William sometimes escaped the mansion and hiked to a special place that he had found one day while walking the gardens.  He could not say why the spot under the tree on that small hill, with its view of a lush valley, pleased him so much.  But it was a still, calm place that made him feel almost at rest.  Perhaps it was only the fact that no one else ever came there that made it seem so perfect and right.

        When he was inside, William tried to settle down to work on his poetry, but his thoughts kept straying from his Art.  His pencil scratched out more words than it left behind in his notebook, and, increasingly, his verses were less about hopeless love than speculations about his surroundings.  What did he know of love after all?  He had only the faded memory of a pale infatuation and an evening's humiliation to draw upon. 

        One day, he went down to the great hall and spent a few minutes watching the crowd there before pulling out his notebook and trying again to finish the poem he had begun—when?  Yesterday?  A year ago?  He knew that trying to capture any sense of time was useless; he pushed away that thought and focused on the few words he had managed to write so far. 

        He was musing over a line about a bereft soul and wondering if he should go to the book room to seek inspiration from a real poet—perhaps it was time to abandon Byron and page through Donne or Shakespeare instead?—when there was a stir of movement at the main entrance, and he looked up to see a girl standing in the foyer.

        She was tiny and blonde, with green eyes that he thought were like some tempestuous sea calming itself after a great storm. Her long hair was unbound and floated around her shoulders.  There was a firmness to her gaze that belied the fresh, childlike beauty of her countenance, but there was humor there too, and he could swear that in spite of the strangeness of her surroundings, she smiled involuntarily at the spectacle of so many people in such a variety of odd clothing.

Her own garb was of the strange kind many of the new arrivals wore.  It was startlingly simple:  some kind of light brown trousers and a white top with long sleeves that were open at the wrist.  No collar, and—he found himself noticing with an unusual intensity of interest—not much in the way of corseting.  On her, these odd garments seemed almost elegant; they enhanced rather than detracted from her charms.  But then, he could not imagine any circumstances under which he would not find her the most beauteous creature he had ever seen.  He peered at her over his reading glasses, realizing that he had been holding his breath since the first moment he saw her.

        The girl looked around the room, curious but unafraid.  The usual mob, in its motley collection of historical costumes, was grazing at the huge buffet table.  A group of women were chatting in a corner; they spared the newcomer barely a glance.   Some men coming in the door showed more interest, but her glance flicked over them dismissively.  Then she took a step back in astonishment as her gaze rested on the Mad Girl, who was coming down the stairs.  The Mad Girl also caught sight of the newcomer at that moment, and she began to keen in her mindless way, babbling something about the hunter stumbling into the resting place of the hunted, and about all their souls being lost together.

        William sighed and got to his feet, going to the Mad Girl and taking her gently by the arm.  "Why don’t you go into the pretty room and see your dolls?" he suggested gently.  "I think Miss Edith is missing you."  But it was all he could do to offer the Mad Girl any of his attention.  Involuntarily, his gaze was riveted to the newcomer, and so he caught her hiss of surprise and recognition as she saw him.

        His heart sank, even as he realized that he had been successful in distracting the Mad Girl, who was now wandering off in search of her toys.  Always before, any newcomers who recognized him had scurried away, seeking other company in other rooms.

        But this girl didn’t run.  She was gazing at him with astonishment, but not fear.  Finally, she shook her head and addressed him directly.  "William?" she asked.

        It was his turn to feel utter astonishment.  He took a step backward, realized he was being rude, and hastened to apologize.  "I beg your pardon, miss.  Yes, my name is indeed William."  He bowed.  "You have the advantage of me."

        The girl stared for a long moment and began to laugh.  Everyone in the hall turned to look at her.  Realizing she was the focus of attention, she touched her hand to her lips to stop her giggling and said, "Sorry.  It was just that I was kind of expecting the Artful Dodger, not Lord Peter Wimsey."

        "Not—?  I’m afraid I don’t understand.  My name is William."  He repressed the instinct to introduce himself more formally; no one in this place used surnames. 

        "Yes, of course it is."  Her green eyes were dancing now in a way that set his heart beating faster. 

