Giles thought that the lift button was a nice touch, sure to pull in the punters. "Effective atmospherics," he said dryly, as they began their ascent.

Anya sent him a grin so fast that he almost didn’t catch it. "Great acting, honey. You sound exactly like a sceptical jerk," she whispered, just in case of audio or visual eavesdropping devices, then said with her normal enthusiasm, "Oh, come on, come on! You’ve got to give it a shot!"

"I’m only here because you wanted to come," he said in his most supercilious voice. "It’s balderdash and chicanery, this medium business." But he interlaced their fingers and returned her smile just as fast.

"Absolutely," Wes said. "A load of nonsense, if you ask me." He looked a little less fraught than this afternoon, less like he’d break if someone breathed on him too hard – ah, work, the great healer. He too was playing a sceptic and a bit of an arse; terrible gender- and class-stereotyping, but that was Anya’s and Zoe’s idea.

As the lift doors opened on Cassa Dreams’ floor, motion-sensitive corridor lights flashed in their eyes from high and low and angled off the mirrors, leaving the space outside deeply dark when it was gone. The air smelled of incense and smothered fire. More theatrics, of course– and Giles’s own synapses fired.

The office of Cassa Dreams Ltd was a few doors downs from the lift, its window on the corridor throwing green neon light into the dimness. When they went into the hall, he pulled Anya a step further away, saying loudly, "Last chance. Are you quite, quite sure you want to do this?" Then he whispered, "Did you put on a ring? Tuppence would have one."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! Of course I do!" Then she looked down at her hands – which were bare. She must have forgotten the small detail in the midst of vengeance fetish-dressing, and he’d been far too distracted by her to check.

He leaned down to nuzzle her hair; even more important than inhaling a hit of her perfume, the position blocked anyone in the Cassa Dreams direction from seeing him work his father’s ring off his little finger. Under his breath he said, "It’ll be far too big, sorry. But perhaps you can keep it turned round – or try, at any rate."

She rested her forehead against his shoulder as he slipped it onto her ring-finger, so he couldn’t see her face when she whispered, "D’Hoffryn would have had my head if I’d been so stupid as a demon. Thanks, honey, I’ll take good care of it." He didn’t know why she mentioned the vengeance chief, why something in her voice rang out of tune. But when she raised her head she smiled brightly, perhaps too brightly, and said, "Come on, Tommy! You know what I want, or we wouldn’t be here."

Locking his arm around her leather-clad waist, he said, "All right, darling. Whatever it is, I want you to have it."

Truth so often was the best cover.

Up by the office window, Wes and Zoe turned their heads in inquiry. The neon made their faces seem shadowed, ill. "Everything all right, Tommy?" Zoe said.

"Yes, sorry, Troy. Rory." He noted that she did wear a plain wedding band. Well, at least he’d remembered the other supplies, and the way Wes’s hand rested in his pocket suggested that he too had remembered what they’d collected that afternoon. "Why don’t you– "

Before he could finish, the main door opened, and a man’s smooth grey head appeared. Light eyes scrutinising them, he said in a basso profundo voice, "Ah, are you the ten o’clock appointment?"

"Yes, we’re the Alleyns and the Beresfords," Zoe said. "And you are–?"

"Not Cassa Dreams, I assume. Unless the name is very misleading and she’s not a woman?" Wesley said. Bleating a laugh, he tightened his arm around Zoe’s shoulders and tried to look doting, with a fair amount of success. The indulgent look she gave in return was more convincing, however.

The man said, "I’m the intake specialist; you speak to me before you see the medium. But come in."

"‘Intake specialist’? That’s a receptionist, right?" Anya said. Giles hid his smile against her hair, especially as the man seemed utterly affronted.

Or was it a man? As the four of them followed the specialist into the main reception area – floor lamps in each corner, long loose drapery on the walls, and an empty desk without computer, files or any kind of office supplies – Giles thought there was something dead and still about the figure. Even outside the strange neon light his skin had a livid tinge, and the drapery didn’t stir as he passed. "Have a seat, please," he said, indicating the four chairs in front of the desk, then took his own place. That meant he was at least corporeal.

Sliding black-tinted glass doors filled the wall behind him. Giles thought back to the building blueprint Zoe had faxed over earlier: Cassa Dreams Ltd. leased half the seventh floor, which consisted of two large open spaces, this reception area, and Cassa Dreams’s office itself, while the other half stood conveniently empty. He could hear a faint hum from whatever lay behind the doors, could sense bitter-almond smoke and magick.

This op might be more dangerous than he had anticipated.

The intake specialist produced a sheet of paper from nowhere before getting a pen from his jacket. Bending over the paper so that Giles couldn’t see what was printed on it, the man said, "For our records here, could you give me your names and addresses?"

Zoe said, "Oh, right. Rory and Troy Alleyn. I’m Troy." After she gave a false address in Chelsea – because they seemed like the type, didn’t they – she pushed her hair behind her ears and added, "What do we call you?"

"Your intake specialist." He didn’t look up. "Next name, please?"

Anya said, "Sure, okay, but it’s my belief that we should always know the name or names of whom we’re dealing with. In case we have to complain later." When the man bristled, she smiled. "No offense, I’m sure you won’t do anything to violate good customer relations! But still."

"Quite right, darling, your policy’s served us well in the past," Giles said. He let one hand slip forward to grasp the edge of the desk – which could be read as either a threat or support for Anya, but also allowed him to rub a trace of Grittnak’s specially prepared powder on the desk surface.

A stronger smell of bitter almonds, a spark inside his fingertips, and a thin, almost imperceptible line snaking from his point of contact: "the signs of darkness, surface and deep," the old son of a Nazgut had said. Giles didn’t like the signs at all.

The intake specialist turned his gaze to him. With a tilt of his head like the slide of a precisely calibrated scale: "Your wife is American? She doesn’t have an accent like the rest of you."

Thank Christ she didn’t try, Giles thought. "Tuppence isn’t originally English, correct. But you haven’t told us your name yet."

The hiss and scent of magick intensified yet again; Giles wasn’t clear if it was coming from behind the glass or from the man. But the man said calmly enough, "You may call me Pennith. And your names and addresses?"

Anya said, "Well, Mr. Pennith, by process of elimination you should guess we’re the Beresfords; I gave the name when I made the appointment. We live at 14, Primrose Crescent, NW1. Do you need me to spell anything?"

"Ah. No." He nodded as if the answer confirmed something, then jotted it down.

From behind the glass doors came a shriek, then a gurgled cry, accompanied by a rattling close thunderclap. Giles had almost forgotten that it was storming. "Good Lord," Wes said. "What’s going on in there?"

