The young archivist nodded to the security guard as he passed, then hurried his steps. Thank heavens it was Friday, he thought. His plans consisted of a pint or two at the Sign of the Book, then home for some bad telly and a great deal of sleep; it’d been a bloody trying day, what with that unexpected visitor grubbing around in the files, and he deserved the weekend off.

Stepping outside, he inhaled the Montague Place air. The streets were ripe with lingering rubbish smells and old grease. Hadn’t had a good rain for almost a month now, and London needed it.

A group of tourists chattered by him as he turned toward Russell Square – last of the summer flocks, he thought with an uncharacteristic flight of fancy. The thought carried him a few steps further, until a passerby bumped into him. "Pardon me," he began.

But then there was a hand full of something foully sweet clapped over his nose, and a fall into hot, decayed nothingness –

He awoke to confusion. What he registered first was deepest dark, and then sound and rhythm: the walls and floor rumbled, a heavy, regular chunk-chunk-chunk that reminded him of too loud car stereos on a distant street. When he tried to lift his hands, he found he couldn’t move. Chained.

A basso profundo voice came out of the blackness. "Let me just confirm: you are Geoffrey David Perry? Specialist in Celtic and Anglo-Saxon Antiquities, the British Museum?’

"Ye-yes," he got out. His throat had almost closed, as if the bass in the voice and the walls were crushing him. After a cough, he said more evenly, "Yes. Who are you?"

"Consider me your intake specialist," the voice said. "I have a few questions regarding a cup."

"A cup–?"

"Yes. A quite special one, just the sort of thing a bright man familiar with antiquities should know about." Although Geoff couldn’t see, he could feel movement in front of him: pressure-shift in the air, on the floor. He could hear a hiss. "Have you ever heard of Yeangelt?"

The name tickled at his memory, not something he knew, something he had half-heard – but "No."

From behind, a bar hit his shoulders. A second to feel the impact, and then an involuntary "Oh God" as the pain rushed up, dark on dark.

"Thank you, Master Hat. Well struck," the voice said. "Mr. Perry, let me ask you again, now that you know we’re serious. Have you ever heard of Yeangelt?"

"No, really," he said. When the second blow came, this one hard enough to crack his shoulder blade, he bit back a scream. Sodding well wasn’t going to make a noise.

Even if he hadn’t yet been fully admitted into the new Council, Geoff Perry knew how a Watcher should act under torture.

***

She lunged. It should have been a hit, she thought, but her blade somehow went wide even before her opponent countered and sent it wider still. She fought to regroup, to keep her grip. Metal rang against metal again, then there were only the sounds of feet sliding on the mat, harsh filtered breathing, cries and buzzers and rumbling traffic outside.

She slid back into position, considering the next move. Sure, his reach was a lot longer than hers, and he knew a lot more, but she had to be faster.

Yet when she feinted, then lunged again, he had already twisted out of range. His return hit shocked her fingers with its force on her blade, slipped through her guard. The blunt point pressed against her heart before he let his sword fall.

"Okay, that’s three," Dawn said with ill grace. "In a row even. You won again."

Pulling off his fencing mask, Giles exhaled hard. He was red with exertion, his hair edged with sweat. "You did very well, though. I had to work at it."

"Yeah, but you already fought a couple of bouts this morning! You should be noodle-y and slow by now," she said after taking off her own mask. When he sent her an old-school Giles-look, sort of ‘think what you’re saying, stupid child,’ she blushed. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. At my age it’s a miracle I can even walk without a pair of sticks, much less fence for an hour," he said, as he began his cool-down stretches.

"Giles, I didn’t mean that!"

She really didn’t, not when she thought about it. It was hard to cherish an image of ancient, book-dusty Giles when, to take only the latest example, that morning she and Andrew had gone down to the kitchen to steal some milk and had found the master of the house smooching the mistress of the house, who was perched on the kitchen counter with her legs wrapped around his waist. Their robes had still been on, thank God, because otherwise Dawn’s eyes would have to be burned out or something, and personally she felt that breakfast should be a sex-free zone, but whatever. Maybe she and Andrew should just spend their time in the attic space designated for them. They did have their own refrigerator, TV, and broadband connection, after all.

And, even with having to deal with older-guy/ex-vengeance-demon displays of extremely intense affection, London was about a million times better than Cleveland. There was no weepy Willow planted in the midst of burgeoning Wicca texts and college catalogues, no gross Xander and Faith attempts at lust-slash-‘friendship’ (now that Wood had been kicked to the curb) and no fumbling Xander attempts to explain same, and no big sister slamming in and out of the house to or from Ecuador, or Georgia, or Mars. Buffy slammed in and out of everywhere these days, never saying much. Dawn wondered what she’d said to Giles that day –

"Dawn. Dawn." Giles was talking in that overly patient voice that meant she’d missed at least three crucial statements. "I asked if you were going back to the house after your instruction."

"Um. I think so." At the mention of her lesson, however, she glanced over to the man standing by the open windows, lit by hot yellow sun. The proprietor of the studio, Pablo – tall, super-cut even in his padded jacket, his long hair braided like a pirate or something – was talking to his eleven o’clock student. Yeah, she could think of a lot of lessons she’d like to take from him –

"Oh, never mind," Giles said. When she turned around, he was disappearing into the men’s changing room.

She still had ten minutes left – she’d lost in embarrassingly record time – so she went to her gym bag, which she’d left underneath the bench that ran the length of the wall, and pulled out her notebook. Her Watcher-in-training notebook, she thought with a small thrill; much cooler than those diaries she used to (not really) keep.

Her school, which now was an elite Watcher-supported academy near the British Museum, didn’t start for another month or so. But in exchange for living rent-free at the Giles-Jenkins house and small stipends, it had been agreed that both Dawn and Andrew would work for Investigations and Acquisitions in whatever capacity they could find. Plus, Giles made sure that her jobs were research-related; it was kind of like her own long-term internship.

No, it was like being a Scooby for real, she corrected herself. Also, the cool thing about having Andrew as a best friend was she never had to feel like the biggest nerd in the room any more.

Sitting down and opening the notebook, she lost herself in the lines that Giles had brought back from yesterday’s trip to the British Museum’s archives – The Xet means the rising time, when the interlopers fall. The river will dry, but dead blood will run. The sign, the word, the cup... There would be keys to this, she thought: deciphering what could be meant by "rising," or by "interlopers," which was way different from just "humans." She got a pen from her bag and began to underline.

