then turned her attention back to Faith, who was strapping up the hefty bag Giles had given her. She put on her best apologetic expression as Faith glanced across at her.

“Faith,” Willow began softly, “I’m awfully sorry for how rude I was earlier, but I was wondering if you would be able…”

“Yes, Willow,” Faith interrupted with a small smile, not needing to hear the rest of the question, “I’ll bring back as many books as I can carry. Satisfied?”

“Yes, very…safe travels, Faith,” Willow said sincerely. “I suppose we’ll see you when you return…hopefully with an armload of books.”

“Don’t get up to any mischief while I’m gone…either of you!” Faith warned, pointing first at Willow, then at Jasper.

Faith took a few last-minute instructions from Giles before hefting the bag onto her shoulder. Willow did not doubt that she would soon see the brunette strolling back through the same door with new tales to tell—and, she hoped, a few volumes rescued from some forgotten library.

As Faith left, Willow’s eyes fell on a thin volume on Giles’ desk with a promising title. She began flipping through it. Jasper poked her in the arm to get her attention.

“Don’t you want to ride off with her?” he asked wistfully. “Just once?”

“Absolutely not,” Willow replied promptly. “There’s more than enough adventure for me right here.”

“Well, it seems awfully exciting to me,” Jasper sighed. “But then the most thrilling thing I usually get to do is polish the swords.”

He picked up a wickedly sharp dagger, its carved handle inset with rubies, and absently tapped it against the wooden desk.

“And that’s all you’ll be doing for the rest of your very short young life if you do not stop gouging holes in my table!” Giles snapped. He then spotted Willow trying to hide a book behind her back. “Out with the both of you…out!”

Willow Rosenberg’s feet carried her up the familiar terraced steps of her parents’ home, a modest yet respectable house in Canonbury. The pale blue door, framed by narrow sidelights, gleamed faintly in the late afternoon light, and gas lamps dotted the quiet street, their glass globes glinting as a few early sparks of evening flared within. On either side, similar terraces stretched in neat uniformity: brick facades, white-trimmed sash windows, and small, wrought-iron railings enclosing tidy front gardens where clipped box hedges stood like miniature sentinels.

She raised a hand to knock on the door, then hesitated, as if contemplating retreat. But she knew better - turning away would only delay the inevitable. To play the part of dutiful daughter, she had to endure dinner with her parents, unpleasant though it always was. Besides, she had already donned a dress for the occasion; she might as well prolong her suffering.

Willow knocked twice. Barely two seconds later, a stiff-backed butler swung the door open. The house itself was solid and unpretentious, with high ceilings, and polished parquet floors. The front door opened into a narrow hall, its walls lined with portraits of Rosenberg ancestors, and a polished oak staircase curved elegantly upward. There was the faint aroma of beeswax and rosewood from the furniture.

Though not ostentatious, the home spoke quietly of stability and propriety: a retired officer’s taste, orderly yet faintly rigid, and infused with the airs of genteel respectability that Colonel Ira Rosenberg carried with him like a uniform he never quite removed. Outside, the street remained calm, the occasional horse-drawn cab rattling past, and the rustle of leaves from the nearby park added a hint of serenity to the otherwise proper and polite thoroughfare.

No sooner had she placed a foot over the threshold than she was engulfed by a tiny storm in mauve taffeta and white lace. Willow drew in a desperate gulp of air as arms wrapped around her neck in a threateningly enthusiastic embrace. The miniature storm twirled her about, and Willow, on the verge of passing out, pushed at her mother and held her at arm’s length.

“Mother, please!” she gasped.

Finally, Sheila Rosenberg relented, granting a minimal amount of breathing space, though she maintained a firm grip on Willow’s elbow as if fearing a sudden escape.

Sheila carried the same shade of red hair as her daughter, though where Willow’s hair sat straight and plain to her shoulders, her mother’s was piled high in an elaborate mass of curls, giving her a few extra inches of height. She wore a mauve taffeta gown, the fabric stiff with the crispness that gave her skirt its carefully arranged fullness, while delicate white lace adorned the high neckline and cuffs, peeking out in sharp contrast to the rich colour. The dress hugged her ample figure where it could, straining slightly at the bodice, and a faint, sweet scent of chocolate and candied fruit clung to her, mingling with the overpowering aroma of apple blossom perfume.

“You’ll forgive your mother, won’t you, Wilhelmina? We don’t see you very often!” Sheila beamed, rosy cheeks sparkling as she appraised her daughter.

Willow sighed audibly at her given name. “I prefer Willow…everyone else I know is quite happy to use it.”

“Well, your father and I are not ‘everyone!’” Sheila shot back, pinching Willow’s arm as though to emphasise the point. “No parent in their right mind would call their child Willow.”

Willow fought the urge to stomp her foot, a reflex she had indulged countless times as a child. Instead, she turned her left foot inward and balanced on her right.

“Well, I feel like a Willow,” she replied firmly.

Noticing the firmness of Willow’s reaction, Sheila’s hand loosened slightly, and she looked momentarily taken aback. She recovered quickly, chuckling as though Willow were merely being silly.

“You’re awfully skinny, darling, are you not eating? Well, it’s fortunate that cook has prepared the most sumptuous meal, for you are in danger of fading into nothing!”

Willow nodded, feigning anticipation for the meal, though the thought of eating with her mother always sapped her appetite. Sheila had a habit of talking constantly throughout dinner, barely allowing Willow a bite before demanding conversation. Having grown up in such company, Willow now preferred to eat alone whenever possible.

Sheila led her through the house, voice animated, Willow paying scant attention. Her part was simple: nod at the appropriate moments and mostly agree with every word.

“Colonel!” Sheila bellowed as they entered the formal dining room. “Colonel!”

Despite the summons, Ira Rosenberg did not make an appearance until they were halfway through the first course. He was not the sort of man to be ordered about by his wife. Small in stature, he compensated with bearing; the hair he lacked was replaced by military precision. Nearly thirty years in Her Majesty’s Army, a staff post in India, and a distinguished colonial career had left their mark. It was there he had met Sheila, a High Commissioner’s daughter, and fathered his two children. Only with great reluctance had he agreed to return to England for his son’s education. Even now, he was always addressed as ‘Colonel,’ even by his wife.

He paused to deposit the barest graze of a kiss on Willow’s cheek. “Daughter,” he murmured.

Willow caught a whiff of brandy as he leaned close; it had always been present, but now stronger than ever.

“Good evening, Father,” she said, unable to call her own father ‘Colonel.'

Ira moved to his seat at the head of the table without another glance. Willow sighed discreetly, taking another spoonful of the rich chicken soup; it was tasteless in her mouth.

The courses flew by in a whirl of one-sided conversation. Sheila was exceptionally skilled at making her point with mouth full and fork in hand. Willow shifted her food around on her plate, feeling what little she had eaten start to congeal in her stomach.

She longed to escape after dinner, but before she knew it, her mother had ushered her into the sitting room. Willow deliberately chose the most uncomfortable chair to prevent herself from falling asleep as Sheila began listing potential husbands in exhaustive detail. Her mother poured a large glass of red wine, took a hefty gulp, and began her all-too-familiar rant.

“Now that young Swainson lad, he is a good deal younger than you—but I don’t think he can afford to be picky with skin like his—he would make a fine match. His family are in the wool trade in Wiltshire and have a fine estate just outside Westbury. Isn’t it Westbury, Colonel?” Sheila craned her neck toward her husband, nonplussed by his bored shrug. “Well, I’m sure it’s Westbury…not too far for the Colonel and I to visit.”

Willow nodded absently. The lad was likely pleasant enough; she simply had no interest in marriage. And the fact that she would be close enough for her parents to visit was hardly a good thing.

“Oooh!” Sheila exclaimed, clapping her hands as though winning at bridge. “Sir Joseph Pharazyn’s wife died last month in childbirth. Poor woman, always a bit frail. It’s too soon to make a move now, but perhaps next month we can invite ourselves to Banbury for tea. His children are well-behaved, you needn’t worry…that’s what nannies are for.”

Willow recalled her mother’s repeated complaints that the seven Pharazyn children were horrid little devils. She had nothing against children, but she could not imagine managing seven—spawn of the devil or not.

Sheila pursed her lips thoughtfully. “There’s always Sir Joseph’s younger brother, Robert. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

“He stole my copy of Thucydides when we were ten,” Willow growled, as if the theft were a heinous crime. “I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“That’s wonderful, dear, so you two will have something in common. I’ve heard he will be at the Barton’s party next week, where they’re announcing Beth’s engagement. Honestly, I don’t know how a trollop like that could have landed a nice young man like Matthew Phelps. She is awfully homely…still, I suppose her dowry was ten thousand pounds, and the Phelps have never recovered from the old man’s gambling debts.”

Sheila paused as though she had lost her train of thought. “Where was I? Oh, Robert…yes, you will have to attend the Barton’s party. We should go to Crozier’s this week to size you up for a new gown. I’m sure those ones I had made for you last season will hang on your body like sacks—you’ve lost so much weight.”

Willow glanced down at herself. She was quite certain she was the same size as last year, and in fact, she had not changed a single size in the past ten years. Since she had turned fifteen, her growth had stopped in every direction.

“I’m not much for parties,” Willow managed to squeeze in, just as her mother took another gulp of wine. “I think-”

“Nonsense! Where else are you supposed to get noticed?” Sheila cried.

“Well…” Willow wanted to say she would prefer no one ever notice her, but Sheila had other ideas.

“You’re actually quite pretty, Willow. Red hair is definitely not in fashion, of course, but that never prevented me from being snapped up by your father…”

Ira did not even look up from his copy of The Times; he merely grunted.

“…if you did something with that wretchedly awful hair of yours and applied a little more colour to your face…you would have no trouble attracting scores of men. You’re twenty-five-”

“Twenty-four,” Willow corrected quietly.

Sheila did not miss a beat. “…and sooner or later, people will start calling you a spinster to your face. They already do behind your back, and how it vexes me so! It’s a reflection on me as much as you.”

Willow rather liked the idea of being labelled a spinster. Women in her mother’s circle spoke the word as though it were synonymous with ‘leper,’ and she relished the prospect of being untouchable. Perhaps then her mother would leave this tiresome talk of marriage and turn to more sensible topics, like politics or war. She glanced toward her father, longing to discuss the military build-up in the Cape Colony and the likelihood of another war. But he remained engrossed in his paper. She returned her attention to Sheila as the woman poured another glass of wine.

“Mother, I think I should-” Willow had had more than enough of her mother for one day.

“Or what about Foster’s son? You know him,” Sheila gestured at her husband with her glass. “Foster served in the twenty-first Hussars with you, didn’t he, Colonel?”

“No backbone whatsoever,” Ira grumbled over the fourth page of The Times, his only contribution to the conversation. “Won’t have my daughter marrying the son of a coward!”

Sheila shrugged and took another long gulp from her glass before continuing her catalogue of potential husbands.

Throughout, Ira said very little, almost disappearing into his armchair as though he was not really there. Willow found this less annoying if she did not recall sitting on his lap as a child, listening to tales of his adventures in the East, the foreign sights, and exotic spices. She could not remember the details, only that she had always pleaded, “Tell us more, Daddy!” The ‘us’ had been herself and Alexander, her brother. Three years her senior, Alex had always been the apple of their father’s eye, patient and straight-backed like him. But Willow had loved him and worshiped him all the same.

When Willow was nine, Alexander was struck by a wasting illness. He went from a perfectly healthy boy to a husk of himself in just three months. From that moment, both Ira and Sheila were changed. Ira retreated into memories of past glory, and Sheila, seemingly abandoning all maternal duty, became self-indulgent, intent on satisfying her own wants.

Willow grew up under the care of a succession of nannies and tutors. Childhood had been lonely until she discovered companionship in books. She devoured every written word within her reach, beginning with simple children’s stories and, spurred on by Giles’ fascinating letters, quickly outgrew them. By the age of ten, she had wandered Ancient Greece with Odysseus, fled Troy with Aeneas, journeyed to the Earth’s core with Verne, and grappled with Tolstoy.

Her father’s decision to send her to Girton College had little to do with progressive ideals; he had simply recognised she would make a poor wife for any man. She was wed to knowledge. Sheila, however, had never understood, persisting in her matchmaking efforts to Willow’s constant disgust. She had even invited prospective suitors to dine until Willow refused to attend further meals unless the practice ceased.

Willow was spared further humiliation only when the Rosenbergs’ butler entered with a tray of exquisite chocolates. Sheila clapped her hands together gleefully at the sight of the sweets, shovelling several into her mouth at once, finally pausing long enough for Willow to announce her departure. The response was predictable.

“But Willow darling, stay and have a drink with us!” Sheila pleaded, teeth and lips stained with chocolate.

The matriarch rose from her couch, stumbling slightly on her plump legs as she reached toward Willow. The wineglass in her hand swayed precariously, the antique rug at her feet saved only by the glass’s scant remaining contents. Willow, thoroughly disgusted, stepped back toward the door. Her mother’s chocolate-stained fingers reached for her, but her father remained seated, back stiff as a ramrod. Without a word, Willow knew he did not care whether she stayed or left; the moment she was gone, he would consign his wife to her parlour and retreat to his library to drown himself in brandy and cigars, reliving his glory days in India.

“I don’t think so, Mother. You’ve had quite enough for the both of us,” Willow said boldly, digging the grave of an ungrateful child.

Normally polite, Willow’s patience had frayed completely. To someone who relished solitude, enduring Shelia Rosenberg was akin to standing in the midst of a crowd where everyone spoke at once. Only the sound of such defiance could have stirred Ira Rosenberg to intervene. Talk of marriage was his wife’s domain; his part was only to give a blessing when necessary.

“You will apologise to your mother, Willow,” Ira rumbled quietly, stabbing a finger toward her.

Willow met his gaze, feeling rebellion well up inside her. Though she knew she ought to comply, she could not bring herself to speak the expected words. Instead, she stared at the squat man with his chin thrust forward, waiting for her apology, while every fibre of her being resisted. Finally, she opened her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mother…” she began, watching her father nod approvingly, “…but I was merely speaking the truth. You do drink too much, and I, for one, wish you would stop.”

“Willow!” Ira gasped in anger. It was the most animated he had been during her visit. 

“You would wish her to stop too,” Willow shot back, “if only you actually cared.”

As she turned to leave, she could hear Ira’s teeth grinding and her mother emitting strangled, indignant noises. She half-expected her father to bar her way, demanding a second, more ‘sincere’ apology, but he made no move. Once outside, Willow ran the remainder of the way to the front door and out into the streets.

Her pace slowed to a brisk walk, but she did not glance back. Unconsciously, her feet took her on a path she rarely used, past the brightly lit windows of London’s finest shops. Couples strolled past, their eyes seeming to follow her; men tipped bowler hats, and she managed shy smiles in return. She thought of her flat and the Hardy novel she had long wished to read, wondering why she was wandering the streets alone at dusk instead of curled up in solitude.

The answer revealed itself minutes later, as she arrived at the very same spot in the park where she had stood the previous afternoon. The sun had set, leaving the long shadows of evening, but one thing remained unchanged: her tin lunch box sat on the bench, exactly where she had abandoned it. Willow crossed to the bench, lifting it with relief. Her fingers traced its familiar edges, half-expecting some mysterious object hidden inside. There were only a few crumbs.

She rapped her knuckles against the lid, a hollow sound that echoed in the near-empty park. As passersby hurried past, casting sidelong glances at her, she realised she had been staring at the spot where she had glimpsed the mysterious blonde woman. Her lips parted slightly, a breath caught, as she struggled to rationalise her actions. Rather than admit she had walked blocks to linger where a stranger once stood, Willow convinced herself she had merely come to retrieve her lunchbox.

You’ve got your lunchbox, Willow, she thought, tucking the tin under her arm. No other reason to be here…alone…and it’s getting dark…

Her second hasty exit from the park felt less foolish, though she began to suspect she was quite mad. Looking ahead, she spotted the one place she knew she could restore her sanity: the British Museum. At 5:30 p.m. on a Saturday evening, Willow ducked through the employee entrance. Security guards and cleaners greeted her warmly, and she offered a small smile without pausing. She did not stop until she reached her office. Once the door closed firmly behind her, she felt herself return to her true self. The papers on her desk beckoned like old friends, and she eagerly buried herself in something comprehensible.

By morning, Jasper found her still at her desk, sprawled across manuscripts with an ink-stained thumb, the picture of exhausted diligence.

Chapter Text

15 November 1787

I know I am getting ahead of myself, but my mother is insufferable! This evening she found me in the sitting room, where I had ostensibly been reading. In truth, I was not engaged in the Bard’s works at all, though I am usually most fond of them. My attention had been wholly taken by a small portrait I had carefully interleaved within the pages. I lingered upon the familiar chin and dwelt upon those lips, so faultlessly shaped, which, though pressed together in sombre composure, I imagined curling into one of her delightfully warm smiles. For all the skill of the artist, the portrait could not render her justice; her locks were not sufficiently red, nor her eyes so green, nor did they sparkle with the life I recall. Though months have passed since last I saw her, her gaze remains vivid within my mind, burning as though but yesterday we had met. Ah! This wretched weather keeps us all confined, bereft of parties, promenades, or any opportunity to see her.

I had scarcely closed my worn little volume when my mother approached, announcing herself not at all, until she was nearly upon me. Her opening remarks were constrained; she inquired what I had been reading. I replied, ‘As You Like It.’ She cast a glance of evident disdain at the mention of the comedy; I fancied she would have preferred ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or some equally tragic tale. I could not resist adding, with wicked pride, that I rather admired Rosalind in her mannish disguise; my mother’s countenance became troubled in an instant. It was then I realised how deceitful a daughter I was, concealing my affections for another from one who surely had only my welfare at heart.

She proceeded, without pause, to expound upon the merits of Edward. By the conclusion of her harangue, even I was compelled to consider him saintly; yet as her fervour grew, I began to perceive the falseness beneath her words. When I ventured the slightest doubt, suggesting that Edward might not be the one for me, it was as though the very flames of Gehenna were unleashed. She branded me an “ungrateful wretch” and pressed upon me the solemn duty of marrying well, in order to preserve what remained of the family name. The revelation startled me; I was aware that our fortune had been diminished, but not to such perilous extent. It was made clear: my union with Edward was not to be a matter of fancy, but of necessity. When he asked, I must consent. Until then, I am to be attentive to him at every opportunity, hanging upon his every word, appearing the model of propriety. By the end of her remonstrations, my mother’s eyes were wet with tears; mine burned fiercely. With W’s portrait safely concealed within my Shakespeare, I made a hasty retreat, lest a word escape that might cause her further distress. 

The house seemed to conspire against me; its walls pressed in, confining, suffocating. I hastened to my bedroom window and threw it open, the cold wind striking me as though it would lift me bodily into the night. I imagined it bearing me away, over field, stream, and wood, until I might find myself at Hatherfield. There, W would await, and I in her arms, never again forced to contemplate a life bound to Edward Walsh. Such was my singular wish: that we might exist together, free and unmolested.

Yet the wind carried me not, and I was left solitary, the curtains whipping about my person as though in mockery. I cursed my fate, that I should be born to a world so cruel, where inclination must yield to obligation, and where the dictates of the heart are ever denied. I cannot write further this night; my pen falters beneath the weight of such vexation. More anon.

Early January 1897

London

Willow’s brow was furrowed, the very tip of her tongue protruding from her lips - signs of intense concentration. Her white shirt sleeves were rolled back over her elbows, and her waistcoat hung open in a relaxed fashion. She worked her pencil across the sheet of paper before her, pausing now and then to review her work. As time passed, the lines forming under her hand took shape from memory - an image that still burned behind her eyes, nearly two months after seeing it for the first time.

Her furrow deepened when she was dissatisfied with some detail. She picked up her eraser and wiped a portion of the drawing clean before continuing. Minutes later, she held the pencil between her lips to free her fingers for shading, smearing graphite at precise points, the pencil swaying with her movements.

The tip of her index finger blackened. Willow retrieved the pencil from her lips and added the finishing touches. A small, satisfied smile spread across her face; before her was an almost perfect likeness of the woman she had glimpsed in the park.

She could not explain why, but even two months after their fleeting encounter, the pale stranger remained unforgettable. Though their meeting had lasted mere minutes in one ordinary day, Willow felt it had significance. At first, she tried to dismiss it. The woman was beautiful - of course she would linger in memory. Yet week after week, the thought persisted, interrupting research and leisure alike. At night, she dreamt of the woman’s face. Without a name or voice, it was all she had. Two months later, nothing had changed. The desire to know more was driving her nearly to distraction.

Willow could not bring herself to develop the photograph she had taken of the woman with her Kodak. As much as she wanted to, it felt like a violation of the woman’s privacy. Yet she could not destroy the roll either—it remained tucked away in the back of her bottom drawer, hidden but never far from her thoughts.

“Our intrepid adventurer returns!”

The shout shattered her concentration, making Willow jump so violently that the lead of her pencil snapped. She glared at the small black spot on her portrait but felt a faint relief - it did not mar any critical details. As Jasper Evans whirled into the office, she shoved her sketch beneath a partially unravelled scroll, glaring at the boy for his unannounced intrusion.

She turned and was pleasantly surprised to see a second figure following him.

“Miss me?” Faith swept into the room, still clad in dusty riding leathers and a badly rumpled travelling jacket.

“Faith!” Willow greeted her friend warmly, even as she shot Jasper an annoyed glare.

She scraped her chair back and stood to join the others. Willow took one look at Faith’s dirty clothing and neatly sidestepped any potential embrace.

“I’m not touching you until you’ve changed!” Willow yelped as Faith tried to pull her close.

Faith glanced down. She was covered, as far as Willow could see, in dust and a generous splattering of mud. Her boots were caked, and small clumps had already been tracked across Willow’s rug. When she looked back up, she was pleased to see that Willow was so preoccupied with her return, she had not yet noticed the mess.

Of course, Willow’s preoccupation was not entirely with Faith herself. Her gaze was fixed on the satchel slung over Faith’s shoulder. She shifted from one foot to the other as though she were about to break into a dance.

“Before your head explodes-” Faith began, swinging the satchel free so she could open it “-the library was disappointingly empty…”

“Empty!” Willow cried, despairing. It felt as though her entire world had just collapsed. “How could it have been empty…cleared out by thieves, or perhaps Dracula’s - I mean Vlad’s cohorts?”

“I think the library fell afoul of the church,” Faith replied quickly, not wanting to prolong Willow’s distress. “There were painted inscriptions on the walls to ward off evil spirits. I tried to glean more information, but there was little to be had – everything had been removed, right down to the barest scrap of parchment. No doubt burned in the name of righteousness.”

“They burned the books,” Willow whispered, horror etched on her face. In her mind, few crimes were worse.

Faith opened the satchel and withdrew an armful of leather folders and several books. “Will, calm down. All was not lost. In my examinations, I discovered a secret compartment, and within it lay these. I haven’t had time to discern their contents, but I hope they make up for some of your disappointment.”

Willow accepted the armful gratefully. “Well…small consolation, perhaps, but thank you.”

She scanned the leather folders, noting sheets of parchment covered in foreign scripts. Most were in Latin, but a few held the runic Rovas script native to Hungary. She set those aside on her desk and turned to the book titles. Of the four volumes Faith had returned with, two were account books, one a library catalogue - a cruel reminder of what had been lost - and the fourth was an anomaly.

“I think this is a diary,” Willow said with a small frown, flipping the small, leather-bound book over in her hands.

“Is it? I couldn’t decipher it in the slightest. It looks as though it has been written in some sort of code,” Faith said with a shrug. “I’m not sure how it ended up at Tirgsor…hidden in a secret compartment with papers of real historical significance.”

Willow flipped through the first few pages, noting the clear, almost elegant hand. “It looks like a woman’s handwriting, far too elegant to belong to a man.”

“A woman’s diary!” Jasper craned his neck to see the worn volume. “Any naughty bits?”

“You wouldn’t recognise a naughty bit if I slapped you with it,” Faith said, lightly cuffing him over the back of the head.

“I do not know,” Willow murmured. “Although I am sure, with some attention to the matter, I can decipher it.” Her voice betrayed a flicker of professional frustration. “There’s an inscription in plain English inside the front cover, though…Dearest W, Farewell—may this token of me provide you some comfort,” Willow read aloud, squinting at the final letter, “and then…what looks like a J…or a T, perhaps?”

“How lovely,” Faith commented sarcastically.

“It sounds as though there are naughty bits,” Jasper added hopefully.

Willow ignored them both and traced her fingers over an address following the inscription. The handwriting was different. It was executed in a clear and precise hand that Willow immediately admired. The address was in Bloomsbury, not too far from the Museum. She set the diary aside, tossing it atop one of her stacks of books that littered the floor, before turning her attention back to the real treasures Faith had brought.

“This catalogue could keep me going for months, Faith,” Willow murmured, running her fingers over the tooled red leather cover. “And it’s all in Latin, thank goodness—my Hungarian is dreadful.”

The diary was forgotten as Willow turned page after page of the catalogue, ignoring both Faith and Jasper. Faith watched indulgently, while Jasper kept glancing covetously at the diary, which lay just within reach of his fingers. But Faith was quicker. As he reached out, she seized his wrist and squeezed tightly.

“Ow!” Jasper protested. “I just wanted a little look!”

“Jasper,” Faith said, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him toward the door, “Even if you could decipher it, it was written in the eighteenth century. Women in those days didn’t know how to be naughty, let alone write about it. I assure you, you’re not missing anything. Now, Giles might need help unwrapping the artefacts I found concealed in the ruins. There’s a wicked-looking gauntlet covered in spikes that may have belonged to Dracula himself. Just don’t try it on - it’s probably bewitched with a possession spell.”

Jasper’s eyes widened as though he could not wait to do exactly what Faith had warned him against. He mumbled a few nonsensical words and sprinted from the room. Moments later, a loud crash echoed down the hallway, followed by an angry voice condemning all boys who did not look where they were going to the depths of hell.

With Jasper safely out of the picture and in Giles’ capable hands, Faith turned her full attention to Willow. Her friend had returned to her chair during the distraction and now looked up at her with wide eyes. Faith quickly realised that Willow was not expecting a report of her trip or a friendly chat - she wanted Faith gone so she could get back to her work. Willow sat poised, pencil in one hand, the other gently holding open a ratty scroll. Faith gave an angry snort and reached down to snatch the pencil away. When Willow lunged desperately, she hid it behind her back.

“What have you been doing with yourself these past months, Will?” Faith asked in a distinctly motherly tone, betraying her genuine concern. “You look bloody awful - and stop staring at my hand like that. You’re not getting your pencil back anytime soon!”

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” Willow shrugged. “It’s nothing serious. My mind’s been so busy I find it hard to relax…just a phase. I’m sure it will pass.”

Faith pursed her lips. “And I suppose you’ve been eating properly and walking outside…oh no, wait, I know better. Honestly, Will, how many times must I implore you to look after yourself?”

“It’s nice to know you care.” Willow managed a small smile, genuinely touched.

“You’re bloody right I care!” Faith exclaimed, lunging forward to wrap both arms around Willow’s shoulders despite her dirty clothing. “Your parents don’t give a damn, and you certainly don’t seem to either.”

When Faith pulled back, Willow’s cheeks carried a faint pink tinge. She was unused to being embraced, even by her best friend.

“I’m fine, Faith. Will you please give the pencil back? I’m in the middle of something very important.”

“Only if you tell me what you’re working on,” Faith teased, dangling the pencil.

“It’s nothing,” Willow spluttered as she snatched it back.

As she moved, she lost her grip on the scroll, which snapped back into its tight roll, revealing what was hidden beneath. Willow could not recover the portrait before Faith spied it and snatched it away. Mortified, Willow leapt to her feet, intent on retrieving the drawing. A tussle began as she grasped for Faith’s arm. After avoiding Willow’s flailing attempts, Faith reached out with her left hand, caught Willow’s wrist, and in one swift movement twisted it behind her back.

Willow yelped in pain as Faith held her arm pinned at an uncomfortable angle. She had to cease her struggling or continue to feel as though her shoulder was being wrenched from its socket. This left Faith free to examine Willow’s pencil sketch with impunity.

“Here I was thinking I’d interrupted some vital departmental research…and all you were really doing was scribbling pictures!” Faith chuckled lightly and then let out a low whistle. “So, who is she?”

“No one,” Willow mumbled, her cheeks. In response, Faith cruelly twisted her arm a little higher up her back and she let out another yelp. “Okay, okay…it’s a woman I saw.”

“And continue to see?” Faith asked with excitement clearly registering in her voice.

“Saw…once!” Willow clarified with a strong emphasis on both words. “I just saw her once in the park.”

“You saw her once in the park and she made such an impression you had to sketch her portrait?” Faith said, half disbelieving, half amused. “And exaggerated more than a little too - no one can be this beautiful. You’ve got rich tastes, Will.”

Now that she had her answers, Faith released Willow’s wrist. Willow reached around her, snatched the drawing back, and folded herself into her chair. She smoothed the creased corner with her thumb, then traced a finger along the curve of the woman’s cheek - the one that had haunted her memory for months. Just gazing upon that face made her forget any anger she might have felt toward Faith. A small, self-conscious laugh escaped her lips when she realised how foolish she must have seemed.

Faith, misinterpreting the sound, felt a stab of guilt. She feared she’d wounded her friend’s feelings with her teasing. “Willow, I’m awfully sorry,” Faith said, sounding both sheepish and sincere. “You know me - no manners to speak of. I’ll just go and leave you to… whatever it is you were doing.”

“This is no exaggeration,” Willow said quietly, turning in her chair as Faith reached the doorway. “Faith - she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”

Her dreamy tone made Faith blink. She’d never seen Willow look quite so dazed—or so tired. And in that moment, she decided it was her duty to help her friend find the mysterious stranger.

“I’ll help you find her again,” Faith promised, resting one hand against the doorframe.

Willow tore her gaze from the portrait and looked up at her. A sad little smile touched her lips. “I don’t see the point,” she whispered, stifling a yawn. “Even if I did find her, I wouldn’t know what to say. And she certainly wouldn’t feel the way I do about her.”

“How do you feel about her?” Faith probed with a devilish grin tugging at her lips. 

Willow frowned. “Errr…I’m not entirely sure. Faith…why are you smiling like that?”

“You want to kiss her,” Faith said casually. “And more?”

“Faith!” Willow hissed, eyes darting to the door as though half the British Museum staff might be lurking outside.

Her cheeks, bright as her hair, betrayed her mortification. She searched Faith’s face for any sign of judgment—but found only warmth and a touch of mischief.

“Faith, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak of my… inclinations to anyone,” Willow said in a whisper. “If my parents were to find out that I am… that way inclined-”

“Would you really care if they did?” Faith interrupted gently, though not without bluntness. “You don’t depend on them for a thing. And you certainly wouldn’t miss their company. Your mother is vile, and your father would hardly know you were missing.”

“I know,” Willow admitted, biting her lip. “But they’re still my parents. And…you really don’t care about my…proclivities?”

“Why would I care?” Faith said simply. “You’re the dearest, kindest, bravest soul I know. And the fact that you’re of the sapphist persuasion only confirms it. I love you, you know.”

“Faith, I’m not attracted to you…” Willow began hesitantly.

“You’re not? Why ever not? I’m a ravishing beauty!” Faith asked in mock outrage before bursting into laughter. “I meant I love you in a strictly platonic sense.”

“Oh,” Willow muttered, embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“And don’t worry about your mystery woman,” Faith said encouragingly. “Such matters have a way of sorting themselves out. Besides, if you find her and she tells you to bloody leave her alone, at least you’ll stop mooning about like a sick puppy and get a decent night’s sleep.”

Willow smirked despite herself. “You always know how to make a girl feel better.”

“You have no idea,” Faith winked suggestively, laughing when Willow frowned at her in confusion. “Why don’t you go home early?”

Willow glanced at her pocket watch and raised her brows in mock horror. “Leave work at four o’clock? Gracious, Faith, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so daring.”

“Call it a start. You’re going to have to get a whole lot more daring if you’re ever to ensnare this mystery woman of yours,” Faith said, fetching Willow’s satchel and coat from their perch atop a teetering stack of books. “You didn’t catch her name, did you?”

Willow allowed herself to be hauled up out of her chair. She held out her arms obediently as Faith slipped the coat onto her shoulders and even began to button it up. It felt odd, being fussed over by another adult — but oddly comforting too.

“I’ve no idea,” Willow admitted. “I feel as though it should be something grand and beautiful to suit her face… though it’s just as likely to be Jane or Anna.”

“Well, your first task is to find out her name,” Faith decided, adjusting the satchel strap across Willow’s chest. “Once we know who she is and what kind of people she comes from, we can devise a plan to woo her.”

What if I never see her again? The thought struck Willow like a chill wind, but she kept it to herself, unwilling to puncture Faith’s good humour.

With an air of finality, Faith gave her a firm shove toward the door. To ensure her work-bound friend didn’t double back, she even walked Willow all the way to her tram stop. Faith muttered something about reporting back to Croft, but the wicked gleam in her eye suggested her evening plans were far from professional. Willow couldn’t help but suspect that Faith knew a little too much about the “sapphist persuasion” she’d spoken of earlier.

Left waiting alone for the next tram, Willow found herself growing restless within minutes. She regretted not bringing any papers or a book to occupy her mind. Digging absently through her satchel, her fingers brushed against a book’s spine. She drew it out - the diary Faith had brought back from Eastern Europe. A small frown creased her brow. She didn’t remember ever putting it there.

Curiosity piqued, she flipped it open and found the same notations just inside the cover: the strange dedication, the address. As she had noted earlier, it was mere blocks away from the museum. Faith’s teasing challenge echoed in her head. Willow glanced up as the tram approached, then ignored it — and made what felt, for her, a very daring decision indeed.

A quarter of an hour later, her earlier boldness had faded. Standing in front of the address, she felt like a fool. The house loomed above her - a generous three-storey townhouse, its façade a steely grey that, in the late afternoon winter darkness, appeared almost black. The ivy clinging to its side was the only ornamentation. The sharply pitched roof was punctuated by narrow gable windows, each dark and watchful.

Willow imagined the diary’s author within, seated at a writing desk, still scribbling madly. The diary was written in the late eighteenth century, she thought. The author would be long dead by now. A shiver ran down her spine. The house unnerved her with its dark windows. It felt empty - an emptiness full of weight and intent.

Just my luck that whoever lives here now will be one step away from the asylum, she thought. They’ll invite me in for tea and never let me leave again.

She was still mustering the courage to approach when something made her glance upward - and freeze.

A pale face gazed down from one of the dark gables. Her breath caught. The moment lasted only seconds, but it was enough to send her heart hammering. She couldn’t recall the features clearly, only that it had been a face - watching her. There was no question of knocking now.

Hello, I’m Willow Rosenberg. You don’t know me, but is the ghost in your attic friendly?

Before she knew what she was doing, her feet were pounding the pavement. The cold clung to her as she ran the whole way back to the tram stop. Even once seated on the tram, pressed against a seat still warm from its last occupant, she couldn’t shake the chill or the image of that face.

She resolved, quite firmly, not to tell Faith. Fleeing from a ‘common ghost’ would earn her a lifetime of teasing - or worse, Faith might decide it was a child in the window and mock her mercilessly. Still, something crawled between her shoulder blades. Even now, Willow felt she was being watched - though by what, she could not say.

