The horse was tall and stocky, a skewbald gelding of indeterminate breed. Sleek dark flanks and white shoulders, a russet head ornamented with a thin white blaze—nothing too remarkable so far as horses went. Yet in the opium-tinted moonlight, William thought it looked uncommonly handsome. In fact, it reminded him very strongly of a rocking horse he’d possessed as a child, and he wondered if perhaps he had conjured it from that very memory. In London, he had heard tales of opium-eaters and the strangely realistic visions they sometimes experienced. Some men hallucinated Nirvana; some even became creative geniuses. Meanwhile, he saw a discarded childhood toy come to life.
That seemed about right.
“But you’re off your rockers,” he said softly, climbing to his feet. The ground swayed beneath him, and he had to press a hand against the stone bench to keep from stumbling. Still, he was not afraid, not even when he noted the shadowy figure of a rider sitting astride the animal’s back. Defenseless as he was, he could not imagine any calamity befalling him now. The night seemed far too kind for that sort of thing.
He squinted at the figure, trying to make out its features, but owing to the dim light and distance between them all he could really see was the white blur of a face, the shadowy outline of a short and rather narrow frame.
The gelding, having dropped its head to graze, ignored William completely as he edged closer to it; but the rider let out a low, good-natured chuckle.
“Well, at least you’re not shy.”
This startled William so much he almost fell a second time, for the voice, while pleasant enough, was unmistakably female.
Female!
A woman, traveling in the dark alone—a woman, riding her horse astride—he had never heard of such a thing. He was not entirely certain such a thing was even possible in England.
I’m delirious, he decided, as he stared slack-jawed at the spectacle. That’s what this is: a fancy.
The fancy, meanwhile, seemed to be growing impatient with his reticence. She slid from her mount’s back and, looping the reins over one arm, closed the gap separating them with just a few graceful strides.
“Not shy,” she repeated with a slight smile. “But maybe not very good at conversation, either.”
William tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing her with a boldness he never would have shown had she been a real, flesh-and-blood woman. Yet she was decidedly not real; he knew this. She was a vision, and a vision could not cut him with a look or hurt him with her words. A vision could not fault him for his curiosity.
Nor did she. Instead, she cocked her own head and looked back at him—playfully mimicking, as he realized a moment later, the intensity of his gaze.
“Well?” she asked, sounding for all the world as if they were in the middle of a conversation. He was baffled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve got to be thinking something, staring at me like that. Care to share?”
Idiotic as it was, William suddenly found himself flushing. An oval face and green eyes, long, wavy hair the color of flax—vision or not, this woman was terribly attractive. Odd, of course, even so far as hallucinations went, but beautiful just the same. This was what he had been thinking as he looked at her, yet he could not quite bring himself to tell her so.
“I was thinking—”
“What?”
“—you’re very thin.”
The girl looked down at herself, seemingly surprised. “I am?”
“Rather. Are you ill?” It made sense for her to be. After all, he was ill; why should his vision be otherwise? Yet even as he asked the question, William knew it was not so. Despite her slightness of form, there was a certain wiry strength about the girl, the muscles of her exposed arms solid and curiously defined. Whatever else she might have been, she did not appear to be sick or frail.
“Oh, no. I’m healthy as a—” She jerked her head toward the gelding. “Well, you know.”
William was not at all certain he did, actually. He opened his mouth and then closed it, at a complete loss as to what he should say next. How did one make polite conversation with a being of his own invention?
As the silence drew on, the girl began looking at him with something akin to sympathy. “Maybe you are shy, after all.”
She said this almost as if to herself and there was no malice in her tone, but accurate as it was he could not help bridling at the comment.
“I think you would find me far better at conversation when it is not rising one o’clock in the morning.”
The corner of her mouth twitched at that, though she nodded in apparent agreement. “The element of surprise probably didn’t help either,” she said. “Did I scare you, coming out of nowhere like that?”
William gazed over her shoulder at the dark tree line, frowning slightly as he tried to work it all out in his head; the laudanum was making it difficult to concentrate.
“Is that where you came from?” he asked finally. “Nowhere?”
She laughed at the question, although he couldn’t imagine why.
“I guess it probably did look that way to you.” Despite her obvious amusement, he thought there was something melancholy in the way she looked at him then. She would not meet his eye even when he tried to meet hers.
“You’re the oddest dream I ever had, anyway.” He knew he was being rude, but somehow the words slipped out before he could check them, and he meant no harm. It was only that her clothing was so strange. Trousers, on a woman! And not just trousers but odd, tight black ones made of a material he had never seen before. Her shirt was a vulgar red and contained less material than a normal lady’s corset cover; if he had not known she was a delusion, William would have thought her terribly indecent.
However, she was a delusion and, because of this, he did not feel overly guilty for satisfying his desire to look at her. Her naked shoulders and frail collarbones—the shape of her legs in those bizarre trousers—he had never seen a woman so exposed before, at least, not outside of a very specific type of photograph.
The girl didn’t seem to mind his gaping at her. In fact, she hardly seemed to notice it. She was staring at him with a startled expression.
