Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Subject: Tech Help
Ms. Bennet—
You left your email address at the bottom of your well-crafted and extremely useful online article, stating that if your article didn’t answer all the questions one had about computer usage in the twenty-first century, you were open to any and every remaining question that one might have. Seeing as your article did mention—multiple times—your passion for helping those in need of assistance, I hope that my emailing you directly isn’t too informal or indecorous.
To explain my plight, I shall give you a brief summary of my professional situation: I have recently left my curatorial position in England in order to raise my daughters in their native America. My previous vocation did not require the extensive computer usage that this one does, and the only colleague who might be able to help me through the learning curve is continually and wholly antagonistic towards me. It has become difficult to work under these circumstances, but I dislike the thought of giving my colleague the satisfaction of knowing that computers are too much of a challenge for me to handle.
In short, I am sending this email to inquire if you are willing and able to answer a handful of my questions about computers. If you have the patience for asinine inquiries, it would be greatly appreciated.
Regards,
Mr. Darcy
(postscript: I did appreciate your online “handle”—is that what the children are calling it these days? I took a leaf out of your book—or, laptop, as it were—when creating this email address.)
“I don’t like America,” Dawn announced, clinging to Giles’s sleeve. “It’s too sunny and I go to bed too early and the clocks are all wrong and everyone talks funny—”
“You talk funny,” said Buffy, who, even after three years in England, had still stubbornly retained her American accent.
Giles gave her a reproving look.
“Sorry Giles,” said Buffy, not sounding all that sorry. Still, for all her bravado, she too had a firm grip on Giles’s sleeve.
“You know,” said Giles, “at some point, you two are going to have to let go of me and go in to school.”
“Don’t wanna,” said Dawn.
“Don’t have to,” said Buffy.
Giles sighed. “Would you like me to walk you in?” he said.
Dawn nodded emphatically. Buffy said loudly, “I’m not a baby, Giles, gosh,” letting go of his sleeve, but she fell into step with him as he gently tugged Dawn along.
Sunnydale Elementary was bright, garish, and smelled like a mixture of crayons and cafeteria food. Giles was suddenly very glad that he’d taken the extra time to pack the girls their lunches, because whatever they were serving in that cafeteria looked atrocious. Good lord, did he miss England. “Dawn,” he said, stopping outside the kindergarten classroom, “you know if you need anything—”
“Tell the teacher to call my Giles—my dad,” Dawn corrected herself, making a little face. “How come they won’t know what I say when I say call my Giles?”
Giles wasn’t sure what to make of this. Buffy, however, said helpfully, “Everyone has a dad, but we have a Giles,” as though having a Giles was something akin to being the queen of England—or the president of the United States, given their current location.
Giles tried not to grin. It didn’t work. “You’ll do wonderfully, dear,” he said, and knelt down, pressing a kiss to Dawn’s cheek. She gave him a nervous smile in return. “I can’t wait to hear about how much fun you’ve had. You remember how Buffy loved primary school?”
“But this is America,” Dawn persisted. “And they call it elementary school. What if it’s different?”
“Gi-iles!” Buffy whined from behind him. “You still have to walk me to class!”
Giles gave Buffy another reproving look (she stuck her tongue out at him) and gently tugged on Dawn’s braids. “Remember what I told you?” he said softly. “If it’s too different for you girls, we pack up and move right back to England. No questions asked.”
Dawn’s face relaxed at this. “So if I come back home and I hate it—”
“I’ll book the plane tickets,” Giles promised. “But only if you give this first day a fair chance, all right? Don’t go in expecting things to go wrong.”
Dawn seemed to give this concept serious consideration. Then she nodded, looping her small arms around Giles’s neck for another hug.
“Oh!” said Giles, and hugged her back. Even after three years, he still wasn’t quite used to how tactile these girls were when it came to showing their affection. “Right,” he said, pulling back. “I love you sunshine.”
