Lydia

about tomorrow

Sun, 29 Jun 2003 06:41:33 GMT

I've sent everything down by courier, except the cherrywood, which Mr. Allarbee should be dropping off this evening, and the goat's milk that you've arranged for. You're sure you've found a hair of father's? Clothes and the gold watch weren't such a problem (I'm glad Grandfather's was still in his desk, for some reason I think it will help to have one Daddy knows.)

Rudi is spending the evening making sure he knows the ritual thoroughly. Some parts of it take very careful timing apparently, so he can't be always checking his notes during the procedure itself.

So now I have nothing to do but fret.

How is mother doing?

To be honest I haven't been able to work since Monday, when, to overstate, perhaps not to overstate, the full enormity of what we were planning to do dawned upon me. I had finished a draft of the revisions for my Alternative Theory paper, and was brewing a cup of tea while I thought what to do next, and suddenly I thought, four days from now I will be crouched in mother's back garden, trying to entice a mole I am practically certain is my father out of the rhododendrons with a bowl of warm milk. And then I will be assisting with a powerful magical procedure, albeit performed by a first-rate practitioner, to restore him to human form.

Although I am almost certain that what we restore will not be father anymore. Rudi says that the chance that his mind will retain any human memory or cognitive functioning, after seven years as a mole, is very close to zero.

That's the part that's really disturbing me, of course. I don't know that we're doing father any favours by going through with this. I suspect we're not. But I think mother feels that she has to do it, if there is any chance that it is still father in there.

I suspect, to be honest, that if she didn't very obviously have feelings for the vicar she might not be trying to restore father. I think she may be afraid that her judgment isn't to be trusted on the matter, and wonders if perhaps her natural doubts about the wisdom of attempting the spell are actually doubts about whether she wants father back at all, now.

If the vicar weren't in the picture, she would be able to decide more clearly on the basis of what is best for father.

But perhaps she'd try to do it anyway. If it were Rudi, I keep asking myself, would I try to restore him? I would. If I thought there were any chance, I would.

But my doubts keep recurring, no matter what I'm trying to work on. I try not to imagine all the ways it could go horribly wrong. I reassure myself that Rudi is very good at this, and ten minutes later I'm fretting again.

I have handed in the draft of the revised chapter to Travers, to keep him happy. I have been going over my notes on William the Bloody's preferred victims, and I think his patterns are fairly obvious, especially when correlated with the standard models for serial killers. He fits very closely the profile of a "thrill killer", would be doing it, if he were human, for the adrenaline rush, as his attraction to Slayers as victims makes clear. There are, once again, troubling divergences between his profile and that of most vampires, or what we've always assumed most vampires were like. I'm not sure if I should address that issue - again - in this chapter, or if I should hold off until Travers calms down a little, and introduce it again later. probably the latter. Diplomacy has never been my greatest talent, but I do want to get this thing done so I can get on with some Travers-less research.

re: Rudi, of course we are, what do you think "reconciliation" means? Though I am a bit warier than I was. But he has been volunteering his activities of the day quite conscientiously, which makes me realise that he had done that in the past and had stopped suddenly after I came back from Prague. No wonder I felt so lonely. I'm not sure why I didn't see earlier what he was doing. I suppose he was being so courteous, as usual, that I wondered if I was simply imagining that frozen feeling, and felt that I had no real right to complain.

But I'm glad I did, because I would have had to leave him if he had continued to shut me out. No matter how conventionally attentive and considerate he was being.

I am still feeling a bit bruised and anxious, to be honest. He has lived longer than I have, and has had time to acquire scars much worse than I had suspected. So I should not be surprised that there will be things for us to work through. I think that we are both suffering the shock of discovering that this is not the ideal painless relationship both of us had imagined it was or could be. I'm not putting this well.

I mean, Rudi thought he could trust me never to hurt him, because I am nothing like Gwendolyn. And he's right, he can trust me, and I'm nothing like Gwendolyn. But that doesn't mean he'll never get hurt through me. Because he loves me, and that always entails a risk. As he discovered when he thought I'd been killed.

And I thought I'd met the perfect man who would never do anything to distress me. In fact I'd met a very good man who will do his best not to distress me.

I expect everything will be all right. There's just this irrational feeling of disappointment. On both sides, I think. The moment when one is finally forced to face the real world. Like the research project that glows so perfect in the distance, until one gets up close and discovers that some of one's assumptions are quite wrong, and others will ahve to be modified, and the whole thing is going to involve a lot of work, and perhaps after all one has chosen the wrong approach and will find nothing really to add to the body of knowledge on the subject. But that's no time to quit - because you will reach that moment of disillusionment with every research project, when one actually begins the real work. And that's precisely the time when one has to trust one's previous judgement that the subject was a good one and the work will be rewarding. That feeling of let-down is not a useful guide.

And in any event, I'm not feeling anything so strong as "let-down". It's just a faint pang. His shining armour turns out to be a bit dented. But I shouldn't be surprised -he's been wearing it for awhile.

I'm going over to Rudi's later this evening, after he's done his review; we'll set out from his place in the morning. I'll distract myself in the interim by setting up an outline for the "preferred victims" chapter. I hope my meanderings haven't upset you, Pamela; I am nervous about tomorrow and wanted to tell someone my fears. I mean, someone who loves father too. But I know we'll all do everything possible to ensure a favourable outcome.

love, Lydia

things to remember

Wed, 25 Jun 2003 08:00:00 GMT

Dear Pamela,

Sending this so you'll have a copy & can remind me. For the Friday ritual we need

- red candle-wax
- a tea strainer
- holy water (can the vicar provide? Apparently it doesn't have to be Catholic, since Daddy's C of E. )
- white string
- black thread
- hair from Daddy (in human form - can you check the collars of his old jackets?)
- clothing from Daddy (anything - a sock)
- a copy of the Book of Common Prayer (we're assuming Daddy was a believer, but I think that's fair)
- blue, black, turquoise ink - separate bottles, MUST BE GLASS
- goose quill pen (Rudi says he'll make one)
- parchment with Daddy's full name, backwards, in black pencil
- brandy (for after the ritual)
- rowan berries
- salt
- a charcoal brazier
- a gold watch, spring-wound, not electronic (is Grandfather's still in Daddy's desk? Rudi has one if necessary).
- fresh cherrywood ash - we'll burn some in the afternoon.
- cherrywood for burning (obviously) - can mother get some? I'd rather not have to carry lumber on the train.

Rudi will bring the books he needs.

Also, if the moon clouds over we can't do it. Rudi says we need moonlight for the middle steps. The back garden should be fine for the purpose, isolated, and no one will notice a small fire.

We'll be on the noon train, there by 2:00, to give us time to rest and set up. And perhaps go for a walk; and Rudi would like to talk things over with mother before we proceed. We'll need to begin at 11:14 pm sharp, the whole thing must be carefully timed to end at midnight precisely.

I am quite nervous about this. Rudi says it's mother's choice, and he's right, of course. Only I wish Daddy were in condition to cast a vote.

As for what happened Friday evening - no, I did NOT "crumble because he bought me some bath oil". I did insist on a Serious Conversation before we, well, at least we did have a lengthy conversation after the film. Which was quite wonderful, I must say; I was all misty seeing Elinor and Edward together at last, after all their difficulties. Most satisfying. I was less satisfied at Marianne and Col. Brandon; I was sure he would be kind to her, but I thought her not only spirited but rather shallow, and perhaps not able, at that age, to appreciate his virtues. Though Rudi thought that her experience and her illness had probably matured her. But the film did convince me that open communication was a necessity, also.

By the end of the film I was curled up against Rudi and he was stroking my hair; he is very hard to resist. And he asked if I would like to stay there that evening, and I certainly wanted to simply say "yes" and not spoil the mood, but I felt I would be giving up something important. So I sat up. Which was very hard. I had sorted out what I wanted to say, it was full of pith and insight and about three paragraphs long, with complex sentences. But all I could think of to say at that moment was,

"Why have you stopped trusting me?"

He looked shocked . "Lydia!" he said. "I never - "

"You've been shutting me out," I said. This was inarguable and he nodded.

i sorted through all kinds of things I meant to say and discarded them as unnecessary, except the one on which it all depended. "Rudi, you used to trust my judgment." he nodded again.

"You have to keeping trusting it or this won't work." I said firmly, my heart in my mouth despite my tone. I was really afraid he was going to argue the point, however impolitic - he is too honest to tell a direct lie - and then I would have had to leave.

But he nodded again instantly. "Of course," he said. "You are right."

I was somewhat relieved but not entirely . "And you have to tell me why you stopped trusting me, so I know if it's likely to happen again," I said.

At this he swallowed. It was something he didn't want to discuss, I knew, but it was clearly necessary. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I could tell he was searching for words.

"I was going to talk this over with you tomorrow," he said. "But -"

"We can wait until tomorrow if you'd rather," I responded. "I know you wanted to put off conversation until we aren't so tired."

He sighed. "No, perhaps it's best to talk this over now. And we can always continue tomorrow if -"

If what? If we needed to? If we were still on speaking terms tomorrow? I was afraid to know. But he began.

"Since my involvement with Gwendolyn Post," he said quietly, "it has been hard for me to trust anyone at all. You are the first since then whom I have been able to be open with."