"The previous appointment," Pennith said without looking up. "And how will you be paying for your visit today?"

Zoe reached into her purse and pulled out a credit card. "Access all right?" With Wes hanging on her shoulder, she smiled over at the two of them. "Happy anniversary, Tuppence! And Tommy, of course."

Happy secret-service ability to conjure up cards and credit ratings at the drop of a hat, Giles thought. Anya beamed back at Zoe. "You’re a sweetheart, Troy. This is so fun, isn’t it fun, Tommy?"

"If you say so, darling. Seems like a bloody stupid way to spend our night, but if it’s so important for you to see beyond...." He petted her hair.

"Lovely to see such devotion," Pennith said, even as he ran the card through a hidden scanner, his arm stroking downward like a knife scoring through flesh.

Giles unobtrusively put his free hand to his face, breathing the traces of protection left from Grittnak’s powder. He needed the insight. When he looked back up, Pennith’s gaze had lowered, but his smile had deepened. Dark edges, bitter almonds.

Wes said, "Sorry, sorry, could we have another of Cassa Dreams’ business cards? Part of our accounting system, you know, keep it with our receipts."

"Of course, Mr. Alleyn." Was there undue emphasis on the name? Giles couldn’t be sure. Pennith pushed the credit slip across the desk for Zoe to sign, then flicked out of nowhere a card for Wes–

Who, upon taking it, said, "Oh dear. Your slogan’s changed, hasn’t it?"

"What’s that, sir?"

Another silly-arse laugh, at which Wes was far too good, then: "Well, Troy saw an advert saying that Cassa Dreams was ‘where the terminal has no meaning.’ It’s why the girls chose the place, because of the ripping-the-veil aspect, the lack of, er, terminal, if you believe that sort of thing. But this is different." He showed the card to the others. Adjusting his glasses, Giles struggled to see – but Wes read it off for them: "‘Where the terminal has new meaning.’ Different, yes?"

Anya’s hand clamped on his thigh, the stone on the borrowed ring cutting into him with the pressure of her hold. Of course she had it on upside down. Cuts could swell with blood, just as his had, dark billowing up from below –

Pennith said, "I’m sorry, sir, I fail to see the problem. In either case, the terminal isn’t exactly what you thought." Before anyone could respond, he stood. "I believe that it’s time to end the previous session. If you’ll wait here, please." Sliding the black-glass doors open just a few inches, enough to reveal more green light and sparks, he went into the inner sanctum. The doors slid shut behind him.

Wes leaned closer, saying sotto voce, "I can’t quite tell. Vampire?" Zoe couldn’t cover her flinch at the word.

"Robot, I’d say," Anya whispered. "We know ‘bots."

"No, neither, I think," Giles said quietly. "But it’s bad." His hand covered Anya’s, which still cut into his leg. Even more quietly, "Darling, please be careful when we go in."

"That’s a completely unnecessary request, honey. Like I want either of us wounded, killed, or magically damaged!" But when she kissed him, her lips trembled underneath his. Ignoring the op for a second, he leaned in a little more and deepened the kiss for comfort. She made a sound in her throat, caught at his shoulder with her free hand –

Then glass scraped against glass, incense-laden air blew in, and a woman’s voice said over masculine sobs, "Next session will be easier, my dear boy."

Breaking away from Anya just a hairbreadth, Giles saw a young man, eyes reddened and dark skin blotched, standing in the doorway. His hand on Pennith’s arm, he said to someone behind him, "Yes, Ms. Dreams. I’ll remember your words, and I’ll be here next week." He swallowed his tears and whatever else he might have said, then bowed his head, trembling.

As the intake specialist led the client away, the woman came into the reception area. Giles noted the basics: slightly taller than average, late 40s, ivory Isadora Duncan scarf, and, good Lord, was that a tiara in her salt-and-pepper hair? Smiling at him and Anya, she said in an American accent, "Your public display there leads me to believe you’re the anniversary couple! Welcome, I’m Cassa Dreams." Then she turned to Zoe and Wes. "And what good friends you are to give them this experience, and to come along too."

Giles didn’t think that it was his imagination that her eyes rested on Wesley a little too long, and when she glanced back at him and Anya, there was too much...something. Blocking out the others and the sounds of Pennith and the previous client in the corridor, he used the last bit of the powder to look again. Sparks burst in the scarf that encircled her neck. More dark edges, but it was different, it was.... gone, blinked away by her widened green eyes.

Too much green for his taste. It wasn’t the colour of life, of growing things, but a livid death-colour, like something stirred up from the mire. It needed –

"Honey?" Anya yanked on his hand, pulling him back to the moment. He felt her nerves even before he looked at her, before he registered how high her voice had gone. "What happened?"

"Nothing, darling, sorry." His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

He looked back at Cassa Dreams: folded arms, folded lips, ivory silk wrapped like a noose. She said, "Mr. Beresford, my notes say we’re supposed to be, um, contacting your mother in our communication with the lost, or so your wife said. She also said you would take convincing, but you seem to be a little... too sensitive?...to be an unbeliever."

Anya started to speak, but he silenced her with a glance. They’d agreed that his mother would be their designated contact person, because, as he had explained, Deborah Giles living or dead would have no dealings with mediums. Despite the potential for disaster with a real spiritualist, if Cassa Dreams was such, they should be safe with that choice. A good agent thought about safety, especially when he was responsible for three other people as well.

However, a good agent also knew enough to go off-piste when the situation called for it. And even though he’d failed her by his absence, he remembered a friend whom they could trust. "Actually, we’ve changed our minds. Not that I believe this rot, but just in case, we wish to contact someone who wasn’t there to see us get together." Squeezing Anya’s hand to warn her, he said, "Her name was Tara."

Cassa Dreams said, "She was lost?"

After a pause, Anya said, "She was lost to us. Murdered horribly when she was young. Actually, the aftermath was pretty bloody too, and also destructive of valuable property."

The medium gazed at them all, then nodded. "Good. Tricky, perhaps, but we have a name and a purpose. Follow me into my Working Room."

Zoe and Wes fell behind them – probably trying to get a last look at Pennith, who hadn’t returned to the office. But Giles didn’t have time to think about that, what with doors opening in front of them, with Anya’s whispered, "What’s the deal?"

He brought their linked hands up, brushed a kiss against her palm. A whisper back: "Safety. Er, I hope."

Although she clearly wanted to pepper him with questions, because they had entered the Working Room she stayed quiet. The medium stood at the far side of a round wooden table, which was centred in a circle of light – sodding green light, of course. Behind her was a wall of windows, night-opaque, with rain drumming against them.