Chapter Text

26th November 1787

This ought to have been one of the happiest days of my life - of any young lady’s life - and yet a melancholia has settled over me like a lowering cloud. From the very moment Edward stepped across the threshold, I knew why he had come. The atrocious weather has kept all other visitors away this past week, but not Edward. There was but one reason he would have braved such rain and wind. Typical of his sex, once his mind was made up he could wait no longer.

I was upon the landing when I heard the butler greet him at the door, and for some reason I was not surprised to see him. As I descended the stairs, I saw my father welcome him warmly and usher him straight into his study, doubtless to the comfort of the roaring fire. Edward glanced up as he passed. His dark hair, damp and curling across his brow, and the sparkle in his eyes from the exertion of his ride revealed the picture of a man most women would call handsome - tall, broad-shouldered, and blessed with a face fit for marble. And yet it is all superficial. I know too well the nature that lies beneath that faultless exterior. The more time I spend with him, the more I realise that he is the sort of man I could never share my life with.

Most women are content to see only outward appearance and social station, but I crave companionship, mutual trust, and conversation that would never weary me. I have found all of these - but not with Edward.

Mother summoned me half an hour later, a half hour I spent before the mirror rehearsing my reactions to Edward’s question. A simple no came easily enough in solitude, but I knew I could not afford to give such an answer before him. I practised surprise, embarrassment - never tears, for I knew they would not be feigned. I was whispering W’s name as I rose from my seat at the bureau and made my way downstairs with trembling steps.

Edward awaited me in the blue sitting-room, his hair now half-dry, his manner betraying a nervousness that softened him somewhat. For all his fine looks, he is no great conversationalist. What followed might have been every girl’s dream. A bent knee, his hands clasping mine, and an awkward yet earnest confession of his undying love before the words tumbled out in a single breath - would you do me the honour of marrying me? 

All my careful rehearsal failed me. I stammered and stumbled, far from the composed and elegant young woman I imagined myself to be. I could neither utter the words of agreement expected of me, nor confess that my heart belonged to another. When I tried to picture W upon that knee instead, my throat tightened and I nearly wept.

He mistook my silence for maidenly emotion. Showing a decisiveness I had not thought him capable of, he begged my pardon for expecting an immediate reply and declared that he did not expect the fairer sex to marshal their wits after such a proposal. He promised to grant me time for reflection - though he added that he fully expected my answer to be yes. 

He thinks me an insipid fool, precisely the sort of wife men desire. One who cannot form an opinion of her own. 

He took his leave without staying for tea, and scarcely had the door closed behind him before Mother descended upon me for a full account. To my astonishment, she was not vexed by my lack of a firm answer. She behaved as though I had already accepted and spent the remainder of the day in raptures. 

I retired early to write this entry, and now that my thoughts are on paper, I see clearly the predicament before me. I cannot bear the thought of joining those countless women who suffer loveless marriages - yet I cannot see the way to avoid it.

If only I could see W.

Early January 1898

London

With no small measure of satisfaction, Willow deposited the wretched little diary back in her office the following morning. Her encounter - or whatever it had been - the previous evening had ruined what should have been a quiet night, leaving her unable to sleep soundly or to accomplish anything remotely productive. She jammed the leather book beneath several, much larger volumes and returned to her desk.

With a faint exhalation, she drew the sketch from beneath the scroll. The woman’s serene face stared back at her, and Willow could not help but think that she was mocking her foolish infatuation. With a sigh, she tucked the drawing within the pages of a first edition Treatise on Witchcraft and turned to the library catalogue Faith had retrieved from Tirgsor.

Three hours later she was still bent over the catalogue when Faith burst through the door, breathless, chest heaving as though she had run the length of the Thames Embankment.

Willow was on the verge of a sharp remark—something about the number of times she was interrupted—when Faith seized her by the collar and hauled her bodily to her feet.

“Faith! Unhand me this instant!” Willow demanded, struggling against her friend’s firm grip.

“You’re coming with me, Rosenberg,” Faith said with grim determination. “And bring your coat - it’s bitter out.”

There was no time for further explanation. Willow lunged back just far enough to snatch her coat from the back of her chair as Faith dragged her down the corridor towards the exit. When it became clear that she was following willingly enough, Faith released her, leaving Willow to straighten her jacket and mutter under her breath.

“We’ve had reports of something nasty in a warehouse down by the river,” Faith said briskly as they walked. “The manager was taking inventory when he saw a shape move in the dark.” She crashed open the elevator gate and all but pushed Willow inside.

“That’s nice,” Willow said dryly, narrowly avoiding a collision with the cage. “Probably a thief. Since when are we responsible for common crime?”

“Thieves generally aren’t blue,” Faith replied evenly. “Nor do they have foot-long spikes protruding from their heads.” She began checking the assortment of weapons strapped to her belt and thighs.

“Well, demon or no, I fail to see why you’re dragging me along,” Willow protested as the elevator clattered to a halt at the ground floor. “Would you care to explain?”

“Because I thought it would be good for you,” Faith said, smirking at Willow’s horrified expression before sobering. “And because I have no idea what sort of demon is blue with spikes coming out of its head—or how to kill it.”

Willow’s eyes narrowed as they stepped out into the cold morning air and crossed to the waiting carriage, its black horses stamping impatiently. Once they were seated in the shadowed interior, Willow fixed Faith with a look of righteous indignation.

“It’s an Atramen demon, you idiot. One of those I described in a report six months ago - you should have read it.” She folded her arms, tapping her fingers in sharp irritation.

Faith frowned, clearly rifling through her memory. After a moment she simply shrugged, which only deepened Willow’s scowl. Willow leaned forward, preparing to lecture, but Faith cut her off before she could begin.

“Willow, you file a report every week. I don’t have time to read every single one - especially not when I’m travelling. I barely remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, let alone something I read six months ago.”

“You never eat breakfast,” Willow retorted flatly. “And if you had read my report, you’d know there have been Atramen sightings across the South-East – in Brighton, Guildford and Tonbridge - suggesting that someone may have one, possibly several, under their control. Which, I might add, is quite easy if one has command of the proper spells.”

“That’s a very conclusive report,” Faith said with a wry twist of her lips, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Willow couldn’t help but smile despite herself, but she was quite serious when she replied, “Honestly, Faith - reading reports could save your life. What if I weren’t around to tell you how to defeat the things you so carelessly pick fights with?”

“But you’re always around,” Faith noted simply. “So how do we defeat this thing?”

Willow shrugged. “If you’d read the report, you’d know that I have absolutely no idea.”

Ten minutes later, the two women stepped from the carriage in front of a rather nondescript warehouse. Not a soul was in sight – the manager had clearly made himself scarce after his brush with the netherworld, eager to deny the whole affair.

Willow felt distinctly underprepared. Faith, by contrast, looked every inch the professional hunter. Two matching belts with silver inlay girded her waist, a slender sword at her left hip, a long dagger at her right. In her hands she carried Giles’s latest invention - a self-loading crossbow, fully loaded with ten silver bolts. Willow knew there were two more daggers hidden in the tops of Faith’s riding boots, and that the leather trousers clinging scandalously to her thighs hid more than just weapons.

Willow glanced down at her own practical three-piece suit - one of only two she owned. Next to Faith’s scarlet jacket and effortless swagger, she felt dull, all grey wool and ink stains. Still, she told herself, better sensible than silly.

“Um… Faith,” she ventured nervously, “I don’t need to go in, do I? I mean, what would I do if it rushed at me?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Faith murmured, pushing the warehouse door open a fraction wider. “You can be bait.”

“Spiffing,” Willow squeaked.

Inside, Faith motioned for silence, crossbow raised as she moved in a crouch between the looming stacks of crates. Willow followed, imitating her movements but feeling utterly ridiculous. She was a scholar, not a field agent—and certainly not a fighter.

The warehouse was too still, too dim. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching long fingers between the mounds of goods. Willow’s imagination conjured motion in every patch of darkness.

“Faith,” she hissed urgently.

“Shh!”

“I’d feel better if I had a dagger or something pointy!”

Faith glanced back, amused despite herself. “You wouldn’t know what to do with it. Anyway, nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m here-”

Before she could finish, an inky black shadow erupted from the shadows and slammed into her, knocking her flat. The crossbow clattered away across the floor. Faith rolled to her feet, sword drawn, and at last Willow saw what they were facing.

The Atramen was roughly man-sized, but the jagged spikes jutting from its head and shoulders made it seem monstrous. Its skin was a deep, oily blue that shimmered black as it moved, and when it turned toward her, Willow saw its lipless mouth and rows of spiked teeth.

“Ahhh, Faith…” she whispered, backing up a step.

With a cry to draw its attention, Faith lunged forward, sword flashing. The Atramen pivoted, meeting her blow for blow. The two circled one another in a deadly rhythm—Faith’s blade slicing through the air, the demon ducking and weaving with impossible speed. A glancing strike left a narrow line of blue blood across its chest, but before Faith could press the attack, it landed a crushing blow to her jaw. She stumbled backward, dazed.

Willow stood frozen, helpless, until she spotted the fallen crossbow lying only a few feet away. She scrambled for it, fumbling with the unfamiliar weapon. She raised it awkwardly, jabbed at the trigger - and nothing happened. She jabbed again. Still nothing.

“Come on, come on!” she hissed, smacking the side of it in frustration.

Faith, regaining her footing, slashed again and opened a deeper wound across the Atramen’s chest. Thick blue liquid sprayed the floor. But before she could follow through, the demon caught her blade hand, twisted, and with terrifying ease, lifted her bodily off the ground.

“Faith!” Willow cried.

The creature hurled her into a wall of stacked crates. Wood splintered under the impact, cascading down in a cloud of dust. For a long moment, Faith didn’t move.

Willow’s heart hammered. The Atramen turned toward her, white eyes gleaming.

She backed away. “Oh, no. No, no, no-”

The demon hissed and lunged. Willow turned and ran, but she had barely covered a few yards before a dark shape soared overhead and landed directly in her path.

“Not fair!” she shrieked, skidding to a stop.

Before she could think, it was upon her - slamming her to the ground and pinning her there with crushing weight. One enormous hand closed around both her wrists, forcing them above her head as she thrashed helplessly beneath it.

Trapped beneath the demon and staring up into its white eyes, Willow thought it should have been blind. But judging by how deftly it had parried Faith’s every strike, she knew it wasn’t. Now she could barely move, her arms pinned above her head while the creature’s slick, blue-black face hovered inches from hers. It seemed to be smiling. Or perhaps it was about to bite her head off.

A thick gob of saliva dropped from its mouth into her eyes. She screamed, squeezing them shut as the burning sting made tears pour down her face. The Atramen hissed in short, stuttering bursts — laughter, she realised with horror.

Something warm and sticky slid up her throat, tracing her jugular and chin. Willow twisted wildly, trying not to imagine what part of the thing was touching her. She shrieked again, her cry rising until she suddenly realised—the weight was gone.

The Atramen had been torn away.

Frantically scrubbing at her face, she clawed the vile fluid from her eyes. Sounds of struggle echoed nearby - Faith, back on her feet. Willow blinked through the blur and saw a figure standing between her and the fight.Even half-blind, she knew that wasn’t Faith. Faith wore red. This figure was black-clad, its pale face and long white-blonde hair ghostly in the dim light.

It was her.

One word flared in Willow’s mind like lightning: Fire.

“W-who—” she began, reaching out a trembling hand—only to be slammed sideways by something solid. She rolled several times before crashing into a crate.

“Sorry, Will,” came Faith’s hoarse voice.

Faith hauled her upright by the scruff of her jacket and set her on her feet. Dazed but steadying herself, Willow saw Faith grapple the Atramen by its spikes, wrestling it back with sheer stubborn strength.

The pale-haired figure was gone.

Still, that single word – Fire - echoed in her head. She turned, scanning the shadowy warehouse until her gaze caught on a kerosene lantern hanging by the exit. Staggering toward it, she yanked it down and patted her pockets. She had absolutely nothing to light it with. She didn’t smoke. But Faith did.

“Faith!” Willow called, edging closer to the fight. “Do you have a matchbook?”

Faith spared her a furious glance. “Of course I’ve got a bloody matchbook! Now’s not the time to take up smoking, Will!”

“Stop whining and give it to me!” Willow snapped, ducking as the Atramen flung Faith to the ground.

Pinned, Faith fumbled in her jacket pocket and tossed a small cardboard box in Willow’s direction. It landed short. Willow scrambled forward to snatch it up.

The first match broke. So did the second. The third flared - then guttered out before it reached the wick.

“Bloomin’ hell, get a grip, Willow!” she muttered to herself, striking another as Faith cried out in pain.

The next match caught. The wick flared to life, flooding the space with warm, trembling light. Willow quickly loosened the screws on the fuel chamber, and as she did, the Atramen turned its head. Its milky eyes widened. An awful screech split the air as it hurled itself toward her.

Willow lifted the leaking lantern, heart hammering. “Have a light, you revolting brute!” she shouted, hurling it straight at its chest.

The lantern shattered. Kerosene splashed over the creature’s slick skin, and flames roared to life in a brilliant, hungry bloom. Willow dove aside as Faith grabbed her and dragged her to safety. Together, they watched the Atramen burn. It screamed, its skin liquefying into an inky sludge that hissed and bubbled as it melted away. Within moments, nothing remained but a putrid puddle and the faint crackle of dying flames.

Willow disentangled herself and looked toward the shadows. “Was there anyone else here?” she asked. “I mean, besides this creature?”

Faith, flexing her injured arm, pointed at the scorch mark. “Just him.”

“No…” Willow murmured, shaking her head. “No, of course not. Hallucinations brought on by sheer terror, obviously.” She straightened her collar. “Honestly, Faith, were you hastening to my aid or taking your time?”

Faith smirked. “Hastening, of course. You think I wanted him to rip your head off?”

Willow flexed her sore neck, grimacing as she glanced down at her once-favourite grey suit, now plastered with sticky blue ichor. “Splendid. No wounds to show for my near-death experience, and a ruined suit. I suppose I’ll have nothing decent to wear to work tomorrow. Oh, here I am worried about my clothes…are you okay, Faith?”

Faith, clutching her shoulder, chuckled. Retrieving her sword and the crossbow, she slung both under one arm. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse accidents getting out of the bath.”

“That crossbow’s bloody useless,” Willow muttered. She did not often resort to such foul language, but she was furious and terrified. “I’ll be giving Giles a piece of my mind.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. She demonstrated flicking a small lever on the crossbow. “Safety latch, Will.”

“Oh.” Willow flushed scarlet. “Let’s not mention that to Giles, shall we?”

Faith clapped her on the back. “Come on. I need to report to Croft and get a cleaning team in here.”

Willow huffed as she followed her toward the door. “A cleaning team? You mean people actually go around mopping up after demons?”

“Yep. Next time, you bring the bucket and soap.”

“I’ll bring a towel,” Willow grumbled. “To hide behind.”

As the women’s voices faded, a figure rose from the deeper shadows - the same pale-faced woman who had appeared during the struggle. She moved into the centre of the room and gracefully knelt beside the blackened scorch marks and the puddle of melted flesh that marked where the Atramen had fallen. From within her cloak she drew a small stumped bottle and uncorked it. A soft, barely audible incantation slipped from her lips. At once the charred marks trembled; the burned floor lifted like a memory of heat and condensed into a tarred, blackened globe that hovered above the plankwork at the height of the bottle. The shape seemed reluctant to be contained, but with one curt syllable from the woman it flowed into the vial as if a wrong-direction river were obeying a command. When she replaced the stopper the thing within looked no more than common ink. Tucking the bottle safely back beneath her cloak, she reached out and let the tips of her fingers ghost across the empty boards where Willow had fought for her life. The touch was intimate in its gentleness, as though the wood could keep some trace of the living heat. For the merest instant her impassive face cracked - a shadow of loss or absence flitted across it - then she smoothed it away, restoring that composed, almost austere calm.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to kill her now?” a voice cut through the hush like a drawn blade.

She rose as the cloak rustled and turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man loomed in the doorway, his handsome, chiselled features arranged into a mockery of amusement. Brown curls escaped at his collar; his fine suit hung on him like armour. He crossed the room in a few powerful strides and paused at her side. She looked up at him, the white line of her throat exposed as she met his gaze.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Angelus,” she said, cold and flat. “If I were trying to kill her, she would already be dead.” The earlier sadness was gone, sealed beneath a layer of steel.

Angelus laughed, a sound without warmth. “After that display, you would have fooled me,” he replied. “You know our master wants her for himself. The moment she leads him to the skull, he will split the redhead open and drain her dry. He will drink his fill of her blood while his wives bathe in the remainder.”

His hand closed at the nape of her neck in a gesture both caressing and threatening, his thumb pressing into the soft skin as if to soothe and to remind. She tensed beneath it.

“That won’t create a problem for you will it, Tara?” he asked, the question a velveted threat.

No one else would dare rest their boots on Lara Croft’s desk - other than Lara herself, of course. But as afternoon began to edge into early evening, Faith sat back in Croft’s chair, boots perched comfortably on the edge of the desk, a fat cigar balanced between her lips. Rings of smoke spiralled lazily toward the ceiling.

The heavy office door swung open, and Croft entered, expression unchanging even as her eyes met Faith’s. The Director of the British Museum was as elegant as ever, clad in a scarlet dress that mirrored Faith’s jacket. The garment concealed almost every inch of skin yet accentuated her swaying hips, flat stomach, and ample bosom. Croft did not miss the barely veiled look in Faith’s eyes as the younger woman limped across the floor to perch on the corner of the desk.

“What makes you think you can get away with this behaviour?” Lara asked, reaching out to grasp the offending cigar.

Faith parted her lips, curling them into a sly smile as Croft removed the foul-smelling cigar and dropped it into a half-empty teacup on the desk. Faith slid her booted feet down, leaning forward, elbows propped on the desk, bringing her face closer. Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to smoulder. Faith’s grin lingered. Croft’s lips curved briefly before a mask of severity replaced it.

The tension broke when Croft slid from the desk and limped toward the window. Faith’s glance followed discreetly, noting the effort it cost her. Croft stood opposite, unobstructed, gazing down on Great Russell Street below. Faith leaned an elbow on the desk, swivelling to watch her.

“Look at them,” Lara whispered softly, eyes tracing the scurrying crowd. “If only they realised the danger that surrounds them every day of their lives.”

“Then we wouldn’t be doing our job properly,” Faith replied.

“True,” Lara nodded curtly, then furrowed her brow as if recalling why she had summoned Faith.

Faith supplied the missing piece, “My report?”

Lara shook her head. “Your report can be delivered in writing. I wanted to see you for another reason.”

“Oh?” Faith’s voice carried hope.

“I need you to keep a close eye on Rosenberg,” Lara said quietly.

“Oh.” Faith repeated the word, softer now, tinged with mock disappointment. “Such a request hardly needs stating…Sometimes I feel I exist solely to watch Willow, platonically, of course.” She chuckled, remembering Willow’s awkward response to her declaration of love the day before.

“Is my request funny, Winters?” Lara’s brow quirked; the joke had sailed over her head.

“No, of course not,” Faith shook her head. “But I don’t understand why you’re asking me specifically. Watching Willow comes naturally. For you to ask…there must be danger.”

“The truthful answer?” Lara’s voice was quiet, distant. “I don’t know. She could be in danger, or this could all be a ridiculous mistake. Until I find out otherwise, we should take it seriously.”

“That task would be easier if I had more information,” Faith suggested subtly.

“That I cannot give you,” Lara replied, turning back to the street. “Just protect her…especially from herself.”

“You know I will,” Faith promised, sliding the chair back, moving behind Croft, and lowering her voice. “Anything I can do before I beg my leave?”

Lara tilted her head slightly, lips curling. “I can think of a number of things…But I have work to finish and you are a dangerous distraction, Winters. I think you should leave me to it.”

Faith murmured her assent, close enough to feel the warmth of Lara’s neck. She slipped from the room just in time to miss the reluctant sigh Lara released.

Jasper allowed himself a small thrill at being the sole person in the basement of the British Museum. Giles had departed minutes earlier, leaving him to polish the long rack of swords arrayed before him - at least twenty of varying shapes, sizes, and metals. Massive double-handed broadswords stood beside delicate rapiers with elaborate hilts. Some blades were folded steel of the finest quality; others were made entirely of silver, designed for vampires and twenty-two other demons with a weakness to silver. Jasper ran through the list in his head as he worked on Faith’s second-favourite blade, a double-edged Sudanese kaskara – personally gifted to her by the Mahdi. Her favourite, of course, never left her side.

With no one else around, Jasper happily recited the demon list aloud, “Fumian, Catellus, Sicarius…umm, Lemures demon…” He scrunched his nose, recalling the book on demonology he’d been sneaking from Willow’s office. “No, they can’t be killed by silver—just beheading…Utionis, I think…Damn, I wish Willow were here to check my answers!”

He replaced the kaskara carefully and drew the last weapon in the rack, an intricate Moghul dagger Faith often carried concealed when she wore a dress. Jasper whistled happily as he polished it, tilting the blade away from his body. He liked its small size - it carved easily through the air. Glancing around to ensure he was alone, he set aside his cloth and stood in a clear space.

“En garde!” he shouted, adopting a stance he’d often seen Faith use in training. He lunged forward, stabbing at an imagined foe. “Ha! Don’t even think about getting past me!”

He slashed, jabbed, and parried against the invisible opponent, finishing with a flourish. “You’ll rue the day you met Jasper Evans!”

Reluctantly, he returned to polishing - but as he prepared to sit, every light in the workroom blinked out. Pitch black enveloped him. The dagger trembling in his grip, Jasper groped for the object he had ‘borrowed’ from Giles’ workroom earlier – one of the beamlights. Fingers closing around it, he flicked the switch, and a weak yellow glow illuminated the space. Relief washed over him…until he heard footsteps in the hall beyond, in the direction of Willow’s office. A wry smile crossed his face; it was probably his favourite colleague, having returned after leaving work early.

Guiding himself with the beamlight, Jasper moved toward the door, dagger at the ready just in case. The footsteps grew faint, leaving only the rasp of his own breath. He reached the door and shifted the light to his sword hand, grasping the knob. The hinges screamed as he opened it.

Peeking into the corridor, light swinging left then right, he saw nothing.

“Willow?” he whispered, voice low. “Faith?”

Moving cautiously toward Willow’s office, he shivered as the temperature seemed to drop. His hair stood on end; the sword and beamlight wobbled in his hands.

The office was ajar and empty, papers scattered, nothing obviously disturbed. Embarrassment replaced fear. Probably the caretaker had turned off the lights by mistake. Jasper resolved to tell no one about his little fright.

Then the beam of light was swallowed. Darkness stood in the doorway - a deep hood with only a pale chin visible. In that instant, the sword and light slipped from his fingers as the figure surged forward. Jasper stumbled back, and the last thing he saw before his head collided with the corner of a chair were a pair of brilliant, burning blue eyes.

Chapter Text

21st December 1787

For these past few weeks since Edward’s proposal, I have thought of nought besides my beloved W. Despite the few brief words we exchanged at Sir John’s party some months past, I have felt our mutual passion neither forgotten nor diminished. Without spoken assurances, I have laboured and suffered, hoping and praying that W felt the same keen longing. Throughout boredom-fraught nights at home with my parents, and attending parties on Edward’s arm, I have kept my suffering to myself. Though I made Edward swear to postpone any announcement of an engagement, I could still hear whispers all around. I can see the matrons now, chins wagging incessantly, gossiping about matters that are none of their concern! How I loathe them!

I cannot keep denying Edward his answer; soon, even he will grow weary of my apparent indecision and appeal directly to my father. Then I shall have no say in my own marriage and be forever wed to a man whom I do not love.

Fearful depression held me until last night, when it became evident that I had not suffered alone. W felt the separation as keenly as I, and she had been dying to see me! All this - and much more, far more - I discovered last night. What a glorious revelation it was!

Edward’s parents hosted a sumptuous Christmas party for the neighbouring families of note. While compelled to attend by virtue of my relationship with their son, I acquiesced with little quarrel, hoping that W would also be present. I confess, my enjoyment increased considerably when Edward fell prey to a head cold and was compelled to remain in bed throughout the festivities. Left untroubled, I was free to partake in the pleasures of the evening.

As I made my rounds with my father, fending off inquiries and comments regarding my impending engagement, I sensed a ripple pass through the assembled company. I turned towards the entrance, and my heart soared as W walked in on her brother’s arm. Every young lady (and many a matron and spinster too) swooned at the sight of the dashing Captain, while eligible bachelors held their breath upon glimpsing his sister. Her green silk gown rendered all others pale in comparison, perfectly tailored to show her tiny waist and creamy shoulders, with the merest hint of modest cleavage. Her gorgeous red locks, which I so adored, were piled in curls atop her head before cascading further down her neck. Jealousy surged within me at the thought of so many admiring eyes upon her, yet it vanished swiftly when I saw her gaze roam the crowd, passing over each onlooker until it rested upon mine.

A small smile curved the corner of her lips, and I felt suddenly vulnerable, questioning whether I had chosen the right gown or coiffure. She whispered something to her brother, whose knowing glance then fell upon me. Confusion was replaced by rapture a moment later as she left his side and began threading her way through the crowd. She ignored invitations to dance, conversation, all eyes upon her, yet her gaze never wavered from mine. When she finally reached me, her first movement was to brush her fingertips lightly against my wrist. I almost swooned into her arms as she spoke clearly, words that echo still in my mind:

“Would you take a turn about the room with me?”

My own voice faltered, my damnable stutter betraying me, yet I conveyed my agreement. Linking her arm through mine, I was rendered speechless. The feel of her smooth skin, the close proximity of her body, almost overwhelmed me. My heart raced, despite the sedate pace at which we moved through the crowded room. She must have noticed, for she commented lightly upon my flushed cheeks. Indeed, my palm was burning to the touch.

Her suggestion to retire to a more secluded corner was welcomed, and as we exited the hall, a weight lifted from my shoulders, though my heart would not cease its frantic beating. 

The small rooms adjacent to the hall were too crowded for comfort, containing at most half a dozen people. Recalling my childhood familiarity with the Walsh house, I led W to a well-hidden alcove beneath the ground-floor stairs. A smile crossed her face as she recognised my intent, and moments later I was no longer the instigator. She pressed me into the shadowed space, our backs against the wall, and we were alone together for the first time since that windswept day in the stable - the difference being the increased depth of our mutual affection. 

My legs felt as though they had lost all strength, and it was only the weight of her body pressed to mine that kept me upright - though with her held so tightly against me, falling was nigh impossible. I could see little of her face in the darkness save the faint gleam of her eyes, yet all my other senses were alive. I felt her heartbeat matching mine, our breath mingling in the scant space between us, our palms joined and slick with warmth. 

Though my recollection of her exact words may falter, I remember the moment itself with perfect clarity. 

“Are you feeling quite well?” she whispered, her voice scarcely more than a tremor as her hand rose to cup my cheek. 

“I-I do believe,” I managed between shallow breaths, “that you have rendered me incapable of both speech and movement.”

Her reply came with a soft laugh, low and sure: “Then allow me to do the moving.”

A heartbeat later, her lips found mine in the darkness.

I had dreamt of that moment since our first meeting, but no dream could have matched its reality. What began as a tender, tentative touch deepened swiftly into something urgent and consuming. I was dimly aware of my face paint smudging and of the damp between our palms, yet I cared for neither. My arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer still. One of her hands remained at my face, tracing my cheek and neck, while the other pressed firmly at my hip as though to claim me.

That first stolen kiss in the stable seemed a chaste, girlish thing compared to what passed between us now. My cheeks burn even as I write these words, for her mouth was bold, her lips hot against mine, and I tasted something both sweet and fierce that I shall never forget. In her touch there was longing - equal to my own - and when she drew me nearer still, when I heard the low sound that escaped her throat, I knew beyond doubt that her yearning matched mine. I was hers utterly. I swore then that I would never belong to Edward Walsh. 

Time dissolved. When at last we parted, both gasping for air, I knew not whether minutes or hours had passed - only that I did not wish it to end. My whole body seemed aflame with some new and wondrous heat. 

“I need you,” she murmured hoarsely against my ear, her lips trailing down my neck. “By the heavens, I need you so badly.” 

Her words rendered me mute. I scarcely understood what it was she asked of me. All I knew was that she held me, kissed me still, and I trembled under her touch. Her lips moved lower, over the curve of my shoulder and the edge of my bodice, and I felt her breath upon my skin. A sound escaped my lips - half gasp, half sigh - as she whispered against me, “I wish I could have more of you… I cannot bear it.” 

Before I could answer, a heavy tread shook the stairs above our heads. We froze. Voices echoed – the laughter of young men, coarse and close. They passed by, unaware, while we stood pressed together, silent but for the pounding of our hearts.

Even after they had gone, I would have lingered there all night, hidden beneath the stairs in her arms. But reason, cruel reason, intruded. We both knew we must return to the hall, to the lights and the dancing, to our appointed roles. I was expected to dance with Mr. Walsh’s father; and W would no doubt be surrounded by admirers. That word – duty - has never sounded more dreadful to me.

With one last lingering kiss and trembling hands that tried to smooth our crumpled gowns, we stepped once more into the world of company and light. Through the remainder of the evening I caught but fleeting glimpses of her, each one a pang. She moved with her usual grace, radiant and admired by all. Never have I seen a woman more in favour. She was the very jewel of the evening. 

When at last her brother came to escort her to their carriage, she passed me once more. Her fingers brushed mine in secret, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. I knew their meaning, for my own heart mirrored her sorrow at parting. 

It is near midnight as I write these words, and still I feel the ghost of her lips against mine. Her voice echoes in my ear, and a fire stirs within me that will not be quieted. I understand now what she meant when she said she needed me - for I need her with equal fervour, body and soul alike.

Early January 1897

London

Willow knew something was amiss the moment she arrived early at the museum – it was not yet eight. For one, Faith was already there - a rarity in itself - and a small cluster of staff had gathered near the entrance to her workspace. The thought of anyone rifling through her meticulous records made her stomach tighten. Not to mention the delicate matter of the portrait tucked inside A Treatise on Witchcraft, capable of provoking any number of awkward questions.

She broke into a run for the last stretch of the corridor, heart hammering in her chest, and skidded to a halt at the office door. Peering inside, her concerns for personal property evaporated. Jasper sat slumped in her chair, beside a physician who had just finished wrapping a thick bandage around his head. Croft lingered nearby, her posture tense and uncomfortable as if standing on her bad leg had become a trial, while Faith leaned casually against a stack of Greek history volumes, elbow pressed heavily on a two-hundred-year-old copy of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. The instant Willow’s glare found her, Faith straightened and removed her elbow with an exaggerated air of innocence.

“Jasper, are you alright?” Willow asked, moving to stand beside Giles, who lingered just inside the doorway.

Jasper’s face was almost as white as the bandage swathing his hair, but he managed a nod. “Just a wee knock, tis all.”

“I recommend retiring to bed at once,” the physician added with a professional calm, excusing himself to allow the staff to extract the details of Jasper’s encounter.

Faith’s voice cut through the room, cool and clipped. “Someone broke into the department last night. Jasper disturbed the intruder and, poor man, was struck in the process.”

“Well…” Jasper began, wringing his hands awkwardly, “I don’t think I was hit as such…more like the chair hitting the back of my head as I fell.”

“See,” Faith said, crossing the room to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “the brave young man has a concussion. It looked as though he tried to fight off the intruder - we even found one of my daggers beside him.”

Scarlet spread quickly across Jasper’s cheeks. He ducked his head, fiddling with his jacket cuff, aware of every pair of eyes in the room fixed on him.

“Giles said it was fine to stay behind. I was just finishing with the weapons when the lights went out. I thought it was the caretaker, but…” Jasper’s voice trailed off.

“I interviewed the caretaker this morning,” Lara interjected smoothly. “He’d already finished for the night at the time Jasper remembered the lights going out. None of the security guards were near this department at the time.”

Jasper nodded, the colour draining from his face again. “I had the beamlight with me…” Giles cleared his throat discreetly at the mention of the ‘borrowed’ light, prompting a guilty smile from Jasper. “So I went to investigate. Not much to say, really - I heard a noise outside the workroom and thought it was coming from Willow’s office. But when I turned, there was no one there…then she rushed at me. Her face…that’s the last thing I remember.”

“She?” Faith’s surprise was evident. “Jasper, this is the first time you’ve suggested it was a woman. Are you certain?”

Jasper nodded eagerly. “Absolutely! Pale skin, long blonde hair framing her face, and the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen…beautiful, and terrifying all at once.”

Willow felt the blood drain from her face. Surely it was not…But that description could belong to no one else. She crossed the floor and crouched by her desk, the weight of every gaze upon her, and drew a small object from her bottom drawer. Rising carefully, she kept it close to her chest, heart hammering.

“Will, are you alright?” Faith asked quietly, suspicion threading her tone. “Do you have something to add?”

Willow’s lips parted, but all she could manage was a trembling, “Ignore me. I just need to develop this film - I had a thought…”

Under the combined weight of every pair of eyes, Willow fled the office, clutching the camera to her chest like a lifeline.

Once safely shut in the department’s darkroom, Willow allowed herself a moment to replay everything Jasper had said. His brief description fit the woman she had glimpsed in the park and again in the warehouse too neatly to be mere coincidence. True, there were undoubtedly many women with pale skin and blue eyes - but Willow knew there was only one who had a habit of appearing at the oddest moments, where she ought not to have been.

Moving methodically to develop the film, she could not stop her mind from spinning. Connections begged to be made between the strange events and this elusive woman, but the necessary information remained maddeningly out of reach. Going straight to the source would be ideal - but Willow knew nothing of her. Who she was, where she lived…only that she desperately wanted to speak to her.

Nearly half an hour later, a little high from the chemicals, Willow lifted the photograph from the tray. Even as it had developed, she had noticed something peculiar in the centre. Carefully pegging the photo on the string above her, she studied it with mounting disbelief. Where the blonde woman should have stood - where Willow remembered her standing perfectly on the day she’d taken the photo - there was nothing.

Nothing, though that wasn’t quite right. Trees, grass, and several blurry figures populated the background, but the woman herself was absent. Willow’s eyes narrowed. She remembered exactly where the woman had been. That spot was the very centre of the frame.

Staring at the photograph for several long moments, Willow realized that no amount of squinting would conjure her image. It wasn’t simply a matter of awkward camera angle or missed timing - she knew the woman had been there. And as a demon researcher, one of the foremost authorities in the world, she also knew exactly which kind of demon did not appear on film. The paleness, the sudden disappearances, the timing…everything added up, except for one glaring detail. Both sightings of the individual had been broad daylight.

Willow didn’t know whether to thrill at the prospect of publishing a groundbreaking paper on daylight-walking vampires, or to panic at the fact that she had, without a shadow of doubt, fallen for one.

Faith caught up to her in the corridor a moment later, her expression curious.

“Who did you think would be in the picture, Will?”

“Ah…no one. Just a thought,” Willow mumbled, silently screaming at herself: I’m in love with a bloody vampire! What if Faith finds out? Oh god, don’t let Faith find out…don’t let Faith find out!

Recovering just enough composure, she added aloud, “Um, Faith, I’m going to do an inventory of my office. Do tell me if you uncover any further information, won’t you?”

“Certainly, but…” Faith hesitated, clearly wanting to press the matter, but Willow had already turned and was making her way down the hall at a cracking pace, determined to lose herself in her work before the implications of her discovery could overwhelm her.