This wasn't the whole story, obviously, and I waited. "Gwendolyn would go off on her own from time to time," he went on, slowly. This was really not a subject he wanted to enter, but I was glad he saw why I needed it. "I tried hard to trust her. She would accuse me of jealousy, of trying to control her, of patronization, of a patriarchal desire to keep women under lock and key - anything to keep me from objecting or asking too many questions. She said I had to trust her. Which was true, if we were to have a successful relationship.

"Only she was not trustworthy. I wondered, for a long time, if she had another lover. Of course she did not; at least, only the demons to whom she preferred carnal favours in return for their assistance in her researches in the dark arts." I must have gasped and he looked over at me. "Not all of them demand this, but it's one of the least damaging forms of exchange for service, for those that do," he added simply. "The ones that demand blood sacrifice are much harder to control."

I swallowed silently. This was - well, since I had met Miss Post I was not as surprised as I might have been, but I ached with sympathy for my poor Rudi, the last man alive who should have had to suffer through a liaison with such a creature.

"We were living together," he continued . "She would come back at all hours of the night, smelling - odd, sometimes, inquiring incessantly into my work. At that time my research was on white magic deterrence spells," he added. "Quite a lot of it was classified, and she should have known better than to ask. But she insisted that if I trusted her I would share my work with her. And I -" he paused. "I was confused. Besotted, perhaps. I believed in her - at least, I thought that perhaps she had another lover, though I desperately hoped she did not. But it never occurred to me that she was allying herself with the darkness; that I could not trust her, in the end, to be on the right side."

"And then she was showing less and less interest in me, and I was pleased enough to have anything to offer her that she cared about. So when she asked questions about my work I usually felt flattered and relieved enough to tell her a good deal more than I should have.

"But as time went on, and her behaviour became more - idiosyncratic, she disappeared more and more often and for longer periods - I began to withhold things from her. At first I wasn't even conscious of it. But I began to withdraw from her and insulate myself, in retrospect."

He fell silent for so long that I wondered if he meant to go on. But at last he looked over at me and began again. "The reality was much worse than my worst imaginings," he said simply . "She was in league with Quiznoth demons."

At this I did inhale sharply. Quiznoth are very nasty pieces of work indeed; evil, powerful, bent on world domination, and happy to use any human vessel to open the gate. Capable of bestowing great power and sundry other gifts, such as longevity, invulnerability, and so on on their human allies, though usually they renege in the crunch. And they are soul-eaters; that is their price.

"She was intending to feed me, feed my soul, to her demonic partner in exchange for the gifts he could offer her, at the fall equinox," Rudi said. "And bring on chaos and a demonic infestation of this dimension that could possibly never have been quelled. She was - damaged in ways I never suspected. I was saved, in the end, by the information I had not given her about my research. She thought she knew what defenses were possible; but I had withheld, as time went on, a great deal of my work."

"In the end I was undamaged, and she was unmasked for what she was. She was expelled. I finished my thesis and went to Afghanistan for nearly a decade."

He stopped speaking and I tried to digest what he had told me. I thought "undamaged" was putting it fairly strongly. He was alive, and he was a loving and decent person, so she had not broken him; but he was certainly scarred. I wondered what story lay under the phrase "she was unmasked", and knew that I would never ask.

I took his hand, and we sat together on the couch silently. The tape in the VCR began to hiss and Rudi reached forward with the remote to turn it off. I thought through what he had said.

"So when I went off on my own in Prague - " I eventually said, and trailed off.

Rudi nodded. "And you actually were in danger of your life. I thought you were dead. And you met Gwendolyn, which may have triggered some memories in itself ;and she nearly killed you. I know I behaved irrationally and I am very sorry for it. But it was a great deal to deal with, all at once"

He looked at me full on. "I know you have nothing in common with Gwendolyn. But the last time I loved someone, and she went off on her own - " he stopped and shrugged. "It all ended badly. And then I was so afraid you had died. My - the thing I learned to do when things became painful before was to insulate myself, make my life more separate. It was inappropriate in this case. I don't know if an apology will help."

He looked at me but I said nothing. In fact it wouldn't.

He closed his eyes. "What can I do to make it up to you, Lydia?" he asked.

He began to let go of my hand but I held on. "I'm thinking," I said. "This is a difficult problem. We need to get it right."

I could feel him relax. He exhaled in obvious relief and smiled at me when I looked up at him, surprised. "You said 'we'," he said.

That woman really did scar him, if he thought that anyone could respond to his story by throwing him out. It would take a heart of obsidian. Which she had, of course.

"But of course I did!" I said. "At least, as long as you aren't writing us off," I added with a sudden stab of fear.

I found myself immediately wrapped in a bear hug, and deposited in his lap, my head on his shoulder, when it ended.

"Never, Lydia," he murmured into my hair. It was my turn to relax against him. "So how will we solve this problem?" he asked after a comfortable silence.

I felt reassured and sure of us as I had not even five minutes before. "Well," I said, "I think it's simple. You have to promise never to shut me out again."

"I'll try," he said. "But sometimes it may come automatically."

"Then you'll have to try harder," I said. "Don't worry, I'll remind you. Frequently."

I could feel his chuckle rumble through his chest.

"For my part," I added, "now that I know it troubles you if I go off on my own, I'll always tell you where I'm going."

"You don't need to do that, Lydia," he objected. "It's entirely irrational of me, and you shouldn't have to cater -"

"It will make you more comfortable," I said. "And over time I expect you'll need it less, because you're fundamentally sane. But clearly it will help you now, and it's not much to ask."

He was silent for a moment. His arm tightened about my waist. "I love you, Lydia," he said.

"I love you," I said.

We sat together, warm and comfortable, his arms wrapped around me, saying nothing for a long time. Nothing more seemed necessary to say. And it had been a tiring day.

"Lydia," I heard him saying gently, eventually. His lips brushed my cheek. "Lydia?"

"Yes?" I shook myself. "I'm sorry, did you say -"

"You're snoring," he said gently.

"I am not!" I sat upright. "I was awake. And anyway I don't snore."

He was smiling at me and my heart turned to warm water. "Yes you do. I shall tape you sometime." He sat up himself, and began to reach for the phone. "Shall I call you a cab? Or - " he looked towards the bedroom door.

"I want to stay," I said. I repressed the urge to rub my eyes; I didn't want to lend credence to his ridiculous assertion that I had dozed off at the conclusion of a pivotal conversation. "But I think I just want to sleep."

"Whatever my lady wishes," he said, and kissed my cheek, and we stood up together and went companionably into the bedroom.

***
Halfway through my rewrite already - it's going faster than I thought, but I already have all the sources in my notes. I'm going to turn in now.

Of course I don't know what will happen in the end with Rudi. If the problem is what he said, then I think what we're now doing will resolve it. If it isn't - I suppose we'll find out.

Oh, add a pint of goats' milk to the list. Does Mrs. Blanchett still keep nannies in her garden? Perhaps she could oblige.

See you Friday -

love, Lydia

a long weekend

Sat, 21 Jun 2003 06:56:24 GMT

Just came in from a weekend at Rudi's. I must say I wasn't expecting to spend the whole weekend there; in fact I rather expected we would watch Sense and Sensibility, have our Serious Talk, and then I would go home, alone, to resume battle with the thesis early Saturday morning. If any part of this agenda was to be skipped it was the film.

But Rudi seems to have finally grasped that there was something seriously wrong, and has made comprehensive amends. Pushed the relationship reset button, one of my friends at Cambridge used to call it. I think spending three days at home - alone, but at least he was resting - recuperating from the assault may have given him time to think things through.

In any event, when I arrived, spot on time as usual, I could hear a bath running in the apartment, which I found odd. But when Rudi opened the door and took my coat, he said that he'd heard from Travers in passing that we'd met to discuss my "Alternate Theories of Vampirism". (I suspect Travers asked him to see if he could talk some sense into the girl.) So he thought, he said, that I might appreciate a chance to relax before dinner, and had drawn me a bath.

He'd also bought my favourite bath oil - White Ginger - and had even lit some candles around the wainscotting in the bathroom, and laid out a huge fluffy bath towel I had no idea he had. He may have bought that as well. With all these preparations I half-expected him to climb in with me, but he made no attempt, just stood aside to allow me in and came by a couple of minutes later, when I was settled into the tub, with a mug of hot tea with sugar. Which, as you know, I vastly prefer to wine when I'm under stress - alcohol just makes me maudlin.

It was utterly blissful. It was so perfect, in fact, that I wondered if he had been secretly reading Cosmopolitan in the Underground shops for advice on how to deal with cranky females. I can't say I care if he had. I could feel the tension draining out out of me as I lay back in the tub. Eventually the water began to cool and I regretfully pulled myself out. I could hear him at the door while I dressed again, feeling relaxed to the bones. I came out into the parlour and found him arranging a tray of Indian food on the table by the sofa.

He looked up and said "I thought we could eat while we watched the film."

It smelled heavenly. I sampled a - I don't know what you'd call it, it was a cauliflower piece marinated in something wonderful and baked in a batter. I took another. "This is delicious," I managed to say after the second, restraining myself from simply diving into the rest of the tray. "You ordered in?"

""Amerjit recommended the place," he said. "I thought it would be pleasant to try it out."

I looked around and saw an empty bag on the kitchen counter, labelled "Vama". Even I have heard of Vama's.

When I looked back he was pouring me a fresh cup of tea. "Shall we?" he said, handing it to me, and gestured towards the sofa.