"Excellent, Dawn," Giles said, appearing beside her. "That’s what I’d like you to work on this afternoon – see if you can start cross-referencing any of those keys, perhaps check some of the dictionaries of metaphor and prophecy."

She smiled up at him, then stopped on a wave of indignance. "Work this afternoon? Work? But it’s Saturday."

"Um-hm. And you and Andrew skived off yesterday to spend hours at Forbidden Planet. Which, yes, Anya and I figured out, our clue being the sacks of comics you didn’t manage to hide," he said pleasantly. At her mutter, he smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. "You’re just to make up the hours you, um, stole. That way I can start work on both our sets of notes Monday morning."

"Okay, okay, whatever," she said. When she looked at him, really looked, her smile returned. "Ooh, Giles! Making an effort here."

He was washed and combed and smelling lightly of cologne, and changed into an almost fashionable blue shirt and jacket. He wasn’t wearing his glasses either – actually, he dangled some cool un-Gilesy prescription sunglasses in his other hand. Smiling, he said, " I have, er, a luncheon date."

"For real? Does Anya know?"

Another ‘think, you stupid child’ look as the sunglasses went on: "Anya is in fact my date. We need a little time to ourselves without you lot interrupting us." But his pressure on her shoulder remained friendly, paternal, like how he always had been with Buffy and Willow. Dawn’s throat felt too tight all of a sudden.

Giles looked away. "Ah, Pablo! Come to collect your pupil?"

"Si claro," Pablo said. He tossed back his braid and then did this whole Spanish melty-smile thing. "Are you ready to learn, Dawn?"

She’d been wrong earlier, she thought as she jumped to her feet. London was more like a squillion times better than Cleveland.

***

Andrew leaned out his open window and inhaled the sun-baked scent of herbs and a hint of smog. His bedroom, or what would be a real bedroom once Anya found the right labourers to finish the renovation, overlooked the back garden which the mistress of the house tended so carefully.

She was down there now, moving around like a graceful...no, ‘shadow’ wasn’t the right word....

He propped his chin on his hand and considered. The small greenhouse that last week he, Dawn, and Giles had put together – to be honest, it was mostly Giles, with swearing the likes of which Andrew had never heard outside a Guy Ritchie movie – was already filled with foliage: shimmers of normal leaves, but also strangely coloured demon-plants that Anya hadn’t yet explained to him. Even now he could see her through the glass, stripping off the blades of some pukey yucca-looking thing with her delicate gloved fingers.

Not everyone could garden in a little flip dress and heels and make it work, he thought. It took someone like her, with style and–

The doorbell shocked him out of his cataloguing. After a twitch or two, he shouted, "Someone’s at the door! I’ll get it!"

"It should be the guy to pick up the shipment," she shouted back. "I’ll be there in a second."

But Andrew was already through his half-finished bedroom and the living room he shared with Dawn. He flung open the door to what had been the servants’ quarters long ago, before any Giles owned the house, then galloped down the two flights of stairs.

When he opened the front door, he panted, "Yes. You rang?"

"Right, Jeeves," the man in brown said. "Pickup for Anya Jenkins."

"I’m Ms. Jenkins’s personal assistant.". He gestured to the waist-high stack of packages in the hall. "Here, I can help you with that."

The man said. "Not authorised to let you help carry them, lad."

"No, I–"

"Thank you, Andrew, you opened the door very well. Now let the man take the packages." Anya approached in a wave of silk and demon-plant musk. "Discount as negotiated for, Denny?"

"Yes, Anya. Just sign here," the man said.

After tossing the stalks she carried into Andrew’s hands, she signed the clipboard. "I’m paying for safe carriage and expeditious service, remember. Some of the potions could go bad if not delivered at once."

"Got it," the man said. He gingerly scooped up the packages and crunched away on the gravel walk.

Saying, "Great, I can cross that off my list," Anya went into the kitchen. Andrew hurried after her, still juggling the plant stuff which was kinda gummy. She bent over the table, rearranging her stacks of papers – "Contractor calls here; work calls here; good, Magic Box by Air shipments sent"– then, after marking something off he couldn’t see, she turned to him. "I’ll take those now."

As he released the leaves, he said, "Are these stalks Peiymon-derived?"

"Well spotted, Andrew! You’ve been reading the Compendium of Nooth-Sector Helpful Plants in between your latest comics selections." She beamed at him. "And what are Peiymon stalks used for?"

"Um, well, I, um...."

"Never mind." She slap-patted his cheek with one sticky hand, while simultaneously crushing demon yucca into an available jar with the other. "You’re making minimal progress, but every little bit counts."

"Yep. Gotta keep moving forward." He looked around the kitchen for a place to rest. Ordinarily he would have scooted up on the kitchen counter, but a mental freeze-frame – Anya’s bare legs around Giles’s waist, one of her heels digging into his back and her hands full of his bunched robe – put him off somehow. Or maybe it was the visual of Giles’s dark glare afterward.

He sat down in the nearest chair, watched Anya flutter around, and tried not to think about Giles’s many and oft displayed dark glares. Actually, Andrew found one expression of Giles’s even more disturbing; it was the white-faced, set look Giles had worn the afternoon they’d arrived, when he finally reached Buffy on the phone. Dawn and Andrew had discussed what the first, best, and still Queen Slayer possibly could have said to her erstwhile Watcher, but they didn’t know –and there was no way on this earth that Andrew would have asked. Too many glares.

"Andrew. Andrew!" Anya said, in that pointed voice that meant he’d missed at least three important instructions. She was at the sink, washing her hands. "Are you going to be all right without supervision this afternoon? No summoning of demons, or killing the innocent or even semi-innocent?"

"Of course, Anya. I have tons of constructive things to do. When Dawn gets back from her swordplay...." he trailed off. He didn’t like knives or swords any more except in selected fantasy fiction and Highlander (the series, not the movies); the weapons reminded him of Sunnydale in a variety of badnesses, the hisses, the screams, oh God the blood. When she turned off the water, he blinked and said, "Anyway, where are you going?"

"I have a lunch date with Rupert. If I have any luck at all, we’ll be off somewhere having sex before dessert, which means we shouldn’t be back until later."

He tried to smile. "I’m still sorry about this morning, Anya."