“I love you too sunshine!” said Dawn happily. When she was two, she hadn’t understood why Giles had called her sunshine, and had always responded in kind; it had become something of a mantra in their family. “And can I have a cookie when I get home?”
“You can have two,” said Giles seriously, and stood up, giving Dawn a last wave. She waved back, earnestly watching him and Buffy as they headed down the halls.
As soon as she was sure they were out of Dawn’s view, Buffy reached out, tucking her hand into Giles’s. “Did you mean that?” she said. “About booking the plane tickets?”
“Yes and no,” said Giles truthfully. “If you two are genuinely miserable here, staying might not be the best idea. But the adjustment period is going to be a bit rocky, so we might wait a few months before making any solid decisions on going. Or staying, as it happens.”
“Okay,” said Buffy. “I guess I just—I mean, I’ve missed it here a little. Even if Dawn hasn’t.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Giles reminded her. “Because you miss your home and Dawn never got the chance to get to know it.”
“What about your home?” Buffy sounded genuinely troubled by the concept. “You had to leave it just like us.”
“Nonsense,” said Giles. “My home is where you girls are.”
They had reached the fifth-grade classroom, and so at first Giles thought that this was why Buffy pulled him to a stop. But then she yanked clumsily on his sleeve, pulling him down into a hug of her own. “I love you sunshine,” she mumbled into his tweed jacket, voice wobbling.
“I love you too sunshine,” Giles whispered back, throat tight. “You’ll do brilliantly.”
Buffy pulled back, giving him a small, lopsided smile, and patted his cheek. “You will too,” she replied, and stepped backwards into her classroom with a little wave.
Giles took a second to watch her hang up her backpack in a small cubby marked Buffy Summers, and then he smiled to himself, a bit less nervous. His first official day at work was still daunting, but it helped to know he was at least capable of getting his rambunctious daughters settled in school.
Ms. Calendar apprehended him almost as soon as he was through the library doors. “I left a note in your faculty mailbox,” she said without preamble. “And I sent an email to your staff account.”
“Really?” said Giles. “Well, you’ve had a very busy day, then, haven’t you?”
Ms. Calendar pressed her lips together, then said, “You’re going to have to learn how to use the online library catalogue, you know. It’s how we check out books.”
“As I said in the staff meeting,” said Giles, frustrated, “I have no skill with computers. Until I feel more confident in my abilities—”
“—which you never will, because you’re a total technophobe—”
“—the library will be using the card catalogue,” Giles finished, doing his best to ignore Ms. Calendar. “I feel as though your lack of compassion for my situation—”
Ms. Calendar stared. “My lack of compassion?” she repeated incredulously. “I’d be more compassionate if you weren’t coming into a new school and completely upending procedure just because you don’t have the patience to let me teach you basic computer skills!”
“And I should be falling all over myself to learn from the woman who just called me a total technophobe?” Giles retorted. “You’ve been openly disdainful of my contributions since I suggested them—”
“Rupert, it’s going to take forever to set up a card catalogue,” Ms. Calendar persisted. “We have a working system that takes maybe fifteen minutes, at most, to learn. You’re creating something that’s inefficient and outdated for your own convenience, and I can’t support that.”
Giles felt himself blushing, and resented it. “Forgive me if I don’t want to spend time with you for longer than I have to,” he shot back. “The lack of trust you have in my ability to create an efficient card catalogue is appalling, especially when our departments are supposed to work so closely together—”
“Yes, they are!” Ms. Calendar looked furious. “They are supposed to work together! Computers and libraries go hand in hand! Which makes your computer illiteracy even more appalling in this day and age!”
“I am not computer illiterate—”
“Then you should be able to operate a simple online catalogue without turning this place into the Library of Alexandria just to make yourself feel more at home!”
“The Library of Alexandria burned down,” said Giles, who was now so incensed that his responses were beginning to border on nonsensical.
“Burn with it,” snapped Ms. Calendar, and turned on her heel, storming out of the library.