I sat. "If you're trying for a reconciliation," I said, "you're going about it the right way."

He smiled at me, that heartstopping innocent grin that always - oh, never mind. I could go on but you can fill in without my help, I'm sure. "I certainly hope so," he said, and put the film into the machine.

He settled down beside me on the sofa and reached for a plate. I was feeling a bit swept off my feet, I admit, and concerned that I would not be able to say what I wanted to say, swamped as I was by all this attentive consideration. I opened my mouth, not sure how to say this but determined to try, but before I could speak Rudi looked at me again and said,

"I have behaved badly and I must apologize. We need to talk seriously about this, and other things. But I know that you've had a stressful day, and I'm not entirely recovered from recent events myself. So I hoped that this evening we could simply enjoy each other's company, retire early , and then tomorrow, perhaps, go for a long walk and talk things through."

I'd twitched a bit at "retire early" and he added, "of course you can go home if you wish, but I hoped you would stay here."

I looked at him; he was looking at me soberly, but turned away from me to serve the food. I thought about how much I missed him. "Let's see how we feel after the film," I said.

Obviously, since I haven't been home since Friday, I succumbed. As if there was any doubt. I'll tell you about the conversation we had Saturday later - I must begin my rewrite. I want to submit a revised chapter to Travers on Tuesday, though that might be over-optimistic.

Travers is an ass

Fri, 20 Jun 2003 06:40:06 GMT

To put it no more strongly.

He's astonished that I wish to innovate on approved Council doctrine on vampirism. "Our views have served us well for the last half-millennium, Miss Travers, which should surely tell you something."

He said the usual condescending things, of course, about being pleased at my initiative, of course it is my duty to consider the evidence with fresh eyes, that's one of the reasons to write a thesis. Only, of course, having considered all the evidence with fresh eyes it is apparently my duty to come to the same conclusions the Council always has. Vampires are ravening beasts with no trace of the original owner of the body except their memories and their physical appearance. Questioning this only reveals that I have not considered the evidence carefully enough.

I have considered it much more carefully than he has - or anyone else in the last century or more! The man is a hidebound fool.

I think he was going to ask me to withdraw the chapter entirely, but the tone of my comments must have made it clear to him that I would refuse. Instead he told me that he could not countenance a chapter that simply detailed my theory - I must, instead, give all the available theories, giving prominence to the one accepted by the Council. If I then wished to add, at the end, an alternative theory of my own devising, he would let me go so far. Provided I documented it adequately of course.

I think this is the closest to a compromise I will ever see from Travers, so I will take it. Which means I'll spend the weekend rewriting the chapter, of course; but at least a dissenting view will be on record in the archives for later researchers.

I'm going to go for a walk. As I frequently do after any interaction with Travers. Then I'm over to Rudi's; we've rented a film, "Sense and Sensibility" - the one that came out a couple of years ago. Neither of us has seen it yet. I was surprised to discover that he had never read any Jane Austen. I hope the film is a decent introduction. I always enjoy Emma Thompson, in any case.

I'm a bit nervous about seeing him, to be honest. At the end of a Travers Day I'd rather not have a Serious Discussion With Boyfriend Evening. But I think it's indicated. I really do want to work this out.

phone call from Travers

Fri, 20 Jun 2003 06:08:39 GMT

He's read through my Alternate Theory of Vampirism chapter and has a few questions he'd like to ask about it.

This is the first time he's ever phoned me at home, so I think he's quite exercised, though he sounded calm enough.

I managed to sound calm enough myself, and am to meet him in his office in an hour. Fortunately I just last night pressed my good white blouse. Not that he will notice that I look respectable - but he would notice if I didn't.

things with Rudi

Sat, 17 May 2003 07:06:22 GMT

He brought flowers. Quite a lot of them. But any man caught in the position in which I found him, on his own desk wrapped in a beautiful wicca, has only two options, I think - to say goodbye immediately, or to bring flowers frequently for probably a very long period of time.

We've talked things out a bit and I think that after all we may be all right. Though - I'm not sure yet, honesty compels me to admit.

I should tell you the rest of the story.

When I came into his office, as I said, I found him sprawled on his desk under a very attractive woman, engaged in an enthusiastic embrace.

I realised at once that he had fallen under a glamour, for which I luckily remembered the counter-spell. "Scelesta abi! incantatum relinqui!" I ordered sternly, and for a miracle - for I have, as I think I have mentioned to you, no magical talent - it worked.

Though perhaps when the enraged girlfriend breaks in and catches you in flagrante she could shout pretty much anything she liked and it would destroy the mood. In any event they both started up, she looking decidedly annoyed, Rudi glazed and stunned. "Lydia? But -" he looked at the woman straddling him, obviously confused.

The bitch had taken on my form, of course. At least in his eyes.

Glamours work best, I remark in passing, when they enact a secret fantasy of the ensorcelled party. I have filed away in memory, for a happier time, I hope, that Rudi apparently fantasized about engaging in improprieties with me on his own office desk.

I had no time to pursue this interesting observation at that moment, however, since the wicca flung her hand towards me and shouted something lengthy and latinate, of which the gist was that I had entered as a woman and should leave as either a mouse or a vole (my memory for the Latin terms for rodentiae is not what it should be). I dodged when I first saw her raise her hand, but could feel the hair rising on my arms and the side of my neck where the main force of her spell passed me, and indeed it might have gone very badly for me had Rudi not sat up, throwing her off his legs and spoiling her aim - and I was relieved to see that he was still fully dressed (more than I can say for her), though she had begun to work on his shirt buttons. Full skin contact is necessary for a glamour or any sex-based magic to achieve its full strength, and it would have been much harder to counter if she had succeeded in taking it so far.

To say nothing of my personal feelings on the matter.

She turned to him, clearly enraged, and raised her hand again, but Rudi's head had obviously cleared now that she was no longer in any contact. Luckily he also has considerably more magical talent than I; he sketched a protective sigil in mid-air and said firmly "Exi malefica! te vinco, vincio, maledicta reverto". The air glowed slightly around her and I knew we were now protected; she was bound, unable to cast any curse for fear of its rebounding on her until his protective spell was reversed.

Rudi turned to me anxiously and said "Lydia, you are unharmed?" - which reassured me considerably, because it could have been wishful thinking that led me to believe he was englamoured. But his first thought was of me. I began to reassure him when the wicca hit him over the head with the quarterstaff he keeps by his desk. (He trains with it at lunch hour.) We had been concentrating on the magical dangers and had forgotten the purely physical damage she could do.

I lept forward to catch him as he fell to the floor, and she darted for the hallway, and would have made it had I not kicked a chair into her path. She hit her head on the door in her fall and was out cold. I settled Rudi into his chair - he was still conscious, fortunately - and bound the woman wrist and ankle with her own stockings. Then I called Academy Security to take her into custody, and a cab, and brought Rudi back to my flat.

So far I was not particularly angry. I admit to a decidedly atavistic response at seeing Rudi in another woman's arms, but my instant assessment of the situation fortunately proved correct. As he explained in the cab, she had indeed appeared to be me - she must have acquired some personal object of mine; I've been missing a scarf for a few days now, and perhaps I can now guess where it went. He thought I had come to surprise him in his office; and though he had been a bit taken aback - I'm not usually so aggressive - he had been too pleased to be on his guard. I think has also felt the distance between us, and regretted it. Even though he has caused it.

So aside from the lingering effects of the adrenalin surge I was no longer distressed by the initial scene, or even the ensuing fight.

But I was more distressed than I can say that Rudi had been lying to me for over a month about the danger he was in. After he fell asleep I lay awake -on the couch, I said so as not to disturb him but in fact because I was too upset to lie beside him - for a long time.

He says he wanted to protect me, but I pressed him on that tonight - protect me from what? I was not this murderous wicca's primary target. Though I am sure I was on her list - her intention, it now appears, was not only to kill him, but to disgrace him first, to destroy his life before taking it. I expect it would have crossed her mind at some point that she could cause him pain by damaging me. But telling me nothing about her afforded me no protection; quite the contrary.

Finally he admitted that he was afraid, if I knew that he was in danger, that I might plunge in without thinking and do something foolhardy and dangerous, to protect him. As I did when I burst in on him on Monday, he began to say (and had the good sense not to finish the sentence).

Which made the problem clear to me, in one of those blinding flashes one occasionally has. He doesn't trust my judgment anymore.

I don't know if he's aware of that, or that it's a change. But he hasn't since I went to Prague. And I grant you, the situation there was significantly more dangerous than I was prepared for - but if I had been given all of the information, I would have not have BEEN unprepared. And I would have acted with appropriate caution.

As, indeed, I would have on Monday, if I had known that he was in danger of his life from a powerful wicca. If I'm not given all the information, what can I do but act on what I have?

But there is something more underlying this - I can't put my finger on what exactly. More, I mean, or different, than a condescending lack of confidence in my impetuous girlish judgment. More even than a patronizing desire to protect me from the world 'for my own good'. Though of course I cannot put up with even that much. It must stop.

But I don't think that's the real problem - because, before Prague, he wasn't concealing things from me. Before Prague, he was more than willing to tell me what I didn't know - instruction was a pleasure to him, to both of us.
Before Prague, he trusted and confided in me.

Something about my visit to Prague has obviously shaken his faith in me. And being put in danger of his own life seems to have only made things worse.

