Since yesterday and her false signature on a contract, the key to pass through the gate to this dead ground was hers. She would have passed through regardless, but it amused her to follow the human path for a little while longer. Bending down, she scooped up a handful of dirt.

She could feel movement under her feet. Several of Master Hat's minions were already down in a tunnel that the site map had revealed; overseen by Bixp and Garrison, they were hollowing out a space for more taken souls.

Humming a thread of sound, she held her cloak more closely to her, with only her cupped hand exposed. The longer she was trapped in this world, the colder she became – and in any case, the season was on the turn from summer to autumn. If any trees could grow in the earth made rich by the spirits of dead Watchers and their captives, their leaves would be darkening, loosening from their hold on the body, soon to drift down into nothing.

Of course no trees grew on this dead ground. Nor would any grow in the future, once the Rising Time hollowed out all emptiness, all possibility.

Smiling, she lifted her face to the sunrise. Her hand began to release the dirt in a familiar pattern, signing on the earth the sigil that marked her true name, a demon rite to match the human one she'd acted.

Not too long from now, all gates would open, and only the demon rituals would matter. That beautiful reality was what she'd see in the scrying mirror today, she thought.

***

For the second morning in a row, gurgling water pipes overhead and the noise from two sets of footsteps made Tom Quinn open his eyes. Not that he'd been asleep; he hadn't been able to sleep since his memories had returned.

Slowly, with as much control as he could muster, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot. It was dark in the cellar of Swallow's Nest. He could scarcely see his hands in front of him; it was as if he floated here, still cut off –

But the sound in the pipes cut off abruptly, water draining away, leaving him awake and scraped raw on the shore. "My name is Tom Quinn. I work for MI5," he whispered into the dark, tasting the sourness of the words.

He switched on the lantern beside the bed, then, wincing, dragged his palms over his eyes. He would have to go upstairs, he knew, but he felt so tired. Couldn't pull himself out of it. The hell of being Tom Quinn again was knowing what was coming.

There was the lingering embarrassment too. Not just from his breakdown of the previous morning, either – God, he could still feel the anger at the familiar dead man's face, the way that names had dissolved even as he struck out at them. He knew their names now: Giles, not Peter; Anya, not Andrea. But that didn't make his last memory any better.

After dusk he escaped from the coven. They'd fed him, soothed him, coddled him as they always had, but their kindness as always confused him. From the first touch of Anna the sea-witch waking him on the beach to the first time Margaret brewed him a tisane, from Gillian giving him a job to Siobhan showing him Swallow's Nest and telling him he could stay there, he'd waited for an attack that never came. He'd even tried to walk away several times, but he always returned to those who knew him as Matthew.

"Christ, no!" The words ripped out of Tom. "Stop, please stop!"

At a knock on that door he startled, brought back to morning and his aches. "Tom?" Giles's voice said from the other side. "We're making breakfast, if you're interested."

"Oh. Yes, thanks, I'll be right up," he called. One last drag over his eyes –

Then the door opened, grey morning light pouring into the cellar. "Sorry to intrude on your privacy," Giles said, even as he walked down the steps. "But, er, I haven't been down here in a while, thought I might take a look."

"No, it's fine. It's your house." He made himself relax.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Giles looked around at its dark corners, stone floor, empty space except for the cot, the lantern, a book, and a box of clothes. After a quick sweep his gaze seemed to focus on a spot just beside Tom's head. Tom stayed still, waiting for whatever Giles would say. "Strange, I can't make out what that is. A hole, do you think?"

He turned to look. It was a familiar depression in the wall, one he'd spent hours staring into, his mind blank – "Yes, I think it might be. Someone's put up a board to cover it, though I couldn't vouch for how well it'd hold."

"Oh dear. I'm going to have to spend more time here, start maintaining the bloody place." Giles sighed. "Not exactly a DIY enthusiast, but I suppose I'll learn. Anya will demand it."

"Yes." Tom didn't quite know how to respond or where the conversation was going.

Giles sat down a little stiffly on the bottom step, then rested his hands on his knees. Although the tilt of his head in the dimness was painfully like Peter's, the smile was his own. "Right. So Danny and Zoe are taking you home this afternoon."

Home . "That's what you said."

"Um-hm." Giles looked at the floor for a minute. "Zoe's my and Anya's handler at Five, by the way. You might not have figured out that we gather demon intelligence product."

"Just like you did before?" He didn't remember the details, never had much to do with those ops; Harry had always run them. Harry.... "You're the Council liaison again?"

"No. Although we keep ties to the Council, I'm no longer a Watcher. You might remember that the Bloomsbury headquarters–"

"– Was blown up last year, yes."

"Yes. The Council has re-formed in America, although Anya and I are training a couple of juniors on our staff here. We've got our own business – not a cover exactly, it's real, but it serves as the other too. We're Giles and Jenkins. The extraordinary, found and explained." His smile deepened, and he looked up toward the sound of her footsteps overhead.

"A useful business, I'm sure." Tom hesitated. " But I'm not sure why you're telling me this."

"Because you're going to be in the thick of it when you get back to London. We're researching a prophecy that suggests a demon terrorist threat to humankind in the near future, and fucking Harry's chosen this of all times to be a pompous bureaucratic git."

"Harry does what Downing Street tells him." The pipes gurgled again, and Tom rubbed at his eyes, digging at the memory of the kickback of the gun against his body and the sea closing over him. "I hardly think I'll be in a position to help you. Don't even know if they'll let me back in the service."

"Oh they will. Zoe and Danny have been working tirelessly on your behalf since they learned... since you've been gone. You might not be section-chief again right away, mind – shooting a spymaster requires some penalty– but you'll be back in Five." Giles shrugged. "Just letting you know how the land lies. Some of the terrain has changed."

Tom took a deep breath and said, "If that's the case, there's a demon threat, I promise I'll do everything I can. Even from my new position in the canteen."

"That's the spirit, old son!" Another grin, another dead-man's reflection. "Now come on up and join us."

The kitchen was light, warm, filled with the smell of bread and flowers and something cooking on the stove. Their entrance was punctuated by Anya putting the teapot down on the table with one hand, while saying into the mobile at her ear, "I'm not sure. Maybe you should ask Rupert." Then she handed the phone to Giles. "Honey, it's Andrew and the others. They want to know if they should make contact with Nalph; they found the right vessel, but you know the Mikh code of conduct is tricky, and then, Andrew–"

"Dear Lord, yes. Thank you, darling." Taking the phone, Giles walked toward the hall, saying, "It's me. Now tell me slowly and without popular-culture references what the situation is."

This left Anya, hands on hips, to stare at Tom. Fighting an instinctive urge to bolt, he managed a smile. Nodding, she said briskly, "Good morning. Now I'm told that you're actually a good guy, despite all evidence of personal attacks and creepy voyeurism to the contrary." He found himself pushed down into a chair, then scooted up to the table as if he were in the nursery. "So sit there quietly, pour yourself some tea, and I'll get you some eggs."

