A few days later, Walter informed me he had discovered my secret activities in the bindery.
“The Binder came today.” He said as we approached the library.
“Oh yes?” I said innocently.
“To pick up the items for repair.” He cast me a meaningful look.
I said nothing, glancing with interest at the ceiling.
“Imagine my surprise when he informed me that there were only two books in the bindery in need of repair.”
“Really?” I said. Fascinating ceiling, just fascinating.
“Yes. The two large, leather bound volumes.”
“Oh?”
“The other twelve items seem to have somehow repaired themselves.”
“Amazing.”
We were in the library now, Walter had stopped walking and was looking at me intently. I glanced over at him but tried to avoid direct eye contact. “Ms. Doyle, I thought that I had made it clear that we were going to use a professional binder to repair those books.”
“Was there something wrong with the way they were repaired?”
“No, the binder said you did an excellent job.”
“Ah, well then.”
“Except for one of the items which he felt you repaired rather oddly.” He said producing a slim volume. It was the Jules Verne novel.
“No, not repaired Walter, conserved.” I ignored his stern look and continued. “You see, I repaired the other books because, well , they needed repairing and I wanted to show you that I was capable of being useful. That is useful beyond being an experiment. Besides, they were sitting there wounded, waiting for me to fix them. I couldn’t stand it. You might as well have asked me as a mother it ignore a hurt child on the playground. I had to fix them. Give them back their purpose. But this book Walter...” I said lovingly taking it from his hands. “This book needed something different.”
I glance up at him then quickly away. “I know you said that this title would be cheaper to repurchase than to repair.” I said quietly. “And you were right. Repairing this book would have been a stupid waste. No, worse, a crime.” I looked up at him pleading and defiant. “Don’t you see Walter? This book. This copy, of this book has been loved and not just by one person but by many people across many years. Cherishing it. Holding it in their hands and devouring the text. Young people, perhaps reading their first novel.” I stroked the covers lovingly. “Dragging it with them everywhere till it was tattered and ratty but still loving it. Proudly writing their names in their best script wanting to own a piece of it forever, to be a part of its history. Every bumped corner, every smudgy fingerprint, every scar on this book makes it just that much more precious.”
“Then why,” he said very softly and dangerously “didn’t you simply leave it be?”
Here was the crux of it. Here is where it got tricky because I could not tell him the entire truth. I could not tell him why I had tightened the spine on the back shoulder but not the front. Why I had tipped back in pages and reattached the plates but not repaired the fly leaf or end papers. How could I tell him I had done it for him?
Not for the stern, cold Walter with his clipboard and distressingly spare office or the dis-impassioned Walter reporting on me, writing his observations in that damn folder. Certainly not for the murderous Walter who haunted my dreams. Not even for the Walter who had done his best to be kind to me and who let me take tea with him in the den. No, not for any of those Walters.
I had done it for the Walter who, years ago, had read this book. A young Walter who had very obviously loved it. Who, like the others before him, had wanted to keep a piece of it, be a part of it but who, being Walter, had not proudly written his name below the others but instead had very faintly and very carefully written his name in the smallest of scripts where the cover bends and tucks itself into the shoulder of the book. Present, but discrete. Separate from all the others.
A single tear slid down my cheek. I had defied all of those other Walters for that Walter. For the young man who had loved that book enough to write his name in it but had not felt it proper to place it with the others. For the Walter who, even now, could not bring himself to discard that book or re-glue the spine because in doing so he would be obliterating a little piece of himself.
How could I tell him all this? He would only resent my presumption. This intrusion into his privacy. And it was a terrible presumption on my part. Who was I to meddle in his life? He would be angry. He would certainly not thank me. He might even hate me for it.
Yet I knew that I had to do whatever I could to let him keep this one little piece of himself alive even if it meant defying him. Even if it meant not being completely honest with him. Still, I had to be careful. He was not stupid and if he suspected that I was lying to him out of pity he might never forgive me but it was a chance I had to take. I took a deep breath and plunged.
