The West End was waking up, its rubbish bags, staleness, and human and demon detritus of the night before washed clean in the pinks and blues of an early autumn sunrise.

The winds from passing taxis, busses, and those sad commuters who had to drive already swept through Charing Cross Road. The blue door of Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium rattled at the heaviest gusts, as did an unlatched steel gate set into the brick a few feet away.

Behind the gate was a passage, too constricted for most humans but just right for a Mikh merchant, which led to a minute courtyard and a door into the shop. Taking up most of the space was a boium tree, swaying in the wind. Wherever its leaves touched the walls, the acid it left behind etched into the brick.

But not many leaves touched. Its elephant-eared foliage was curling at the edges, sickly and brown, and its trunk was beginning to flake off in patches of hissing green.

Master Hat, his cloaked form far too big for the space, leaned out of the door and touched a covered hand to one of the leaves. It dissolved in his fingers. Shaking his head, the demon went back inside.

Hopping back as the door slammed shut, Nalph said, "What news, Master Hat?"

"The tree is definitely dying. Perhaps Grittnak shouldn’t have been executed so quickly; we still need its potion, still have souls to collect before the opening can begin." He shook off the last of the acid drops onto the dirt-covered floor. "I’ll ask the Lady Yeangelt for her thoughts. There must be someone who understands these matters."

Nalph stepped away from the snapping cloak and watched Master Hat thud back toward the tunnel and the hidden room. One claw coming to play with his dreadlocks as he considered his problems, he went to the door himself to look out at the boium.

Another gust of human-made wind caused one more leaf to fall, burning into the brick.

***

The late morning wind had picked up, a brisk whistling sweep through their bedroom. Felt rather invigorating, if he needed invigorating, which he didn’t. Nevertheless, in case he didn’t remember later, Giles shut the window and locked it tight with the requisite magick.

The candles on the night stand burned higher, flares of blue and yellow in the sunlight. Anya had lit them the second they’d awakened, sliding naked over his body to set flame to each wick. He’d put his arms around her to steady her, then brushed his stubbly cheek against her side until she protested, but she’d managed to complete the ritual that mattered so much to her.

Ignoring the nerves nipping pleasantly along his spine, he leaned down to blow them out. Then, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the shut bathroom door: "Aren’t you ready yet? It’s almost time, and one of my cuff...."

When the door opened, however, he lost all power of speech. She was – she looked – "Oh, dearest," he barely got out.

"So I look okay then?"she asked. When she did a little twirl, the vintage ivory silk of her dress fluttered around those gorgeous legs, and a few highlighted strands fell out of her upswept hair. The diamonds and gold of her engagement ring seemed to flicker with her movement.

"The term ‘okay’ is utterly inadequate." It took just a couple of steps to put his arms around her and pull her in. Even though she mumbled something about not getting messed up, she slid her own arms around his neck and smiled up at him. "Also, you’re very wise for not putting on lipstick yet."

Then he kissed her, trying to tell her with lips and tongue and breath – since the right words had left him– how much this day of rituals meant to him. Silk and pressure against him as she rose onto her toes and leaned in, she sent him back more than he could give. It was all he could do not to throw her on their bed, push up that ivory dress and unsnap those garters with his teeth, then sink inside – but there would be time for that later. Another, different ritual.

Even so, she was the one to pull away first. After she adjusted his glasses which somehow had gone crooked, she rubbed at his mouth with her thumb. "Actually, I’m not going to wear lipstick today. I’m figuring there’ll be a lot of that sort of activity the whole way through so what’s the point, you know?"

"I do know, and I repeat that you’re very wise." After a kiss to her finger, he let her go. "But could you please finish this one cufflink, I can’t seem to get it at all."

"Give it here."As she bent her head to her task, nimble fingers working against cloth and skin, she said, "Honestly, Rupert, I sometimes wonder how you ever managed without me."

"Not only do I not have the faintest idea, I never intend to do so again."

"You’re such a strategist, honey." She snapped the gold shut. "There you go."

"Thank you." He stole one more kiss before saying, "Right then. Andrew and Dawn took our suitcases down already and put them in the boot for later–"

"Except the overnight bag–"

"Except that one, obviously. And I have the licence."

Her hands crept up the lapels of his suit jacket, petting the material flat; he could hear the crinkling of the licence in his inner pocket, and he rather thought she could as well, judging from her shaky smile. "Great! I’ve got our rings."

Catching her hand, he said, "Are you ready at last?"

"Yep. And, honey, thank you for staying close to me this morning despite tradition. I needed you to," she said, soft voice at odds with her matter-of-fact words. Her smile steadied. "Now let’s go get married!"

As he ushered her out into the corridor, he could hear noises and voices from downstairs. That should be Willow; she’d called from Heathrow when her flight had shockingly gotten in bang on time, said she was on her way. He was grateful that she at least could put aside the past and join Anya and him today, and watch over Dawn and Andrew while they were gone – which set off a train of thought. "Did you manage to get in touch with Gillian or Siobhan, to remind them that we’re taking the cottage tonight?"

"Phone message left, e-mail sent, no reply. But we did tell them twice before, so stop worrying." Grinning, she said for the eighty-fifth sodding time, "Our honeymoon in your house in Devon... I’m marrying a landed gentleman!"

Oh, very funny. The impossible woman knew how much he hated that phrase she’d picked up from God alone knew where. Still: "Our house, and no, I’m not. Swallow’s Nest is nothing more than a farm cottage. You’ve run the numbers; you know the bloody place has been a money-drain ever since my parents left it to me."

Not just expensive, but a place of remembered pain. He set aside the aches of that last summer he’d stayed there, when he’d walked or ridden over the moors every day to check on Willow at the coven. He still could taste the quiet and the loneliness in the stone-flagged kitchen, making his tea early in the morning or pouring his tumbler of Scotch late at night, when he’d look out at mist-shrouded yews and dream of Anya so far away. He still remembered the constant small shocks when every picture or corner reminded him of whom his parents had wanted him to be and how often he had fallen short. Afterwards he’d been happy to let the place to the coven for their overflow guests, to leave it behind.

Of course it wasn’t possible to leave behind who one was, as he and Anya knew. Yet there were different choices to be made.