Anya had said earlier that he wasn’t intuitive. Dear God, he hoped she was right – let this meeting be just a link to further research, nothing more. "See, Tuppence," he said. "It’s all smoke and mirrors. Rubbish, right?"

Cassa Dreams put her hand on the mirror that lay on the table in front of her. "Oh, you’re right, Mr. Beresford." Then she smiled. "And you’re very wrong."

***

Wes shot a look behind him. The open office door and the window revealed the darkened corridor, but the intake specialist was nowhere to be seen. "Where did Pennith go?" he whispered to Zoe.

"No idea. And do you know why, um, Tommy changed his mind?"

"No idea," he repeated. "But he was always shockingly bad at following rules."

She leaned so close to him that her light floral perfume dominated the incense for a heartbeat. She was surprisingly curvaceous and warm under her sombre jacket, a fact he’d noticed when she’d kissed him hello and which he now was trying to ignore. Her mouth near his ear, she whispered, "Good for a section-leader to know."

"Come on, you two!" Anya called. "Unless you don’t want to participate in the ritual any more."

He gave his Rory laugh, modelled on one of his more annoying cousins on his mother’s side. "Be right there, Tuppence!"

As he and Zoe crossed into the Working Room, he took a quick survey of the concrete space. Along either wall was a table filled with magical paraphernalia: athames, the number of which suggested Cassa Dreams was either a poseur or had a dozen people working for her; scrying mirrors; smoldering incense-burners. All were jumbled into a pattern he couldn’t read. A wall of dark windows rose behind the medium – and he thought again of rain washing through layers of memory.

Giles said mildly, "You don’t have to if you don’t want to, old man. Load of bollocks, after all."

"If you do it, I will. Old man," he said, just as mildly. Ex-Watchers resurgent: the ironic phrase Giles had echoed so freely that afternoon meant more to him than he could bear to admit.

Cassa said, "Shall we begin? Ladies, if you’ll sit on either side of me, please." A light laugh: "I work better with feminine energies."

With her words, the doors slid shut behind them. Electronically controlled, he had no doubt – but dark glass in front and behind him gave him a sudden, hard chill.

Zoe and Anya were already taking their seats. Seeing Giles hold his partner’s chair for her, Wes remembered his manners and hastened to Zoe’s side to follow suit, saying, "Sorry, Troy dear." When she smiled up at him, he shivered again.

He didn’t know why it troubled him that his head didn’t hurt any more.

The medium snapped her fingers, then, with a merlin’s darting gaze, indicated the remaining chairs. "Gentlemen." As they settled, as the chairs scraped forward, she tapped on the mirror in front of her. Again she said, "Shall we begin?"

"Well, actually," Anya said, leaning her elbows on the table, "First I’d like to hear more about the terminal thing, as seen on your various slogans on your business cards – which are quite nicely printed, by the way. Designed locally?"

Cassa smiled. "I don’t handle the administrative work, my dear, but I’ll pass along your compliment. And as for the terminal –" she spread her fingers, thin and bony as birds-feet, on the mirror – "let us think of it this way. ‘Terminal’ is an adjective for ending, but as a noun, from the Latin, it is also –"

"Boundary," Wes and Giles said in unison, then looked at each other.

"Oh, listen to the gentlemen of learning!" Cassa said. "Yes, a boundary." On the word, she got up and began to pace a circle around the table. Best as Wes could tell, she followed the line between green light and darkness; her scarf rippled in and out of shadow as she moved. "It can be the end; it can be death. But how much more powerful to think of it as a place of departure and arrival. To think of it –" she was behind him now. A nail-tip grazed his neck, passed through air to Zoe’s nape –" as a point of connection."

Zoe sat up straighter at the touch. "Does this place of connection require papers, or passports?"

"Clever woman!" Cassa spun into her chair, then spread her hands again on the mirror. "It does require a word and a talisman to get in. But once there, you could go anywhere, talk to anyone. Call to anyone. That’s what the terminal is." Merlin-eyes back to Giles and Anya. "What is a keyword for your lost one?"

Anya’s hand went to Giles’s, and they linked fingers and gazes. After a long moment of that bizarre silent communication, the two said together, "Family."

It appeared that Anya blinked back tears – but she exhaled hard, smiled, and said brightly, "Yes, ‘family.’ Or failing that, ‘thumb-wrestling.’ Tara and I used to do that sometimes."

"Darling," Giles said, as if the ache in his endearment meant something specific.

"We’ll try ‘family,’ I think," Cassa said.

"Okay," Anya said. "So are you going with a spirit guide? One of the classics?"

"Oh, I don’t need anything like that." Breathing in, she said, "Yes. Family," and began to drum in an irregular rhythm, her nails clicking against the silver surface. Sounded like the rain hitting the windows, in patterns blown by the wind. Then she threw her hands out in a command he hadn’t expected. "Together, please."

With the merest hesitation Anya and Zoe reached out to clasp hands, making a trio of women in the light. Yet Cassa’s scarf still fluttered in and out of shadow.

Zoe turned to him, smiling in a way that reminded him not at all of Fred: "Now you, Rory." But he battled reluctance to take her hand; he almost feared to touch the rain and wind, to see again the image of his father’s study with those cracked, poisoned windows. Then at the edges of his sight, Giles reached out to Anya and held hard. Despite his fears, Wes matched the movement.

When Giles caught his other hand, Cassa inhaled and exhaled on a shiver. "Ah, now. Our circle is complete." Throwing her head back, she looked into the green light and cried, "The word is family, and we call on Tara."

Zoe’s fingers tightened on his. It was pleasant, nothing more.

But then another squeeze of their hands went around the table, from Cassa, from Anya to Giles, another from Zoe to him, from ex-Watcher to ex-Watcher, back to Zoe and Anya.

And the incense burned hotter he could feel the lash of the scarf there were sparks there were sparks – it was howling emptiness, no, it was everything, and Cassa said in a smoky voice not her own, "Sorry, people. The right word is ‘contract.’ And can I tell you how happy I am with this little meet-and-greet?"

He knew that voice. He could see himself holding a burning contract, a flame in a darkened room, a long scarf, half in shadow and half in light. A smile and that smoke-voice, edged with regret and love, oh God, saying Flames wouldn’t be eternal if they actually consumed anything. But it means something that you tried. Then the voice said, "Maybe you can try again, huh, lover. I’ve been waiting for you." It came from the woman in the white tie.