"And may I know your name?"  It would be something glorious, of course, befitting the object of a poet’s adoration.  Perhaps she shared the appellation of Homer’s Helen, or Plutarch’s Laura, or Dante’s Beatrice.  Shakespeare’s Titania or even Juliet might almost do her justice. 

"I’m Buffy," she announced in a prosaic tone.

         "Buffy?"  He could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

        "Not the silliest name that anyone I know uses," she said, still snickering at some private joke.  "Are those glasses?"

        He looked down at the spectacles he held and quickly tucked them into his breast pocket.  "I only require them for reading," he said defensively, wondering why he should suddenly be ashamed of that.

        "Reading?" She glanced at the papers in his hand.

        "And writing," he said, thrusting his latest literary effort into his pocket.  "I write—sometimes."  He blushed, feeling guilty, as if he had been caught out in a lie, or at least an outrageous boast.  He felt compelled to add, "Not very well."

        "Oh, what do you write?"

        "Er, poetry," he winced.

        "Poetry."  She said the word oddly, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.  But instead of pursuing the matter, she looked around her inquiringly.  "Where did Drusilla go?"

        "Drusilla?"

        "That dark-haired girl."

        "Drusilla?  Is that her name?  The poor soul has never been coherent enough to tell me.  There is a room with some children’s toys, and she often retreats there.  Did you wish to speak to her?"  He added, too eagerly, "I could escort you."  I would escort you anywhere, he thought.

        "No."  The girl was looking around at the other faces that surrounded them.

        "There are many other places here," he continued his words tumbling over one another.  "Beautiful rooms, lovely gardens.  I have been here for some time, and I am certain I can find someplace you would like."

 "Thanks.  But I wasn’t looking for a place.  There’s someone I want to see."  She seemed reluctant to tell him.  He had the impression that she was afraid to hope, as if she had been disappointed too many times before.  "My mother," she said at last.

        "Oh."  He looked down .  "I do not believe—that is, unless she left the world the same way you did?"

        "No," said the girl.  "She didn’t.  That's for sure."

        "Ah.  Well, she may have gone to another place.  Another waiting area, perhaps.  All of us here seem to have shared the same fate."

        "Yes."  The girl looked around her again.  "I don't need a PhD to guess what that is, but—"

        "But?"

        "My fate was a bit different, I think."  She frowned.  "I wonder if I belong here? I had the feeling after I jumped that something kind of twisted.  And then I was moving sideways.  It was like being a passenger on the interstate and having the driver suddenly veer onto an off ramp."

        "Oh?"  William puzzled over this description but had to abandon any hope of understanding it.  He looked at the receptionist’s desk.  "They seem to be going through their ledgers rather feverishly over there.  Perhaps they made a mistake and will call you momentarily."

        Everyone he had met here instinctively wanted to be called to the desk, but this girl—Buffy—he forced himself to think of her by that ridiculous name—surprised him by shaking her head emphatically.  "I hope not.  I’d like to talk to you first."

        "Oh.  That is most—"  He bit off the words that came to mind-- Astonishing.  Gratifying.  Exciting.  Wonderful.

        "It’s kind of crowded in here, though," she said, glancing around.  Some of the others were still watching them, but most had gone off to gather again at the buffet.

        "There are other places," he repeated.  "Do you like gardens?"

        "Uh, huh," she said.  "I checked the shrub box, anyway."

        "I beg your pardon?"

        "Sorry.  Private joke.  Show me your garden?"

        She had a strange way of speaking that should have struck him as rude, but her smile and those beautiful, laughing green eyes robbed her words of any possible insult.

        He offered her his arm, and she stared at it a moment, as if trying to puzzle out what he meant by that simple, polite gesture.  Then she giggled and placed her hand on his sleeve formally and almost theatrically, as if mimicking a movement she had seen only in plays.

        He led her through the wide French doors into the big garden, striking off down one of his favorite paths.

        She was quiet at first as they wandered along the lane.  He did not interrupt her silence.  He had expected that she would be surprised by the beauty of their surroundings, and let her drink in their perfection.