Giles watched her go, furious, and turned to the computer, glaring at it as though it was the one at fault. “You burn with the Library of Alexandria,” he told it. “You burn into obscurity,” and then he busied himself with the beginnings of a card catalogue, fueled by spite and the lingering memory of the fire in Ms. Calendar’s eyes.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Tech Help
Fitzwilliam!
First off, call me Liz. Ms. Bennet was my father.
Don’t you dare call your questions asinine. No question is too stupid—that’s what I always tell my students, and I think it definitely applies here. And hey, sounds like you’ve got a pretty intense learning curve to work with, especially what with all the other stuff you’re working on. Moving is always hard, and moving with kids? Intense. (Not speaking from direct experience here, but I do work with kids on the regular and I can barely handle field trips, so. Extremely impressive on your part.)
Since we’re doing introductions, and since my online article was mostly about computer basics, I’ll sum myself up pretty briefly. I’m a spinster computer teacher in a small town, no kids, one terrible cat who is always trying to eat my socks. I’m very big on helping people who need it, and honestly, any colleague who’s on your case about not knowing enough, but doesn’t actually make any effort to help you themselves? Kind of a horrible person. Sticking it to them is a noble cause that I’m happy to assist you in.
Don’t worry too much about informality; I’m a pretty informal girl. I hope that won’t be a problem? Reading your email took me straight back to Regency England etiquette. Please take that as the compliment it’s intended; I bet you write fantastic love letters.
Peace!
Liz
(PS: your handle made me laugh so hard I almost spit coffee all over my laptop. I appreciate the implication that somewhere out there is an incorporeal Darcy.)
“Hey, totally hypothetical question—”
“Whenever you start a sentence like that, it’s always something terrible,” said Anya with interest.
“Thank you so much for the faith you have in me,” said Jenny. “Anyway. Hypothetical question, but what state has the lightest sentence if I wanted to murder someone?”
“Is this about the hot new librarian?” Anya asked casually.
“Yeah,” said Jenny, then, “What?” then, indignant, “He’s not hot—”
“Agreed pretty fast there at first, though, Jen,” said Anya, grinning.
“I wasn’t listening,” said Jenny, “and he’s not—listen, that whole rumpled-professor thing isn’t sexy, it’s boring. He’s boring.”
“You know, expressing your emotions through hate sex instead of murder has all of the benefits and none of the jail time,” Anya suggested.
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Jenny very loudly.
“Fine,” said Anya, “but don’t think we aren’t going to talk about how you want to have hate sex with the hot new librarian at some point.”
“I don’t want hate sex with him!” Jenny objected. “I want to throw him out a window!”
“Kinky,” said Anya. Off Jenny’s please-change-the-subject look, she rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “Do we have to be those boring teachers who talk about school even when we aren’t in it?”
“Well, I’m headed to the public library for that coding workshop thing, so I’m technically still on the clock,” Jenny pointed out.
“Those children are nightmares,” said Anya, nose wrinkling. “That little Harris boy got jam hands on my nice skirt last week when he tried to hug me.”
“Xander thinks you’re the prettiest girl ever, by the way, if Willow’s word is anything to go by,” said Jenny, amused.
“Willow is the only tolerable child I have ever met,” said Anya. “Ever.” She paused, then preened. “Xander thinks I’m pretty?”
“Yes,” said Jenny. “A ten-year-old thinks you’re pretty. Try not to let it go to your head.”
“It’s just such an ego boost to be appreciated,” Anya informed her. “It’s hard work to look this good, you know—”
“Mmm,” said Jenny, trying not to laugh. “So are you planning to ask him out, or—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jenny, he is a child,” said Anya indignantly. “I’m just glad that I’m someone’s formative teacher crush.” She pulled her compact out of her purse, checking her lipstick. “I’m not Hallie’s teacher crush anymore, apparently—”
“Anya,” said Jenny, “what’s the rule?”
