Standing in the doorway, Nalph watched them sleep. He was alone this morning. The Lady was away on an important errand with Master Hat’s most trusted lackey at her side; the enforcer himself was busy collecting a soul or two for the soon-to-be-acquired final storage place. Paddington was the target area today, Nalph believed – catch a tourist or two, or perhaps a human commuting from the further reaches of the river valley; drag them back so that the Lady could administer the potion and work the magick, capture essence in glass. With all of their work, the Rising Time was drawing closer.

He briefly considered taking the boium leaf he’d stolen and crumpling it into the flames over the bodies, incanting the reverse of the words he’d heard from Yeangelt. As the leaf disappeared into the fire, the silk would hiss into the sleepers’ skin; their own souls would be ready to be caught and used, their bodies burn away. Two of the Three could be so easily destroyed.

But he wasn’t sure it would stop the process, and he didn’t much like the ugly death that inevitably would follow. Besides, there were still plots to be laid and secrets to be kept. Even as London changed in ways surface and deep, some paths only Nalph knew.

When he crushed the boium leaf in his claws, its remnants disappeared into air. Maybe the fire would come later.

***

At the ringing of church bells over the hills, Giles startled out of dreamless sleep – assisted by a sharp little heel kicking against his calf and a whispered "Oh, that’s sweet."

"Darling?" he said, as he rolled blindly toward Anya, his hand going out to find silk and skin.

"Oops. Sorry, did I get you?"

"Mmm," he said in a non-committal way, pulling her closer.

"Sorry. There was implied good sex in my book, and I must have over-identified."

"Um-hmm. Why the sodding hell are you reading at this hour?" he said, opening his eyes to diffuse grey light pouring through the window, to their bags heaped in the corner of the room, to rumpled blankets, to the torn scraps of her lingerie hanging on one of the bedposts. And there she was, throwing a bright smile over her shoulder at him. His heart expanded in a flurry of love and blood.

She turned onto her stomach, giving one more rather painful kick in the process, and then propped her book on her pillow and her chin on her hand. Her smile widened, heated. "I won’t read any more now that you’re awake. I couldn’t sleep – too happy, and then I had a weird dream, and the house was creaking strangely. But mostly too happy."

"Love you. But you should have woken me." His hands going to her face, he leaned up for a kiss. The fuzzy morning taste and the lingering traces of sex and sweat from the night before comforted him somehow. Made it real, even in the dream-like, cloudy morning.

"Mmm. Maybe I should have." She wriggled closer, her smile inches away. "So, according to my book, I should make sure you know who I am."

He squinted at the volume on her pillow – Busman’s Honeymoon. "You’re telling me that Dorothy Sayers is determining our honeymoon programme?" However, when she wrapped her finger in a curl of his chest hair and raised her eyebrows in an unmistakable dare, he added, "Er, right. You’re Anya, and you’re my wife."

"You passed that test beautifully, Rupert. Who is my husband." She slithered herself up and over him, with only a few harsh scrapes of nightshirt button on the way – he didn’t know when or why she’d put on the bloody thing. While he worked his fingers down so he could unbutton the shirt, she said, "I’m still not tired of saying it. How about you?"

"No. Don’t imagine I ever will be." After getting the last button, he lifted her so that the shirt could fall open around them both. As she lay back down, she did a little sea-wave, silk and skin and pressure from hip to shoulder, and his morning erection swelled a little more. He adjusted her to fit him – yes, that felt good, the hollow between her thigh and torso perfect – then let his hand drift down to cup her arse. Cool, smooth...but he had to ask, "Any soreness?"

"Nope. A nice little tingle, that’s all. You did it just right; you’re winning the pleasure-moment race again." She sent her own fingers down his arm, tracing the vein. When her nails touched his tattoo – last time of it, he hoped, since they planned to have it taken care of today – he tried not to flinch. But she knew, and she soothed before tickling to his wrist. "Of course I should have expected you to be skilled at discipline, but that riding crop was nevertheless quite handy. Now I wonder what you’ve been up to with the witches."

"Ha. As I believe I mentioned, dearest, the crop is in fact for riding. However, since you asked so nicely and behaved so badly...."

"That’s my honey." A giggle and a soft kiss on his neck, another sea-wave that made his cock harden almost painfully. Pressing her into him, he closed his eyes and enjoyed – until she nipped his ear and said, "Now pay attention. According to my novel, you’re also supposed to recite a bit of a poem for me."

"And now you’ve gone completely mad."

"No, really. In the book Lord Peter Wimsey does it all the time, but especially on the first morning of his honeymoon."

"Um-hmm. Darling, have I ever recited poetry to you?"

"Well, no."

"Does anything about me indicate, er, a hidden passion for verse?"

"That would also be a No." She dug her chin into his shoulder until he yelped. "But come on, give it a try."

He tightened his grip on her arse. "Perhaps just this once. Um, yes. ’Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds....’ Er, something something something." Then he bucked her up and off, ignoring her happy shriek, and rolled until they were a tangle of bodies and bedclothes. His hips beginning a slow slide against her, he said, "Right, I’ve done quoting. Now you should recite something for me, I think."

After winding one arm around his neck and smiling in a rather alarming way, she sent her other hand down to find him. As her fist closed over his length and pulsed: "You think I won’t? You can have it in English or Arashmaharr."

"Christ, darling," he managed to get out.

"English, then. But I’ll have to translate from the demon as I go." Screwing up her face in concentration, she began to pump her hand, silk and perfect pressure surrounding him. "Let’s see– yep, got it. ‘There once was a husband named Giles....’"

***

Outside, Gilbert Place had been quiet, and Dawn kind of hoped it’d be the same inside. Responsibility was weighing heavy this morning; it wasn’t as much fun as she’d expected without the senior partners of Investigations and Acquisitions. And they had to deal with Willow too, who’d been quietly cranky since breakfast.

As she slipped the key into the door, she said, "Okay, Andrew, now."

After they awkwardly traded places, he outlined the door and muttered the spell. Then: "It’s a go."

With the wards taken care of, she opened the door and switched on the lights. The two big desks, the two smaller ones, the seating area for clients – everything looked fine. She let out a breath.

From behind them Willow said, "I guess you guys take security seriously?"

"Oh we have to," Andrew said. With a goofy bow and the smack of his very stupid briefcase (with its Council of Watchers stamp on its side), he pushed her and Willow into the office. As he followed, he added, "We’ve got important papers and artifacts here which need protection. Giles and Jenkins is stamping out nasty business, you know."

"Extraordinary crimes against the people and the state must be avenged by agents extraordinary," Dawn agreed. She went to her desk, where the file for the ghost-infested house in Hampstead Giles had investigated last week floated on top of her stack – she’d have to finish typing his report and send it out this morning, Anya had left the invoice instructions too – but first she fished around for the binder of the Xet/Yeangelt discoveries. "It’s not as gloom-and-doomy as lots of the Sunnydale stuff was, but there’s some serious badness. Like this, which Giles said you might want to look at."