The shadows ripped open with a thunderclap, the memories pouring over him like scalding rain – the baby, the false prophecies, the pain he deserved in his throat and his heart, Connor, his failure oh God his manifold failures, but there she was, his lover, the one he lost before he even knew –

The woman in the white scarf rose to her feet. But the tie should be red, he thought; Lilah wore red. Even as she held onto the others’ hands, a trio of women in the light, she said in Lilah’s voice, "And you two, I’d like to know a little more about the way you broke your contracts with hell." She was looking at Giles and Anya. "Eyghon, D’Hoffryn – yet you escaped. You got new starts. How the fuck did you do that?"

"What? We broke hell-contracts?" Anya said.

Behind them, the doors rattled under a blow, then another, then another. The edges of Wesley’s sight went green, and he breathed in something horrible.

Snapping, "Bloody hell. Come on," Giles let go of his hand. But the link to her remained. She was there in the fluttering shadows, and Wes wanted to touch her, say the things he could finally say –

"Now." Giles’s voice brooked no refusal.

Wes turned his head to see that each glass door had cracked like his father’s study windows. Green liquid stole through the cracks, turning to smoke that would take all of them under. Like his father.

"The contracts, kids. Did you know the password or something? Or find the right vessel like the followers of Xet want?" the woman in the white tie said again. Then she choked on her words, her hand dropping from Anya’s and going to her throat. "Lover?"

Giles was already trying the doors. When they wouldn’t open, he pulled a vial from his jacket; Wes knew it was the antidote that Grittnak had given them, there on the roof on the rain – the antidote that could have saved his father if he’d been there. Could have saved Lilah. He was never there when he needed to be.

Giles said over his shoulder, "Come on, do your sodding job!"

Right. His job. Memories and love never mattered. Try to remember who you are, his father always said –

Hand diving into his pocket, Wes stumbled to the doors.

Someone outside – Pennith – was chanting low words he couldn’t distinguish. Inside, Giles followed one mark with the finger he had dipped in the liquid, tracing blue over green, murmuring their own incantation. "Return to the maker, let us stay awake, let us breathe, let us remember. Return to the maker –"

"Let us stay awake, let us breathe, let us remember," Wes repeated. Then he mirrored the action with his own vial and his own sign, his blue-tipped fingers covering what had been broken.

The muttering from outside grew louder. Just below the rune the glass rattled again. "It’s not going to be enough," he said, even as he finished his own counter-spell. "He’s going to try again."

"Then shoot out the glass," Giles said.

Behind him, Lilah’s voice said, "That’s right, Wesley. It’s time to indulge that gun fetish of yours." Then came a cry as if she were being pushed aside, came a cough and what sounded like the beginnings of a stammer.

Giles left him alone in front of the doors.

The pressure from outside strengthened, the door beginning to fracture with the first stroke, the chant getting louder. Wes shivered once, a hard chill he now recognised from that dark lost year, then reached for his weapon. Without faltering, he took off the safety. Aimed at the new cracks in the glass. Shot once.

Both doors shattered at the combination of bullet and counter-spell. But no one stood on the other side.

After he put the safety back on and holstered his gun, he turned back to the room. Giles and Anya were doing something he couldn’t see at one of the tables along the wall, murmuring something he couldn’t hear over the rain and the echo of gunshot. In the light, Cassa Dreams swayed back and forth, her lips moving soundlessly. She still held on to Zoe, who seemed transfixed by the movement and the fluttering scarf – two women in the light now.

Then Cassa Dreams slumped and said in a new voice, hesitant yet warm, "Hi. Hi, you guys." Beside her Zoe jolted, her free hand sliding across the table toward him. He felt the strongest pull, as if focus had shifted. If he could only see, he thought–

Giles and Anya turned, Anya crying, "Tara! Oh, Tara!"

Yet it was Zoe who caught Wes’s gaze. She seemed to be changing before his eyes, shimmering into a taller woman, her hair lengthening and darkening, her smile crooking that perfect face – Lilah’s face, Lilah’s voice. "Hey there, lover. Well, there’s always another way, isn’t there?"

He went toward her outstretched hand. "Lilah." Giles and Anya and the other voice faded into the background and the sound of the rain.

Lilah’s smile grew softer. "So what do you remember, Wes?"

"I remember everything," he said, falling to his knees beside her. Although he wanted desperately to touch her, his fresh memories kept him back.

"Do you recall breaking up with me?" she whispered, leaning forward. He could smell her perfume, that rich opiate which had intoxicated him so, frightened him so, and as he had done before, he forgot his misgivings. "Do you recall trying to rescue me?"

"Do shut up for a second," he said, and kissed her. The taste, dark and bittersweet like red wine and chocolate, was just as his tongue remembered. Even as the rain drummed harder, even as he sensed movement and murmurs all around him, he kissed harder, trying to make it last.

She stopped him for an instant. "Okay. Two things. You need to know that Angel was behind the forgetting spell. Because of Connor." Another kiss, richer, more bitter; another of her smiles. "You also need to know that I’d be fucking thrilled if you tried to rescue me again."

"Lilah," he said again. He kissed her as if he could take her breath and give her his, reaching in as far as he could – and then the taste and scent changed, becoming lighter, sweet and floral, and she jerked away. But it wasn’t Lilah, it was Zoe.

Oh God, it had been Zoe.

"I, I’m so sorry –" he began, falling back against his chair.

Giles lifted an athame’s blade from the mirror, where he’d scored something Wes couldn’t make out. "Now, darling," he said.

"Return to the maker. Come awake, breathe, remember," Anya said, and then whipped the scarf from around the medium’s neck. As she dropped the silk onto the floor: "Oh, that’s nasty. I haven’t felt bad magick like that since the sixteenth century, and John Dee didn’t really know what he was getting into there."

Now released, the woman shrank into her chair. Sparks seemed to die around her throat, and the light over the table flashed. Opening her eyes – which were no longer green – she said in an American drawl quite unlike the medium’s tones, "Hey. Hey – do I know y’all?"

"Ms. Dreams?" Giles said. "Cassa Dreams?"

"Cassa Dreams? What kind of fool name is that? You’d get kicked out of any self-respecting group of practitioners on account of bad taste," the woman said, pushing herself up. "My name’s Sandy Drake." She looked around, eyes widening. "Shit! Where am I, who are you, and why are you English? And why am I in this get-up? Am I trapped in some goddamn production of Blithe Spirit?"

Giles said, "Er, perhaps, in a manner of speaking. Could you please come with me, Ms. Drake?"

As he led the complaining woman through the shattered doors, Anya crossed to Zoe. She put her hands on her shoulders and said, "You okay, Zoe? That was some nasty multi-level channelling going on, which I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to break – especially with the athame not set to his hand and Rupert drawing the sign, because he’s just crap at it. But don’t tell him I said that again."