        Finally, she spoke.  "It keeps changing.  And it’s not right.  I mean, everything is gorgeous, like the final scene in some sappy movie where everyone walks off into the sunset.  But there’s a different sunset every few minutes, and the scenery doesn’t match.  And how did we walk so far, so fast?"

        He nodded.  "Indeed.  And the sequence of the scenery changes.  I have never seen it quite like this.  That desert we just wandered through is, I assume, something you wished to see?"

        "I had a vision in a place like that once.  But when I was really there I was all with the sweat and the squinty eyes from the bright sun.  And my legs ached from walking for hours on shifty sand.  Just now, it was only pleasantly toasty.  A nice stroll.  Like this one."  She stopped, staring out over at the vast expanse of sky before them.

        "Yes.  And I think that everything here takes its form from our memories and desires.  For instance, this was never here until I read some books about the American West that I found in one of the libraries.  Then it appeared." 

        They contemplated a perfect azure sky.  A few artistically placed clouds directed a shaft of sunlight over serene fields of grain.   William reflected that in a painting it would have looked insipid, but here, surrounding them, it was sublime.  He sighed, and they turned away to wander down a narrow garden path.  It opened in a clearing that sloped gently upwards.  Atop the small hill was a lone apple tree.  "This is my favorite part of the garden.  I am not quite sure why."

        Buffy climbed the hill and stood under the tree looking around her.  It was bright and sunny here, with a gentle breeze caressing their skin.  The air was filled with the soft scent of flowers.  "It’s very peaceful.   So, this is heaven?  It doesn’t seem like it could be more perfect, but--"

        "I do not think this is heaven," he said.  "I think it is an earthly paradise."

        "What’s the difference?"

        In spite of the years he had spent pondering precisely this question, he found himself struggling for words.  "We—we are not any better here than we were on earth.  And we seem—incomplete, somehow.  We have everything we could possibly want, and yet—"

        She nodded.  "There should be something else?  I feel it too.  But it’s hard to be unhappy here."  She looked around.  "No blanket to sit on?  Are there a lot of ants and other creepy crawlies around here?"

        "Not unless you expressed a wish for some," he said.  "Then the area would be swarming with insects in moments.  No, you will not be bothered by ants.  And the grass will not stain your clothing either."

        Buffy was sitting cross-legged under the tree, looking around with an expression of vague unease.  "Heaven or paradise—whatever—this place is just perfect," she said.

        No, you are perfect, he thought.  "Yes," was all he said.  He heard the weak tone of his own voice, and, apparently, so did she.

        "Why does that bother you?"

        "Because I cannot help but believe that these pleasures have a price," he said, sitting down beside her as close as he deemed polite.  "And that someone else is paying that price."

        She shifted, turning her head to meet his eyes, and moving closer to him.  "And do any of the others—those people in that mansion—believe that too?"

        For a moment, he was too distracted by Buffy’s proximity to respond.  He could smell the scent she wore.  It was pleasantly light and fresh, and he suspected it was merely the fragrance of the soap she used to wash that glorious hair.  It was a delightful change from the expensive perfumes worn by many of the women he encountered here.  For a minute or two, it required all his concentration not to give in to his impulse to bury his face in those blonde locks.  The rules of this strange world allowed him no feelings of guilt for his desire, but even more overwhelming than his longing was his need to give her only what she wanted and deserved.  He doubted that she wanted a madman to begin nuzzling her hair without warning.

Finally, he remembered that she had asked him a question, and he said, "I think not.  No one who is here now seems worried about anything, except perhaps that dark-haired woman who accosted you in the hall.  And she—does not always express herself lucidly."  He was taken aback by her reaction.  "Why do you laugh?"

        "I’m sorry.  It’s just you—being tactful."

        He found himself roused to indignation.  "Do you have reason to suppose I would be guilty of deliberate discourtesy?  Or rudeness to a poor creature so obviously afflicted?"  He wished he could bite back those words, but he found that he could not bear her thinking of him in such a way.

        She covered his hand with her own and spoke gently, the laughter fading from her eyes.  "I have every reason to believe that you would support and protect a woman you cared about, no matter what her circumstances—or yours.  I didn’t mean to insult you.  Forgive me?"

