Seven Inches from the Midday Sun: Part One
by Kristen Elizabeth
Galway, Ireland 1753

"I have to go", the man said, breang away from his lovely companion.

Her dark blue eyes looked up at him, troubled. "Where are you going?"

"Out. To the pub."

"You're always at the pub. I'm starting to feel quite jealous of the pub", the girl told him, only half-teasing.

He sensously stroked a carefully curled lock of her black hair, before leaning in for another kiss. "You needn't be jealous."

The girl moved her head away and took his hand. "And what of the....the brothels?" She took a breath. "Need I be upset about that?"

"It's not a matter that a lady should concern herself with", he warned her.

"I love you. Why should I not be concerned about your life?" Her small hand grasped his forarm.

He sighed and threw it off. "I tire of this subject, Charlotte."

"I don't understand. You said you wanted to marry me....that the only thing stopping you from talking to my father was that you did not have a job. And now, it seems as though you don't wish to work, ever. Does that mean you do not wish to marry me anymore?" Tears turned her eyes into two small pools.

"Why does everything have to happen now? I'm young; I have the rest of my life to become a respectable citizen. Why do you want to turn me into one right now?"

The rise in his voice caused her tears to spill over. "All we have is right now. And.....I love you so much. Please, marry me. Accept the position in my father's firm and...." He cut her off abruptly.

"And work for the English for the rest of my life? That's what you are saying, are you not? I'll never be an English citizen, Charlotte, no matter what I do. I am Irish....and as an Irish man, I'm going to the pub." He began to walk away, but she ran to stop him.

"Please! Stay here with me. Don't go out tonight...I have a terrible feeling....something is going to happen tonight", she pleaded.

"You worry too much, my love. Now, be a good little English girl and go home, before our Irish alley-ways dirty you." He paused, then kissed her. "Goodnight."

Charlotte watched him as he walked away and disappeared into the darkness. "Goodbye, Angelus."


* * *
Los Angeles 1999

"I'm back!", Cordelia Chase's voice echoed throughout the office. When no one answered her immediately, she called out again. "I said I'm back from lunch."

Doyle appeared in the doorway leading to the smaller, private office. "Should I break out the champagne?"

"Like you need an excuse to", Cordelia commented, tossing her bag onto her desk. "Where's our boss?"

"Should be back in any minute. He was feeling kinda woozy, so I sent him home to eat....drink...whatever. All these late nights he's been pulling...hasn't been taking care of himself like he should." Doyle plopped down into a chair and propped his feet up on Cordelia's desk.

"One would think that being a vampire you could skip a meal or two and be okay." She shrugged. "Did anyone call while I was gone?"

Doyle pointed to the answering machine. "One came while I was in the bathroom, I think. Wanna check it out?"

"In a minute. First, I've got to show you this great skirt I found in this cute little Indian shop. It'll be perfect for Friday's audition." She reached into her bag, pulled out the multi-colored garment and held it up to her waist. "What do you think? Do I look like someone who could convince America that Wintermint toothpaste is great?"

Doyle looked her up and down. "Sure...I'm convinced....I'll go out and buy some now."

"I think this might be my big break! If I land this commercial, I could see myself on Must See TV next fall. ER....or Friends. I could be the seventh friend!!" Cordelia gleefully balled up the skirt and threw it back into her bag.

"The one they haven't talked to in five years?"

She shot him a withering look. "It was just an example. I'm just saying that things could really start to fall into place for me with this commercial. I wouldn't even have to work here anymore." Seeing Doyle's crestfallen face, she continued. "Not that I mind or anything...it's just that...I'm an actress. I was born to be in the spotlight. And...well, there's not much light of any kind in here."

"Sorry about that. I have this thing about not bursting into flames", a voice behind her apologized with much sarcasm, causing her to jump slightly.

"You've really got your sneaky, surprise entrance down pat, Angel", Cordelia told him, after her heart had stopped racing. "How long have you been practicing?"

"Two hundred and forty-six years", he replied. "But I got really good during the Napoleonic Wars. Everyone snuck around back then. Were there any calls?" He looked at Doyle.

He held up his hands. "Why are you asking me? You can see the machine as well as I can."

Angel shook his head and pressed a button on the machine. After a moment and a loud beep, the message began.

"Hello Angel. I was told you are the person I've been looking for. I would like it very much if we could meet....to talk. Tonight, nine o'clock, Peterson Park? Don't worry about recognizing me....you'll know...." The message ended and the machine beeped again.

"Cryptic much?" Cordelia sat down at her desk and extracted a nail file from a drawer.

Doyle shrugged. "I don't know. Her voice sounded quite sexy. Sort of reminded me of my cousins from England."

"You think the Nanny's voice is sexy", Cordelia said, concentrating on one nail.

Angel, meanwhile, had not moved a muscle since the tape had begun.

"Angel, man", Doyle twisted his head to see him. "What's up with the message? You look paler than usual."