Willow saw Faith again that afternoon, after spending several tortured hours trying to determine if anything in her office had been disturbed, all the while struggling to suppress thoughts of the woman who haunted her every waking moment. Given the state of disorganisation that was her filing system, it had been a laborious - and largely fruitless - endeavour, leaving her hot, flustered, and still entirely unsuccessful at forgetting.

“Did you find anything missing?” Faith asked immediately, stepping into Willow’s office to find her seated cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled past her elbows.

“Do you think I even know what I had to start with?” Willow threw up her hands in exasperation. “The only thing I can think might be missing is that diary you brought back from Eastern Europe…though Jasper could have taken it. He did have his beady eyes on it yesterday, and I can’t ask now because Lara sent him home to rest.”

“Mmhmm,” Faith said thoughtfully. “He did seem very interested. Do you think he’d be capable of deciphering it?”

Willow shrugged. Jasper was far cleverer than most gave him credit for. Perhaps he had even wanted to translate it to impress her. “I should stop worrying about the diary - Jasper probably has it. But I did consider the possibility it may have been taken. I remember reading an entry in the catalogue yesterday that caught my eye. It might even refer to the diary.”

She rose to her feet, moved to her desk, and opened the library catalogue from Tirgsor. Flicking through the pages, she stopped at the very last entry. Tracing her finger across the page, she read aloud, “Aha! Here it is, ‘Miscellaneous, deposited by W. Van Helsing, seventeen ninety-five.’”

Faith shrugged, unconvinced. “That could be anything…why would it be the diary?”

“Firstly,” Willow said, her eyes narrowing, “there is nearly a hundred-year gap between this entry and the previous one. The date of deposit roughly corresponds to the dates in the diary itself, which began in seventeen eighty-seven, I believe. Secondly - doesn’t the name Van Helsing ring sound familiar?”

“Are you thinking of old Abe?” Faith asked dubiously. “It could have been a common name at the time.”

“Van Helsing…I doubt it,” Willow echoed incredulously. Her tone left no room for doubt. “I’m going to research it, find out if he had family, children, perhaps siblings…There’s a commonality here. It may have nothing to do with the intruder, but my curiosity has been piqued.”

“Heaven help us all! Well, Will, I don’t know what on earth is going on here,” Faith said, fixing Willow with a sharp look, “but my instincts tell me we’re on the cusp of something big…and I don’t like it one bit.”

Willow arched an eyebrow. “Since when were you the prophecy girl?”

“Since everyone in this damn department started acting decidedly strange. First, you fall in love - and it’s with a woman who quite possibly broke in and hit Jasper over the head. Then you’re saving my life, which is strange enough in itself. And Lara-” Faith paused, her voice dropping slightly, “-is acting like she’s your bloody mother.”

“Why is Croft acting like she’s my mother?” Willow asked, frowning, while a small, secret voice in her head screamed, I’m in love with a vampire!

Faith bit her lip, as though caught off guard. “Ah, no reason. Ignore my ranting…”

“And more to the point,” Willow pressed. “Why are you referring to Croft as Lara?”

This time it was Faith who seemed flustered. After a few mumbled words that Willow couldn’t quite make out - though they sounded distinctly like you ask too many questions - Faith exited the office. Willow thought she caught a glimpse of one very red cheek as the door swung shut.

Willow muttered to herself as she paced the footpath toward her flat, having worked late and watched the sun fold beneath the horizon. Dusk had long since yielded to night and the gas lamps were in full glow as she fumbled in her satchel. A minute of rustling papers and muttered curses passed before she sighed in relief, found the key, and fitted it into the lock. She slipped inside unaware of the figure that had stepped from shadow across the road to watch her.

The cloaked shape waited beneath the streetlight for a heartbeat, the lamp throwing stark planes across a pale face until it seemed to glow. She paused, her gaze lingering on the spot where Willow had stood, then drew her cowl about her white hair and moved off. Her footfalls were barely a whisper on the cobbles. She did not notice, at first, the tall, broad-shouldered man who fell into step at her side—nor did she seem surprised by his nearness.

He swaggered, leather coat whipping, his voice thick with a cockney burr that contrasted with the woman’s cooler tones. “Blimey, I’ll never get why you gotta skulk after ’er at night as well,” he said. “Any one o’ us could do the tailin’—or take a nibble, if that’s what the boss fancies.”

“Because, William,” she replied coldly. “Our master cannot trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

He gave a crooked grin. “An’ you can, can you?”

She ignored him. “Imagine his displeasure if the girl were found face-down in a gutter after you’d had your way with her.” Her words were not a threat so much as a ward.

“Can’t blame a poor sod for wantin’ a bit o’ that,” William muttered, hunching his shoulders like a scolded schoolboy.

“That which you so charmingly refer to is not yours,” she said, casting him a sidelong look full of quiet disgust.

“Well then, I s’pose you think she’s yours, eh, Tara?” he jeered.

She quickened her pace, hating the company of men like William. None of us are human any longer, she thought, and yet I still name us men and women as though that made any of it less monstrous.

They halted at the pair ahead - Angelus arrayed possessively around a small woman. The latter, wrapped in a heavy fur and a Cossack hat, looked petulant rather than imperious.

“Angelus. Elizabeth,” Tara murmured a flat greeting.

“I tire of this nothingness!” the small woman declared, voice sharp with hunger. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from her hat. “I’m hungry and I want to hunt!”

“And we shall, my sweet,” Angelus crooned, offering the briefest, mocking kiss to the tiny hand she proffered. Then, with his smile sharpened by scorn, he added, “Tara appears as though she spends her days gazing forlornly at her long-lost mortal.”

Tara sighed, weary. “My mortal life held an infatuation with Willow Van Helsing. I am no longer that woman - and Willow Van Helsing is long since dead.”

“Lost many a good mate to that bitch,” William growled under his breath.

Angelus’s eyes glittered. “We should string her up and carve pieces from her until she gives us the skull’s hiding place,” he suggested, squeezing the small woman a little closer.

“Still hungry!” Elizabeth snapped, stamping her foot like an offended child.

“Gentlemen - and Elizabeth,” Tara said slowly, calming as though speaking to children, “Willow Van Helsing has lain in the ground for over a hundred years. This mortal is not Willow Van Helsing; she does not know where the skull lies. I continue to believe Abraham Van Helsing hid it away - torturing this girl will not bring us closer.”

“Then why keep ’er breathin’?” William asked, voice rough with impatience.

“And why did you not tell me yesterday that you believe she does not know where the skull is?” Angelus demanded. “We are wasting time.”

“We are not,” Tara replied, steadier than she felt. “The Rosenberg girl will eventually lead us to the skull - but she needs to be given time and the right information.”

“What information?” Angelus arched an eyebrow.

“I have it in hand,” Tara answered quietly, firmly.

Angelus shrugged, unconvinced. “Very well. We’ll give her time—but if she fails, I will do it my way. I do not think there will be much left for our master to drink.”

“You torture me with talk of food!” Elizabeth whined, baring her fangs.

Angelus’s jaw tightened. “We will go to the river and find someone who will not be missed.”

“Dirty blood! I want clean, sweet blood!” Elizabeth stamped again.

“Then that is what you shall have. Tara—will you join us?” Angelus asked as he began to steer the small woman away.

“Thank you,” Tara replied, “but I am not hungry.”

William, catching up, gave a leer as he passed. “Bet your girl’s clean an’ sweet, ain’t she? Gonna ’ave a taste soon enough—you know that, don’t yer?”

He laughed shortly and swaggered off. Tara watched them go, the sight of their backs leaving her oddly hollow. When they had vanished into the night she turned and retraced her steps toward the flat where Wilhelmina Rosenberg lay sleeping. She folded herself into shadow across the street and watched—an hour passed, then two—until the lights behind the windows went out and dawn blanched the sky.

Willow’s feet dragged as she stumbled into the flat, exhausted after a day spent untangling the previous night’s events - the mysterious intruder, Jasper swathed in bandages, and the image of his pale, frightened face as he recounted what he had seen. Her mind churned over his description of the woman, and her unease deepened when she remembered the photograph. A perfect frame, and yet the centre was empty.

Her eyelids felt leaden as she let her satchel fall carelessly onto the kitchen table. She didn’t pause for food, moving instead to her bedroom, methodically stripping off her clothes. Her suit lay in a crumpled heap on the floor before she remembered that it was now the only one she owned – her grey suit ruined just yesterday. With a resigned sigh, she gathered it up and hung it in the closet, momentarily sinking into thoughts of the tedious shopping that lay ahead.

She reached under her pillow for her stripy pyjamas - and froze. A foreign object rested neatly atop the pillow. The diary. It looked as though it had been there all along, placed with deliberate care. Panic flared in her chest. She checked the window latches and the door; everything was secure. And she distinctly remembered unlocking the door herself.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, voice sharp, clutching the book as though it might leap at her. “Stupid… it’s a diary. A damned, possessed diary!”

She kept a wary eye on it as she pulled on her pyjamas, half-expecting the book to act. But it remained still, inert, even when she flicked off the main lights and left only the lamp by her bed. Hesitantly, she plucked the diary from the pillow. She couldn’t very well sleep with it there. Holding it against her chest, she folded herself beneath the sheets.

And then, inexplicably, the cipher that had confounded her for so long suddenly seemed clear, as if the author had written it in a language she instinctively understood. Letters and symbols aligned effortlessly in her mind, no more obscure than Latin or Greek.

She opened to the first page opposite the inscription - and the words practically leapt out at her.

She could scarce hear her own thoughts for the violent beating of her heart.

Chapter Text

15th January 1788

I have so much to say that my pen shakes as I write. I shall attempt to compose myself, though the events of the past few days cling to my mind and skin as though I am still living them.

Several days ago, a letter arrived, written in a clear, crisp hand I did not recognise. I could scarcely contain my delight when the sender turned out to be none other than my own dear W, inviting me to London. I was to be a guest at their townhouse, in the company of both herself and her brother. I shamefully admit that I used the pretext of Edward being in London for the season to conceal my true intent, though I knew full well he was with his regiment in the North. Words cannot describe the joy that coursed through me when Mother granted her leave. She is quite taken with W and her brother, though I wonder how her feelings might change were she to know the truth!

I could hardly imagine the difficulty of arranging a liaison if W were, absurdly, a man (a thought too preposterous to dwell upon), yet even the mere prospect left me frozen in terror. How utterly ironic. I had longed to be alone with my W, and now that opportunity was before me, I scarcely dared to breathe. Dear W, as always, understood my mind and heart better than I did myself, proceeding with all the tenderness and gentle assurance I have come to know. I am fearful to commit the events of last night to paper, yet I ache to preserve more than memory alone.

Let me begin from the beginning, of sorts. Upon my arrival, W and I were obliged to spend the evening in the company of her brother’s acquaintances. Fine fellows, all, yet I wished they would take their leave, for my entire being longed to be alone with W - and I knew she felt the same. Throughout the evening, she cast discreet glances in my direction that set my cheeks aflame. Her intent was written so plainly in her gaze…she was undressing me with her eyes.

Prior to my acquaintance with W, I scarcely considered what it might be like to stand bare before another. I had overheard whispers among older, married women, speaking in hushed tones of acts so private they could not be discussed even among confidantes - hurried duties performed beneath the sheets. Yet I now understand that what passes between two souls in such moments is far removed from the mechanical or the hurried; it is an intimacy that sears itself into memory…though, I confess, some part of our encounter did indeed take place beneath the sheets.

When the good Captain’s companions finally departed, and he himself took leave for the night, a rush of panic seized me. I was alone with W - not in a stable, not beneath the stairs, and not among spiders - but in a proper room, unobserved. The unseemliness of our solitude was starkly apparent: two young, unmarried lovers, together in the privacy of the night.

I studied her face, unencumbered by the fear of gossiping matrons. Her entire visage seemed alight with an inner glow, and if that were possible, she appeared even more beautiful than ever. Her lips moved, whispering words I could not hear, and my heart trembled at their unseen cadence.

“Are you quite alright?” Her voice finally reached me, drawing me back from my reverie.

I felt my cheeks flame as I realized how foolish I must have appeared. “Pardon me…you seem to have a habit of rendering me speechless.”

She laughed, tossing her flaming hair with exaggerated abandon. “Unintentional on my part, of course…although I am exceptionally handsome.”

I joined in the laugh. “And modest too.”

We lingered in that space, only a few paces apart, before she surged forward and took my hands in hers. I felt a surge of life, an electric thrill as our skin touched and her fingers entwined with my own. She lifted each hand in turn to her lips, depositing a kiss on the back of my hand. So chaste a gesture, and yet I felt my very loins quiver with the same fervent need I had known the last time her lips touched me. 

When her bowed head rose again, I saw in her eyes the unmistakable shimmer of passion…and unshed tears. “I must admit that my intentions tonight are not entirely honourable…in truth, they are not honourable at all. I know what I want…yet I do not know what you desire. Whether you crave conversation, or a bed…It has been a long evening entertaining, and I fear you may be exhausted and in need of sleep…alone.” 

I was immensely pleased to hear that the last word was added on somewhat regretfully, as though the thought of me going to sleep alone was the worst manner in which to end the evening. I must admit that I was momentarily speechless once again. As I cursed my thick tongue, I was amazed that this young woman, possessing all the confidence and wit that she did, should be seeking direction from me! I knew exactly what I wanted. Even if I did not possess the words to fully make it known, I knew I could show her.

With brazenness I did not know I possessed, I drew her hands around my waist and moved into her body. I then claimed her lips with my own in a display of pure passion, full of heated breath and urgency.

I showed W exactly how I felt with the intense, almost bruising pressure of my lips on her own. My own hands snaked around her waist and roamed over her clothed body. As I felt nothing but maddening silk beneath my fingers, I felt a rising anger flow through my body. How desperately I wanted my fingers to roam over her naked flesh!  

Mere seconds later I felt her knees buckle and we both tumbled into the cushioned sofa that sat behind us. I found myself lying a top her body, my weight pressing her back into the cushions, faces still just as close as they had been when we were kissing. Her eyes were glazed over with what I realised was desire and I knew she needed me right where my thigh was now pressed between her legs. I thrust forward experimentally, pressing my weight directly at the apex of her thighs beneath all that fabric. I heard a sharp intake of breath and saw her eyes close as her head tilted back. A small smile crossed my face at the thought of the power I possessed over her; just a slight shifting of my weight was enough to draw low moans from the back of her throat. I then buried my face in her neck as I continued to move against her body, sucking gently on the sweet skin I found there. Keeping my body moving, I moved my lips over her jaw line and found the creamy skin covering her shoulder blades.  

Her fitted bodice barred further descent but, after a pause to collect my wits, I tugged the sleeves of her gown down over her shoulders with both hands. I dislodged the bodice enough to free her breasts from within its confines, feeling a delicious shiver of wanton desire course through my body. I hesitantly reached out to touch them with just the mere tips of my fingers. As soon as my skin came into contact with hers we both gasped. While I cannot say why the sound emerged from W’s throat, I gasped because I had never imagined touching skin so smooth. As I ran my fingertips over her pale skin, I thought that perhaps I was touching silk rather than flesh. I had been avoiding touching the darkened area of skin at the centre where her tiny nipples nestled. While I do not want to describe my exploration of her breasts as an experiment, I nevertheless felt as though that was exactly what I was doing. Everything was a new experience, from her nipples hardening beneath my ministrations to the way she tasted when I took her flesh into my mouth. As my tongue rolled over her budded nipple, I heard her gasp my name. Emboldened, I increased the pace of my attentions until I was tasting as much of her as I could. My hands left her shoulders as I felt her quiver beneath me touch. I knew I wanted to give her more.

I proceeded purely by instinct. Of course I had no experience of touching a woman’s body other than my own and even then only in the most perfunctory manner, with none of the lingering caresses I now laid on W’s flesh. My hands moved downwards, seeking the heat between her legs.

“Oh god…please!” she breathed through her teeth.

I could barely hear her whisper but it did not matter, I knew instinctively what she sought. Trembling, I grasped a handful of silken gown and petticoats and drew everything upwards. I ran my hands over her calves and knees, private places that no unmarried women of good breeding would allow a lover to stroke. I continued to move the fabric up her body until it lay bunched around her hips. Feeling like a simpleton, I fumbled at the tie on her drawers and it seemed to take forever to loosen. I was not surprised when W’s hands moved with mine to remove her cumbersome undergarments. In moments, after the offending garment was pulled downwards, I was left frozen with fear as she lay bare before me. Nestled between her pale, white thighs I was presented with a view of her sex, as mysterious as it was.  

Given my close proximity to her, I could smell an inviting scent that was rich and warm. As I came to the realisation that it was hers and hers alone, I was struck by the sudden desire to drink it in, to taste it as though it were some nectar that I had to imbibe to survive. I shifted my weight on the couch, moving down so I could lie between her legs and, as an opening move, press my nose against her downy hair. 

I inhaled deeply for the first time and felt a rush to my head that had little to do with breathing and everything to do with the intoxicating aroma of her. Tentatively I nuzzled my nose against her and I heard her gasp above me just as I felt her thrust her hips upwards. With her movement I suddenly found my nose buried within the slit of her folds and I was forced to inhale even more deeply of her. I heard the breathing issue forth hoarse and fast from her throat as though she were engaged in some form of exertion.  

“Taste me…please,” she whimpered desperately as I felt her run a trembling hand through my hair.  

My tongue flicked out, again tentatively until I tasted of her fully and realised just how sweet she was. Any hesitation on my part disappeared and I eagerly explored the slick folds that lay beneath her red hair, no longer hidden to me. As my tongue passed over the nub, I heard a groan tear itself from her throat. I explored that tiny parcel of flesh and was rewarded with the sound of further groaning. I sinfully decided that I enjoyed such sounds immensely and made it my vow to elicit as many as I could. It must have been agreeable to W also as she grasped my head with both hands, keeping my attention fixed in place. As I rolled the flesh about with my tongue, alternating it with firm strokes, her hips began to buck upwards, pushing her sex against my face with each stroke. In order to avoid being thrown off by her wild movements, I locked my arms around her thighs in a firm grip. Sounds continued to come from her throat, some sounding as though they came from her very gut, while others were almost silent, just slight whimpers that barely exited her throat. Sometimes her lips formed actual words, mostly my name spoken in a variety of tones…sometimes words of encouragement. In more urgent tones she spoke of needing release, although at that point I did not realise what she needed.  

Several minutes later I realised, when my chin was coated in a layer of her warm juice and nothing but insistent, incoherent sounds came from her mouth. Her hips thrust upwards against my face one last time, her bottom remaining off the couch as she froze in that position while what she called her ‘release’ came. I did not stop the movement of my tongue. Although I had begun to feel a decided ache in my jaw, I kept up a steady pace, barely breathing through my nose. Her sex trembled beneath my lips and a hot flood from within her body coursed over my lips. As I was drinking greedily she begged me to stop. I glanced up to find her pressed back against the armrest of the couch, her eyes closed and chest heaving. There was a red flush spreading across her cheeks and I thought perhaps I had harmed her in some way. In a fearful voice I inquired after her health and was relieved to hear her manage a weak laugh.

“Dearest,” she whispered, “Come here.”

She motioned me forward and I laid the length of her body. She did not seem to mind my weight pressing down on her. Then she claimed my lips once again, no doubt tasting deeply the taste of her own sex that covered them. We broke off the kiss, both quite breathless and I settled for propping myself up on an elbow so that I might study her beautiful face, flushed as it was.

“It seems I have corrupted you,” she murmured through a haze of pleasure, her eyes half-lidded and her breath uneven.

“Nothing of the sort,” I replied, my own voice coloured by exhaustion after what could only be described as rather frenetic - and exceedingly satisfying - exertions. “I might easily have made a polite retreat the moment you confessed your less than honourable intentions.” 

“Ah,” W sighed, her mouth curving into a wicked smile, “but then I should have found some means to keep you here - by wit, or beauty, or perhaps by something as scandalous as stealing a kiss and bewitching you with my lips.” 

I could not help but smile. The thought that this elegant, untamed creature, draped languidly upon the couch beneath me, might resort to any means to keep me near sent my heart racing all over again. I leaned down and pressed another kiss to her already swollen lips to show her that no force was needed. 

“I think,” W said at last, moistening her lips, “that this couch is doing dreadful things to my back. We might retire upstairs to my rooms?” 

The gleam in her eyes left me in little doubt as to her meaning, and I required no persuasion. What a scandalous spectacle we must have made - two women, gowns in disarray, making a most ungraceful ascent of the stairs. We could scarcely pass a step without yielding to temptation, pressing each other against the wall for another fevered kiss.

I could write much more of what followed, but with my love lying scarcely an arm’s length from me even now, I can endure the distance no longer. I must have her hands upon me again - and there is so little time before I must return home and resume the life that awaits me there, a life that feels suddenly pale in comparison.

Perhaps, in committing this account to paper, I come perilously close to confessing our love to the world. Though I would surely perish of mortification should another read these words, some part of me thrills at the thought that our passion might, somehow, be known.

Early January 1898

London

Willow slapped the diary shut with a determined finality and practically shoved it beneath her pillow. She backed away from the bed as if the book might leap up and spy on her, until her back met the dresser. Turning, she caught sight of her own red-cheeked face staring back at her. With a muttered curse, she poured cold water from the pitcher into the bowl and splashed it liberally across her cheeks, at a complete loss to explain the flush that had erupted from reading a mere diary entry.

It was just letters on a page, for heaven’s sake - letters that formed words, words that conveyed knowledge, scholarly learning intended for posterity…like Plato or Herodotus, although they wrote in Greek, and this diary, she reminded herself sharply, was written in coded English. Bad, bad, naughty English!

Willow scrubbed until her skin tingled, now even redder from the combination of harsh friction and icy water. Her clothes were pulled on with similar fury, each garment tugged mercilessly into place without regard that her shirt had lain unpressed for the better part of a week.

She continued to stew as she walked to work, only pausing to berate herself for forgetting her coat. Thus she was decidedly blue-lipped upon arrival at the British Museum – the usually comforting halls unable to clear her mind. The wretched words from the diary were etched into her vision, repeating themselves over and over as though they had taken residence in her memory, rather than on the page.

This is ridiculous, she thought, exasperated. I’m remembering… making love… to a beautiful woman as though it were yesterday. I did no such thing, nor am I likely to, and yet here I am - red-faced, distracted. And now Faith is walking toward me. Just try to look normal.

Faith paused ahead in the corridor, evidently waiting. She spotted Willow immediately; the flushed cheeks, the tense posture, the distracted gait - all told her something was amiss. She moved swiftly to intercept her.

“Morning, Will,” Faith said simply. “How’s business?”

“Fine,” Willow muttered, ducking her head. “I’m on my way to the library to do some research on Van Helsing… so, if you don’t mind-”

She tried to brush past, only for Faith to grab the strap of her satchel and pull her to a halt. Willow, somewhat grumpy at the interruption, allowed herself to be held, gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“What game are you playing at?” Faith demanded. “I’ve known you to get… obsessive about your research, sure, but never rude. Too busy to stop for a morning chat with your best friend? Okay, I admit I’m not the world’s best conversationalist before lunch, but I’m still me. And unless something’s changed overnight, I’m still your best friend.”

Willow lifted her eyes, mortified. “I wasn’t being rude…I get distracted a lot, I admit it, absent-minded at times, but never rude. It’s just that-”

She faltered. Even with Faith so near, she could not voice the blush-inducing, intimate stirrings the diary had provoked. It was far too personal, too shaming; to confess would be to open a door she had no wish to traverse.

“It’s just that I’m not feeling… quite myself,” she said finally, skirting the truth. “I need to dive into some research, clear my head.”

Faith chuckled. “Most people wouldn’t count research as the best way to clear their heads… but coming from you, I would understand. You’re alright, aren’t you?”

Willow gave a tight-lipped smile and a quick nod. “Yes… all fine. I promise.”

Faith cocked her head, studying her. “You’d tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Willow nodded again, perhaps a little too hastily. “Of course… and I’ll let you know if I discover more about Van Helsing.”

As Faith watched her stride toward the library, she had to resist the urge to follow. Whatever Willow had just said—or hadn’t said—Faith sensed it was significant. Lara’s worries had become her own: something serious was afoot in Willow’s life, and Faith would need to be ready.

With a wall of books piled around her like a makeshift fortress, Willow felt somewhat safer. She filled her head with biographical details of Abraham Van Helsing, most of which proved exceptionally dull. The man appeared to have spent at least fifty years behind a desk, writing articles on museum practice and personally overseeing every square inch of the vast organisation. His personal life remained a mystery; between the lines, Willow gathered he had no living family.

Even for someone who thrived on research, the task was frustratingly unfruitful. She was about to give up when a sudden touch on her shoulder made her jump. Her heart rate slowed when she glanced over to see Giles standing there.

“Giles! What are you doing out of your workshop?” Willow asked, relieved for a distraction.

“Well, I am not confined to the depths of the museum, Willow,” he replied warmly, his gaze falling on the heavy tome she had been reading. “Van Helsing? Any particular reason for looking up the old coot?”

“I’m beginning to think not,” Willow said, closing the book and sneezing as a cloud of dust billowed into the air. “I found a reference to a ‘W. Van Helsing’ in the library catalogue Faith discovered at Tirgsor, and I hoped to discover who that might be. The date of deposit suggests a contemporary of Abraham’s…though probably not family. I can’t see that he had any.”

“Interesting,” Giles replied vaguely.

“And there’s practically nothing on his early life,” Willow continued. “He makes a few references to a military career in later writings, and I believe he was at one point posted to India… it’s maddening.”

“Well, that would be Abe for you.”

Willow looked up sharply. “Giles… you speak as if you knew him. I know you’re old, but you're not that old.”

“Ah, well, of course not…” Giles faltered, failing to catch her teasing. He recovered quickly, though. “But I have done a bit of research myself. He had…interesting ideas.”

Willow snorted. “I wouldn’t choose that word exactly.”

“What word?” Giles asked, frowning slightly.

“Interesting,” she said promptly. “Van Helsing is nothing of the sort.”

“I think you might be surprised if you dig a little deeper,” Giles suggested.

Willow rose, stretching and stifling a yawn. “I honestly don’t see the point. It’s a dead end, a side topic I shouldn’t waste more time on—especially with real work to do.”

“Willow Rosenberg!” Giles snapped, startling her. “Do you not remember anything I taught you? Did I teach you to give up the moment something becomes difficult?”

“No,” Willow admitted, taken aback. “You encouraged me to persevere with everything… you think I should -”

“I don’t think you should do anything, Willow,” Giles interrupted, beginning to move toward the library doors.  “However, if I might make a suggestion, Hampshire would be an excellent place to continue your search.”

Before Willow could question him further, he had disappeared through the large doors into the museum proper. She stood rooted, puzzled and slightly annoyed. Leaving London wasn’t exactly appealing, and going alone was out of the question. She would need to twist Faith’s arm to get her to come along.

The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon. The curtains in Lara Croft’s office were drawn, and only the golden glow of a single electric lamp lit the desk, leaving the cavernous ceiling shrouded in shadow. Most of the room lay in darkness, save for the immediate area around the lamp, where Lara worked, head bent over several pages. Long, delicate fingers held a fountain pen, poised above the page as she read the lines already written. Her brow furrowed in concentration before she continued writing with measured precision.

She had written non-stop for the better part of ten minutes when the door latch rattled. Lara glanced up, setting the pen down. There was no surprise in her expression; Faith was the only person who would dare put her feet up on her desk - or enter without knocking.

Faith’s scarlet jacket was absent, replaced by a plain white shirt and a pair of man’s trousers tucked into riding boots. Her hair, roughly bound, escaped in loose tendrils around her face and neck, as though she had been engaged in some wild exertion. She leaned casually against the bookshelves behind her, arms folded brazenly across her chest.

“In all my years in this business, I’ve never had a more insubordinate employee,” Lara remarked, reclining slightly in her chair, her gaze calm and measured.

Faith’s smile broadened. She straightened, letting her arms drop to her sides as she sauntered across the room. Placing both palms flat on the desk, she leaned toward Lara, her grin unabashed.

“Have you had a chance to read my report yet?” Faith asked, though the playful lilt in her voice suggested the question was merely an excuse.

Lara, reading her intent, allowed a small smile to tug at her lips. Rising slowly - her bad leg stiff from hours of sitting - she moved around the desk to the settee tucked against the far wall. Leaning back against its raised headrest, she drew her skirts and petticoats slightly to reveal a pale, lithe leg, marred by a series of deep scars. Faith’s eyes widened at the raw beauty of the injury and the fleeting expression on Lara’s face: a brief flicker of anguish and disgust.

When Lara met her gaze again, the look was gone, erased as though it had never existed.

“I’ve faced stone statues that come to life, daemon hounds in dozens, vampires, zombies, werewolves, flying demons, subterranean horrors… and the only creature that ever came close to killing me was a bloody crocodile in Australia. I found myself on a wooden table in the middle of nowhere with a knife pressed to the throat of the only doctor for miles around. I swore I’d slit his throat if he cut my leg off.”

“Well… you still have your leg, so I guess he’s still breathing?” Faith replied, a hint of awe in her voice.

“Lucky for both of us,” Lara said wryly, moving to pull her skirts back over the scars. “Sorry… I don’t usually…”

Faith crossed the room before Lara could finish. Warm lips pressed against hers, and Lara tilted her head to meet her. Within moments, the two were locked in a languorous embrace. Lara felt Faith’s hands move over her back, the fabric of her shirt no barrier to the warmth and intensity of the touch. Years of pent-up frustration and longing released in the hot, shared breaths between them.

When Faith’s hand moved beneath her skirts and continued to worm up her leg, beneath her drawers, Lara encouraged her with a slight shifting of weight in her hips. While she had not intended the movement to come across as a blatant thrust against Faith’s hand, that was nevertheless how Faith perceived it. The brunette laughed lightly in her ear, a rush of warm breath that sent her extremities into a tingling frenzy. The frenzy spread across her entire body as Faith’s fingers found what they had been searching for, eagerly delving into the warm folds between her legs. The thrusting motion of her hips was no longer a subtle shifting of weight as she began to move against the firm motions of Faith’s fingers.

Faith then slipped one arm beneath Lara’s neck to support herself, the unused fingers of that hand curling around to brush against Lara’s cheek.  Lara found herself leaning into that touch, even taking Faith’s fingers in her mouth as the pace increased. A small cry escaped her lips as the index finger of her other hand slipped past the already quite moist folds. The cries did not abate as Faith thrust gently upwards until her finger was buried as deeply as possible and her palm jammed firmly against the clit beneath it.

“Do you want this?” she heard Faith whisper in her ear.

The question was redundant. As Lara felt Faith begin to move her hips in time with the thrusting motion of her hand she knew there was only one conclusion that they could possibly reach…and that required Faith continuing exactly what she was doing. To ensure she did not stop or move away Lara wrapped both legs around Faith’s back. That action was apparently all the answer that Faith needed as she increased the pace of her thrusting, her hips surging forward with each stroke. She buried her face in Lara’s neck as she moved, filling her ears with the regular intensity of her breathing.

Faith’s movements took Lara to a place she had not been in a long time, that foggy haze of pleasure where one could get lost forever or drown completely. As she allowed herself to be drawn even further into the world that just the two of them shared, she heard herself whisper the brunette’s name fiercely, like an oath. Faith was making sounds of her own, they could have possibly been words or grunts of exertion, whatever they were they did not make any sense in the midst of the pleasant haze in Lara’s mind. She felt Faith’s body move against her own, the way the muscles rippled beneath her shirt, and the feel of not one but two fingers thrust inside her. They moved easily through the slick folds, each time seeming to move deeper and hit a new spot that felt even more pleasurable if that were possible. She was also aware of Faith’s palm moving firmly against her clit, almost roughly stroking the hard little nubbin of flesh in time with her thrusting.

Although Lara knew that little time had passed, the frenzy of Faith’s movements and her own pent-up need guaranteed that her orgasm came swiftly. When it did, she arched her back and tried to stifle the cries bursting from her lips as she knew Emma would no doubt be behind her desk just on the other side of the door. Faith was there to quickly smother the cries with her lips, continuing to move even as Lara’s body bucked beneath her weight. She felt the walls of her cunt spasm around the fingers that moved within. For one intense, drawn-out moment, her world imploded and was reduced to two bodies struggling against one another. Faith’s fiercely thrusting body was contained within her own sweaty thighs. As she rode out the violent orgasm, she found herself instinctively squeezing Faith’s body as though it were a lifeline.

When the moment was over she felt drained and her thighs slipped from their position, one falling to rest against the back of the couch while the other protruded out over the edge as she rested her foot on the floor. For the first time she was aware of just how heavy Faith was as she lay across her body, the majority of her weight now resting on her middle. Faith’s talented hand still lay within the puddle that was her cunt, she felt the seat of her drawers to be damp and in a moment of silliness she worried that the couch may have been stained as a result of their impromptu lovemaking.

Such thoughts of dirty upholstery were banished a moment later as Faith resumed the lazy kiss that had been interrupted by even more sinful pleasures. It was a tired but intimate exploration of lips, ending with Faith nuzzling against Lara’s nose in a tender expression that seemed completely at odds with her boisterous personality. She smiled before nestling her cheek against Lara’s chest, no doubt listening as the rapidly beating organ gradually slowed. Other residues of their lovemaking remained, a pleasant musky, sweaty smell hung in the air while Faith’s hand remained nestled between Lara’s legs.

Neither felt the need for any conversation for almost ten minutes until Lara spoke just as Faith was drifting into a pleasant waking dream.

“Have any developments been made regarding the information you collected in Tirgsor?” Lara whispered.

Lara tried to remove all traces sensuality from her voice but with Faith’s warm, weight lying across her body, this was not quite successful. As a result, her words came out with less weight than she would have ordinarily given to such a matter of importance.

“You speak of business at a time like this?” Faith glanced up at the woman’s face, her chin brushing Lara’s. “Truly woman, you are preoccupied beyond all reason…or am I not as intoxicating as I have always led myself to believe?”

Lara laughed, a brief throaty sound, “You are that…and more, but always at the back of my mind is the knowledge that there are matters of great concern lurking in the world, matters that I must deal with…that I must send my people out into the world to deal with.”

“Has this got something to do with Rosenberg?” Faith asked quietly, turning away from Lara’s distracted gaze and resting her head in the crook of her shoulder.

“Perhaps,” Lara replied evasively.

“Care to enlighten me?” Faith asked, even though she already knew the answer…and she did not expect favours just because she had Lara had all of a sudden become more intimate than their relationship should have allowed.

“You will soon realise that being my lover admits you only so far into my confidence,” there was a distinct note of reluctance to Lara’s sigh.

Faith raised her eyebrows, “So I’m your lover now?”

Lara’s lips curled up into a small smile, “Officially I am as cold and frigid as the Arctic seas…unofficially, I am yours…as little as there is of me to give.”

Faith rolled over within Lara’s arms and propped herself up so she could work at the buttons one the front of her employer’s dress.

With several deft movements she had the garment open to just above Lara’s navel. The chemise in her path was then rather savagely ripped open by her powerful grip to finally bare Lara’s breasts. The magnificent appendages rose rhythmically with Lara’s still heavy breathing. A few bubbles of sweat lay nestled in her cleavage.

“I wouldn’t say there is ‘little’ of you at all,” Faith whispered as she ducked her head to take the nearest parcel of flesh into her mouth.