For the first time since he could remember, Tom Quinn laughed out loud.

***

Up and around, back and forth – swinging their legs in time, Andrew and Dawn sat on the conference table and awaited further long-distance instruction from the male senior partner of Investigations and Acquisitions.

The speaker-phone hummed – or was that Giles?– before he said, "Well, are you two sure you understand the complicated levels of Mikh interaction? I've made mistakes and was clawed for my pains, you know. Bloody unpleasant."

"Um." His hand loosening his tie so he wouldn't choke on the nerves, Andrew looked at Dawn. "I'm not really so good with wounds."

"Of course you're not, but it's not an issue," she said, patting his hand. "Giles, we know the bad, but we've handled simple stuff on our own before–"

At which point the outer door opened, and the voice of Gerry, the handsome and efficient UPS delivery person, was heard: "Package for Investigations and Acquisitions!"

Andrew started to get up, because it was his turn to sign for the package and lust, but Dawn was faster off the table. As her feet hit the floor, she said, "Back in a sec, you guys keep talking."

"I take it the vessel's arrived?" Giles said. "Well done."

Willow, who'd been leaning against the doorjamb between outer and inner offices, dodged out of Dawn's way before saying, "Looks like it. So, Giles, if it makes a difference I can go with them." She was all Magick-Goddess again, glowing and fierce like yesterday when she did that spell right in the middle of Holborn, even though she seemed kind of tired too. Her sitting up for hours with Xander watching the DVD collection of Secret Agent might not have been the best idea, Andrew thought; the two Scoobies had been quiet all evening, sitting on Dawn and Andrew's couch, eating popcorn Dawn had made, and drinking their way through two bottles of something red from the wine shop delivery. But they'd been smiling, which was good.

"I can protect them," she said.

"Of course you can, Willow." There was the Giles-confidence Andrew liked to hear. He let go of his tie and sat up straighter, Watcher-fashion, even though Giles was in Devon and couldn't see. But then: "The visit still might be ill-advised, however. Nalph doesn't do well with surprises, and, er, recent events suggests that he might not accept you all."

"I didn't mean to do it!" Andrew protested, for the hundredth time. "The petrified hearts were just, you know, in my way and there was an itch in my nose. And there was pixie-dust–"

"I meant that since the Pennith terror campaign he's only been doing business with closely vetted individuals, such as me and Anya; junior staff might not suit him. But yes, Nalph might also remember that other, um, incident."

"Giles, stop being waffly and tell us what's the what," Willow said, just as the outer door shut.

It was quiet in the conference room. Up and down, back and forth – Andrew's legs moved more quickly, stirring the air so that he didn't have to think about the scariness of the Mysterious Emporium, and the claws and teeth of both owner and patrons. Big, sharp claws and teeth.

Giles finally spoke. "It's not really a time-sensitive matter, and anyway we'll be back tomorrow or the next day. Just wait for us, I think."

Carrying the small box marked Fragile, Dawn came back into the room in time to hear the judgement. She burst out, "Come on, Giles! This isn't about all those Buffy-calls about safety blah blah, is it? Because a delivery's not a big responsibility. Not a big deal."

"I'm sure–" Giles began.

But Andrew said, "No, really. You can ask Anya, I managed the last time with her just fine."

The speaker-phone amplified the overly patient I-could-smack-you-but-I'm-hundreds-of-miles-away-and-I-repress tone."Yes, I know. You've both done quite well on recent missions, and no one doubts Willow's gifts. But there's no rush, there's no need for risk. Wait." A cough, then he said, "Is everything else all right? Willow, how are you and Xander enjoying London?"

Andrew and Dawn looked at her, waiting for her to say something about Sicilian Avenue spells and something possibly evil watching them all yesterday. Or wine-theft, of course. Instead she folded her arms – Magick-Goddess fully functioning – and said, "Xander's fine, I'm great, the Juniors are behaving. Everything's under control, okay?"

"Yep!" Dawn said, picking up the cue. "You go back to your honeymoon bliss, and we'll just, like, keep everything under control. Junior Watchers on duty, you know."

"As we're going to Tor House after breakfast, I don't know how much 'honeymoon bliss' is in store at the moment. But thank you, Dawn. All of you." There was a thud and Anya-voice in the background, and Giles said, "Sorry, I need to ring off. But I appreciate what you're doing. I count on you–" Then there was a muffled 'Darling, don't,' like he hadn't covered the phone very well, before – "Er, sorry, must go. We'll call you tonight."

Dawn hung up the phone, then whirled around to smile at them – which made him more jittery than three shots of Starbucks espresso. "Okay. Okay, although he said to wait, he didn't say we had to wait, you know? He said he thought we could make the delivery without any problem. We could still go."

Willow said, "It's not my decision. Remember, Giles doesn't like when you don't do what he says... although he was waffly, and yeah, he also said he thought you could handle it. And I didn't feel anyone watching this morning." She inspected them both, like a problem she was about to solve with a wiggle of her nose. "So how familiar are you two with the delivery procedure? Do you really know what you need to do?"

"Well, there's a not-password, and a certain etiquette–" he began, uneasy.

"But we know it, which is the thing. Willow, we could brief you on the protocol. It's an in-and-out deal, really, just bow and scrape and grab the cheque," Dawn said. "Anyway, you're a member of the Council now. You could authorise our going – it'd be like practice, and besides, the Mysterious Emporium is very, very cool. As a new Watcher and a witch, you should see it."

"All good points. But, um, why did we call Anya and Giles if we weren't going to listen to them?" he said, wishing he hadn't when they looked at him in a female-power way, like two reflections of Wonder Woman but slightly less Amazonian and more gleaming-haired.

"If they'd completely forbidden it, of course we wouldn't do it," Dawn said. Handling the package carefully, she took her place on the table close to him. "We should go, Andrew. Remember how great we worked together at the Frontier? And this is like a hundred times less dangerous."

Smiling, Willow sat on his other side. "It's up to you, Andrew. But I'll support you guys if you want."

"Come on, Andrew...." Dawn said in her most wheedling voice.

It wasn't fair, it really wasn't fair. Although he cleared his throat, intending to be firm and a good Investigations and Acquisitions employee, what came out was a weak "Okay. Delivery to the hoppy business frog of darkness it is."

***

Xander stabbed a fork in a piece of toast, making jam spurt onto Giles and Anya's kitchen table, and said into the cell phone again, "Look, Faith, I get it. It's all good."

"Is it?" Even from across the Atlantic, she sounded awfully awake for someone who'd stayed up all night Slaying with her new Watcher and his new souled-vampire buddy, come into town a goddamn week ahead of schedule. New guy, same as the old guy– "I just wanted to call, you know, ask...you're sure you're not mad I'm working with Wes? And old Spike?"