The vampire swallowed heavily and shook his head. "It's nothing.....I mean, it's impossible."

"What's impossible?", Cordelia asked, never taking her attention from her nails.

"Do you know who the message is from?" Doyle put his feet on the floor and turned his whole body to face Angel.

"I don't know.....maybe.....but it can't be..." Angel pressed the machine's rewind button and after a second, the message started again.

"Hello Angel. I was told you are the person I've been looking for....."

"It can't be her", Angel whispered. When the tape stopped, he played it once more.

Cordelia put down her nail file. "Okay Angel, you're starting to really creep me out. What are you talking about?"

He didn't seem to hear her, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge her question. "She died over two hundred years ago....it's impossible....."

"And the creep factor heightens", Cordelia muttered, under her breath.

Doyle looked concerned. "Well, *you* died over two hundred years ago and you're still hanging around", he told Angel.

"Yes, but Charlotte was poisoned after...." He stopped suddenly, realizing he had said more than he wanted them to know.

"After what?", Doyle promptly asked.

Angel took an unnecessary breath. "After I became a vampire." He paused. "It's just not her. It must be a potential client....with a flair for the dramatic."

"Raise your hand if he managed to convince you", Cordelia instructed. Neither she nor Doyle moved their arms. "So...spill it, Angel. Who's Charlotte?"


* * *
Galway 1753

Charlotte Emmeline of Leicester worriedly wrung her gloved hands. She sat in her father's elegant day carriage as it rode through the cobbled streets of Galway, desperately trying not to fidget. Fidgeting, she had been told by her mother, Lady Anna of Leicester, was a horrific habit and terribly unladylike. Lady Anna was determined that her only daughter always conduct herself as an English lady of breeding, even if she had to be raised in heathen Ireland. But today, Charlotte did not want to think about what ladies did or did not do. Today, her only thoughts were of the man she loved.

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the day she had met him. It had happened quite recently, only three months earlier....on her seventeenth birthday. She had been shopping in the market with her maid and they had somehow become seperated. Charlotte had found herself alone, in the backstreets of Galway. It was there that she had met Angelus. He had been leaving a local tavern, stumbling slightly in the glare of the morning sun, but Charlotte had overlooked that. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Tall, dark featured, dressed better than most of the Irish she had come into contact with since her family had moved to Ireland two years earlier. The moment their eyes met, Charlotte knew she would love this man for a very long time.

He offered to help her find her way back to the market, telling her that a lady of such beauty should not wander the streets alone. After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his offer. They talked the entire way back. She learned that his father was a relatively wealthy Irish merchant, but he had no aspirations to take over his father's business. Angelus, she found out, wanted to travel, wanted to see the world. She, in turn, told him of her father's position in one of Ireland's most prominent English banks and of how, even though she liked Ireland, she was terribly homesick for England. When they reached the market, they made plans to see each other again, chaperoned of course, by her maid.

Thinking back, Charlotte supposed she should have known that her father would be opposed to her interest in an Irish merchant's son, but she still hadn't been prepared for the full extent of his anger. He forbade her to see Angelus, even under highly chaperoned conditions, declaring that no child of his would marry anyone but a full-blooded English citizen. Besides being Irish, her father made a point of how Angelus was not employed, had not gone to the university, and didn't appear to have any means to support her and the family they would have together. Charlotte had made several more attempts after that to broach the subject of Angelus to her father, but he was stoic. She had been forced to meet Angelus in secret, in alleys and darkened corners. Deliciously unladylike, but Charlotte was beginning to feel very guilty. She wanted to love Angelus freely, in the light of day. That could all happen if he would just accept the position her father had eventually worn down enough to offer to him.

The carriage stopped suddenly, jolting Charlotte back to the present.

"We're here, Miss", their family's driver announced.

Charlotte gathered her skirts. "Thank you, Wesley." The footman, Reginald, opened the carriage door and held out his hand to her. Taking ahold of it, Charlotte stepped from the carriage, her free hand holding up her skirts to keep them from the wet street. With a deep breath, Charlotte headed up the stone stairway leading to Angelus' father's apartments. She pulled the doorbell's cord and stepped back from the door. A minute later, the family's maid answered.

"May I help you, Miss?", she asked, in a deep Irish brogue.

"Yes, I'm looking for your employer's son, Angelus. Is he here at the moment?", Charlotte straightened her back slightly and tried to look older than her seventeen years.

The look that came to the maid's face at the mention of his name disturbed Charlotte. "He's not here right now, Miss."

"Well, where is he then?"

The maid looked down at her shoes. "The young master has not....been home in several days, Miss."

Charlotte's stomach dropped. "What...what do you mean? I saw him only a few days ago."

"Pardon me, Miss. I don't know much....just that he's disappeared....left no note or nothing. The master, his father, is in a terrible state." The maid lowered her voice as though they were conspirators. "The constable is afraid that the young master may be....dead."

"Dead?" Charlotte's face lost all color. "He...he can't be dead..."