Halting at the staircase, holding her so she couldn’t go anywhere either, he said one more time, "Even though we need to meet with the coven, er, there’s still time to change to Paris for the honeymoon. We could quickly book–"

"Eurostar, Chunnel, romantic hotel food wine scenery, blah blah," she finished. Going on tiptoe in order to brush her lips against his ear, she said over the increased noise from downstairs, "Rupert, we’ve covered this. It’s our honeymoon, which should be all about togetherness, intimacy, and lots of sex. More specifically, I want to be able to be very loud during the lots of sex if I want to, and I always want to with you– except when you instruct me to be quiet, of course. It’s only sensible to be in our own place rather than a hotel."

"Do stop being wise, it’s just annoying now."

She beamed. "And because Jools Siviter and Wesley sent us hampers from Fortnum and Mason, we won’t even have to leave the cottage except for coven business! We can just lie in bed, and drink champagne, and eat clotted-cream fudge off each other’s bodies, and–"

"Er, right, let’s get this show on the road." And he pulled on her hand to hurry her.

From below one voice became clear as they descended. "–see, ‘Extraordinary crimes against the people and the state have to be avenged by agents extraordinary. Two such people are Rupert Giles, top professional, and Anya Jenkins, talented amateur, otherwise known as–‘"

"For fuck’s sake," Giles said, speeding down the last of the steps. As he went through the archway: "Andrew, we’ve talked about...."

The words trailed away when he saw who was sitting in the lounge. Andrew stood in his pontificating pose, that bloody video camera trained on the others. Next to Dawn on the couch sat Willow, who seemed tired from the long flight but looked lovely and happy and Willow-like in green. She gave a little wave.

But next to her – "Xander," Anya said, her voice tightening, her fingers crushing his.

"Hey, Anya. Giles." The boy – no, not a boy any more – shifted uneasily, his conciliating smile familiar from times past. Giles felt suddenly sick. "Robson sent me here to do a little Council construction work, and I thought, yeah, at the same time I might as well drop by and see what a wedding looks like all the way through."

"That’s not amusing," Anya said, sharp-edged.

"It wasn’t meant – I mean, it was, but – look, can I just go out and start all over again?"

"No, you can’t. It doesn’t work that way," Giles said. "Please excuse us for a moment."

He pulled Anya back out into the entry, away from everyone’s gaze. "Are, are you all right?" he whispered, although the question almost couldn’t be voiced for the nerves chewing at him. Here was the reality of his nightmares: she would go back to the younger man, leave him cold and alone. But he’d have to let her if she so wished, and better now than later.

"No, I’m furious! How dare he try to upset either one of us like this; he was a jerk for months, and then rude to us during the whole apocalypse, and now he thinks it’s a good idea to show up? It’s vengeance! The asshole thinks he’s wreaking vengeance!" she hissed, her hands digging into his arms. Then she faltered, indignation dissolving into her own nerves, "Did it work? Do you still want to marry me?"

No words for that; he could only kiss her quiet. "Please, Anya. I was worried that you wouldn’t want to marry me now," he said when he could.

"Oh, honey, come on!" But her hands were shaking so much that he had to grasp them to ease her. She said, "How many times do I have to choose you before you get it?"

"I could say the same thing, darling. Perhaps we should review." He interlaced the fingers of their hands, her left, his right, palm to palm, just as they’d practised for the wedding ceremony. "Mine. Yours."

She mirrored his motion, his left, her right. "Yep, mine. Yours." Then she leaned back a little while still holding tight, her smile returning. "So we’re still good?"

"Quite good," he said, pulling her in for one more kiss.

A cough from the archway made them look around. Xander stood there, hands in his pockets. "Look, hey, this wasn’t supposed to be a bad thing. Not planning a whole Graduate ‘Elaaaine!’ scene at the back of the church, or hall or wherever–"

"Islington Registrar’s Office," Anya said. "And I don’t know the scene you’re referring to."

Giles said, "I do. Xander, you’re saying you just came to, um, observe?"

The marred gaze was steady, even if the smile wasn’t too firm. "Nah, I came to celebrate. Or give it a shot, anyway. Scooby reporting for duty." He saluted, a joking gesture that didn’t quite work.

"And so is Scooby Number Two," Willow said, sliding her arms around his waist to anchor him, a reverse-image to the picture Giles’s vision had shown him on that horrible day she had threatened the world. "So, you guys, are we done with the ritual freak-out, and ready to get on with the actual ritual?"

The doorbell rang. Pulling Giles along with her, Anya headed for the door. "Zoe, Danny, come in!"

"Hello, Beresfords! Your witnesses are ready to witness," Danny said cheerfully. Zoe just offered a bottle of champagne and a smile.

Dawn and Andrew crowded into the hallway behind Willow and Xander. "Hello, fellow spies! Work it for the camera, that’s right," Andrew said, still wielding that sodding thing. "And we’ve got two more people to ride with you to the place of marriage."

"Zoe, you were so right about these sandals – and hey, people, let’s get a move on!" Dawn said.

"Yes, Dawn’s right," Giles said, smiling at his bride. His nerves barely gnawed at him now. "Let’s get this show on the road."

***

"‘Mine. Yours.’ ‘Yours. Mine.’" Sniffling happily, Andrew recited the words along with the video playback. "Oh Dawn, I love this part. Let’s watch it again."

She grinned at him. "You are such a sap, Andrew. But it’s kinda cute in a geeky sapfest sort of way."

"Hold your tongue, hard-hearted Watcher girl," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "And pass me the cider, please, and maybe one of those crackers."

From his vantage point in the arch between living room and hall, Xander tried to smile at the pair sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. There was something so familiar about the way the two chattered. For a minute he could imagine himself back in Sunnydale – not the hole in the ground, but an ideal Sunnydale, clean and brightly lit like a sitcom, where he and Willow forever bantered like the best friends they were, while Buffy flitted in and out Slayer-like and golden.

A place where he hadn’t lost an eye. Where Anya hadn’t married Giles.

He shifted again, turning away from the brewing argument on the stairs. Fuck, but the wedding had been hard to watch. Not that anything about the fast, tidy ceremony in the city-hall type place reminded him of the nightmare wedding that wasn’t: no, just a few people to witness, including some supercilious, older James Bond guy who’d smoked three cigarettes right under the "No Smoking" sign before slipping away; the quiet vows that Anya and Giles had spoken directly to each other, as if giving voice to what was already rock-solid real; the mundane paperwork afterward.