“I don’t remember,” said Anya childishly, snapping the compact shut to glower.
“The rule,” said Jenny, “is that we do not talk about your ex, because if she ghosts you without any explanation, she isn’t worth your time.”
Anya wavered, then gave Jenny a tired, reluctant smile. “You’re right,” she said, then repeated it, as if trying to believe it. “You’re right.”
“Good,” said Jenny, and reached across the table to squeeze Anya’s hand. “So you still feel like hitting up the library with me?”
Willow Rosenberg lit up as soon as Jenny entered the library, nearly knocking over four patrons in her excitement to rush across the room and tackle-hug Jenny around the waist. “Ms. Calendar!” she chirped. “Ms. Calendar Ms. Calendar Ms. Calendar I want you to meet my friend Buffy! She’s so nice and she’s from England but she talks like an American but her sister has an accent because her sister grew up in England and they’re so cute and so nice and so—”
“All right, slow down there, kid,” said Jenny, ruffling Willow’s hair. “How much sugar did you have today?”
“A whole bunch,” said Willow blissfully, nuzzling her face into Jenny’s stomach.
“Yeah, that’s the vibe I’m getting,” said Jenny, amused. She glanced over at Anya, who was watching her with distaste and mouthing jam hands. “How about you introduce me to this lovely new friend of yours? You said she was from England?”
“Well, she was born in America,” said Willow breathlessly, pulling back to take Jenny’s hand, “but her mom died, and then she and her sister went to live with her mom’s best friend over in England. And then he decided to move them back here ‘cause she missed America so much, and she says they might stay! And her dad is so nice too, Ms. Calendar, he—” She stopped, grinning. “Buffy!” she called. “Mr. Giles!”
Jenny froze.
Across the room, so did Mr. Giles, whose eyes were flitting between Jenny and Willow with an utterly horrified expression. “Ah,” he said. “It’s this sort of day, isn’t it.”
A small blonde girl with her hair in pigtails and her forearms covered in Disney Princess Band-Aids skipped over to the both of them. “Is this the teacher lady?” she asked curiously. There was the slimmest trace of a British accent in her voice, but only if you were really looking for it.
“It is!” said Willow, who seemed to be practically vibrating with delight. “Oh my gosh my two favorite people are meeting—”
“Hey, how come I don’t make that list?” Xander objected, hurrying up to them.
“You’ve already met them both, Xander, keep up,” said Willow, giggling.
“I like your Band-Aids,” said Jenny to Buffy.
“Thanks,” said Buffy. “I rode my bike through some bushes and Giles made me put them on.”
Mr. Giles hurried up to the group, looking just as uncomfortable as Jenny felt. “Am I to assume you’re in charge of the coding workshop here?” he said awkwardly.
“I’m always happy to help people who are looking to learn new things,” said Jenny, giving him a terse grin.
“Well, that’s an admirable trait,” said Mr. Giles, giving her a small, thin smile right back. “Those who disregard the value of new ideas for a misguided sake of efficiency have always bothered me.”
“I really feel you!” Jenny agreed, her smile so wide it was almost plastic. “Especially when those new ideas are really just badly-disguised old ones that went out of style a decade or two ago!”
The children were exchanging confused looks. “Um, Miss Teacher Lady?” said Buffy. “Are you gonna teach us about computer things? Willow said you taught computer things—”
“That is exactly what I do,” said Jenny, reminding herself (with difficulty) that strangling Mr. Giles in a public library probably wasn’t a very professional move. “Let me get things set up for today’s lesson.”
Her phone chimed while she was in the middle of telling off Warren Mears for trying to search up internet porn (where were that boy’s parents, anyway?). She checked it while she was cleaning up the lab.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Tech Help
Elizabeth—
Forgive me, but I find addressing you as “Liz” a bit too informal to handle at this juncture. I suppose we’ll have to ease my Regency sensibilities into nicknames a bit gently. Besides which, Elizabeth is a lovely name, and I rather like the concept of receiving tech support from one of my favorite literary heroines. I have a great appreciation for the force of her determined dislike, especially as it translates into determined love.
