The hidden room, smelling of earth and magick and sickness, was quiet.

In the bed that dominated the room, the tattooed man lay silent and unmoving – gone further, deeper than sleep. Across his battered face flickered the occasional sign of pain, but it was random.

By the light of three black candles, a small, aging woman plied her needle on a square of silk. She stitched with care, with incantations, with intent. The sigil took shape, took on meaning.

When she tied off the thread, the knot meeting the silk, the man cried out. Yet he didn’t wake.

She picked up another square and began again.

***

"I want you to take this, Rupert," Anya said, charging into the conference room with a bottle of aspirin and some water. "If we knew more about whatever the Griffin bastard stuck you with, we could find a mystical antidote, but for now this human over-the-counter remedy will have to do."

"Thank you, darling, but as I already told you five sodding times, most of the potion bled out last night," Giles said, not looking up from his papers.

"Most of isn’t good enough. Take it."

"I’m fine, Anya."

Nevertheless, she pushed the medicine and water into his hands. He stared at her over the top of his glasses. She folded her arms and frowned until he sighed, shook out a couple of pills from the bottle, and tossed them back.

From her vantage point next to him at the conference table, Dawn had to suppress a giggle. They were going to be like this forever, she thought; like, when Giles was eighty, Anya would be all ‘don’t forget your pills, Rupert, have you taken your pills,’ and he’d be a martyr about it, and the world would be perfectly balanced on its axis because of their push-and-pull.

Even so, Dawn thought that Anya was right to fuss this time. All morning he’d looked way too pale, with dark circles under darker eyes. Anya seemed really jumpy about it: heels clattering louder wherever she went, bigger gestures, higher voice. Mostly she touched him more than usual, which was a whole lot. She held onto him in the Tube on the way to the office, and once there kept getting up from her desk every five minutes to check on him. Even though it obviously was driving him crazy, each time he’d stop whatever he was doing and hold her hand or something before returning to work –

Like he was doing right now. After a kiss to her palm, he let her go. "We should begin the meeting. Where’s–"

"Here, here, sorry," Andrew said, falling through the door with an armful of folders and phones. "I was just confirming the imminent delivery of Cluth the Gifted’s mirror, and ....Oh. Anyway." He sat down opposite Dawn on Anya’s side, arranged the phones in front of him in a professional manner, then put on a look of rapt attention. "I’m ready!"

"Excellent enthusiasm, Andrew," Anya said. She took her seat beside him and opened her own notebook. "First on the agenda is the proposed intelligence-gathering tonight at the warehouse nightclub thing in Brixton. Dawn, what did you find out about the club itself?"

"Okay. According to Time Out and the two websites I checked, the place recently changed its name to the Frontier–"

"Another synonym for ‘border,’" Giles said.

"Which links to ‘boundary’ and also to the tattoo shop, so it’s all creepy and terminal-ish," she finished. "It’s very popular, apparently. Says here that it caters to a ‘mixed crowd’ and offers a variety of, um, ‘music and pleasures.’ Again with the creepy."

"Danny sent what he could find on the building floor plan," Giles said. He passed out copies of a blueprint, the smudginess of which made Dawn squint. Red marker circled one corner of the plan. "The indicated area should be the offices and secondary access. That’s our target."

Dawn’s fingers tingled. "Our target?"

"Not yours, Dawn." His eyes were kind, but he wore what Willow called his England-Stands-Firm expression. "You know Buffy doesn’t wish you to go on the more dangerous missions. So–" he looked back at his notes – "I’ve got a call in to Zoe, requesting at least one section-member’s assistance. We’re going to need a diversion in the main club, large enough to call the attention of whoever Yeangelt higher-up is there, draw him out of the offices. If we do it when the club is open, the, um, resulting mess should give us enough time to search."

Andrew was whispering, "Pick me pick me pick me –"

"You’ll accompany whoever MI5 gives us, Andrew," Anya said. Although Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, he didn’t contradict her. "I’m thinking a little light demon-summoning at the right time would be handy."