"No, I'm not mad. Why would I be mad?" Another stab at the toast. "We're on a break, anyway, which has nothing to do with anything anyhow because we're just talking business–"

"Okay, pal, it's just business. And the 'break' was your fucking idea. Like your idea of not doing fieldwork with me for the Council." Her voice was a Slayer-punch in the stomach.

Behind his eyepatch he could feel an ache, as if tears were still possible. "Yeah. Which does raise the question why you have a Watcher at all. Buffy's free from the pompous supervisor thing. Don't see why you're so happy to have a not-so-little helper."

She said quietly, much too quietly, "I want to do the Slayer gig right this time. Wanted to do a lot of things right this time. Guess you can't imagine that, huh?"

Man, nobody could hang up a phone as hard as Faith. "Bye, sweetheart. And say hello to Spike for me," he said to dead air.

Sighing, he laid down his cell and stared at the remnants of his late breakfast. He didn't feel much like eating anyway. The wine from last night lingered in his head and his gut, weighing him down. He didn't know why he had gone for the two most expensive bottles in the case or why he and Willow had drunk faster and faster, as 1960s spies flickered in black-and white.

Actually, in the light of morning he did know. It had been the last drops of weirdly displaced teenage rebellion, sort of 'Dad's left us alone, so let's stay up all night and drink his booze!' Except Giles wasn't their dad, and neither of them was a teenager any more – and of course, the first time he'd left them, they'd rebelled by raising Buffy from the dead. Downing a couple of pricey bottles of Burgundy didn't exactly compare.

Afterward he'd walked Willow downstairs, the two of them holding onto each other as they negotiated the steps. She'd brushed her lips against his cheek when they reached her landing – she'd taken the guest room across from Giles and Anya's suite on the second floor, leaving him to sleep downstairs in the midst of the magic – and whispered, "We're too old for this stuff. But it was fun one last time, wasn't it?"

After he pushed away his plate, he picked up his organiser. Yeah, Alexander Harris with an executive planner, wouldn't his dad have laughed. Ignoring the ache, he checked what he had to do today: call Amelia Markby after lunch for her background on other Council properties in the U.K; set up his meeting for next week with Ms Barnes, the once-retired Watcher now overseeing the Birmingham Slayer. Nothing else. He could have gone in to work with Willow and the kids, after all.

But no, he was tired and hung over, and for some strange reason he found Giles and Anya's house...restful. It was familiar, with old books and magic stuff and the mess left behind by Dawn and Andrew (and the holes in their living space, left by shitty builders who Anya totally needed to fire), but also he could see signs of a new life, of something better. What had Faith said? She wanted to do it right this time. Yeah, he got that.

Maybe he'd call her back after she'd had time to sleep off her mad.

When the phone in the living room rang, an alarm in the silent house, he almost fell off his chair. "Give a guy some warning!" he said, before walking hesitantly, like he was on patrol, into the other room.

The answerphone clicked on before he could turn it off. The connection was bad; it took a second or two before he could make out Buffy's voice, faint through the static. "...hey...miss it? I..."

Grabbing the phone, he punched a button or two. "Hey Buffy! Xander."

"....der? Did you...after all?"

"Can't hear you, Buf. But yeah, I'm here. Giles and Anya are off on their honeymoon –" not a wobble in his throat or his heart at the words, go him –"Dawn's at work with Willow. And, you know, Andrew."

"...Good. Except I'm late, can't....battle....team...Baja peninsula."

"What? I can't hear–"

"Tell Dawn not....Giles." There was a snake-hiss of static, then "...Sorry. Love ya!" and the line went dead. Kind of like every time he'd tried to talk to Buffy lately.

He wondered what she'd say about the new Watchers from Los Angeles. She hadn't talked about that either, even when Faith had dropped a gigantic hint about who was coming, but he'd been consumed with pre-not-his-wedding jitters. He'd have to ask, when they all got back to Cleveland.

Checking his watch, he saw that he had loads of time before he had to work. He could go out exploring, check out London-town. Or he could catch a cab down to Investigations and Acquisitions. But somehow he found himself thinking about something Andrew had said yesterday, thinking about the holes in the wall in the Junior Watchers's place.

"I wonder where Giles would keep his toolbox. Or if Book Guy would even have a toolbox," he said, the words echoing in the empty hallway.

***

As the front door of Tor House shut behind them, echoing in the stone hall, Anya repeated her question. "What do you mean, you want us to meet with the seer before we get our marks of protection?"

Gillian Harkness raised her eyebrows in an irritating high-priestess way. "It seems you've understood quite well, Anya."

Rupert's hand enfolded Anya's, their usual signal to let him handle it. Of course, he was looking extremely tall and more extremely furious, which should put a little fear into Gillian. And Siobhan, who was floating, literally, down the hall behind her. And Margaret, holding Tom Quinn's arm so he wouldn't run away again, and Michael the runes specialist, and Tanner who usually lived in a hermitage over in Cornwall, and – ignoring the signal, Anya said, "What's with the welcoming committee?"

"An excellent question." Rupert's voice was level, despite the anger. "You really should tell us what's going on."

Gillian said, "Just follow me, you two."

Beyond a tightening of their handclasp, neither one moved. He said, "I've known you all for years, I respect you, and I honour your gifts. But we're not bloody going anywhere until you explain the latest change in plans."

"Do you think you can stand against us?" The question sounded idle, but Anya saw Gillian's fingers curl, feel a snap in the air. This was alarming.

As was Rupert's dangerous quiet. "Are you standing against us ?"

"Easy now, Giles. All will be made clear," said a rich male voice, with a lilting accent Anya couldn't place at once. The witches parted ranks so that an older man – too thin, long-haired, and cloaked like someone who had spent a great deal of time perusing the book covers in the Fantasy section of the larger bookstores – could walk through. As he came toward them, he said, "You just have to let time flow. If you can do that, you bloody Sassenach Watcher."

"You pillock, living in Glasgow doesn't make you a Scot," Rupert said, his grip on her relaxing. "I didn't know you were coming down with Catriona." Oh him , Anya thought, which the introduction confirmed: "Darling, this is Randolph Mortimer. Catriona's husband, you know; we've sent some spirit-cleansing business his way. Randolph, this is my wife Anya."

With a deep bow, Randolph caught her free hand and brought it to his lips. "The blushing bride at last! Lovely to meet you, Anya."

"I'm not actually blushing – Oh, right, ill-timed figure of speech. Hi." As he moved to shake Rupert's hand, she added, "So are you going to tell us what the deal is?"

"Come with me, children, and you shall learn the news about your mirror. Let me take you to my lady's chamber," he said, gesturing to the main staircase.

"Randolph," Rupert said in a warning tone.