        He was almost paralyzed by the sensation of her flesh touching his and could only nod silently.

        Buffy’s eyes met his intently.  "I believe you are a good man, William," she said softly.

        He shook his head.  "I used to believe that.  But I was too weak.  Weakness can be a form of evil."

        "No!"  Her voice was emphatic.  "I know evil."  Her hand released his, but before he had time to mourn its absence, it came up to touch his cheek.  "I know evil, and I don’t see it here."

        His hand, almost of its own accord, reached out to stroke her hair gently before he suddenly pulled back in embarrassment at his audacity.  "I am sorry—" he started to stutter.

        She kissed him.

        It wasn’t a gentle brush against his lips or cheek.  Buffy’s mouth was open against his, as if she were tasting him, drawing him into herself.  She was warm and soft and felt impossibly eager against his lips and tongue.  After a shocked half-second, he responded involuntarily, and found that his instincts were more than capable of filling in the gaps left by his inexperience in the proper procedure.  When her arms came around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her, it seemed only natural to return the gesture.  

This adventure in osculation continued for some time, but gradually he began to be aware that however wonderful the situation was, he was greedy enough to want something more.  Almost before he was aware of it, his hands were straying along her back, down to her waist, and then up again, underneath the thin fabric of her blouse.

        She moaned and knocked him over, flat on his back on the grass.  He gasped in dismay, thinking he had now truly offended her, but she jumped astride him and began kissing him even more passionately.  Her torso rubbed against his, and her hips—his brain was momentarily in danger of shutting down in panic, but some instinctive force roared to the forefront and took over his consciousness, demanding that he not only participate in this new activity, but that he do so with considerable enthusiasm.

        "I think we’re overdressed for this occasion," she murmured in his ear after a time.

        A moment ago, his desire for her had been overwhelming, but now panic once again threatened to engulf him.

        "I—that is, you intend—"

        "You’re asking me my intentions?" she said in a teasing voice.  "I thought they were pretty clear. But if you don’t want to—"

        "No!  Yes! It’s just—never having done this before—"  He stared at her in a combination of desperate arousal and mindless terror.

        "You’ve never—"  He could not imagine a more incredulous tone.

        "I’ve read about it," he said defensively.  "In books."

        "In books.  But never— Not even with Drusilla?"

        "That girl?  She—she’s deranged.  And like a child."

        She seemed to read his honest shock in his face.  "Of course."  Her body dipped closer to his, and he moaned as he felt her soft curves press against him again through the layers of their clothing.  "I’m not a child.  Or deranged."

        "No," he agreed.  His hand went up of its own accord to grasp the nape of her neck and pull her head down toward him.  Their kiss was gentle but passionate, and it went on for a timeless interval.  "This place offers every delicacy known to man," he muttered at last.  "But in all my time here, I have never tasted anything as sweet as this."

        She sat up, and for a moment he was again afraid he had offended her, but she reached down to pull off her blouse and then to unhook the strange garment she wore over her breasts.  He propped himself up on his elbows and gaped up at her, utterly incapable of speech. 

        She stood up then and kicked off her boots, skinning out of the strange trousers she wore.  Once naked, she looked down at him, suddenly hesitant.  "Am I coming on too strong?" she asked.  "I got the impression that you liked the hors d’oeuvres and wanted the whole enchilada."

        The vision before him surely called for some poetical excursion, or at least a passionate avowal of his feelings.  But whatever fluency of expression he possessed had completely deserted him.  It took three tries before he could control his voice sufficiently to respond.  "I’m not sure exactly what that means," he said hoarsely.  "But if I understand the gist of your statement correctly, yes, my appetite has been well and truly piqued."

        She laughed and dropped to her knees beside him.  "Then let me show you how the dish is served," she said, reaching for the buttons on his coat.

        She yanked off his coat and necktie, tossing them aside as carelessly as she had her own apparel.  William was quite unable to either help or hinder her in this effort.  His apparent paralysis didn’t seem to bother her.  She was busily examining his clothing with giggling curiosity, as if she had never seen proper men’s garments before.