Chapter Text

15th March 1788

To say that I have been deliriously happy these past few months would be a dreadful understatement. I have at last come to understand what it means to be in love - and I would venture that most women of my class shall never comprehend nor experience such a wondrous thing. I pity those poor creatures.

While many of them spent this afternoon – W’s brother’s birthday - entombed within the drawing room at Hatherfield, playing bridge and gossiping over tepid tea, my W and I braved the lingering winter chill to seek out the secluded Grecian temple at Hatherfield. Sheltered there from prying eyes, we lost ourselves in one another’s touch, as has become our most delicious habit. I found myself drawn down onto W’s lap where she sat with her back against a marble pillar, my skirts bunched scandalously high to reveal my stockinged legs and drawers in the daylight. A shocking act for a woman of good breeding - and yet, as my W had already seen all of me, I confess I no longer care.

Since that first wondrous January night, we have grown bold in our meetings - perhaps too bold. That afternoon proved as much. As W and I were ensnared in a lingering kiss, our private world of two was shattered by the sound of a discreet cough. In a flurry of skirts, we leapt apart to find the dashing birthday boy himself standing at the foot of the steps. The Captain bore not a look of disgusted horror, but rather one of gentle bemusement as we frantically adjusted hair and gowns. We had barely composed ourselves when a whole party of a dozen or so came tramping along the path – the birthday gathering had ventured outdoors to admire the wintry scenery. They exclaimed over our flushed cheeks, supposing we must be frozen in the cold air, and urged us back to the drawing room for tea to revive ourselves. I knew full well, as W glanced over her shoulder while we descended the steps, that we both felt far more revived than they could ever imagine.

We settled at the rear of the party beside W’s gracious brother, and I could not help but admire the young man for what he was - handsome, charming, and, more importantly, kind. 

“It was all I could do to outrun the pack and warn you both,” he confessed. “I daresay the picture would have been far less pleasing to their eyes.” 

“And it was pleasing to yours?” W snapped playfully. “Abraham, if you dared gaze upon my love’s thighs -”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he interrupted, lowering his voice so it would not carry. “I only meant pleasing in the sense that you are happy - and with someone who clearly loves you.”

He offered us each an arm, and we took it. W planted a sisterly kiss upon his cheek. In that moment, I wished the whole world were peopled with souls as generous as the Captain. 

Yet despite our laughter and the lightness of our escape, I could not banish the dread that crept at the edges of my happiness - the sense that such joy must end, and most likely in ruin. That dread grew heavier still when Edward Walsh detached himself from the group and came forward to claim me. I could do nothing but accept his politeness with equal grace. 

“We have missed your company for much of the day,” he whispered in a too-sweet tone. “Whatever have you and W been about all this time?” 

A spasm of fear seized me as his fingers dug hard into my arm. I looked up at his sickly smile and knew, with awful certainty, that he suspected something of the truth. Even now, as I write these words, I lift the sleeve of my nightgown and can see the bruises where his fingers pressed into my flesh.

Mid-January 1898

London

Willow sat up with a start - and immediately regretted it. She had fallen asleep on her desk with her neck bent at an impossible angle, and now every muscle protested. Dawn was only just creeping into the tiny sliver of sky visible through her window, the first pale fingers of light prying into her little office.

As she tried to stretch out the kink in her neck, the memory of her dream returned with startling clarity. The evidence of her deep sleep was right there on the desk. A small pool of drool smeared across the papers beneath her cheek. She grimaced and dabbed at the mess with her handkerchief before her gaze drifted to the wretched diary lying nearby. Without really thinking, she picked it up and flipped to the next unread entry.

To say that I have been deliriously happy these past few weeks would be a dreadful understatement.

Willow froze. Her heart thudded once, hard. She knew these words - knew what followed. The Grecian temple, the stolen kisses, the scandalous mention of stockings and petticoats. Every detail in the entry was exactly as it had unfolded in her dream. Only, in the dream, she hadn’t been an observer. She had been the author’s object of affection. She had been W.

Her fingers went to her lips. She could still remember the sensation of the other woman’s mouth against hers, the heat of her skin beneath her fingertips. The one thing she could not remember was her face. Just the sensation that she had been utterly intoxicating.

Willow set the diary down as though it might burn her. For a long moment she simply stared at it, half-expecting it to start whispering. Then, shaking herself, she turned to the bookshelves lining her office and pulled out the volume she had in mind. She sank back into her chair and opened it.

When Faith arrived an hour later, she found Willow completely absorbed in the book - so much so that she didn’t even look up when the door opened.

Faith grinned. “Ah, that’s a better sight. Lately, I’ve been walking in on you sketching weird things - now you’re back to plain old reading. Makes me feel all warm and nostalgic.”

Willow jumped, slamming the book shut. “Faith! Oh - hello. How long have you been there? Not long, I hope, because I was just doing some very important research and I might have, um, missed your entrance entirely.”

Unfazed, Faith perched herself on the edge of the cluttered desk. Willow made a desperate grab for a few fragile items before Faith sat on them - and in doing so, let the book slip from her hand.

Faith caught it easily, flipping it over. “‘A Treatise on Reincarnation,’” she read aloud, amused. “Planning your next life already? Do you tire of this one?”

Willow snatched it back, cheeks colouring, and shoved it onto the shelf with unnecessary force. She turned to face Faith, her expression suddenly serious.

“Not coming back so much as… already having come back,” she said awkwardly. “Faith, do you believe in reincarnation? I mean - really believe? Because I think I’m losing my mind. That stupid diary you found - it’s doing something to me. I’m remembering events that I haven’t lived.”

Faith raised a sceptical brow. “You sound odder than usual, Will - and not your charming, scatterbrained kind of odd either. Maybe you need fresh air. And what’s up with your hair? You’ve been sleeping on your desk again, haven’t you?”

Willow ignored the comment, though she did run both hands through her tangled red hair, serving to make it worse. Faith just shook her head with an amused smile.

“Faith, will you come to Hampshire with me?” Willow blurted out suddenly.

Faith’s smile faded. She frowned, trying to gauge whether Willow was joking. “Hampshire? Willow, why on earth would I want to go to bloody Hampshire?”

Willow leaned forward, both hands on the desk in what she probably thought was an authoritative pose. “Because this is important to the museum.”

Faith crossed her arms. “Important to the museum - or to you?”

Willow hesitated, then sighed. “Both. All right, mostly me. But it matters, Faith. There’s something about this diary - about whomever ‘W. Van Helsing’ was - and I can’t shake the feeling that finding the truth is going to affect more than just me. Giles mentioned Hampshire. Abraham Van Helsing’s estate was at Hatherfield, just outside of Romsey. I think we may find some answers nearby.”

Faith tilted her head, studying her friend for a long moment. “You’re not usually one for instincts. You like your facts lined up and alphabetised. Which is exactly why I’m coming with you - before you run off to Hampshire and get yourself into trouble.”

“I could go on my own,” Willow said defiantly, lifting her chin.

Faith grinned. “Sure you could. But knowing you, you’d manage to trip over some ancient curse before you even unpacked your valise. Fine. Hampshire it is. When do we leave?”

Impatient to start unravelling the mystery, Willow dragged Faith to Waterloo Station later that very morning. Both women travelled light - just a small bag each, plus an innocuous-looking case that, in true Faith fashion, concealed a compact but efficient arsenal of weapons.

The train journey into the heart of Hampshire was long but uneventful. Willow promptly buried herself in a book, occasionally pausing to lunch she had purchased at the station – ham sandwiches and a generous piece of seed cake. Faith, who hadn’t bothered to buy anything for lunch despite Willow’s urgings, fell asleep before the train had even left London. She didn’t wake until Willow prodded her sharply at their destination, hours later.

Willow was mildly miffed to see that Faith sprang awake looking infuriatingly perfect - her hair, shirt, and general smugness entirely undisturbed by travel. And, much to Willow’s irritation, Faith pounced on the piece of seed cake she had been saving and ate it in a few bites.

Willow was still slightly grumpy – and hungry - when they exited the quaint little station at Romsey. Thanks to the organisation’s connections, a small two-seated carriage waited for them outside the station. Its horse, a placid-looking grey, stood with an air of deep resignation.

Faith surveyed their quiet surroundings with a soldier’s ease while Willow wrestled with an unwieldy map that seemed intent on folding in the wrong direction.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Faith asked expectantly. “Hatherfield, right?”

“I think so,” Willow replied, squinting at the paper. “And no, we’re not going to Hatherfield. We’re starting at the local parish church - births, deaths, marriages. It’s the logical place to begin.”

Faith groaned. “You mean we came all this way just so you can read dusty registers?”

Willow ignored her, marching toward the carriage - without retrieving any of their luggage. Faith sighed loudly, but before she could say anything, the horse gave a derisive snort. Willow jumped with a startled squeak, dropped the map, and stumbled backward, glaring at the animal as though it had personally insulted her.

“I take it I’ll be driving then,” Faith announced breezily. She hefted their bags into the carriage and, just to rub it in, gave the horse an affectionate pat on the forehead.

Still eyeing the beast suspiciously, Willow clambered into the carriage with as much dignity as she could muster. Faith joined her, gathered the reins, and, with a grin, let out a gleefully loud “Hyah!”

The horse surged forward as though it, too, had been waiting for an excuse to let off some steam. Willow was thrown back against the seat, clutching for dear life while Faith leaned forward, wind in her hair, grinning madly.

Fortunately, the pace soon slowed - probably out of mercy for both horse and passenger. Willow managed to give Faith directions in what she hoped was a calm, scholarly tone, though her voice still trembled slightly.

By the time the carriage clattered to a halt at the church gates, dusk had fallen. The little parish church before them was unremarkable - modest, weathered stone walls, a stubby steeple, and narrow arched windows. The sort of place that looked like it had been quietly minding its own business for several hundred years.

Both women climbed down, Faith taking a moment to open her weapons case and strap her favourite sword and dagger to her belt. Willow decided not to comment.

They made their way through the graveyard as the last gold threads of sunlight faded from the sky.

“Two field trips in a week, Will,” Faith called over her shoulder, pushing open the heavy oak door. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”

“For a good reason,” Willow muttered darkly. “You drag me off to warehouses full of demons - and I still end up saving you. And need I remind you of the ‘untouched library’ in Shepherd’s Bush? No library. Just one very haunted family home.”

Faith shrugged cheerfully. “Good for you to get out more.”

Willow made a face behind her friend’s back and followed her into the church.

The air inside was cool and thick with age. Though not abandoned, it was clearly not a popular destination for worship. Dust veiled almost every pew and the faint smell of wax and mildew lingered in the air. As Willow’s shoes left crisp tracks in the dust, a chill ran down her spine.

Her nerves prickled - right before she felt icy fingers brush the back of her neck. She screamed. Her shriek echoed through the vaulted ceiling like the wail of a ghost.

“Will,” said Faith, utterly unbothered, a grin tugging at her mouth at her little prank. “We’re in an empty church. We couldn’t possibly be in less danger.”

Willow frowned. “You know as well as I do that being on hallowed ground doesn’t mean safety. There could be any number of spirits with ill-intent lurking here – brides who died on their wedding day, mummified corpses brought to life, and the devil himself is said to reside in more than one churchyard.”

“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Faith agreed, her tone solemn. “But none of that scares me. The only danger in a church comes from real-life humans. They are the true evil.”

Willow stopped mid-step and studied Faith’s back. Her friend had paused in line with the front pew, head tilted towards the stained-glass window above. The glass was grimy and dulled by time, yet still managed to glow faintly in the last light of the day. Faith’s words lingered in the air. Willow did not understand what Faith had meant. She realised, with an uncomfortable little twist, that there were a great many things she did not know about her best friend. Faith rarely spoke of her past. For a moment she was struck by a melancholy sort of affection and a realisation that they were both hiding things from one another.

“Faith… I’m sorry,” she said quietly, unwilling to disturb the other woman’s moment of peace but needing to bridge the distance between them.

Faith didn’t move. Willow crossed the aisle to stand beside her, feeling an odd closeness just from standing shoulder to shoulder.

“What have you gone and done now?” Faith asked without turning, her tone laced with amused suspicion.

“I just meant I’m sorry for not being a better friend,” Willow confessed, words tumbling out before she lost her nerve. “You head off to dark, terrible places, and I’m only ever interested in whether you come back with books. It feels a bit -”

“Shallow? Single-minded?” Faith interrupted smoothly. Willow opened her mouth to protest, but Faith’s expression softened. “I like you just the way you are, Will. Don’t start changing on my account.”

Willow flushed. “But-”

“Enough with the sentimental stuff,” Faith cut her off, grinning. “You’re going to make me think you’ve got a thing for me. Didn’t you come here to do something?”

Willow’s cheeks burned as she nodded briskly and turned away, grateful for the excuse.

In a nearby alcove, a small stack of registers rested neatly on a shelf. Their handsome leather bindings were dulled by age, their spines powdered with dust. Willow ran her fingers along them, tutting when her fingertips came away black. Producing a handkerchief, she dutifully set about cleaning each volume before selecting one from the middle.

Faith leaned against a pew, watching with amusement. “You realise no one’s grading you on dust removal, right?”

Willow ignored her, carrying the heavy volume to the pulpit and laying it beside a worn Bible. The cracked leather gave a sigh as she opened it. Willow scanned the cramped entries, lips moving silently as she traced the neat columns of names and dates.

“Our dear friend Abe was born in seventeen sixty-three,” she murmured. “Here! Christened on 15th March, seventeen sixty-three - Abraham Theodore Van Helsing, son of Pieter and Marianne.”

Faith leaned closer. “There’s more of them. Why so many Van Helsings?”

“High infant mortality,” Willow said softly. “Even among the upper classes. They christened children early - sometimes before they were expected to live.”

Her finger slid down the parchment. “Here – an unnamed daughter, born and died 15th February seventeen sixty-four, later. Another son, born and died March seventeen sixty-five. Another son who lived long enough to be named, Theodore Pieter Van Helsing, born January seventeen sixty-six, died April the same year. Then…” She paused. “A daughter, 6th October seventeen sixty-eight. No name, but no date of death either.”

“Is that odd?” Faith asked.

“Not entirely,” Willow said, frowning. “If the child was thought unlikely to survive, they may have left her unnamed until her fate was certain. But it looks like she did live…” Her finger moved to the next line. “Marianne Van Helsing, died 8th October seventeen sixty-eight. The mother, she died only two days later. That might explain the missing update. No doubt their father was consumed with grief. The details were never updated.”

Faith glanced down the page. “And then Pieter Van Helsing died in seventeen eighty-two. So, Abe inherited the estate when he was just 19.”

“And he had a younger sister, whom he no doubt was responsible for,” Willow added quietly, closing the register with a soft thud. “But without a name, we can’t be sure if she’s the ‘W. Van Helsing’ who wrote the diary.”

Faith folded her arms. “Still, it’s something.”

Willow gave a small, distracted nod.

Half an hour later, after Willow had taken the entirely unnecessary step of dusting every volume on the shelf, they finally emerged into the churchyard. Moonlight silvered the gravestones, and the air had turned sharp and damp.

“I’m sorry I dragged you all this way for almost nothing,” Willow said, her voice low as they walked. “If Giles hadn’t been so insistent, I’d have left it. I don’t see the relevance to my Vlad Tepes research. If there were even the faintest hint-”

“Hey.” Faith’s tone was soft but certain. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. You’re a bloodhound with books, Will. If there’s a trail, you’ll find it. But I still don’t get why Giles was so sure this mattered.”

“I have no idea -” Willow began, but her words were cut short as Faith’s hand shot out, gripping her arm hard enough to make her gasp.

“What the hell -?” Willow started but stopped when she saw Faith’s face.

Every trace of humour was gone. Faith’s free hand had moved to the hilt of her sword, knuckles white. Her eyes were locked on something just beyond Willow’s shoulder.

“Will,” she whispered, voice taut as wire. “Get behind me.”

When Faith used that tone Willow knew she ought to do exactly as told. She scrambled behind her and, in doing so, saw what stood between them and the carriage. A horrible flashback to the warehouse struck her - the stinking creature pinning her to the ground, gobs of saliva hissing over her face as a mouthful of barred fangs grinned down at her.

“Faith… it’s a - it’s a - it’s a…” Willow stammered, the words refusing to form.

“I know what it is, you bloody idiot.” Faith drew her sword in a single sharp stroke; the blade rasped against the scabbard with that efficient sound Willow had come to recognise as business.

The Atramen moved closer. It was almost identical to the thing in the warehouse, only larger, muscles rippling beneath its skin. As Faith stepped to shield her, Willow caught movement at the corner of her eye and felt her knees go weak - a second spiky-headed demon was approaching, its great white eyes gleaming in the moonlight, its toothless grin a mockery.

“Faith, there are two of them!” Willow squeaked, grabbing Faith’s arm and dragging her round to face the second creature. She noted, mentally, to amend her paper. From personal experience, Atramen apparently did sometimes operate in pairs.

“Bloody hell.” Faith’s knuckles whitened on hilt and dagger. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in saying I’ll take this one if you get the other?”

“What?” Willow clutched at her friend. “What am I supposed to do? Bore it to death with the collected works of Aeschylus?”

“It’d work for me!” Faith hissed, already moving, eyes never leaving their foe. “Here - take this.”

A dagger pressed into Willow’s hand. It felt far too heavy, an alien appendage. Last time around she had wanted something pointy, now she stared at the foot-long blade with the full knowledge that she had no idea how to use it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I should think it obvious.” Faith was already occupied with the nearer Atramen, poised to strike. “If it comes near you, stick it in them.”

That was the sum of her tactical counsel before the Atramen launched itself. Faith shoved Willow aside. The demon’s clawed foot missed Willow’s head by inches. Faith weaved beneath the strike, then spun, sword flashing. Her blade slashed and missed; the thing caught her wrist in a grip like iron and didn’t relent. Faith twisted, drove an elbow into its flank. It grunted, tightened its hold, and slammed her against its chest. With a guttural cry of effort she heaved, flipped the creature over her back and sent it crashing to the ground. She drove the sword down - and it sank into nothing. The Atramen rolled free and was back on its feet before she could draw breath. The dance began anew - swift, brutal, each combatant testing the other for an opening.

Willow scrambled up from the damp grass where Faith’s shove had thrown her, hands slick with mud. She watched the second Atramen slip behind a winged angel headstone and vanish. Her heart pounding, she risked a glance over her shoulder - Faith was locked in mortal combat, and for the first time Willow understood she was, quite simply, alone.

She held the dagger out, an absurd, trembling flag of defiance. It shook so violently that the blade sawed the air like the wing of a trapped bird. The sight of Faith grappling with the other demon offered little comfort; the ground was littered with old stones and no convenient oil lamp, no kerosene lantern like the one that had saved them in the warehouse. Willow briefly considered flinging matches, then dismissed the idea as ridiculous - and probably dangerous only to herself.

The Atramen behind the angel headstone shifted as if scenting her distress. Its huge white eyes found her. Willow swallowed. The fight had closed to mere yards; there would be no time for cleverness. Fingers white around the dagger’s hilt, she prepared for the one thing she could do: plunge the blade in and hope it held long enough for Faith to finish the other.

Willow circled the grave where the Atramen lurked, her own hoarse breaths drowning out the sounds of Faith’s struggle behind her. The demon was toying with her; she could feel it, the way a cat watches a trapped bird. It knew she was afraid—she could almost feel it savouring the scent of her fear.

A sharp cry from behind made her flinch—Faith’s voice—but Willow didn’t dare look. The instant she took her eyes off the creature, she knew it would leap for her throat and tear her apart. As much as she feared for her friend, she needed the continued use of her limbs far more.

When the attack came, it was as swift as expected—but still faster than she was prepared for. The Atramen’s feet slammed into her chest, hurling her several metres backwards. She hit the grass hard, her lungs collapsing in a single pained wheeze. Somehow she rolled aside just as a massive fist struck the earth where her head had been moments earlier.

Gasping, she scrambled to her feet. The creature moved with terrible grace, its eyes gleaming, its grin a cruel parody of glee. She ducked behind a stone cross, but the Atramen didn’t bother to go around. It simply smashed through the monument with a single, contemptuous swing. Fragments of stone rained down. Willow yelped and staggered back, reaching instinctively for a shard near her feet. With a desperate grunt, she hurled it at the demon’s head. To her surprise, the fragment struck true, shattering several of the bony spikes protruding from its skull. The Atramen howled in fury.

Willow darted forward, adrenaline flooding her veins, and drove the dagger at its chest. She came frustratingly close before her wrist was caught and twisted. The blade clattered to the ground. Before she could react, the creature’s hand closed around her throat and lifted her bodily from the ground.

Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the vice-like grip as the world dimmed at the edges. Then, with sickening force, she was hurled backwards. This time she struck a headstone squarely across her back. Pain exploded through her spine as she collapsed to the earth, gasping.

She tried to rise. The most she managed was an awkward crawl, dragging herself forward on hands and knees. When she finally looked up, she saw Faith - fighting valiantly - and then the Atramen’s arm plunged beneath her guard. Its clawed hand drove into her side. Faith fell like a sack of grain, her sword slipping from her hand as she hit the ground and did not move.

“Not good,” Willow whispered, fingers clawing at the damp earth

Somehow she pushed herself upright, swaying. Both Atramen turned their burning white eyes on her - the last moving target. Weaponless, dazed, and half-concussed, Willow faced them alone.

She wanted to close her eyes and wait for the end, but something in the air shifted. A sudden gust of wind whipped her hair across her face. The demons froze mid-step, their heads turning as if they’d seen something behind her. For the first time, Willow thought they looked afraid.

The wind rose again, a violent rush that threw her back to the ground. Dirt filled her mouth as she hit. Even through the ringing in her ears, she heard movement - another presence - emerging from the darkness behind her.

“Cremo!”

The word cracked the air like a whip, reverberating through the night. Willow lifted her head just enough to glimpse a figure - tall, shrouded in black, a cloak swirling like smoke. Blonde hair flashed silver in the moonlight. The voice was both terrible and beautiful, a sound that seemed to tear through the bones of the world itself.

Then came the light.

A violent burst from one outstretched hand - then another - so bright it seared Willow’s eyes. The orbs of flame struck the Atramen as they turned to flee. They didn’t even have time to scream. Fire consumed them, their writhing silhouettes burning into ash among the headstones. The night filled with the smell of scorched earth and sulphur.

Willow’s first instinct was to run - but her body refused to obey. She gripped a headstone with both hands, dragging herself upright. Even standing took everything she had. Faith’s dagger lay a few feet away, but she could no more have reached it than conjured her own fireballs.

And then the figure moved towards her.

The flames cast their pale light across the graveyard, and the sight drove the breath from Willow’s chest. The woman’s skin gleamed like marble beneath the flickering glow. Her white-blonde hair spilled loose down her black riding cloak, the hood fallen back to reveal the high collar of a dark dress. Every step she took was measured, purposeful, elegant - impossibly familiar.

Willow’s pulse thundered in her ears. The woman smiled - just a small, knowing curve of her lips. Those lips. The ones that had haunted Willow’s dreams, that she had kissed in another life, another century. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think.

Then the woman spoke. “One wonders why you do not find a new line of work, Willow Rosenberg. It would seem you are ill-suited for demon fighting.”

The harsh edge of her voice from moments before had vanished, replaced by a soft, melodious tone that made Willow shiver.

“You know my name…but who are you?” Willow shot back, anger sharpening her words, masking her fear almost entirely.

The blonde woman arched a single eyebrow reproachfully. Instantly, Willow regretted her bad manners. Whoever - or whatever - this woman was, she had saved her life again. She deserved better than heated demands for explanations, even if answers were all Willow wanted.

“Who I am is not important,” the woman said softly, circling Willow with her piercing gaze fixed on her. “You should be asking who she is.”

Her eyes drifted to a small marble headstone at her feet. Willow followed cautiously, keeping a respectful distance, her curiosity piqued. The headstone stood out among the weathered markers. While others bore scars from wind and rain, this one could have been placed yesterday. The inscription was deeply carved, pristine.

For a moment, Willow forgot about the woman beside her. She knelt on the well-tended grass and stared at the headstone. “Oh my goodness,” she whispered upon reading the name inscribed there. Her fingertips traced the words as she read aloud in a trembling voice, “W-Willow… Willow Van Helsing… born sixth of October seventeen sixty-eight, died seventh of June seventeen ninety-five… tu fui, ego eris.”

A soft voice followed behind her, translating in a tone that sent shivers crawling up her spine, “What you are, I was. What I am, you will be.”

Willow’s skin prickled. She had not needed the words to be translated for her. But could not decide if it was the words themselves, or the way they had been spoken, that unsettled her most.

“We all die,” she said, matter-of-factly, straightening and taking a hesitant step back from the grave.

“Yes, we do.” The blonde turned her head briefly to linger on the grave a moment longer. “But I think that you alone could interpret that inscription in a different way.”

Finally, she faced Willow fully. Her expression betrayed nothing, leaving the cryptic meaning of her words hanging in the night air.

“What do you mean by that?” Willow demanded, forgetting again to offer thanks. “You can start by explaining everything…who you are, why you’ve been following me, and how you can-” she waved her hands dramatically “-make fire from thin air!”

“You did not come here to find those answers,” the woman said. “The answers you seek lie at your feet. I thought you would recognize their importance by the desperation of him who wants to keep you from them.”

“Who’s ‘he’?” Willow asked, feeling as though she were sinking in quicksand. Her gaze returned to the grave, frustration lacing her tone. “It’s the grave of Willow Van Helsing. Although I cannot be certain, I would stake my life that she was the same ‘W. Van Helsing’ who deposited the diary at Tirgsor. The dates match. She died in seventeen ninety-five - the same year the diary was noted in the library’s catalogue.”

Her voice trailed off, and a cloak of sadness settled on her shoulders. She reread the dates silently. “She was not yet twenty-seven when she died,” Willow whispered, thinking of her own limited years and imagining them cut cruelly short. “Do you know how she died?”

Forcing herself to lift her gaze, Willow met the eyes of the pale woman. Her blue eyes shone in the moonlight, a flicker of sadness and knowledge hidden within their depths. The thought that the woman might be a vampire lingered uneasily in the back of her mind. Yet it was impossible to dwell on that while facing her breathtaking beauty, the quiet power she radiated, and the subtle, almost magnetic pull Willow felt toward her.

The blonde tipped her head forward, letting her hair fall over her face. Willow did not know what to think. Her mind warned that this could be a deadly creature. Her heart insisted that she was a woman who had lived, grieved, and – somehow - knew the truth Willow sought.

“Do you know how Willow Van Helsing died?” Willow repeated softly, the anger and frustration of before entirely gone.

“I do,” came the quiet response. “And not a day has passed that I do not wish to die for what I did…”

Willow frowned. “You had a hand in it?”

The woman gave no sign, no subtle shake or nod. Willow waited, tense, for a reaction. Almost a minute later, the blonde lifted her head and fixed Willow with a long, steady gaze that seemed to pierce straight through her soul.

“I do not think I should give you the answers you seek today, Willow. Just take what you have learned here and dwell on it. In time, you will understand, and you will realize how you fit into the puzzle.”

“But I haven’t learned anything here! And what puzzle?” Willow’s voice was urgent. She longed to stay near the woman, even in silence - her presence felt strangely natural. “At least tell me who you are and where I might find you again!”

“Will?” a familiar voice called out from the darkness. Willow’s heart leapt - Faith. She had left her lying unconscious while trading words with this cryptic, infuriating figure.

Willow spun to see Faith gingerly rising to her feet, a dozen feet away. She wanted to rush to her friend, but she could not tear her eyes from the blonde woman.

“I need those answers…” Willow began, turning back - but she was alone. “Bloody hell!”

“Willow?” Faith’s voice was just behind her now as she hurried closer.

Relief washed over Willow when she saw Faith upright, though the redhead’s torn, bloodied thigh, dark-stained torso, and a series of deep teeth marks on her neck told a grim story. Willow stepped forward and supported her as she swayed unsteadily.

“Oh you poor thing, Faith…will you live?” She asked as she gently guided her friend onto a nearby memorial bench and hastily ripped strips from the bottom of her shirt to use as makeshift bandages.

Faith winced but gritted her teeth. “It’s just a flesh wound… nothing a few stitches won’t fix. Could probably use a few more scars while we’re at it.”

“Sorry,” Willow murmured, hearing a sharp intake of breath as she tied the strips firmly. “What about your side? There’s a lot of blood.”

Faith lifted her shirt herself. Willow gasped at the deep, ragged gash and quickly pressed the linen against it to staunch the flow, careful to keep her composure. “Sorry…” she whispered again as Faith groaned, clearly in pain.

“Just wrap the bloody thing tightly!” Faith snapped. “I’ll live as long as you don’t faint. Bloody hell, Rosenberg, remind me never to go anywhere with you again!”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise…” Willow began.

“Stop saying sorry! And what happened anyway? Last thing I remember, those bastards were still roaming around. I may have sliced one arm off, but I’m sure he could’ve done enough damage. What did you do, Willow?”

“Well…” Willow tied off the last improvised bandage, knowing she could hardly tell Faith about the flame-wielding woman she suspected was a vampire. “I don’t know really. One minute they were here…the next, they were gone. Providence, maybe? Maybe they had somewhere better to be?”

“Providence indeed,” Faith muttered grimly. “Hurry up and help me to my feet. The village we passed a mile back has to have a doctor…or a dentist at least. Although I think you’ll have to drive.”

“Are you sure you can’t - ” Willow began weakly, glancing toward the grey horse still tethered to the carriage, seemingly oblivious to the chaos in the graveyard.

“Will, I’m at death’s door here,” Faith muttered, voice weak.

“Okay,” Willow said resolutely, bracing herself. She helped Faith up. “He’s a nice horse, and it’s not far. I can do this.”

Even as she guided Faith from the cemetery, Willow risked one last glance back. The squat little church, surrounded by headstones, gleamed in the moonlight. The blonde woman had vanished from her mind. For now, all that mattered was getting Faith to some form of medical help. There would be plenty of time later to dwell on what had occurred in the cemetery.

Willow did not glance behind her again. If she had, she would have seen the shadowy figure standing near the church, silent and watchful. A slight breeze stirred, tugging at Tara’s cloak and brushing her hair across the tears streaking her pale cheeks.

The agony of being so near Willow, yet unable to reach out and enfold her in a fierce embrace, had been nothing short of torture. Tara’s thoughts flickered back to that fleeting moment at the tombstone, when her fingers had caught a strand of Willow’s vibrant red hair. Now she looked down at the single strand she still held. With a sigh, she let it slip through her fingers. For an instant it hovered in the air before the wind carried it into the darkness.

Tara turned her attention back to the carriage, watching until Willow had coaxed the horses toward the village. Then, silently, she was gone.

Chapter Text

26^th April 1798

In hindsight, I should have known that Edward Walsh harboured ill intentions toward me, especially after his strange behaviour at the Captain’s birthday celebration. Foolishly, I believed myself safe from the likes of him - safe in my secret world with W. I had not forgotten his marriage proposal of some months past, yet I chose to ignore it, trusting that he would tire of my indifference and seek a more willing bride. One would think such brides were plentiful for a man of his means. Yet tonight it became painfully clear that I am the bride he intends to claim.

The season is in full swing. Although my parents have now come up to town, I have not been thwarted in my pleasures. These past few weeks I have spent many glorious days alone with W. On each occasion, I told my mother that Abraham would be hosting a small party of friends - including Edward Walsh - and that I would be amply chaperoned at all times. There were, of course, no such gatherings, and I felt not the slightest pang of guilt for my deceit, knowing it purchased me precious hours alone with W. I revelled in the sheer decadence of it. At times, our love was slow and languorous, as though we had all the time in the world. Yet there were other moments when my passion frightened me with its intensity - when I was consumed by the need to be with her completely, before she was taken from me forever. Tonight, I realised that this may happen sooner than I ever imagined.

I forget what tonight’s ball was meant to celebrate, and truthfully I do not think I ever cared, save that duty required my attendance - and that W would be there. The evening began pleasantly enough. She was by far the most striking woman in the room, radiant in a gown of vibrant silver silk that set every gossip whispering over whose eye she sought to catch. How scandalised they would have been to know it was mine! I almost wished to tell them, just to see their sour, judgmental faces twist in horror. Instead, I was content to admire her under the guise of friendship, even contriving a dance on the pretext that I had no other partner - though in truth I had refused every man who asked.

I knew I could not avoid Edward forever, yet I made a valiant attempt and succeeded until supper. His conversation began politely enough, but before I quite understood his intent, he was upon the musicians’ stage, my arm locked in his, announcing our imminent wedding. To all appearances his grip was chivalrous, but only I knew how painfully his fingers pressed into my bare forearm, warning me that any protest would be unwise. The room erupted into cheers and applause - save for two people.

My eyes, as soon as I could think, sought out W. Her lovely face was drained of all colour; she was ghost-pale against the brilliance of her gown and hair. Her sweet mouth, which I loved to kiss, hung open in silent shock, as though she would cry out but could not find breath to do so. I caught only that moment before she turned and made a discreet, hasty exit. Behind her, I saw her brother - equally ashen - turn to follow.

How I longed to tear myself from Edward’s grasp and go after them. But his hold only tightened, until I gasped softly in pain – a sound that was lost in the roar of congratulations. When I turned to him, I saw in his eyes that he had witnessed everything - and understood it all too well. He leaned close to my cheek, his breath fouling my ear, and whispered words that burn still in my mind:

“Come our wedding night, you will learn what it is to feel a man inside you - and I guarantee you will enjoy it far more than the perverted ministrations of that red-headed whore!”

Late January 1898

London

Rupert Giles liked to think of himself as a rather unflappable man. However, on this particular morning, as he passed the training room, he came dangerously close to dying of shock. From within came a series of savage-sounding yells and grunts, punctuated by the sharp crack of solid objects striking one another. His first thought was that it was merely Faith, but it did not sound like the brunette. Frowning, Giles pushed the door open a fraction and peered inside - only to find the commotion caused by none other than Willow Rosenberg.

Dressed in one of Faith’s training outfits, wearing a chestplate made of tatami and armed with a bamboo stave, she was laying into a practice dummy with alarming ferocity. Despite her complete lack of technique - and her rather unorthodox battle cries - Giles felt the colour drain from his face. The image she presented stirred memories he would have preferred left dormant. After a moment’s hesitation, he cleared his throat with a polite but deliberate cough.

“Giles?” Willow froze mid-swing, cheeks flushed crimson from both exertion and the embarrassment of being caught. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I was merely… reminded of someone I used to know,” Giles replied, managing a weak smile as he stepped further into the room.

Willow arched a disbelieving eyebrow, glancing from the stave in her gloved hands back to him. “This reminds you of someone you used to know?”

“Well - everything except your complete lack of technique,” he said dryly, “and the fact that you appear to be wearing the chest plate upside down. Honestly, I’m not sure how you even managed to fasten it. Here - allow me.”

Willow glanced down, frowning as if trying to retrace her questionable logic, then turned around to let him adjust the straps.

“Well, I suppose it would remind you of Faith, wouldn’t it?” she ventured, shifting as he re-secured the armour.

“No, Willow,” Giles said quietly as he tied the final lacing. “You do not remind me of Faith. I’ve watched her train often enough - she doesn’t favour the Japanese style of swordsmanship. And she doesn’t… use practice as a way to work out her anger.”