Taking the binder but not opening it, Willow balanced on the edge of Giles’s desk. Looking around, she said, "For some reason I expected more of a dusty British library vibe here. I mean, the firm’s name and all seems kind of Masterpiece Theatre."

"No. Plants for Anya, books for Giles, the framed London maps as a compromise for the artwork," Andrew said, turning on his computer on his way into the conference room.

"Yeah, though we’ve put the maps for demon sightings and haunts back here in our area. Shouldn’t scare the mundanes, you know?" Dawn said. "Here, let me show you where to start."

She leaned over and found the first important page in the binder. Using that poor dead almost-Watcher’s files and what Giles had since found in an archive in the Cambridge University library system, a collection of British prophecies and oddities the Watchers sometimes had used, they’d discovered that the first written reference to the Xet didn’t occur until 1667. That mention in a private letter also had said that there had been "Xet travellers" since at least Roman times. Anya had since called on a couple of contacts, who said that nobody talked much about the travellers any more – but when they did, it was kind of unpleasant, with powerful magicks and cold and demons who explored the multiverse. There was a whole lot of nothing about what happened when the travellers got there, except it was super-bad.

There also was a whole lot of nothing about why souls and demon spirits were being taken, although MI5 and Scotland Yard finally had compared notes on all the weird outbreaks of insanity and missing persons and stuff – which reminded Dawn that she needed to call Zoe and make the regular report that afternoon. Maybe Giles and Anya would have called with news from the coven, especially since Anya had found and taken the special scrying mirror requested by the seer-chick. Should be some hard-core divination going on in the next day or two.

Willow was still staring at the page and frowning when Andrew’s computer finished booting up, the theme from Star Wars trumpeting just as he came back out of the conference room. It was like he’d planned his entrance, which Dawn wouldn’t put past him. "Coffee’s on, Willow, and we have a variety of flavourings," he announced. Then he sat down at his desk, cracking his knuckles. "Got some e-mail to check, ladies. Send good thoughts into the multiverse for me."

"Oh, I forgot. The Nri-encrusted vessel for the hoppy business frog of darkness," Dawn said, sitting down at her own desk and turning on her own computer. One cool thing – without Giles there to grumble, she could play Virgin Radio as loud as she wanted while she worked.

But Willow was saying, "Nri-encrusted? Hoppy business frog?"

"A rare cup for prosperity magicks, only three ever reported seen in this dimension, one of which is already with Nalph the Mikh evil-merchant demon – who does hop," Andrew said. "We’re currently working a lead in Prague; Spike gave us the name of a sorcerer-guy."

The binder almost slipped out of Willow’s hands, her Birkenstocks thumping against the side of the desk. "Spike? You guys talk to Spike?"

"Sure. Be careful with the binder, we worked hard to compile that," Dawn said, after which she stomped on the little voice in her head that told her she sounded an awful lot like Giles. Well, Junior Watcher here, it couldn’t be helped.

Andrew said, "In fact, as I check my inbox, even now I see an e-mail from our heroic bleached Cham–"

"–Don’t finish that word!" Dawn snapped. You know it makes him go all psycho soul vamp. Just don’t even put it out into the world, ‘kay?" Which made Andrew blush and look down. He really hated the idea of upsetting Spike, what with the giant crush visible from outer space and all.

Willow cut off the discussion with a hand-gesture. "Okay, okay, time-out. Buffy doesn’t even really talk to Spike, but you guys, I mean, even Giles is cool with him?"

"Well, yeah," Andrew said. "Especially since Spike and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce are about to make the big move east. First vampire in the Council since–"

"1703," Dawn finished with him, grinning. They’d both aced that quiz.

He continued, "You know about that, right, Willow?"

"And anyway, what’s wrong with big sister and her silent treatment toward man and vampire? Is she, like, having a breakdown or something?" Dawn asked. For Giles’s sake she was still a little pissed off that Buffy couldn’t have got it together to come to the wedding; she knew how much it hurt him.

She could relate to the whole hurt thing for her own sake, actually.

Willow was staring at her own green-socked toes. "I think she might be, Dawnie. I’m really worried about her."

Remembering the brave yet plastic smile Buffy had worn when she’d put her on the plane to England, Dawn felt a sudden pang. Maybe it was partly her fault –

But Andrew said, "Come on, she’s the Queen Slayer! She’s not tied to a hellmouth any more, she’s got money now and respect and an army of less powerful Slayers to lead, she’s got the support system of the New Council. What could be wrong?"

Willow smacked the binder on the desk. "Look, it’s not that easy for us back there. You guys might have fallen into the pretty-picture life, living with the patriarch and yeah, even Anya, with the cool jobs and the safe space and the whole London thing, but it’s been really hard for us who’ve been left behind. It’s just not...home. And I know only we can make it home, but we’re doing a really terrible job of it." The last words came out in a whisper, as if she’d surprised herself. "A really, really terrible job."

After Dawn and Andrew exchanged looks, she went over to give Willow a hug, a one-armed pull of reassurance. "I’m sorry."

"Yes, um, sorry," Andrew said quietly, before turning back to his computer.

Wishing Giles and Anya would come back and relieve her of this responsibility, Dawn held onto Willow while the keyboard clacked on, while the anger and power steaming under Willow’s surface dissolved into air.

***

After tugging on his tie unnecessarily, Xander sipped at his bad coffee and looked around at the Holborn office of Markby and Markby. All around there were walls of ancient Giles-ish books behind glass, words trapped in cases, captured laws and rules. But no problem. He could do this, yessir. It’d be easy.

God, he had no idea what he was doing.

From the outer office came the high-pitched, coughing whine of Amelia Markby; she was Robson’s cousin, and the current head of the firm of solicitors who’d acted for the Watchers for two centuries. Six foot tall and scary-thin in tweed, she’d peered accusingly at Xander when he’d arrived at the office at nine. "Welcome, Mr. Harris," she’d said, her voice hoarse. After putting her hand to her throat, she scratched out, "Pardon my cold. But, as I said, welcome despite the irregularity."

"The what?"

"The irregularity. As I told Mark when I contacted him, the seller shouldn’t really be involved at this juncture. It’s completely out of the common way, I have no idea what the buyer wants."

"Well, hey, I’ve been in Cleveland. Not much with the reading of English people’s minds." Which he could have put better, actually. Ignoring a nasty stomach-flop, like he’d been pushed off the high dive before he was ready, he’d said, "I know the history of the site and the specs, if that’s what they want. And, um, who are ‘they’ again?"

"Mrs. Douglas Pennyworth. She represents a consortium of some kind; the money and credentials check out, which is what you need to know." Ms. Markby had almost smiled. "Sit here and wait, Mr. Harris. I’ll bring her in when she arrives."