        "Lots of buttons on this vest," she said, diligently applying herself to the task of undoing them.  "Button, button—"

        "Who’s got the button?" he gasped.

        Buffy gave a snort of laughter at his interjection and tugged the vest off his shoulders before pushing him down on the grass beneath her and beginning to work on his shirt.  Suddenly, she sat up straighter, looking mildly distressed. "Is this supposed to come off?" she asked.

        He looked at the object in her hand.  "Yes, of course," he said.  "It’s my collar."

        "And it’s supposed to come off the shirt?"

        "Of course."  She seemed to expect some additional explanation, and he babbled on.  "It’s one of the new patented celluloid collars.  Much superior to the paper kind." 

        She looked puzzled at this response, then shrugged and tossed the collar after his coat, necktie, and vest.  She turned her attention to his remaining clothing, muttering to herself as she figured out the fastenings.  "Suspenders!  Giles wears suspenders too.  Is this an English thing?"

        "Who is Giles?" he asked, and found himself assailed by jealousy.  "Your lover?"

        "Ewww!" she said in a tone that quickly disabused him of that notion.  "More like a father.  I have no boyfriends.  My boyfriends have a tendency to leave town and not come back."  She did not seem inclined to dwell on the loss.  "How on earth—or in paradise—do you work these cufflinks?  Oops, sorry, think I tore the sleeve."

        "Uh, that's quite all right," he said, as she moved on to his other wrist.  His momentary jealousy faded away; those incomprehensibly absent—what did she call them?— boyfriends? seemed far from her mind right now.

She continued to talk her way through his clothing, her eyes shining with delight as she made a game of undressing him.  "And the buttons don’t go all the way down to the tail of this shirt, hmmm.  That means I need to slide my hands under here and—oh my, more buttons—let me see, I need to pull your shirt up over your head.  Slowly, now."  Her lips as well as her hands were tracing a path from his navel to his neck, with an exciting detour around his nipples.  He gasped for breath and began to feel overheated in spite of the fact that he was now wearing several fewer layers of clothing.       

        She was assaulting his trousers now, and was apparently encountering some difficulties.  "Haven’t you ever heard of a zipper?" she asked.

        "What’s a zipper?"

        "Never mind.  This is kind of like opening one of those professionally wrapped Christmas presents.  Getting through all the little twists and ties and ripping open the wrapping is almost as fun as—"  She stopped.

        "I sincerely hope you won’t be unhappy with your present," he gasped, still unable to believe what was happening to him.  Buffy said nothing, and he added uneasily, "It’s just that I hope you won’t find my efforts—inadequate."

        She had finally wrestled open the buttons of his trousers and was inspecting their contents with considerable interest.  "Inadequacy not really likely to be an issue," she said, her eyes widening.

        She jumped up, and after some more comments about, "Buttons on shoes, damn it!" he felt his boots being tugged off.  A moment later, he was completely naked and his trousers and undergarments were flying over his head at a surprisingly high altitude.  He didn’t bother tracking their trajectory, since Buffy immediately jumped astride him once again.  This position had been arousing while they were still clothed, and it was indescribably exciting now that her flesh was pressed against his.  He shuddered and closed his eyes, trying to reduce at least one source of stimulus as he attempted to sort out his desires.  The urgency of his need to consummate this unexpected encounter was almost overpowering.  But he recalled snippets from some forbidden books he had peeked at while still alive, as well as bits of conversation from the other residents of this place.  There were still tremendous gaps in his understanding of these mysteries, but instinct as well as information led him to suspect that it was his duty as a gentleman to ensure her pleasure before his own.  Unfortunately, he was uncertain how best to accomplish that.

        "I am entering unknown territory," he reminded her.  "I rely on you to tell me what to do."

        "It’s about doing what you like and what the other person likes.  Explore," she murmured, rolling over to lie on her side beside him.  "Just indulge your sense of adventure.  And if you go astray, I’ll guide you back to all the really interesting places."

        He should have been appalled and shocked by this offer, but he found that here, in this earthly Paradise, he could not bring himself to believe that what she was offering was in any way wrong or shameful.  It was simply a gift, and he felt no obligation other than to return it in kind.