"Giles." The man's grin widened. "It's possible that we might have misrepresented a few things about the mirror request – for your own good, only for your good! But time's flowing faster, and up we must go."

Gillian was already halfway up the first flight of stairs; the rest of the witches seemed to have disappeared. "Come," she said.

Rupert said under his breath, "I don't see what choice we have, darling."

"Nope. We should see what's going on." As they started after the mage and the priestess, though, she said, "Regarding the mirror, Randolph– is it all right if I call you that?"

"I would be hurt if you didn't," he said, taking the first steps in a flutter of blue cloak. "And you found exactly what my sweet Cat saw."

"Good. Investigations and Acquisitions aims to please," she said automatically. Except: "You said 'misrepresented'? Okay. Your request was a scrying mirror, silver and copper tracings along the sides, preferably from the eighteenth century, one with clear provenance that had remained in the same family's hands–"

"Oddly enough, I had one in my own collection, passed down from my grandmother," Rupert said, as he pulled her onto the second flight of stairs.

"We knew you would, mate. That was the point." Randolph smiled, a gleam in the darkness, before he turned to jump to the next landing.

"I don't like it," Rupert muttered. But he hurried their steps to keep up.

Anya noticed that the coven had placed rushes on the stairs in the old-fashioned way; they crunched underfoot as she and Rupert climbed. Old dust and dead grass – it reminded her of a vengeance-job several centuries ago. She had played a lady, taking the confidence of a horribly wronged wife, with long afternoons of needlework and chatter by a fire in an upper chamber. It had been cold, so cold, that she had always tucked her feet into the rushes for warmth.

The rushes had been soaked black with blood after the woman had made her Wish, and Anya had hated sewing ever since.

"Are you all right?" Rupert whispered.

"Bad memories," she whispered back, moving closer to him. "Don't worry about me, honey. What do you think it–"

"In, in, in," Randolph said, appearing in front of them. Before they could react his hands caught their jackets, and they were pulled through an open door. Anya had been in Tor House a couple of times, but she'd never gone upstairs – which was why the green room, its dim expanse and its three small windows set high into the wall, its long central table set with smoking candles and the mirror, surprised her. It looked familiar.

Gillian stood at one end of the table. At the other was a small, sleek woman lighting the last candle. She looked up, tossed back blue-streaked hair, and grinned. "Giles! Come here and give us a kiss, handsome."

"Hey now!" Anya snapped.

"She's just teasing, darling." Rupert's clasp tightened, even as he smiled. "Hello, Cat. It's been a long time."

"I wasn't teasing, man. Haven't seen you in person since you dropped that tweed disguise – but I should have known what lay beneath." She leapt at them in a move so fast that Anya barely had time to step in front of her husband and block unapproved contact. Smiling, Catriona said, "And this must be the trophy wife! Anya, you wouldn't mind if I kiss an old friend hello?"

"Yes, I would, even if he wouldn't. Anyway, what's with the mirror, and could you get to scrying now?" To Rupert: "What does she mean, I'm a trophy?"

"Just a ridiculous expression. You're far more to me than a prize." He dropped a kiss on her hair, which made her feel slightly less like clawing out the seer's eyes, before he said, "Anya's right, we can chat later. They –" he nodded to Gillian–"said you were here yesterday, Catriona, meditating on our problem."

"So I was. And I know what has to be done with the mirror you brought." The flirtatious smile had gone, leaving behind quiet purpose. Catriona went back toward the table and pulled out the only chair. "You, Giles, have some seeing to do, and you can't be protected from it."

***

"This way. Just across this intersection, and down Charing Cross," Andrew said nervously, his voice barely audible over the Oxford Street noon traffic.

Willow could have guessed it; she could almost see waves of magick coming from that direction, dark and light ribboned together. The image wasn't bad, not like yesterday, although there were strands of evil woven in. Besides, she felt strong today. "Lead on, young whatever-it-is-Xander-calls you."

"Padawan, which means 'student.' It's kind of an insult, but in a nice way," Dawn said. She checked the package for the fifteenth time before stepping out into the street.

"Wait up, Dawnie!" he said, then threw over his shoulder, "I don't really mind the name, Willow. It's a good reminder of...badness. I've got a lot to learn." He always did that, she thought, the little hesitation and side-step before he got to the truth. But he was trying. He was going to get there.

Following the two across the street, she took a sip of water from the bottle she always carried. She was dehydrated from all the wine she and Xander had put away the night before, but she'd needed the comfort. Even though she and Xander shared a big apartment with Buffy back in Cleveland, it wasn't the same without Dawn and Andrew chattering around them, without snuggling under the cotton throw which Willow recognised from Giles's Sunnydale place (and which Dawn had "liberated" from downstairs), breathing in the scents of Anya's garden through the open windows. She and Xander had drunk way too much, thought too much about what was gone. But she felt better today, even so.

When she put the water in her bag, her fingers touched the white rose she'd bought yesterday, and she smiled.

"Come on," Dawn called, already half a block ahead "Let's go, people!"

But when they got to the bizarre little wooden door set into brick, Willow had to put her hand out to steady herself. For just a moment, new magick seemed to wrap around her, encircling her wrists and her waist with those ribbons of dark and light.

"Are you okay?" Dawn said, Andrew nodding beside her. "We don't have to if you don't feel right–"

A breath in and out, a meditation given to her by Miss Harkness during her time in the coven, and the magicks unwound and retreated. "I'm fine. Now show me."

"First, protection. The spell you taught Anya and Giles, and then he taught us." He and Dawn solemnly made the signs, whispered the right words. After she watched them, she did it for herself.

"Second, the password." Andrew dragged his hand through his gelled hair, one last nervous shiver before he rapped high on the door and then low. As the door swung open, he waited for a shout from within. "There is no password."

Willow followed the two of them into the shop. Inside it was dim, the heavy air filled with herb- scents and blood and a beat of power she'd only felt once – when drawing words and knowledge from the books in the Magic Box. She could taste it, feel it shake against her skin. Swaying, she put her hand on Dawn's shoulder and tried to focus.

A small blue demon in dreads sat on the counter. "Are you looking for Nalph, humans?" he said. "I can help you with purchases or orders, of course. But I seem to smell something about you–"

The door's curtain of tiny skulls chattered as a slightly larger blue demon in dreads hopped through, reading something in his hand. "Dalgen, I need..." When he raised his head, his words dried.

"Ah, Nalph," Andrew squeaked. Clearing his throat, he said more normally, "We've found your Nri-encrusted vessel–"

"Out. You saw nothing." Nalph's words were pointed. The assistant took one look at him, then scuttled behind the curtain.

"Lord Nalph," Andrew began again.

"Silence." With one leap the demon cleared the counter, landing in front of them. "You shouldn't be here."

Looking for all the world like Buffy before a row of vamps, chin out and ready for action, Dawn said, "We realise that you deal with our superiors at Investigations and–"

"I said, silence!" And the demon moved in a blur of claws and scales, ripping through the veils of protection.