"Well, you should be. We’ve provided you and Dawn with everything in your part of the house; there’s no reason you should be sneaking around to take our foodstuffs and interrupt our spontaneous expressions of love." She frowned, almost to herself, as she dried her hands. "We haven’t been able to have sex anywhere in the house except our bedroom for weeks now. I think Rupert’s beginning to find it a strain."

"Oh. Um, okay. Sorry again." Time to play assistant. "Are you expecting any messages while you’re gone? Anything you need to be called for?"

"Excellent question! No, but use your judgement." She shook out her hair, then collected her purse. "I’ll have the work phones with me, of course. And if Buffy –" the name was edged with perfect, high scorn –"calls for Giles, just take a message. She can damn well wait for him."

Boy, he really wondered what the first, best and still Queen Slayer had said to Giles that day.

***

Anya tripped down Upper Street, scanning the surroundings like a spy. It was good practice.

The neighbourhood was crowded today yet demon-free, she noted with some pleasure. The day was bright and actually summer-hot as opposed to traditional English notions of hot, so that every other restaurant or bar had a few tables out on the pavement, full of people eating and drinking and flirting. This boded well for her own afternoon.

It was so wonderful that Rupert had suggested a date. An actual date, as in going out in public and holding hands and talking, just before they found someplace private and interlocked bodies. There hadn’t been enough dating in their lives. Apocalypses and blood and annoying people always underfoot, yes; romantic dinners (or lunches) for two, no.

When she turned down a side-street, where the noise level was slightly lower, she smiled. The Almeida Brasserie was right there, as was her man, sitting at a shaded table outside and writing in his notebook.

"Honey!" she called, and he looked up with a tilt of the head and a full Rupert-smile. It made her oddly woozy with longing, as if she hadn’t seen him for days, hadn’t touched him, didn’t know exactly what he tasted like everywhere from his neck to the underside of his– Breathe, Anya, she told herself. "Am I late? I dislike being late."

"Hello, darling." He stood when she approached, then leaned over for a quick kiss. His taste was all sharp white wine and heat, and she drank in his smell, bay rum and soap and a hint of sweat. Curling her fingers around his arms, she made him kiss her harder before letting him go. After he flicked a finger through her hair, a tug she felt deep inside, he pulled out her chair for her. "You’re right on time. I finished early."

"Beat Dawn’s ass, did you?" she said, sitting down.

"Well, I won. Handily." He grinned at her as he took his own seat. "Did you get done what you needed to get done?"

"Rupert, I’ll answer the question, but here’s the deal," she announced. "We can have five minutes to talk about work, especially since we missed the Friday afternoon staff wrap-up due to our assistants’ temporary running away and then there was the pizza and sex, but after that it’s date time. No more discussion of the firm or demon-threats to the world, okay?"

Another grin, his laugh lines deepening in a way that melted her faster than the noon sun. "I think we can accomplish that. I’ll start – er, after I pour you some wine."

As he reached for the bottle of white wine resting in its cooler, she bent down and rummaged through her purse to find – yes, there they were. She pulled out the special MI5 mobile and the Giles and Jenkins mobile and set them on the table, at which sight he stopped pouring. "Anya, what the bloody hell? You said we weren’t going to be working."

"We won’t unless there’s an emergency, but I don’t want to paw through my bag and try to find them if they ring. Never mind, honey, I know your spiel: downfall of Western civilisation, no one talks to anybody face to face any more, bad manners blah blah blah."

"Well. There needs to be more vitriol associated with the ‘blah blah blah.’" He finished filling her glass, replaced the bottle, then flipped through his notes. "Right then, work. I’ve set Dawn onto the more complete and accurate Xet prophecy I extracted from Geoff Perry yesterday; next week I’ll delve further into the files I photocopied. Since Zoe still hasn’t gotten back to us regarding the followup on the clients of Cassa Dreams, that bit’s stalled – are you sure she didn’t call yesterday? No, never mind. Also, I’ve got the survey of that possibly haunted house in Croydon set up for next Thursday." He put the notebook in his jacket pocket. "That’s me done. Your turn."

First, she sipped at her wine, a cool French Viognier, slightly spicy in just the way she liked. Second, she counted on her hand, extending a finger for each point of accomplishment: "Just sent off the latest Magic Box by Air shipment; invoiced the Wandsworth people for the demon site-clearance we did; sourced the scrying mirror that Cluth the Gifted ordered, although still no joy on the whole cup-of-Xet front; got a text message this morning from Zoe, but she didn’t have any news." With a flourish, she got to her thumb: "Finally, I got a quote from the third contractor for the rest of the attic renovation, which has me considering vengeance again."

"Don’t tell me now, please. I want to be able to enjoy my lunch." He caught her hand in his, interlacing their fingers. "God, I had no idea that the work was going to be so bloody expensive."

"Seriously. We might need to shake another job loose from somewhere, since we’re sure as hell not going to get any contribution from Buffy, even though this is mostly for Dawn. Also, honey, that’s five minutes." After pressing her fingers into his, she turned and sent a smile up at the hovering waiter. "Hi there! We’ve stopped working now –" Rupert smiled at her emphasis –"so menus, or specials, or –?"

Their server informed them they could call him Etienne, although if he was actually French, Anya was a Fyarl demon. After the long list of specials and dining hints was given, they ordered, and then she shooed the man away. "Thought he’d never leave," she said, as he disappeared inside.

"I know. So annoying when they want to be your friend." Rupert kissed her palm, then let go of her hand. After a sip of wine, he said, "What would you like to do after lunch? I picked up a copy of Time Out; we could go see a film, or check out a museum, or –"

"Oh, I know! There’s a monster truck exhibition at Earls Court!" She burst out laughing at his expression. "That was a joke, honey. It’s not until next week."

"Lovely. I’ll book a couple of tickets," he said, failing to hide a grimace.

"You’re so good to me." When his grimace deepened, she said, "No, really. You’re so good to me. I know you dislike loud, oversized machinery as entertainment, yet you’re volunteering...."

"I want you to have what you want, darling," he said, his face smoothing out. He leaned back in his chair, fingers twisting the stem of his glass, and looked at her, his shaded gaze caressing every visible inch. "Which reminds me. Just out of idle curiosity, have you ever given any thought to a safe word?"

"Oh. Oh, honey." She fought not to flush, not to moan, not to jump over the table and assault him. Instead, she smiled.