"I won’t tell him. And, um, I’m fine. I need to call Danny – ‘Fox’, I mean. Our backup. The signal must have gone dead," Zoe said faintly. She didn’t look at Wes.

Unfortunately, Anya did. "You okay too, Wesley?" Her brown eyes saw entirely too much; he closed his own, covered his face with his hands. In the way that reminded him so of another hardheaded woman, she said, "Seriously, answer me. You still have your headache? Any pain?"

"No, Anya," he said, without indicating which question he answered.

Try to remember who you are. What a fucking joke.

***

One of the overhead lights in their kitchen had burned out, Anya saw. She’d have to fix it in the morning – but she turned all of them off for now. Then she just stood, breathing in smoke-wisps from the tabletop candles she’d lit, and playing with the borrowed ring, loose but still on her finger.

Rupert had kicked off his shoes and gone upstairs as soon as they’d gotten home, muttering about debriefing, and Harry, and spy stuff she was tired of thinking about. God, she was so tired, and she couldn’t figure out why, besides that it was almost one in the morning.

So she sat down on the floor. Although the leather trousers cut into her painfully, they didn’t hurt as much as her feet did. Though she found it hard to reach, to get into the right position –

"Here, darling, I can do that for you." Rupert stood in the doorway, holding the bottle of Scotch they’d left upstairs in one hand and the dirty tumblers in the other. Before she could say anything, he slid tumblers and bottle onto the kitchen counter, then sat down on the floor too. "Foot, please."

She leaned back on her hands and propped one boot on his thigh. "Thanks. But did getting all the way down hurt you, honey?"

"It’s not sitting down that’s the problem, it’s the bloody getting up," he said. His competent fingers pushed up the leather, caressing her as they passed, and then began to work on the boot-zipper.

At his care of her, those stupid tears threatened again. But she said with an attempt at a smile, "Is that a sexual reference? I hope not."

He looked at her over the tops of his glasses in an arrogant Rupert fashion before sliding off the first boot and sock. Oh damn, her toes were cramping; she kneaded them against his jeans, against solid thigh muscle and warmth. He heaved the boot into the hall, where it landed very near his own shoes, then said, "Other foot now."

Awkwardly she shifted position. His long fingers on her skin as he unzipped her boots, the release of pressure when he stripped off her covering – it reminded her of their first night together. Dropping onto her elbows, she let her head fall back so the tears could seep inside. The force of gravity was her friend.

When his fingers probed at just the right knot in her instep, she moaned, "Oh God, honey."

"Too hard? Tell me if it is." But he dug his thumb in, pressing on the centre so that the tension puddled away. Then he moved up to the base of her big toe, digging in again – more ache, more release. "While I do love the way you look in those heels, darling, you seem to be in a bit of pain now."

"You have no idea." When she spread her fingers flat on the floor, his borrowed ring clicked against the wood.

There was only the hum of the refrigerator, the lingering rain on the window, their soft breathing. There was the flickering light, the touch of his hands which alternated pain with pleasure, the flex of her other bare foot against his leg. She let herself sink into it all.

Then, still massaging, he said, "Harry thinks, as I do, that our cover as Tommy and Tuppence is blown. It probably was before we arrived at that bloody place. And Pennith is still out there. He’s likely the connection to Yeangelt – as is also one of our informants, unfortunately, because I rather think we were set up."

Focussing on what meant most to her at the moment: "We can’t be Tommy and Tuppence any more?" She made herself breathe through the ache.

"Not on ops. Er, still good for our communications with Zoe, I think." Enveloping her foot in his hand, he folded her toes over and pressed; one last pain-shot, then warmth as the cramp eased. "But that doesn’t matter."

"I think names matter," she said. "And I don’t want to talk about work now."

"Ah. The candles are lit, how stupid of me not to notice," he said dryly. "Do you need your other foot done?"

"No, thank you, honey." Then she raised her head to look at him. Still cradling her feet on his lap, he gazed into space, a hundred-years stare that spoke of tiredness and his ever-present and quite idiotic doubts. She knew what he needed. "How ‘bout a little drink?"

Smiling, he said, "No, thank you, darling."

"See, that’s a mistake." She got to her knees. With one quick series of moves she whipped off his glasses, put them on the counter, then collected the bottle of Scotch. "Scoot back for me, okay?"

Eyebrows raised, he nevertheless did as he was told, moving back to lean against a cabinet door. She settled herself beside him the best she could – no use losing an internal organ to overly tight pants. Then she wrapped her lips around the bottle and took a shot. It went down hot and fast, and she couldn’t repress a little cough before saying, "Now you."

"Don’t bloody tell me what to do, Anya." But he took the bottle anyway, took a long, long drink. He of course didn’t cough, as he was more accustomed to swallowing fire.

"Okay. Rupert honey, would you please kiss me now?"

"Much better," he said, then leaned in. His lips, still slick with the drink, slid over hers so easily, so sweetly. She did prefer her Scotch on his tongue, she really did. She brought one hand to curl around his arm, to hold on tight, to sink in.

Too soon he pulled away, then leaned his head back against the cabinet. Snuggling against his shoulder, she grabbed the bottle from him for one more sip. After another slight cough, she said, "I’m glad the spy part of the evening’s over. I do think we should have taken Wesley home, though, despite his no longer enspelled but still insane protests."

"Um-hm," he said, taking the bottle back. His own longer drink, then: "I suppose I could have knocked him out, slung him over my shoulder to get him to the car, then dumped his unconscious body in the back seat. That might have done it."

"No, he’s skinny but still too heavy, you might have thrown out your back – Oh. Amusing. If you’re not careful, Mr. Sarcasm, I’ll take vengeance on you." When her word echoed back unpleasantly in her brain, however, she shivered.

"For fuck’s sake, as if torturing me all evening with your beauty in leather wasn’t enough." After he placed the bottle back on the counter, he collected one of her hands and settled it on his upper thigh.

Even in the candlelight, hurt still cut into his face; she lifted her free hand to trace a line down his cheek. "It was upsetting to hear Tara like that, even through a medium," she said. Tara was the only true Scooby who had liked her back then, she thought but did not add; she was learning what not to speak aloud. "I’ve missed her."

"Yes." With just one word, she could hear all his guilt crushing down.

"Okay, Rupert, here’s my guess at what you’re thinking. If you’d been in Sunnydale, Tara wouldn’t have been murdered. Because of course your mere presence would be like a force-field through which evil bot-making villains’ bullets cannot pass."