Willow tried to get between him and Dawn, but Andrew – Andrew – got there first. Blue-tipped razors flashed out across Andrew's cheek, blood rushing through the cuts almost before the claws detached. "Don't speak names here," Nalph growled.

"Shit. Hold this." Shoving the package at Willow, Dawn threw her arms around Andrew, holding him up. His fingers on his sliced face, he was trying not to cry.

Behind the curtain voices raised. Willow could hear a woman, a deep male voice, and the assistant. Nalph cast a glance back, then turned to them. "It's not safe. I'll take that –" he grabbed the package out of her hands despite her efforts to hold on –"and I'll contact your people when I can."

"What do you think you're doing?" Willow said. Concentrating, she sent out a tendril of magick–

And was slammed back against the brick with one upflung claw from the demon. "Leave now , and don't come here again."

"We can't leave the merchandise without being paid," Andrew said weakly.

"I told you I'll contact your superiors in a day or two, and I'll bring payment then." Nalph hesitated, his gaze flicking from Dawn and Andrew to Willow. It was to her he spoke: "Watchers don't live long in this new London, witch. Go back and tell your friends that they're being sought. Someone slipped. Names were spoken."

"I felt it," Willow whispered. "Felt it yesterday."

"And you fooled them? Maybe you're not always so useless," he said. After tossing the package onto the counter, he lifted his claws again –

But she held up her own hands, bounced the magick back to him.

"Maybe you're not so useless," he said again, a smile curling indigo lips. "But go ." Before she could prepare herself or the others, the door swung open, and one more wave, dark and light ribboned together, crashed them out of the shop and onto the pavement.

***

Trotting up Charing Cross Road, Cluth the Gifted whistled to himself, a Biw melody he vaguely remembered from his childhood. Before the exile, of course.

He wrapped his hands more securely around his mirror. The Lady herself had called for him, wishing him to look with her and for her. He would do anything for Yeangelt – even without the handsome fee she'd promised.

In his communication Master Hat had also said something about wishing to know more about where Cluth had gotten the mirror. Obviously if the Lady wished it he would say, but he felt less happy about discussing Investigations and Acquisitions. For one thing, humans were already so endangered – and Cluth was still half-human, still had some trace of genetic loyalty.

For another, they were too good a source to share. He'd been thinking about asking for one of those Nri-encrusted cups too; no reason that Nalph should have all the wealth. A mage deserved a little something of his own, even before the Rising Time.

Squinting against the weak sunlight, he looked toward the Mysterious Emporium. Three humans came flying out of the door, landing heavily on the pavement. The boy was bleeding – even from this distance, the smell of blood set his stomach burning – and he looked familiar. Wasn't that Anya's helper?

Cluth thought he should inquire, or express his satisfaction with the goods procured by She Who Had Been Vengeance. "Hey, young one!" he called, but the two women with him pulled the boy to his feet, turning him in the other direction. " Hey! "

But they were already halfway to Tottenham Court Road.

Shrugging, Cluth ducked in through the open door of the shop. Just as a precaution, he said, "There is no password," as he entered, even though he abjured the rest of the ritual. Mikh merchants were fussy creatures, after all.

Nalph was examining a package on the counter, but he looked up, frowning. "You're before your time, Cluth."

"Am I?" He checked his watch – yes, he was a little early. "Well, you know, I'm so excited about this work for the Lady–"

But claws struck, magick powder burned his eyes, and he forgot what he was saying in the pain.

***

"I want it on the record that I am not happy about his doing this. And there'd damn well better be a record," Anya said for the fourth time.

"Darling, please let it go," Giles said. Not that he sodding wanted to do it either, not that this was within shouting distance of what they'd arranged, but he didn't see a way out – as he'd explained to her in a whispered marital conference in the corner, while Randolph fetched something Catriona wanted and while Gillian arranged chair and candles in the proper order.

After his explanation, she'd said, "Uh-huh. Three things. One, any fool knows not to do seer-work without proper preparation like meditation or fasting, and the fact that we had fabulous sex last night and you ate like a large and hungry pig at breakfast means you shouldn't do this now. Two, I don't trust this, they haven't told us enough. Three, you are the most idiotic smart man the world has ever produced."

"And you are the most impossible woman," he'd shot back. "What choice do I have?"

"Not to do it. Walk away, Rupert."

"You're really not helping, Anya," he'd said, trying not to be furious. But Christ, he was – angry not at her, or not just at her. He did want to walk away, but he knew he couldn't. Not again.

She'd just shaken her head at him. Impossible, that was the word for her.

Yet when Catriona had said that he needed his fucking tattoo exposed, take in the light or some shite, it had been Anya to take off his jacket and then roll up his shirt-sleeve. Her fingers had moved slowly as she'd made fold upon fold, brushing against his arm in infinite care and love.

Catriona centred the mirror one last time. "Giles, we're ready for you."

After a couple of deep breaths, he crossed to the chair and sat down, then spread his hands on the table.

"Take off your glasses. It's not that kind of seeing," she said.

Before he could, however, Anya was there. She eased the glasses off his face, her fingers once more brushing love against his skin. "I'll keep them for you," she said, and then walked to the other side of the table. He could see her through the fire.

"Focus, Giles – and not on your wife," Catriona said. "Now tilt your head back. Look up."

Focus, she said. Calling on all his training and experience, he tried to erase his consciousness of himself, then looked at the ceiling. It was green like the room, like the fields outside. If he looked hard enough, even with his uncorrected vision he could see irregularities in what should be smooth. Focus.

With part of his mind, though, he registered the movements around him. Cat dipped her hand into a bowl, then stroked her liquid-coated fingers over his forehead and just below his eyelids. It ached where she touched. On his other side, Randolph muttered as he poured something onto the mirror. Anya stood across from him, set off by tapers and flame, watching him.

He looked up and back, blinking hard. The ache was now a burn; he'd felt something like this before, although he couldn't remember where.

"Focus. But look now at the mirror."

The mirror – black ink against silver, swirling as if dropped into water. There were lines formed and lost, patterns that began to take shape then dissolved. Under the black the mirror was green like the ceiling, no, blue like the sky –

"Look at the mirror."

He looked closer. Lines formed and lost, patterns dissolving, black ink against green and blue –

Without warning Catriona jabbed a needle into the base of the mark of Eyghon, just where Griffin had done.

When the point pierced the skin, he lost all sight for a moment. It was worse than before – oh God, darkest pain, howls of those who had gone before, power he didn't know he had, all dark, all pain. He fell through the darkness and then out the other side. The landing was hard, scraping his palms, taking his breath.

Opening his eyes, he saw a familiar rug, greens and blues and a pattern of roses along its boundary. It was the Aubusson rug in the study at home, the one Cousin Martin had left him.

