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This is a short chapter, but I wanted to get back into this a little after such a terribly long break, for which I'm sorry.
Earlier parts are here.
The story so far; Giles has moved in with Ethan and they're expecting a vist from Spike, Wesley and Angel. On a ride out to some ruins, they discovered a medallion and got caught in a storm as they rode home.
Chapter Three
The heavy rain, as torrential and icy as only an English summer tempest could be, had held off until they were almost home, but they had still ridden into the stable yard drenched through and shivering. Crying off from the dinner with Susan and James, they had retreated, once dry, to the library with all the ingredients needed to make hot rum punch, with Ethan measuring and stirring in honey and lemons, wreaths of steam rising from the punch bowl and making him seem like an alchemist of old.
Once drunk, the punch had sent them to bed with no thought given to anything but each other, as tongues loosened by a potent brew, waxed lyrical. Giles winced. He rather thought he’d sung at one point and he was damned certain he’d fallen asleep before making good on any of his lavish promises to transport Ethan into ecstasies of bliss.
He’d woken to find himself alone in bed and the possessor of a devilish head, the pain of which had been eased considerably by the glass of cloudy liquid left out for him. Ethan’s cure for a hangover might have been no more than a tincture of herbs, but Giles was ready to swear it was touched with magic, for within half an hour his stomach had settled enough for him to contemplate breakfast with equanimity rather than loathing.
The servant who had brought in fresh coffee had bobbed a curtsey and told him that Ethan was in his study and had left word that Giles join him, if he chose. Giles had seen the room of course, though he had not visited it often; Ethan had given him a tour of the house, from attics to kitchen, and the wrath of the cook, Mrs Sinter, when he stole an oven-warm tartlet from under her nose had been awe-inspiring. The tour had ended with Ethan presenting Giles with a key and waving him towards a large room, with two more leading off it. “Yours, my dear,” he’d said, with a graceful inclination of his head. “You will wish some private spot to retire to, I’ve no doubt, and these rooms are yours. None shall enter without your permission – though I beg you to allow a housemaid access to dust from time to time, or the housekeeper will call down a thousand maledictions upon your head. You cannot sport the oak, as you could at Oxford, but none will intrude, I promise.”
Touched by the gesture and the sincerity behind it, Giles had taken him at his word, moving in most of his library and, though as often as not the door had been left invitingly open, using it as a bolt hole when Ethan was in a particularly tiresome mood – which happened. Neither of them had had much practice in sharing a home and it required adjustments to habits and routines.
And none of it mattered when Ethan’s smile returned, or Giles’ flash of ill-temper faded. Truthfully, as the weeks went by, such times were decreasing, as though they were reaping the benefits of meeting again with maturity, and a sense of profound gratitude at their good fortune, easing their newfound relationship.
Pushing open the door, Giles walked in, his eyes widening at the disorder he found. “Good Lord, Ethan,” he protested. “You must have a score of books open –” He turned slowly, taking in the details. “And what is making that dreadful smell?”
Ethan rubbed a filthy hand across his brow. “Hmm? Oh, charcoal and vervain. Noxious, isn’t it?”
His voice sounded hoarse and Giles went to him and, with scant ceremony, placed his hand across Ethan’s forehead. “You’re burning up, love.” He stepped back as Ethan sneezed and sighed. “Bed. Before you come down with an inflammation of the lungs.”
“No!” Ethan said irritably. “I’ve far too much to do. I’m trying to decipher the markings on the medallion and they’re-” He waved a hand about pettishly. “They’re moving”
“To one with a fever, I’ve no doubt they are,” Giles said. “Tell me, Ethan, am I moving too?”
He winced as Ethan cursed him roundly for being a patronising fool who’d missed his calling as a nanny and with a firm grip led him from the room and placed him in the concerned, capable hands of the housekeeper, who had, so Ethan had told him, clucked and cosseted him through many a childhood ailment. Giving Ethan an unrepentant smile as he was born off to have a mustard plaster applied to his chest, a hot brick to his feet and a cordial to his insides, Giles went back to the study to see if Ethan had left anything that needed to be cleared away.
The books, he left. They appeared to be piled in an unsteady, haphazard ziggurat but Giles would not have disturbed them for any price. If Ethan could recall his train of thought once on the mend, he’d be able to recollect the precise significance of their arrangement; if not, it would take very little time to close them and return them to the packed shelves.
The mixture bubbling over a spirit lamp was quite another matter. The dark, oily fluid inside the small bowl was almost boiled dry. Giles extinguished the lamp, wrinkling his nose as an eddy of smoke wafted into his nostrils making him sneeze as explosively as Ethan had done and then blinked as his eye was caught by a glitter of light.
It was the medallion, laid out against a white cloth, clean and catching the light from the candelabra beside it. In the room, made dark by the cloudy day, it gleamed like the setting sun, bronzed and ancient.
Giles bent and peered at it, trying to make sense of the lines. Blinking, he got closer and then straightened, frowning.
The piercings he had noticed yesterday were connected by lines which, intricate and fine as they were, were wavering, as though the medallion was vibrating, for all that it was resting flat on a sturdy table.
“Well, now,” Giles murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?”
Turning away he picked up the topmost book on the pile Ethan had made, scribbling down the title and page number.
