the book-padded silence.
It was empty. Apparently, Giles hadn’t even arrived yet. Probably stayed up most of the night with his books.
Willow didn’t turn off the lights. The library was such a sad place when it was dark; she didn’t want to leave it that way.
“Hey!” Xander called as Willow walked away from the library. “What’re you sneaking around for?” He was walking close to Cordelia, playing one of their games of slap and tickle. He put his arm around her waist and dropped his hand to her behind, and she knocked his arm away with a sharp elbow and an insult.
“I’m not sneaking around,” Willow said, following down the hallway.
“You look like you’re sneaking. Like some secret agent. Y’know, like La Femme Nikita. So, what’re you doing today? Foiling terrorists? Infiltrating a dictatorship? Making sure people with ten items or more stay the heck outta the nine-items-or-less lane?”
“Just looking for Giles. He’s not here yet,” Willow responded as she leaned against a locker.
“I wonder if he’s heard the news,” Cordelia said.
“What news?” Willow asked.
Xander seemed surprised. “You haven’t heard yet? A murder sometime late last night . . . and the suspected killer was found, uh . . . y’know, like the guy with the lawnmower.”
Willow’s chest tightened, as if she were pinned against a wall and someone were pressing with great strength on her chest, crushing her lungs. Was it her botched spell again? Maybe that was why Giles hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he was working on something, on the verge of finding a way to reverse the spell.
Or maybe, as so often seemed to be the case, something bad had happened.
“Willow!”
Surprised that someone was calling her, Willow looked around until she saw Mila coming out of the teachers’ lounge with Miss Gasteyer and Mrs. Truman. They were Sunnydale High School’s art teachers. New students often thought they were sisters because they were almost always together and even shared an office upstairs, but they weren’t related at all. Both were in their mid-forties. Mrs. Truman — short, plump, and rosy-cheeked, with short light-brown hair — had been widowed years ago when a car fell off a jack onto her mechanic husband. Mrs. Truman wore a sailor-style outfit with navy blue skirt and blue and white top; her clothes were typically on the silly side. Miss Gasteyer, on the other hand, had never married; she was four or five inches taller, not really fat but very sturdy, with slightly buck teeth, large round glasses, and long strawberry-blond hair that she kept in a braid or bun. Today, Miss Gasteyer’s hair was in a braid, and she wore her usual, a plain blouse and a pair of baggy chinos; as always, a large bag hung from her left shoulder by a strap and her hands were stained with paint.
Xander pointed at Mrs. Truman and whispered, “Oh, look! The fleet’s in!”
Willow smiled, happy to see Mila.
“Come to my office sometime today,” Mila said. “I have something for you.”
“Really? Okay!” She grinned.
“Have a good day, Willow!”
“Thank you, you too!”
Xander and Cordelia turned and looked at Willow curiously.
“I saw you with her yesterday, too,” Xander said. “Are you becoming friendly with the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes up into her forehead. “Oh, Xander, she is not the most beautiful woman in the world. That is such a . . . boy thing to say.”
“Boy thing? What the hell does that mean? I am a boy, that’s what I’m supposed to say. What’d you expect me to do, admire her shoes? That’s your job. You notice what she’s wearing, and I’ll notice what’s in it.”
“The real tear-jerker,” Cordelia said, “is that she doesn’t even dress that well.”
Xander started to say something very emphatically, but stopped himself. “Okay, look, I’m not even gonna argue with you about this. I’m not.”
“Well, good. It’s ridiculous. Just because
It was empty. Apparently, Giles hadn’t even arrived yet. Probably stayed up most of the night with his books.
Willow didn’t turn off the lights. The library was such a sad place when it was dark; she didn’t want to leave it that way.
“Hey!” Xander called as Willow walked away from the library. “What’re you sneaking around for?” He was walking close to Cordelia, playing one of their games of slap and tickle. He put his arm around her waist and dropped his hand to her behind, and she knocked his arm away with a sharp elbow and an insult.
“I’m not sneaking around,” Willow said, following down the hallway.
“You look like you’re sneaking. Like some secret agent. Y’know, like La Femme Nikita. So, what’re you doing today? Foiling terrorists? Infiltrating a dictatorship? Making sure people with ten items or more stay the heck outta the nine-items-or-less lane?”
“Just looking for Giles. He’s not here yet,” Willow responded as she leaned against a locker.
“I wonder if he’s heard the news,” Cordelia said.
“What news?” Willow asked.
Xander seemed surprised. “You haven’t heard yet? A murder sometime late last night . . . and the suspected killer was found, uh . . . y’know, like the guy with the lawnmower.”
Willow’s chest tightened, as if she were pinned against a wall and someone were pressing with great strength on her chest, crushing her lungs. Was it her botched spell again? Maybe that was why Giles hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he was working on something, on the verge of finding a way to reverse the spell.
Or maybe, as so often seemed to be the case, something bad had happened.
“Willow!”
Surprised that someone was calling her, Willow looked around until she saw Mila coming out of the teachers’ lounge with Miss Gasteyer and Mrs. Truman. They were Sunnydale High School’s art teachers. New students often thought they were sisters because they were almost always together and even shared an office upstairs, but they weren’t related at all. Both were in their mid-forties. Mrs. Truman — short, plump, and rosy-cheeked, with short light-brown hair — had been widowed years ago when a car fell off a jack onto her mechanic husband. Mrs. Truman wore a sailor-style outfit with navy blue skirt and blue and white top; her clothes were typically on the silly side. Miss Gasteyer, on the other hand, had never married; she was four or five inches taller, not really fat but very sturdy, with slightly buck teeth, large round glasses, and long strawberry-blond hair that she kept in a braid or bun. Today, Miss Gasteyer’s hair was in a braid, and she wore her usual, a plain blouse and a pair of baggy chinos; as always, a large bag hung from her left shoulder by a strap and her hands were stained with paint.
Xander pointed at Mrs. Truman and whispered, “Oh, look! The fleet’s in!”
Willow smiled, happy to see Mila.
“Come to my office sometime today,” Mila said. “I have something for you.”
“Really? Okay!” She grinned.
“Have a good day, Willow!”
“Thank you, you too!”
Xander and Cordelia turned and looked at Willow curiously.
“I saw you with her yesterday, too,” Xander said. “Are you becoming friendly with the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes up into her forehead. “Oh, Xander, she is not the most beautiful woman in the world. That is such a . . . boy thing to say.”
“Boy thing? What the hell does that mean? I am a boy, that’s what I’m supposed to say. What’d you expect me to do, admire her shoes? That’s your job. You notice what she’s wearing, and I’ll notice what’s in it.”
“The real tear-jerker,” Cordelia said, “is that she doesn’t even dress that well.”
Xander started to say something very emphatically, but stopped himself. “Okay, look, I’m not even gonna argue with you about this. I’m not.”
“Well, good. It’s ridiculous. Just because
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