“You think I’m a dream?”
He nodded but declined to elaborate when she pursued the matter. Fancy or not, it seemed somehow ungentlemanly to explain to her about the laudanum. Instead, he tried diverting her with a question of his own.
“What is your horse’s name?”
She barely glanced at the animal. “His name?”
“Yes. Doesn’t he have one?”
A long silence followed, but William didn’t hurry her. He reached a hand toward the gelding, which lifted its head in response. Its breath felt warm and moist against his palm—so real he almost could have believed it was, had it not been for the girl.
She was watching him with that same, almost sad expression as before, but her voice was neutral when she told him, “His name is Spot.”
“Spot?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. The animal was a patchwork of brown and white, but he would not have called it spotted. The girl suddenly looked defensive.
“Well, I didn’t name him,” she said huffily. “He’s not even mine. I borrowed him from my—”
“From your what?” William asked, for she had made a sudden pause.
“—from my friend.”
How strange it was, the notion of an optical illusion having friends—or a life—or a horse. William struggled not to think of how mad it must make him that he should imagine a woman so vividly. Suppose the madness did not wear off when the opium did; where would he be then? He rubbed the gelding’s forehead uneasily.
“Don’t you believe me?” the girl pressed.
“Of course I do,” he lied. “It is only that—well—he’s an uncommonly fine one, isn’t he?”
“I guess.” She sounded indifferent. He stared at the horse’s crooked blaze and tried to think of something else to say. It was a dismal thing, knowing one was uninteresting even to one’s own imaginings.
“I…I realize I asked the animal’s name, but I have not asked yours.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“That was rather rude of me.”
“A little bit,” the girl agreed. She seemed to be waiting for something, but it took William a minute or two to realize just what it was.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you.” She seemed confused. “What’d you do?”
Rather than answer the question, he made a polite—if slightly awkward—bow and told her pointedly, “I am William Pratt.”
The girl stuck out her hand sideways, almost as if she expected him to shake it, though surely this was not the case. Shake her hand as if she were a man? Absurd. She couldn’t want that. William wondered if perhaps she meant for him to kiss it, yet he couldn’t quite imagine doing that, either. Hallucination or not, she was still a stranger, and she was not even wearing a pair of gloves. He stared at her slender fingers dumbly, unsure of what to do.
She looked at them too, and seemed equally puzzled.
“Well…it’s nice to meet you anyway, William.” She dropped her hand.
“Yes.”
“I’m Buffy. I mean, in case you were wondering. I’m Buffy Summers.”
Buffy Summers?
William tried not to scoff at that, but honestly, how could he not? It was a ludicrous name under any circumstances, and he was more than a little bit intoxicated. Fortunately, Buffy Summers did not seem unduly offended by the raucous burst of laughter that followed. She leaned against her horse’s flank and watched with raised eyebrows as he struggled to pull himself together.
“That bad, huh?”
It would have been rude to agree with her, so William shook his head and murmured several reassurances to the contrary. Still, he could not help but indulge in his curiosity and ask her how she came by such an unusual name.
“According to you, I’m some kind of weird dream,” she pointed out. “So, really, you ought to be asking yourself how you came by it.”
It was obvious from her expression she was teasing him, but William thought she had a point nonetheless. And he could not help but wonder at the power of his own imagination. Inventing a whole person seemed unlikely enough, but to dream up such an outlandish name for her as well—
It must have been the opium. That was the only explanation that made sense. As uncomfortable a sensation as it had been, loneliness would not have been enough to send him this far over the edge into insanity.
Therefore, I haven’t any reason to worry, he thought. If opium is the only reasonable cause, then the only reasonable cure must be—
To not take any more laudanum, obviously. To wait for this evening’s measure of the drug to run its course and then throw the bottle onto the rubbish pile. That was what any logical person would do. The only problem with the plan was he didn’t want to do it, not in the least. Because, illusion or no—insanity or no—he could not help but feel this was enjoyable. He didn’t want to give it up.
“Uh, William?”
He came out of his daze to find Buffy Summers watching him, an uneasy smile plastered across her pretty, moonlit face.
“Yes?” For the life of him, he could not understand why she looked so uncomfortable.
“Moments of deep reflection are great and everything,” she said. “I’m sure you Englishmen probably live for them. But the unblinking stare and grim frown? Really starting to creep me out.”
“Oh.” Due to her odd way of talking, it took him a bit to process this information. When he did, he blushed. “I completely forgot myself for a moment, didn’t I? To say nothing of my manners. Forgive me—”
“Stop saying that,” she interrupted. “It’s making me nervous. Anyway, I want you to know I was only joking, before.”
“Joking?”
“About me being a dream. It seemed like that upset you or something, and I didn’t mean to. And it’s not true, you know. I’m…real.”
So she said, yet her slight hesitation before the last word gave William all the reason he needed not to believe her. However, he shrugged it off as a positive thing; opium or not, he knew he never could have been this relaxed in the presence of a real woman.
He could feel her gazing at him thoughtfully—rather too intently considering the embargo on unblinking stares—yet when he looked back at her, all she said was, “Nice night, isn’t it?”