“Did you ever read the ‘Velveteen Rabbit?’” I rushed on not waiting for an answer. “How by loving a toy a child could bring it to life? The most wonderful thing for a toy in that story was not to be shiny and new but to be well worn and played with and loved. This book has provided years of faithful service. Brought many people a great deal of joy. It deserves better than to sit moldering away in a dark room, falling apart, never to be read again. So I conserved it. Stabilized it. Fixed it just enough. Sure, it’s not strong enough to be stuffed into a back pocket and dragged all over God’s creation or read in the bathtub, It’s too precious for that anyway. But it is sturdy enough to sit on the shelves with the other books dreaming of its next reader and perhaps, some rainy day, some bored child may pull it down wondering what’s so special about this battered old thing and be tickled to see those familiar names on the inside cover and begin to leaf through it. Perhaps they will decide to sit by the fire and read a page or two. They may later look up at that mantle clock and realize that they have been reading for hours. They might even take it upstairs to bed with them so that they can finish it and maybe, just maybe, they will carefully write their name inside the cover before lovingly placing it back on the shelf like a treasure for the next child, perhaps their child, to find.”
I petered out exhausted. I was now holding the book slightly away from me so that my tears would not fall onto it. “I just wanted there to be some happy memories too.” I said quietly, more to myself than Walter.
Walter took the book from my hands replacing it with a handkerchief. He watched me quietly for a moment as I dabbed my eyes then looked down at the book drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the cover. When I was more composed, he spoke.
“The weather seems fairly passable today” he said placing the book on the table in front of us “and you have been indicating a desire to view the estate. Perhaps a brief tour of the grounds behind the house?”
I stared at him slightly derailed but managed to stammer out “I’ll get my coat.”.
He glanced out the window at the drizzle outside. “Yes, perhaps it is a bit wet for a walk...”
“No!” I screamed in my head. “No it’s not!”
“but,” he said walking over to a stand by the door and removing two umbrellas “These should do to get us to the greenhouse.”
Walter said nothing more as we walked the short garden path from the library to the greenhouse. It wasn’t until we were inside and he had shut the door that he spoke. “Ms. Doyle,” he said “You have a tender heart and a romantic soul both of which are dangerous liabilities when studying at the feet of a vampire who has neither of these.”
“Tenderness?” I asked, sniffing a flower.
“No. A heart or a soul. Tenderness and romance do not even enter into the equation. Not for Alucard.”
“I know that.” I began.
“No you don’t, not really. It’s hard, practically impossible for any person, any human to understand how utterly devoid of emotion a vampire is. They are true sociopaths. They mimic emotion when it suits them but they don’t really feel it. The just use it as an ends to a means. Alucard is the ultimate predator and he means to use you for his own purposes. Any kindness, love or gratitude you feel will be perceived by him as weakness and will be repaid with cruelty. Love and fear, those are his two greatest weapons against you so you must show him neither.”
“But, Seras.” I objected.
“Miss Victoria is not quite yet a vampire, not truly. She is hesitating, clinging to her humanity but finally, when she accepts what she is, her attachment to human custom and emotion will fade and be replaced by a true vampiric nature.”
“No. She’s not like that.”
“Not yet but ultimately, I fear this is her fate.”
“Then why keep her around?”
“She is useful.”
I ground my teeth at the coldness of it all. Then, I had a thought. “Then why do you try to help her?”
“Because she fights her fate. She struggles to maintain her humanity, despite the odds.”
“But you feel she is destined to fail?”
“Most likely, but she deserves the chance to try.”
“Can I help her?”
“You already do by being her friend and encouraging her to maintain society with other humans.”
“But.”
But it can’t last. The bloodlust will eventually become too strong and she will begin to see her friends as nothing more than domesticated food. Easy prey.”
“Can nothing be done?
He spread his hands noncommitaly.
Is there nothing more to be done? I would be willing to do anything if it would help. She may be a vampire but she is my friend and I love her!”
“There’s that tender heart again.” He said. “Dangerous, deadly even.” He admonished giving me a stern stare.
I glared back at him. “I mean it Walter.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
He held my gaze a few moments more. “Very well,” he said “let me think on it. In the meantime, I think it is best that you keep me appraised of precisely what transpires during your sessions with Alucard. I may be able to advise you in some areas but ultimately it is you who will have to be strong enough to face him alone.”
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