Once more he felt a weird sort of time-lag. For a second he was out of place and adrift – in Cleveland drinking coffee before getting on the plane; then, in Seat 38J in a darkened cabin, sipping from a tiny white cup while he studied the files of distant past and recent past, Watchers dead and gone, so he didn’t have to think about a woman he used to love and an ex-Watcher he hadn’t really known.

Coffee. Stomach-ache. Here, now, in London. As he put his feet down metaphorically speaking, he literally knocked the cup over. Although he grabbed it before too much damage was done, tepid coffee spilled over his fingers.

"Mr. Harris?" a soft female voice said from the doorway.

"Um, yes. Sort of. Hi!" Faking a cool that couldn’t have been more millions of miles away from his reality, he stood and smiled and unobtrusively wiped his fingers on his Dockers.

The older woman in the doorway – small, silver-haired, but with a bizarre luminous edge – extended her hand, lady to servant. Behind her a grey, shadowy man hovered, as if holding her non-existent train. When Xander took her hand, her grip was almost like a claw.

Sliding around the shadow-guy, Amelia Markby said, "Yes. Xander Harris – Mrs. Pennyworth, and her associate Mr. Garrison."

Mrs. Pennyworth’s grip tightened to the point of pain. He could see blood-spots on her hand and wrist, although they looked more like needle-marks than age."Are you sure you’re a Watcher?" she said sharply. "The point of this interview was to speak to a Watcher."

"Um, I have handled a Slayer or two in my time...." Coughing away a sudden image of Faith naked above him, her fingers on his chest as she rode, he said, "Yes. I’m a member of the Council of Watchers. Facilities administrator." He managed not to stumble on the title Robson had just given him. "As I’m sure Ms Markby or your real-estate agent told you when you first looked at the site, there was an explosion last year – although we’re sure it’s safe now – and all the Watchers are pretty much new. Different."

"Ah." The woman finally smiled and let him go. "The lost are replaced by the new and different. As it should be." When she moved, her hair shimmered; he found himself thinking of grey silk, but patchwork, with black threads. That strange light weakened, replaced by the flash from her dangling earrings, heavy black stone in a twisted symbol he’d never seen before. "Shall we talk about the site?"

Pushed off the high dive, twisting in mid-air.

***

"I was what in your dream?" Rupert said from the top of the stairs, halted in the middle of putting on his sweatshirt.

Anya thought he should finish dressing, since he was still a bit damp from their bath and she didn’t want him to catch a cold, but there was no use in saying it. Anyway: "Did the good-morning sex make you deaf? I said you were a musical pirate."

"Oh for fuck’s sake."

"It was just a dream, Rupert. I don’t actually expect you to sing me a sea-shanty – although dream-you did so very nicely, while waving an extremely long sword." Lighter in hand, she leaned over the pillars she’d just set up on the entryway table. She’d forgotten to do the candles the night before, being otherwise busy with love, lust, and the enjoyable marital exchange of vengeance, but the important ceremony shouldn’t be put off any longer.

"Hang on, I’ll help," he said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and then thudding barefoot down the stairs.

After he stood behind her, his hand covering hers, together they touched small blue flame to the first wick. "Love," he said. Together they lit the second candle. "Safety," she said.

Once the wish-fires lit the entry, she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to explain how much it meant that he would do this with her, even though she was fairly sure he didn’t believe in it.

Dropping one arm over her shoulders, he steered her in the general direction of the kitchen. "We’ve got a couple of hours before we need to go to Tor House. What shall we do before then, besides have breakfast?"

"Oh come on, honey, it’s obvious. Food and caffeine are most important, but then we should explore our house!"

A look she couldn’t quite pin down, mixed-up pride and pain and Rupert-reserve, crossed his face, but all he said was "Yes, our house, darling."

For the first time she actually had a chance to look at the downstairs. She knew that Swallow’s Nest had been built in the sixteenth century, and the Giles family had acquired it at the end of Victoria’s reign; Rupert’s father David had modernised it in between his Watcher duties, bringing in the all-important electric and phone and good plumbing. The rooms were small, low-beamed, cluttered with old furniture, and a little dark even with white-washed walls. Draughty, too.

With a pang she found herself remembering time long gone, a cold cottage in another country. She could almost hear her mother shouting at her, feel the rabbit-fur against her skin–

"Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit quiet." His arm curved, bringing her into his warmth. She must have shivered.

Forcing herself to smile, she captured his hand. "You bet. Fine and happy." Nothing, especially not inconvenient flashbacks to eleven thousand years and several lives ago, was going to ruin her perfect honeymoon with him. Serenity right the hell now, she told herself.

The sight of the kitchen helped. There were two shut doors, one to the world outside, one which must be to the cellar. Two windows let in the grey morning, revealing a stone floor, and also wooden beams and white-washed plaster which could use a paint effect or two. Copper pots and pans hung against one wall; a few modern appliances shone on the counter top.

The big Fortnum’s hamper sent by Jools Siviter was open on the table, next to a lovely vase of roses. She said, "Didn’t you unpack that last night when you left me outside in your fairly inefficient act of vengeance?"

"Seemed to work at the time, darling. And I did perishables only. Some muffins are still in there, I think, and I’ll start the tea." After passing his hand over her hair, he went over to the kettle.

When he left her, she shivered again. For some reason she remembered those weird noises in the night, creaks and a sound like a door rattling in the wind. Even as she began to search the hamper for the good stuff, she said, "So, um, honey, I probably should have asked before – we don’t have ghosts or anything at Swallow’s Nest, do we?"

His voice was hard to hear over the running tap. "Not real ones, no." He turned to put the kettle on.

"Excuse me?" She got the bread-like goods and carefully placed them beside the roses. "How do you define ‘real’?"

He came over and started digging around for the tea. Head down, he said, "No ghosts that you can see or hear, dearest. Don’t worry."

"That doesn’t sound right somehow. What–"

But he put a hand on her arm, saying underneath his breath, "Quiet. Don’t move." It was his spy-voice.

Silently he went around the table. When she turned around, she saw he was heading for one of the doors, the one to the cellar.

The one opening on its own.

What happened next was fuzzy to her, maybe because the kettle started screaming at that point. A tall, dark-haired stranger came menacingly out of the black nowhere; Rupert did something impressively violent and espionage-trained which resulted in the man’s arms being pinned behind him, but then stopped and said in a shocked voice, "Tom?"

And the stranger slammed Rupert against the wall – she could feel the impact, feel his pain. The kettle got louder.

Wincing, Rupert held out his hand. "Calm down, old son."

"I’m not....You’re supposed to be dead!" The man stumbled back a step. She thought he looked shut down, locked tight against the world, but the door was rattling. "I don’t know – I don’t remember–"

"Tom," Rupert said again, over the kettle-scream.