"Yes!" Andrew said, pumping his fist in the air, then sheepishly sinking into his seat. Dawn decided if he even thought about gloating, she was going to do something horrible to him. Maybe she’d tell Xander and Spike about the large glossy pictures of them he had hidden in his closet; she bet that would pass Anya’s acid-test for vengeance.

"Right, good," Giles said, pulling her back to the moment. "We’ll work out the logistics later. While the diversion is going on, Anya and I’ll, er, steal into the office from the back door and see what we can find."

"If they’re good supervillains, they should have a board listing their master plans, and–" Andrew said, not getting how stupid he was until he caught a stern glance from Anya. "Oh. Sorry."

Dawn couldn’t stop herself from demanding, "Since when is either one of you capable of sneaking around and stealing stuff? Let’s think about who’s demonstrated what skills here!" When Giles and Anya stared at her, she shrank a little. "I’m just saying."

Weirdly, they looked at each other and smiled. "It shouldn’t be a problem," they said together.

"You have no idea the kind of gadget Rupert keeps in his wallet," Anya continued. "Besides, we might need to use magicks which you haven’t mastered yet."

"It’s just not–" Dawn began, but the spy phone rang at that moment.

Anya reached over and grabbed it. "Tuppence here. – Oh, Miss Carter." Smile turned to frown as she listened. Giles leaned back in his chair; even with a lingering smile, he really did look sick, Dawn thought. Anya was starting to look sick too from whatever she was hearing, until finally: "Okay, I understand. Tommy will be there."

"What’s wrong?" Giles said, as she put down the phone.

Anya said, "Harry wants to talk to you, no one knows why. Zoe said to meet him, eleven o’clock, outside Thames House on the river side. But also, because of some internal politics thing, she doesn’t know if we’ll have any help tonight."

Before he could speak, Dawn jumped in. "If you’re shorthanded, then you have to let me go on the mission!"

"No, Dawn." England-Stands-Stupidly-Firm alright.

Casting a quick glance at Dawn, a ‘let me handle it’ look, Anya said, "Zoe offered to go on her own time, but since Pennith has seen her –"

"Right, she’s blown. She could watch outside, but not go with Andrew. If we can’t find a fourth, Danny perhaps–"

"I should go," Dawn said again.

At that moment two of the phones went off, their rings staggered and dissonant. Anya got the private line. It seemed to be one of the construction types, because she spun out of the conference room, talking a mile a minute about framing and work schedules.

Business line – Andrew was faster than Dawn to pick it up, his "Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions," smug and deserving retribution. After listening for a second, he said, "Yes, Mr Siviter. Mr Giles is right here."

As Giles took the phone, he raised his eyebrows at them. Dawn, reading the sign correctly, pulled Andrew’s sleeve, got out of the conference room. Behind them Giles said, "Yes, Jools –"

"–we’d need to coordinate the electrical work with the new plasterboard. No, no, no!" Anya said as the two of them walked through the office. Because she looked like she was going to start throwing office supplies, they went on out into the outer corridor where they could shut the door behind them.

Andrew leaned against it, then glanced at Dawn. Yeah, he knew– "‘Pick me pick me pick me’?" she mocked. "You asshole."

"You’re a mean if shiny-haired young woman," he said. Then: "Well, okay, but I didn’t know that I’d have to be doing the mission alone! I don’t think I’m ready to spy solo."

"You won’t be, Andrew, because I’m so going."

"Nuh-uh. That was Giles’s serious-Watcher face." Which he demonstrated, badly.

"Whatever. I’ll just have to talk to him. It’s not like it’s Buffy’s call." She looked down at her foot, toeing a line along the floorboards. Crossing the frontier into the terminal, she thought, crossing the boundary –

The stairwell door opened, and Gerry, the gorgeous UPS guy, walked in with a package. "Oi, Investigations and Acquisitions youngsters!"

"Is that for us, Gerald?" Andrew said, smiling, then blocking Dawn in a shifty move that almost guaranteed Xander and Spike would be learning about his little fantasies.