“I’m not angry,” Willow began, then trailed off - realising how absurd that sounded after the volume of her earlier outbursts.

Giles only smiled faintly as he tugged off his jacket. He crossed to the rack of equipment. Selecting a chestplate for himself, he began to tie it on over his shirt practiced efficiency. Willow watched, her nerves rising as he fastened the final strap and turned to face her, bamboo stave raised.

“Giles, are you sure about this?” she asked, tentatively lifting her own weapon. “I’m… pretty angry, and I’d hate to hurt you.”

She had no warning when Giles lunged. His movements were swift and precise. The stave danced in his hands, forcing her into frantic defence. She managed to block – barely - as she stumbled backward until her shoulders met the wall.

“This has nothing to do with anger,” Giles said, levelling the stave at her throat. “Although I must admit, I’ve never seen you quite this furious. I’d hazard a guess and say you’re upset about Faith - but I’d be wrong, wouldn’t I?”

As he lowered the stave, Willow stepped back onto the mats, brushing hair from her face. “Yes - well, no. I mean, of course I’m concerned about Faith, but I saw her last night and she’s fine. Fine as only Faith can be.”

They met again in the centre, and this time Willow was ready. She blocked more confidently - helped, perhaps, by Giles’s slowed tempo.

“You’re angry at someone else, then?” he guessed between strikes. “Croft? Or Jasper? Has that little devil been neglecting his duties? You’re certainly not angry at me, I hope?”

The bout ended with Giles landing a clean jab to her midsection. Willow dropped her stave and folded over, eyes wide.

“Not you, Giles!” she wheezed. “Edward Walsh. I’m angry because of Edward Walsh!”

Giles froze mid-motion, the stave still poised for another strike. His expression changed at once. “Willow,” he said quietly. “Where did you hear that name?”

Managing to straighten up, Willow retrieved her stave and replied, “From the diary. I read a passage that mentioned him. I’ve never heard of him before but if he were indeed a real person, it seems that he was a thoroughly dislikeable individual…his actions incensed me. I’m not quite sure why. I suppose the diary’s just written so vividly.”

“Thoroughly dislikeable would be one of the more polite terms used to describe that man,” Giles muttered in acidic tones. Then, noticing the curious look Willow gave him, he managed a thin smile. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard the name. Political history has never been one of your great interests.”

“Political history?” Willow queried.

“Indeed,” Giles raised his stave once more and waved at Willow to do the same. “Edward Walsh was an outspoken Member of Parliament for Hampshire for almost twenty years. His voting record makes for disturbing reading- he voted against the Reform Act, the Poor Act, generally anything that was designed to better the lives of those beneath him. I do believe he even opposed the expansion of this very fine institution which now employs the both of us. How was he described in the diary?”

Willow hesitated. “Err, I suppose I can see how he would come across badly,” Willow completely skirted the issue and fired back a question of her own. “Giles, since you seem to be so learned when it comes to the life and times of Edward Walsh, can you tell me if he was married?”

It was Giles’ turn to pause before replying but eventually he nodded, “I do believe he was…and fathered several children…but I cannot tell you the name of the woman.”

“That’s okay, Giles,” Willow said too brightly, forcing a smile as she stood. “It’s no big deal - it doesn’t mean anything anyway. Now -” she lifted her stave once more “-can you go another round, or have I exhausted you already?”

“Exhausted me?” Giles gasped in outrage. “Why you little upstart…prepare to be humiliated!”

Giles had no sooner raised his stave than the wind was knocked out of him as Willow’s surprise blow caught him full across the chest, he was knocked backwards and she continued to drive him back with each new swing. If he were surprised, he managed not to show it and instead doubled his efforts. However, only Giles himself was aware of the fact that he was exerting almost every ounce of his not inconsiderable skill to block Willow’s stave and try and gain the upper hand. He watched the look of concentration on Willow’s face change from one of red-faced exertion to an intense, fierce competitive expression that was most unlike the person wearing it. He noted her almost flawless technique…no longer even bothering to conform to the rigid forms of the kata but adopting a more fluid, natural style that was difficult to predict.

Giles only managed to gain the upper hand when Willow paused momentarily, as though she were realising that she had suddenly acquired a skill she never knew she possessed. Her look of concentration was replaced by one of confusion. Giles did not pause, he darted inside her guard and stabbed her once again in the stomach so hard she crashed backwards into the practice dummy and it toppled forward to land on her.

Willow lay on her back beneath the dummy groaning until she heard the sound of hearty laughter coming from the side of the room. She lifted her head and twisted her neck slightly to see Jasper doubled over with mirth at her embarrassing situation. She scrambled to her feet, neither quickly nor gracefully with all the armour on and pointed her bamboo staves in the direction of the young man.

“You just come over here and start laughing, Jasper!” Willow had a good attempt at a stabbing motion in his direction which only served to make Jasper laugh even harder. “You shouldn’t laugh at people that are carrying big sticks!”

“Ordinarily no,” Jasper was still grinning. “But you can when they can’t run fast enough to catch you!”

And with that parting shot Jasper bolted from the room and Willow followed a split second later with a last grin over her shoulder in Giles’ direction. Willow made a valiant attempt to catch him so as to deliver the thrashing she felt he deserved but after fifteen minutes of chasing him around the lower levels of the museum and bowling over Miss Emma Carrington, she was exhausted and had to admit defeat…and Miss Carrington was threatening to expose her less than grown up shenanigans to Croft.

Meanwhile in the practice room Giles removed his protective gear slowly, wincing as the blows that Willow had managed to land now made themselves known. Something moved in the shadows, emerging from the darkness between two practice dummies. Giles busied himself with tidying away the armour, completely unconcerned by the additional presence in the room.

“Things are moving fast,” the presence commented quietly.

Giles turned to face the pale creature now standing in front of him. “But is it fast enough? I do not know if she will be ready in time and she must be ready. You know that as well as I do, Tara.”

Tara inclined her head slightly as in agreement. She ran her eyes over the rows of practice equipment and then the mats on the floor where Willow had stood just a few moments earlier. There was a small smile on her face as though she were remembering what had just taken place in the training room.

“She’ll be ready Giles. I’ll see to that…you always did worry too much,” Tara commented softly.

Giles turned away to stow away his gear neatly. “Can you blame me? I’m placing far more trust in you than I would like.”

“Why can you still not bring yourself to trust me after all these years?” Any trace of softness had vanished from her voice, replaced by open annoyance.

Giles finished his tidying before deigning to reply to her, he still could not bring himself to look at her and his tone was firm, almost accusatory. “Because I know what you are and I know what you did…and nothing you have done since, or ever will do, can erase that.”

“It is not your forgiveness I crave, Giles…but rather hers.”

When Giles could bring himself to look up once more, she was gone and he was alone in the training room.

Willow shifted uncomfortably on the high-backed leather chair in front of Croft’s desk. She winced as it squeaked faintly. Croft stood on the far side, staring out the window as though deep in thought and quite unaware of Willow’s presence.

Being alone in the company of Lara Croft was not high on Willow’s list of favourite situations. For a variety of reasons - reasons she suspected had something to do with the potent sexuality emanating from every pore of Croft’s being - Willow always felt ill at ease, provincial even, in her employer’s presence. Often, it was only Faith being at her side that made meetings with Croft bearable. Though Willow was slowly realising that was only because, whenever Faith was in the room, Croft’s attention was singularly focused to the point of ignoring everything else.

As innocent as she was, Willow knew there was more between Croft and Faith than a simple employer–employee relationship. It unnerved her somewhat. It would have been easier to accept if Croft were a man. But Croft was most decidedly not a man - and neither was Faith. Willow’s discomfort had nothing to do with disgust or moral outrage, as it might with others, but rather with her own insecurities. Their intimacy unsettled her because it was precisely what she wanted for herself.

Not with Croft, of course. A chill ran down her spine at the thought. It was bad enough being in the woman’s presence fully clothed - heaven forbid she imagine her otherwise. Willow grimaced as she felt the familiar heat spreading through her cheeks and knew her face had turned an embarrassing shade of red.

As Croft turned from the window at last, Willow ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her blush. She could feel Croft’s gaze on her but couldn’t bring herself to look up.

“Have you been to visit Faith?” Croft enquired.

“Yes. She is recovering quickly,” Willow ventured, still studying her lap. “The doctor is having trouble keeping her in bed - and she was rather annoyed that I didn’t bring her any cigars.”

Croft chuckled softly as she took her seat. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Willow glanced up and was startled to find a slightly pained expression on Croft’s beautiful features. She swallowed nervously.

“She asked to see you,” Willow said, more quietly now. “Just whenever you had a spare moment - those were her exact words. I think she’d like to deliver her report verbally.”

Croft turned to face her fully, the pain replaced by a small, knowing twinkle. “Yes. Sickbed or not, I do need that report. Thank you, Rosenberg.”

Willow nodded, relieved that the conversation had stayed so civil - until a knock sounded at the door behind her. She turned to see a rather pale-faced Jasper standing hesitantly in the doorway.

“Ah, Evans, good of you to join us,” Croft said, beckoning him forward. “Come and take a seat next to Rosenberg here.”

Jasper all but sprinted across the carpet and perched awkwardly on the chair beside Willow. She offered him a sympathetic smile. Having endured Croft’s intimidating presence almost daily, she could easily imagine his discomfort. She knew for a fact that he sometimes hid in cupboards until Croft passed by - and she suspected it was for reasons not entirely dissimilar to her own.

Willow hated to compare herself to a hot-blooded teenage boy, but in this case, they were united by a shared predicament. Lara Croft had a disarming effect on them both.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Lady Croft,” Jasper stammered. “Mr Giles wouldn’t let me go until I’d finished all my tasks. He seemed rather busy – it looks like he’s preparing equipment for another of Faith’s trips.” He stopped abruptly, realising he was rambling.

Willow frowned, glancing between him and Croft. “Why would Giles be preparing Faith’s equipment? She can’t possibly go anywhere in her condition. You’re not seriously considering sending her on assignment?”

Croft’s expression was unreadable. “We’ve received a message from Faith’s contact in Eastern Europe - information we desperately need. Someone must go and meet the contact in person.”

“That person can’t be Faith!” Willow protested, forgetting her nerves entirely. “I won’t allow it!”

“I absolutely agree,” Croft said calmly. “Which is why I’m sending you.”

For a moment, Willow could only stare. Her expression froze, then shifted as understanding dawned. Her jaw dropped; her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly before any sound emerged.

“It isn’t prudent to wait for Faith’s recovery,” Croft continued smoothly. “You, of all people, understand the need for speed when vital information is at stake. We need you on this, Rosenberg.”

Willow’s mouth worked silently for another second before she gathered herself. Closing her eyes briefly, she blurted, “But I’ve never even left the country before - and you’re sending me to Eastern Europe?”

“That is correct.” Croft nodded once.

“But you can’t! This is clearly important - crucial, even - to our research on Vlad Tepes, and you’re sending me?”

“That is precisely why we’re sending you.”

From the chair beside her came the muffled sound of Jasper sniggering into his hand. Willow shot him a look that could have scorched parchment. He straightened instantly.

Croft caught the exchange and allowed herself a faint smile. “I wouldn’t look so smug if I were you, Evans,” she said. “You’re going too.”

“Right…crossbow…complete with your standard barbed bolts, silver-tipped bolts and armour piercing bolts,” Giles paused for a moment before selecting another quiver of bolts with their heads coated in an odd black surface, “I better throw in some flammable headed bolts given all the Atramen that have been giving you grief lately.”

Giles nodded to himself, apparently satisfied, and began packing the bolts and crossbow into the open canvas bag on the table. Willow made a face as he turned his back, rummaging through the racks behind him. Meanwhile, Jasper was peering into the bag with the gleeful curiosity of a child on Christmas morning—until Giles turned back around and slapped his hand away from the silver-tipped bolts.

“Dagger,” Giles muttered, depositing a long, wicked-looking blade into the bag. “Longsword…”

He ran into an immediate problem when the sword refused to fit. Frowning, he seemed momentarily absorbed in solving this most practical of dilemmas.

“Ah, Giles,” Willow said carefully, eyeing the weapon as though it might leap from its scabbard and impale her of its own accord. “Surely you must have something a little smaller?”

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised and considered the question seriously. His gaze flicked from Willow to the longsword and back again before he sighed, acknowledging the obvious. Willow would have great difficulty even lifting the weapon, let alone swinging it at anything intent on harming her. With a reluctant grunt, he replaced the sword and selected a shorter, lighter, rapier-like blade that even Willow could manage. He held it up for inspection; Willow replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“I don’t plan on using any of those weapons, Giles,” she said firmly. “Especially not while I have two good legs and am perfectly capable of running.”

Giles chuckled. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“My point exactly!” Jasper chirped, far too cheerfully.

Willow glanced between the two men and sighed in exasperation. It was clear she was fighting a losing battle.

“You two finish packing all of this…” She waved vaguely at the array of weaponry strewn across the table. “All this stuff. I’m going home to pack the real essentials—books, writing implements, that sort of thing. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

She stumbled out of Giles’s workroom, the full realisation of her impending journey to Eastern Europe only just beginning to sink in. As she made her way down the corridor toward her office, she mentally weighed her options - and found self-incapacitation increasingly appealing.

I’m sure Croft wouldn’t send me if I were missing my thumb, Willow mused, glancing down at the offending digit. Even as she wriggled it back and forth, she decided she rather enjoyed its continued use. Severing it, she concluded, was not the best course of action.

It was a fully intact Willow who arrived, completely out of breath, at the docks the next morning - thanking her lucky stars that the steamship was still there and hadn’t left without her. Jasper was waving frantically from the railings while Giles waited near the gangplank, exasperation written all over his face.

“I’m sorry… I slept in,” Willow wheezed between gasps, dumping her small travel bag at her feet but keeping a tight hold on her elegant wooden writing case—the one containing her papers, implements, and, more importantly, the diary.

“Your subconscious really wanted you to miss the boat, didn’t it?” Giles remarked, thumping her lightly on the head with a sheaf of papers. “Here. These are essentials you won’t want to lose. I almost gave them to Jasper; I couldn’t quite decide which of you was the more trustworthy.”

Willow accepted the papers and leafed through them. Most were standard documents of introduction, but a few bore Croft’s and Giles’s handwriting - clearly instructions that would require closer study once she was underway. As she looked down, she caught sight of the bag of weapons Giles had packed the previous day and nudged it with the toe of her boot.

While she was entirely unaccustomed to expeditions of any kind - and still dressed in her usual worn suit - Willow had at least managed to unearth an old pair of sturdy boots from her university days. Giles looked her up and down with a frown.

“You might want to purchase some new clothes en route,” he suggested dryly. “I can recommend an excellent outfitter in Paris.”

“What’s wrong with my attire?” Willow asked, glancing down at her sensible suit.

Giles sighed. “I really have to run - and so do you. Pick up your bags and get on the boat. I’ve arranged for a guide to meet you in Paris. Do you think you can get that far on your own?”

Willow, halfway through a losing battle with her luggage, looked up at the mention of a guide.

“You’re giving me a guide?” she asked hopefully. “Why didn’t someone tell me that earlier? I was up all night colour-coding travel plans and maps! Honestly, Giles -”

But he was already departing, waving over his shoulder with a faint smile.

“Really!” Willow gasped. “He could have at least given me a hand!”

Behind her, the ship’s whistle pierced the crisp morning air. Willow turned to see the sailors beginning to hoist the gangplank. With a panicked yelp, she ran forward, shouting for them to hold it. She barely made it - tossing her bags across to a sailor before leaping the last foot of open water herself. Once safely on board, she exhaled in relief and crossed the deck to find Jasper.

She was mildly irritated to see that the young man had managed to outfit himself quite respectably for their trip: sturdy denim trousers tucked into high boots, a sweater beneath a thick coat, and - crowning glory - a rather ridiculous pith helmet that she suspected had been liberated from Giles’s workroom.

“You do realise we’re going to Eastern Europe, not Africa,” Willow remarked, eyeing the helmet.

Jasper rapped his knuckles proudly on its brim. “Still, looks pretty spiffing though, doesn’t it?”

Willow declined to answer. A faint, nagging sensation was tugging at the back of her mind - the kind that usually meant she’d forgotten something. While trying to remember what it was, she turned her thoughts back to Giles’s parting words.

“Did you know a guide is to join us in Paris?” she asked Jasper.

“Yes,” he replied cheerfully.

“Great,” Willow groaned. “To make this trip even more unbearable, I have to put up with a Frenchman.”

“He’s not French,” Jasper offered helpfully. “Giles said he was an American.”

Willow groaned louder. “This could not get any worse.”

As the ship began its slow journey down the Thames, her stomach lurched ominously - an early warning of what awaited her once they reached the Channel. It was at that exact moment of queasiness that Willow remembered what she’d forgotten. She leaned forward and thunked her forehead against the iron deck rail.

“What’s wrong?” Jasper asked, all too cheerfully.

“I left all our weapons behind on the dock,” Willow muttered, and promptly smacked her head against the rail again.

Whether she ought to feel miserable or secretly relieved about abandoning such dangerous cargo, she couldn’t decide. But she did know one thing for certain: this ship was carrying her toward the continent - toward its sights and marvels, yes, but also its dangers and monsters. And she was very sure she didn’t like that one little bit.

Chapter Text

5^th June 1788

My hands shake for a reason other than excitement tonight…events have moved to the point where I now feel as if I am standing on the edge of a precipice and I know I shall fall. W surprised me at a soiree this evening by making no attempt to disguise her desire to speak with me alone. I thought perhaps after Edward’s announcement that she would disavow all knowledge of our relationship. However, she made it very clear that this was not her desire for us.

“I want you to leave with me,” W asked simply as we were alone in a secluded hallway, “I cannot abide the thought of you wed to that foul toad Edward Walsh, you must leave with me.” 

I was struck dumb by the fierce intensity in her voice and I knew that these were no mere girlish dreams that she was giving voice to. W was serious in her intent…and I must admit that I was scared.  

“Where would we go?” I asked in a strangled whisper.  

“Paris…anywhere in Europe…even America!” W grasped both my hands in her own, squeezing them firmly and holding them to her breast. “My brother will see us safely anywhere we wish to go…and you know there is the money for us to do this, he will deny us nothing. It is simple!” 

My dear, dear W…she could not even begin to understand the ties that bound me to Edward Walsh and my intended fate. She could only understand love. 

“I can leave,” I admitted. “But my family would be ruined…our lands lost to debtors, my parents and siblings destitute, not all are fortunate enough to have the family fortune you have inherited from your parents. In marrying Edward I will save my family.”

W’s brow furrowed as though she were mulling over this information in her mind, her solution was all too simple, “Why not allow my family to help?”

“W, please desist with your follies!” I stamped my foot in exasperation, if only she could make this easier for me. “The only course of action is for me to marry Edward…anything else is unacceptable to society.”

“I love you,” W protested. “Surely that is all that matters?”

With those impassioned words she threw herself forward into my arms and pressed her lips to mine. That kiss served to remind me that we belonged together, W and I, the skin on my lips melded to hers. I closed my eyes and I was lost to her touch. I did not care that anyone might intrude on our intimate moment together. At that point I began to entertain the thought that perhaps her folly would work, and we would be able to find a place where we could be together, away from my family and Edward.

My lips parted with a gasp as she thrust her tongue into my mouth, I accepted it hungrily, my hands cupping her face. She forced me back against the wall with one fierce shove as our kiss continued, growing in intensity.

Suddenly, I felt her weight cruelly dragged away from my body. I opened my eyes in time to see W thrown back against the opposite wall of the hallway, a man stepped between us. It was Edward, his face alight with fury as he drew back his hand and slapped W across her face with all the force he could muster. She fell, sprawling on the ground at Edward’s feet. I cried out, dashing to my W’s side but Edward grabbed me by my hair and yanked me backwards. Tears were brimming in my eyes as I looked to W crumpled on the ground. I saw her stir. She rose into a crouching position before using the wall as an aid to stand. With her lip bleeding, she stood and faced Edward and I. With fire in her eyes, she stepped towards us. Edward threw me to one side as W approached.

Even now I can still see W, standing toe to toe with Edward, him towering over her small frame. She would not back down. Even when he threatened to give her the thrashing she deserved she did not flinch once. Edward was as immovable as a rock, I could see in his eyes the immense and overwhelming hatred he felt for W for the simple fact that, even though he may marry me, she will forever remain the one I love. I screamed as Edward raised his fist, rushing to restrain the hot-headed fool but he shoved me aside once more with a mere flick of his hand. I was thrown into the wall behind me and collapsed like a sack of flour with the wind knocked out of me. It was at that precise moment, just as Edward was about to bring his fist crashing down on W, that someone else rushed past me to restrain him. I saw a flash of red hair, a military uniform. W’s brother was on Edward Walsh in a second. The dandy hardly had time to turn his head before the Captain drove his fist straight into Edward’s nose. A shower of blood spewed forth, staining Edward’s shirt and sending him flying away from W. The Captain pressed forward and seized the fallen man by the scruff of his bloodied shirt, hauling him upwards so the two of them were nose to nose. One trembling with fear, the other with barely controlled rage.

“If you ever lay a hand on my sister I will see to it personally that you never use either of your hands again…that should be simply enough put even for the likes of you!” he growled. “I wish to god that I could stop this marriage as well.”

It was at that point that Edward laughed, and it wasn’t the laugh of someone even remotely amused…it was the laugh of insanity, the whites of his eyes were huge as he met the other man’s stare.

“But you can’t can you?” his voice was high-pitched, close to a shriek. “Your abomination of a sister is going to spend the rest of her life knowing that I’m the one who gets to take my rights with my wife…and be most assured, I will take them!”

I could see the desire to do murder written plainly on the Captain’s face and I desperately wanted him to go through with it. To drive his fist again and again into Edward’s face until the bastard was nothing but an unrecognisable and bloodied pulp. Yet I knew that would only bring instant satisfaction and not the lasting life of peace with W that I craved. I knew at that point that there was nothing that I could do that would bring about the end I craved with all my being…although I could not guarantee W’s happiness; at least I could guarantee her protection. If W’s brother were labelled a murderer, she would be left completely alone. It almost killed me to do it but I threw myself over Edward, pleading for the Captain to spare him, vile a man as he was. I will never forget the look of incomprehension on the siblings’ faces as I pleaded to spare the life of the man I most loathed in all the world. I watched on as W’s brother backed away from us both and turned his back on me to face his sister. I only saw W’s face for a moment but it was more than enough to reduce me to tears. The expression of disbelief and pain that was written there forced a terrible sob from my throat that might have been an attempt to say her name. Within seconds she was gone, bundled away from the scene by her brother and I was left kneeling next to a bloodied, dazed Edward.

Although I am quite sure that I am now rendered less than whole with the loss of my W and my impending union with Edward, I cannot accept that my life is over. While I fear I will never again know love, I will know duty.

March 1898

A train en route through the French Countryside

While I fear I will never again know love, I will know duty.

Willow traced her fingertips gently over the long-dried ink on the diary page, feeling the anguish Tara must have felt through the very grain of the paper. The final line of the entry had been written in fierce strokes, the words carved into the page - and duty had been underlined three times. She snapped the small volume shut and clutched it to her chest. Her eyes burned fiercely.

Turning to the window of the train, Willow let her gaze drift over the tranquil French countryside as it slipped past. When a single hot tear escaped to trace its way down her cheek, she heard the door to the compartment slide open. She quickly brushed it away and shoved the diary into the writing case at her feet.

“Reading?” Jasper inquired a little too cheerfully. “I always find -”

He stopped abruptly when he noticed the telltale moisture on Willow’s cheek. Though Jasper Evans had no great understanding of women, he did know enough to recognise when he was intruding on something private. He took the seat opposite her and, after a few minutes of deliberate fidgeting, fell into an exaggerated sleep.

Willow glanced across at him as he began snoring in a rather forced manner and managed a small smile. She herself found sleep impossible - too many thoughts raced through her mind to allow for peace. Instead, she turned back to the passing scenery.

Before long, the low farmland gave way to the outskirts of Paris, and eventually, their stop. Jasper jerked awake as the train shuddered to a halt. Willow was already gathering their luggage from the racks overhead.

“We’re to meet our guide at five this evening, at the…Hotel Saint-Honoré,” Jasper said brightly in a schoolboy French accent as they stepped down onto the bustling platform. “I’ve got the address somewhere.”

Willow turned to regard him through narrowed eyes. “Why is it that Giles trusted you with such an important piece of information?”

“Something about instilling a sense of responsibility,” Jasper said with a shrug. “Should we just go to the hotel and wait?”

“I suppose,” Willow mused, glancing down at her sensible suit. “Although I do think we should pay a visit to a clothing store. Giles was right – I’m dressed for the library, not the field.”

Jasper grinned. “This will be fun. I’ve never seen you wear anything other than those boring old suits of yours. It’s high time you wore something a little more flattering.”

Willow cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “How the devil would you know anything about fashion?”

“I know enough to know that what you’re wearing-” Jasper nodded toward her outfit “-is not fashion.”

Giles had seen fit to include the card of the store he mentioned that morning in Jasper’s small collection of instructions and locations. While Willow had initially been hesitant to spend Museum funds on clothing, she decided it was a sensible course of action given their destination.

An hour later, Willow glanced down at herself and wondered if what she was now wearing could be called fashion. For some reason, she decided it definitely was not.

She stepped in front of the provided mirror and studied her reflection with a serious frown. She had modelled her attire after Faith, the only globe-trotting adventurer she knew, but for some reason she did not look like her dark-haired friend. Her feet were clad in high, sturdy brown leather boots of the type worn by military officers and serious explorers, laced up just below her knees. Willow examined the leather trousers; they were tight even on her decidedly non-curvy frame, and she shifted uncomfortably. Flicking up the back of her leather coat, she glanced over her shoulder at the way the pants hugged her bottom rather scandalously. She sighed - her jacket would cover the offending area, and they would be out of civilized company for much of the trip. Still, as she studied this particular view of her reflection for a moment longer, she had to admit it was not unpleasant to see how the leather hugged her flanks. Red crept into her cheeks as she checked the changing room door to see if anyone had been observing her.

Turning back to the mirror, she adjusted the collar of her shirt and lamented the lack of a bow tie. She was savvy enough to realize a tie would not have complemented her outfit. To complete the ensemble, she wore a green heavy cotton jacket and a thick leather coat, which brushed the tops of her boots and promised to keep most of the traveling dust at bay. With a deep breath, Willow stepped out of the changing room to Jasper’s enthusiastic approval. He added a wide-brimmed leather hat as a final flourish, and Willow admitted it made her look at least a little dashing.

Returning from their shopping expedition to the small, out-of-the-way hotel in which they were spending the night, Willow and Jasper found a man of around Willow’s age seated in the lobby. From the first glance, Willow could tell he was a little ill at ease. He perched awkwardly on the very edge of the plush chair, as if it might swallow him whole if he sat normally. His clothes were clean but well-worn, the attire of a man of action rather than a desk-bound scholar. Willow noted the way his shirt hugged his biceps and the curved corners of his lips, which meant he smiled often. A lady not of her inclinations would likely have found him attractive and judging by his grin forming at the sight of her, he knew it.

He practically leapt out of the chair, grateful to stand, and took a few quick strides toward Willow and Jasper. Despite Jasper’s admiring stare, he only seemed to have eyes for Willow.

“Hey there, little lady. I’m Alexander Harris - Alex to all the ladies, I believe I’ll be your guide for this journey into the dark and dangerous depths of Eastern Europe.” He tipped his worn and weathered hat jauntily.

Willow eyed him suspiciously and replied in a rather rude tone, “I trust you’ll have the good sense to avoid the dark and dangerous bits and just take us where we need to go.”

Alex’s smile slowly morphed into a confused frown, and he paused to scratch his head for a full minute, as though deciding whether the ‘little lady’ was joking or completely serious.

“But ma’am, it’s the dark and dangerous bits I’m being paid to take you to.” He looked her up and down, eyes roaming from her unscuffed leather boots to her smart jacket and hat, neither of which had ever known rain or dust. “Say, just how much experience do you have in the field?”

“None,” Willow replied promptly, quite proud of her inexperience. “I’m a researcher.”

Alex stared at her in outright shock until Jasper slipped between them, holding out his hand with an enthused expression. Still struck mute, Alex took the younger man’s hand in his own.

“Jasper Evans at your service, Mr. Harris!” Jasper pumped Alex’s hand firmly.

With his gaze flicking back and forth between Willow and Jasper (especially lingering on the pith helmet), Alex’s expression turned worried. The realisation had obviously just struck that he would be escorting the two greenest expedition novices in continental Europe. He tipped his hat again, then backed away slowly.

“Um…best I turn in for the night and get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll meet you both on the train tomorrow morning, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he walked away muttering something about finding a new line of work.

Willow and Jasper watched Alex take the stairs two at a time until he disappeared from sight. Willow turned to Jasper and shrugged. “I guess we should try to get some sleep, too. I think it might be a long day tomorrow.”

While Willow managed to make it into bed with the covers tucked securely beneath her chin at a respectable hour, she could not bring on sleep. She kept telling herself she was exhausted after their boat and train journey, during which she had not slept a wink - indeed, she had spent most of the boat ride hanging over the railings emptying the contents of her stomach.

After an hour of fruitless tossing and turning, Willow finally re-dressed herself and made her way back downstairs. The hotel lobby was mostly deserted, with only the front desk clerk looking extremely bored and impatient for his shift to be over, and two gentlemen talking over brandy and cigars near the bar. Not being particularly keen on drinking or smoking herself to sleep, Willow made for the front door with the intention of taking a brisk walk in a well-lit area.

She was drawn up short when she saw a figure standing at a nearby window, elbows propped on the sill, gazing longingly outdoors. It was Jasper, clad in his bulky overcoat as though he were heading outside.

“Jasper?” Willow asked, announcing her presence so as not to startle him. “It’s rather late - aren’t you tired?”

He spun away from the window with a slightly sheepish grin. “I really want to see Paris, even just a little… but being so late, I was afraid to go out on my own… and I wasn’t sure if you would approve.”

“Well, given that I was about to head out myself, I can hardly protest. How about we take a stroll together?” Willow offered, unsure if she truly wanted company but feeling sorry for the young man who was so eager to explore the city.

“Are you sure?” Jasper leapt up with a broad smile. “You bet! Thanks awfully, Miss Rosenberg.”

“Willow, please, Jasper,” she urged as they stepped into the night air, him holding the door open. “You make me feel like a schoolteacher calling me ‘Miss Rosenberg’ all the time.”

“Sure… Willow,” he beamed, striking up a jaunty strut as he set off down the footpath.

Willow followed, pleased to find the streets around the hotel well lit with electric lighting, much as in London. People were still strolling about, though most were hurrying home. To all outward appearances, Willow and Jasper looked like two young Englishmen taking in the city for the first time - which, aside from Willow being a woman, was not far from the truth.

They were able to wander quite freely, and at the brisk pace they set, covered a great deal of ground. Jasper seemed intent on leading them toward the Seine and Notre Dame, but as they continued, Willow began to doubt his sense of direction.

Soon they found themselves in an area with fewer streetlamps and ominously dark alleyways, which they scurried past quickly. A low whistle cut through the night, and both Willow and Jasper spun to see two women emerge from a nearby doorway.

“Here’s a handsome pair of Englishmen, looking for a good time?” the nearest said in heavily accented English. She was clad in a particularly violent shade of yellow that did nothing for her pale, blotchy skin.

“Is that right, are you boys looking for a good time?” her companion asked. She was almost pretty, though wearing so much rouge on her cheeks she looked more like a doll. Her red dress was cut so low that Willow glimpsed the dark areola surrounding her nipple. Heat surged to Willow’s cheeks. It was the closest she had ever come to seeing another woman’s breasts outside a dream - and all she felt was cold terror.

“No… I mean yes, we’re having a good time… but we’re fine, thanks,” Willow stuttered, scanning for the best route of escape. Unfortunately, there was a dead end ahead, and the prostitutes moved deliberately to block their path.

The two approached, practically backing the unfortunate pair against the wall. Willow cringed, pressing her back against the cold stone as the red-frocked woman, several times taller and heavier than her, loomed close, drenched in a scent that made Willow sneeze. Meanwhile, her companion in yellow was stroking Jasper’s pink cheek, the young man staring rather raptly at her bosom peeking from the top of her dress.

Willow sneezed again as the red-frocked woman placed one hand on the wall beside her, moving so close that their bodies were nearly touching.

“Sacre bleu! My, but you are a joli garçon!” the woman exclaimed, pinching Willow’s cheek. “For you I will make a special offer - two francs for a knee trembler, but for ten francs I will take you back to my room for a whole hour of love making… it is a good offer, non?”

“Ah, it’s a very good offer… but I’m honestly not interested!” Willow squeaked, sliding along the wall to put more distance between herself and the persistent woman.

“Oh, I bet you are,” the prostitute breathed.

Willow almost squealed aloud as the frisky woman reached for her. Lacking a broom - or anything resembling a proper defensive implement - Willow had to rely on her nimble feet. She darted from beneath the woman’s outstretched arm and seized Jasper by the sleeve.

“Ah, Jasper, now would be one of those times that we should run!”

Still dragging the young man, who seemed oddly determined to dig in his heels, Willow tore out of the dead-end street as fast as she could. She was horrified to glance back and see that the two women were not about to relinquish potential clients so easily. They had hitched up their skirts and were running after them, white legs flashing in the night. Willow increased her pace and ducked down a side street that promised more potential hiding places.

“I’ve got twenty francs in my pocket!” Jasper called out as they ran. “Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do when you’re in Paris?”

Willow shot him a furious glare. “If you’re a sailor - which you are not! Not to mention, that’s museum money in your pocket!”

Jasper shrugged, clearly convinced it was a valid travel expense. Willow groaned in exasperation and glanced over her shoulder once more - they were still being pursued. She rounded another corner without care, dragging Jasper into a shadowed doorway and pressing them both against the wall, melding into the darkness as best they could.

Willow could hear the click of the prostitutes’ heeled shoes on the cobbles, fearing her hoarse breathing would give them away. She tried to slow it, though exertion and anxiety made it almost impossible. A few seconds later, it became apparent that the women would run straight past them without checking the alley. Willow exhaled in relief, and beside her, Jasper sighed.

“You’re a good-looking lad, Jasper,” Willow reassured him, patting his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll meet a young lady worthy of your attentions.”

Jasper turned toward her in the dim light. “Are you sure about that? I think I’m a bit skinny for the ladies.”

“Skinny or not, I have no doubt you’ll be successful in love,” Willow added, realizing she might have gone a touch overboard in reassurance when she saw his beaming grin.

They waited at least a minute before emerging, just to be certain the prostitutes had gone. Alone in the alley, they breathed a collective sigh of relief - short-lived, however, as two figures moved to block the entrance. Both men wore ragged, bulky clothing with hats pulled low over their brows, and even in the shadows, Willow could see the gleam of knives in their hands. She reached out, dragging Jasper behind her as the two approached confidently.

“Now we’ll be having all your property, lads - money, watches, and those rather nice boots.” the nearest growled in an English accent, running his thumb along the length of his blade.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves, giving your country a bad name!” Willow replied indignantly. She was also stalling for time, wondering if she could risk backing away slowly. She shifted slightly, and in doing so, her jacket fell open, revealing the shirt beneath which hugged the curves of her chest.

The second man stepped forward quickly and grabbed his partner’s arm in excitement. “It’s a woman!”