"I don’t know who Tom is. But...but I saw you die. I saw you." Then he leapt, his hands going towards Rupert’s neck. When Rupert blocked that, he smashed an elbow into her husband’s stomach, a blow she knew had to hurt like hell.

Which at last made her wake up. Two steps, and one of the pots was in her hands; three big steps, and the kitchen rang with the collision of metal and stranger’s head. Groaning, he sank to his knees.

The kettle went silent. The fail-safe to ensure it didn’t boil dry had worked, she thought numbly.

As Rupert managed to kick the stranger against the table, she grabbed the vase of roses so they wouldn’t break, so she could break them herself over the man’s head if necessary. But he collapsed all the way onto the floor, arms over his head, saying, "You’re not supposed to be here. You’re a traitor. You’re dead."

Coughing, Rupert bent down. "Steady on, Tom."

"I don’t know...why do you keep calling me that name? I don’t know that name." For just an instant he seemed to crumple, before the cold, locked face came back. More steadily he said, "Siobhan, Gillian... they didn’t say to expect visitors. But maybe ghosts are usual guests for witches."

"We own the cottage, mister. The coven just leases it," Anya said. "And we weren’t informed about a homicidal maniac being the witches’ guest, either."

"Anya, perhaps we should have tried harder to ring them yesterday." Nobly attempting but failing to stifle a groan, he stood back up, looming over the man on the floor. For some crazy-person reason the man’s hands went to his own throat as if he were choking. Despite his obvious anger Rupert said kindly, " It’s all right. We’ll call them, sort this out. I’m Rupert Giles, remember, you’ve met me several times."

The man curled in on himself, not responding. But suddenly the repetition of the name made sense to her. "Oh my God, that’s Tom Quinn! Zoe and Danny’s missing Tom!"

"Yes. And, er, wonderfully effective attack work, darling, thank you, but you can put the vase down now." Rupert came to her, helped her set down the roses. She didn’t realise that she was shaking until his big hands closed over hers. "Are you all right?"

"Honey, for God’s sake, I’m not the one who got slugged." She pressed against him, mindful of potential injuries. "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine," he said in his usual soldiering-on-in-spite-of-agony way. "Could you ring the main house – the phone’s in the lounge – and ask them why the fucking hell he was in our cellar?"

"Okay." When she looked back down, the Tom-person still had his face covered. "You know, I didn’t expect him to be quite so lurky or potentially murderous."

"Something’s certainly wrong. But we’ll find out what," he said.

"I’m not happy about leaving you in here alone with a crazy person, you know. And I’m damn sick of people trying to kill you or beat you up every other week," she said sharply.

"Anya, please. Just make the call."

"All right, Rupert. But we’re going to have to talk about this." She let him go and started for the phone.

The candles were still burning in the entryway as she passed. Hers hadn’t done its work, she thought.

***

The door to Investigations and Acquisitions flew open. "Found it at last! Man, could you people make it any harder to locate your offices? I almost wound up in the British Museum, stamped, tagged and filed, before anyone could have missed me!" Xander announced.

Andrew looked up from his computer screen. Gorgeous, troubled, business-attired Xander, standing in the nicely appointed client area of Giles and Jenkins – it was like the beginning of one of his most secret fantasies. Since the...badness, however, he always made himself remember what was real. They were fellow Watcher-guys, not quite friends: that was all. He said pleasantly, "Hello, Xander. Were my directions messed up?"

"Not the directions’ fault, but jet-lag and the utter weirdness of London." A half-smile. "So, where are the fair maidens, and what’re you doing on your own?"

Andrew pushed his chair back. "Willow and Dawn went around the corner to purchase our lunch from the kindly sandwich-maker Mr Takicopoulos. We thought we could go eat our take-away food in Bloomsbury Square? Because Willow was lecturing about Virginia Woolf and rooms of one’s own and lighthouses and stuff – anyway, we don’t really have a choice. I stayed behind because I’m waiting for an important e-mail for Acquisitions." He glanced back at the monitor; nothing yet, which he knew anyway, since he’d set it to play the main title theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark whenever mail arrived.

"Acquisitions, huh. So you work with Anya?"

"Yes, I’m her assistant, just like Dawn is Giles’s. They’re both Watcher internships, though, and we switch off sometimes. Anya doesn’t mind." Looking down, Andrew rearranged his desk decorations – postcards of Jennifer Garner and Patrick McGoohan as the Prisoner that he’d bought at the Cinema Store – so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself or Xander any further. It was so difficult to know what to say, what wouldn’t break poor Xander’s heart more about his loss of the perfect woman.

Not that Xander seemed all that broken up at the moment. "I’m surprised she’d be cool with sharing. Must be part of the new thing." When he wandered over to perch on Giles’s desk, he picked up the large framed photo – Giles and Anya lounging against a picnic basket on Hampstead Heath, smiling at each other– and stared at it for a minute. Then he put it away and said, "So, how’s life in England for you, young Padawan?"

"Great," Andrew said cautiously, thinking of Willow’s flicker of Dark Goddess-ness that morning. "We, Dawn and I, we do miss our fellow apocalypse-survivors." Like you, he silently added. "But I’m happier here. Dawn is too."

"That’s what I was getting. Good to know – I’ll be sure to tell Buffy."

"Um, and how are you? In Cleveland, I mean. and with your Slayer... I mean, Slayers, plural, not just fierce dark-haired beauties in leather –"

"Okay, Andrew." Xander pushed off the desk with an impatient gesture, as if his emotions were too big for his body.

Searching for a safer topic, Andrew said, "Sorry. Is being Facilities Administrator enjoyable?"

"Tell you the truth, most of the time I’d rather be dry-walling." He grinned, not a Xander-special but close to it. "I mean, I had a good morning today. Answered some bizarre old Englishwoman’s questions, got a purchase agreement with a lease for immediate occupancy, but somehow I just wanted to hop on the Millennium Falcon and hyperspace out of there to the nearest construction site."

"You probably wouldn’t need the hyperdrive for that," Andrew said seriously. When Xander laughed, he added, " If you really want a trowel in your hand, you can always check out my and Dawn’s space. The builders were supposed to be here last week to finish the plastering, but so far, nothing. I mean, if you’re bored – I do also have a nice selection of comics and DVDs–"

"Thanks, I might take the trowel." And that was a Xander-special grin. "Nice hyperdrive move there yourself, Chewie."

Andrew would have blurted out something embarrassing about the special relationship between a pilot and his Wookiee, but at that moment the outer door slammed, bringing Willow’s voice in mid-sentence, "–not tell? There was something nearby watching us, Dawn."

"Whatever. Didn’t feel it, but if you say so, there is," Dawn’s voice replied. Xander got up just in time to open the door, revealing the two with their arms full of food packets. Dawn smiled up at him. "Thanks, big guy! Ready for lunch? How ‘bout you, Andrew?"