I've been thinking through these things all day. Dinner last night was a sober affair. He is, I think, as distressed as I at the distance between us now, and I believe wants to heal the rift, but doesn't know how. He told me several times that he loved me; as if anxious that I should know this, and all too aware that at the moment I have cause to doubt it.

I want to heal the rift between us too, but have no more idea than he does how it is to be done. I believe he does love me, and in the end that should, I hope, make it possible to fix this.

I hope.

He slept here last night but we didn't - I began to make an excuse about his head injury but then thought, I should set an example of telling him the truth, and told him instead that I didn't feel that things were right between us yet and I didn't want to become physically intimate again until they were.

He seemed taken aback for a moment, then smiled and said that until now he hadn't believed the old story that making love is something men do to reconcile a fight, and something women do after the reconciliation.

But he slept here, and spending a night in his arms even after I had told him how I really felt made me feel much more cheerful. He seems, that far at least, to be able to accept me as I am. Which must be the first step -

hang on, I've just realised something.

I have been distressed that he no longer seems to trust me, and wondering how to show him that he can. But that's his problem.

My problem is that I don't trust him, at all, anymore. I don't trust him to tell me the truth about things of importance.

No wonder I'm upset with him!

Good Lord - it's nearly 6:30. Well, on that revelation I had better heat some dinner (leftover chili as it happens) and get back to sorting my notes on William the Bloody's "preferred victims". I'm wondering if I should give an itemized list, or a few general 'types'. Perhaps the latter, but keep the list as an appendix.

Rudi will be up on the 31st. I'm still not sure if I will be, but I think I will. Not necessarily because things are all well again, but because we are, at least, talking over the things that matter, and trying to work it out.

If we can't, at least it won't be because we lacked sufficient respect for each other to try.

love, Lydia

what happened

Tue, 13 May 2003 07:36:56 GMT

I've given Travers a draft of my "alternate theories of vampirism" chapter. I am prepared to fight for it. The Council's accepted theory of vampirism clearly isn't viable and I cannot do anything with the data on William the Bloody if I am forced to follow an unworkable interpretive model.

From which you can probably tell that I am in a mood. So why don't I tell you about Rudi.

He was knocked on the head Monday night - in fact I brought him back to my place so that I could wake him up every two hours and ask him his name, to make sure he wasn't concussed. Although he seemed to be fine by the next morning he still had the devil of a headache, so I gave him time to recuperate before forcing a serious discussion. Rudi is after all probably like any man in his dislike of the phrase "we need to talk about our relationship".

I could not however pretend that all was well when it wasn't by any means. And I am furious that he has been in danger of his life for over a month without a word to me about it. Especially since I didn't, and don't, believe that his explanation - that he wanted to protect me - is entirely true. Whether he knows it or not, he has for some reason chosen to withdraw from being fully honest with me. And obviously I cannot marry or even continue to associate intimately with a man who doesn't trust me.

And so I told him over breakfast yesterday. We couldn't have a lengthy conversation given his head and my schedule (I tutor the first-years in Fyarl and proto-Halbek on Tuesday mornings as part of my fellowship duties). But we agreed to meet this evening, if he was feeling recuperated, to talk. He called just now and will be here in an hour.

To be honest, though I know I'm right about this, my stomach is in knots. I so hope we will not have to agree to part company. I do not want to lose him, at all. But I don't want to keep him, either, on these terms.

Rudi's story, as much as he managed to tell me before he dropped off to sleep Monday night, was difficult to follow. One reason I'm dubious about it; but perhaps the head injury was affecting his clarity of thought.

He says that in Birmingham he succeeded, after some initial difficulties, in identifying the culprit in the attacks on the coven as a disaffected former member, one Allison Forbis. The coven took action, neutralized and is now re-educating her. However, he had suspected all along that Forbis was not acting alone, and soon after his return to London - in fact, the very night of his return, which is why he didn't call me - he found himself under magical attack. (I insisted he tell me what precisely happened, and he admitted in some embarrassment that his tie tried to strangle him as he undressed for bed.)

So for the past month he has needed to make increasingly elaborate defenses - wards, counter-spells, variations in his usual habits - against such assaults, while working overtime, of course, to discover who might be responsible. He spent less time with me, he claims, in order to prevent his attacker from identifying me immediately as a target. This strikes me as transparently specious. Surely as his publicly-acknowledged fiancee I might have been identified as a target by any enemy with even a moderate knowledge of his life, after all, whether or not he spent much time with me.

So I don't think that's really why I saw so little of him last month. And in any event it doesn't explain why he didn't call me from Birmingham, or why, when he did see me, he was so distant.

All came to a head Monday evening, when, as you know, he stood me up and hung up on me when I called his office. This behaviour was sufficiently unlike him, even as he had been behaving lately, that I knew at once something was wrong. Rather than calling back to give him a piece of my mind I flagged a cab outside my door and was at the Academy as fast as I was able.

I walked up to his office as rapidly as was commensurate with dignity - under the circumstances, I didn't want to arrive red-faced, panting, and at a disadvantage, especially since I had no idea what I would be facing. Perhaps he had simply lost interest in me. But even if he had I at least deserved to hear it from him. And I wanted to appear, at least, to receive the news with some composure.

I came to his door and was about to knock when I saw that it stood slightly ajar, and instead pushed it open, to find him half-sprawled on his desk, wrapped in the embrace of a slender, dark-haired woman, attractive from what little I could see of her face (I could see a surprising amount of the rest of her), and elegantly dressed, at least initially, judging from the clothes strewn on the floor. Of course I -

There's the door - he's here early. And bearing flowers if he has any sense. I'll let you know what happens! Wish me luck (again) -

love, Lydia

checking in

Tue, 13 May 2003 06:54:57 GMT

Just a note to reassure you. Rudi is asleep in my bed, recovering from various injuries I did not inflict, though I was sorely tempted; and I am furious with him.

He's been trying to PROTECT me. He says. For my own good. By lying to me and keeping me at arms' length.

This is utter nonsense, as I shall shortly impress upon him. It is himself he is trying to protect. And he can stop it, or he can lose me. I won't have this.

I'm on my way out to buy eggs - I'll give him a decent breakfast before I tear a strip off him.

More later.

really worried now

Sat, 10 May 2003 06:21:58 GMT

He picked up on the third ring at his office, and when I said "Rudi?" he answered "I'm sorry, you must have a wrong number," and hung up on me.

There's something wrong. I'm going up to the Academy to find him.

worried now

Sat, 10 May 2003 06:20:33 GMT

He's not at his flat. I just called there, wondering if he had mistaken the day or thought I was coming there or - anyway he's not there. Or he's not answering.

still no Rudi

Sat, 10 May 2003 06:19:54 GMT

He's still not here. This isn't like him, he's very punctual.

he's late

Sat, 10 May 2003 06:19:21 GMT

It looks as if I didn' t need to rush to get ready; he's not here yet.

wish me luck

Thu, 08 May 2003 06:43:50 GMT

Dear Pamela,

It was so good to see you this weekend; I can't tell you. I'm feeling so much better than I was, for having seen you and spent the weekend with you and Mother, sleeping in my old room and being pampered and fussed over. She is blooming, isn't she! I didn't ask what, if anything, was going on with the vicar (who came round both days, dinner on Saturday and tea after church on Sunday), but whatever is happening their association seems to suit her down to the ground.

In fact I I almost wonder why she wants to try to restore father. I suppose she feels a sense of responsibility, and perhaps the mere fact that - for whatever reason - she is happy makes her feel guilty. How can she feel so contented with her life when poor father is living in a burrow in the back garden? And this sense perhaps overrides her better judgment. Since from what Rudi says, and I have tried to pass on, there is really no chance that the ritual will succeed, and in fact father will almost certainly be worse off than he was before.

She was, I must say, touchingly and fiercely protective of me. She asked immediately why Rudi hadn't come, and when I admitted that there had been some recent strains she immediately assumed that any problems must be entirely his fault - a relief since I have been assuming, of course, that whatever's wrong must be something I've done! She alternated between offering to go straight up to London to straighten him out, and assuring me that any man lucky enough to attract my attention should thank his stars daily for his good fortune, and if Rudi caused me a moment's unease, there were plenty of other fish in the sea. She does seem to like Rudi (better than "that long drink of water" Cyril at least - I had no idea she didn't like him!) But not if he upsets her daughter.

I dimly remember her vigorously defending my prose style to a primary school teacher, years ago, but it's been a long time since I've seen this side of her. I suppose it's been years since I have really told her, or anyone, how I felt about anything. Whatever happens with Rudi I should thank him for making it easier for me to talk about emotional matters.

In any event I am much fortified by her ferocious defense and by your practical advice. You must be right, that the change in Rudi's behaviour has three possible triggers - my visit to Prague; his visit to Birmingham; or his offer to marry me. Or some fourth thing that I can't guess.

I forgot to tell you how he reacted when he found I was going out to Shropshire for a visit this weekend and hadn't invited him. I told him I felt that I needed a couple of days away, to relax. He was rather taken aback - perhaps the more so in that I begged off going back to his flat after the film on the grounds that I needed to pack. Really, of course, it was because I don't want to make love to him again until I know where we stand - it would be a pretense of an intimacy that at the moment I don't feel we have.