They both leered at Willow, wide smiles revealing mouths full of missing teeth from a lifetime of drunken brawls.

“It’s our lucky night, Bill. Looks like a sweet one too, beneath the men’s clothing.”

Willow kept a firm gaze on both of them, watching for any sudden movement, when Jasper shoved her aside from behind.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her!”

Jasper was between them in an instant, drawing a narrow sword from beneath his coat and awkwardly pulling it from its sheath. Willow did not know a great deal about different kinds of swords, but she instantly recognised this one as a Japanese katana. In his haste, he fumbled and dropped the blade, letting it clatter to the cobbles below. Willow’s eyes widened for a moment - then she saw the nearest cutthroat reaching for it. She dove forward, seizing the sword by the handle.

“Back, you devils!” Willow cried, brandishing the blade toward the pair.

Both men were taken aback by the sudden appearance of the gleaming sword in Willow’s hands, hesitation flashing across their faces. Willow stood poised, gripping the katana with both hands, raised above her head, ready to strike if either dared to come closer. She felt a tug on her jacket.

“Ah, Willow… it’s good that we have the sword and all, but I think we should still run!” Jasper insisted.

Willow hesitated for a heartbeat, the briefest flicker of confidence telling her she could take on both men and win, knives or no knives. The feeling vanished as quickly as it came, and she nodded urgently at Jasper.

“Yes!”

Despite having already pushed themselves to exhaustion fleeing the prostitutes, both Willow and Jasper set off at a cracking pace, running for their lives rather than merely for their innocence.

When Willow glanced over her shoulder as they emerged onto a lamplit street, she was surprised to see no pursuers. She did not pause to dwell on it and kept running, the sword still clutched tightly in her hand.

They did not slow until they reached the steps of their hotel, panting, sweating, and thoroughly spent - but alive, after their brief encounter with Paris’s seedy underbelly.

“Jasper, where in God’s name did you get this sword?” Willow asked, still gripping the katana as they re-entered the hotel. “I thought I left all our weapons behind on the dock?”

“Nicked it from Faith’s stash and hid it in my luggage,” Jasper admitted, completely unashamed.

“Jasper!” Willow gasped in horror.

“Come on, she’s got dozens,” he shrugged.

Willow considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll keep a hold of it… and I’d suggest we don’t mention a word of this little incident to our American guide. I suspect it would further erode our already tarnished image.”

“Agreed,” Jasper said quickly, handing the finely worked sheath back to Willow.

They made a beeline for their respective rooms, gratefully closing the door on the unnerving world beyond. As Willow settled down to sleep that night, she could not shake a sense of apprehension. With the journey barely begun, she had already narrowly escaped an unwanted intimate encounter, being robbed, and potentially murdered in an alley. She knew in her bones that the road ahead would be a long, dangerous haul indeed.

The thugs in the alley were still reeling, struggling to comprehend how a woman and a boy had so completely humiliated them. Their bruised pride and sheer arrogance told them to pursue. Brute force, after all, could make up for fear.

They had barely pulled themselves together when an unrelenting grip seized their collars. One man was lifted and hurled backward with bone-shattering force. His skull met the brick wall with a sickening crack, and he crumpled into a lifeless heap. Dust and the stench of sweat and alcohol rose from his body as he slid to the ground.

The second man barely had time to react before he was yanked into the air, his legs flailing wildly. His back slammed against the wall, and the world seemed to tilt as he was pinned with a strength that defied all reason. A metallic taste of fear flooded his mouth, and he realized he could not even scream - his voice had been stolen.

The woman who held him seemed otherworldly. Blonde hair streamed like fire behind her, blue eyes cutting like twin blades. Her lips peeled back to reveal teeth far sharper than any human’s, gleaming faintly in the dim light. A cold, iron scent seemed to radiate from her, mingling with the warm, coppery tang of blood that now slicked her jaw.

“Did William or Angelus put you up to this?” she hissed, her voice low, deliberate, and terrifying. “Speak…or suffer.”

He shook his head violently. “No! No, I don’t know who those people are!”

She lifted him effortlessly, then slammed him backward into the wall. His skull cracked against the brick with a wet thud, and a scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural. Pain blossomed through his jaw and spine, white-hot and relentless.

“No one sent us! Just us! They looked like easy pickings – English, posh clothes…lost!” he gasped, spittle flying.

“You’re common thieves,” she whispered, her voice a razor slicing through the night.

“Yes! Just thieves!” he gasped, trembling.

“You’re scum,” she added, venomous. “You attacked someone dear to me. And for that, there will be no mercy.”

Panic reached its apex in the man’s chest as the scream caught in his throat, abruptly cut off by the lethal precision of her fangs sinking into the pale flesh of his neck. A geyser of hot, metallic blood erupted, staining the cobbles beneath them and the darkness around. His struggles grew weaker, then ceased, leaving only the ragged hiss of his final breaths.

The woman released him, and his body collapsed like a discarded rag. A faint echo of bone and cartilage scraping against stone resonated in the alley. She stepped over the corpse as if it were no more than litter, wiping the blood from her chin with a sleeve streaked in black leather. The faint scent of iron lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of burning torches from distant streets.

Not a word was spoken. Not a sound disturbed the darkness except the soft, wet patter of blood soaking into the cobblestones. The alley was silent, yet every shadow seemed alive, trembling at the violence it had just witnessed.

The next morning, Alex seemed to have set aside his apprehensions regarding his two abysmally inexperienced companions and was in fine spirits as they boarded the train for the next leg of their journey. This leg, of course, would be much longer than their short jaunt to Paris, and they had reserved a cabin with sleeping berths. Willow wrinkled her nose, unimpressed, as she stowed her luggage. She struggled on tiptoes to push her bag into the overhead rack, only for it to threaten to topple back down on her head - when a large arm shot up and shoved the bag firmly into place.

“I promise I don’t snore,” Alex whispered, tightening the luggage straps.

Willow spun around, startled to find herself so close to a man - one who smelled oddly faintly of pipe smoke and leather. She mumbled her thanks and claimed the window seat. Jasper quickly staked the opposite seat, beaming, grateful to avoid staring at Alex for a while. Alex, in turn, chose to sit beside Jasper, who puffed out his chest and tried to look as manly as possible - though he was still very much a skinny little boy.

Alex opened a Parisian newspaper and was immediately engrossed. Willow looked on in astonishment was forced to admit that she might have underestimated Alex Harris, obviously he could at least speak French. Jasper rummaged in a small bag of sweets he had purchased at the station, while Willow turned her attention to the platform outside the window. Most of the passengers had already boarded, leaving only a few lingering well-wishers. Willow scanned the crowd. Porters lugging bags, conductors calling latecomers aboard, middle-class ladies farewelling husbands or fiancés, and working-class men in caps and overalls, hands jammed in pockets.

Then she saw her - one exceedingly familiar blonde-haired woman, dressed entirely in black, standing apart from the rest. She stared directly at Willow, meeting her gaze with a calmness that made it seem as though her presence on the platform was perfectly natural. No one else seemed to notice her. All gave her a wide berth.

Willow’s lips parted in surprise. She wanted to call out, to leap from the train - but the conductor’s last call echoed across the platform. Moments later, the train began to move, slowly at first, and then gaining speed, carrying her - and the woman - out of sight.

“Willow?”

She turned to see Jasper looking at her with a disconcerted expression. Realising she had subconsciously risen to her feet while staring, she quickly sank back into her seat.

“I thought I saw someone I knew…that’s all,” she offered with a shrug, hoping it sounded casual.

Jasper nodded as if satisfied, offering her a sweet, which she declined. It was far too early in the morning for sugar. She leaned back against the seat and discovered that it was quite comfortable. With the gentle sway of the train and her lingering exhaustion, Willow drifted off to sleep, her dreams once again haunted by the tortured love story in the diary.

Chapter Text

15th September 1788

To say that today was one of the most dreadful and cruelly ironic days of my life would be the grossest understatement imaginable. There are no words to express the despair I feel at this moment - or that I have felt through every month that has passed since last I saw W.

As of this morning, I am Mrs. Edward Walsh. The wedding ceremony was the most joyless event I have ever witnessed in all my years - and that includes every funeral I have attended.

For all intents and purposes, it was a funeral. My own.

Indeed, I felt as though I were only a spectator, watching some other woman - one who merely resembled me - wed Edward Walsh. As a witness, I wept. I wept for the bride who dared not shed a tear herself. 

Now, as I write this final entry in my diary, I sit shivering in my nightgown in a room that is supposed to be my own. But it will never truly be mine - it belongs to my husband. Everything belongs to Edward. Including my body. 

The only small consolation I possess is this - though I may belong to him in name, I shall never truly belong to him. In my mind, I am W’s, and no matter what he does to me, he can never take that away. My memories of my beautiful redhead are mine and mine alone - especially the tender moments we shared. I will always remember the feel of her naked body pressed against my own, our hearts beating as one, and the quiet bliss of lying together afterwards - two pages of the same book. Place those pages anywhere else, and they are meaningless, out of order.

Tomorrow Edward and I depart for Austria on our honeymoon, taking a grand tour of the continent along the way. Though I can imagine nothing more dreadful than travelling with him, I confess I long to see those foreign lands. Perhaps their wonders will suffice to dull the ache within me, to make me forget - if only for a moment - that I am not sharing them with the one I love.

I wish to God I could cease pitying myself. My wretchedness is of my own making; I do not deserve sympathy. If anyone deserves compassion, it is my dear, brave W, who was willing to risk everything for us to be together. No - pity is not the right word, for she would never wish it, least of all from me.

As soon as I finish this entry, I shall bind this diary and send it to her at first light. I cannot safely keep it, nor can I bring myself to destroy it. Within these pages I have been honest to a fault, and I can only hope she will accept them as a token - a small reminder of what we shared.

A token reminder only, for I believe she would feel as I do. That these are but words, and the true memories are etched into our very flesh, into every pore of our being - a reminder that we were meant to belong together forever. In parting from her, I have committed a kind of murder. I have torn asunder two souls that were one. In that sense, I am already dead. 

I hear his footsteps approaching. Edward is here. I do not pray often - but tonight, I shall pray for the strength to endure what must be endured.

Early February 1898

The Continent

Willow’s heart felt leaden as she finished the final line of the diary. It wasn’t only the words that sent her spiralling into a pit of melancholy - it was something else, something nameless, an ache that plucked at her heartstrings with all the grace of a violist playing with his toes. She turned the page and found that the diarist had written one more thing after her wedding‑night entry. It was a single word - but it filled the entire page like an invocation.

Willow.

The name was written over and over again, scrawled with such intensity that the ink had bled through the paper. Willow reached out, touching the page lightly, as if she might feel the emotion that had driven the pen. Throughout the diary, the woman had referred to her only as W. Though it was a poor disguise, Willow had never questioned it - until now. She understood, suddenly and painfully, the desperation behind the repeated name. It wasn’t concealment; it was longing.

Gripped by a sudden anger, Willow fiercely turned the page even though she thought she would find no answers there. There was text there in abundance…all written in the same, almost perfect script that had scribbled the Bloomsbury address in the front cover, but unlike the original portion of the diary she could decipher not a word. It was torture; Willow knew that the answers she sought, the rest of the story lay hidden within the text. She scanned the first few pages in the vain hope that some sort of pattern would emerge, one that would give her clues to deciphering it but she possessed neither the patience nor the clarity of mind required for such a task. Instead, she leapt from the bed in a state of agitation. Her footfalls sounded hard and fast on the floorboards as she paced the short width of her hotel room. Before she could give herself over to anger and tear the diary in two, Willow threw it to the floor where it landed with a thud and skidded beneath the bed.

Turning her back on the book Willow dashed a measure of water from the porcelain pitcher into the wash basin and hunched over it, staring into her own blurred reflection. A single tear slid over her nose, hung on the end of it for a second and dropped into the water with a tiny splash. A second tear followed in due course and before Willow knew quite what had overcome her she was weeping uncontrollably. Sobs racked her small frame and she found herself having to kneel down before she fell over on her weak knees. Willow crumpled into a small ball and tucked herself up in the tiny space between the heavy wooden dresser and the wall. She was so consumed with grief and pain, she didn’t care that her body quickly became chilled pressed up against the bare boards. All she could dwell on was the overwhelming sense of loss she felt, as though something or someone very precious had been stolen from her.

London

Faith cried out, flinging her hands out behind her to firmly grasp the headboard of the bed upon which her naked body was currently writhing in agonising ecstasy. She thrust her hips repeatedly and insistently against the warm mouth that was fastened over her sex, straining for more pressure.

Lara responded by increasing the pace with which her tongue flicked over Faith’s clit. She sensed that the lithe woman bucking against her lips was nearing her release as her movements became more intense, her breath sounding hoarse coupled with the increasingly loud words issuing from her throat. Without interrupting the work of her tongue, Lara shifted slightly so she could force one finger upwards, burying it in the warmth of Faith’s cunt.

Faith slapped her hand against the headboard as she felt the penetration, thrusting against Lara’s hand as well as her mouth. “For the love of god! Are you trying to make me pull my stitches apart?”

Lara moved her mouth for a brief moment even as she kept thrusting with her finger, “You want me to stop?”

“No, don’t stop now!” was Faith’s immediate reply.

Lara resumed her ministrations with her tongue, trying her best to keep her movements gentle but Faith’s responses clearly showed that she was beyond feeling pain from her wound and concentrating solely on the pleasure.

Faith came a few moments later amidst a guttural howl of undecipherable words. Lara kept moving between Faith’s trembling thighs, continuing to stroke her pulsing cunt with her tongue even as a command came for her to stop. She savoured a last taste before pulling back to admire the sight of her lover spread wide in front of her, glistening moisture coating the inside of her thighs and her sex. Lara licked her lips like a cat before crawling up Faith’s body, warming her before the coat of sweat that covered her body could start cooling. She absently traced a small pattern between Faith’s breasts as their bodies folded together, gradually moving her fingers downwards over the scars that dotted Faith’s otherwise perfect skin, she stopped when she came to the thick bandage that concealed the still unhealed wound in her side.

“I’m sure this is not what the doctor would prescribe,” Faith commented as she felt Lara’s fingers brush over her skin. 

“Was the activity a little too boisterous for you?” Lara teased in reply.

“Perhaps,” Faith shifted slightly and felt the wound protest. “But what is a little pain compared to the pleasure of having your mouth between my legs. That and the fact that I was positively aching for your touch…or any touch for that matter. One should not go more than two weeks without fulfilling one’s needs.”

“Any touch?” Lara repeated archly. “I should hardly think that just any touch would suffice.”

Faith smirked. “Yours is indeed pleasurable…and a more adequate way to pass the time I could not think of.”

“Well, we have all evening…” Lara began.

“About that...I was going to pay Willow a visit,” Faith admitted. “It’s quite odd actually, she hasn’t been to see me. I stopped by her office today but she wasn’t in, I couldn’t find Giles and no one else seemed to have seen her. If she were ill she would have to be very sick indeed to keep her away from work.”

“Yes…about Willow,” Lara began, her voice betraying an element of discomfort.

“You know where she is?” Faith twisted her neck so she could look at Lara.

“I’m not expecting her back from Klausenburg for at least a month,” Lara replied simply, she cocked her head to one side as though she were mulling over dates in her head. “Perhaps longer if the information turns out to be of worthwhile interest and she can follow it up while she’s there.”

Faith immediately extracted herself from within Lara’s warm embrace, trying to ignore the stabbing pain shooting through her torso as she moved too fast for her wound. She could hardly hide the grimace on her face and Lara predictably rose from her own reclining position to go to her lover’s aid. Faith halted her movement with a raised hand blocking her path. Lara remained sitting on the bed while Faith swung her feet onto the floor and stood, her naked body glowing in the candlelight. She turned to face Lara without bothering to put any clothes on.

“I am to understand that you sent Willow to Eastern Europe…alone?” Faith demanded, clutching at the dressing covering the wound in her side.

Lara shook her head, finding it difficult to deny that a naked, angry Faith was a beautiful sight, “No, she’s with Evans…and I engaged Alexander Harris to be their guide.”

Faith let out a flabbergasted snort. “Jasper is about as much use as a wooden sword. What is he there to do? Make cups of tea?”

“Evans is loyal to a fault. I believe we’re all underestimating him…and he needs the field time as much as Rosenberg,” Lara admitted with a shrug, she went on to add, “That debate aside, I’m sure you’ll agree that Harris was the most appropriate guide, you yourself have used him on more than one occasion and pronounced him to be adequate. I figured that was high praise coming from you.”

“It was high praise!” Faith agreed in exasperation. “He’s a fine shot and a quick with his fists, there’s no one I would rather have guarding my back in a tight situation than Alex Harris…but that’s the thing, I don’t want Willow in the type of situation where she would need a fine shot and quick fists!”

Faith forgot the pain in her side. Instead she was consumed by anger and feat at the thought of her best friend in a completely unknown environment, much too far out of her element. She knew exactly what Willow was headed for and the thought unsettled her. While Klausenburg was hardly a dark and dangerous backwater, one still had to remain alert at every moment. The dark forces that they worked to combat had an uncanny ability to sense out employees of the British Museum and make life as uncomfortable for them as they possibly could. Too many times Faith had run into sticky situations, even in relatively secure environments. She had been forced to use all of her experience and skill to escape. The thought of Willow having to do the same would have been laughable if not for the fact that it wasn’t a joke. Willow was actually traipsing around Eastern Europe with her youthful assistant and Alexander Harris. When that thought ticked over in her head Faith groaned aloud.

“And Harris? He’s American through and through - loud, cocky, and can’t keep his belt buckled for more than five minutes. He’d bloody well flirt with his own reflection if it wore a petticoat. He stays professional with me because he knows I’d slice his balls off without a second thought…but is he really the type of man to whom you would entrust the care of someone like Willow, someone who has absolutely no experience in fending off unwanted male attentions!”

Lara gave a dismissive shrug. “You never know, she might want those attentions? Alex Harris is handsome enough after a fashion.”

Faith took that last comment as a cue to find her clothes, she was pulling on her leather pants as she continued the conversation, trying to steer it away from the direction it was taking. “She could do without the attentions of Alex Harris thank you very much!” Especially given the fact that Willow was not that way inclined, she could not stand the thought of that scoundrel trying to seduce her.

“This banter is pointless, Rosenberg is an employee!” Lara threw up her hands in annoyance as Faith dragged on a shirt over her bare breasts. “I care about the job…not her personal life.”

“An employee…just like me,” Faith growled, trying to find her missing leather boot beneath the bed, she dragged it out and popped her head back up to glare at her lover. “Not to mention I distinctly remember you telling me to keep a special eye on Willow. Now you’re sending her off to chase a dangerous lead with just her hapless assistant and a womanising American?”

Lara now had the grace to look somewhat guilty, although it was still not enough for Faith. She turned her back on the naked woman lying in her bed as she hopped around the room tugging her boots on, various curses coming from her lips as her wound smarted with each movement.

“Events weren’t moving fast enough,” Lara admitted quietly, her tone however indicated that was all she would admit

Faith whirled on her. “What events? You’re not going to tell me are you? I’m good enough to do what I’m told and share you bed when you feel like it but for some reason I can’t be let in on your little plan. A plan which involves the safety of someone I care about deeply! Well, are you going to tell me?”

Lara simply shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Enough!” Faith announced with finality, seizing her jacket from where she had tossed it earlier over the back of a chair. “I’m taking a holiday. I’ll be back when I feel like it. Perhaps not at all and certainly not in your bed.”

Faith did not stay in the room long enough to see the crestfallen expression on Lara Croft’s face. 

The Continent

Fierce hunger eventually drove Willow from her hotel room late that evening, though not before she had painstakingly scrubbed away the tearstains on her face. She made her way downstairs to the hotel bar, recalling the hearty meals of bread and meat she had glimpsed earlier that afternoon—meals that seemed perfect for her current state.

No sooner had she stepped into the dimly lit room, its low ceiling pressing down upon her, than a broad-shouldered man moved to block her path. She looked up and found herself staring into the familiar, cocky grin of Alex Harris, who tipped his cowboy hat with casual flourish.

“Well, howdy, Miss Rosenberg! How about you let me buy you a drink, and I’ll regale you with the tale of how I single-handedly stopped a stampeding herd of buffalo from crushing a wagon train full of womenfolk and little ‘uns…”

Willow smiled politely and shrugged. “That sounds…fascinating. But I am actually rather famished.”

“I love a lady who knows how to eat!” Alex declared, slapping her back with more familiarity than she appreciated.

“Pull up a stool at the bar, and we’ll get you something hearty.”

He left a hand against her back as he guided her through the small crowd to two vacant stools at the bar. Once seated, Willow discreetly shifted her own stool a few paces away from him.

“What’ll you be drinking?” Alex slapped a handful of coins onto the bar. The bearded barman hurried forward, eager to take their order.

“I can buy my own drinks, Mr Harris,” Willow said, uneasily. “I do not think it appropriate…”

“Nonsense! My man, we’ll have doubles of your finest whiskey, followed by a pitcher of beer each!”

When the drinks arrived in unceremonious, grimy vessels, Alex downed his whiskey in one swift gulp and chased it with a generous swill of beer. Moments later, now suitably lubricated, he launched into his promised tale of the wagon-load of womenfolk, while Willow tried - largely unsuccessfully - to block out his blustering voice. Her thoughts inevitably drifted back to the diary, to the author’s anguish at being forced into marriage with the awful Edward Walsh. She clenched her fists at the despair and hopelessness that the young woman must have felt. After staring at the glass before her, Willow finally ventured a small sip.

Alex noticed her dainty movements and grimace of disgust and shook his head. “You’ve got to down it in one, not sip like some lily-livered chicken!”

Determined to silence him, Willow tossed her head back. The liquid burned horribly on its passage, but she slammed the glass down in triumph.

Alex slapped her heartily on the back again, sending her lurching forward. “That’s the way! Barkeep…same again!”

Within half an hour, Willow had eaten nothing but had consumed enough liquor to dull her hunger. She was relieved, too, to find her sadness subsiding, replaced by a warm, dizzy glow. She smiled foolishly at Alex’s increasingly outlandish stories - often involving the rescue of comely womenfolk from imminent disaster.

The inevitable side effect of her indulgence soon made itself known: a full bladder. Willow staggered from her stool, finding the floor decidedly unsteady beneath her feet. She lurched alarmingly.

“Woah there, Miss Rosenberg!” Alex caught her before she fell, placing one hand on her hip and the other around her waist. “How’s about we head to your room? You look like you could do with a lie-down.”

“Capital idea, Mr Harris!” Willow exclaimed, forgetting her bladder in her eagerness. “Take me straight to bed!”

Jasper bounded down the stairs from the landing above, his mind preoccupied. He’d been hoping to grab a quick bite in the hotel dining room. He didn’t know exactly what food he would find in their exotic locale, but he would settle for something simple to quell the persistent rumble in his stomach – perhaps bread and cheese. He wasn’t expecting to encounter much of anyone on the landing at this hour, let alone the chaos that awaited him. Willow was stumbling up the stairs, needing the burly arms of Alex Harris to keep her upright.

“Jasper!” Willow called up to him. “You’ve just missed a drink with us! Mr Harris, let’s have another round with Jasper!”

Alex’s grin faltered slightly. “Er…Ms Rosenberg was just heading to bed. I was merely helping her along.”

Jasper straightened, feeling a surge of responsibility. “I’ll escort Miss Rosenberg to her room, if you don’t mind, Mr Harris.”

“Nonsense, my man!” Alex said, giving him a mock shove. “I’ve got this well under control!”

Jasper planted his feet firmly, refusing to be intimidated. “Release Miss Rosenberg, or I will report your unprofessionalism to Director Croft. You will never be hired by our organisation again.”

“Now look here!” Alex sighed and his shoulders slumped. “I really was only helping her to bed.”

“Well you could have fooled me,” Jasper muttered under his breath as Alex let Willow go.

Willow, entirely unconcerned, shifted easily from Alex’s arms into Jasper’s, grinning up at him. His heart skipped a beat at the weight of responsibility resting on his arms - and the precariousness of the situation. When they reached the base of the stairs, he noticed she couldn’t lift her feet high enough to take even the first step.

“I’m afraid I might be leaning on you a little heavily,” she mumbled. “My feet feel like they’re set in stone.”

“Nonsense… I’m a strong fellow, and you’re as light as a feather,” Jasper replied, forcing a confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

Supporting her up the rickety hotel stairs and down the narrow corridor tested both his strength and nerves. He concentrated on keeping his balance, trying not to reveal just how taxing it was. A fellow patron brushed past them midway, winking as if sharing some private joke - an unspoken mischief Jasper had no intention of participating in. How low some men would stoop? he thought with a shiver.

At last, ten minutes later, he pushed open the door to her room. The curtains were drawn aside, and the full moon cast a pale, silvery glow across the furnishings. He exhaled quietly, relieved to have reached their destination.

“Are you certain you’ll be all right?” he asked, hesitant to leave her in such a fragile state.

“I’ll be fine, thank you very much… especially for keeping Mr Harris at bay,” Willow replied, her voice warm, tinged with gratitude.

Jasper felt a small swell of pride. “Well, I suspected he had… unsavoury intentions,” he said, puffing his chest slightly, though inwardly still uneasy.

“You’ve done me a great service, then. I am fortunate to travel with at least one true gentleman,” Willow said sincerely. “If you wouldn’t mind leaving the basin by the bed… just in case my stomach decides to revolt during the night.”

He fetched the basin carefully and set it on the floor beside the bed, noting the green-grey tinge of her skin. It was more than a precaution. He also brought the pitcher of water and placed it within easy reach on the bedside table. Turning back, he found Willow already sunk deep into her pillow, eyes closed, her soft snores filling the room.

“Ah, Willow?” he murmured, prodding her gently. She barely stirred, rolling onto her other side with a half-snore, half-snort. Jasper’s gaze fell to her boots, still on her feet, and the covers trapped beneath her body. “Shall I… take these off?” he whispered to himself

The thought of touching her while she slept made him panic. He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to step back. Some boundaries, he reminded himself, must never be crossed.

“I’ll just be next door if you…” he started, realising talking was pointless.

He exited quietly, pausing for a moment in the hallway to question whether he had done the right thing. After a few moments of reflection, he reassured himself he had—and closed the door softly behind him.

Perched just outside the window to Willow’s hotel room, Tara heard the gentle sound of the young man closing the door behind him. She lingered for a heartbeat, then slipped through the narrow gap between sill and frame as a wisp of silver mist. When she took shape again in the centre of the room, not a sound disturbed the stillness. Moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating Willow’s sleeping form. Soft, even snores rose and fell from the redhead’s lips.

Tara smiled faintly. She didn’t remember Willow ever snoring - though, then again, she didn’t remember her ever drinking to excess either. Perhaps this was a new indulgence. As Tara approached, she reminded herself that she wasn’t meant to interfere, only to watch. Yet the pull toward Willow - the longing to bridge that unbearable distance between them - was stronger than resolve or caution.

Willow was sprawled on the bed fully clothed, boots and jacket still on. Tara hesitated, then reached down and gently tugged at the jacket sleeves, lifting Willow’s arms to free her. The redhead stirred, her snoring faltering into soft mumbles as she blinked herself half-awake.

“Sorry, got a bit carried away with the old drink,” Willow mumbled, sluggishly helping Tara with the jacket. “Thanks awfully, Jasper.”

“I am not Jasper,” Tara said quietly. She hung the jacket on a wall peg before turning back - only to find Willow’s eyes open wide, staring straight at her.

Shock flitted across Willow’s face, then softened into recognition. Tara’s heart clenched. She moved closer, unable to help herself, as Willow propped herself up on her elbows and studied her.

“You… you’re the one that’s in my dreams,” Willow whispered. “For so long I couldn’t see the woman’s face - but it was you. Are you the author of the diary?”

For a long moment, Tara couldn’t speak. Just the thought of Willow recognising her after all these years was enough to make her heart soar. She knew it was foolish to reveal herself to Willow in this manner but she had tortured herself for too long. Surely she had earned these few moments? Moments Willow probably would not even remember in the morning. She continued undressing Willow who was able to help slightly by lifting her hands over her head when she tugged her shirt off.

“It was a long time ago…another lifetime. But yes, I did write the diary in your possession.”

In her half-dreamy state, Willow murmured something about a marriage and a love that couldn’t be. The words struck Tara like a blade dulled by time but still sharp enough to wound.

“I have questions,” Willow continued, like any researcher she desperately wanted the answers. “You married Edward Walsh.”

Tara’s breath caught in her throat at the simple statement, those few words stirred memories which she had suppressed in the deepest corner of her mind for over a century. Just the mention of that man’s name, even though he was long dead, was enough to stir the worst kind of fear. Coming from Willow’s lips, it was especially potent. Her hands were trembling as she folded Willow’s shirt and placed it on the end of the bed. 

“I-I did,” Tara struggled to force the simple words between her lips. It was almost as bad as saying ‘I do’ all over again. She had to sit down, and the only place she could find to sit was the edge of Willow’s bed.

“To protect her,” a sleepy Willow mumbled, subconsciously rolling over and moving closer to Tara’s weight on the bed next to her.

Tara’s heart twisted. She had waited more than a century to explain that truth—to tell Willow why she had chosen that path, why she had condemned herself for her sake. Now that the moment had come, it felt strangely hollow. Edward Walsh was dust. Willow Van Helsing, long dead and reborn. And Tara herself… changed. Yet here, in this quiet room, beside the living warmth of Willow’s body, she felt almost human again.

“To protect you,” Tara whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Willow’s forehead.

Willow did not pick up on the whispered statement and Tara rose from the bed to untie Willow’s heavy boots. Once the boots were off she turned her attention to Willow’s trousers. She gently undid the waist and hooked both her thumbs beneath the band so she could slide them downwards.

“Lift your hips…Willow,” Tara commanded quietly, her heart hammering as though it were going to burst from her chest.

Willow obliged raising them just enough so Tara could slip the garment down over her hips and her thighs. Tara felt Willow’s smooth skin beneath her thin underwear and she remembered back to another time when that flesh had been hers to explore. This time, however, she could not linger and concentrated on just removing her trousers. She folded them and placed them next to the shirt at the end of Willow’s bed. When she turned back to face Willow she caught her breath. The redhead was lying on the bed, clad in just her underwear. The garments left little to the imagination even though it covered Willow from wrists to ankles.

“Beneath the covers,” Tara ordered quickly, needing to remove the tempting sight as soon as possible.

However, as she reached out to peel back the blankets Willow’s hand shot out with surprising speed and her fingers fastened around Tara’s wrist. Tara froze at the contact. Willow’s touch was firm on the bare skin of her wrist. Tara found herself drawn closer to Willow, fixated on the longing within her emerald eyes. It was a dangerous situation, but she was unable to move away.

“Can vampires make love?” Willow whispered suddenly.

Tara eyes snapped open at the sound of Willow’s innocent sounding question, she jerked her hand away. “How did you-”

Willow blinked at her in a daze. “The photo I took of you in the park…you were there in the middle of the day. And you’re not trying to drink my blood…,” Willow shrugged. “Which is a good thing for me…but it doesn’t make sense."

No it does not, Tara thought with a gut-wrenching twist. But then again everything stopped making sense the day I refused to run away with my love.

Tara then lifted the blankets and tucked them firmly around the sleepy redhead. 

“What happened to you? You should be dead after all this time,” Willow murmured, burrowing contentedly beneath the covers and stifling a yawn, her eyes half-closed as she regarded Tara. “Yet instead of being dead, you’re a vampire…which is just like being dead anyway, isn’t it? A demon in a human body.”

“I am not a demon!” Tara replied more vehemently than she had intended. But I did die—in every sense of the word.

Now was not the moment to debate exactly what category of unfortunate creature she could be defined as, especially when Willow was in no state to comprehend such explanations. Tara silently hoped that the young woman would not remember any of this upon waking.

“It is of no consequence. What matters is that you get some sleep…another long day on the road tomorrow, another day closer to your destiny-” Tara hesitated, caught by a slip of the tongue. “Your destination.”

“I don’t even know your name,” Willow whispered, her voice soft and drifting, teetering on the edge of slumber.

“You don’t need to know my name, Willow,” Tara said, a subtle edge in her tone. It would be better for them both if she did not.

Willow said nothing further, offering no questions or curiosity. The redhead had slipped once more into the deep, unsteady sleep of someone who had drunk too much. Tara almost felt the urge to wake her, to hear that soft voice a few more times, yet she knew it would be futile. What she did allow herself, however, was a fleeting, tender gesture: a gentle kiss pressed to Willow’s cheek. The contact sent a spark through her entire body, brief yet profound. She drew back almost immediately, not daring to linger, and crossed swiftly to the window.

Casting one last glance over her shoulder at the sleeping young woman, Tara felt an intense longing to return to her side, to curl up beside her on that narrow bed. She allowed herself the thought for a mere few seconds - then dismissed it. It could not be. Just as she could not explain everything to Willow outright, there were truths that demanded time and care. Even with the Covasna Resurrection fast approaching, they could not afford to rush her. Willow had to find her own answers.

As Willow’s eyelids fluttered open, she felt a chill on her arms. She lifted them to find she was clad only in her woollen vest. Instinctively, she drew the blankets up over herself and wriggled slightly, realising she was otherwise dressed only in her undergarments. Something had clearly gone awry between last night’s indulgences and her climb into bed.

She lifted her head to scan the room, making sure no one was present—no one watching her in this compromised state, and certainly no one beside her. But the moment she tried to sit upright fully, a violent wave of nausea swept through her, forcing her back against the pillow with an agonised groan. Her body was punishing her for the staggering amount of beer and spirits she had consumed.

Self-inflicted, Rosenberg… utterly self-inflicted.

Lying back with her head pressed into the pillow, Willow allowed the dim morning light to coax her foggy memories back. The night’s events came into focus in fragments: the initial drinking binge with Alex Harris, his unrelenting stories, and his eagerness to shepherd her through the bar.

He was deliberately trying to get me drunk! she thought, a mixture of indignation and incredulity rising in her chest. Her memories grew hazy after Jasper intervened, guiding her safely back to her room. What followed seemed almost dreamlike.

Still, Willow lifted the covers to double check, someone had removed her outer layers and she was almost certain that it had not been Jasper. There had been an intoxicating scent, Willow was sure of it; even as she lay awake she was certain she could still smell the faintest tang lingering in the room. The scent…and long blonde hair leaning over her body…definitely not Jasper. She remembered the smooth hands moving against her body as they peeled away each layer of her clothing.

Willow pressed her hand to her cheek as though it burned at the memory of the kiss planted there. She remembered speaking and being spoken to, something exceptionally significant…but the exact words would not come for all her trying. Even though she couldn’t remember everything, a small smile crossed her lips. She wasn’t sure whether she should be more worried about the fact that she may have been taken advantage of in her drunken state…or the fact that she savoured every hazy memory of it.

Chapter Text

February 1898

The Continent

“Miss Rosenberg?”

Willow squeezed her eyes tighter as though the simple action would somehow send her back to sleep and block out whoever was trying to wake her. Yet the insistent voice would not go away, and whoever was speaking even resorted to shaking her gently by the shoulder. With a small, growling yawn, Willow stretched on the hard seat beneath her as though it were a feather bed and peered hesitantly from one eye to see the outline of a man standing before of her. At first she thought it was Jasper, but the man’s arms were bulky where Jasper was built like a rake. Her eyes snapped open and she pressed herself back against the seat in an effort to get as far away as possible from the figure hunched over her.