He said, in his deep, soft sex-voice, "You’re still owed something for that wonderful experience on the desk, dearest. I’ve been thinking and thinking –"

At that moment, one of their phones rang – the fucking MI5 phone. Saying "hold that thought," she grabbed at the mobile and clicked it on with some violence. "Yes, it’s Tuppence, what?"

"Hey, Tuppence. It’s...oh right. Fox here." Zoe’s work-partner Danny, she translated in her head. "There’s been some new information, and I need you and Tommy to meet with me this afternoon. Miss Carter’s busy with another crisis – human – or she’d be your handler as always –"

"Fine, sure. We’re at lunch right now. How soon do you need to meet with us?" she said.

Rupert groaned, then took a long swallow of his wine. She shrugged at him – ‘what can we do?’ –and began to listen to Danny’s instructions.

The second mobile rang. Rupert took off his sunglasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached across to grab that phone. "Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions – oh. Hello, Jools." When she choked at the MI6 spymaster’s name, Rupert sent her a shrug that mirrored her own.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she got down the details: meet Danny in the Victoria Tower Gardens at three-thirty, second bench nearest the Thames and Lambeth Bridge. Bring something to read and drink as cover, etc etc. As soon as she could, however, she clicked off.

When Rupert saw she was off the phone, he said, "Ah. So the woman’s name is Rosemary Minton? Sorry, right, your grandmother." He mouthed, ‘Investigations job,’ then went back to listening. "Right. Holland Park – This afternoon? When? – Yes, we could just make two o’clock." Then his face tightened, a dangerous edge to his lips. "No. Absolutely unacceptable."

"What? What, honey?"

He held up a finger to her. "No, Jools, it’s antediluvian."

"What is?" she said.

"I don’t bloody care if she’s eighty-seven or a hundred and eighty-seven. We will not pretend to be married for your grandmother."

Anya felt a sick sloshing in her stomach, in no way attributable to the Viognier, but she said, "What? And how much of a fee are we talking about?"

‘Big, but no,’ he mouthed.

She reached over and yanked the phone away. "Hello. This is Anya Jenkins. Now tell me what’s the deal."

"Hello, Anya," Jools said, arrogance oozing out of the mobile. "To recap for the slow: my grandmother, Lady Rosemary Minton, has a parcel of land which she’d like assessed for demon or spectral traces before she sells it. Woman of principle, you see. And one of those principles is that she deals only with those who uphold her rather peculiar ideals of society. A business couple like our Rupert and yourself should be joined in holy wedlock, or she won’t work with you. Not much of a New Woman, I’m afraid. But she’s offering to pay a handsome sum, which made me think of, well, you."

She swallowed hard. Rupert was gazing into his wine glass, his face closed-off in that familiar, bad way; he really didn’t want to do this, for whatever reason. Didn’t want to be married to her, she guessed, although it never bothered him when they played Tommy and Tuppence...."How much?"

When Siviter named the large number of thousands on offer, she said, "Fine. We’re hired." Then she handed the phone back. "Go ahead and make the arrangements, Rupert."

"Anya, you don’t understand," he said, catching her hand again. "It’s just not right."

"The money’s enough to start the damn attic renovation, isn’t it?"

"Yes, but – oh, sod it." He put the mobile back to his ear and said, "Fine. Two o’clock. What’s the address again?"

By the time he’d clicked off, she was in control of herself, without any threatening tears or gastric uneasiness. "So we’d better hope for quick service here, huh? Busy afternoon ahead of us."

"Right, yes." He squeezed her fingers hard enough so that she had to look at him. "So sorry about our date, darling; I’ll make it up to you somehow. And, er, about the other...I think you might have the wrong impression."

"What wrong impression would that be?" Glancing away, she said brightly, "Oh look, here comes Etienne."

"It’s not that the marriage thing bothers me, Anya. It’s the deception for money. The, er, pretence."

"Uh-huh. Doesn’t bother you when we’re, you know, spying." She whispered the last word, but it came out like a hiss.

"That’s different, for Queen and sodding Country, not for pounds and pence – but there, don’t you see, obviously the marriage part isn’t the problem at all. We do the other as it is."

"Uh-huh," she said again, pulling her hand away. Damn it, she could feel those despised tears and old aches boiling up again, hear the echoes of Xander’s protests in the months before the wedding disaster, all of which made her furious as well as hurt. "Okay, it’s settled. We have a profitable new investigations job, and we have a Queen-and-sodding-Country thing later. Fine fine fine. And if you say one more word to me right now, I’m shoving a fork in your ear."

At which point Etienne appeared, laden with plates. "Our curried chicken for the gentleman, our lovely salade nicoise for the lady," he said, putting down their food. Then he folded his hands as if in prayer. "Is there anything else I can bring for you?"

"No, thank you," Rupert said. He glared at the server until the man scurried back into the brasserie in fear for his life. Then he said, "Anya darling –"

"Fork. Ear. I’m not kidding," she said, spearing an anchovy and nipping off where its head should be.

After a long stare, he said coolly, "Whatever you want." He cut into his chicken with some force, then snapped at his first bite.

And they sat at their shaded table in silence, eating excellent food and drinking their wine, while she thought: safe word, huh. ‘Marriage’ must be Rupert’s.

***

When their cab sped through the turn off Kensington Road, gravity meant that Anya swayed against Giles’s body. She managed to keep her back straight and head turned away, however, even as his arm dropped over her shoulders to steady her. "All right, darling?"

"Um-hm." She turned her head further, so hard that he could hear the crack of muscle and joint.

Impossible woman, he thought for the hundred hundredth time. Even though the interior of the cab was broiling, he tightened his hold.

She hadn’t taken to his suggestion of meeting with Lady Rosemary alone – more baggage, he supposed. He didn’t know how to make the situation better, how to explain why the idea of posing as husband and wife this afternoon bothered him so. If he were being logical he would say that she was quite right; it didn’t make any difference, playing Tommy and Tuppence or playing Mr and Mrs Rupert Giles.

But he didn’t want to play at the latter. He needed it to be real.

Yet he worried about... everything. Disturbing their perfect equilibrium if he suggested marriage in truth; choosing the wrong moment to ask, or putting it wrong and ruining everything; worst, holding her against her will, if some day she were to truly look at him and want to leave him, a man twenty-five years older than her current body, a failed Watcher, someone who kept placing her in the most horrible situations. He wanted her to have what she wanted.

Of course the bloody woman never listened. What the fucking hell did he have to say to make her understand? Or, more to the point, what would she allow him to say?