He is not insensitive and I am sure he knew there was more to it than I had said, and in fact he asked if there was anything we should talk about. I steeled myself - he had the look of the old Rudi about him suddenly, and I wanted to cast myself into his arms and tell him how miserable I'd been - but I knew I needed to think things through first and be sure I knew what I wanted to say. I have been so unhappy the last month that I haven't been able to think clearly at all. So I said yes, there probably was, because I had had the impression that he hadn't been entirely happy lately, and that I knew I wasn't entirely happy myself, so when I got back we should make some time to talk.

His response was encouraging. At least I hope it was. He looked at me for a moment with the expression I remember, and tucked my hair behind my ear and said "do whatever you need to do, Lydia. Please call me when you get back." And then he kissed me, and it was hard not to fall into his arms and follow him home after all. But I think we do need to talk first. So I promised him I would phone when I got in on Sunday.

I did so - to my relief he sounded very pleased to hear from me - and asked him to come to dinner at my apartment this evening. Which he hasn't set foot in since he got back from Birmingham, I've just realised. Everything has been on neutral ground - theatres, restaurants, the Academy - or his flat; never in my territory. I think that needs to change.

So I have done as you suggested, and made a list of the questions I want to ask him, in the hope of prompting conversation, and of the things I need to say. I need to know what's going on. Even if it's just that he no longer feels the same way, I need to know, and better now than after agonizing and walking on eggshells for months. It's like pulling a tooth; better to do it at once.

I suppose that's not the most optimistic way to look at it. Perhaps there's really nothing wrong with the tooth. Perhaps it won't need to be pulled.

I put chili in the slow cooker before I left for the library this morning, your old recipe from university, do you remember? And I bought rolls and a salad at Sainsbury's on my way home this afternoon. I have no appetite at all myself. But I can push things around on my plate a little.

He'll be here in three quarters of an hour, time for me to tidy a little and fuss. I feel as if I'm taking entirely too much trouble for someone who may be about to drop me. But if he is at least this will be the last night I have to suffer this uncertainty.

Right. Time for me to change into a clean shirt and take down my hair and put it up again two or three times while I try to decide which image I wish to present. Cool and in control? Warm and welcoming? Cool and welcoming? Warm and in control? How many pins would it take to convey "warm, but in control"? That would be my best bet. No spectacles, definitely.

More later. Please wish me luck.

love, Lydia

p.s. forgot - you asked me to send you my questions (to make sure I actually did write them down?) I had a whole flock of them but they all seemed too leading, so I have boiled it down to one:

1. What's wrong?

Perhaps I should get some wine into him first.

sorry I missed you

Tue, 06 May 2003 05:43:08 GMT

Thanks for the phone message; I'm sorry you didn't catch me in, I would have liked to talk to you. But it was still good to hear your voice.

Of course you may talk it over with George, and thanks for the thought. Sometimes it takes a man to understand a man.

I may just come down Saturday for an overnight visit. On my own I mean. I've pretty much finished reviewing the literature I needed for the theory chapter I'm adding, and what I really need now is read through my notes and let the information percolate a bit, think through what I actually think myself, perhaps come up with an outline. And I can do that on the train.

In fact I can probably do it better on the train. Instead of my apartment, I mean, where I sit wondering why Rudi hasn't phoned. Or the library at the Academy, where I try to concentrate and wonder why Rudi doesn't come by to fetch me for lunch, or so we can go home together, the way he used to. Or at the Greek cafe near the apartment, where he took me for coffee after my werewolf paper was turned down, or - but I'm getting maudlin.

I need to get away from here for a couple of days, clearly.

Very well. Expect me on the 11 a.m. train on Saturday. I'd come tomorrow for the full weekend, but Rudi and I are going to "L.A. Confidential" Friday evening. I'm not too keen to see it, but we've already gone to most of the decent films on at the moment, thanks to our new policy of dates that don't involve actually speaking to each other. And it was that or "8 Heads in a Duffle Bag", the other new release this week. And we will have a carefully and neutrally pleasant time and I will be home early, in plenty of time to get a decent night's sleep, if I could sleep lately, and catch the early train.

It's like going out with Cyril all over again, except with better sex. Only not that much better anymore, because though he's as thoughtful as ever he doesn't say the sort of things he used to say, in fact he hardly speaks at all, and it turns out that was the most important part for me - it made me feel so loved. Damn, I'm crying.

Enough. Anyway that's why I plan to be home early on Friday, because that has been, post-Birmingham, the only night that he will ask me over to his flat, which will lead to going to bed with him, and I can't do that anymore, until we've got this straightened out. If we get this straightened out. I don't know what the problem is but I do know I'm miserable. And perhaps I've done something so awful that we can't be together. I really don't know, since Rudi won't tell me. But I can't do this anymore. I love Rudi dearly. But I'd rather have none of him than feel like this.

See you the day after tomorrow.

Now back to psychological theories of vampirism for an hour. And then I'm going to go to the gym and pick the biggest trainer I can find for a tae kwon do session, the more brutal the better. It takes my mind off things.

love, Lydia

p.s. I don't think it's another woman, since you ask. He would tell me if he had met someone he preferred. And drop me, too; not keep me on a string.

love, L

Troubled

Sun, 04 May 2003 23:49:18 GMT

Dear Pamela,

Sorry to have been so long in writing.

I've been working very hard, partly, I suppose, in an effort to appease Travers. I have finished the all-but-final draft of the "Feeding Habits" chapter, which took quite a lot of work, because it involved synthesizing all available information on the feeding habits of vampires, which was initially going to be my entire thesis, if you remember, until Rudi talked me out of it because it would be too much work. So now I've had to do it all anyway, and condense it to a single chapter. So I've been staying up late and getting up early and not eating and doing all those things that one isn't supposed to do, but it's how I've always worked and it seems to produce decent results. I gave that to Travers at the beginning of the month, and he seems very pleased with it - called it a "genuinely useful contribution", which is high praise from him.

I was supposed to go directly from that chapter into work on William the Bloody in specific's preferred victims, but I'm more and more convinced that before I go any farther, I need to think over what I really believe a vampire is. It seems to me that the theory on which the Council operates - that a vampire is a demon inhabiting a dead body, with no continuity of identity from victim to vampire - is lacking, because it does not seem to fit all of the data I have gathered so far. I have read more current theories of vampirism as a virus, and a few others, and none seem to quite describe what I have observed so far. So I have backtracked and am doing more theoretical reading on the nature of vampirism, and intend to produce a chapter on the various theories governing the syndrome, and if necessary develop my own.

Yes, I know that this in itself would be a good subject for post-Diploma research! But I do need to have some idea where I stand on this particular question before I go any farther. I'm trying to write just a brief schematic overview of the different theories, before continuing with the specific work on William the Bloody.

I suppose I could tell you that I've just been working so hard I haven't had time to write.

Certainly pressure of work was, for Rudi at least, the reason he couldn't come up earlier this month for the New Moon ritual, to see if he could restore father to human condition. He was called to the north of England, near Birmingham, just before the new moon, as I told you, to consult on apparent demonic attacks on the Birmingham coven. It turned out to be a disaffected former member of the coven, who has been suppressed and is being re-educated, as the covens tend to do in favour of, well, more drastic measures. I sometimes shudder to think how many enormously powerful, dangerously unstable, and potentially homicidal wiccas are 'rehabilitated' by covens who seem to have total faith in their ability to restore to whatever passes for normalcy wiccas who has so far shown no sign of normal behaviour.

In any event, it took him over a week to disentangle the various 'demonic' manifestations and see them for what they were, and identify the perpetrator. The next new moon the weather did not co-operate (the night needs to be clear). But he has promised to come up as soon as the weather and lunar cycle are right - and the next new moon, on All Hallow's Eve, will be especially auspicious for the ritual, apparently. So barring bad weather, you may expect him then.

But I'm not sure you should expect me to be with him. And this is why you haven't heard from me.

I have spent over a month now trying to tell myself that there's nothing wrong, that it's perfectly normal for a couple to become less, I don't know, warm, need less of each other's company, live less in each other's pockets, as the relationship moves past its initial honeymoon stage and into the phase of stable quasi-domesticity and -

I"m lying to myself. I've been lying for over a month and I know it. Things haven't been right since I got back from Prague.

I thought the three days of marathon makeup sex and the engagement and the amount of time we spent together after and - well, everything - I thought it meant that things were all right. Now I see that they aren't; they were an attempt to make things right, and they didn't work.

Things aren't all right at all.

We continued seeing each other pretty much every day, more or less, for the two or three weeks until he was called up to Birmingham in mid-September. But I could still tell that there was something, I don't know. There was an anxiety that wasn't there before, in the way he treated me, in the way I spoke to him. Looking back, I can see that even then I was feeling somewhat nervous around him, careful about how I phrased things, trying not to put my foot wrong. It was nothing I could have put my finger on but I see that I could tell that something was off.

Well, he went up to Birmingham for 10 days, and in all that time he phoned me only once, left a message on my machine when I think he knew I would probably be at the library, to tell me he'd be there longer than he'd originally thought. And I don't want to be unfair - I know he was working flat-out trying to resolve the situation there, and he sounded exhausted on the tape. And when he was in north Italy I didn't expect to hear from him. But that was different - he was out in the countryside, there were no phones, I was going to be in Munich anyway, there was no real way to get in touch. But there are pay phones all over Birmingham, and he knew where I was.

He just didn't want to talk to me.

And he wasn't as affectionate before he left, this time, either. Which I tried to write off to, you know, fatigue, time constraints, new phase in the relationship.