Scruples bedamned. There was work to be done.
Earlier parts are here.
The story so far; Giles has moved in with Ethan and they're expecting a vist from Spike, Wesley and Angel. On a ride out to some ruins, they discovered a medallion and got caught in a storm as they rode home.
Chapter Three
The heavy rain, as torrential and icy as only an English summer tempest could be, had held off until they were almost home, but they had still ridden into the stable yard drenched through and shivering. Crying off from the dinner with Susan and James, they had retreated, once dry, to the library with all the ingredients needed to make hot rum punch, with Ethan measuring and stirring in honey and lemons, wreaths of steam rising from the punch bowl and making him seem like an alchemist of old.
Once drunk, the punch had sent them to bed with no thought given to anything but each other, as tongues loosened by a potent brew, waxed lyrical. Giles winced. He rather thought he’d sung at one point and he was damned certain he’d fallen asleep before making good on any of his lavish promises to transport Ethan into ecstasies of bliss.
He’d woken to find himself alone in bed and the possessor of a devilish head, the pain of which had been eased considerably by the glass of cloudy liquid left out for him. Ethan’s cure for a hangover might have been no more than a tincture of herbs, but Giles was ready to swear it was touched with magic, for within half an hour his stomach had settled enough for him to contemplate breakfast with equanimity rather than loathing.
The servant who had brought in fresh coffee had bobbed a curtsey and told him that Ethan was in his study and had left word that Giles join him, if he chose. Giles had seen the room of course, though he had not visited it often; Ethan had given him a tour of the house, from attics to kitchen, and the wrath of the cook, Mrs Sinter, when he stole an oven-warm tartlet from under her nose had been awe-inspiring. The tour had ended with Ethan presenting Giles with a key and waving him towards a large room, with two more leading off it. “Yours, my dear,” he’d said, with a graceful inclination of his head. “You will wish some private spot to retire to, I’ve no doubt, and these rooms are yours. None shall enter without your permission – though I beg you to allow a housemaid access to dust from time to time, or the housekeeper will call down a thousand maledictions upon your head. You cannot sport the oak, as you could at Oxford, but none will intrude, I promise.”
Touched by the gesture and the sincerity behind it, Giles had taken him at his word, moving in most of his library and, though as often as not the door had been left invitingly open, using it as a bolt hole when Ethan was in a particularly tiresome mood – which happened. Neither of them had had much practice in sharing a home and it required adjustments to habits and routines.
And none of it mattered when Ethan’s smile returned, or Giles’ flash of ill-temper faded. Truthfully, as the weeks went by, such times were decreasing, as though they were reaping the benefits of meeting again with maturity, and a sense of profound gratitude at their good fortune, easing their newfound relationship.
Pushing open the door, Giles walked in, his eyes widening at the disorder he found. “Good Lord, Ethan,” he protested. “You must have a score of books open –” He turned slowly, taking in the details. “And what is making that dreadful smell?”
Ethan rubbed a filthy hand across his brow. “Hmm? Oh, charcoal and vervain. Noxious, isn’t it?”
His voice sounded hoarse and Giles went to him and, with scant ceremony, placed his hand across Ethan’s forehead. “You’re burning up, love.” He stepped back as Ethan sneezed and sighed. “Bed. Before you come down with an inflammation of the lungs.”
“No!” Ethan said irritably. “I’ve far too much to do. I’m trying to decipher the markings on the medallion and they’re-” He waved a hand about pettishly. “They’re moving”
“To one with a fever, I’ve no doubt they are,” Giles said. “Tell me, Ethan, am I moving too?”
He winced as Ethan cursed him roundly for being a patronising fool who’d missed his calling as a nanny and with a firm grip led him from the room and placed him in the concerned, capable hands of the housekeeper, who had, so Ethan had told him, clucked and cosseted him through many a childhood ailment. Giving Ethan an unrepentant smile as he was born off to have a mustard plaster applied to his chest, a hot brick to his feet and a cordial to his insides, Giles went back to the study to see if Ethan had left anything that needed to be cleared away.
The books, he left. They appeared to be piled in an unsteady, haphazard ziggurat but Giles would not have disturbed them for any price. If Ethan could recall his train of thought once on the mend, he’d be able to recollect the precise significance of their arrangement; if not, it would take very little time to close them and return them to the packed shelves.
The mixture bubbling over a spirit lamp was quite another matter. The dark, oily fluid inside the small bowl was almost boiled dry. Giles extinguished the lamp, wrinkling his nose as an eddy of smoke wafted into his nostrils making him sneeze as explosively as Ethan had done and then blinked as his eye was caught by a glitter of light.
It was the medallion, laid out against a white cloth, clean and catching the light from the candelabra beside it. In the room, made dark by the cloudy day, it gleamed like the setting sun, bronzed and ancient.
Giles bent and peered at it, trying to make sense of the lines. Blinking, he got closer and then straightened, frowning.
The piercings he had noticed yesterday were connected by lines which, intricate and fine as they were, were wavering, as though the medallion was vibrating, for all that it was resting flat on a sturdy table.
“Well, now,” Giles murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?”
Turning away he picked up the topmost book on the pile Ethan had made, scribbling down the title and page number.
Scruples bedamned. There was work to be done.