There had been precious little talking when he’d told the cabbie to stop in Knightsbridge on the way. Boothby’s Fine Jewellery, dim, velvet dusty, yet with high-quality stones, had been at a not particularly fashionable spot just off the Brompton Road for years; Giles remembered being dragged in by his mother on several excruciating occasions in childhood. It was where she had bought his father’s ring, the one Giles still wore. It was where he’d have brought Anya if the moment were real. Funny, the tricks of London geography.

"Okay, at least you remembered the cover in time," she had snapped as she strode ahead of him: so pretty, so sodding angry. Lasering in on Boothby Junior, standing behind the counter as if in armour rather than a suit, she’d said, "Where’s your cheapest wedding band?"

"Er, we don’t have to–" Giles had begun.

She didn’t look at him. "If we’re going to tread all over your sensitive feelings for the fee for this case, Rupert, we shouldn’t waste any cash here."

"Anya, stop. You should have a nice ring in any event."

"It’s just pretend. No need to spend lots of money."

There was no way to win this one, so Giles had stepped back in the traditional pose of surrender. "You choose, darling. I’ll pay." It had been the work of five minutes; she picked a thin, unadorned band, he wrote a cheque, and after a slight struggle of wills, she allowed him to slide the ring onto her finger. Of course she then hadn’t spoken to him the rest of the way. Impossible woman.

After the taxi pulled up in front of the elegant behemoth of a house, they stepped out into the vicious heat. His mood became more dark-tinged when, instead of the requisite butler, the doorbell was answered by that arse Siviter. "Ah, Mr and Mrs Giles," Jools said. "Do come in."

Saying, "You’ve taken a new position, Jools?" Giles shepherded Anya inside the black-and-white entry.

A thud of the door behind them, shutting them in deep, stifling silence. Jools said, "I go to great lengths for my family, Rupert. You might not understand loyalty, of course. Shall we?"

"I do understand," Giles said, catching Anya’s hand and not letting her go.

They followed Jools’s trail of smoke down a hallway. As they went, Jools said, "Any more news on Roger’s murder?"

"Not really. It was connected to Pennith and the Yeangelt crew, using a spell to render Grittnak’s potion deadly, but why is unclear. It’s likely that Wyndam-Pryce was onto something; you’d know that better than we." So frustrating: it had been weeks, and they hadn’t been able to shake any more information out of their already suspect sources. "We’re still working on it, of course."

"I suddenly wonder why I recommended you to my grandmother at all," Jools said pensively. Then, in one of his seismic conversational shifts: "Well, go on, tell me how Wesley is!"

Anya said, "He’s fine – well, more accurately, he’s insane, at odds with his vampire employer, researching hell-contracts, and probably drinking heavily, but otherwise fine. But why would you want to know? I thought you’d never met him before last month."

"Old friend of the family," Jools said. He threw open a door to a fussy old lady’s room, from which additional heat pumped out like the concentrated centre of a blaze. "Ah, Grandmother, here we are. Lady Rosemary, may I present Rupert and Anya Giles, of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions." He spoke their false name with a scarcely hidden malice. "You two, Lady Rosemary Minton."

He and Anya tried to greet her, but the frail, shrunken woman swaddled in shawls didn’t allow them to even finish before saying, "Now that’s what I like to see. May-November marriage, is it? I approve. Get them young, start them breeding right away – it always worked in our family. I trust you’re only employed until the baby comes, girl? Didn’t hear your name... now speak up."

It was possibly the first time he had ever seen Anya at a loss for words. But that break in the natural order only lasted for a few seconds, at which point she leaned into his embrace, fluttered her eyelashes in a completely over-the-top way, and said loudly, "I’m Anya, and yes, you’re right. But we have Rupert’s two adult children from a previous relationship living with us now, which makes it difficult. It’s significantly harder to make babies when the stepchildren are always underfoot."

Then she pinched him hard, where Lady Rosemary couldn’t see.

Over Jools’s muffled laughter, Giles said, "Yes, well, er, Lady Rosemary, your grandson said you had a job for us?"

"Yes. A site just cleared – south of the river, a state of affairs so embarrassing that it must be rectified. I didn’t even know I had it until my solicitors started going through my assets, Albert."

"Um, it’s Rupert."

Lady Rosemary ignored him in favour of tugging at the file which had got stuck in one of her shawls. Anya said, "Honey, don’t correct her. I mean, it’s not like Albert’s any worse a name than yours."

Before he could snap, Lady Rosemary said, "You’re a plain-spoken girl, Anna, of which I approve, even if I don’t approve of the skimpiness of your clothes. Man rules the home, but only so far as the wife lets him, isn’t that right?"

"That’s exactly right," Anya said sweetly. "I’ve believed that for, oh, centuries."

"Watch it, darling," Giles whispered. Clearing his throat, he said, "What are your suspicions about this site, Lady Rosemary?"

"Rumours more than suspicions, Albert. The building had been a pub for decades, the Parrot’s Tongue, but it burned down a few months ago. Throughout the years my tenants apparently often complained of noises in the cellarage, nasty creatures and slime and blood and what not – my solicitors kept lowering their rent, which seemed to appease them, but too many concerns are documented here. I require a clear conscience about what I’m selling." As she held out a folder in a trembling hand, her filmy blue gaze pinned both of them. "I hate lies, don’t you?"

Giles said, "Yes, in a case like this." He opened the folder; there was at least two inches’ worth of letters clipped together. The top letter, dated 5 September 1963, indicated that some ‘slime-creature, seven foot tall and stinking with it’ had drunk half the beer, eaten the proprietor’s cat, and made advances on the barmaid. "Lady Rosemary, if we do find something–"

Anya, reading over his arm, said, "Nuyy demon, don’t you think?"

"Yes, that’s likely." He flipped to the second letter, dated 18 November 1969, where the occurrence looked more like a Blyd invasion: demon-insects, less nasty than the Nuyy but far more lethal. After he and Anya exchanged glances: " If we find a demon’s nest or some sort of portal–"

"Then you kill them or shut it down," the old woman barked, in a snap-change of attitude very like her grandson’s. "I do believe in demons, Mr and Mrs Giles. But I don’t believe they should stand in humans’ way."

At that moment Jools stepped in. "Grandmother, you’re looking a little tired. Is there any other information you have to give them?"