"Anya, stop."

"But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?"

"Anya –" He moved too fast; she wasn’t prepared for his mouth on hers, for love and sadness and the lingering burn of Scotch. His arm came around her, bringing her awkwardly into his body. With a muttered "Please stop," he kissed her again, kissed her deeper: lips and tongue, love and sadness. Then he rested his forehead on hers; she could see him clearly, even in the candlelight, even that close. "Never mind. Are you all right, dearest? You were trying not to cry earlier."

That particular name always got to her. Before she could stop herself, she said, "Yes. Because my trousers hurt. Because it’s harder to be a spy than I expected. And because of the hell-contracts comment made by the creepy gate-crashing spirit."

His hand slipped down to her waistband, testing the fit. "Christ, Anya, you’re practically cut in half." He unsnapped the trousers, slid the zipper down – more sweet relief, she could breathe freely again – then caressed the marks on her skin as if he could love them away. When his fingers dipped down lower, brushing just the top of her most sensitive spot, she locked her hand on his forearm. A kiss half-comfort, half-sex, before he whispered, "I’m sorry my fucking past means you’re a spy now. If I could get you out of it –"

"Shut up. You’re Tommy, I’m Tuppence, we’re a team. That’s not what I meant."

A half-smile. "Tell me, dearest."

She almost couldn’t get the words out: "Just so you know, your calling me ‘dearest’ is really stupid, because it always makes me want to sob." She took a shuddering breath. "Lilah or whoever that was said that we had new starts, that we escaped hell. You did, I know you did, because you’re such a good man. But me? I can’t think that’s right. In my experience, true vengeance finds a person wherever, whenever."

"Anya, I haven’t been a good–" He broke off his words. "No. I don’t think we’ll ever get past who we were. But maybe...maybe because we’ve made different choices now, we can start again. Make it better, without forgetting the past."

"Do you believe that, really?"

"I will if you will," he said. "Now, darling–"

He eased her down on the floor, then eased off her constricting clothing. The leather came off with surprising ease, her marked skin warming under his touch. Oh God, his big hands, still with traces of magic on his fingertips: they traced patterns on her breasts, on the insides of her thighs, inside her. She felt heavy with pleasure, with relief. This kind of drawing he did better than anyone ever.

But she needed more of him. Murmuring suggestions because he didn’t like commands, she took off his shirt, helped him take off his jeans and boxers and toss them aside. Taking his cock in her hand, she played with it, circling the silky head, stroking his hard length until he moaned.

She needed all of him so much.

He smiled as he covered her – carefully, because of the technical difficulties with remaining bandages -- but close, so close. And he whispered, "You are my dearest, you know. Simple statement of fact."

Names did matter, she thought, as she opened to take him, as he sank into her. Cool floorboards against her back; warm, heavy Rupert inside and everywhere, everywhere, weighing her down with love. The force of gravity was her friend.

As they moved together, her borrowed ring clicked against the wood.

***

It’d stopped raining some time ago, but Wesley was still drenched, still cold. After dragging his hand through his hair, he reached into the secret hiding place for the key to his parents’ front door.

After – after the experience he still couldn’t name – he’d barely fought off both the MI5 people’s attempts to debrief, and Giles and Anya’s far more dangerous attempts to take care of him. He’d escaped at last into the rain, however, and he started walking. He didn’t know where he was going or where he went. He just walked. There was the river, there was late-night traffic, there were people running from the last sparks of lightning in the air, there were demons hiding in doorways.

There were his memories again.

He’d walked for over an hour until, somewhere on the Strand, he’d flagged down a cab and given the address of the hospital. When they’d pulled into the forecourt, however, he changed his mind. He wanted to go home.

If he could just figure out where that was, he’d be set.

The door opened silently, and he stepped inside onto the mat, shook himself off. Then he shut the door and locked it tightly as he’d been taught. His hands were in shadow as he worked; the lamps in the entry had been left on for some reason.

"Wesley," his mother said from behind him.

When he turned, she was sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, a shawl wrapped around her. The elegant, proper Elinor Wyndam-Pryce was sitting on the stairs, his mind repeated. That must mean –

"Roger died this evening, Wesley. About ten-thirty. He didn’t suffer, the doctors said."

"Mother. Oh, Mother. I’m sorry–" He fumbled for his mobile phone, then looked at the display. There were no messages. "Why didn’t you call me?"

"I’ve told you now." Clearly that was all she thought was required. "I’ve already begun the plans for the burial, but you can assist me tomorrow if you like."

"Of course," he said helplessly. He took a few more steps forward, then stopped.

She rose to her feet, clutching at her shawl. When her hands moved on the silk, he noticed the strangest detail – she’d already taken off her wedding ring. Then, as he stood there awkwardly, she came to him and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time she’d done so since... he couldn’t remember, actually, which seemed a little ironic given the events of the evening. One hand came up to cradle his face, and she gazed at him for a long moment. Then she kissed him again. "Good night, son."

"Mother." Leaning forward, he gave her a tentative hug, the first he’d ever attempted as an adult. It shocked him to realise how small she was, how brittle. It shocked him more that she accepted the hug, if only for a heartbeat.

"You’re soaked through, Wesley. Better change out of those wet things," she said, already moving away toward the staircase.

In the silence he watched her climb, her ringless hand gliding on the bannister. When she was halfway up, he found his voice again: "Mother, why did you call him ‘Roger,’ and not my father?"

She didn’t answer, although he waited until after he’d heard her bedroom door shut.

He looked around the entryway he’d seen a thousand times: the lamps and the flower containers on the eighteenth-century table, the black-and-white stone of the floor, the subdued taste of the wall coverings. He could have named every item in it and its surrounding rooms. He could have repeated the substance of every conversation he’d ever had with the late Roger Wyndam-Pryce. He had always prided himself on his memory.

"I’ll remember who I am now, Dad. Don’t you worry about that," he said into the night.

Then he took himself to bed, to dream of red wine and chocolate and a woman’s smoky voice.

***

Zoe hated funerals. Despite the sun shining hot and bright on the Oxfordshire country churchyard, this service for Roger Wyndam-Pryce was no exception.

She stood a bit apart from the crowd paying their last respects to a man who’d been influential in so many areas of British life, although few in the public would have been able actually to name his achievements. She knew more about those now, she thought: a Council of Watchers chief, an MI6 agent, a husband and father. He had been a man who knew about night demons and bad dreams, a man who every piece of evidence suggested had been killed by one – although demon or dream, it was unclear. Her special section was working on the problem.