"Yeah. It’s fragile stuff." He flashed perfect teeth as he handed Andrew the box, then smiled even wider at Dawn when she peeked around. "Sign for it, Miss Summers?" Which was cool, and vengeance in itself.

As she finished writing her name and Andrew finished checking the shipment, Anya came out of the office. "Gerry! You’re right on time with the merchandise."

"We’ve got a good team, Anya, as do you," he said, one more big smile before he disappeared through the door. Great angle, Dawn thought, then nudged Andrew so he could close his mouth before actual drooling occurred.

"You two shouldn’t ogle the delivery man’s rounded bottom, even if his shorts do make it a feature," Anya said briskly. "Okay, staff meeting’s cancelled. Andrew, you and I are going to Nalph’s to meet our client, hand over this merchandise, and receive our payment. I’ve got the bill ready."

"I’m going to the Mysterious Emporium? But –"

"Despite Nalph being a double-dealing Mikh bastard who’s probably in league with the forces of evil, you need to make a better impression on him than last time, when you shattered all those petrified Nop hearts. He’s a client too, after all. More important, we can get the word on who’s in town, available to be summoned." She put her hand on Dawn’s shoulder. "Rupert wants you to help him before he leaves, Dawn. And please watch him for me. I know he doesn’t feel well, no matter what his stiff upper lip says."

"You got it. I’ll call your cell if he gets wobbly and I think you should come back," Dawn said. She didn’t even step more than once on Andrew’s toes as the two of them left – the worry in Anya’s voice made her stomach feel a little twisty.

It twisted up even more at the sight of Giles in the conference room, his fingers pressing against his forehead like he was trying to squeeze the pain out.

When she walked in, though, he looked up and tried to smile. "There you are, Dawn. I have a research job for you. Jools Siviter gave me the name of the potential buyer for Lady Rosemary’s property, and–"

"Just a second, okay?" She handed him his water, then sat down. "Boy, you look awful. You should probably be forcing fluids or something, that’s what Mom would have said."

An eyebrow raise at that. "Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind. Now, if you’ll take notes? David Penn was the name–"

"Yeah, yeah, I’ll be research girl in a minute, but a question first." Stomping on any guilty hesitancy, she said, "Giles, why don’t you want me to go on the mission tonight? Really?"

"I should have known you wouldn’t let it rest." Frowning, he took off his glasses again and leaned back in his chair. "To answer your question – aside from the, er, possible disaster attendant on a barely trained seventeen-year-old girl going undercover, Buffy doesn’t want you on these types of mission. As you very well know, Dawn."

When he stared at her, she felt like she was being handed a failing grade on the most important test ever. But that wasn’t going to stop her. "I don’t care what Buffy thinks, it’s what you think. This isn’t Slayer business, you know? This is about being a Watcher, finding stuff out."

"No, it isn’t." He reached for his water. "And I’m not a Watcher any more."

"Yes you are, and God, what did Buffy say to you?"

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. "It isn’t your business. Suffice it to say that when Anya and I agreed you would live with us, Buffy made it clear that she is still, er, your guardian and protector. My opinion here doesn’t count." He sipped his water, then pushed it away. "And I repeat, I’m no longer part of the Council."

"You so are, whether you get paid or not. And I think Buffy’s just jealous, ‘cause I get to pretend you’re my dad just like she always wanted.... Um. Can we forget I said that?"

A real Giles-smile warmed his face. "I didn’t hear anything." But his smile died, leaving him paler than before. He hesitated a long time, his fingers worrying the edges of his papers, before he said, "Your analysis is quite wrong, however. Buffy’s justified in what she says. Perhaps I should tell you...Christ knows it’s been bloody hard to keep Anya quiet."

"And, like, you think that’s even going to last?" She smiled, even though her stomach was twisting up again, she didn’t know why.