Christ, the happiness of her, the ease in her own skin – he couldn’t recognise the woman he had loved. And Giles looked so much younger, even with that new silver in his hair.

Absently he rubbed his fist over his heart.

Willow must have been using her mind-meld skills, because she looked up from her intense conversation with the two MI5 people. That Danny guy had edged close to her – too bad, Lando, no luck to be had with Leia, Xander thought, then cursed himself for a Star Wars reference after only two hours of contact with Andrew. "Xander?" she said, recalling his attention. "You okay? I’ve got room if you want to snuggle in." She patted the couch cushion beside her.

"Thanks, but I’m great," he said. "Think I’ll just get myself a little more wine."

"You haven’t had any yet," she pointed out.

"Then I think I should catch up. The wedded-bliss folks should be down for the big sendoff soon, I want to be able to toast them."

As he turned, he found Dawn and Andrew looking at him too. "Might I fix you your beverage, Xander? Perhaps something to eat too?" Andrew said, starting to get up.

He thought he heard Dawn whisper "Coming on too strong, sweetie," but he couldn’t be sure. Hard to be sure of anything at the moment. But he made himself smile, say "No, got it covered, young Padawan," and hurry into the quiet kitchen.

It wasn’t much better there. He recognised bits and pieces from Giles’s Sunnydale apartment; of course his stuff had been sent on to England the year before, hadn’t been swallowed up like everything else. Kitchen herbs were growing in the window, just like Anya had always wanted. The room smelled of wine and living things and the food laid out on the kitchen table.

Xander went over to the table, picking at the unfamiliar snacks on display. No chips or anything that a Harris would call a buffet – just weird spreads and skeezy cheeses and crackers and fruit, and a plate of fancy French cakes. After sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs, he went straight for the chocolate pastry.

One bite, one bad memory. Those last days in Sunnydale he had been busy with various apocalyptic markers, like Faith’s attempts to make up for near-strangulation and the even stranger glimmerings of friendship from Spike. Giles and Anya hadn’t been around much after that disaster with breaking Spike’s trigger; they came to the Summers house for meetings, for Slayer training and Anya’s work in keeping the place running, but they didn’t stay. He didn’t have to think about them. So it had been a fucking shock one afternoon to come across the two of them alone on the back porch, splitting a chocolate bar. Giles had been murmuring something in between feeding bites to Anya; she had taken a square, then smeared chocolate all over the old man’s mouth. "For fuck’s sake, darling, you’re impossible," he’d growled, before tackling her onto the grass as if he was thirty, not almost fifty. She had butted her head into his shoulder, laughing, her arms locking around his waist. Neither one had seen Xander there, neither saw him slip back into the house.

That was the moment he had known she was really lost to him. He just hadn’t admitted it until now. Took him a while to process things, he guessed.

He reached for the bottle of red wine, poured himself a splash. Then he returned to the pastry. That was some good stuff, if not as good as your average Ho-ho or Ding-dong.

It must have been the sugar and jet-lag combo which made him so fuzzy that he didn’t recognise the tap of boot-heels in the hallway or the murmur of voices. Which meant he wasn’t prepared when Anya, changed into her going-away jeans and a little sweater, came into the kitchen. Alone.

"Oh, hello, Xander," she said, after a small hesitation. "Do help yourself to the food. I don’t think it’ll make great left-overs."

"Thanks, Ahn." She twitched when he said that, he didn’t know why. But she nodded, then picked up the electric kettle and took it over to the sink. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea which can be taken on the road in an insulated container. Rupert will want something caffeinated to drink while he’s driving." The tap hissed on.

"Sure. Yeah." The second cake wasn’t sitting very well in his stomach – he pushed its remains away, then sucked the chocolate off his finger.

As she moved around, getting down a thermos and some fancy tea, he watched her. By this time he was adjusting to the change both in vision and of heart; he didn’t recognise the woman he had loved, he thought again. And he forced himself to say, "I don’t think I made with the whole ‘congratulations’ thing before, but I should say it now. So, um, congratulations."

She didn’t speak until she’d poured the hot water over the tea stuff in the pot. Then, briskly: "Congratulations accepted."

Her tone rubbed him the wrong way for some reason. "That’s not how you’re supposed to respond, you know. Say ‘thanks’ or whatever."

"You don’t get to tell me what to say, Xander." Smacking the empty kettle back on its base, she whirled to face him. He scooted his chair back at the signs of vengeance – but then she took a deep breath and smiled. He almost preferred her vengeance-face; the smile was honest and bright, and no, still didn’t recognise it. "But okay, you’re right. Thanks. Thank you for letting me go."

"What?"

"I would have been much more grateful if in the course of letting go you hadn’t broken my heart and left me at the worst possible moment, which led to pain and death and bad times all around. But you were right – we weren’t meant to get married. I understand that now." That smile deepened into joy. Playing with the new ring on her finger, she said, "I hope you find someone who suits you and doesn’t need correction, Xander, who you can love with everything you’ve got and who actually makes it through the wedding. Just like I found."

"Darling," Giles said from the archway.

Xander had to look away. Even with his changed vision, he shouldn’t have to see that open happiness on Giles’s face. God, his stomach hurt. Fucking chocolate.

She finished doing whatever with the tea, poured it into the thermos, then went to Giles. They kissed lightly, Giles’s hand spread on her back, before she said, "I’ll put this in the hamper, honey. Then I have to pee one more time, and we can go."

"Fine. Hurry," he said, and she tripped out of the kitchen. Then he looked over at Xander, his expression unreadable now.

Xander never had been able to read Giles, not that he’d really tried. It was just... Giles, tweedy old-guy librarian who, he just realised, hadn’t actually worn tweed for over four years. What else had he failed to notice? Clearing his throat, he said, "So, hey, congratulations. Said it to Anya, say it to you now."

"Thank you, Xander. You’re more generous than I."

"Sorry?"

Giles looked away for a second, thinking Gilesian thoughts, before saying, "Well, I couldn’t bear to attend your wedding, after all."

‘Couldn’t bear’ – Jesus, though he’d known the demon-hunting excuse was lame, he hadn’t figured that out. Hadn’t noticed– "Even then?"

Another hesitation. "Yes, even then. But I, I never would have spoken, had you gone through with it." A breath to let that sink in. "As Anya said, thank you for letting her go. Thank you for your presence today." Finally, a small smile. "You’re far more generous than I, Xander. A good man."