“What do you want, Mr Harris?” Willow asked quickly, as though the faster she managed to get the words out, the sooner he might disappear.  

For the past week of their journey she had managed, quite successfully, either to avoid Alex Harris or to ensure that Jasper was always with her. She made a point of requesting a hotel room as far from his as possible and never shared a carriage with him. Jasper, in particular, proved an effective deterrent to any of Harris’s antics - he had perfected his ‘stay-away’ glare to the point that it kept everyone away, especially small children.

“We’ve just arrived in Klausenburg. You’ll want to disembark before the train departs,” he said, straightening up and stepping back, evidently sensing her discomfort.

“Ah, thank you,” Willow replied, wondering why Jasper had not come to wake her instead.

It was as though Alex had sensed her thoughts, for he added, “And I wanted a moment with you - alone…”

Willow’s brows rose in alarm. Alone with Alex Harris was precisely the last situation she desired.

“No, no,” Alex said quickly, waving his hands as though the gesture alone might dispel her fears. “I wanted to apologise to you for my behaviour the other day - and as I don’t make too many apologies, I didn’t exactly want an audience.”

“The fact that you rarely apologise can hardly be due to your seldom offending anyone,” Willow retorted, still pressed against the seat.

“Well, forgive me for trying, Miss Rosenberg.” Alex actually managed to look offended, as though he failed to recognise the truth in her observation. “I know I riled you up some, and I aim to set things right between us.”

“You riled me up?” Willow repeated, thinking this might be the worst apology she had ever received. “You plied me with drink and then tried to take advantage of me! I would say I’ve every right to be riled up.”

“It was partially your fault!” Alex blurted, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

“Mr Harris, your apology is not going at all well,” Willow said coldly, her eyes narrowing on the offending finger.

He lowered it at once, flustered, and struggled to form a coherent sentence. “Well, you’re not making it any easier. What I was fixing to say was - girls like you don’t ordinarily give fellows like me a second glance.”

“What do you mean, girls like me?” Willow’s voice sharpened.

“Nice girls!” Alex looked relieved to have found the right phrase. “You know - nice, well-mannered, beautiful gentlewomen. I usually attract…a different sort of woman.”

“That’s understandable,” Willow replied briskly, though she mulled over the rest of his words, feeling a faint warmth in her cheeks. “But I would hardly apply all those descriptors to myself - well, perhaps nice, but not well-mannered, and certainly not beautiful.”

“No - you are,” he insisted fervently.

Willow drew a steadying breath, even more uncomfortable in Alex Harris’s presence after that statement. Unused to receiving compliments on her appearance, she could not decide whether he spoke sincerely or merely sought to lure her into another compromising position. Determined not to cower, she straightened and even leaned slightly towards him, determined to prove she could protect her own honour.

“I thank you for your apology, Mr Harris, but let’s be perfectly clear - I’m not interested in you in any way. Not now, not tomorrow, nor at any time before Hell freezes over.” Her tone was low and firm; even if he failed to grasp the meaning, she hoped he would at least catch the tone - much like a dog. “Are we on the same page here?”

Alex nodded, a small, relieved smile crossing his face. “Why, yes we are, Miss Rosenberg.”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned. His expression soured at the sight of Jasper Evans bounding down the carriage. The young man barely reached his chin, yet he stepped right up to him, unflinching.

“Do you need any help here, Miss Rosenberg?” Jasper asked, not breaking his stare.

“No, thank you, Jasper.” Willow noted his small fists clenched at his sides and admired his pluck. Were it to come to blows between the plucky office boy and the seasoned guide, there would be no doubt who’d come off second best. “Mr Harris and I were merely resolving a few issues between us.”

It was Jasper’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He glanced at Willow for confirmation; she nodded, and he appeared appeased for the moment. He stepped neatly around Harris and began retrieving their luggage from the overhead racks.

“So - where are we meeting this fellow?” Jasper asked a few minutes later, as the trio stepped down from the train onto the platform, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“The rendezvous is scheduled for this evening, just after dusk.” Willow withdrew a small piece of paper from her jacket pocket and glanced at the instructions Lara had written regarding their contact. She turned to Jasper. “But you’ll be staying at the hotel.”

Jasper’s jaw dropped, his cheeks flushing red. He opened his mouth as though to protest, then thought better of it. His disappointment, however, was plain in the slump of his shoulders and the way he dragged Willow’s bag along the platform.

Willow ignored his reaction and instead turned to Alex to seek his expertise. “Is that unusual, Mr Harris - a meeting after dark?”

“You’ll soon learn that nothing’s unusual around here,” Alex replied, patting the bulge beneath his jacket where his revolver rested.

As Willow and Alex made their way out into the night, just prior to the scheduled time to meet Faith’s contact, Willow was surprised to find that the well-lit streets of Klausenburg were far less intimidating than she had imagined. Although she had not forgotten their harrowing escape in Paris, she had to admit that she felt oddly confident with Alex Harris at her side. The man might be a low-down, womanising scoundrel most of the time, but when it came to business, he exuded professionalism. She’d seen him add a small arsenal to the revolver beneath his coat, including a collapsible crossbow loaded with silver bolts strapped across his back, and several stakes tucked into the lining of his jacket.

Willow herself carried only a small silver dagger hidden in her boot. She had wanted to bring the katana she had liberated from Jasper. For some strange reason, even though she hadn’t the faintest clue how to use it, it gave her a sense of reassurance - but she’d realised that was wishful thinking. Despite her surprising display with Giles in the practice room, she had no desire to wave around an actual sword. She had tried, spending time before the mirrors in various hotel rooms throughout their journey, but nothing she did resembled competence. She supposed that if they ran into trouble, she would have to rely on Alex for anything involving stabbing with pointy things, while she stuck to the one skill she had mastered with reasonable proficiency - running.

“So, are you good friends with Faith?” Alex asked, eager to break the monotony of hearing nothing but their boots striking the cobbles and the occasional clatter of a passing carriage.

Willow nodded, equally relieved for the distraction.

“Faith and I, we’ve had our moments,” Alex began enthusiastically. “Why, there was this one time when she-"

“Don’t try to insinuate anything, Mr Harris. I’ll know you’re lying.” Willow knew Faith too well to believe any claim Alex might make about their acquaintance.

Alex turned towards her with an affronted expression. “I meant moments as in run-ins with demons and vampires and the like. Do you have to judge me so harshly after that one little misunderstanding between us?”

“I would hardly call it a little misunderstanding,” Willow replied crisply. “But I apologise for jumping to conclusions. I just couldn’t imagine your usual routine working on Faith, that’s all.”

“Hell no - that woman’s terrifying!” Alex was quick to agree. “I’d sooner try my luck with a Russian farmer’s wife.”

Willow grinned. “She is intimidating, yes. But I know what you mean - I’ve seen her in action. She’s impressive, to say the least. Although there was this one time when I had to save her from the clutches of an Atramen demon.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg,” Alex said, incredulous.

Willow drew herself up. “I would never! If not for my quick thinking with a lamp, Faith would’ve been reduced to a rather unpleasant pile of mushy stuff.”

“Because Atramen are particularly vulnerable to fire,” Alex nodded knowingly.

“Yes, they are.” Willow glanced up at the nearest street sign, then back to the small map in her hand. “I think we take a right here.”

“You’re right. Stay close to me - and keep your eyes peeled in all directions. But don’t look like you’re keeping watch, or you’ll advertise that you’re nervous,” Alex cautioned in a more serious tone. “These streets we’re entering now are home to dark magick practitioners and the like. Their shops aren’t the sort you’d want to browse for souvenirs — not unless you fancy taking home something best left untouched.”

Although his warning was well meant, it only made Willow more nervous. Her eyes darted left and right, probing every dark nook and cranny. Alex’s description of this part of Klausenburg seemed inadequate. The streets were far narrower here, the upper stories of the buildings jutting out over the lanes, creating a sense of claustrophobia with only a narrow strip of night sky visible above. The buildings themselves were ancient — stone, with steeply tiled roofs and dark gables. Incomprehensible signs jutted into the street, many so faded the images could no longer be discerned. Of those she could see, one seemed to depict a collection of bodily organs, another a baby’s skull. Both were enough to put her off exploring further.

Willow edged closer to Alex, wondering whether he would take it the wrong way if she held onto his jacket.

Unlike the well-lit, familiar parts of the city they had passed through earlier, these darker, narrower streets were teeming with people - loiterers and pedestrians who seemed to come alive after dark. Willow shivered as she realised that was no mere impression. Many wore deep hooded cowls that shrouded their faces. Those who didn’t bore some form of disfigurement or other oddity that made her stare despite herself.

They continued through the labyrinth of streets until they emerged into a quieter, darker neighbourhood where nothing stirred but themselves. Willow stifled a scream as a rat the size of a cat darted across her boot. Nearly every building was boarded up, as though abandoned for a century.

“Well, we’re in the right place,” Willow said, eyeing a derelict house with open scepticism. “Do you think the address was recorded incorrectly?”

Alex gamely tried the door, but it barely moved on its hinges. He braced a boot against the frame and tried again when they both heard a voice.

“Well, well, well.” A low voice rumbled in the darkness behind them. “Now there’s a sight I never thought I’d see again.”

Alex stopped struggling with the door and turned. Willow was already facing the stranger, edging closer to Alex as a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his stride confident and deliberate. His face was all sharp angles and deathly pale. Willow was instantly reminded of the mysterious blonde woman who had haunted her steps; she inched so close to Alex she was nearly holding his hand.

His hair was dark and close-cropped, and when he was near enough, Willow saw that his eyes were almost black - eyes that seemed to strip away her defences. As his gaze locked on hers, she felt as though struck by an invisible force. A rush of fleeting images flickered through her mind - too fast to grasp, but each left a chill in its wake.

Thankfully, Alex was too focused on the stranger to notice her unease.

The man halted scarcely a metre from them, a thin smile curling his lips. Still looking directly at Willow, he cocked his head slightly, as if weighing her up. Exactly what he might be weighing her for, Willow did not want to know. 

“You’re looking lovely this evening, Miss…” He paused, reconsidering his words. “Miss Rosenberg. I must say, this evening light becomes you rather well.”

“Thank you,” Willow whispered. “How do you know-”

“Your name?” he interrupted briskly. “Faith, of course. She can’t possibly know more than one red-haired woman named Willow. And your friend is?”

“Mr Harris,” Alex said shortly. “You have a message for us?”

The man shook his head slowly, making a soft, chiding sound. “Not for you… for Willow.”

As he reached into his coat, Alex’s hand shot to his revolver. But before he could draw, the stranger produced a small, folded piece of paper and offered it to Willow.

She hesitated before accepting, careful not to touch his fingers. The paper felt old and leathery as she unfolded it in the dim light.

“It’s a map,” Willow whispered, glancing up at him.

Her tone must have betrayed her surprise, for he asked, “You were expecting information, perhaps?”

“Perhaps… I wasn’t sure what to expect.” Willow studied the rough, sketch-like lines that could have belonged to almost anywhere.

“This,” he said, pointing down at the map, “is all the information you need.”

“All the information I need for what?”

Willow could not bring herself to meet his eyes again. There was something about him that made her skin crawl - a dreadful sense that he knew her, though not as a friend.

She looked down at the map again and felt a fresh wave of unease. The winding path above a river seemed strangely familiar. It was impossible - the map showed no place in England, and she had never before set foot on the Continent. Yet the scene tugged at her memory. She was finally compelled to look back up, and found the man still smiling.

“It’s all the information you need to find what it is you’ve been searching for,” he said cryptically.

With that same unsettling smile, he turned and vanished back into the shadows.

Willow stared after him, still clutching the map, unable to shake the icy grip of familiarity that held her.

“Well, that was odd,” Alex remarked once the man had gone. He turned to Willow, his expression unusually thoughtful.

“How was it odd?” Willow asked quickly, sounding more defensive than she intended. “I mean, it was supposed to be odd. He’s a shady informant lurking in the back streets and we’re agents of the British Museum - it’s hardly going to be normal! Although this was my first one, so I’ve nothing to compare it to.”

Alex waited until her nervous ramble subsided, then said quietly, “It was odd… because it felt like he knew you. From somewhere. A long time ago.”

If Alex’s speculation unnerved him, it frightened Willow even more. Those fleeting images, those emotions she couldn’t name. It all came rushing back.

“You’re being ridiculous, Mr Harris,” she said firmly, clutching the map tighter. “In what world would someone like me ever mingle with someone like him?”

“Err…” Alex paused. “Weren’t we just mingling?”

Willow rounded on him. “Don’t get all dicey semantics on me, Mr Harris. I don’t know that man, and I’ve never seen him before tonight. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Yes,” Alex squeaked, cowed by her sudden sharpness.

“Good.” Willow nodded decisively, as though that settled it. “Now, what’s our next move?”

“Well, I’d say we find ourselves some horses in the morning and set out. If you’re set on following that map?” Alex nodded towards the paper still clutched in her hand.

Willow tucked it carefully into her pocket. “I am.” Her confident expression faltered, giving way to one of trepidation. She swallowed. “Did you say… horses?”

The fire had long since died to a mere heap of smouldering embers, casting only the faintest glow across the blanketed forms huddled around it. Beyond that dim circle of warmth, in the fathomless dark, a single presence watched from her perch on the bough of an ancient tree.

Tara had remained crouched in the same position she had held since first settling there, almost four hours earlier, when Willow’s small party had made camp. Her only movements were those granted by the wind - the lazy sway of her hair across her face, the slow stir of her coat’s tail as it hung behind her. Though her pose seemed languid, her eyes were sharp and unblinking, her ears attuned to every whisper of the nocturnal forest.

She had watched the travelling party eat a light supper and fold into their blankets, wearied after a long day’s ride. Tara’s lips had curved faintly at Willow’s exasperated protests that her horse bore a personal grudge against her. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Now, the fire was little more than breath and ash. Willow and the boy slept soundly, while their supposed watchman had succumbed to his own slumber, his snores rasping through the clearing. Normally, Tara considered herself above such petty irritants, but the sound needled her patience.

Even with her keen vision, Willow’s shape was little more than a pale outline beneath her blanket, yet Tara’s heart ached to move closer - to kneel beside her, to watch her chest rise and fall with each sleeping breath. She could have done it, easily. The fool Harris would not stir. But proximity to Willow brought distraction, and Tara’s purpose here demanded vigilance. So, she stayed upon her branch, a still, silent sentinel, torturing herself with the ghost of memory - of watching that same face at rest in another lifetime.

Dawn was still two hours distant when Tara’s ears pricked sharply. She cocked her head, listening. Then, without a sound, she dropped from the branch. Her boots touched earth like falling feathers, and she was already moving - swift, gliding, her coat a black whisper trailing behind her. She wove between trees, slipping through their shadows with uncanny ease.

Then she saw them. Three figures, dark and sure of themselves, advancing upon the camp without even the pretence of stealth. When she stepped from the trees to bar their way, all three stopped and smiled, lips peeling back to reveal the gleam of fangs.

“I knew I smelt dinner,” the nearest one rasped, his pale, flabby face glistening with a waxy sheen.

His companions moved to stand near him and one pushed past, a tall heavily built man who had clearly been young at the time of his turning. Long black hair framed his face with its sharp jaw line. The confident stance he struck betrayed him as a leader of sorts. As he approached Tara he opened his coat with a flick of his hand to reveal the hilt of a sword, his fingers closed around it.

“Who are you?” he demanded with narrowed eyes.

“That is none of your concern,” Tara replied evenly, her arms loose at her sides. “What should concern you is turning around with haste.”

“We’ve been hunting all night, and I’m starving!” snarled the stocky woman at his shoulder, shaking a fist. “Step aside, and we might spare you…if your friends satisfy us.”

The leader silenced her with a curt wave, never taking his eyes off Tara. He took several steps toward her, a menacing leer on his face.

“I cannot allow you any closer,” Tara warned, her tone now edged with steel. “Find your meal elsewhere.”

He sneered. “Perhaps a better question is what are you? You’re no human. Yet you are not of the blood.”

“I have given you enough warning,” Tara snapped. “I am on our lord’s business. That is all you need to know.”

“You lie!” he hissed. Without further warning, with a savage motion, he drove the blade deep into her stomach.

Tara heard the blade slide into her gut with a dull rasping sound as it grazed skin and clothing. She glanced down to see it buried to the hilt and then up to see the vampire’s face twisted into a cruel smile. He drew his foot upwards and placed it next to the sword, with one savage push he shoved her body backwards away from the sword and sent her spinning to the ground.

Tara hit the ground and immediately crumpled into a heap, a dark unmoving shape to the on-looking vampires. She could hear their furtive steps as they moved to encircle her.

“What if she was telling the truth?” whimpered the flabby one. “What if she really is on his business?”

“Cuza, you fat pig,” snarled the woman. “She’s not of the blood…which means we will now feast on four humans instead of three. This is a good night!”

“I don’t know,” Cuza muttered. “Why wasn’t she afraid of us?”

They were still bickering when their ‘meal’ rose silently to her feet. Tara’s lips peeled back, revealing fangs of her own.

“You fools,” she hissed. “You should have kept out of matters you cannot comprehend!”

Before they could move, Tara blurred and lashed out. She struck soft flesh with two savage strikes. The female vampire screamed as blood poured down her cheeks. In a matter of seconds, her eyes were gone, torn clean from their sockets.

The bloody eyeballs fell from Tara’s fingers as she spun to face the other vampires. Before they could recover from their horror at the sight of their blinded companion, Tara relieved the long-haired one of his sword with a quick darting movement of her hand. Her bloody fingers curled around the hilt before he even realised he was weapon-less. He glanced down at his empty hand. It was frozen as though he were still clutching the sword. With one last glance up at Tara’s smiling face he spun on his heels and bolted from the scene in terror.

Tara glanced across to the remaining vampire, Cuza, whose expression suggested that he too wanted nothing more than to flee. She shrugged as if leaving the decision up to him and then whirled in the direction of the running vampire. He had just passed into the trees but was clearly in view. Tara lunged forward, her left hand outstretched. A searing fireball burst from her palm and in seconds the figure in the distance was engulfed. He burned for a split second before exploding into nothing but embers on the forest floor.

Torn between the decision to run and become a conflagration himself, Cuza has remained frozen to the same spot. He stared in horror at his companions, all that remained of one was a few burning twigs in the undergrowth and the other was still stumbling aimlessly, tracks of blood from her eyeless sockets running down her face. As the terrible individual rounded on him he made a desperate attempt to defend himself with an attack of his own. His movements were clumsy, inhibited by his bulk and his fear. Tara easily avoided his swinging fists with mere steps, moving with a fluidity and effortlessness that made her almost impossible to touch. She did not feel the slightest remorse when she lifted the sword to shoulder level and brought it across in an arc. The sword sang as it severed Cuza’s head, Tara’s stroke barely faltering as the blade passed through flesh and bone. Both the head and body were nothing but dust before they could fall to the ground. What was left was scattered by the wind.

Tara turned her attention to the lone vampire remaining. Her frantic stumbling had ceased, replaced by a primal anger at the loss of her eyes. She had smelt Tara out and was facing in her direction, fingers extended like claws as she prepared to make a desperate strike. As Tara circled her, she kept moving to continue facing her even though she could not see.

“You kill your own kind!” she accused with a snarl, making a wild slash with her fingers that missed as Tara deftly stepped out of reach.

Tara darted forward, standing right beside the blinded vampire as she spoke into her ear, “I am not of your kind, demon!”

The vampire spun, visibly disturbed by Tara’s proximity. She made another sweeping slash but only grazed Tara’s coat as she moved out of reach. Before she could sense Tara again, she found vice-like fingers wrapped around her neck and in one swift movement she was jerked from the ground.

Tara lifted her prey with inhuman strength. Holding it at arm’s length in front of her, she strode forward towards the nearest tree. No sooner had she slammed the struggling vampire back against the trunk, she burst into dust in her hand. More dust blew off the jagged branch upon which it had been impaled. Tara watched for a few moments and then turned from the scene of violence, walking back towards the clearing where her charges hopefully still slept soundly, unaware of the dangers which had stalked them.

As she walked she lifted her hand and saw bloody coating her fingertips and running over her palm. Tara took a tentative lick but spat it out almost immediately, it tasted like mud.

When she returned to the clearing, Tara found the three humans still sleeping soundly. She glanced up at the tree branch above her head and a few moments later her misty self was reforming atop the branch once more.  She settled again into her crouching position and saw out the reminder of the night in her silent vigil.

“Are you alright, Willow?”

Willow’s body jerked in surprise, as though she had been woken suddenly - except that she had never been asleep. The horrible beast beneath her danced in protest at her movement, snorting and pawing at the earth as if possessed by the devil himself. Willow gave an undignified squawk and clung tighter, her white-knuckled grip on the reins making her fingers ache. Eventually, the creature settled back into what it seemed to consider a brisk walk. However, to Willow it felt like a gallop straight to her doom.

She glanced across with a scowl to see that it had been Jasper interrupting her reverie. The young man appeared not to notice that he had had almost been responsible for Willow falling to her death from the back of the great beast. Instead, he smiled at her in his affable manner.

Willow was incapable of remaining mad with Jasper and her scowl softened almost immediately.

“I…I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Willow managed after a moment’s hesitation, certainly not about to tell Jasper that her mind had been pre-occupied with thoughts of the pale man she and Alex had met the previous evening.

“Yes,” Jasper nodded with mock solemnity. “I’ve heard one doesn’t sleep well on the dirt, with a root digging into one’s back.”

Willow missed the jest entirely. “No, it wasn’t that. I felt as though someone were watching us. All night, I had this feeling of someone’s eyes on me. Which is silly, I know…”

“It’s not that silly,” Jasper sympathised. “We are in the middle of nowhere with no one but him to keep us safe.”

He nodded pointedly at Alex who was leading the way several horse-lengths ahead of them. The American turned his head slightly as if to indicate that he had heard Jasper before resuming his attention on the map balanced on his saddle horn. Given that he was the only one that knew the country and Willow’s inexperience with using maps in the field, he had been tasked with following the route inked out on the small piece of parchment. Throughout much of the journey Willow and Jasper had to listen to the map being called various foul epithets as though it were a person in its own right…a particularly disagreeable, capricious person. Apparently, it was not a straightforward map to follow.

Every additional day they spent on horseback was an additional day that Willow felt as though she were being pummelled by each jolt her animal made. Each evening she would dismount gratefully only to find her bow-legged stance had not improved. Willow soon realised that no matter how much time she spent on the back of a horse, she would never grow accustomed to it as a mode of transport.

The terrain gradually became more mountainous several days into their journey and the sense of déjà vu lurking at the back of Willow’s brain came to the forefront. This particular morning had dawned ugly and grey with the distinct threat of rain hanging in the air. Gone was the dense forest on either side of the road, it was replaced by a high canopy of evergreen pines that lined a rocky route. It was a route that seemed to be leading them even higher. In the distance Willow could hear the rushing of a substantial amount water and she remembered the route on the map eventually joined a river.

When Alex took a fork in the path that led them away from the nearby river Willow did not hesitate in spurring her horse forwards, continuing up the path she knew to be leading them in the right direction. She surprised herself with her own decisiveness but knew that stranger things had happened to her over the past few months.

Just behind her, Jasper paused at the fork and glanced at each of his two companions wondering which had taken the right route. Although Alex had the map, he had still not managed to forgive the American and distrusted him with all the passion he could muster.

“I say!” he called out to the lone figure disappearing around a bend. “I think you’ll find you’ve gone the way.”

With that confident assertion, he too spurred his horse in the same direction Willow had taken, falling in place just behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his horses’ steps and smiled gratefully.

“Do tell me you are going in the right direction, Willow?” he asked with just a hint of trepidation in his voice, “Otherwise I’ll look like a complete fool in front of that idiot.”

“I can’t make any promises, Jasper old chap,” Willow drew in a discreet breath. “But we’re supposed to be going this way…I’m sure of it.”

By the time Alex had turned around and made his way back to the path Willow and Jasper had taken, he was some distance behind them. He was swearing profusely and trying to read the map as he rode.

“Where in the bloody hell do you two think you’re going?” Alex yelled out after them but was resolutely ignored as the two figures disappeared ahead of him.

The promised rain had startled to fall later that afternoon, a soft blanket of moisture that managed to find its way beneath layers of clothes and directly into the rider’s eyes despite the fact that they were all wearing broad brimmed hats. They rode on in damp discomfort, a sullen Alex trailing behind and muttering darkly about women leading expeditions into disaster.

As Willow wiped her face yet again, unable to remove the stubborn film of moisture, a queasy sensation had begun to develop in her gut. If she had not been convinced earlier that they were going in the right direction, then she certainly was now.

After another hour of riding along the steep narrow trail, with Willow keeping her gaze determinedly fixed ahead instead of staring down into the river below them, the rain ceased falling. Eventually the trail even moved away from the river and they were riding back beneath the pines. Willow’s queasy sensation had escalated to the point where she felt she was going to vomit, that was until she broke out of the trees and emerged onto a vast plain. The uncomfortable feeling in her gut was instantly gone and she felt nothing but awe. Behind her Jasper gaped and Alex Harris whistled as they too emerged from beneath the trees and onto the very edge of what was an extremely large expanse.

Having spent the greater part of a week riding along narrow trails beneath trees which blocked out the sky above, Willow suddenly felt as though she wanted to turn around and return to those confined spaces. What was laid out in front of her was just too overwhelming.

Willow, Jasper and Alex were all struck speechless as they stared out over the wide expanse of the flat plain which stretched miles into the distance that was laid out before them. It was a sheltered valley, bordered by sharply rising rock faces on three sides and forest on the fourth. Save for several large trees, it was almost completely flat and bare…or at least it would have been if not for thousands upon thousands of dark lumps puncturing the surface at irregular intervals.

Willow dismounted, shortly followed suit by both Alex and Jasper. While the two men remained holding the reins of their horses, she left her horse and hesitantly started towards the nearest lump. Although she had suspicions as to what the shapes lying in the dirt were, she continued walking. Willow knew that what she saw would almost certainly terrify her. It was as though she was compelled to venture further out onto the plain.

She stopped walking, gripped by an unexplainable mix of fear and excitement as she stood over what could most simply be explained as a dead body. A very, very long dead body. All trace of flesh was gone from the skeleton, its hollow eye sockets stared up at her mockingly. A cap-like helmet had fallen backwards from the hairless skull and lay in the dirt, the rest of the body was clad in severely rusted armour, partially chain mail and partially plate mail. A mace was still clutched in the bony fingers of its outstretched arm. The cause of the man’s death was also plainly obvious; a rusted sword was driven straight through his chest.

Still looking at the impaled body, she stumbled past it and onwards to the next bodies. Willow drew her gaze away from the first and onto the next, a headless corpse, the skull lying a good metre away. As Willow continued onwards through the skeletons she saw just about every form of death imaginable. Skulls were crushed into barely recognisable lumps of bone, some with the instrument of death still embedded in them. Limbs had been hacked and severed rendering the bodies into several pieces. Some corpses were riddled with arrows, still protruding from the bodies as though they had been just embedded the day before. All were in the same condition as the first, mere skeletons clad in rusty armour, some with tattered remnants of fabric that had once been clothes still clinging to the bones. It was a pattern which was replicated over and over again across the entire area of the battlefield. It was a graveyard with no graves, a field of death and blood with the blood having long since worn away with the passage of time.

Willow imagined it as it must once have been. With so many men dead and dying, the plain would have ran with rivers of blood.

“Willow?”

Willow heard Jasper just behind her, his voice trembling with awe – or perhaps fear – at the power of the place.

“What in heck is this place?” Alex demanded, his tone harsh in an attempt to disguise his own unease.

“It’s Covasna,” Willow breathed. A chill ran down her spine as she spoke the name aloud.

“Covasna?” Jasper and Alex asked as one combined voice, both managing to mangle its syllables into an almost unrecognisable word.

“It cannot possible be anything else.

Willow was still in awe as she turned back to face Jasper and Alex, Jasper held the reins of her horse as well as his and had led the animals out onto the plain. Both horses were growing slightly skittish, prancing tentatively and pawing at the ground. Alex tied his animal to a nearby stump and had almost the same rapt expression on his face as Willow…although where she was seeing knowledge, he was seeing treasure for the taking.

“We’re standing on the field where Vlad Țepeș - Vlad the Impaler, Dracula to you uncultured types - fought his last battle,” Willow explained, unable to contain her excitement. For a scholar in her field, it was like standing on sacred ground. Her voice became more animated as she went on. “For nearly a decade his bloodthirsty army ravaged the land, impaling their victims and spreading terror wherever they went. No one dared confront them until Casimir, a Prince of Bohemia gathered an army of his own - brave men determined to end the reign of the vampire lord. It was said the prince enlisted a powerful warlock to aid him. Whether such a man ever existed, we cannot be sure. But in 1476, Casimir’s army faced Vlad’s forces here and drove them into the mountains. Finally, at Covasna, Vlad made his last stand. Accounts claim the battle lasted two or three days. Days of hacking, slashing, and screaming until the ground turned to mud beneath their feet from the blood that soaked it.”

“So…the prince defeated Dracula?” Jasper asked eagerly, nodding as though it were a fireside tale rather than grim history.

“Essentially, yes,” Willow conceded. “My scholarly opinion is that the prince’s army slew every last one of Dracula’s men.”

“Your scholarly opinion?” Jasper seized on Willow’s words. “Is it not fact?”

Willow shrugged. “The surviving accounts are poorly written and contradictory. If Casimir ever commissioned an official history, it has been lost to the ages. As such, it is very difficult to deduce exactly what happened, much of what did happen is clouded in superstition and myth. The belief that Dracula’s army could not be defeated - that was what made them terrifying. No one dared challenge them because they believed it was hopeless.”

Alex let out a low whistle and Jasper was riveted on Willow’s every word, he had since dropped the reins of the horses and was listening intently. The animals had gratefully retreated to the edge of the field.

“Was there a reason why the army could not be defeated?” Jasper asked eagerly, “I mean, they could have been vampires. But even then, they could still be killed with stakes…beheading, fire…and daylight…”

Jasper paused, obviously trying to work out how vampires could fight throughout three whole days without combusting as the creatures were prone to do once the sun rose.

“There’s your problem, Jasper,” Willow said, her tone taking on its lecturing edge. “You’re being swayed by the myths. They weren’t vampires at all. Just men - evil men, yes, but mortal all the same. Yet legend insists they could not die so long as their general, Basarab the Dragon, still lived. Wounds that should have been fatal healed instantly; limbs severed in battle reattached themselves; men fought on without heads. It’s all the stuff of nightmares.”

Alex chuckled appreciatively, “Damn!”

“So someone had to kill this General?” Jasper was growing slightly pale. “This Dragon?”

“Exactly. Legend says that it was Casimir himself who finally severed the Dragon’s head after an epic duel. Once he fell, Vlad fled, and his army was slaughtered. The prince took the General’s head back to Prague as a trophy - probably displayed it for all to see. That’s where the later myths began. One of the most persistent stories claims that if the general’s body were ever made whole again, his army would rise from the dust and take up their blades once more. Some even say that’s why Vlad has been absent for all these centuries - he is searching for the missing skull.”

“To resurrect his army?” Jasper took a hasty step backwards from the nearest dead warrior and swallowed quickly. “There must be thousands of soldiers here…”

“Probably closer to a tens of thousands,” Willow remarked casually. “Some estimates reach a hundred thousand.”

Jasper squeaked, “So if Dracula ever finds the skull we’re going to have a hundred thousand blood thirsty medieval soldiers running all over Europe!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, the battle occurred of course, but the rest…the un-dead General and the resurrection of the entire army, is all a load of piffle,” Willow announced resolutely, she turned to see Jasper still looking apprehensive and she continued, “You can’t possibly resurrect an entire army, no one can…why, it’s hard enough to resurrect….”

Willow found herself tongue tied, unable to finish the rest of her simple sentence. She found herself looking down at the back of her hand…at her own flesh and wondered if this really was the first body that had encased her soul…her essence.

“It’s hard enough to resurrect just one person,” she finished quietly.

“But we think Dracula’s looking for the skull?” Alex ventured, interrupting Willow’s thoughts.

“Well, he’s obviously pretty incompetent if it has taken him over four hundred years to not find it,” Willow snorted mockingly, doing her best to forget the uncomfortable speculations playing havoc with her mind.

Jasper squeaked again. “But you just said it was all a load of…piffle!”

“Please Jasper, you’re embarrassing me.” Willow turned her back on the trembling young man and resumed staring out over the expanse in front of them. “Dracula, if he’s even still out there after all this time, is just another vampire more concerned with avoiding hunters like Faith than finding non-existent skulls, trust me, we’ve nothing to fear.”

“Faith isn’t here,” Jasper whispered.

“But Alex is,” Willow reminded him of their guide’s self-proclaimed prowess…even though she had yet to see him in action.

Her already shaky confidence in their guide was further eroded when she noticed that Alex was staring at the body at his feet as though trying to work out exactly what he could safely remove as a souvenir….or to cart away from the battlefield and sell. Willow almost hoped that there was some curse laid on the bodies so that if Alex did indeed remove their weapons or armour something awful would befall him. She sighed, knowing from her extensive readings on the subjects that curses always seemed to attach themselves to an entire party…regardless of exactly which individual was to blame.

“That’s right, sonny boy,” Alex momentarily drew his attention away from the souvenirs when he saw Willow’s angry glare. Instead, he reached out and tousled Jasper hair in a patronising manner.

Jasper scowled, his fear forgotten as he moved away from Alex. He squared his shoulders manfully, determined to show the same amount of backbone in front of the dead warriors as he had standing up to Alex in Willow’s defence.

While both men were still glaring at each other, they had not noticed Willow moving out further onto the field of battle. She was digging around in her bag and triumphantly pulled out a pad of note paper and a well-worn pencil.

“We’ve come all this way so I’m going to take a look around,” Willow announced decisively, stepping directly over yet another skeleton. “I feel as though there are answers to be found here...and I love answers!”

Jasper and Alex watched as the intrepid researcher set off into the heart of the battlefield with a dreamy expression on her face, writing pad in hand, already madly scribbling notes with her pencil. Both men wore identical expressions of disbelief mingled with apprehension. Disbelief at the sight of Willow marching off alone into one of the most depressing and horrifying places they could imagine and apprehension at the thought of actually having to follow her.

“You know, I would have never taken this job on if Croft was honest about one thing,” Alex muttered.

“And what’s that?” Jasper asked still staring at Willow’s back, his dislike of Alex momentarily forgotten.

“That Miss Rosenberg -” Alex said grimly “- is utterly mad.”

Chapter Text

February 1898

The Continent

Although Tara could barely make out the small shape moving across the battlefield, she could picture Willow’s rapt expression as if she stood beside her. Willow’s red hair bobbed excitedly as she scribbled notes or crouched to examine something of interest on the ground. As always when she was watching Willow from afar, Tara found herself unable to relax. She remained poised on the edge of springing into action.

Here, of all places, she could not afford to lose herself in nostalgia. A slight chill ran down her spine as her gaze swept the Covasna plain. It was the last place she had ever wanted to see again. Even at a distance the battlefield made her queasy. The sight of it laid bare the single memory she habitually buried to face each day. Closing her eyes would have been easier, but she could not shirk her duty. So, she kept her attention fixed on Willow - and that was precisely part of the problem.