And on the subject of love, at the risk of seeming overconfident, I am sure I do write good love letters, although I have not been in the position to write any as of late. Being a single parent has been my sole focus for the last three years, and it’s a bit difficult to add any kind of romance into the mix, let alone the kind of romance that inspires long, sprawling letters expressing my adoration.
Your willingness to help me in my time of need is more than appreciated. At the moment, my most pressing question is this: how can one trust the validity of information found on the Internet? Books can be cited, credentials can be checked, but can the Internet be trusted in the same fashion? It was by sheer luck that I stumbled across your article, and it was the only one that made a whit of sense to me. Is there some easier way to weed through the faulty information a search engine gives me and find a completely trustworthy source?
It’s the ease with which incorrect information can be spread that makes me so wary of computers. It feels too simple to delete lines of text without leaving eraser marks. The physicality of knowledge is what has always appealed to me—and there, again, are the tragic drawbacks of being a Regency gentleman in an all-too-modern world.
Regards,
Mr. Darcy
(though you may call me Fitzwilliam if you like)
Jenny didn’t realize she was smiling until Anya passed by, did a double-take, and said, “You are grinning like an idiot at your phone. Did you have coffee while I wasn’t looking?”
From: [email protected]
Subject: Delighted to assist
Mr. Darcy,
For now, I’ll stick with calling you Mr. Darcy. It’s pretty much every girl’s dream to stumble across one, isn’t it?
Your question seems more philosophical than a request for tech help, but I’ll do my best to answer in kind.
It’s definitely true that parts of the Internet can’t be trusted, and that to find valid and valuable information, you’re going to end up having to sort through a whole lot of stuff you don’t actually need. But the same can be said about libraries, right? They hold a whole bunch of knowledge within them, and not all of that stuff is going to be personally useful or relevant to what you’re looking for. There isn’t a Dewey Decimal System for the Internet, which makes learning how to find things a little bit trickier, but it’s still a skill that can be learned and honed.
I think I have a question for you in return: what really makes you so wary of online information? Sure, there are inflammatory articles and misinformed research studies, but those exist in print just as much as they do online. You mentioned something about “the physicality of knowledge,” and I’d really love to know a little more about what that means to you.
Liz
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Delighted to assist
Elizabeth,
Giles stopped, frowning at the blinking cursor. His mystery Ms. Bennet had made a very good point. His dislike of computers didn’t stem completely from the possibility of misinformation being more widely spread: there were other, more personal reasons that he found himself distrustful of them. Putting these reasons down in writing, however, felt incredibly daunting, especially when he wasn’t entirely sure what they were.
“The physicality of knowledge,” he echoed, thinking. She had been right to pinpoint that phrase. There was something about the tangibility of books that tugged at him in a way computers didn’t.
After a minute or two, he began to type.
Your question was astute. It took me a little while to formulate an answer.
I suppose there’s something painfully impersonal about computers, at least to me. It feels as though we have distilled the getting of knowledge to its most basic form, removing the physical search for it in favor of expediency. As much as I claim that learning how to use a computer would be a painfully slow process for me, I’m well aware that, if I spent a good ten minutes trying, I could master the concept fairly quickly. This is what bothers me.
Books smell musty and rich. They have a comforting weight in your hands. You can page through them absently or flip through with ferocity. They have a sense of finality to them that computers do not. Ink, after all, cannot be erased, but you can click away from a web article and it ceases to exist for you.
Books are steady and constant; computers can be learned and forgotten in the blink of an eye. The concept of rapid-fire knowledge bothers me if it comes at the expense of being able to immerse yourself in what you are learning. It feels as though the value of learning is being erased, with no sign of it ever being there.