In order to swallow a swell of feeling he couldn’t identify, Xander took a couple more bites of chocolate. Then, as cheerfully as he could through a full mouth: "No problem. You married the scary wife; you can handle her."

"Yes, I think I can." The front door slammed, and Giles looked over his shoulder to check where aforementioned scary new wife was before saying, "Although I hear you’ve been dating Faith? If ever there was a woman who deserved the adjective...."

"Yeah, well, we’re on a break. Again. And please stop chatting about my so-called love life, it’s freaking me out and I’m thinking another apocalypse is nigh. I mean, they’re always nigh, but more nigh, a higher state of nigh, nigher...."

"Ah, some babble never changes." Giles actually grinned. "I hope you enjoy your stay in London. You said you’re doing something for the Council?"

"Smooth segue there. Um, yeah. I’m here for a couple of days to get the work started on the former Council site. I’ll set up inspections, any further clearing, that sort of thing. Got a meeting with a potential buyer tomorrow morning."

Giles looked down at his boots. "Then I’m doubly grateful. It’s been, er, painful to have the reminders of what was." When he looked up, Xander swallowed hard again. Apparently pain was an understatement. "You’ll stay here with Willow, I assume? We do have two guest rooms – in addition to Dawn and Andrew’s attic, which is currently not being renovated although we’re paying some bloody builders a king’s ransom to do so."

There was no place less inviting than the happy London home of his ex-fiancee and his former whatever-Giles-was, but he found himself saying, "I’d like that. I’ll keep an eye on the Juniors for you. Well, obviously only one eye –" At Giles’s stare, he said more seriously, "Sorry. Yeah, I’ll stay, thanks. Buffy wanted to know how Dawn was really doing; it’ll make my report more detailed."

"Ah. Buffy." Still more pain. Xander decided not to ask him about the strange way the Queen Slayer had jumped to take a minor Council task in Mexico rather than come to the wedding.

At that moment the MI5 types came up behind Giles, surrounded him. "Tommy, we have to go, but we’ll wave you off," Zoe said, her hand on his arm.

"Right, mate, well done. We’ll keep the kiddies in line for you too," Danny added.

"You don’t need to, we’re cool!" Dawn called on the fly – Xander could see her sprinting into the living room, see Willow spun around by the energy and then come up laughing. His friend, his refuge: she looked across at him and grinned.

"We’ll go to the office as usual, Giles, and work on our appointed tasks. We’ll make you proud," Andrew said, barrelling into view.

Giles began, "I’m sure you will, but we should go over–"

But Anya was suddenly there too, locking her arms around his waist. "We don’t have time for you to lecture, Rupert. Come on, come on, honeymoon!"

A tide of laughter and shouted encouragements, hugs and handshakes, pushed Giles and Anya in the general direction of the door and down the gravelled walk. Xander joined Andrew and Willow in the entry, doing his best to cheer and laugh too. Zoe and Danny clapped madly from the pavement as the newlyweds reached their car.

While Anya held on to him, Giles put on his sunglasses. Then, in a swashbuckling move, he dipped her low to kiss her. Her hands buried in his hair, she arched into him like a dancer. They must have practised, Xander thought. Or maybe they just fit together that way.

From the living room came the sound of the Beatles. Who knows how long I’ve loved you, You know I love you still....

"It’s hard to find music that appeals to both of them, what with the ongoing Patti Smith vs Diana Ross controversy, " Andrew confided. "This is the best Dawnie and I could do."

After skidding into the hallway, Dawn pulled Andrew out onto the threshold to wave goodbye. "Bye, you guys! Have fun!" she called.

After they waved back, Giles opened the passenger door for Anya, then crossed to his own side.

Love you for ever and forever, love you with all my heart.... The lyrics and the moment didn’t hurt the way Xander thought they would. Yep, change in vision, change of heart.

But it was nice when Willow put her arm around him. "You sure you’re okay, Xand?"

"Yeah. I really am," he said as he watched the black Saab pull away into the afternoon. Didn’t feel bad after all. Except for too much chocolate.

When he looked around, Dawn and Andrew had joined Willow, faces smiling in concern for him. Dawn said, "We’ve got to put away the food first, but then – even with jet-lag and whatever, you guys want to go to the pub with us? Grab some real food, a little beer?"

"Oh, bless you, my children," he said.

***

In the hidden room, the black candles burned as they always did, next to the bodies of the sleeping.

The Lady Yeangelt brushed her hand over the unconscious Pennith’s face, murmuring a magick that Master Hat couldn’t hear. His hood over his eyes, he listened to the earth and the flames instead. He waited for his moment.

Yeangelt finally turned around. Her voice hushed, she said, "So you say the boium tree needs what to survive? We’ll need its leaves for several more weeks of collection."

He consulted the notes in his hand, even though he knew the answer. "Crushed Noothian canusses. This was what the son of a Nazgut said was the preferred fertiliser. Of course, the tree also might not be getting enough sun in the courtyard –"

"Hmm. Come with me to the Emporium." He followed the sorceress out of the room, into the tunnel. On makeshift shelves along the walls, those seemingly empty glass jars rattled and sighed as they passed.

More shelves lined the storeroom, although here were supplies and magick worth a demon’s fortune. Although Master Hat personally believed that Nalph could pay more tribute, with as much treasure as the Mikh shopkeeper displayed – there would be no cant about ‘Mikh Lord’ for Hat, he knew who the creature was – Pennith had always said there were more riches with Nalph as an ally. The Lady believed this too.

Master Hat kept his claws sharpened, however, in case she ever saw the truth and instructed him to rip some treasure from the Mikh’s guts.

After rapping at the closed office door and receiving no answer, the Lady said, "Our Nalph must be out in the shop area. As you know my thoughts–"

"I’ll fetch him for you, Lady." With a snap of his cloak, he strode through those ridiculous babies’ skulls and into the shop.

Even though it was before hours, Nalph was serving two Romut demons with their weekly order of Mangit sole – a pleasant joke, that, as the Romut spirits were scheduled to be collected next week if they didn’t pay their back-tribute. The shopkeeper grunted at Hat’s entrance, then turned his attention to the package he was wrapping.

Behind the Romuts stood a couple of those nasty earth-eaters. Hat had never quite seen the purpose of them, thought they should have been harvested for fuel months ago. Still, he’d get them soon enough. Their spirits were so small that they’d do to fill the cracks in the collection – only half a room yet to fill, once they bought the right land. Maybe they wouldn’t need the missing Cup of Xet after all.