"Julian, you’re an officious prat and always have been," Lady Rosemary said. But Giles noticed that her lips were taking on a blue tinge. Jools went to her and found her pill jar, opened it for her. After she dry-swallowed a tablet, she said, "Still, you’re a good boy at heart. And I think our business is concluded. Albert, Anna, may I expect a report by midweek?"

Giles saw one more item in the folder, a letter of terms for the job; he called Anya’s attention to the indeed magnificent sum on offer. Eyes wide, she said, "We’ll have a preliminary to you by Wednesday afternoon at the latest, Lady Rosemary."

After saying their goodbyes, they left the old woman wheezing in her armchair, clutching at her shawls. The irregular hiss of her breathing followed them out.

Jools led the way to the door, but he paused before he opened it. "One more question about our previous discussion. Are you going to be using Wolfram and Hart resources to assist you in the Pennith case?"

"No. As Anya indicated earlier, it’s unclear how much longer Wesley will be working at Wolfram and Hart. If that’s what you’re asking," Giles said slowly.

"Why, yes, it was. How clever you can be, Rupert. That must be why I overlook your sad lack of success in detecting," Jools said. "And a good day to you, Mrs Giles. Lovely ring, by the way. Plainness suits you."

When they had escaped to the relative safety of the pavement, Anya said, "Okay, that was unpleasant. And does his obsession with Wesley strike you in any way creepy?"

"In every way, er, creepy." Giles kept a sudden horrible suspicion to himself. He could look up the records later. And anyway: "‘May-November’?"

"Yes, that old woman was blind. You’re clearly not a day over September," Anya said.

"Ah. I was hoping for August, actually. Now, darling, are you finished wreaking vengeance on me? I mean, calling Andrew my son, for fuck’s sake."

"Rupert, that was strategy, just like you’ve taught me," she said. Pulling away from his grasp, she stepped out into the street, put two fingers in her mouth, and whistled like a steam-engine; from out of nowhere, a black cab appeared. "Come on, come on. We’ve got spying to do."

Impossible darling of a woman, he thought for the hundred hundredth and first time, and followed her into the cab. As he scrambled in beside her, though, he noticed her hands playing with the new ring, sending flashes out into the heat.

***

The dim private room was silent now, yet Pennith could still hear the beat of his own unhappiness. With a nod of his head, he allowed Master Hat one last kick at the chained corpse of Geoff Perry, before saying, "A waste of my time, this one. Didn’t even make twenty-four hours, and told us nothing."

"Sorry, sir," Master Hat said. "I had no way of knowing the man wouldn’t talk."

"No, and your torture methods were impeccable. Perhaps he really didn’t know anything." Pennith hissed, the habitual way of encouraging thought when he wasn’t having to play-act at that revolting humanity. "We need another source of information."

"I’ve sent Garrison and Bixp to break into his Museum office," the cloaked figure offered.

"Do they know what to look for?"

"The basic description, a few names. And of course I’ve directed them to look for any Watcher-related files as well."

Pennith lowered himself to a chair, sank into thought. One foot dragged idly through the human’s drying blood while he hissed. "It’s frustrating that the Beresfords and Alleyns haven’t turned up in any of our searches," he said, mostly to himself. He had received excellent information from one of his tribute-givers that the couples weren’t who they seemed – although in the first moment he himself had seen the swirls of violence and knowledge around the men and one of the women, felt the pressures of other lives and other magicks – but the demon had no further details, and the intervening weeks had told them nothing. "The men had the stink of Watchers, like the old human who called on us. The one whose spell worked so perfectly."

Master Hat laughed at their shared memory; oh, the deliciousness as the man had sunk into living death, knowing yet not able to do anything. That had been a success indeed.

Pennith continued, "But my understanding is that the only Watchers left in England are the new one for the Birmingham Slayer and the adjuncts who work for the Council’s London Academy, none of whom pose any threat to our project."

Master Hat raised a gloved hand to his mouth. "Of course the impostors broke your intake chain and your weapon, which argues for some arcane knowledge or power."

"Yes. Or luck." For that alone they should be punished. With a final sibilant breath, Pennith stood. "I’d like you to revisit that particular tribute-giver. You know the one I mean."

"Shall I take the enforcers this time? I have a score to settle, and last night’s kill just made them hungrier," Master Hat said, a scrape of pleasure in his voice.

"Oh, I think so. It’s not as if he’s been a particularly profitable or willing source," Pennith said. "Do whatever you please with him."

As Master Hat swept a low bow, his cloak rippling onto the blood-soaked carpet, Pennith went to the door. It was almost time to open the club; as the old ones always said, there was more than one way to take in souls. Taking one last breath of the good death-smell, he said, "Oh, and throw this would-be Watcher trash in the river as you go."

***

"Anya, do you want this?"

At Rupert’s question, she looked up from her latest detective novel, which she always carried in her purse. The distraction was welcome, as somehow she wasn’t finding The Fashion in Shrouds as comforting as some of the other stories she’d read. Sometimes fiction could come too close to reality, she thought. Taking the cup he held out to her, she smiled at him and said, "Thanks." A cover activity, of course – sitting on a park bench with her man, sharing a take-away iced drink.

At least it was cooler by the Thames, here on the shaded bench in the Gardens, anchored on the greensward. If she craned her neck she could just see beyond the river-wall, or could turn to see the Houses of Parliament to their left, but she didn’t feel like moving except to catch the breeze off the water. Maybe it’d blow away the sticky, uncomfortable feelings that plagued her.

Rupert put down his copy of Time Out and started flipping through her book. "Oh, Margery Allingham. This is a Campion book, isn’t it?"

"That’s right." She chewed on a piece of ice, then swallowed. "Another Albert."

"Ha ha." Leaning back against the bench, he put his arm around her shoulder. "I always liked Campion – mild-mannered, slightly foolish exterior, yet with, er, a razor-keen mind underneath, right?"

"Of course you like him. You’re projecting." Ignoring his snort, she said, "So far I enjoy Amanda, his fake fiancé. She’s a quite capable woman." Then she fell silent before she started projecting too. Teasingly his free hand slid across her thigh, then dipped to capture her hand – the hand with the ring. "Honey, what are you doing?"

His thumb traced over the ring, warming the gold. "I do wish you’d chosen a nicer one," he said.

"Just stop. We’re not talking about this topic any more, Rupert." When he raised his eyebrows, she found herself saying, "If we keep talking, I’m going to get a, a, tone in my voice, and I don’t want to get this tone, it...." She forced her lips shut on the thing she didn’t want to confess.