"Like I says, I don't know much. But, if you ask me, this was bound to happen sooner or later...the way that boy carried on....pubs, brothels. Drove his father to the bottle and his mother to an early grave." The maid made the sign of the cross. "God rest her soul."

Charlotte pressed her hands to her ears. "Please....I do not wish to hear anymore." Tears were springing up, hot and fast. "He can not be dead."

"Begging your pardon, Miss. My prayers are with the young master, too." The servant looked back inside quickly. "If you'll excuse me, Miss." She curtsied and closed the door, leaving Charlotte in a state of shock on the steps.


* * *
"What happened to Charlotte?", Cordelia asked, uncharacteristically serious.

Angel stood up from his place at the edge of her desk. "I'd rather not....it wasn't my finest hour...."

"C'mon, man. You can't just start a story like that and not finish it off", Doyle protested.

There was a long pause as Angel thought about how he wanted to phrase the next part of his tale. "I had just changed....the bloodlust was....intense. I...I came after Charlotte."

"But, I thought you said she was poisoned." Doyle was confused.

"I came after her...but she was already dead. Poisoning, they said. Accidental, from a certain type of face-paint. But I think...I've always thought that Charlotte killed herself after I disappeared." Angel pulled at his ear. "I saw her body.....there is no way that this message could be from her." His tone had an air of finality to it.

"God, that would make such a good movie", Cordelia said out loud. "I could play Charlotte and Brad Pitt....no, Ben Affleck could play you." After a second, she noticed the looks Angel and Doyle were giving her. "What?"

"Are you gonna go to the meeting?", Doyle asked Angel, returning the conversation to its proper place.

Angel nodded. "It's a client, someone who needs help. That's what we do."

Doyle knew that was his signal to drop the subject, but he rarely listened to his inner voice. "Would you like a spot of company?"

"Thanks, but this is just a routine case", Angel said. "Nothing out of the ordinary."


* * *
As soon as all traces of the sun's rays had disappeared from the Los Angeles skyline, Angel left his apartments and ventured out into the city. The park wasn't very far, but he chose to take the longer route to it. There was time to spare and he needed to sort his thoughts out, something he hadn't been able to do with Cordelia and Doyle around. He had barely been able to sit all day for thinking of Charlotte. Logically, he knew that it couldn't have been her voice on the answering machine. But then, not much of what he had experienced in his lifetime could be considered logical. If logic prevailed, as most humans fooled themselves into believing it did, he should have died two hundred years earlier.

"Like Charlotte", he said, aloud. How was it that after two centuries, the mere thought of her could shake him like this? He could remember seeing her for the first time, lost and fragile...just like every other simpering noble woman he knew. If only Charlotte had been just that; if only she hadn't been bright and vivacious, with an edge of larceny to her soul, a thing no lady had, or if she did, showed. She had captivated him at a time when he was not easily capitvated by anything that wasn't alcoholic. But, Charlotte was dead. He....Angelus had gone to her house, seen her deathly pale, still body laid out, seen the mourners gathered around her, remembering her short life. He could recall Angelus' rage...he had wanted to drink her blood with a passion he would only feel one other time, much later in his life... When he had regained his soul a hundred years later, he had wanted to return to Ireland and visit her grave, mourn for her properly, but he had been too caught up in his own guilt to make the trip. She had been one of a million faces he had seen in his expanded lifetime, but besides a certain Slayer, she was the only person who had ever been able to make him feel the way he was feeling right now. And what exactly was he feeling? Nostalgia? Leftover grief? Longing for something that he could never get back? Love? Had he really loved Charlotte? Having never allowed himself to think about her too much, he had always thought that Buffy had been the only person he had ever loved. But could he have loved Charlotte too?

"It's a little too late to think about that. She's gone", Angel told himself, firmly. "And all the guilt and reminiscing in the world isn't going to change that." As he rounded a corner and Peterson Park came into view, he hoped this new case would take his mind off of Charlotte. His guilt over her death was particurally hard to bear.

Angel sat down on a bench in the middle of the park and looked around. Except for a homeless man asleep on the bench next to his, there was no one in sight, certainly no one that he recognized. Time passed. The night air was cool for California and Angel was glad for his ever-present long coat. Cordelia often told him not to wear it when meeting new clients, something about the Trenchcoat Mafia look scaring people, but he rarely took Cordelia's fashion advice, well-intentioned though it might be. The coat suited him; it was familiar. Something he carried with him from his days in Sunnydale.

The man on the other bench stirred suddenly, startling Angel. He was a bit embarrassed at his own jumpiness. A quick look around confirmed that the new client had not yet arrived. Angel's body relaxed slightly, but it didn't stay that way for long. Only a moment later, two hands covered his eyes from behind.

"Guess who?", he heard a familiar voice say, before he abruptly stood. Turning around, he saw what he then realized he had hoped to see all day.

"Charlotte?"

The girl before him smiled. "Surprise, Angel."


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