"The cup runs in the family," said Grittnak's voice from somewhere overhead. Giles tried to look back up, but the pain was too much.

"Apparently you don't care," said his father's voice. "Look, you stupid boy, before someone else dies. Maintain what you have." A door opened, then slammed shut, and he could hear footsteps on the stairs. He didn't know there were stairs in that room.

It was dark wherever he was, smelling of earth and the black candles in Pennith's office, burnt almonds and death. In his pockets were two halves of a broken cup, separated for safety – and then the two broken pieces were aloft, spinning in flashes of gold. With a clap of thunder, the cup fused together, and the sky ripped apart.

Roses, petals dark with blood, fell onto the carpet. In the shattering of glass, a soul was lost.

He tried to look back up, but the pain was too much.

***

The kettle began to scream, a sound that echoed off the stone in the Tor House kitchen. It reminded Tom of the morning before, of clutching at names as they dissolved, of memories lost and others all too much found. Nauseated, he wrapped his arms around his stomach.

Even after Margaret switched off the kettle, however, the echo of the scream remained – deeper, lower. "What was that noise?" he said.

Margaret and Siobhan glanced at each other, then back at the morning tea things in front of them. Slowly Margaret lifted the kettle and began to pour it into the teapot, releasing summer and steam. Siobhan, watching, said, "It came from upstairs. The vision room."

When Margaret put the lid on the teapot, the steam disappeared. She said, "The attainment of knowledge hurts, don't you think, Tom?"

"I – I hadn't thought about it."

"Maybe you should. It might help." Siobhan picked up the bread knife, poised it over the fresh loaf, then cut. "You see, a lot of people fight demons, Tom Quinn, not just you."

***

It was silent in the candle-lit private office of the Mysterious Emporium. The Lady Yeangelt sat in the best chair in front of the desk, Cluth fumbled with the mirror across from her, and Master Hat and Nalph stood sentry on either side. All was prepared for the visions.

Nalph hid a smile behind his claws at the thought. He shouldn't smile yet, he knew.

Cluth's hands slipped on the mirror's edges. "I don't know why I'm so clumsy today, my Lady," the fool said.

Yeangelt inclined her head in a token of forgiveness, but her needle-gaze remained. Nalph pushed a candle closer to him, letting the light shine on the mage's reddened eyes and trembling fingers, letting the Lady see and perhaps wonder about the mage's reliability. Quietly he said, "Perhaps you need a little more illumination."

"Thank you, Mikh Lord," Cluth said. Ignoring the snort from Master Hat, he looked around for a moment – "Could I have the ink, please?"

The Lady forestalled Nalph's move; she herself found the bottle that he'd prepared, and gave it to the mage. Her fingertips outlined a pattern on the glass before she handed it off. Nalph had to trust that his own precautions wouldn't be undone by her magick; he reminded himself it was better that he not be seen to touch it. She said, "Let this show us what we desire, Cluth. Let you earn a title for the days to come."

"Yes. Oh, yes," Cluth said. After centring the mirror on the desk and setting down the ink, he pulled a vial out of his coat pocket. "This of course is an element to induce seeing. My Lady, do you wish to partake, or shall it be I alone?"

"I shall look as well," she said. Nalph had expected this, of course.

Cluth hesitated. "Perhaps you should anoint yourself – I shouldn't presume–"

"That is well thought of, Cluth." This time the Lady's nod seemed sincere. She took the vial and wetted her fingertips, then, eyes closed, drew a line like a seam on her forehead.

As Cluth hurried his own anointing, Master Hat said, "And the ink?"

Nalph watched this step closely, for all depended on it. He had laid a spell on the bottle opening, and...yes, the faintest hint of smoke escaped when the stopper was pulled. The ink should be properly corrupted, then.

Cluth, poor shaking fool, didn't see it, nor did Master Hat. Yeangelt was already swaying, her body preparing itself for sight. As the mage poured the ink onto the mirror, Nalph let his lips twitch.

"Something amuses you, shopkeeper?" Master Hat whispered.

"Not amused but excited. I look forward to revelation," Nalph whispered back.

And Cluth and the Lady leaned forward, their gazes fixed on black ink sliding over the mirror.

***

Rupert slumped in his chair, body shivering uncontrollably. "What's wrong? Why the hell did you jab him like that?" Anya demanded, rushing around the table. Before she could get to him, though, Randolph caught her arms behind her, holding her fast.

"That wasn't supposed to happen, I didn't see that happening," Catriona said, hands locked on the edge of the table.

"Then make it un-happen!" Anya said. "And let me go, asshole."

Randolph's grip tightened. "No, you shouldn't touch him until we figure out what's gone wrong. Give us a moment."

Serenity right the hell now, serenity right the hell now. One deep breath, then the explosion: "Wrong answer. You are not leaving him to hurt like that for even one more minute, and mister, if you don't let go, I'm going to implement a vengeance technique which doesn't require an amulet. Are we clear?"

"There's no need for threats, Anya," Gillian said. Unmoved, she leaned forward into the candle smoke. "We simply miscalculated. We knew there would be a strong power in the mirror's family connection, and it's possible that there's more chaos left in him than we anticipated – "

"And that's a damn lie," Anya said. "You were there when he went into that coma, you and Margaret talked to him when he came out of it. You knew where Griffin Hartman stabbed him. You knew about the left-over chaos , and you didn't tell us, and you hurt him anyway. That's what I call bad magick."

Gillian said nothing, her arms folded in righteousness, but Catriona said, "I didn't know about the coma, Anya. I saw the tattoo, knew the Eyghon connection, but – but I wouldn't have caused him pain."

"Too late." With one more tug, Anya pulled out of Randolph's hold. It took only a step or two until she reached the chair, until she bent down to Rupert. He was whispering over and over, words she couldn't distinguish, and when she touched him, the skin felt feverish. "Honey. Honey, wake up."

"That's not going to help, he's gone too far," Catriona said. "But he's seeing something, can't you tell? It's working, even if it's not...right."

Anya snapped, "But how will he stop seeing? Did you think of that?"

Of course they couldn't answer her. They hadn't prepared, hadn't considered him–

Focus, Anya, she told herself. Stroking her hand over his forehead, she bent down to kiss him – even though their life wasn't a fairy tale and he couldn't be awakened that way. When her fingers trailed through the traces of green potion, they burned; she didn't recognise the smell or the feel, but she thought it was an acid base. Oh God, he must be in such pain. What he needed was someone who loved him –

And as the potion's burn intensified on her fingers, she understood. "I'll go get him. My past might not be chaos, but I had vengeance. Send me in."

"How could –" Catriona began.

Anya stared at her. "Your job is to figure out how, okay? Mine is to take care of him." And the right words came to her: "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.'"

Apparently poetry worked like good magick.