        He began his voyage of discovery.  In a relatively short time, he learned some amazing things.  For instance, a flick of his tongue around her nipple caused her to moan with pleasure, but a gentle kiss on the soft underside of a breast brought forth a gasp of greater delight mixed with something that was almost a laugh.   This finding was so interesting that he repeated his excursion several times to verify the cause and effect. 

        This was immensely enjoyable, but after some time, Buffy gave him to understand that even greater treasures lay in store for an intrepid voyager.  Slowly, but without reluctance, he traveled further south.  Her most secret places were, he discovered, as truly beautiful as the rest of her.  And touchable, as he discovered when he ventured to explore with more than just his eyes.  Her body shivered and quaked beneath his hands and lips in a way that gave him no doubt of her enjoyment.  He was exultant, knowing that he was the cause of her great pleasure.

Whenever he showed hesitancy, she would mutter encouragement, and she interrupted his endeavors only to engage in some of her own.  He had not thought greater arousal was possible until he felt the effect of her ministrations.  He searched his mind for some way to express appreciation of her efforts, but had no notion of what words might be appropriate under the circumstances. "You have very strong hands," he gasped finally.

        "Too strong?" she asked, pulling away and looking at him anxiously.

        "Oh, no!  Absolutely not," he hastened to assure her.  "Didn’t want to give—that impression."

        She started to laugh and leaned over him, gently kissing his cheek and murmuring, "It’s been wonderful being your tour guide, William.  But it’s time to leave third base and run for home.  May I invite you in?"

        He had no thoughts to spare for the oddness of her wording.  He had already learned to understand her intentions and ignore her incomprehensible idioms.  "Yes," he said emphatically. "Yes, please."

        She giggled.  "You have such nice manners," she said, throwing one leg over him.

        A moment later, he heard his own voice roaring in pleasure and astonishment, and she was laughing even harder.  Then they were both silent, staring into each other’s eyes in awe as she moved above him, and as his hips began to move of their own accord, seeking a rhythm to match hers.

        Slowly, she leaned over to brush his lips with hers.  Their bodies moved together as they interspersed more and more passionate kisses with wordless murmurings of delight.  Suddenly, Buffy gave a gasp that was almost a scream.  William looked up at her and saw her countenance transformed by ecstasy.  He pulled her mouth down to his one more time just as his body responded involuntarily to the wave of pleasure he felt surge through her.

And then--in other circumstances, he might have thought that it was like dying and going to heaven.

        They lay side by side, their breathing slowly returning to normal.

        William stared at Buffy in consternation.  "I hurt you."  He added incredulously, "I bit you."

        She wiped a bit of blood from her lip.  "It’s nothing.  It’s healing already."

        "I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.  But it was incredible.  It took me by surprise."

        "A happy surprise, I hope."

        "Beyond rapture.   But—you know my inexperience in these matters.  I cannot help but fear—did I make you happy?" The expression on her face just before his own climax had been so extraordinary, he could not trust his memory of it.

        "Of course.  Can you doubt it?"

        "I need to know it.  Because, surely, that must be the important thing.  Making the object of one’s affections happy."

        "The object of your affections."  She traced a finger along his eyebrows, seeming to find something fascinating about them.  "Is that what I am?"

        He was astonished.  "Surely you know I love you, Buffy?  That I loved you with my whole heart and soul the moment you walked into the great hall today?"

        She sat up and looked down at him, her expression unreadable.  "I’ve loved you longer than that, I think."

        He could think of nothing to say.

        "I hope you’re happy, William," she continued.  "Because I want you to have what you want."  She leaned closer, and murmured as if the words were of supreme importance, "What do you want?"

        "I want—"  There was no room in his mind at this moment for any thoughts that did not have to do with her.  "I want to make love to you again."

        "So soon?"  She looked surprised, then she looked down.  "So I see."  Her smile was radiant.  "Now I can believe this place really is paradise."

        They embraced and rolled over on the grass, laughing in a happy tangle of arms and legs.  For the first time since he had come to this place, he heartily agreed with her assessment of it.

Chapter Twelve