But no. He just wasn't feeling as affectionate this time.

And then when he got back from Birmingham he didn't call me. He said it was because he got back very late and didn't want to wake me up, but he could have phoned me the next morning or - anyway, I found out he was back when I ran into him in a corridor at the Academy that afternoon. I was quite shocked; I felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach when I saw him standing there in the hallway, talking to Travers, and he hadn't called to tell me he was back.

Fortunately I saw him first, and ducked back around a corner to compose myself before I came out to greet him, and could simply walk up with a smile and say, Rudi! I didn't realise you were back already - that got a look from Travers - but Rudi gave me his smile and a big hug and said he was just coming to look for me, and for a second it felt as if I was just imagining things, and everything was all right.

But that was a month ago, and things still aren't right. It's not as if he's suddenly dropped me or anything like that. But instead of seeing each other every day or every other day, it's more like every three days, and there's a careful formality to our meetings now. We will meet for dinner, or to go to a movie, or some planned event, and he'll drop me off at my door at the end of the evening and I've stopped asking him if he'd like to come in because he always says no, that he wants me to get my sleep in order to be fresh for my work, or some equally specious excuse (actually that's always the excuse). And when he kisses me it always feels exactly like the first time, and my doubts vanish, but then he leaves.

On weekends I still stay over at his place one night, and he will make dinner and we will chat about our work, and go to bed together and it's, well, it's still wonderful. But the first time we went back to bed after he got back from Birmingham I was so relieved - I honestly thought he'd just decided he didnt' care for me anymore - and I said, afterwards, since I felt reassured, that I was relieved, and told him some of my fears.

And he said in his low, comforting voice, "you need never doubt me, Lydia", and for a second the icy knob in my stomach melted.

But then he said that some things had been troubling him, but I must not worry about it, he would deal with it. But when I wanted to know what he said we both needed the sleep, and wouldn't say anymore.

And since then, the best way I can put it is that the ease in our relationship has vanished. I am afraid to ask him what's wrong, and perhaps I'm inventing it. I walk on eggshells avoiding talking about things I am afraid will make my anxiety clear.

I haven't even asked him why we don't see as much of each other and why we don't make love as often anymore - it's not as if we've been together five years, it's only been a few months after all. And it hasn't been gradual; it's quite sudden.

The worst thing is that I'm so insecure around him, now, that I am afraid even to tell him what I want. Which is, to see more of him. See him relax around me again, which I realise just now I haven't seen in - well, since I got back from Prague, really. I want to relax around him again. I want to know what's wrong. And I'm afraid to say any of this.

I don't know what to do.

I've wondered, if I offered him his ring back, would that fix things, or at least initiate a discussion. Perhaps he's just afraid of getting married - some men are - and that was too precipitate, and we should un-engage ourselves and go at this more slowly. Especially since he's pulling back in any case.

But offering him his ring back is obviously a childish thing to do. I mean as a first move.

But I don't know what else to do. I can't think. You know I'm not good with people, and I don't know how to fix things when they go wrong, and I don't know what to do.

So what I've been doing instead is what I did when Desmond died, and when father was enchanted, and - I see now - when I could tell that things were going wrong with Cyril. Which is, flinging myself into my work, in order to avoid thinking about the amount of pain I'd be in if I let myself feel it.

Well, I couldn't do anything about Desmond, or father. And I didn't really want to do anything about Cyril; we didn't suit each other, and I wasn't happy about it but I was willing to let him go.

But I'm not willing to let Rudi go, without a fight. Only I don't know how to fight. And I'm afraid there's nothing I can do this time, either. I can feel him sliding away.

What do I do? Please, tell me what to do.

love, Lydia

Prague explained

Mon, 10 Mar 2003 07:14:59 GMT

We think we've figured out what was going on in Prague.

An interesting piece of information: Watcher Kundera's body was not identified as belonging to "Lydia Chalmers." It was identified as belonging to Gwendolyn Post. Someone calling herself Watcher Kundera, with the appropriate ID, did the identification. So as you can imagine Travers was very interested to hear that I had seen Post at least 8 hours after the identification was made. No one knew this until a couple of days after I got back, when the Czech police released the name of the victim. Had Rudi heard earlier it would have saved him a horrible twenty-four hours, of believing me dead.

Here is my theory, or my and Rudi's theory, about what Post was up to. He knows more about magic than I do (yet), and more about demon-summoning. I should have paid more attention in that class but I was focussing on werewolves at the time.

We think that Spike and Drusilla didn't actually kill that little girl. They were keeping her and feeding on her slowly - which is horrible enough - but very likely she was still alive when the vampires were driven out of Prague by the mob; driven out by an anonymous voice shouting "child-killers! get them!" or whatever it called. The girl wasn't found until the next day, recently dead, and practically bloodless, as one would expect of a vampire kill.

Only what was used, then, to paint the diagram in blood on the bathroom wall? And why wasn't it finished two months after the vampires left town, so that Miss Post had to come back to finish it the day I happened to be there, looking around, and standing in the bathtub?

Rudi - and Travers, to be fair; a stodgy and hierarchical ass, but a smart and well-read Watcher - have located a particular demon-summoning spell that requires the blood of a vampire's victim. Obviously this is a commodity difficult to find since vampires usually drink their victim's blood. One needs to find a vampire pretty much in the act of feeding and scare him off his prey.

The demon that responds to this particular spell is called "The Worst" ("Kakistos", in Greek). He, or it, gives its summoner a great deal of power, if properly controlled. But all the pieces have to be in place, and the diagram must be completed at the correct phase of the moon, when certain planets are properly aligned, in addition to having the appropriate materials, i.e. vampire victim's blood.

We believe that Miss Post had William the Bloody and Drusilla under observation. She will have known about the kidnapped girl - everyone in Prague knew about her - and tracked her down to their lair. (I have had a horrible thought that she may have delivered the girl to their lair in the first place - we don't know much about the lady who abducted her from the bus stop.) In any event, she must have known about the pair's habit of feeding slowly from their victims, when opportunity arose.

In any event, once she was sure she knew where the girl was, and that she wasn't dead yet, she raised the alarm to drive William the Bloody and Drusilla out of town. Then she went back to the flat they had inhabited, and found the girl in the wardrobe where they were keeping her. I'm trying not to think of the girl's last moments here - how she must have felt, on seeing the door open and find her rescuer, as she thought, standing outside.

Miss Post must have killed the girl herself, drained her, and used the blood to sketch the diagram on the wall. But she was a young girl, and small for her age, and perhaps she hadn't enough blood for the task.

It took Miss Post nearly two months to find another vampire's victim and get enough blood to finish the job. That, at least, is our theory. The appropriate planetary alignment ended this week - how furious she must have been when I smeared her diagram for her and undid all her work, for which she had murdered at least once! Twice, including Kundera.

Once her plans fell apart she murdered Kundera, who was, perhaps, growing suspicious of her presence in Prague. Then she identified the body as her own, to further cover her tracks. I suppose if she had managed to kill me she would simply have left the body somewhere looking like a random mugging.

We don't need to worry that she will try to raise this particular demon again because the next useful planetary alignment will be in 2057. Apparently it can also be raised through the use of some magically-charged gauntlet, but no one knows where that is - it disappeared somewhere in the New World in the 17th century, during the Spanish occupation of Mexico, and she's unlikely to be able to find it. But she's likely to be up to some sort of mischief, certainly.

So far as Miss Post knows, I believe that she is Janna Kundera, so I should be safe from further pursuit by her. And so far as she knows, everyone believes that Gwendolyn Post is dead. The Watcher's Council has agreed to let her continue to think so, but has issued a memo to all field watchers to keep an eye out for her.

So why, you ask, is Travers so furious with me? Because I disobeyed him, of course. But the real problem is that I found out something he doesn't want anyone to know - that Watchers can go bad. Especially he doesn't want students to know it, for fear, I suppose, that we will be tempted to go the same way. That was why he didn'twant me in Prague; he knew that Gwendolyn Post was there, and the Council was already suspicious of her behaviour.

I've agreed to keep quiet about everything I know, so that the pristine perfection of the Watchers is not smirched, and because if I said what I knew there's a chance that Miss Post would find out that we know she's still alive.

Oh, one last thing. Rudi also wants me to be quiet if possible; hasn't said so but I can tell he doesn't want me to talk about it. It took him awhile to tell me why, and I finally had to ask.

Do you remember I mentioned Travers, telling me that Rudi had had his heart broken before, and hoping I would be good to him?

It turns out that he and Gwendolyn Post were in the same year at the Academy. And they were, well, "good friends". But her interest in power was always greater than her interest in service, he says. He could see her taking the wrong turning, but couldn't persuade her against it. It ended badly.

Not that badly, I can't help but think. At least he's still around to talk about it. I expect anyone she tired of now wouldn't be.

But she obviously meant a lot to him; a woman with intelligence and a good deal of promise, when he knew her, he said. But she lacked principle.

That was all he was willing to say about it ,and I certainly didn't press him further. But poor Rudi! We all have botched love affairs in our past, student flings, pairings that somehow didn't work. Think of me and Cedric. But that was a comparatively minor pain - and would have been even if I had cared much for for him than it turned out I did.

How much worse it would be to see someone you loved actually turn evil, become someone you can no longer respect!