It was a nice night. It was a balmy, dizzy, deliciously surreal night. He sighed into the summer air. “It’s beautiful!”
“Sometimes—” she pushed a lock of hair back from her face “—sometimes, on nights this nice, I wish I were a poet.”
William threw her a sharp glance. There was something oddly knowing in her expression, and he felt himself stiffen in response to it.
“Why would you say that?”
“Why not?” she countered. “Don’t you ever feel like writing poems?”
“No.” He could feel her surprise, which in turn surprised him. For a make-believe woman, she certainly had very lifelike emotions. “I feel such endeavors should be left to those with the talent to pursue them. Otherwise, it’s merely a waste of one’s time.”
“That’s a dumb thing to say. Nothing is a waste of time as long as you enjoy doing it.”
“Yes, well.” He smiled crookedly. “I could find little enjoyment in making a mockery out of an entire art form—and in turn, making a fool of myself. You write poetry; I shall engage in more realistic pursuits.”
“God, you sound bitter!” She looked so injured it surprised him. “I never expected—”
“What?”
“—you would be so cynical.”
“I’m not cynical,” he retorted—rather cynically, though he did not realize it. “And I ask you: what expectations could you possibly have had? If you are not a dream, you are unquestionably a stranger. How could you have thought anything about me at all?”
“You’re right. I couldn’t.”
Her voice was sad and soft, and William suddenly felt like a heel for hurting her. No wonder he had never found someone to spend his life with; he could not even maintain a pleasant conversation with himself.
“Forgive me—” he began. Then, seeing her expression: “That is to say, please accept my apology. I was terribly rude.”
“You weren’t rude,” she sighed. “It’s me. I’m just overly sensitive or something. It’s just that I did have expectations about you. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I did.” She turned away.
William, fearing she meant to mount her horse and leave him, reached out and touched her arm. He did it without thinking, and the feel of her bare elbow beneath his fingers—warm, soft flesh that felt very real—left him momentarily speechless. It was not until she met his eyes—her own being moist and sad and oddly hopeful—that he managed to find his tongue.
“Please, Miss Summers. You’ve every reason to be upset with me; I have been a cad. But please allow me to make amends. I’m really not cynical, or boorish, or rude, though I know I have acted so just now. Only—it has been a terribly difficult day—”
Emotion made his chest tighten, and he could not quite stifle the cough that followed. Not wanting to appear ill mannered, he tried to draw away, but Miss Summers suddenly covered his hand with her own, pressing his fingers against her arm and stopping him before he could stir a single step.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Call me Buffy.”
“Buffy.”
Alien as it was, it still felt wrong to be calling a lady by her first name, and William stumbled over it awkwardly. Yet though his voice was hoarse and soft, something in it made her smile. She gave his hand a little squeeze before suddenly releasing it and turning to pet the gelding, which ignored her.
“You’re not laughing,” she observed.
William, watching her slim fingers twine through the horse’s mane, could not help but wonder what it would feel like to have them in his own hair—or even on his flesh—stroking so gently. He knew he ought to be ashamed even to consider it, but he was not. Too many of his days were spent plagued by shame; he refused to let it ruin his dreams as well.
“Why should I be laughing?” he asked her.
“At my name. You found it so funny before.”
“Ah.” He looked down at the damp grass, at her small feet in their strange shoes, dropping his head so she would not see his smile. “I suppose I find it less humorous on the repetition.”
“The repetition,” she echoed, and something in her tone made his heart quicken. Was she laughing at him now? It seemed so, but he could not feel offended, for there appeared to be no malice in it. If anything, a quick glance upward showed her expression to be almost affectionate, as warm and indulgent as that of a sister or a dear friend. Not that he'd ever had either, but he could imagine.
“Am I humorous now?” he asked softly, a trifle shyly, though he would not own it. The girl’s smile was encouraging, yet it seemed somehow easier to direct his question at the grazing animal than at her.
“Actually, you’re kind of sweet. Not exactly what I expected, but—”
She said it lightly enough and broke off with a small, self-conscious laugh, but William felt his face heat nonetheless. He perceived a certain expectation in her gaze, the desire for a response, yet he had none to give. It was the first compliment he had ever received from a woman, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how to reply. He turned his head a little to one side and coughed.
“Are you afraid of me, William?” Buffy asked. Her question was playful, but he found himself bristling in response to it. She was small and slight, and he was a man. Why should he be afraid? He asked her, but she merely shrugged.
“All men are afraid of women. Why would you be any different?”
“Are all men afraid of women?”
“The smart ones are.” She gave him an odd look then, that same knowing look as before. “As a sex, we’re much crueler than men. Don’t you think so?”
“I have known some cruel women in my time, certainly,” he conceded. “But I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of them. Perhaps, at one time—but there is only one thing I fear at present.”
“What’s that?” she asked him, but William wouldn’t tell her.
“You look disappointed,” he said instead. “Are you a woman who wishes to be feared?”
She shrugged. “I’m a woman who’s used to it.”