A gust of cool wind blew around a tombstone; surreptitiously she pulled her hair off her neck, so she could enjoy the breeze, and took a routine survey of the people in the crowd. Harry was here, talking to someone high up in the Home Office. Several MI6 people she’d just met was here too, following Jools Siviter like posh little ducklings. The MI6 spymaster, impeccable in black Savile Row suiting, had spent most of the service at the widow’s side, offering comfort. The man had at least waited to light up one of his cigarettes until after "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Not that the widow seemed in need of comfort; Elinor Wyndam-Pryce had been composed throughout the service, all intimidating brunette perfection and county poise. She did seem very young to have a son well into his adulthood, Zoe thought. The woman didn’t look much older than fifty.

The adult son in question had been collected by Giles and Anya down by the grave – no, wait, all three of them were coming this way. Zoe fought down a blush, the curse of the fair-skinned, and smiled at their approach.

Anya was saying in her usual sharp way, "Seriously, Wes, you don’t have to hurry back to Los Angeles. You can stay and help us with the Pennith case! I’ll even –" she took a deep breath, as if the following words would be painful –"even let you and Rupert go off adventuring on your own, and I won’t complain in your hearing."

"How perfectly measured a statement," Giles said dryly, at which she flashed a grin.

Wes said, "Yes, well played, Anya. But I need to go. I have your greetings to give to Spike, after all. Not to mention research that requires the Wolfram and Hart holdings, and certain things to discuss with Angel." The men exchanged significant glances at that. Zoe didn’t remember much of what had gone on after the spirit had leapt into her body, a memory-loss for which she was thankful, but she did hazily recall the intensity of the spirit’s hatred for the vampire Angel.

"Well, whatever," Anya said dubiously. She tossed her hair back. "You know, this has been a very nice service, even without the customary baked meats, funeral pyre, or sacrificed small animal."

"My mother would be pleased to hear it, thank you," Wes said. Casting a side-long glance at Zoe, he seemed ready to speak, thought better of it –

Anya said, "Yes, anyway, before we go, we have a funeral gift, Wes."

"A funeral gift?"

Giles reached into his suit pocket to pull out a slim envelope. "Er, yes. Giles and Jenkins’s bill."

Wes gave a choked laugh. "Oh, really –"

"Just read it." He proffered the envelope, raised his eyebrows. In a casually commanding voice, he said, "Now."

"Well, if you insist." Wes ripped into the envelope, pulled out a slip of paper, and stared at it for a moment. "But, Giles, this says –"

"That’s right. No charge for our work, but with one condition: our gift of twenty-five free billable hours, in exchange for your promise to come back and see us soon," Anya said. "And it wasn’t just Rupert’s idea, by the way. I don’t mind that you’re a little crazy."

Zoe thought that Wes seemed distressed for the first time that long afternoon, the paper crumpling in his fingers. "I can’t accept –"

"Yes, you can," Giles said. "Ex-Watchers resurgent, isn’t that right."

Composing himself, Wes smiled. "Yes. Thank you, Giles. No, thank you both. And I do promise."

"Great!" Anya said cheerily. Then, glancing behind her, her face fell. "Oh no, can we hide–"

"Ah, there you are, Wesley!" A curl of expensive smoke wafting ahead, Jools Siviter approached. Zoe had to fight an impulse to stand behind Giles, an impulse Anya not only shared but acted upon. "Your mother tells me that you’re leaving from here? Not going back to the house?"

"Er, that’s right." Wesley stood straighter. "But thank you for taking such care of my mother today, Mr. Siviter."

"Known the woman for years, grew up with her, only good manners." He blew out smoke in a straight, sharp line. "You understand those, I hope."

Wes inclined his head, but didn’t say anything.

"Right. So, Giles, Harry tells me that you and your partner, plus our little, er, sister here– " Siviter glanced at, then dismissed, Zoe–"have made progress on our small problem with Yeangelt."

"Yes, quite." Giles sent Zoe a look of apology, but she understood; they were dealing with a sexist bastard, and allowances had to be made. "I’m sure Zoe will keep you and Harry informed of our findings."

"Yes, yes," he said, bored, before looking once more at Wesley. "Your, er, father’s left your name down at the club, Wes, and of course there’s an opening in the rolls now. I look forward to your joining me for a drink someday."

"I, I –"

"Don’t stammer, boy, it’s hardly the mark of a Traditionalist," Siviter said. Taking another drag on his cigarette, he waved a casual hand as he moved away. "Good day to all, and safe journeys," he threw over his shoulder, the words dying on the breeze.

"Christ Jesus, what an arse," Giles said when the man was gone. Then he clapped Wes on the shoulder. "Wesley, Anya and I have to get back to town, and Zoe’s with us – but didn’t you have to say something to her first? In, er, private?"

Zoe stirred herself. "Oh, no, there’s no need–"

"It won’t hurt a bit!" Anya assured her. "And we’ll be over by the car when you’re done." Then she hurled herself at Wesley, who clearly wasn’t braced for Hurricane Anya. As she hugged him, she said, "Remember! You’ve promised to come back."

He smiled. "I will, Anya. I certainly will."

The two left her with Wes, there in the now conveniently deserted corner of the churchyard. Cool wind blew between them as a cloud passed over the sun. He put his hands in his pockets, briefly looked away, then looked back at her. "Thank you for coming, Zoe. Or, er, ‘Troy.’" He smiled.

"Not a problem, ‘Rory.’"

"Yes. Well...Giles tells me that you might have missed an important part of Sandy Drake’s debriefing, and I wanted to pass along the information. You remember that Tara’s spirit said several crucial things –"

"Yes, I read the transcripts, even though I didn’t conduct the investigation." Couldn’t bear to look at the woman, didn’t want to remember the loss of self that night.

"Hmm. Then you probably recall Tara’s statement, ‘Tell her that her lost one isn’t really lost; tell her that he’s just wandering.’ And the follow-up, ‘Tell her she should have trusted him. He was telling the truth.’" When she raised her eyebrows, he said, "We had thought Tara was speaking to Ms. Drake, but she says not. And it wasn’t Anya, since Tara spoke to her directly. So, well – have you lost anyone recently?"

Lost anyone....Tom. Her section-chief and friend Tom Quinn, standing there in the farmhouse with everyone against him, asking them to believe – "Oh. Oh, my God."

"Ah, yes. That’s what we thought. And I chose to be the one to tell you, because... because you and I were touched by spirits that night." When she gazed at him, he looked away for a moment. Then, in a swift, awkward move, he kissed her. It wasn’t anything like what she half-remembered from that night – no passion, no pain, no violence. It was merely a sweet press of the lips: warmth and a hint of stubble, a point of connection.