Quiet but insistent, his hazel gaze fixed on her: "It what?"

His voice and eyes somehow pulled the words out of her, the legacy of those awful months: "It’s the tone that makes men leave me."

Oh, no. The hurt in his eyes, even as he held on to her more tightly, as he moved to kiss her temple – damn it, that was why she had tried to stop herself. She knew his sensitivities, his need to be there for his loved ones, his guilt over Buffy and Willow. She knew what he’d felt when Buffy had said that thing to him again. Forgetting her own pain, Anya said, "No! I didn’t mean it that way, honey–"

But at that moment they heard footsteps, and Danny Hunter, who despite the heat was wearing what Anya considered to be the tightest clothes she’d ever seen on a male, human or demon, dropped down at the other end of the bench. "Hello, Beresfords, you’re bang on time."

"Hullo, Fox," Rupert said, at once all business. "What news?"

"Demon problem. Big, ugly demon found dead off Tower Bridge this morning." Danny looked away, his dark eyes narrowed against the reflection of sun on water.

"I didn’t think you guys cared about deaths in the demon community," Anya said.

"Well, since the sigil you lot’ve been working on was tattooed on the deceased’s face in blood, we thought it might be important."

"Fucking hell," Rupert muttered. "Do you have any way of identifying the demon?"

"Not my area, mate. But the demon-liaison at Scotland Yard sent this round." So swiftly that no one could have seen the move, he slipped them a photo – a dead Morq demon who was missing the top of his head. The latter was not a feature of that particular race, either.

The familiar sigil was tattooed on the corpse’s cheek, and Anya would take Danny’s word that it was blood, not ink. "The Morq don’t go in for body-decoration, of course. Was that it? No other markings?"

"That was it," Danny said. "What do you make of it?"

Adjusting his glasses, Rupert looked more closely at the picture. "The demon looks familiar, but I’m not sure how I know him. Possibly one of Nalph’s patrons? But I’m wondering about tribute, or the lack thereof. The loss of the, er, top of the head looks like a ritual killing to me."

"An ineffective way to collect accounts, if you ask me, but I think you’re right." Anya exchanged glances with him, then, thinking hard, said, "Since Nalph and Grittnak seemed so unwilling to defy the cloaked guy openly, though, something must have changed. Maybe closing down Cassa Dreams threw off the master-schedule, or got out to the demon community, or some other thing that threatens the Yeangelt plan? That could cause rebellion, and then reciprocal carnage."

"Nalph and Grittnak are compromised sources, right?" Danny said. "Which sounds so strange to say out loud."

"Oh, you’ll get used to the names! Especially if Miss Carter has to be away a lot dealing with human espionage," Anya said brightly.

"It’s not – Miss Carter is working with an internal case. A loss." Danny looked at the water again. She thought that the glitter in his eyes looked more like tears than like river-reflection.

"Tom Quinn?" Rupert said. Although Danny shot him a glance – yes, those would be tears if he weren’t a big tough male spy – he said nothing. Rupert let it go.

Apparently her partner did know when to stop asking questions sometimes, although not with his female companion. She bit down on another piece of ice to cool her sudden fresh irritation.

After a moment of silence, Danny said, "Well, I was just passing along the intel. Miss Carter didn’t think there was any high-level threat, but if you can call your... I guess ‘people’ wouldn’t be the right word...."

"We’ll contact them, although probably not today. We’re trying to protect our cover as long as we can, and too many questions too soon might rouse their suspicions," Rupert said. "By the way, is there any movement in finding the clients of Cassa Dreams?"

Danny got to his feet. "Don’t know – I’ll ask Miss Carter. Now, you two enjoy the rest of the weekend. One of us will check in tomorrow at the regular time." With a wave and a flash of very white teeth, he left them to themselves.

Rupert tightened his arm around her, brushed his lips against her forehead. Then, quietly: "It’s been a busy afternoon. I suppose we should go home."

"Yes. Who knows what Dawn and Andrew could have gotten up to," she said, not moving.

It was cooler here by the Thames, anchored on the greensward. They sat together, looking out at the water, sharp and glittering. She laid her head on his shoulder.

His thumb kept moving on her ring, warming the gold.

***

"He is too!"

"He isn’t, Dawn. You need to accept the truth, just like– "

"Andrew, you don’t know anything about anything!"

"You two, stop it at once." Sighing, Giles stepped in between the combatants. While doing the dishes after supper, Dawn and Andrew had fallen into a pointless argument about her romantic chances with her fencing instructor, which now threatened to devolve into foot-stomping and possibly hair-pulling.

Dawn glared at Andrew. "Tell him, Giles. Tell him I’m right."

"Giles, you know Pablo doesn’t– " Andrew began.

"You couldn’t pay me to enter this conversation. Just take it upstairs if you’re going to embark on violence."

Anya walked in from the living room, turning a page in her book. Without looking up, she said, "What Rupert said. Dishes costs money, you know, and you two sound like you’re about to start destroying the china."

"Oh sure, the parental types always stick together," Dawn muttered. "And I think I just weirded myself out."

"Upstairs, or elsewhere." Giles pointed to the hallway in his best patriarch fashion, which he devoutly hoped worked better with these two than it had ever done with the Scoobies. "I’ll finish the dishes."

"We’ll finish," Anya corrected.

Dawn looked significantly at Andrew, who nodded, before she said in a sudden rush of enthusiasm, "Oh Giles, you’re the best!" and hugged him. Although Andrew seemed inclined to follow her example, a stiff arm to the shoulder prevented it.

"Hey, what about me?" Anya said. "I’ve just expressed my own willingness to take over your chore."

"Don’t worry, darling, I strongly suspect that this affection means she wants something. What is it, Dawn?"

"Really, Giles!" She gave him a squeeze, then grinned at him. "Um, could you float us a loan if we wanted to go to the pub? Our Forbidden Planet raid means we’re sort of tapped out till next week."

"At least she’s asking, rather than stealing," Anya observed. "And Bradley’s on duty at the Moon under Water tonight. He’ll ensure good behaviour."

"True enough." Giles got out his wallet. Even as he handed over a ten-pound note: "Here’s enough for a couple of ciders at the Moon under Water. However, I need your promise not to get into trouble."

"On our word as Junior Watchers," the two of them chirped, hands on hearts. He forced himself not to wince. Too much.