In any event that's all for this evening. I nearly have "Appearances and Habitats" finished, a miracle given everything that's happened this week, and I need to give it to Travers tomorrow to appease him. So to bed, and up early enough tomorrow to give it a quick polish and add the conclusion.

See you this weekend.

love, Lydia

homecoming

Tue, 04 Mar 2003 08:19:09 GMT

Dear Pamela:

right, I WILL wrap this up now.

Fortunately I saw her first; and fortunately, since I had changed my clothes and covered my hair, she didn't immediately recognize me. I slid back behind a pillar and considered my options, and then walked as nonchalantly and unobtrusively as I could to the side door and out into the warm, wet evening. I ducked under an awning, into a side street, and repeated, with some variations, my afternoon of getting lost in old Prague, to make sure I wasn't followed. Half an hour later I came up behind the bus station.

I couldn't cash my train ticket in for a bus ticket - they suggested, doubtfully, that I might be able to get a refund in Munich. The next bus to Munich was at noon the next day, and I didn't want to spend that long in Prague. The bus station was bound to cross her mind at some point, too. And I rather thought I'd mentioned coming from Munich, also. She might think to check for the busses.

But there was a 4:30 a.m. bus to Paris, arriving fourteen hours later. I could make it across town and catch the Chunnel train (perhaps cashing in my Prague-Munich ticket? I could hope) and be back in London by midnight.

Fourteen hours by bus. The price of my stupidity in coming here to begin with, I told myself firmly, and pulled out the last of my cash. I had my emergency credit card with me but was not absolutely certain what resources Miss Post had at her disposal, and was afraid she could find me if I used it. I would have to use it in Paris, but she might not be looking for me there.

I bought my ticket, picked up a bag of crisps and a soda at the concession - all I now had money for - and headed for the Ladies', where I stripped off the green jacket and exchanged the scarf for the fishing cap, stuffing my hair up into it. I also changed into that dull beige shirt with the stain on one cuff; it's ideal for travelling because I don't really care what happens to it. So when I came briskly back out the door into the main concourse, and saw Miss Post standing at the counter across the hall, looking, as it happened, directly at me, I did not look at all like the woman she might have seen in the train station, and was some distance away from her. I had that crucial two seconds before recognition came to her, and stepped back into the Ladies', gasping as if someone had thrown cold water in my face.

I took a second until my heart stopped racing, ran to the last stall, which was under a louvered window in the back wall. I stepped on the toilet, shoved my pack out the window, and with some difficulty hauled myself out as well. I dropped onto the ground outside just I heard the hydraulic hiss of the door opening.

I did not feel entirely safe wandering around in the streets of Old Prague until 4:30 a.m., where I would increasingly stand out as the only person out at that hour. I walked briskly through alleyways, trying to look as if I belonged there, until I found myself behind a large old building, with an open door, and ducked into it. There were a few people standing around, as far as I could tell stagehands of some kind, turned through a doorway towards some basement stairs, and after a few more turns, found myself in a storeroom full of marionettes.

I had found my way into the Prague Puppet Theatre. I'd meant to see a performance before I left. well, at least I could examine the props. Except, of course, footsteps approached and I secreted myself under a table.

It was only the stagehands, putting things away. At last they left. I curled up in the company of a seventeenth-century wooden princess and a beautifully carved wolf, stored under the table beside me, set my wristwatch alarm for 3:30 a.m., and fell asleep.

Well, it may have been foolish, but I was exhausted.

The rest of the story has very little by way of drama. I found my way back to the bus station by 4:00 a.m. It was locked up for the night, but the Paris bus picked us up in front of the building, conveniently for me, since I could hide in the shadows nearby until I was sure no one was following me. I slept on the bus, and used my credit card in Paris for the Chunnel ticket and also for a meal in the station before the train left, since I hadn't eaten all day. It was recklessly extravagant, too.

It was slightly after midnight on Tuesday when I finally staggered in my doorway. I set down my pack, exhausted, dropped my coat and hat on top of it, and turned on the light. There was someone in the armchair and I had a moment's panic before I recognized Rudi, asleep in full clothing, his tie loosened, unshaven, looking exhausted.

As I stared, unable to take this in - why wasn't he in Italy, or waiting for me in Munich or - ? - he awoke. His eyes focussed on me and I have never seen such a look of astonished, heartfelt relief and surprise, of expectations joyfully confounded, in anyone. He started from the chair and I found myself wrapped in his arms before I had time to react.

"Oh, Lydia," he said. "Lydia, thank God. I thought I had lost you. I thought you were dead."

It was such a relief to feel him in my arms. I had not until that moment acknowledged how afraid I was that I would never see him again. I laid my head against his chest and relaxed for the first time in days. "Didn't you get my letter?" I asked.

"Haven't you seen the news?" he answered. "You fell off a fourth-floor balcony in Prague yesterday afternoon."

"That wasn't me," I said, confused. "That was someone else."

"Clearly." He pulled back a little and looked down at me. "You're exhausted. Have you eaten? Where were you?"

I thought over these questions and chose the most urgent. "I"m starving," I said. "Have I got any food?"

***

He made me an omelette and watched me eat it, his eyes following every bite as if he was seeing, moment by moment, a miracle unfold in front of him. He had been certain I was dead. He kept touching my hair, getting up to get me water, asking if I was too hot, too cold, comfortable, tending me anxiously as if I was an illusion and might vanish again without proper care.

Rudi's last few days had been enough to turn his remaining hair grey. He had come into Munich Sunday in the late afternoon, and found that I'd never checked into the hotel. The archives were closed, but he phoned Dr. Mueller at home and ascertained that at least I had been in Munich, and found from him the address of my hostel. He also heard the unwelcome story of the vampires I had reported there, but when he found, at the hostel, that I had checked out in an orderly fashion early that morning, and hadn't simply vanished, he decided there must be a rational explanation, and sensibly checked into his own hotel and went out for dinner with Dr. Mueller.

One thing I like about Rudi is that he doesn't panic easily, and trusts my judgment - at least he used to! After this episode it may take him a little while to remember that.

Monday morning he came by the archives to see if I'd checked in, and Dr. Mueller, who had found my letter by then, told him that I had apparently gone to Prague. Rudi was a little disappointed - he had wanted to show me Munich after all - but since he had no idea where I was in Prague, nor indeed what I was doing there, he decided to return home. (Where I would have left him a message on his voicemail, if I'd realised - but no matter.)

Nor was he particularly concerned that I didn't contact him there, since after all I had no way to know he had returned to London early. It wasn't until he turned on the evening news on Monday,
and found a report of a "British tourist" killed in Prague, with a foggy photograph of someone who looked a fair amount like me, in tweedy clothes, that he began to be seriously anxious. Although the name hadn't yet been released, he contacted Travers, who confirmed his worst fears; the Watchers Academy had been told through separate channels that it was one of their own, and a British lady, who had been found in the alleyway outside the vampire lair.

My suspicion is that Miss Post has covered up her murder of Watcher Kundera, with whom she probably is known to be connected, by identifying the body as belonging to someone else. If Kundera has no family, she'll probably get away with it, too.

Rudi didn't sleep at all that night, and around noon on Tuesday, at a loss for anything else he might do, he came round to my flat to see if I had left any information at all. He didn't even know why I had gone to Prague; and of course Travers couldn't help him there, as I hadn't informed him I was going. I think it comforted Rudi a little to look at the things I'd left in the flat, and tell himself that perhaps I wasn't dead. As, indeed, I was not. Somewhere close to evening he fell asleep in my chair, and so I found him when I came home.

I am so sorry to have caused his dear heart a moment's pain.

We were both too tired to talk much; I ate with one hand, holding his with the other. I told him I had gone to Prague to investigate the latest William and Drusilla sighting, but when I tried to tell him what I had seen and everything that had happened there my mind was too foggy to track, and we settled it that I would give him the whole account in the morning. I did tell him that I had met a Gwendolyn Post, who seemed to me to be almost certainly dangerous. I saw his face change when I said her name, and asked if he knew her. Why yes; they had been in the same class at the Academy, he answered.

I knew immediately there was more to the story, but wished only to fall into bed by then, which we did, stripping off enough of our outer garments to be comfortable, far too exhausted to do more than cuddle.

The fight didn't start until the next morning, when we were better rested, and he grasped for the first time that I had not asked Travers' permission to go to Prague. Had it not occurred to me that Travers might have some good reason for not wanting me there? That, perhaps, there was some danger of which I was not aware? Was I always going to make his life a misery by being this reckless and foolhardy?

I defended myself as best I could, but I was conscious of a certain weakness in my efforts, since, in fact there had been a great deal going on in Prague that I still couldn't make head or tail of, but which had, in the event, turned out to be highly dangerous. Though I thought it very unlikely that Travers knew anything about any of it.

I think Rudi's anger was fuelled in large part by the fear and grief he had endured the previous day, and I forgave him for it instantly. It took him a little longer to forgive me for putting him through it, however unwittingly. I did not immediately perceive what pain he had been in, because, of course, it was hard for me to truly grasp that he thought I was dead, when I knew very well that I wasn't. Once I did realise it I was so shocked that I had hurt him that I am afraid I burst into tears. (I must have been a little tired still.) This calmed him immediately and he came over to embrace me and kiss my face, whispering reassuringly, and I am not sure at what point we both realised that there were better ways to relieve our feelings than a shouting match, but it cannot have been more than two minutes later that I found myself in a highly compromising position, on my own kitchen table.