When Randolph found a chair for her, she pulled herself as close as she could to Rupert and interlaced their fingers, ignoring the terrible heat of his skin. Catriona brushed on the potion, burn upon burn, and Anya looked into the mirror. Then, whispering one last instruction, Catriona jabbed a needle just where the vengeance amulet once had rested.

It was all reflection – mirrored pain, mirrored vision even in the dark, echoed howls of those she'd hurt, her pain and not hers. These were the losses he felt, she realised. She fell through darkness and out the other side. When she landed, it was soft, separate, as if she watched it happen to someone else.

Hall of mirrors, all reflection. Rupert lay face-down, shivering, on the ground – no, on a carpet, their carpet from the study at home. Rose petals, dark with blood, were scattered all around him; she had to pick her way to him through shards of glass. "Honey? Honey, are you all right?" she said, dropping to her knees, making herself breathe.

But he turned his head away. "I do care, I care very much," he said to no one. "Don't let me hurt Anya too. I couldn't bear that."

"Rupert, I'm fine. Come on, look at me."

He turned onto his back, one hand reaching out to her. When she linked their fingers, she could feel in real time their handclasp tightening. She could pull them free.

"It's not as painful as I thought, dearest, well done you," he said absently. Then: "Do you see the broken cup? It runs in the family. There's a hole in the wall – er, wait, there are two. Two halves, separated for safety. Bring them together." He looked at her for a moment as if he really saw her, then his face clouded. "No, strike that. Reverse it."

More rose petals, heavy with blood, fell around them. He said, low and harsh, "I didn't know there were stairs in that room. And I sodding hate roses."

"Okay, honey, got it. Two halves, family, holes and stairs, no more roses. And we're out of here." Using their link, she got him to sit up.

The mirrors shivered all around them, green-smeared threads cracking their surface in another familiar pattern like those study windows in Kensington – the sigil they'd been living with for months. "Bring them together, then tear them apart," he said urgently.

"Nothing's tearing us apart, Rupert, not now, not ever," she said, still pulling. God, he was heavy. "On your feet."

"For fuck's sake, Anya, I wasn't talking about us," he said, his gloriously cranky self, as they scrambled up–

And the mirror on the table shattered, blackness turning to green and sun and candlelight. Rupert's hand was crushing hers. They were back in Tor House – no, they'd never left. But they were back. He didn't hurt any more.

Rupert pulled her to him, kissed her as if they'd been apart for days. She couldn't breathe, but in a good way. "Honey, what," she finally managed to say against his mouth.

When he lifted his head, he managed to smile, despite the pain still written on his face. "The cup runs in the family, right?" he said. "I've been so bloody stupid. Darling, my cousin Martin worked in British Prophecies. He must have found the two halves of the cup."

***

The ink swirled on the mirror without settling, a never-ending river of black. Here and there came a hole in the stream, and then another, but the ink re-formed into solid almost before the silver could escape. In the reflection of the candle flames, the ink looked like blood.

Nalph glanced at Master Hat, whose hood covered his eyes. "What do you see, Master?"

"Hush, shopkeeper. Look to the Lady."

Yeangelt's eyes were open but blank, fixed on the mirror. She swayed back and forth, whispering under her breath, her hands idly plucking at her skirt. Up, then release. Up, then release. Up –

Then she leapt across the table, fingers clawed, and caught Cluth by the throat. "I saw nothing!" she hissed, the human tones all but gone from her voice. It was cold where she lived. "I saw nothing , mage."

Cluth tried to step back, but her hold was too strong. "I–I don't know what happened. I did everything the way it was supposed to be done."

"What did you see?" she said, shaking him as if she were testing a length of silk. He fluttered in her grasp.

"Holes. Deep blue. Holes again," he stammered.

"The Terminus. You must have seen the Terminus."

"My lady, I assume so."

When she threw Cluth back against the shelves, Nalph was there to catch him – his private stock of magicks needed protecting, after all. As the mage sagged in Nalph's arms, she said, "Did you see the Cup of Xet?"

"No, Yeangelt. Just the holes."

Holes in memory, to be accurate, Nalph thought. The forgetting powder he'd used on the fool was still in his pocket.

Master Hat stood behind Yeangelt, whispering into her ear. She inclined her head, listening to him, nodding. Her eyes shone like blood in the candlelight.

Then she stepped forward. "That was a great help, Cluth. As I suspected, we needn't worry about the Cup any longer. We can do without it."

Cluth straightened, brushing at his clothes, heaving a discreet sigh. "I did so wish to please you, my Lady."

"And you did. There shall be a place for you at the Rising Time." As the mage smiled at her words, she raised her hands shoulder height and signed a knot in the air. His hands went to his throat – choking, he fell on his knees. She pulled hard, as if making the knot tight. He collapsed without sound. "Yours shall be one of the spirits we use to call the power of the Xet," she said to the body. "Master Hat, if you wish to finish the taking–?"

"It shall be my pleasure," he said, teeth visible through his hood. Bending down, he captured Cluth's body by the heels and dragged it out of the office. The mage's head cracked against the earth as it went, a sharp small echo in the room.

Yeangelt looked across the candles at Nalph – he made himself look back, impassive. Their gazes held for a moment, before she said, "The boium tree looks better today, I saw."

"The Noothian canusses arrived early this morning while you were at the Bloomsbury site," he said. "I took the liberty of applying the first treatment; it seems to be quite effective. Grittnak didn't lie."

She smiled at him. "The truth is a lovely thing, isn't it? So tell me this. Why do you think the mirror was so unhelpful?"

"A faulty instrument, my Lady. But one you have taken care of."

"Yes." She brushed her fingertip against the mirror, making a hole in the drying ink. Her smile grew dark. "We will use all faulty instruments as we did that poor creature."

"Only to be expected," he said. Outside there rose a dying shriek – the final loss. Master Hat hadn't had time to really enjoy that death.

"Yes," she said again, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth. "I need to sit with my Pennith and Griffin for a time. May I rely on you to oversee tonight's work, Nalph?"

"Of course you may, my Lady."

"I hope so. I do hope so." One more long stare across the fire, a hiss, then she turned away without further speech. The door swung shut after she passed, leaving him alone.

Still, he blew out all the candles before he allowed himself to smile again.

***

Tom Quinn leaned on the stone wall in front of Tor House, staring out into the afternoon. It was his last sight of Devon hills and sky for a while. His caretakers had said their goodbyes already, and his bag, provided by Siobhan, sat at his feet. It was really Matthew Archer's bag, he thought, but he had to take it with him. It was all he had.

Behind him he could hear the front door opening. He turned to see Giles striding out of the coven's house, Anya running to catch up. "Is the vision done?"

"Yes, we've finally got some leads," Giles called. "Tell Zoe, please. And tell her we'll ring in on the Beresfords' phone when we have more news."

"The Beresfords' phone?" he said. "What the bloody hell?"