It was obvious to Tara that the redhead did not remember visiting Covasna or the events of a century past. Willow moved about the field as if the place were a life-sized book, its chapters opening for the benefit of her research. There was none of the revulsion or dread that should have left her paralysed with fear.

For a moment Tara felt relief that Willow’s memory remained blank. The remembering would be traumatic, and it would almost certainly shred the awkward, hesitant thread of their rekindled connection. Yet Tara also knew Willow had to remember; bringing her here was meant to kindle some scrap of the woman she had once been.

If any place could do that to Willow…it would be the field upon which she had died.

Tara’s skin crawled as she sensed another presence join her in her vigil on the end of the battlefield. She did not need to turn around, the foul sensation she felt in her gut told her exactly who it was. She had to make a supreme effort to suppress the anger she felt the interference.

“You did not need to come,” Tara said coldly through gritted teeth. She left unspoken the other thoughts that were running through her head. First and foremost, that he would ruin everything by deviating from the plan. “I have everything in hand.”

“I have absolutely no doubt that you do, Tara.”

Tara could hear the thinly veiled sarcasm in his reply but kept her face unreadable. She turned to face her companion and she knew that he was searching for some form of weakness, the slightest twinge of her lips that would give away her feelings for Willow and would give him cause to suspect she had her own agenda.

“Never have you been one for tact or subtlety, Angelus. I am simply concerned that your presence will upset the delicate order of things.” Tara was inwardly pleased to see his expression flare to mild fury. He had never been adept at masking his inner emotions, especially his anger. “The master himself charged me with this task and I alone will see that it is carried out, I do not need help from you, from William, or any of your moronic sycophants.”

She refocused her gaze on Willow who had not seemed to move from the last moment she had saw her. Already she was irritated that Angelus had managed to distract from the task at hand. So much hinged on events progressing in a natural order.

“A state of affairs that you know I fought hard to rectify,” Angelus snarled. “I was disappointed he did not favour my approach, one that no doubt would have yielded results far more swiftly than your pathetically soft-hearted tactics!”

“Because he is far wiser than you,” Tara had not intended to bate him, especially considering she knew just how dangerous he was.

“Bah!” Angelus roared in disgust. “You did me further disservice in rendering me your messenger boy.”

“Disservice?” Tara arched an eyebrow. “I thought it was trust. I knew how difficult it would be for you to stand in her presence and not be able to lay even so much as a finger on her.”

Tara heard him pacing in the undergrowth behind her; she heard fallen branches snap beneath the pressure of his boots as they thudded down into the earth with the force of his anger.

“Difficult!” Angelus’ voice was tight with the effort it required him to keep his temper in check. “It was almost impossible to stand in front of that little wretch and not rip her head off…especially given her current state in which she knows absolutely nothing. She’s helpless…I’m amazed she’s even got this far.”

“Did she recognise you?” Tara kept her voice under control.

Angelus was silent for several moments before replying, “I smelt her fear but it was not fear brought about by recognition, familiarity perhaps…but nothing more. We exchanged very few words and I removed myself from her presence almost immediately after giving her the map. To stand there, in front of the woman who killed so many of our kind and appear to be helping her…even you would have to appreciate the irony of the situation.”

“I appreciate your restraint,” was all Tara said in reply.

She could hear Angelus grinding his teeth as he continued to pace. As she tried to ignore him and concentrate on Willow, a tiny thought began to tug at the back of her mind. If conceived through to fruition, it was an idea that would undoubtedly lead to the removal of the thorn in her foot.

Tara wondered if their master would notice Angelus’ disappearance…

As Willow moved further and further out into the battlefield, wholly in her element, Jasper and Alex watched from what they considered a safe distance. Jasper shifted uneasily. Though he had no desire to venture among the piles of bones, he could not help feeling that he was neglecting his duty by not remaining at Willow’s side.

Just as he was about to voice this to Alex, both men heard the clatter of hooves on hard ground. They spun to see the horses Jasper had left untied bolting away.

“God dang it!” Alex smacked his palm against his thigh as the animals’ tails vanished down the trail they had come. He jabbed a finger at Jasper. “You stay with her - don’t let her out of your sight. I’m going after those bloody beasts!”

Jasper watched helplessly as Alex broke into a run and disappeared down the mountain. With a sigh, he turned toward Willow, now some distance away, still moving carefully among the bones, taking her notes. He started toward her, cautious not to tread on any remains.

“Isn’t this all particularly fascinating, Jasper?” Willow called over her shoulder, voice bright with enthusiasm.

“Ah, W–Willow…”

The reply sounded farther away than his footsteps. Willow spun and froze - she had not been speaking to Jasper at all. He stood several metres back, while in front of her loomed a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin. Her jaw dropped in recognition.

“You’re the one who gave me the map.”

He only smiled - just before another figure materialised at his side. Willow’s breath caught. The still unnamed woman of her dreams, the author of the diary. Her heart skipped a beat despite the other woman’s stern, distant expression, her gaze fixed on the man beside her. Correction, she was not a woman - she was definitively a vampire and therefore not to be trusted.

Willow looked between them, and her suspicion solidified. the stranger who had given her the map was also vampire and he, too, stood in broad daylight.

“What is it with vampires these days?” Willow demanded, exasperated, entirely forgetting that she should probably be running for her life. “Can you all just stroll about whenever you please?”

Tara’s face did not soften; her expression stayed grave, almost angry. Angelus, however, laughed openly. “Adorable as ever, isn’t she, Tara?”

“Tara?” Willow seized upon the name. She stared at the creature standing before her, relieved to finally be able to put a name to the face which had haunted her dreams. “That is your name?”

Tara regarded her with an expression tinged with sadness, as though hearing the name from Willow’s lips had wounded her in some way. She simply inclined her head and offered nothing further.

Angelus on the other hand threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You did not even tell her your name? What else have you not told her?” He then tried to link his arm with Tara’s, like a husband would with his wife. Willow was pleased when Tara snatched her arm away from him. He continued, “You see, Willow, some of us are older and more powerful than others. We are not bound by the same constraints as the weaker of our kind.”

“Some of us are indeed more powerful,” Tara said sharply, giving him a pointed look. “Some of us are also wiser - and know when we’re overstepping the mark. Do we not, Angelus?”

Willow felt the tension crackle between them but did not sense danger, not truly. Somehow, she knew Tara would protect her, as she always seemed to. Jasper, on the other hand, was clearly unconvinced. The young man’s eyes darted toward a rusted battle-axe half-buried nearby. Willow shot him a fierce shake of her head: don’t even think about it.

“These times call for different methods, our time is running out, we need the skull and that scrawny little human knows where it is!” Angelus growled, turning to give Willow the force full of his baleful stare.

“What skull?” Willow squeaked, shrinking back slightly, she glanced down at a nearby skeleton and saw his toothy grin. “There are thousands of skulls here, I’m sure these chaps won’t miss one or two!”

Tara stepped between Willow and Angelus. “Threatening the girl will not deliver what we need!”

Willow glanced at Tara with a confused expression. “What we need? What exactly is going on here?”

Angelus ignored Willow’s question and expressed his frustration as a roar, baring his fangs as he did so. Both Jasper and Willow stumbled backwards with frightened yelps. However his fury in this instance was directed solely towards the vampire at his side.

“As your elder I hereby remove your rights to watch over our master’s interests in this matter!” his tone backed his words, deep and full of authority. “Your head is clouded with impure, irrelevant thoughts. When I explain this to him, he will realise his mistake and accept that my actions are the best course of action. We need to get this information out of her, we are running out of time!”

Delicate, pale features morphed into a mask of pure fury to match that shown by Angelus. So fearsome was her countenance that both Willow and Jasper had to take yet another step backwards. Despite being physically shorter than Angelus, in her wrath Tara seemed to tower over him. Angelus would not back down; he faced Tara eye to eye.

“We will do this my way!” she growled firmly.

Angelus pointed his finger directly at Willow. “This red-headed whore knows where it is, that bastard of a brother told her and I’m going to get it out of her my way!”

“Angelus please, Abraham has been dead for years…how could he have told her himself? Tara backed off slightly, trying to reason with him.

“I don’t know…but I know exactly how I can get it out of her,” his eyes flicked to Willow, with a flourish he drew the sword he carried and for an awful moment Tara thought he was going to strike Willow, instead he levelled the sword directly at Tara’s neck. “While I do not know exactly what kind of twisted abomination you are…I do know that decapitation troubles you just as much as the rest of us.”

“No!”

Before Tara could say a word she saw a flash of red hair dart between her and Angelus.

“Willow, no!” she reached out towards Willow, intent on pulling her back.

Before Tara could reach her, Angelus lashed out towards Willow. His mighty hand struck her a glancing blow. Willow was tossed aside as easily as a rag doll with his powerful shove. She stumbled backwards and tripped over a thigh bone. Her arms wind-milled futilely before she fell, landing on her back across an armoured skeleton. The skeleton immediately crumbled beneath her weight, but the awful sound Willow heard was not the shattering of bones and rusted armour but instead the tearing of flesh and fabric. She lay on her back, immediately feeling foolish at her rather clumsy manoeuvre and tried to think of an offhand quip to conceal her embarrassment. When no words came to mind she tried to spring back to her feet only to feel a searing pain across her entire torso that radiated throughout the rest of her body. She awkwardly glanced up to the figures standing above her to find twisted expressions on their faces, even the vampire Angelus appeared surprised...perhaps even horrified.

Willow furrowed her brow as she lifted her chin slightly to see a foreign object protruding from her chest, just above her left breast. She tried to bring her eyes into focus to work out what it was and why it was there but could not hold her head up any longer. It took every ounce of strength she had to reach up with her right hand and try and touch it. She felt a pitted, rough object surrounded by an awful dampness. When she brought her hand before her face, her eyes fixed on the bright, impossible red coating her fingers. It dripped down her wrist, falling in slow beads. She stared, mesmerised by the colour.

So that’s what blood really looks like, she thought faintly. Then the world began to fade.

Tara moved to help Willow back to her feet, a tense glare thrown over her shoulder at Angelus. She saw the look of shock on his face and followed his gaze back to Willow - then froze when she realised what had captured his attention. Her lips moved wordlessly as she cursed the fates for being so cruel. Willow had fallen directly onto a centuries-old sword. It had slain the warrior beneath her, and now its rusted, broken length was protruding from her chest.

Tara whirled on Angelus, a heartbeat away from burning him to a crisp where he stood. “You fool! We needed her alive, not dead!”

She dragged herself back under control and fell to Willow’s side, seeing nothing now but the redhead lying pale as death beneath her.

Behind her, Angelus stumbled back several paces, away from Tara and the dying human woman. “I did not intend-”

He shook his head, once, twice, before he could no longer face the sight before him. He turned and fled, shoving past Jasper, his form dissolving into a dark mist that hung above the battlefield for a heartbeat before fleeing into the forest.

Tara did not notice the other vampire leave, she only had eyes for Willow. She lowered her gaze as hot tears ran down her cheeks, her heart breaking at the sight of the rusted weapon embedded in Willow’s flesh and the shattered bones scattered around her.

“You stupid fool!” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “What on earth did you think you were doing?”

Willow reached up and brushed Tara’s pale cheek, leaving behind a smear of blood as her fingers fell away. “I was protecting you,” she whispered faintly.

“You don’t even know who I am,” Tara murmured, catching Willow’s hand and holding it to her lips.

“Yes… I do,” Willow managed between shallow breaths, a tiny, spluttering cough escaping her lips. “Y–you’re the woman of my dreams.”

Tara tried to compose herself, but the sight of Willow – once again lying bloodied on the field of Covasna - was too much. She crumpled over the redhead’s body, cradling her head in her hands as great, heaving sobs tore through her. The helplessness was almost complete; each of Willow’s tiny gasps for breath drove the sword deeper into Tara’s own heart.

She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until someone shook her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her upright. The face of Willow’s young companion, pale and frightened, swam into view.

“Don’t just sit there crying!” he pleaded, his own eyes glistening. “Please - help her!”

The boy’s urgent words dragged Tara out of her despair. Shame bit deep that it took a mortal - a boy, no less - to rouse her to action.

“Come here and take off your shirt,” she ordered sharply.

“What?” Jasper stammered, stumbling forward.

“Your shirt!” Tara snapped. “We need something to pack against the wound when I get this sword out of her.”

“Oh.” Jasper nodded quickly, shrugging off his jacket and dropping it beside Willow. He tore at his shirt without bothering with the buttons, ripping it in two.

“You’ll have to help me,” Tara said, seizing the scraps of cloth. She motioned him around to Willow’s other side. “I’m going to try to break the top of the sword, then we’ll lift her. There’ll be blood, a lot of it. Are you going to faint on me, child?”

Jasper shook his head, though the pallor of his cheeks suggested otherwise. “No, ma’am… and it’s Jasper.”

Tara gave a curt nod and turned her attention to Willow, whose skin was now almost white, as though every drop of blood had drained from her body. She brushed a tangle of red hair gently from Willow’s eyes.

“Willow… we’re going to have to get this thing out.”

“I heard you,” Willow breathed, barely audible. “I trust you…”

With trembling fingers Tara reached out and grasped the rusty sword just above the wound with one hand, holding it firmly, she told a hold of it with the other and prepared to snap it. The metal was already weakened from lying exposed to the elements and it snapped effortlessly as Tara applied her inhuman strength. Simple and effortless as it was, Willow cried out in pain, more blood gushing from her wound. Tara looked at the bloodied shard in her hand for a second and then threw it aside with another angry curse at the cruel fates.

“Boy – Jasper - help me lift her. One quick movement,” she commanded, sliding her arms beneath Willow’s body. She hated to see the redhead wince, but she could not leave her impaled. “Lift!”

Together they heaved. The sword slid free with a terrible rasping sound that made Jasper flinch. Willow cried out only once - a strangled, heart-wrenching sound that felt like a punch to Tara’s stomach. Tara pulled her upright and worked quickly, pressing the torn fabric against the wound. Cradling the shaking girl against her, she wound a strip of cloth tight around Willow’s chest to hold the makeshift bandages in place. Already the white fabric was turning red, the colour spreading like fire beneath Tara’s hands.

Jasper crouched in the dirt beside Tara, poised to spring into action at her next command, but as the seconds ticked by nothing happened. The vampire remained cradling Willow’s trembling body, cheek pressed to the girl’s head, eyes closed as thin trails of tears snaked from beneath her lids. Willow lay deathly pale, her whole body shivering as though seized by cold. When Jasper reached out and took Willow’s limp hand it was icy under his fingers. He looked up at Tara, urgent and pleading, willing her out of the funk she had slipped into.

“What next?” he prodded. “Shouldn’t we cauterise the wound or something? Stop the bleeding?”

Tara’s eyes opened and met his, but she still held Willow instead of moving to act. “I would,” she said quietly, “but flakes from the sword have broken off in the wound. Seal it now and it will fester - she’ll die slowly and painfully.”

Jasper’s mouth worked soundlessly; helplessness made him frantic. “What are you going to do, then?” he demanded. “We can’t just sit here and let her die.”

“I don’t know!” Tara snapped, anger sharpening her voice. “There’s nothing I can do - not as I am. I cannot heal. I can only kill.”

Frowning, Jasper did not understand what she was trying to explain. All he knew was that Willow was running out of time. The thought of his friend dying was something he could not accept. “No!” his voice sounded foreign to his own ears, belonging to someone much older and stronger. “There must be something you can do? I know you want her to live as much as I do. Do something!” 

She looked up at him suddenly, studying him with those cold blue eyes as if sizing him for some grim purpose. He met her gaze steadily, despite the discomfort it bred.

“How old are you?” she asked abruptly.

“Ma’am?” Jasper blinked, taken aback by the strangeness of the question in their circumstances. When a flicker of hope appeared in Tara’s expression, he answered quickly. “I’m seventeen! Well, at least I will be next month.”

The hope died as quickly as it had come. Tara’s shoulders slumped; she whispered, broken, “Too young…using you as a conduit will almost certainly be fatal.”

Jasper still didn’t understand everything she meant, but one idea registered clearly: there might be a way he could help. “There’s a way I can help Willow?” he asked, voice small but eager.

Tara looked at the eager expression on the young man’s face and knew that he would be prepared to go to any lengths to save Willow’s life. She suspected that he would indeed die for her. This didn’t surprise her. Willow had always been the sort of individual that would inspire people to do something like that for her. She was an inscrutably good person, and the last thing she deserved was to die in such a futile manner. For a full moment she allowed herself to consider using the young man, taking his life to save Willow’s. She justified the thought with the fact that he was willing. but eventually came to the decision that she could not do it. Not even to save Willow’s life.

“No, Jasper,” Tara replied softly.

A rasping, defiant whisper came from Willow’s lips, barely audible in Tara’s ear. “No one will die for m–me.”

Tara could not help a pained smile at the stubbornness. The tiny protest drew a fraction of colour back into Willow’s face and pulled Tara from the edge of despair.

“Willow, I’m going to lie you down,” Tara explained, she felt Willow’s head jerk in a weak nod and she gently brought her down to rest atop Jasper’s jacket. The makeshift bandage was soaked completely through, stained with the blood that was seeping from her body. She forced her gaze away and looked to Jasper. “There are plants I can use to pack the wound,” she said, breath steadying with purpose. “They might help stave off infection - an interim measure at best. There’s nothing that will restore the blood she’s lost, but it may buy time.” She looked at Jasper. “Stay here. Try and light a fire.”

Jasper nodded as Tara rose swiftly to her feet, throwing off her coat as she did so. She laid it the length of Willow’s body while Jasper was already up and moving towards the few bare trees that had managed to take root in the midst of such death. She cast one last look down at Willow, her face stark white against the black of the coat, before turning to make her way towards the forest.

No sooner had Tara turned than a solid weight slammed into her, knocking her hard to the ground. She landed flat, breath driven from her lungs, and found herself staring up into the furious face of Willow’s brown-haired friend - Faith. A silver dagger was clutched in the woman’s fist, raised high, ready to drive straight through Tara’s heart.

Faith had been running flat out for what felt like miles, her breath burning in her chest and every muscle screaming in protest. She had followed the faintest traces of movement across the ridge - a scattering of hoofprints, a trail so obvious it could only belong to Willow and her little entourage. When she finally crested the rise and looked down upon the battlefield, her heart stopped. The scene below was something out of a nightmare: bones strewn like driftwood, a pale, lifeless Willow lying in the dirt, and a dark figure crouched over her, unmistakably vampiric in poise and presence. For one raw, disbelieving moment Faith froze - then fury took over. She didn’t think, didn’t call out. She just launched herself down the slope, drawing a silver dagger from the sheath at her breast as she ran. Her every thought consumed by one single, savage certainty: no one touches Willow and lives. Her body slammed into the creature, sending them both sprawling.

“What the bloody hell have you done to Willow, you bitch!” Faith was breathing heavily, exhaustion hidden beneath her fury. “Speak now or you’re dust!”

“I’m trying to save her life!” Tara replied quickly, her eyes fixed on the dagger hovering inches above her chest.

Behind them, Jasper spun at the sound of Faith’s shout. His eyes widened as he saw the newcomer - miraculous, yes, but about to destroy the one being actually trying to help. He dropped his small armful of sticks and ran towards them, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to stop the killing blow.

“She’s a friend!” Jasper yelled, not quite sure why he was waving his arms but it seemed to grab Faith’s attention. He was gasping for breath as he drew up beside her and he had to wait a few seconds before continuing, “Please…don’t kill her. Her name is Tara.”

Faith’s gaze flicked to him, then down again to the pale woman beneath her, and finally to Willow’s motionless body just behind. The silver dagger remained in her hand, but she slowly drew back and allowed the vampire to rise. Both women kept each other firmly in view. Faith’s eyes were narrowed with suspicion, while Tara’s kept darting anxiously toward Willow, as if expecting her to take her final breath at any moment.

Meanwhile, Jasper - pleased with himself for having averted a dusting - was looking at Faith as though trying to solve a puzzle.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he managed awkwardly, cheeks colouring as Tara turned towards him. “You said I was too young to help Willow… well, what about Faith? She’s old enough, right - being that she’s, er, rather old?”

Under other circumstances Faith might have had something sharp to say about that, but the words help Willow kept her silent and focused. Tara, too, was studying Faith, weighing her up with a measuring gaze.

“You look incredibly strong,” Tara said at last. “I think I can use you - if you’re willing?”

“If it’ll help Willow, of course I’m bloody willing,” Faith shot back. “I didn’t track you all the way here just to stand around and watch my friend die. Just tell me what the hell I have to do.”

“Strictly speaking, you need do nothing - except act as a conduit between us. Between Willow and me.” Tara was already rolling back the sleeves of her black dress, calm and deliberate. “I can do magicks.”

“So you can heal her?” Faith demanded, unbothered by the word. In her world, magic was hardly unusual. “Then what are you waiting for? Heal her, for god’s sake!”

Tara knelt beside Willow and gently pulled back the coat covering her. Willow’s breathing was shallow; the shirt pressed against her chest was drenched with blood. Faith dropped to her knees beside them, horror spreading across her face as she saw the extent of the wound.

“As you would understand better than most, there is light and dark in all things,” Tara said evenly as she worked. “As a vampire, I possess only the latter.”

“Meaning?” Faith’s voice cracked to a whisper as Tara uncovered the jagged tear in Willow’s flesh.

“Meaning I can destroy, not heal.” Tara tossed the soaked dressings aside and took Faith’s hand, pressing it firmly over the wound. “But using you as a conduit, I think I can draw on your living energy and heal her enough to keep her alive.”

“What are you waiting for,” Faith’s expression was twisted into a grimace at the feel of the wound beneath her palm; she was distressed at Willow’s complete lack of reaction to her touch.

“This will not be pleasant,” Tara warned, taking Faith’s other hand. “You’ll act as a filter for the darkness within me.”

“Enough talking,” Faith said, jaw set. “Do it.”

Tara nodded in reply and closed her eyes. Faith did not know whether she ought to follow suit but did so anyway. She tried to block out all external distractions and concentrate solely on what she was touching, Willow’s wound with one hand, and Tara’s hand with the other. When nothing seemed to be happening she peered through one eye to see Tara’s face a mask of serenity as though she too were concentrating intently. Faith quickly squeezed her eye shut once more.

Slowly but surely she felt a distinct warmth transferring from Tara’s palm to her own, gradually moving up her arm and across her chest. Faith shivered slightly despite the warmth. In her mind’s eye she could now see Willow’s wound and just how terrifying close she was to death. The object had very nearly pierced her heart. She watched as tiny particles of rust were cleansed from her flesh, everything which should not be inside Willow’s body was stripped away. Slowly but surely the torn flesh and severed vessels began to knit themselves together. Willow’s heart began to beat with a steady rhythm.

So far the process was far less intrusive than Faith had at first thought. The sensation was almost pleasant despite the vampire’s warning. However, when an indefinable amount of time had passed, Faith began to feel sick to her stomach, her insides started to churn uncomfortably and before long she felt as though she would surely vomit. The images of Willow’s wound inside her mind were replaced by a fractured series of moments in time, none making sense to her as she did not recognise the people. The images eventually came so fast that they melded into a blur, only a few moving slowly enough for her to understand. They were mostly faces…none she recognised until she saw that of a redhead she knew all too well.

The images were definitely clearer as though they were complete, cherished memories. Willow. It had to be Willow…and yet there was something about her that Faith knew was not the Willow she knew so well. The Willow she saw in the vampire’s mind was confident, vivacious and obviously completely at ease with who she was. There were flashes of sensual, languorous love making where two sweat-coated bodies were entwined, almost inseparable. The Willow in that embrace was one she had never seen. She made love to someone who looked very much like the vampire who held her hand.  

Those images were gone as quickly as though they had been snatched away, replaced by something altogether terrifying. The images were once again blurry and incomplete, as though they had been determinedly suppressed. What little Faith could make out was of a man, a savage, cruel beast of a man as he forced himself on the woman the vampire had once been. As hard a woman as she was, Faith felt hot tears flow down her cheeks as the woman’s cries intruded every corner of her mind.

He was gone, replaced by an all-encompassing blackness that further increased the nausea Faith felt. Although she could feel her legs firmly folded on the hard earth beneath her she felt as though she were falling, her body hurtling through the blackness at speed. She felt her gut heave and she fell forward. Her face hit the dirt and seconds later she vomited, losing her grip on the vampire’s hand as she needed both to clutch at her gut. Her mouth was filled with a substance the consistency of tar that tasted vile. When she opened her eyes she saw the ground directly in front of her was covered in a thick, black liquid. She lurched forward again and another spurt erupted from her mouth. Behind her she heard the vampire moving but she did not care what she was doing, all she cared about was cleansing herself of the foul stuff.

She heard the vampire breathe a sigh of relief and whisper, “It is done.”

Faith tuned slightly, wondering why in hell the vampire could breathe a sigh of relief at all…and why she was thanking an entity that she ought to be cursing. Then there was her relationship with Willow which also defied explanation and all common sense.

“Who are you?” Faith whispered seconds before she slipped into unconsciousness and fell face first into the dirt.

Several hours later, with darkness well and truly settled, Faith finally woke from her exhausted slumber. She sensed a presence nearby and knew instinctively that it was the vampire. Even before her eyes fluttered open she was asking about Willow.

“Will she live?” Faith croaked, still tasting the residue of the tar-like substance in her mouth.

Tara knelt in the dirt next to Faith and tenderly examined the brunette for any sign of affect effects from the spell. It appeared to have taken a lot out of her but other than being exhausted, she was fine. As Faith’s eyes opened, Tara pointed a finger in the direction of a small shape bundled beneath blankets not too far away from her.

“Much of her strength has fled her body…but she will now be able to survive the journey down the mountain,” Tara intoned quietly. “The wound is clean and I was also able to begin the healing process before you passed out.”

“Thank god,” Faith said with all sincerity in her voice, with Willow safe she turned her attention to the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, an aroma of something strong was making her mouth water. “I’m starving…”

Tara inclined her head towards the haunch of what looked like some sort of deer roasting on a spit above the fire. Jasper gave her a little wave from where he was tending it. Faith sat up slightly, propping herself up on her elbows as she eyed the hunk of roasting meat.

“How the hell did you kill that?” Faith asked in a voice torn between scepticism and amazement.

Tara arched an eyebrow as if to ask how Faith could even doubt her skill as a huntress. She settled back on her haunches and watched the other woman peel the blankets away from her body and lift herself into a sitting position. Her movements were slow, as though she were testing the strength in her body, but Tara could tell that she had recovered quickly despite the traumatic experience of being used as a conduit.

“I know you just saved Willow’s life,” Faith said as she unfolded her body in a cat-like stretch. “But what is your business with her, vampire?”

“My business with Willow…” Tara repeated Faith’s words, drawing out the words as one would if they were reluctant to divulge a plan. “My business with Willow is my own concern. All you need to know is that it is vital.”

“Vital to what?” Faith growled. She was annoyed at being continually kept in the dark, first by Lara and now by this vampire who seemed to be the perfect antithesis to the rest of her kind.

Killing vampires was one of Faith’s favourite pastimes due to the immense variety of methods available to dispatch the creatures. Killing this one was still an option regardless of her twisted relationship with Willow.

“Vital to the fate of millions of people across Europe,” Tara added simply.

Faith raised her eyebrows. “Willow has to save millions of people? That Willow over there…the Willow that would much sooner read a book about a demon than actually meet one face to face, the one who babbles incessantly and is terrified of horses and frogs and just about everything that goes bump in the night?”

Tara nodded, smiling a little. “Yes…that Willow.”

“Does she know this?” Faith demanded, her voice betraying her concern for her friend.

“Not yet.”

“But she will?” Faith interrupted. “Because the sooner someone tells Willow and I what the hell is going on around here the sooner we can start trying to keep ourselves safe! How the hell can I protect her if I don’t know what she’s up against? Then you come swooping in with your bloody condescending manner, seeming to know everything and refusing to tell the people that actually matter what the hell you’re doing…and why in hell do you have images of fucking Willow in that twisted mind of yours?”

Tara could hardly fail to notice the protective intent behind Faith’s words. She had already proven earlier the strength of her love for Willow. It was now written very plainly on her face as stared right back at Tara, her gaze challenging and direct, demanding that Tara explain herself. Such was the intensity of it, that it was Tara who had to break away first…although this was also due in part to the speculations that were running unchecked through her mind as to the true nature of Faith’s friendship with Willow. While she had not observed anything pass between the two that confirmed such speculations, it was a distinct possibility that Faith’s feelings for Willow went beyond that of friendship.

Tara smiled sadly, for all her watching and longing, she had always known that she could never reclaim what she had once shared with Willow. Even had Willow wanted it, Tara would have denied her. There was no doubt that the denial would be difficult of course, but Tara knew she could not bring herself to do that to Willow.

She met Faith’s gaze once more, the smile lingering on her face for a few moments. “The images mean nothing. You will start down the mountain tomorrow at first light. I cannot stay at your side but I will be watching over you. Please take care of her.”

“Wait…where are you -” No sooner had Faith started speaking, Tara was gone…she simply disappeared.

Faith sprang to her feet and looked across at Jasper, although he had clearly been much too intent on shoving a hunk of venison into his mouth to notice Tara leaving.

“Where’d she go?” he asked a moment later, struggling to get his words out around his chewing jaws.

Tara watched as Faith shrugged in reply to the young man. Of course there was no way that she could see the fine dark mist of her non-corporeal form in the blackness.

Faith’s attention was quickly drawn away however as she saw a shape emerging from the darkness, it was Alex leading two horses. The man was a mess, caked in mud from head to toe, a bleeding scratch running the length of his cheek. His eyes widened when he saw Faith and even further when he saw Willow lying pale beneath her blankets.

“What the hell happened here?”

“A better question would be where the hell you were, Harris? I told Lara I didn’t trust you to protect her, and as luck would have it I was right!” Faith fired back, her strength returning as she was fuelled by anger.

Unseen, Tara lingered above them, her gaze drawn irresistibly back to Willow. The redhead’s breathing was shallow but steady. For a fleeting instant, Tara let herself imagine reaching out - brushing her hair from her brow, whispering words of comfort as she had done long ago. But such gestures belonged to another lifetime. With a heaviness that seemed to draw the night around her, she turned away and slipped into the shadows once more, resuming her role as unseen guardian. Yet even as she drifted away, she knew that after this night, nothing - not her duty, nor her love - would ever be quite the same again.

Willow found herself standing once more on the battlefield at Covasna. It was the dead of night, and a wild wind whipped her hair about her face. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. She remembered standing in this very place with Jasper, and the vampires - Angelus and Tara - but now she was alone.

Alone, save for the thousands upon thousands of dead men littering the field, their bodies illuminated only when lightning slashed across the sky. The thunder followed, louder this time, closer. Then came the rain - first a few cold drops, and then a sudden deluge that drenched her in seconds.

Willow glanced down at her soaked body and saw a dark stain spreading outward from her chest. Protruding from the middle of the stain was the tip of a sword.

Another flash - blinding white - and she saw dark shapes all around her. The next peal of thunder shook the ground beneath her feet.

When the lightning came again, so bright it hurt her eyes, the shapes took form: the warriors of Covasna, no longer skeletons but breathing men. Living, moving, staring.

Then came darkness once more, though the sound of their collective breathing still filled her ears - heavy, human, drawing closer.

Without warning, the sword lodged in her chest was wrenched free. She fell forward into the mud, gasping, the thunder and breathing merging into one relentless roar…

Willow woke.

Gasping for air with short, ragged breaths, she clutched at her chest and found the heavy bindings covering her wound. She winced slightly with the pressure and found that she could not lift herself from the bed in which she lay. Her eyes darted around the darkened room but wherever she was, it was alien and unfamiliar.

She touched the bandaged wound again, frowning. It wasn’t where the sword had pierced her in the dream. There, it had gone straight through her heart. Here, she felt the injury just above her left breast - close, but mercifully shy of fatal. Her heart was hammering now, each beat sending ripples of pain through her chest. Everything hurt, which meant, at least, she was alive.

As her eyes adjusted, she froze. A shadowed figure leaned against the wall - tall, still, watching. But when the firelight shifted, she caught a glint of blonde hair, and then the calm blue eyes she now recognised. Relief softened her features.

“I’d ask how you are feeling,” Tara said gently, stepping forward. “But I think the answer’s fairly obvious.”

“Sore,” Willow croaked, her voice strange and small to her own ears.

“That is understandable. You survived both a grievous wound and an arduous journey.”

“A journey?” Willow closed her eyes briefly, trying to piece together the fragments in her mind. “I remember Covasna, falling, the blood…and then nothing until now. Just… waking up here.”

“Faith, Jasper, and that useless guide of yours brought you down from the mountains,” Tara explained softly. “You slept through most of it. When you did wake, you weren’t lucid.”

“I don’t understand how… I should have died.”

“Yes,” Tara said quietly. And she knew it was true. Without her intervention, without Faith as conduit, Willow would never have left the mountain alive. For all their cruelty, the Fates still knew when to show mercy.

“Well, I’ve never almost died before,” Willow replied, frowning. “I don’t know the proper etiquette. But yes, I’m grateful…to you, to Faith, to Jasper. I don’t know how I survived.”

“You survived because you and Faith both have hearts of lions,” Tara said, a faint smile touching her lips. She reached out and brushed her fingers against Willow’s cheek before quickly drawing back. She tried not to notice how Willow leaned into the touch, hungry for it. “Faith is… formidable. And very loyal.” A pause. “…Friend.”

“She is!” Willow said, her voice bright with affection that far exceeded her strength. “She can be a pain sometimes, but I love her dearly.”

Not half as much as I love you, Tara thought with an awful twisting sensation in her gut. At the same time she forced herself into a state of acceptance. Faith was strong. She would protect Willow with her life. However more importantly, Faith was whole and uncorrupted…while she was a travesty, neither human nor demon. It was a tortured existence that Tara could not share with anyone, not even the woman she knew to be her soul mate.

She watched as Willow fought a losing battle with her exhaustion and knew she ought to leave and let her sleep. The redhead’s eyes slid slowly closed despite her valiant efforts to keep them open, her head tilted to one side as she sank back into the pillow. Not wishing to disturb her, Tara moved towards the window. Her movements were reluctant, she wanted nothing more than to remain at Willow’s bedside and still be there when she woke if only to see her green eyes again.

“I wish you would stay,” Willow whispered, apparently not fully asleep.

“You know I can’t, Willow,” Tara said, turning her head slightly but not daring to look at Willow lest she give into her wish. “I have things to do…there is one ‘friend’ in particular whom I must pay a little visit.”

Tara’s mind turned to thoughts of Angelus, where he would be and what he was doing…and most importantly whether he knew she was coming for him. Willow had almost died; of course he knew she would be coming for him. She entertained no further thoughts of staying with Willow as this new purpose took root in her conscience. This she had to do to keep Willow safe, although she knew full well that the consequences could be severe.

“I need more answers…” Willow pleaded.

Still Tara did not turn around; she moved towards the window and placed a hand on one cold pane. “Read the rest of the diary, Willow. There are enough answers contained within its pages to lead you on the next step of your journey.”

“It is naught but…gibberish,” Willow protested weakly. 

“Try,” Tara said, her voice fading as her form began to dissolve into mist. “You’ll find you knew the words all along…”

And then she was gone, leaving only the whisper of her presence behind.