He considered the email, then added:
I do apologize. This has transitioned from a simple email about tech support into something of a philosophical debate. If this isn’t what you signed up to help me with, I completely understand, but my initial mission statement does still apply: I have many questions about computers, and your answers thus far have been illuminating, intelligent, and witty. Any further insights would be greatly appreciated.
Regards,
Mr. Darcy
This was, of course, when the telltale clatter of footsteps and cacophony of voices announced the arrival of Buffy and her friends. Getting up from his desk, Giles exited his study, observing the group fondly; Buffy hadn’t ever really connected with the children at her English primary school, and it warmed him to see her finally bonding with other children her age. “Would any of you like snacks?” he offered. “Lemonade? Biscuits?”
“Biscuits is British for cookie,” Willow whispered to Xander.
“I wanna cook—uh, biscuit,” said Xander, frowned, then amended, “may I please have a British biscuit cookie thing?”
Giles rather liked Buffy’s friends. “Yes, you may,” he said. “Buffy, Willow, do either of you want—”
“Lemonade,” said Buffy with gusto, racing past Giles and her friends into the kitchen.
“Don’t run into anything!” Giles called after her, wincing a bit as Xander immediately charged after Buffy. He exchanged an amused smile with Willow, who looked very used to this. “So you’re not the running type, then?” he asked her as they headed towards the kitchen.
“I’m more the, um, reading-about-running type,” said Willow a little nervously. “Especially since I’ve seen Xander crash into a whole bunch of things ‘cause he isn’t very careful.”
“Well, at least you’re learning from him,” said Giles. “Sort of.”
Willow giggled.
Buffy was already (sloppily) pouring lemonade for Xander and Dawn, chattering on about something or other. Willow hurried to sit down at the table with them, leaving Giles to look for the biscuits and half-listen to their conversation. “I was the fastest kid in my primary school whenever we did races—” Buffy was saying, which made pride swell in Giles’s chest because yes she was.
“Faith Lehane is fastest here,” said Xander. “Except we’re pretty sure she trips people.”
“Then she’s not really fastest, is she?” Buffy pointed out.
“I beat Janice in hopscotch,” said Dawn, in the plaintive, half-hopeful voice she used when she wanted to be a part of the conversation. “I jumped the farthest—”
“Good for you, dear,” said Giles, giving Dawn a small smile over his shoulder before finally locating the biscuit tin.
“Ms. Calendar played hopscotch with me and Harmony Kendall last week!” said Willow suddenly, as though just remembering.
“Ew,” said Buffy. “Harmony Kendall?”
“Ms. Calendar?” said Giles before he could stop himself.
“You met her at the library, remember?” said Willow helpfully. “She’s really nice.”
“She liked my Band-Aids,” Buffy added proudly.
Giles did his best to reconcile the dreadful hurricane of a colleague with the apparent patron saint of fifth graders. It really wasn’t working. “Ah,” he said. “I actually—work—with Ms. Calendar.”
“Oh, that’s nice!” said Willow, lighting up. “Are you two friends? I bet you two would be friends.”
“Biscuits!” said Giles loudly, all but slamming the biscuit tin down in the middle of the table, which created a sufficient enough distraction for him to escape back to his study. He’d check back in on them after they stopped talking about Ms. Calendar. As much as he disliked the woman, he wasn’t the sort of man to turn children against her simply because of a few workplace quarrels. The temptation to do so, however, was strong, and so he turned the computer back on, hoping for some sort of a distraction.
He had received a reply from Ms. Bennet.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Tangibility
Mr. Darcy,
Not gonna lie, that was the sexiest email a guy’s ever sent me.
Giles laughed out loud. He pressed a hand to his mouth, hoping the children hadn’t heard, but he could still feel himself grinning.
Flirting aside, I have to say I share your appreciation for tangibility. Knowledge is something that should be savored, not sped through. I think there’s a problem with your outlook, though: you’re assuming that the natural human inclination is to consume knowledge indiscriminately without thought or reason. Everyone has their own personal relationship to the things they want to learn, and I don’t think that the medium you learn it in changes that.