The younger of the earth-eaters, Pim, edged forward and bowed. "Hello, Master."

He showed his teeth. "Hello, earth-creature." As the demon stumbled back, though, it struck Hat that the drooling soil-cruncher might have something to offer. "Tell me, Pim, do you know anything about Noothian canusses?"

"Noothian canusses," Pim repeated in a serious tone. "No, no, I can’t say I do. That’s a very, very specialised product requiring cultivation. There was a demon in Greenwich–" But he broke off when Hat delicately extended his hands, claws visible under the gloves. Quickly he said, "What you need is someone to find the canusses for you. If Nalph can’t, that is."

"I don’t know where to buy them, no. None of my vendors carry them." One hop, one final twist of the paper, and Nalph accepted the demon-coin from the Romuts. Once they had barked their way out of the shop, he crossed his claws together and said, "So what is your plan, Master Hat?"

"As the little earth-eater says, we need an acquisitions specialist."

"‘Acquisitions’!" Pim said. "Oh, oh, who was it....Anyanka! Or not Anyanka now, of course, because she’s turned human. She runs a business – oh, what was it, Nalph, I was distracted when she was here before –"

"Oh yes. Anyanka. I don’t quite remember the business name, young Pim. She left a card, but it disappeared some weeks ago."

Master Hat straightened. "I see. The Lady wishes to speak with you now, Nalph; perhaps you can confer with her about this acquisitions possibility. This human could even help search for the Cup, do you think?"

"It’s a possibility," Nalph said, his eyes indigo-opaque, before he hopped through the skull-curtain. The babies didn’t chatter for him, which made Hat want to take off his gloves and cut himself some blue meat for luncheon. Still, it wasn’t the right moment.

As he passed the earth-creature, Pim kept talking, if only to himself. "What was that name? Hmm, hmm... it started with a G, I think...."

***

"Oh God, honey," Anya moaned, liquefying into the blanket below her, into the hard ground below that. Her hands under the top blanket held Rupert’s head to her, as he took one breast more deeply into his mouth and at the same time pinched the other nipple beyond pain into pleasure. When he shifted, his belly pressing against her open legs, she tried to get closer to ease them both. "Oh God, honey. Up, up."

The afternoon sun slanted over the hedge, dazzling through her closed eyes. Even though it was all sun and pleasure, the light and the loving suction of his mouth and the weight of his body, she needed him higher. Her husband, deep as he could go: that’s what she wanted. Pulling his tousled head up, she said, "Please, inside, up now –"

He smiled at her, a love-drunk grin which made her almost burst into pleasure right then, and then caught her hard and rolled so she was on top. The blanket slipped off, the cool wind caressing where his body had been. "That wasn’t what I meant," she half-laughed, half-sighed.

But he had raised up on an elbow, kissing her beyond thought. She went with him, skin to skin, breath to breath. With his free arm he slid her down, moaning himself when she rolled against that hard length. She got a hand down to stroke him base to tip, to play with that soft head. Shivering, he moved so he could nip her neck just where she liked.

Then he lay back on the ground, and with his hands on her hips – her first finger-bruises of the marriage, she found herself thinking – lifted her. "Up then, darling."

She guided him in, sank down all the way while he rose up hard. There, there, that was what she wanted. She began to move, watching his eyes almost shut, feeling the fingers of one hand lock on her thigh. His other hand came around to press in and circle, to lift her higher.

Sun against her narrowed eyes, wind against her back, Rupert underneath and in and out and in, and it was so good that she couldn’t wait. "Yes, let go, honey, now, please," she cried, even as she broke around him, falling onto his chest.

But he was still moving, so she didn’t stop, couldn’t. He moved his legs up, pushed inside even further again and again, through pain to all pleasure, until the sun dimmed and he said in a dark, dark voice, "There, my wife, Christ, mine–"

As the wind blew over their overheated bodies, they shuddered together and came to rest.

In a minute or two, when her aftershocks eased and she could identify her surroundings again, she said, "Okay. Where’s the blanket?"

"Round here somewhere," he murmured. "You want it?"

"Yes, but I’ll get it." Pushing herself up, she looked around. It had fallen on top of their clothes, on top of one of the food hampers. She scrabbled for it, then pulled it over them both as she lay down again on his chest. "There, is that good?"

"My feet aren’t covered. But it’s fine," he said, his hand stealing to curl around the nape of her neck. "Except there’s a sodding huge rock under my back."

"Should we move?"

"Can’t move yet. Just suffer here quietly with my wife." His thumb traced against her skin, stirring the hairs, impossibly stirring a trace of new pleasure.

"Poor man." She kissed his chest, licking at the salt and heat of him. "But I have to say it. You’re a damn genius, honey."

"Really. I thought I was an idiot – you say that to me daily."

"Well, you often do idiotic things, but fundamentally you’re a genius. Who else would have thought to ask Wes for the afternoon loan of the Wyndam-Pryce estate?"

"Just good planning, despite the slight detour." His chuckle shook them both. "Wes was so politic about it. ‘Yes, Giles. Of course you may use the North Field for your honeymoon...picnic.’" He perfectly imitated that nice insane man’s dry courtesy.

"Well, really, we couldn’t be expected to wait all the way to Devon to consummate our marriage. There’s no sense in that. As it is, Oxfordshire is almost too far." She brushed her head against him. "We’re lucky it isn’t raining, though."

"In such an emergency we’d have used the back seat, darling. Simple planning." He kissed her forehead and then stretched, the movement of his body lifting her, causing the blanket to slip a little. "You know, I think I’ll have a smoke."

"Huh. Okay, but you know the rules. You only get one."

"For fuck’s sake, darling." He eased out from under her, which made her briefly sad, and then reached for his shirt. As he shrugged it on, though, he stopped short, his hand coming back to her and his lazy after-sex voice changing: "Hang on. Don’t look."

"‘Don’t look at–" But her voice caught in her throat when she saw the what.

Two terrifying hoppy creatures were just a yard away, gazing at them from underneath the hedge, threatening them –

"Oh no, oh no. Rupert, do something," she whispered, flinging her arms around his waist.

He felt around under their ground blanket, picked up the rock that had been poking him. "Go away," he said authoritatively. Their hideous noses twitched, as if they were going to pounce any second, but they didn’t move.