I admit I was surprised. Rudi has always been gentle and slow with me before. And kitchen tables hadn't figured in my previous experience either.

Nor had twelve-hour marathons - some of it, just for variety, gentle and slow - involving every stick of furniture in the apartment as well as the showerstall.

Not, I assure you, that I am complaining.

It was, as I said, at some point during the making-up activities that Rudi proposed. Some time after that we adjourned to his apartment, pausing in Knightsbridge to choose me a ring.

It wasn't until the following day, feeling greatly reassured (a sentiment he shared, judging by the relaxed grin on my sweetheart's face), after a huge breakfast that I felt I had thoroughly earned, that I gave him the full account of everything I'd seen in Prague. I still did not know what to make of most of it. We pieced it together as best we could before we took our information to Travers.

Who blew his stack, as I've already told you. But I'll tell you what we think must have been happening in Prague tomorrow.

Love, Lydia

more in Prague

Mon, 24 Feb 2003 08:32:18 GMT

Dear Pamela,

Sorry to leave you hanging (yet again) - I've been over at Rudi's the last two evenings and this was my first opportunity to finish my story.

Needless to say, I ran for my life. I think the shouting in the alleyway outside the window distracted Miss Post, and I was wearing more sensible shoes than she, so I got to the door and slammed it shut seconds ahead of her, and ran down the stairs two and three at a time rather than waiting for the lift. I did not know (and still don't know) how capable she was in the Black Arts, but hoped devoutly that she was unskilled in what one might call practical magic, as opposed to demon-summoning. Anyone who can read a book can summon a demon; just copy the diagram and read off the words and (assuming you picked the right book) the demon will appear. But actual spell-casting is much harder. For one thing actual talent is required. (Something I don't have. Interestingly, Rudi does, to a moderate degree. I've wondered if it's genetic.) For another the effect of the spell varies depending on circumstances, fabrics worn next to the skin, time of day, phase of the moon, shape of the room, wind pressure, mood, and a hundred other things for which sensitivity can be trained, in a witch; in a non-witch, no amount of training will help.

So I hoped that Lydia was not a witch. If she was, a simple barrier spell would keep me from leaving; or if I evaded that, a locator spell would lead me right to her. As, however, she did not find me in the ten hours I spent hiding backstage overnight in the Prague Puppet Theatre, nor has she appeared on my doorstep since my return home, I believe I'm safe. She can summon demons, but has no real magical talent.

Though I suspect she wants it.

In any event. I made it down the stairs and out the door, and though I would have dearly loved to see what was in the alleyway I knew better than to look; she would expect me to delay there for a second. I turned the other way and lost myself immediately in a rabbit-warren of small, twisting alleyways and passages in central Prague. I spent a long, weary two hours ducking into doorways and small, dark shops, waiting to see if I was followed, more worn I think by fear than any physical strain. IN the process I picked up, in several different shops, a complete change of clothing - a scarf and a dull blue fisherman's cap, which I alternated wearing over my hair, both of them (I had noticed) popular with the locals; a pair of second-hand blue jeans; a men's green plaid shirt; a pair of badly-worn walking shoes in my size from a flea market - I needed these if I was to sprint, though it cost me a pang to discard my skirt Oxfords - and a cheap dull green plastic coat, since it had begun to rain. I blended in nicely with the population in this ensemble. I tried to stuff my original outfit (including my good dark blue wool skirt, matching silk scarf, and my Oxfords) into my handbag but in the end was forced to discard all but the scarf; I had no inconspicuous way to carry the rest. (All of this has eaten a hole in my budget, I must say; fortunately the new fellowship checks will be available September 1, since I'm down to a pound of spaghetti, three eggs, tea, and half a box of stale Stone-ground biscuits. This is not the only reason I've spent the last two evenings at Rudi's, but I admit that the prospect of breakfast laid-on for one does have its charms at this point!)

Towards nightfall I found my way to a cafe across from the pub in which I had eaten dinner the night before. I sat at the back, in the semi-dark, and ordered a sandwich - no beer tonight, since the last thing I wanted to be was relaxed, until I got out of Prague. I thought about simply grabbing my belongings from the B&B but suspected it would be watched. I kicked myself mentally for giving my real name - I thought, at the time, that it was wise to do so since my credentials as Watcher-in-Training, if she chose to check on them, were good. But that was before I discovered that she had murdered Watcher Kundera.

This last was confirmed on the evening news as I sat at the back of the pub, complete with footage from the alleyway, showing a body-bag on a stretcher being lifted into a silent ambulance, police and passers-by milling about, followed by a brief clip of a woman I recognized as Miss Post, from behind, speaking to the ambulance workers, and finally a dated photograph of another woman I took to be Kundera. She was a slender blonde of medium build, much like Miss Post in fact - or like me come to that. And as tweedily dressed as we. From a distance we would probably have been indistinguishable. I wondered if all female Watchers looked alike, or did some have to dye their hair, have cosmetic surgery perhaps, in order to fit in. And where do we get our dress sense? I was feeling alarmingly comfortable in the old jeans. And getting a few admiring glances, too, I noticed. Czechs are an extraordinarily attractive people, on average, I have to remark in passing. I felt rather pleased to have apparently passed muster even in Prague. Rudi assures me that I'm beautiful, but I cannot help but feel that his objectivity is suspect.

In any event, my main hope of safety lay in the similarity between Kundera and Post, I felt. I had addressed Post as Watcher Kundera because I had no legitimate way of knowing she wasn't. She could find the mistake believable because they looked more or less alike. As long as she continued to believe that I did not know who she was she would have no real reason to come after me.

However, she seemed to be a thorough sort of person and might hunt me down and kill me just on general principles. And I had made it easy for her to find me by giving my name. Not only did I have a return train reservation, I was registered at the B&B central tourist office, which had phoned for me to make the reservation. It would take no particular intelligence or strain on a Watcher's resources (if she was a Watcher, which I thought a fairly safe assumption) to track me down if she chose.

So I waited until it was fully dark before I found my way behind the apartment building housing my bed and breakfast, and went quietly up the back stairs. I opened the door into my corridor a crack and stood by it, listening, before I exposed myself. My caution was rewarded when I heard a door open and my landlady's voice speaking to some third party whom she seemed to be letting out of the apartment. Naturally (and why did it never occur to me to learn Czech?) I could not understand a word she said, nor her interlocutor's reply; but I recognized the other voice as Miss Post's easily enough. I barely breathed, praying that she would do the sensible thing and take the elevator down. Since we were on the top floor I could not hid on the staircase anywhere she would not find me on descending.

The door closed, I heard footsteps receding, the elevator open and shut again, and I waited for a good three-quarters of an hour. Miss Post is certainly no fool and I would expect her to watch the B&B; and I expect she'd given the landlady some unexceptionable reason to phone her if I returned. My only hope was that Miss Post a) might think I wasn't important enough to track, or b) might think that not even I was stupid enough to return to my B&B.

I could have lost the clothes without much of a pang (except the cost of replacement, but that was trivial compared to my life); but my notes and several books were still in the room and I couldn't leave without them. Or so I felt. Rudi tells me that this was not a reliable feeling, and I have promised him never to - never mind. I'm sure you get the picture. I have promised to be a model of caution, decorum and propriety forever, except around him. I'm sure he knows me well enough to take this with a grain of salt.

At seven o'clock the landlady finally left, as she had the night before, and I breathed a sigh of relief; I had hoped it was a nightly custom. I think she goes down to the pub of an evening. I waited another few minutes until I felt reasonably certain she wouldn't return for her keys or another jumper against the evening chill, and opened the door enough to observe the corridor. There did not seem to be anyone in the corridor, and I cautiously stepped out. I opened the door to the B&B as silently as I could and slid in without turning on the lights, for fear of alerting an observer outside. There was no one in the B&B - I made a quick survey of the rooms before moving to my own, where I stuffed my belongings back into my pack as quickly as I could, feeling around in the reflected streetlight from the windows to make sure I hadn't left anything of consequence. I believe I forgot a toothbrush there, and the landlady may have it. I left money for two night's stay on the end table, shouldered my pack, and went back out the door.

I think I was more frightened while I packed up my things in the darkness than I was at any other time that day. I kept turning to look behind me, certain by the itch between my shoulderblades that someone was observing me from the doorway to the room, or the closet, or the window. Then the trip down the dark hallway to the door, and the moment of steeling myself at the door before I opened it, certain I was going to meet Miss Post or one of her conjured demons - but none of these things happened. I went back down the now dark stairwell and out the back door, checking first for observers. But Miss Post did not seem to have thought of waiting for me there, and I escaped the building, weak with relief.

Meanwhile I had no idea what I had seen, or why. Why was Miss Post painting a summoning diagram in the apartment formerly occupied by William and Drusilla? Why had she murdered Kundera? Were they working together, and Post had betrayed her? Did any of this have anything to do with William the Bloody at all? And why had Travers tried to conceal information from me - perhaps on general principles, of course, but had he had some other reason?

Now that I had retrieved my belongings I felt relieved enough that I could begin to turn over these questions in my mind as I walked down to the train station, intending to take the next available train back to Munich.

Of course Miss Post was waiting for me by the ticket counter.

I can't believe the hour - and I'm very sorry, but I will, I promise, finish this story tomorrow! I'm really too sleepy to keep on right now.