When she murmured something, she didn’t know what, he lifted his head. His smile was just as swift, just as awkward as the kiss. "I’m sorry. I just – I just wanted to do that once when you were, um, you."

Without another word he turned and walked away.

Anya was right, Zoe thought numbly. It hadn’t hurt a bit.

***

"Oh God Anya, darling, love you, oh God –" Giles’s hand, scraping for purchase, scattered the files he’d been reading when she had pounced on him a few moments ago.

He grabbed onto the far edge of the desk, the other hand balanced at her working jaw. The afternoon sun hurt his eyes, the edge of the study desk cut into his lower back, and oh God oh God, Anya’s mouth on him, tongue swirling around, teasing, her hands sliding to take what her mouth couldn’t. The friction, the perfect pressure, too much, not enough – "I love you I love you, Anya, Anya –"

When the desk chair in front of him rolled closer, Anya took more of him in, began a steady suction. The world darkened, although he might have closed his eyes, he didn’t know. He knew only the pressure of her mouth and her hands, the tightening of his body everywhere. He moaned, "Darling, darling, God, God, Anya, sweet Jesus fuck I can’t –"

Then she took him deeper still for one second, swallowed around him, and it was too much. He let go, shuddered into her mouth – perfect pleasure, perfect release.

He collapsed on his back on the desktop, his head striking hard against the wood. Sweet Jesus. He barely registered her getting his handkerchief out of his pocket, a quick swipe of cotton over his sensitized cock and then a flutter of white somewhere above him. Sod it, he barely registered the act of breathing.

When he could focus, he saw her bending over him, smiling as she inspected him. With a creak from her leather trousers she clambered up on the desk beside him, then brushed his hair off his forehead. "Honey? Did you pass out? Because I was shooting for unconsciousness – Ow. That hurts."

"Poor you. Here, darling." Although it took an enormous effort, he lifted one hand to her jaw and started to massage her sore muscles. He thought it was a good sign that he could feel his fingers again, actually.

"Mmm." She stretched into his touch, letting him ease her. They stayed linked for a minute or two, the late-summer breeze stealing in by the open window to cool them off, before she said, "No, really, did you pass out?"

"I think I died. Am I in heaven? I bloody well must be."

She beamed. "There we go! See, honey, I told you I’d repay you with interest for my own spectacular orgasm-induced blackout last week, just when you least expected it. And an hour after lunch on a Saturday wasn’t when you were expecting it, was it?"

"Absolutely unexpected." He blinked at her. "Come closer, please."

When she hovered over his mouth, he forced himself to lift the few inches to kiss her. He could still taste himself on her. Collapsing again, he said, "Anya, I love you."

"Yes, Rupert, I got that, as you repeated it approximately fifty times in between all the ‘darlings’ and ‘oh God oh Gods.’" She slid down, propping herself on an elbow and putting her other hand on his stomach. "It’s interesting, though. When we have intercourse, you’re practically silent except for delicious and appropriate sex-noises, but give you a blow job and you just don’t shut up."

"Fascinating," he said, fighting a need to yawn. "Do you want me to talk more when I’m inside you?"

"Oh, not at all. Why mess with excellence?" After giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek, she patted him. "Are you ready to sit up?"

"It’s possible I’m never sitting up again. Just throw a dust sheet over me and make me part of the furniture."

"Good God, you’re ridiculous." She kissed him again, then grabbed his hands, interlacing their fingers. "Come on, honey. Up you go."

He stumbled when his feet hit the ground, largely due to the jeans tangled around his knees, but he managed to right himself and put himself back together. She stood watching him appraisingly until she was satisfied he could stand, then she straightened his shirt. "Okay. I’m going to go work with my herbs for a while, if you –"

Using his last bit of energy, he swept her into his arms. "Thank you, dearest," he said, before kissing her. He made it last for a good long time. Then: "It’s like the arms race, you know. Now I’ll have to plot to top that experience – give you pleasure that, er...well, I haven’t figured it out yet, but darling, I will."

Smiling, she rubbed her thumb across his mouth. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, my honey."

She made a point of swinging that pert leather-covered arse as she left the room.

After a minute of deep breathing and meditation, he bent to pick up the scattered files: information on the Yeangelt/Pennith investigations (Anya was researching the vessel Lilah had mentioned, while he worked on The Terminal and the Xet prophecy proper); their newest client’s letter, asking for title search on a possibly haunted site; printed e-mails from Wes and, rather unbelievably, Spike; a quick, cryptic e-mail from a recovering Willow; Dawn’s faxed notes on her regrettable lack of success with the sigil.

There actually hadn’t been anything from Cleveland for two days, he thought with a frown. And nothing from Buffy for a week. He didn’t know if – Spike didn’t say –

The insistent ring of the doorbell broke his thoughts. Anya was moving around downstairs; she could answer it, he thought, especially since his legs didn’t seem quite trustworthy yet. He shuffled through the files again, looking at the names, thinking about the order of business and who should get an e-mail first.

Then his darling bellowed, "Rupert! Rupert, come here right the hell now!"

He made it down the stairs in record time. Anya held onto the open door as if she were going to smash it into someone’s face. He said, "Darling, what the bloody–"

"Just take a look." Anya opened the door a little wider, and the young woman standing on the threshold smiled.

"Dawn!" he said.

"Yep, that’s me. Hi, Giles." She cleared her throat. "I guess no one told you, huh. Well, it was supposed to be kind of a surprise. Anyway, Cleveland’s not really working out for us – Buffy’s travelling a lot – and after I talked about it to her, and did a deal with Robson and Wood, got a Watchers Council scholarship and stuff – anyway, here I am. We’re moving in!"

"Well, er, right! We need to talk about this more, ascertain... but you’re certainly welcome, Dawn," he said, ignoring the elbow Anya threw in his ribs. Then he realised: "Um, you said we?"

"Yeah, honey, maybe you spoke too soon," Anya said. "Take another look."

Behind Dawn, he saw a black cab regurgitating bag after bag from its depths. A gangling young man stood next to the cabbie, supervising the dispersal, but as if at some signal, he turned and waved. "Hello, Giles! Yes, it’s us!"

"Andrew," Giles said faintly. He fumbled for his handkerchief, but of course it wasn’t there, Anya had it – bloody fucking hell. In a move he hadn’t made since the fall of Sunnydale, he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Which never helped, of course.

Anya slipped her arm around his waist. "Yes, that’s exactly what I thought, Rupert. Here, I’ll even say it for you...." And she took a deep breath before snapping out, "Oh for fuck’s sake!"