When she felt him start to laugh, she smacked his stomach. "It’s not funny!"

Oh God. At the smack the creatures actually hopped closer. She bit back a scream at the sight of encroaching rabbit evil, because it wasn’t appropriate for a newly married spy. Instead she closed her eyes and held on tighter.

His muscles bunching underneath her hold, he skimmed the rock in the bad things’ direction and bellowed, "Sod off!" There came the crash of leaves, maybe even a chattering of sharp teeth, but then silence. His hand covered hers. "You can look now. They’re gone."

A quick peek revealed that the surroundings were indeed monster-free. Leaning her cheek against his back, she said, "Boy, I chose right when I picked you."

"Um-hm. I promise to chase all your rabbits away, darling," he said. "Which sounds absolutely ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"No, it sounds great! It should have been in your vows!" she said, sliding around to crawl into his lap. After a grab for the blanket and a not entirely successful attempt to tuck it around them both, she snuggled into his arms. "I wasn’t kidding before, either. Let’s look at your record today. You stayed with me this morning; you didn’t let the surprise-ex-fiance visit upset me for more than a long, painful minute; you made it through the wedding without running–"

"It never crossed my mind." He cradled her face in his palm – which was a little dirty from the rock-throwing, she noticed, but that was just fine. Just fine.

"That’s what I’m saying, honey. You married me willingly. You gave me incredible just-married sex in a field. You scared away the ferocious bunny predators." She reached up to kiss him. "You’re exactly the husband I want."

"Ah. I’ll try not to break my streak, then. Let’s see." He slipped his other hand down across her stomach, laid his palm against her and pressed in where she was still sensitive and swollen. One slide of his hand, two, three, and she broke again, a small but pleasurable afterburst that jolted her against him.

"Oh, Rupert. Love you," she managed.

"Love you too. My wife.." She almost couldn’t hear his deep, soft voice, but she could feel the words.

The sun had dropped below the hedge by now, giving a green filtered light that trembled when the wind hit the leaves. It was getting chillier too; she reached around one last time to tuck the blanket up, so they could hold each other in relative comfort. Soon they’d have to fold up the blankets, grab something to eat from one of the hampers, get themselves back on the road. They had a long drive ahead of them yet.

Still, she wanted to hang onto this moment as long as she could, before the monsters could come back.

***

To Willow, the dark, smoke-stained pub felt like miles from anywhere she knew, even though it was only a couple of blocks from Giles and Anya’s house. Some sporting event she didn’t recognise blared away on the corner TV, but the noise didn’t disguise the alien accents, not like the BBC or Giles or even Spike. The food, jacket-potatoes and weird sandwiches, baffled her too – although the French fries they were all sharing seemed okay– and she didn’t get the whole concept of shandy. Of course it wasn’t like she’d been pub-girl during that summer in Devon.

Foreignness. Jet-lag. Time-lag. Nowhere – but that was the pub’s name.

The Junior Watchers seemed at home, though, and how weird was it to call Dawn and Andrew that. Even as Willow thought this, a beep came from Dawn’s bag on the ground.

Dawn dove into the purse and pulled out some handheld device and then a not-phone phone. "Result, Andrew!" she said. Swinging herself around on the bench so that she was leaning away from the pub table, and then made a call. After a few seconds, she said, "Hey Miss Carter! Colin’s GPS thingie just beeped, which means they stopped somewhere in Oxfordshire – Yep, that means Ruth won the pool. Probably used the GCHQ facilities to research or something, seems like cheating. Anyway, here are the coordinates– "

As Dawn chattered on, Willow raised her eyebrows at Andrew across the table. Using a French fry like a laser-pointer in the ketchup, he explained, "Dawn and I hid an MI5 tracking device in Giles and Anya’s car; there was a betting pool on how soon they would stop for the physical expression of their wedded love." A slide of the fry along the red, a screeching halt. "I’m really impressed they lasted that long. I guessed Slough, and Dawn didn’t think they’d get out of London."

Willow glanced at Xander, but he seemed immune to the whole Giles-Anya-monkey-sex element of the conversation. Of course he also was drinking that beer awfully fast. She said, just to check, "You used British government spy technology for a bet?"

"Yes," Andrew said. "Although if Giles and Anya had thought about it, they could have warded the car and escaped our surveillance. That’s why Dawn’s talking outside the wards we set? The mobile goes all weird inside."

Smiling, she laid her hands on the wooden table and allowed herself to feel the hum, the rippling of a veil – simple barriers that Dawn and Andrew had invoked with a little powder and a few words. They were growing up so fast, she thought.

Funny how she could look at Andrew now and see his crimes as something belonging to his childhood – just like hers, lost to a crater, to dead ground. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she expected her hair to still be white. She felt the drain of magicks strong and weak, light and dark, hers and others. Too many connections to bear easily, too little to ease her.

Dawn finished her call, then swivelled back around after dropping the phone back in her purse. She said, "Oh, you guys were talking about the wards? Did you notice the ones on the house, Willow? They’re your spell, you know. When Giles showed us how to set up the barriers, he told us that our safety depended on you."

The compliment made Willow smile, at least until she looked at Xander. He was staring at the bottom of his glass like it held all the secrets of connection.

Andrew noticed it too. His brow furrowing, his voice rising a little, he said, "Um, Xander? Would you care for some more chips? That would be French fries to an American, of course, and not the pressed potato-products more commonly known to us as–"

"That’d be great, Andrew. Go. Find some English chips," Xander said.

"I’ll go too," Dawn said. "Anybody want anything else?"

"I’ll have another cider – but no, you can’t buy drinks, um –" Willow began.

"I can. We have it covered, anyway," Andrew said.

Dawn added, "We know Jo at the bar? And we need to tell her that she didn’t win the pool."

The two of them headed toward the polished bar. When Xander turned his head to watch them, she did too, trying to see them through his gaze. Dawn was so tall and confident, she realised, as if the little Summers girl had been left behind in America. Andrew was still Andrew, but less gangling and geekish, more connected to the world in a way he hadn’t been before. They leaned on the bar, already chattering to the really hot bartender, a Spanish woman in her early 30s–

"Looking at the waitstaff, Will?" Xander said, finishing off his beer.

She frowned at him. "I was merely cataloguing the relevant features of the Duke of Nowhere – okay, yes, the bartender is cute. Shut up."