At which point the Raiders theme blasted out of his computer speakers. When he clicked on his message, he smiled himself. "No, you guys go on. I’ve got to make arrangements for a cup to be overnighted here, for special delivery for an evil Mikh merchant. Investigations and Acquisitions comes through again!"

***

Anya took another squishy step up the hill. The field in which they walked featured a cold wind, low clouds, grass and rocks, and a lot of mud. A lot of mud, much of it now adhering to her boots.

"Is this our land, or is it the coven’s?" she said.

With those pain-lines still around his eyes, Rupert shifted his hold on the scrying mirror he carried and managed a smile. "Ours. The coven’s property begins just over that stone wall."

"And Tor House is just beyond, right?"

"Er, perhaps a bit further than that."

"Rupert, you’re such a strategist. You misrepresented the walking distance for some sneaky purpose of your own," she said. "It’s not your Range-Rover campaign again, is it?"

"Well, I don’t see why I can’t have one, it’d be practical if we’re to spend more time in the country," he said. "But no, I just wanted to walk. The coven really isn’t that far, darling, stop complaining."

"Pathetic gas mileage and high cost of insurance in the city mean you can’t have your enormous status vehicle, as you very well know. And I’m not complaining, I’m just asking. Still –" she paused, looking him over. Even though he walked with his usual long stride, his posture was stiff like his back hurt him. That slam against the kitchen wall had done him no favours. "Don’t you think driving would have been more sensible, as you were attacked and now ache all over?"

"No." Mouth going tight, he sped up, as if he could out-walk the pain he was trying to deny.

Despite mud obstacles, she hurried to catch up. "If you’re hurting too much, Gillian and Michael and Margaret won’t fix your tattoo today."

"I’m fine, Anya. They’ll be able to alter it if they’re not otherwise busy. Bit worried about their reaction to Tom actually, might be hard to get their attention." He glanced over at her. "I’ll make sure you get your mark of protection in any case, which is more important."

"Oh for God’s sake. Have you no sense of self-preservation?" she said. But they were at the wall by then, which cut off the lecture she was planning; instead, she grabbed the mirror out of his hands so he could climb over first.

He didn’t move with his usual easy competence – a grunt of pain as he lifted himself over, a slip of his hand on the crumbling stone, more pain-noise when he landed. She cradled the mirror closer and watched him hurt. She hated to watch him hurt. Something would have to be done.

Holding out his hand over the barrier, he said, "Give me that, then I’ll help you over."

She held the mirror tighter, refusing to give it back. "Honey, I can’t stand to see you like this."

"Like what?" The wind tousled his hair, bruising colour into his face as his hand dropped. He was so strong, so stubborn, so...hers, staring at her, mouth still tight. Temper was in the mix now, though.

This morning he’d looked just that wounded and furious, standing over Tom Quinn. The sight had fired her own anger, which grew when she got Margaret the healer on the line. The woman hadn’t seemed to care at all that the amnesiac spy had tried to injure Rupert. Instead she’d all but screamed, "Matthew’s come back? You know his real name? That’s wonderful, we can help him now!" In less than fifteen minutes Margaret and Siobhan had been at the door to wrap him up, fuss over him, and take him back to the coven. Some people had their priorities all wrong.

Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins Giles, however, was not one of those people. She protected her own. And she said, "Rupert, promise me you’ll stop being a spy. After we settle the Xet problem, anyway."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Spying isn’t good for you. I mean, since we came to England you’ve been sliced at, punched, threatened, hit again, had bad magick jabbed into your arm and then been put into a brief coma by more bad magick, and then today been attacked by an insane missing agent who’s ostensibly on our side. Do you see a disturbing pattern here?"

"Accidents happen, Anya."

"Not that many! It’s the espionage work – this never happened when you were in Sunnydale"

"Even as the not particularly successful Watcher of a Slayer, I still had my share of injuries," he said, his words almost swallowed by the wind. "And the MI5 work isn’t usually as, er, event-filled as it’s been this summer."

"It’s still not safe. And by the way, you’re still and always a Watcher, and you know you did great with Buffy, ungrateful though she is."

"No, I’m not, and I didn’t. But never mind." Gazing down the hill, his profile sharp against the lightening afternoon sky, he looked sad all of a sudden. Tired, too, like last winter. "I don’t understand what started this– Christ, Anya, you’re a spy because of me. You’ve seemed happy enough to play Tommy and Tuppence."

"But it’s not play, you idiot, it’s real!" she said, the anger and worry she’d been smothering for months roaring out of nowhere. "You’ve been saving the world forever, and you should get to quit now, especially as you have a responsibility to me – to your wife – to stay sane and alive. We’ve got crazy Wes and now crazy Tom Quinn to worry about, there are dead people in the Thames and there’s demons and mysterious people who seem to want you dead too. I can’t watch that happen. Apparently you don’t care anything about my feelings if you just–"

But her words and her rage died when she saw his eyes. Oh God, she’d done this all wrong, hit his guilt too hard, made him hurt worse. He said quietly, "I do care. I care very much."

"Oh, honey, I take it back, I take it all back." Handling the mirror carefully – it would be more than bad luck if she let out the spirits that gave it its power – she reached out to him. "Help me over, please."

He took the mirror first, laid it on a patch of grass, then held out his hand. "Here."

Holding onto him tightly, she clambered over the rough stone. Almost scraped her knee in the process, did scrape her palm; the wall was higher for her than for him. As soon as she was on the other side, she pulled out of the mud and threw her arms around his middle. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"I don’t quite know what you’re apologising for." There at last came his arms around her in return, comforting despite the chill in his voice and the painful stiffness in his body. That new ache was her fault.

"Now that I’ve found you, I need you with me, Rupert," she said against his jacket. He smelled of smoke and limes and Devon, and his heart thumped away under her cheek. She tightened her grip on him. "But I shouldn’t yell at you, don’t let me yell at you. That promise I asked you to make – it’s not fair."

Even as close as she was, she could barely hear him. "Do you really want me to resign?"

This was possibly the stupidest question he had ever asked her. But after silently repeating to herself ‘Different, better choices’ several times, she said, "Not relevant. What do you want, honey? What do you think is right? That’s what you choose."

Silent, his arms binding her closer, he buried his mouth in her hair.

She shifted in his hold so that her lips were over his heart, and she made another wish. It would have to do.

***

From outside Nalph’s office came the shriek of a man losing his soul. At the long, high anguish, his private stock of magicks shuddered in their glass jars along the walls, the occasional spark or pop from the ones most affected. It seemed Master Hat was enjoying himself this afternoon, finishing the job the Lady Yeangelt had begun.