"Okay, Junior Watchers. Come with me, I have words of wisdom to impart," Anya said. She collared them both and dragged them out into the hallway. Although he tried, he couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying or their replies.

Sighing again, he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Nothing about the day had turned out right: ruined date, angry lover, enforced contact with Siviter, more complications in the already baffling Yeangelt mess. And now he was doing dishes. Sodding perfect Saturday.

He was putting the last dish on the draining board when he heard the front door shut. Anya padded back into the kitchen, the smile on her face fading when she saw what he was doing. "Honey, I was going to help!"

"‘s fine, I’ve taken care of it. Let’s just let them dry naturally." He finished wiping his hands, then tossed the towel on top of the washing-up liquid.

"Okay." She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him, a fleeting touch that left him wanting more. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"No, I’ve done what I could with our new intel and our new case, caught up on the Cleveland and L.A. e-mail. Buffy’s going to call tomorrow." Repressing the involuntary choke of guilt, he smiled down at her. "What would you like to do, darling?"

"I want to stay home, especially since it’s just us for once." She linked her fingers in his belt-loops, then rested her head against his chest. Maybe she had forgiven him, he thought. The way she was melting into him certainly seemed like forgiveness – "What’s on TV, do you know?"

Or maybe she hadn’t. "I have no idea. But um, did you ever watch the Junkyard Wars I taped for you this week? You know, when you took Dawn to meet Zoe?"

"You taped my show for me, honey?"

He hated to destroy her awed surprise, but: "Well, strictly speaking, no. Andrew did when I asked him. Seemed safest, after that unpleasant incident earlier when I, er, tried to tape the cricket and ended up with Porn, the Musical. Nevertheless, there are a couple of episodes on tape for you."

"You’re so good to me." Her voice was a little too shaky for his liking, her eyes too bright, but her mouth on his stopped all thought. After a long, long kiss, she pulled away. In a soft chime, she said, "Are you going to watch too? Or at least sit in the living room with me?"

He followed the curve of her cheekbone with his finger. "I’ll sit in the room with you while that bloody machinery grinds away onscreen. But I might bring a book to read."

"Hurry," she said.

When he went upstairs to find something, however, he found his steps slowing on a wave of nerves. He didn’t know what to do, she still hadn’t let him talk to her about the wrong impression, he felt the press of failure all around. And it was so sodding stuffy in the house. He forced himself to take a minute to breathe.

He didn’t fancy reading anything too serious tonight, so instead of turning into the study, he went into their bedroom. Anya kept her growing stack of mysteries there, in a bookcase they’d found in Camden Market. She swore it was an antique, although he was equally sure it wasn’t. Smiling, he ran his fingers along the top shelf, then bent down to inspect its contents. Yes, he thought he’d seen it in her recent haul: another Allingham, Traitor’s Purse.

He scanned the copy on the cover as he went back downstairs. ‘The tale of a man totally unable to recall his own identity....’ That wasn’t his problem, he thought. He knew all too well who he was. Almost without volition he covered the bolded ‘Traitor’ on the cover. He didn’t want to remember the last time he’d heard the word.

Shaking off the bad memories, he stepped off the staircase. Anya had finally lit the entryway candles, which she hadn’t done when they’d come home from their afternoon out. Maybe she had forgiven him–

He stopped in his tracks in the archway leading to the lounge. Candles were lit on every table, flickers of yellow and blue cutting through the dusk. Anya’s stupid programme flickered too, images of spare parts and teamwork and rebuilding, but the sound was turned off. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing as he looked, finally, at her. At his Anya.

Wearing only her lingerie, she reclined on a sheet she’d spread on the floor. She smiled at him, then dipped her fingers into a glass of ice she’d placed nearby, brought the ice cube to her lips. After a lick, she said, "It’s extremely hot, honey. Aren’t you wearing too many clothes?"

"Er. Yes." Jesus Christ. He pulled his shirt off, threw it he didn’t give a fuck where. Then his hands went to his trousers – but he stopped, distracted by her taking the ice cube and sliding it down between her breasts– "Darling, wait. I’ll do that for you."

"You’re so good to me," she said, a laugh underneath her words.

"I try, dearest. I do." He stripped off the rest of his clothes, then came to kneel by her. Her hand came to him, wrapped him up, stroked – he jolted at the sensation of cold against hot, melting liquid against stirring hardness. When she smiled wider, he said, "Seriously, let me handle the ice."

Then he leapt.

With a squeak, she arched up hard against his body, the silk of her lingerie sliding over his length. When he dropped down over her, letting gravity do the work, her thighs spread to cradle him. She whispered, "I left my underwear on so you could tear it off me. I’ve kind of missed the roughness, what with the somewhat restricted sex life we’ve had, and I do have the losses budgeted."

A kiss, long and deep, tasting of ice and steam and her own sweet sharpness, as he pressed himself against her. It was all friction and rough silk, but – "Don’t be impatient, darling." Then he reached for the ice. Although the cubes were slippery, he held tight as he brought them to her breasts. At the first touch of ice to her nipples, she moaned, a breath that made the flames around them waver. Snap-quick, she brought her legs around him, as she had that morning in the kitchen, and he sank down deeper into her hold.

Still teasing her with the ice, ever-decreasing circles over those sensitive points, he said, "How much time do we have before they come back?"

"Unless you’ve taught them the ward Willow just taught me, we’ve got until we let them in – oh God, honey!"

"Not enough. Never enough time with you," he said, just before his lips caught at her breast, sucking in the ice and steam and perfect Anya-ness.

In some dim recess of his mind, he noted that she hadn’t taken off the pretend wedding ring.

***

The bell tolled through his home, harsh and unforgiving. There wouldn’t be an escape this time.

His rags fluttering in the night-heat, Grittnak took one more look around his Greenwich rooftop. He could see in the dark. His last look, he thought.

But it wasn’t full dark yet. The stars were coming out, a complement to the light from the human civilisation all around, shining on the demon-plants and insect life he had tended so carefully. At a ripple and a glitter in the corner, he realised where he could put the information.

After scrawling a name – Robert Gordon – on the envelope he held, he hurried to the laceprig web in the corner. There was a small cubbyhole just behind it; he shoved the envelope inside. Only the tiniest strip of white revealed what was hidden.

He had barely enough time to go back to the bench and sink down before the creatures made their way up the stairs. Yet he held his head high.

Even the son of a Nazgut could understand friendship and loyalty, and his death would show it.