"Hey, not a problem for me, especially since you’ve sent Kennedy and her tongue-stud packing. Go forth and flirt; I live vicariously through your adventures."

"Says the man who has an on-again, off-again thing with the scariest of Slayers." When she received a return frown, she said, "Sorry. Forgot the no-go-ness of the Faith topic, although it doesn’t seem fair, what with...Okay, never mind. So was it Dawn or Andrew you were looking at?"

"What?" His voice went up a familiar Xander-octave. Caught, ha ha.

"The staring at the Junior Watchers thing, pal. I can’t tell which one’s the target, though."

He pointed the empty glass at her. "First of all, I’m not looking at the Junior Watchers, because ewww, and further, ewww. Second of all, we will not discuss your insane ideas about my sexuality, Miss Rosenberg. Not discussing. Completely not discussing. I get enough torture from Faith."

"Not discussing," she said agreeably, and tossed back the last of her drink. "However–"

"No! No no no!" The glass came down hard on the table. "I’d almost rather talk about Giles and Anya’s wedding than your theories about the Kinsey scale and one Alexander Lavelle Harris, especially since, as we all know, your psych teacher was a crazy fascist monster-builder."

"‘Kay. Let’s talk about the wedding." She grinned at him when he hid his face in his arms, then she laid a hand on his. "No, really. I know you say you’re okay, but are you okay?"

He turned his head to smile at her, sleepy and sweet. "I am, in fact, okay."

"Good. Good, because I know I talked you into coming, and talked to Robson to get you to come, and–"

"Willow, it’s okay." His hand turned, grasping hers. "It was strange, but good strange. I feel free now. And a little sick to my stomach, but that’s because the American constitution isn’t made for the French pastry. Those Frog bastards." After a pause, he said, "But maybe you’ll tell me something. What’s wrong with Buffy?"

"Oh. Buffy." She picked at a stray napkin.

"Yes, Buffy. First and still Queen Slayer–"

"That’s what Andrew calls her; it must be some kind of sign."

"Stop. We’re talking about Buffy: ‘bout so high, shoe fetish, souled vampire fetish, not so much with the attending-her-Watcher’s wedding thing. I was too freaked out earlier to ask, but – what the hell was that?"

"She’s...I don’t really get what the problem is. And I don’t think she does either." Willow didn’t want to think about Buffy crying on her bed the night of Giles and Anya’s engagement, stammer-sobbing about missing Dawn and it was Giles’s fault, and from no choice to too many choices, and something about Spike and Angel. And also baking, but that didn’t make sense so Willow hadn’t pursued it.

Before she could fumble for an explanation, though, the Junior Watchers were back, carrying food – chips of both kinds and a couple of sandwiches – and drinks. "We think that a protein-carb combination will help your travel-weariness," Andrew announced, as he slid the food onto the table.

"Or you could take a nap. Looks like Xander’s already there," Dawn said, sitting down.

"Just resting my weary eyes. But give me beef, and beer, and I’ll be fighting crime again in no time," Xander said, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

"Well, that’s good about the crime-fighting. Because let me tell you, London is a hotbed of criminal demon activity, which we at Giles and Jenkins monitor closely in conjunction with our short-staffed friends at MI5." Andrew took a drink of his cider, then said, "We’ll ask you both for assistance tomorrow, when you’re not so...floppy."

"Floppy?" Xander yelped..

"We’re not judging you," Dawn said, and handed him a French fry, which Willow thought was a bit too much of the limp-phallus imagery. "Jet-lag, it’s a thing. Anyway, we have to staff Investigations and Acquisitions tomorrow, answer the phones, finish a couple of reports–"

"And we’re of course still working on the important Xet-prophecy material. You two as Original Scoobies probably have valuable input on such questions as ‘Day of the Dead: Actual Cultural Reference or Mere Supervillain Descriptor?’" Andrew nodded wisely.

"I thank God I have another meeting in the morning," Xander said. After another drink of beer, however, he added, "But hey, after that– when in London, what else is there to do but research?"

"Oh, lots of things," Dawn said. She scooted closer to Willow so she could say quietly, "Speaking of... do you want to meet Jo, who works the bar here? She’s nice, and she, like, plays on your team."

"Dawnie–"

Eyes big and melting, Andrew looked at Xander. "I’m sorry that we don’t have an available bartender for you."

"That’s perfectly all right. Really," Xander said. Then he started laughing, a helpless wheeze that took over his whole body. On a gasp: "Does anyone else think this day has been really, really weird?"

"Yep, sweetie. It’s all about the time-lag," Willow said, grabbing his hand across the table.

Some connections did make everything easier to bear.

***

Nalph’s private office was crowded. The shopkeeper himself sat at his desk, a claw passing along his dreadlocks in contemplation. Lurking against the cabinets was Master Hat, flanked by his faithful half-demon followers Garrison and Bixp. Yeangelt assumed that he was attempting to reinforce his place in the conspiracy, although if she were honest, he didn’t have to.

With Griffin and her Pennith still healing from their wounds, living on power from souls she couldn’t really spare from the Opening, Master Hat and Nalph were all she had.

But she had been the Lady Yeangelt for far longer than simple humans could understand. She’d been waiting for the right time – the multitude of Slayers and warriors on this benighted earth was the fulcrum. It marked her prophecy and her escape.

Or it would soon enough.

Interrupting her allies’ strained conversation, she moved into the lantern-light and said, "We have two orders of business tonight. Master Hat tells me that his team’s forays into human back-alleys and demon-haunts have been successful; souls and spirits have been collected on schedule. That leaves us with two problems."

"The boium tree?" Nalph said.

"Yes. I’ll ask you to use your contacts, Nalph – perhaps find this Anyanka person, use her acquisition services. If she was once a demon, she should be susceptible to reason." After his nod, she turned to Master Hat. "Have you arranged the meeting for tomorrow as I asked of you?"

"Yes, Lady. Although I don’t quite see–"

"You don’t need to see, Master Hat. Let me just say that I’m exploring...alternatives...to the Cup of Xet."

"But the truth-sayers tell us that the Rising Time is triggered only when the Cup comes together," Nalph said. "You know another way, sorceress?"

"As it happens, Mikh Lord, I might." She had read the runes on the scroll that only Pennith knew she had. She had called on those past, drunk knowledge from them. A path had marked itself, even though she couldn’t see the future.