Nalph shifted the lantern closer, shuffling the papers into the brighter light, attempting to concentrate on his inventory for the next week. When one long blue claw snagged on the contact information he’d found for a vendor who carried Noothian canusses, he growled in frustration. Despite his attempts to stall the others, he’d have to place an order now. He’d have to hope it was too late for the boium tree. Have to hope that he had enough to pay for the expensive crushed bones.

His gaze flicked to the Nri-encrusted vessel – useless now, its magicks drained – resting on the file cabinet, half-hidden by more Ihioo skulls. He needed the second cup he’d ordered, but at this moment it would be dangerous to collect it, even if Investigations and Acquisitions found one.

Outside the shriek burst – the final loss – and then the door opened. Yeangelt, smiling, still in her human clothing, stood on the threshold. "Ah, Mikh Lord, may I come in?"

"London is yours, my Lady. My office is yours," he said, hopping up to offer her the best chair.

"London is not ours yet." Her correction seemed gentle enough, but he could feel the burn of her words, like fire-seams in his skin. She sat down, then shot her hand out to grasp his wrist. More burn – he knew the mark would linger for hours in pinpricks of blood. "And it will be ours, will it not?"

"I am not one of the Three, nor do I aspire to be. I only serve you and the two you heal." Out of sight his claws contracted, as if he still had the stolen boium leaf to crush.

"Because you’ll profit when the Rising Time comes, and for years after. The Terminal will make the Mysterious Emporium more than it ever has been. I know what drives you, Nalph."

"Of course you do, my Lady." Of course she didn’t; the creature couldn’t read minds or see the future, which was a good thing for a Mikh finding his own way. Smiling, he said, "And was your meeting with the Council of Watchers representative successful?"

Her hand tightened until blue scales crumbled underneath her hold. "It was. We have our storage room, and you shall have your space back. But –" When her grey hair touched his claws, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back his own cry at the stab of those needle-strands. "–That young Harris creature was not the Watcher I’d seen, the one I seek. He had some of the touch, but not enough. New, he said." The word was a blow. "But I have set Garrison to follow him."

"Yes, my Lady?"

"Yes, Nalph. The new Watcher was headed toward Bloomsbury when I left them, past the lovely bomb site, and I anticipate a lead on our Beresfords. The new must still have ties to the old, wouldn’t you say?" She let him go.

"You are of course correct. New must have ties to old." Nalph hopped back to his desk, thinking hard. Giles and Jenkins had their office not very far away from there – he did hope that this boy wasn’t part of Rupert and Anya’s team, it wouldn’t be convenient to have Investigations and Acquisitions found. Still, secondary plans should be made, and as a distraction: "Speaking of which, I’ve found a source for the Noothian canusses. The delivery should arrive within a day or two."

"So you are trying to fulfill your task." The Lady ran the fingers of one hand over the other, skin hissing like her dear Pennith’s pathetic attempts at thought. "Master Hat is wrong, then? You do support our cause?"

"With all due respect to Master Hat, I do not follow him. I support you, my Lady."

"And the lack of success finding the acquisitions specialist? The many obstructions you have been finding in our way?" she said softly.

"I’ve been removing the problems when I can. Seeking ways around them when I can’t." He tapped on his stack of papers. "For instance, I have found the Noothian canusses which Master Hat neglected to get in his rush to...execution. The tree should be tended to within a few days."

"That is an excellent point, and excellent news." Gaze trained on his, she leaned forward. "But what of the Cup, my Nalph? What about that?"

"I don’t know where it is." And that wasn’t a lie; he’d been searching for himself, but there was no record anywhere of the Cup’s location. Perhaps it had disappeared into the mists of time, the gaps between worlds. "My Lady, I believed you no longer required it."

"If I can’t have it, no one else should." Something voracious lay behind her words, the way she lifted her hands and sewed a stitch in the air, but he couldn’t quite tell what. If he blinked, he could see black thread in her hands, even though he knew it wasn’t really there. But then she settled back in her seat, her hands falling into her lap. "You’re right, however. The Council location is crucial to us, in addition to the Brixton and Waterloo sites we must reclaim – by acquiring that we shan’t need the Cup now. But we’ll learn that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Before she could reply, a perfunctory knock on the door signalled the arrival of Master Hat. Nalph dispassionately noted the blood on the demon’s gloves; spirit-stealing didn’t require bloodshed, as Cassa Dreams, Pennith, and Griffin had proven in their more productive efforts, but the enforcer craved the tang of violence. "Two more completed and in glass for your Ladyship. The bodies shall be removed immediately," he said, sweeping into the office without permission.

"Thank you, Master Hat. Join us; we were discussing tomorrow’s activities." Her hands moved again in a pattern Nalph couldn’t read. "I have contacted a local demon-mage for consultation. I believe you know him, Nalph, his name is Cluth the Gifted?"

The babbling fool, who knew too much – he felt a weight at the back of his neck, like a club striking on his nerves, but he said calmly, "Yes, he occasionally trades with me."

"He’s part human, unfortunately," Master Hat said, examining his gloves. The drying blood gleamed in the lantern-light.

"Yes, but we can overlook that, as I’ve done with Griffin. I understand Cluth has recently obtained a powerful scrying mirror not of this dimension, which attracts me. I’ve asked him to come tomorrow to do a reading for us, see what he can add to our knowledge of the Rising Time. And perhaps we can discover the source for his mirror as well, don’t you think? He could be useful in so many ways."

Even as he began to plan for this hugely unwelcome development, Nalph returned the sorceress-bitch’s smile. "Very useful indeed, my Lady."

***

"Tomorrow," Giles repeated, repressing a cold, dark surge of anger. "You’re telling us we can get neither divination nor defense until tomorrow."

Gillian Harkness shook her head. "I’m sorry, but it’s your own fault, Giles. We’ve been so worried about our poor missing Matthew – Tom, I mean – and the energies of Tor House are devoted to him at the moment. Had you not found him–"

"More accurately, had he not jumped out and damn well attacked Rupert, saying stupid things about death and traitors," Anya interrupted. "And if you were so worried, why didn’t you ever tell us that you were keeping a crazy person in the cellar of our house?"

"I’ve told you. He disappeared a few days ago; we were looking for him." Gillian sent Anya a level stare.

That look was guaranteed to irritate his wife, he thought with only the smallest mental check at the word. The sad tale he and Anya had been told--the man washed up at the very doorstep of the small coven in Walton-on-the-Naze, his head injury, and the subsequent days at Swallow’s Nest– had not placated her annoyance, either. Putting his arm around her, despite the ache in his back muscles at the movement, he said, "You have to understand, Gillian, that we’re not happy to have him burst into our kitchen, regardless of your excellent reasons for housing him for the past months. We’re not happy about the delay in getting the help we need."

