heh. try and stop me.

I'm having printer issues. Not enough that the damned thing won't function properly for more than ten pages at a time; it's also locking up the computer and forcing me to bail.

Bleah.

I knew, instinctively, that he'd taken them so as not to hide.

Should this be "...taken them OFF so as not to hide"?

Deb, I just love this character. She fascinates me.

Yes, and young!Giles. Good stuff.

Connie, I'm using the long intricate sentences because that's the way I write. This isn't being told by an eleven-year-old; she's remembering, from nearly forty years later. There's that line about forcing her memories down byways to that time at the Carolan. I wouldn't even attempt to write it as a kid. I would totally stink the place up if I tried it, because I have no clue how children that age think. This is purely her memoir.

Irish connection, yup. We will be hearing a bit about Rupert's late mother Moira, who owned the bookshop when she and Richard were married. And yes indeed, the Carolan in question is Turlough O'Carolan. No idea why I wanted to name it that, but I did, so I did.

Steph, caught and added. Yuppers.

(wow. Did the board just go down completely for anyone else?)

Yes. It seems to be narcoleptic today.

I got it, Plei. And I like it.

Here's some more:

• * *

From twelve to fifteen is an astonishing period of life.

Rupert, a year my senior, shattered all of what I now understand are stereotypes for a reason. By rights, a thirteen year old boy should have considered a younger girl a leper, or even worse, a nuisance. Rupert instead became my champion, my co-conspiritor, my defense and the one who watched my back.

We began my training within a day of my arrival in Oxford. The first session set the tone for the next seven years, and the tone was discordant. I don't think Richard Giles had ever seen a born witch.

"Now, Amanda, have a look around."

He had led me into what had probably begun as a stockroom, at the back of Carolan; Rupert, to my annoyance, had been pointedly excluded. It had darkened windows, padding on the walls; a few years later, when I read The Collector, I would remember this room at once and begin thinking of how Frederick Clegg and Richard Giles were alike. There were mats on the floor, and some equipment I had never seen before: sticks with chains attached, a beautiful pair of matched foils, a crossbow that made my eyes gleam. There was also a ball, a large heavy one.

"I've looked, thanks." I wasn't trying to cheek him, I was simply stating a fact, but his mouth tightened. Ah well - I couldn't be worried about his ideas and his reactions. I could only worry about myself at this point. "It's a very interesting room."

"It's where you're going to be training. We'll start with your reflexes, shall we?"

I watched him, rather warily. He picked up the ball, and without warning, flung it straight at my face.

"Vers le bas!"

I said it three times, once aloud, twice in my mind. My father had taught me that, as I dreamed; he had taught me all of his craft, the basics of the language I would use. And he had taught me that the spell must be wound up, three times for completion, but that while all three must be present, only one need be spoken.

The ball, an inch from my face, dropped straight down like a criminal at the end of a rope. It hit the floor with a dull thud, bounced slightly, and stopped. In the silence, I looked at my Watcher.

"Was I quick enough? Are my reflexes all right?"

Again, I hadn't really meant to cheek him, but there was no help for it. His mouth had all but disappeared, so tightly had he clamped it.

"So." He spoke, finally. "The Council was right about you. You're a witch."

"Well - yes. You sound cross about it. Why? Isn't it good? I think it is."

He said nothing. It occurred to me that I had been there a full day, but I yet to see his eyes. I'd been fed, shown my unexpectedly charming room in the small flat above the shop, told that all my schooling would be taken with Rupert and his tutor from now on. I'd been given, of all things, a bicycle. But for all I knew, he might have been born without any eyeballs. Those glasses seemed part of his face.

"I'm going to have to talk with the Council." His voice was chilly. "I don't believe there's a precedent for this; I wonder if there's been some sort of mixup. I don't really see that a practising witch can possibly be a functional Slayer, as well."

"Why not?"

He looked at me then and, finally, took the glasses off. He did have eyes; they were beautiful eyes, shaped like Rupert's, but the colour was wrong. They were stone grey, and seemed to reflect no light.

"I don't know, Amanda." He wasn't being nasty, or anything else. He was simply anwering my question. "One thing that immediately comes to mind is that both are birthrights, both are in the blood, but there are things about being a Slayer that might conflict directly with being a witch, as well. The Slayer - she's a protector. That's her primary function, as a protector. So no matter how how deep the provocation, no matter how wretched the human being, the Slayer can't kill. The Slayer can and should kill vampires, demons, but not people. A witch's instinct is to self-protect at whatever cost." He smiled then, a true smile. "But you're the one who was born both, not me. And you seem to be extremely quick-witted, and fearless as well. So you tell me. Am I correct? What do you think, Amanda?"

I mulled this over for a few minutes. Supposing that ball had been a person, leaping for my throat. What would my first spell choice have been? To repel that attacker, certainly. I said as much, to Richard.

"Yes. And to repel, that's the normal survival mechanism. But the question's a bit deeper than that. Think hard before you answer it. Would you have cared if the person attacking you had died as a result of the spell?"

"Of course I would." The words came out immediately. He had told me to think hard and here I'd opened my mouth within a half-second. But it was a stupid question, after all. Did he think I was a monster?

Then I saw the smile, and understood what he had been doing. Had I actually taken the time to consider, I'd have confirmed myself as no good as a Slayer, chosen or otherwise. I'd have been on a train back to London within the day. I flushed.

"Right. We'll proceed on a daily basis, I think, and see what transpires." The glasses were back in place, all sense of connection to me or to anything warm was carefully put aside. This was once again the man who had produced that instinctive reaction in the boy I knew, even then, would become the centre of my world.