He thought he hadn't spoken loud enough to be heard, but Anya slowed her rush to their car. "That's us!" she said, beaming. "Tommy and Tuppence Beresford! You're not the only spy with more than one name, you know, Tom Quinn, Matthew, whatever."

Giles reached their Saab first. Opening the passenger door for his wife, he smiled; another dead-man's reflection in the sun, Tom thought, but a much happier one. "Didn't even occur to me until now. We're both Tom, old son."

Names and faces dissolved one last time. The dead man was alive indeed, with the cottage in the country and the gorgeous young wife. The bizarre gorgeous young wife, Tom thought, but still.

After shouting "Don't jump out of any more cellars, okay?" Anya let Giles shut her door. He gave one last wave, then crossed to his own side and got in. With an engine roar and a spin of gravel, they took off down the drive.

Tom's own smile faded when the Saab honked, a sound to disturb the dead, at a black Range Rover passing them. He knew that car. Government car. He lost his breath for a second.

The Range Rover braked in front of him so hard that gravel peppered the bag. Almost before it stopped, Zoe leapt out of the passenger side, saying, "Oh, Tom!"

Here came Danny to stand beside her. Zoe and Danny, the two he'd most trusted, the two he'd failed so badly, the two who had stood there in the farmhouse hating him, disbelieving him – "Oh, Tom," she said again, her face crumpling. "It really is you. You're home ."

"Mate, it's good to see you," Danny said hoarsely.

And then Tom was enveloped in arms and friendship, and he was home, Tom Quinn again for real.

***

"We should have set the wards before we left," Dawn said as they opened the front door. She was trying to act normal, or as normal as someone who'd made a horrible mistake and got her best friend hurt could be.

"We couldn't do that. Xander was here, he could have been zapped," Andrew said. His face had finally stopped bleeding after she'd worked on it with the emergency kit they kept at Investigations and Acquisitions, but it had taken her and Willow half an hour to fix. The four tiny bandages looked kind of dashing, like a fencing injury or something, but he didn't seem proud of them like he usually would. Yet he didn't seem mad at her either, which bothered her. He should be mad.

"Where is Xander? Didn't he have work to do, or something?" Willow said, still pale and shaky. At one point during the EMT ordeal Dawn had heard her whisper, "Sorry, my fault," to Andrew, but that was stupid. It hadn't been Willow who'd insisted they go, ignoring everything Giles said.

Dawn dropped the briefcases by the front table. Even if she wasn't a good Junior Watcher, at least she could do Anya's ritual right. She picked up the lighter she kept on the table and leaned forward to light the wish-candles. As she touched flame to the first wick: "Well, he had stuff to do this afternoon–"

Something crashed upstairs, hard enough to shake the walls on the ground floor.

Willow and Andrew yelled "Xander!" in counterpoint, then took off for the stairs. Dawn stayed behind long enough to finish lighting the candles, to make her wishes and ask forgiveness, before galloping up after them.

The door to her and Andrew's quarters was open. Panting, she burst through with the others. Construction Guy Xander was sprawled on his back, Giles's toolbox and a bucket beside him, a trowel in his hand. He was gaping at the wall of their living room. "Hey, you guys," he said conversationally. "Okay, I'm just asking – do you see something, or have I gone bug-shit crazy?"

The three of them turned to look.

He had been working on the wall, obviously; some of the small holes and weak spots had been patched but not yet painted. But in the corner one big hole had been ripped open. "I tripped on the tool box," he said, "and the damn trowel went through the wall, it's weak there. And it hit–"

A doorknob, which was attached to a door.

"Well, I see it," Willow said cautiously.

"Thank God. 'Come to England, go insane' didn't seem like a great selling point, you know?" Xander got to his feet, then went over to the wall. His big hands ran over the wall, pressing in and testing; Dawn caught Andrew's hand, squeezing to remind him not to moan or drool. "Okay, more weirdness – this panel isn't fastened to the studs, it's just loose. Let me try this." He found the edges, took hold, and lifted the wall away.

Rough frame, unpainted boards, hinges – "Yep, that's a door," Willow said.

"And maybe it even works!" Xander put his hand on the knob and turned it slowly. With a creak from disuse, the door opened onto black.

"Ooh, like Narnia !" Dawn, Willow, and Andrew said. Then Willow frowned and added, "Although the Chronicles of Narnia are kind of disturbing in their thinly veiled Christian propaganda–"

"Well, maybe it could be Neverwhere instead," Andrew said. "Or any one of Neil Gaiman's masterworks involving doors."

"Seriously, you guys frighten me sometimes," Xander said, sticking his head inside. "Okay. This leads to...a passageway, and stairs. I should have known, the proportions of the room seemed off." He looked back at them. "Where are we? In the house, I mean."

Andrew looked up at the ceiling for inspiration, then said, "Um, above the study, I think."

"Right. Well, should we go down? Or should we call Anya and Giles first?"

Dawn felt a sudden wave of nerves and guilt and more nerves – vengeance was coming, and she deserved it– but she said, "We should call. Definitely ask them first and do what they say. Don't you think, Andrew?"

Her hand was squeezed again – Andrew hadn't let go. And he was smiling forgiveness at her, albeit carefully so he didn't hurt himself more. "You know what, Dawnie? You're a peach of a Watcher."

***

"Fucking...hell...." Giles said through his teeth. He worked the crowbar in a little deeper.

Despite the lanterns they'd brought down, it was dark in the Swallow's Nest cellar. But just as he'd seen that morning with Tom and just as the vision had shown him, here was the depression in the wall, with a board covering a hole, keeping treasure safe. Now if he could just get the bloody thing loose –

Behind him, Anya said, "Do you want any help?"

"I've got it. Just a second."

"Yes, Mr 'I can do it,'" she muttered. "Previous results including claw marks, coma, bruises, bad visions – I'll probably have to rush you to Casualty with the crowbar embedded in your chest."

"Ha ha." Another tug, but at least the board moved that time.

Anya's mobile rang. He put his hands down, took a bit of a breather, while she clicked the phone on and said, "Yes?....You guys did what ?"

"What?" he said, turning to look at her.

She waved her hand at him, enjoining silence. "Xander found hidden stairs in the house? We should have guessed. No, it's not bad."

Giles shut his eyes for a minute, seeing again his vision of mysterious stairs and the two halves of the cup. Cousin Martin and his inheritance, keeping the two halves safe. With renewed energy he applied himself to the lever. More pressure, more pressure – and the board popped free with a creak.

Hole behind the board, just as he had seen. Anya said, "Yep, that's important. Dawn and Andrew, you need to lead on this one – you're looking for a hole in the wall, anywhere in the stairs. Yes, that's what I said. Hole in the wall."

Giles reached his hand into blackness, closed his hand on cool metal. He could feel the magick.

And he and Anya said together, "'The cup runs in the family.'"