"The services we contracted for," Anya took it further. "We’re paying to stay in our own house but we did not agree to have a crazy spy in the cellar. More important, you people said you’d help us with possible apocalypse and personal protection. So–"

"We will," Gillian said. "I told you Catriona got in late from Scotland; she’s purifying herself for the scrying session tomorrow. Michael will be back tomorrow to aid in the ritual for your new tattoos. Everything’s in train." She stepped closer to them, her steps loud in the hall, raising her hands in a way he didn’t want to think was threatening. "I would think that you two would feel some kind of kinship with Tom. You do the same dirty job, isn’t it?"

Giles looked away. Older than Swallow’s Nest, the hall of Tor House was dark, stone-edged, almost a cavern. He could feel the earth-chill in his bones here. He could still hear Anya’s voice ringing in his mind – her Apparently you don’t care a painful echo of his father standing in their field after the Eyghon horror, saying the same words but telling him to go back to what he hated. Here in the dark, old and new responsibilities were knotted beyond hope of untangling. "Yes, same dirty job," he repeated.

Anya reached up and caught his hand. "It’s okay, honey," she whispered.

Glancing at her, he tried to smile. "Well, then. Seems as if it can’t be helped, Gillian. If you’ll call us when–"

"Actually, you’re needed here, now." Gillian’s hands dropped to her side. "We can tell him who he is, but he doesn’t know. You have the skills to induce a trance, to reach him and bring him back. You’re a Watcher, after all; I know you have got the voice."

"Dear Lord, it’s been years, and I don’t know how to reach someone in a fugue-state!" he said. More anger to be pushed down, a wave of it. "He had a bloody head injury on top of stress; this is likely neurological, not mystical. His colleagues Danny and Zoe are coming tomorrow to pick him up, get him to a proper doctor. We shouldn’t risk any further damage. Besides, we’ve told him his true name."

But Gillian just looked at him. From somewhere down the hall he could hear the healer Margaret’s voice, soothing, the hum sinking into stone. "–soon as you remember, it’ll be all right."

As if memory would make anything all right, he thought. Nothing but interrogation and the same dirty job waited for poor Tom.

There was no arguing with the witches, however. Before he could protest further or speak privately to Anya, whose arms now seemed permanently folded against her chest in defiance, they found themselves in a small, warm room off the kitchen. The witches were in control now.

It took only a few minutes to prepare the space. Candles and bowls of herbs burned underneath the shuttered window; Margaret and Gillian, hovering nearby, whispered the magicks to make the room safe, clear the mind, to call up the past. Thin, sharp smoke twisted around them and around Anya, who took the chair next to his.

And the smoke touched Tom Quinn, pale and battered, sitting across from him. Although his hands lay empty and open on his knees, his face was closed, defended. Giles realised with a start that the expression was a match for one of his own.

No time to think of painful echoes or distorted reflections, no time to do a lengthy induction. After a moment to breathe in and out and centre himself, he brought up the voice he’d been taught: slow, deep, even. He could feel the vibrations in his own chest. "All right now. You’re protected here, it’s a refuge. You can return when you’re ready."

Tom’s mouth didn’t smile, precisely, but it softened. He nodded to Giles, relaxing his hands further. "Let’s go."

Giles reached into his jacket, where he’d placed his father’s pocket watch that morning, as he did every morning. He’d learnt this technique neither at the Watcher’s Academy, nor at Oxford, but from his father: the exercises in the kitchen at Swallow’s Nest, the tick of the watch, the swing of the pendulum, the light from the candles.

There were ghosts that he couldn’t let himself see in the smoke.

Using the voice, he said, "Look at the watch. Remember, you’ll be safe. Look at the time. We’re going to go back now; I’ll count it down for you."

The gold watch swung anti-clockwise, flashing in the candlelight, and on each spin he made sure the clock-face turned to Tom. Couldn’t afford visualisation, since someone as well-fortified as an MI5 agent would be able to fight that. He’d have to rely on his voice, the smoke, and time itself.

He began to count, slow, deep, even. Tom’s gaze stayed on the watch, his head nodding down at each number. Slow, deep, even. At number six, Giles could see Tom’s shoulders ease, his eyes go blank, and he said, "Seven. Eight. Nine. Tell me who you are."

"Matthew Archer." Tom’s voice was sleepy. This, Giles knew, was the name he’d given the coven. But Zoe had said Matthew Archer had been Tom Quinn’s alias during an emotional period of his life, playing happy-family with his partner Ellie and her daughter Maisie before he’d lost them to the demands of the job.

Beating back a wave of sympathy, he said in the slow, deep, even voice, "Are you Matthew Archer?"

A pause. "I, I want to be."

"Is Matthew Archer real?"

No answer from Tom. He was looking at the watch spinning anti-clockwise, his eyes widening, going a darker blue – as blue as the North Sea in which he’d disappeared after being accused of treason, after shooting Harry. Blue as the sea from which his unconscious body had been pulled.

Giles measured the moment, then said, "Are you Matthew Archer?"

"I want to be." The voice was gravelled now. When the sea-witches had picked him up, the man’s hands and face had been scraped raw by rocks. "I want to be. But I have to tell her I’m not."

The watch spun more slowly, gold only a flicker now. The smoke from the magicks trailed around them both, knotting them together. "You’re safe now. You can speak the truth. Tell me who you are."

"I’m a spy. I work for MI5." The words were almost inaudible, but Giles had been waiting for them; although Tom had heard his name, no one had told him he had been an agent. Anya shifted in her chair, a murmur Giles couldn’t afford to listen to, then went still. Tom said again, "I’m a spy."

"That’s what you are, not who you are. Tell me who you are."

"Oh God, Peter?" Tom’s voice shook. "Did you find your cottage in the country? With her and the roses?"

‘Peter.’ Giles tried to think of Zoe’s briefing. Oh, right: Tom’s mentor Peter Salter, the man who’d looked a little like Giles, who’d killed himself in front of the poor bugger in the middle of an interrogation. He said, "Yes, I did. I’m with the woman I love at last."

There came a smile at that, a heartrending little smile. "I wanted you to. I did, but it was my job to do– the other." The smile broke. "I only cracked you because of the job, I’m sorry."

"I know. It’s all right. Tell me who you are."

A shudder, deep and slow as the voice Giles was using. "No, I can’t. Zoe and Danny, Harry – they don’t believe me. I have to hide."

"It’s all right, they believe you now. Tell me who you are."

On a breath, not quite a sob, his face shattered open. "My name is Tom Quinn. Oh Jesus, my name is Tom Quinn. I know who I am."

When Tom hunched forward, covering his face with his hands, Giles shot a look at the witches to stop them. Then he said, still slow and deep, "No. Look at the watch. Look at the time."

Tom’s red-rimmed eyes looked out from behind the protection of his fingers, fixed on the flash of the gold in the smoke.

"I’m counting back now. When I reach one, you’ll wake up and still remember who you are."