The thing is, though I love talking broadly and philosophically, you emailed me asking if I could help you improve your relationship with computers, so let’s narrow the scope of this conversation. I think the real problem is that, for you, computers are never gonna feel as real or as solid as books. I’m not sure what to do about that, but I do know what I myself love about computers, and maybe it’ll help for you to hear a little bit more about their better aspects.
See, I grew up without easy access to information. My local library was pretty much five bookshelves and an extremely bored clerk, and I’d finished all the books there before I was ten. In high school, computers started becoming a much more accessible possibility, and the Internet was gaining traction, and it felt…like this whole new world had been opened up for me. After such a long time with so many questions, I wanted to submerge myself in all the new things I could possibly learn.
Books are tangible. You’re right about that. But books can also be full of pedantic, academic language that leaves me feeling lost. Computers may dilute knowledge, but they also make knowledge so much more accessible to people who might not have the time or the patience for books. You’re a scholar, Mr. Darcy, and that means you’re always going to have patience for books—but if you think for a moment about the people who don’t, I think computers might start making a little more sense to you.
This has turned into a monster of an email! Something about the way you write just…gets to me. I feel like we’d have some killer conversations if we ever met up in real life.
Liz
Giles felt his ridiculous grin transitioning into a slow, soft smile. This wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been anticipating Ms. Bennet losing patience with his philosophical tangents, and yet she had listened, appreciated, and responded in kind.
“Giles?” Buffy called from the kitchen. “There was—uh, we spilled—”
Duty called. With one last look at Ms. Bennet’s email, Giles headed into the kitchen to find the entire pitcher of lemonade in pieces on the floor. “Ah,” he said, amused. “Well, who spilled it?”
“How come you’re smiling?” said Buffy warily. “This was your favorite pitcher!”
“I received a very nice email from a friend,” said Giles. “And really, Buffy, I’m just glad no one got hurt. You get yourself into enough scrapes as is. Willow, Xander, do you two mind helping Buffy mop this up after I clear the broken glass?”
“Willow didn’t do it—” Xander began loyally.
“I’ll still help,” said Willow immediately.
“Me too!” Dawn piped up.
“It’s much appreciated,” said Giles, giving Dawn an affectionate smile. “For now, though, do you all mind clearing out of the kitchen? I don’t want any of you getting cut.”
“We’ll go hang out upstairs,” said Buffy, looking extremely relieved, and led the children out of the kitchen, careful to steer Dawn around the broken glass.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Tangibility
Elizabeth,
Apologies for the delayed reply. My older daughter shattered a pitcher of sentimental value almost immediately after I sat down to read your email. I spent a good amount of last night clearing things up. My girls are ten and five, respectively, and they tend to run around the house in bare feet. One has to be very meticulous in my house when things break.
I must confess that your last email all but took my breath away. There is nothing I appreciate more than someone with passion for their chosen vocation, and the way you speak of computers…it’s enlightening, to say the least. I hadn’t ever considered them as a more accessible source of knowledge; I suppose it’s because I personally find it so tiresome to use them.
Still, you’re right in encouraging me to broaden my horizons. Thinking of computers in the terms you describe them make them seem much less cold and clinical. I’m not planning on starting a computer fan club, mind, but I suspect I’ve been eased into liking them. Such are the power of your words.
Again, Giles found himself wavering. The polite thing to do would be to conclude the email, thank Ms. Bennet for her assistance, and move on. She had, after all, given him what he had asked for, if in a less straightforward way than he had anticipated.
He didn’t do that.
If you’re amenable, I should like to discuss other matters with you, ones outside tech support. It’s rare that I enjoy a person’s company so much through letters alone; I suspect you’re right about the conversations we’d have in person. I can only imagine how charming and warm you must be in your daily life.
Regards,
Mr. Darcy
He sent off the email before he could lose his nerve.