Her allies and soldiers stared at her. She could feel their doubt, even Master Hat’s.

Although part of her knew she should be conserving strength, the long days of stitching spirit back into her fallen had made her restless and fed her cravings for flight. She needed to remind them who Yeangelt had been and was. Smiling at them, she said, "Shall I fetch you all a gift to show how you can trust me?"

She folded her hands together, then lifted, lifted, so that she could step into space–

And she was there.

Sunset behind grey buildings, dark overhead. Although lights from passing cars sliced over the black, empty site, she knew how to fade away from human vision, just as she knew how to mimic humanity. She rather enjoyed both, which was why tomorrow morning should be pleasant.

But now, in the dark, she bent to touch the ground. The land hadn’t been completely cleared after last year’s explosion. The earth still shook inside with the voices of souls and spirits lost twice, once when collected, once when the building blew up.

No, the Lady Yeangelt hadn’t been the only one interested in collecting demon-spirits, she thought, smiling. The old Council in its deepest heart, its secret places, had understood her tastes. The inner circle might have said they were doing it for good, but she knew there were always a few who really liked the extraction and the pain. Good could shade into dark so easily.

It had been so lovely earlier this year when the darkest of the remaining Watchers had called on her and her creatures. He had drawn the sigil and spoken the word, thinking to use her at worst, stop her at best. But it had been the wrong word. She and Pennith had come at his call, of course, but not in the way he’d expected.

His soul she didn’t harvest. That one she had drunk down with a smile.

The thought reminded her to scoop up two handfuls of dirt. She could feel the soul-traces, spirit-traces, a faint humming in her palms. They would brew up nicely; with a few pinches of magick from Nalph’s stores, the potion would give her allies strength of purpose and would prepare her for the meeting in the morning.

After she looked once more at the site in the dark, memorising the feel of it, she folded her hands together, trapping the earth, and lifted them.

***

Cursing under his breath, Giles struggled through the door with the suitcases and the larger of the hamper. With a sigh he dropped the cargo on the entryway stones, then looked around at the dark interior. Light, light, light....

He remembered that there always had been a lamp on the entry table. Stumbling against uneven flooring, he found his way to it and flicked the switch. After a sputter of electricity – bloody wiring probably needed to be looked at – the light came on, reflecting gold against the old wood and plaster. "Ah, there we are, darling. Er, darling?"

She still stood at the threshold, arms folded, tapping her foot. "What’s wrong?" he asked. She toed a line in front of her – oh. Threshold. "Anya, you can’t be serious."

"It’s traditional. You want to uphold all the rituals, don’t you?" She leaned against the doorjamb.

"I believe the threshold ritual is for one’s own house, not one’s honeymoon cottage. And no, not that much."

"We own the place, don’t we? Which makes it our house too. Therefore, I need to be carried across." She beamed at him. "Any time now, honey."

He couldn’t argue with her logic. However, he would do this in his own time and his own way, especially after the torture she’d inflicted on him during the drive. He picked up the hamper and headed for the kitchen.

"Rupert.... Rupert!" she called after him.

After using his shoulder to flip the switch, he walked to the kitchen table. A vase of roses glowed red on the table – Gillian or Margaret must have put them there, a nice welcome-gift. Careful not to disturb them, he put down the kitchen hamper, flipped back the lid, and began to unload perishables into the refrigerator. It already had some pieces of fruit, some butter, a bottle of milk; Anya must have asked for some food to be left for them.

And his wife’s voice – God, he still couldn’t believe it, he’d been waiting so long – was pealing out. "Rupert Giles, what the hell are you doing?"

"My dearest, what is one of the most important things to know about vengeance?" he called to her. Just a couple more things to stow – and yes, good, the split of champagne was cold enough that he could take it with him.

He stopped for a breath and a look around the room: its stone and the wood, its doors to the world and to the cellar, its memories. When he glanced out the kitchen window, he saw that the row of yew trees still trapped the night-mist in their branches.

So many mornings, so many nights alone, looking at the mist. No more.

He wrapped his fist around the champagne split and headed back. When he saw Anya peering in, her hands braced on the doorjamb for balance, he had to grin. She, however, snapped, "You’re asking me about vengeance? Well, the first thing is you never know where it’s going to strike, which better send a warning to you, mister."

"What else?" he said, standing just inches out of her reach.

"It comes back double."

"Ah. So, what do you think you should get for that little concert you gave in the car?"

Her sharp lines softened when she grinned. "Oh, that...honey, that was justice. I mean, I told you that I had to pee, and you just kept saying, ‘Ten more miles, fifteen more miles.’ It was painful, and annoying, and you needed to understand that."

"By singing Celine bloody Dion songs at the top of your lungs?"

"Well, the use of the French-Canadian songbird you loathe made my point, didn’t it? And I got the necessary bathroom–"

He leapt forward and snaked his free arm around her waist, then swung her across the threshold. Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, stopping her words, enjoying her. It only took a second before she eased into him, her arms around his neck pulling him to her.

At which point he lifted his mouth and said, "There. Ritual satisfied, and I’ve avenged my pain."

She yanked at his hair, a sharp little tug. "The other thing about vengeance? It’s wrong, honey."

"True, but that was justice. And I think you’ll need to be punished further, darling." Another kiss, deeper, more serious. Softly: "Why don’t we go upstairs? Run a bath, wash off the dirt from our, er, picnic. Drink some champagne."

Her fingers drifted down his chest, dove to unsnap his jeans and then slip below to tease him. Despite the long drive and the afternoon shag, he was already half-hard. "Sounds like a great official start to the honeymoon," she whispered.

She ran to the staircase, then stopped on the bottom step and threw him a challenging look over her shoulder. She began to sing, loud and clear, "Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the heart does go on...."

"Right, that’s it, wife. Prepare for punishment," he growled.

Laughing even as she kept singing, she went up the rest of the stairs. Smiling, he shut the door, locked it. He could get the suitcases later. Much later.

He took the stairs at a run.

***

The noise of their footsteps and laughter rolled throughout Swallow’s Nest, reaching through wood and stone inside and out, and dropping, muffled, into the cellar.

The man who’d sought refuge there shivered, his dreams troubled by the noise. The mist of nightmare changed the sounds; they were the crash of ocean waves, the drumming of loss and a gunshot.

He fell more deeply into dream, cold-water sleep closing over his head.