Tom’s blue eyes stared at the anti-clockwise spin as Giles counted from nine to one. At "one," he stopped the watch’s movement, his hand swallowing the time-piece. "Now tell me who you are."

"I’m Tom Quinn. I worked for MI5. And I do remember, Giles." He took a shivering breath. "Christ – Peter never got to that cottage with his girl, did he."

"No. But I have. That wasn’t a lie." As he put the watch away, he smiled at the man. "You’ve been missed, Tom Quinn."

"You said Zoe and Danny believe me?"

"Yes, and they’ll be here tomorrow to get you. They’ve fixed it with Harry – they’ve found Herman Joyce, the man who set you up, and it’s all right. But–"

At these words, Tom hid his head in his hands again, shoulders hunched against good news. The marks of pain brought Margaret and Gillian to hurry forward to envelop him, cooing like doves.

That was him sorted, then. At last Giles could turn to Anya–

Who, oh God, was crying silently in her chair. "Dearest?" he said, falling painfully to his knees onto the stone floor in front of her.

She sniffed hard, a darling Anya-like snort, and said, "New family rule – you never use that voice around me again, honey. And keep that watch hidden, okay?"

"You didn’t–"

"Yep. You took me right back, too. Back to when I was human the very first time." As he fumbled for his handkerchief, she said, "Have I ever told you what my name was, Rupert? The name I had then, I mean?"

At the edges of his consciousness, he registered Margaret and Gillian taking Tom away, the door shutting behind them. But all of him now was focussed on Anya. As carefully as he could, he dried her tears. "No, you never have. Tell me now."

Her hands balanced on his shoulders, biting in hard, and her tone was sharper than usual. "Aud. They called me Aud."

One last brush of linen against her cheeks, and then he leaned back, gazing at her. "Beautiful Aud.... No, no, darling, that wasn’t supposed to make you cry again." This time he gave her the handkerchief, so she could get her own tears more effectively. "Er, what’s wrong, what did I say?"

"Let’s just say I’ve heard that phrase before in less than pleasant circumstances. I remember it quite clearly now." After she blew her nose, she stuffed his crumpled handkerchief in her pocket. Then she smiled at him, sunshine in the dark, shuttered room. "But when you call me that, it makes me happy."

"Just give me the word, I’ll say it whenever you like." His hands went to her thighs, stroking up and down, the contact easing him as much as her. God, he loved her so much, and he’d disappointed her so this afternoon – he found himself saying, "I’m, um, desperately sorry for earlier. I’ll bloody resign if you wish, you just tell me. I don’t want to ever hurt you, dearest, don’t want to end up like that poor sod Tom Quinn. Or like Peter, the dead man he thought I was."

Leaning forward, her mouth met his, in tears and regret and a tremble he couldn’t control. Then she whispered, "Shut up, Rupert, I shouldn’t have asked and I’ll never ask you again. It’s your job, and you’ll leave it when you’re ready and not a second before." Another kiss, longer, sweeter. "So, we’re good?"

"Quite good," he said softly. But oh Christ he was weary and sore: reaction, he assumed. He shifted his weight off his aching knees and slid down her body, then, his arms locking around her waist, he laid his head in her lap. "Just give me a second here to breathe. It’s been a hellish afternoon, and I’m rather tired. It’d be nice to rest with you before we walk back."

"See there, I told you we should have brought the car." But her own arms circled his shoulders, held fast. "Sounds like a plan, honey. All apocalyptic crises can just wait."

He chuckled and leaned more heavily on her, his hands caressing her, and her hold tightened. He could feel her rings, cold against his neck. In a voice only he could hear, she whispered, "My husband. Mine. And I keep what’s mine safe."

"My wife. Mine," he said back, his eyes closing on the ghosts and the smoke. "And I keep what’s mine safe."

Entwined, they rested in the small, shuttered room until Margaret came in and shook them apart.

***

As the Junior Watchers and Scoobies walked through the twilit, busy streets toward the Holborn Tube station, Willow kept looking behind her. The end of the work day meant the streets were full – harried workers running for Tube or bus, two by two or alone, colliding with bags and briefcases and frustrations. She couldn’t see anything else. But the presence of dark magick crawled up her spine, made her hands shake.

It was what she’d felt at lunch, when they’d all perched like pigeons on a bench in Bloomsbury Square, squabbling over drinks and sandwiches and which animated version of Batman was better. From somewhere, she couldn’t see where but could feel it, they were being watched.

Ahead of her, Dawn suddenly said, "Oh wait! We’ve got to cut through here, I almost forgot." Andrew and Xander pulled by Summers energy, Willow following more slowly, they headed under an spotlit arch – "Sicilian Avenue," the sign said – into a small shopping-and-eating alley.

"What’d you forget, Dawnie?" Andrew said.

But she was already stopping in front of a small florist’s halfway down the arcade. "For Mrs Rajan next door, remember –" she said breathlessly as she dove into the shop.

"Oh right," Andrew said. When Xander asked what was the what, he added, "Giles and Anya are supposed to get delivery today of a case from the wine shop on Upper Street? We get one every month, but obviously nobody’s there to answer the door during Investigations and Acquisitions hours. Harry at the shop always leaves it with our neighbour, though, and Anya always gives Mrs Rajan flowers in thanks."

Blossoms arranged in buckets on an outer shelf obscured the shop window in whites and yellows and bursts of red; Willow remembered another bloom stealing through the earth, seeking the sun where it wasn’t supposed to be, and she found herself smiling. Her fingers touched a white rose, petals so soft, like Tara. She could think of her now and not lose her smile. Dropping a pound coin in the bucket, she took the rose.

But that sense of dark magick strengthened still, choking her.

She looked back over her shoulder. In the midst of the bags and briefcases and hurrying coats, a grey, shadowy man stood at the other end of the alley, watching them. When he caught her gaze, he flickered back into a doorway. Not out of her sight, though.

Dawn bounded out of the shop, hands full of tulips. "I’m ready, you guys–"

And Willow said, "Wait, all of you. I need to do something." The hand with the rose carefully to Xander’s back, a hand to Andrew’s, and a quiet instruction to Andrew to put his hand flat on Dawn’s back -- then she shut her eyes. Behind dropped eyelids, flowers bloomed in smoke, whites and yellows and bursts of red, and she breathed, "Tutamen."

A veil of magick dropped between them and the shadow-man at the other end of the arcade. Even though the man moved toward them in a stuttering hesitation-step, she knew he couldn’t see them any more.

"What’s wrong?" Xander said quietly.

"Nothing. Just a safety-thing," she said, dropping her hands and smiling at them. "But let’s get going, okay? Go home and get into that wine."

"Good thinking," Xander said, his arm coming around her shoulders in another kind of safety.

As the four plunged into the traffic on Holborn High Street, though, she could still feel the pull of dark magick, which reached out to her, winding around them all. The veil might not be enough to protect them tomorrow, she thought.