Sighing, he looked away – at nothing, at bad memories. But his voice was dry and precise. "Your sister reminded me that I had betrayed her trust four times. Twice because I was too much a Watcher, twice because I wasn’t enough of one." When he looked back at her, she had to wrap her arms around herself to keep away the cold. "I can’t betray her again by disregarding her wishes. Please don’t ask me to."

"Okay. Okay, I get what you’re saying." She made herself keep smiling, even as her mind kept churning over the possibilities. "And you know what, Giles? You’re a Watcher always and forever. But I’m not going to bug you about it any more."

Although his mouth quirked a little, he just said, "I’ll believe that when I see it." Then he flipped through his papers. "Back to work. David Penn was the name – er, a link to Pennith, wouldn’t you agree? We should check the Frontier records for a connection."

Even as she said "sure," even as she took notes and made a couple of suggestions of her own, one hand went to the smudged copy of the Frontier blueprint. Signs of walls and doors, signs of boundaries to cross, she thought.

There had to be another way in.

***

Red, yellow, green – finally the signal changed. The traffic on Oxford Street annoyed Anya: too many cars and busses in the road, far too many people getting in her damn way. But now they had an opening. "Come on, Andrew! And stop looking at yourself in the store windows."

"I’m not! Sorta." Puffing a little in the heat, he hurried his steps to catch up to her. "But can we stop at HMV or the Virgin Megastore on the way back? I need some research material."

"What could you possibly research at a home-entertainment establishment?" she said. The opening in the traffic widened – clutching the package for Cluth the Gifted in one hand and a fistful of Andrew’s shirt in the other, she bolted in between a Mini and a big honking Mercedes. Literally honking.

"Oh man, oh man," Andrew whimpered as they slipped between the cars. When they stepped onto the opposite kerb, however, he said more calmly, "Um. Well, with my new spy-detective duties, I thought maybe I’d revisit the James Bond film oeuvre–?"

"That’s a dumb idea. Tradecraft can be learned best by observation, and by reading the right books. Either we can stop in at Foyles on the way back, or you can borrow mine." She cast an appraising glance at him. "Actually, you seem like Albert, the helpful servant and office boy in the Tommy and Tuppence books. He’s young and overly dramatic too."

"But does he do any spying or detecting of his own?"

"Yes. But you don’t have to go tonight if you don’t want to–"

"No, don’t leave me behind!" he said quickly. "I just want a plan of action, that’s all. And maybe someone to help me."

"Rupert and I won’t send you in unprepared," she said, though just saying her partner’s name called up another wave of nerves and deep worry. Last night after their incredible rough-tender-talking sex, the aftershocks of which still had her quivering, he’d fallen into bed and unconsciousness. Of course he generally slept well after lovemaking, but this was different – he didn’t hog the bed, he didn’t snore, he didn’t move at all. He slept like...she wouldn’t allow herself to finish the expression. But he looked so sick when he woke up, and he looked so sick still.

Swallowing her fears, she said, "We’ll work it out. But you tell us if you’re too scared. Although Rupert’s got this crazy idea that the mission has to be tonight, we could put it off."

Andrew stopped in the middle of the sidewalk – a pedestrian smacking into him from behind, a shout of "Hey, you fookin’ halfwit" – and said, "Why are we going into the club, anyway? If there’s known badness at Body Frontiers, I mean."

"Because we feel that investigating what might be a nasty place and with multiple exits would be more sensible than charging back into the lair of a bad-mojo specialist who jabs people in the arms with poisoned tattoo needles, a place with a tunnel but no other way out–"

"Oh. You think Giles was poisoned – oh." He turned white, but said bravely, "Got it. You can count on me, Anya."

"Good ex-villainous boy." She patted his back, which made him cough. "Are you ready for our own reconnoitre?"

"Yes I am." He pulled himself to his full height and took on what either was a top-secret spy attitude or an indication of gas. "Lead on, mon capitaine."

It was only a few steps to the Mysterious Emporium, The Best for the Most Discerning Demon and Half-Demon. After a brief discussion, she let Andrew rap high and low, let him say the password – "Nalph, there is no password"– and then followed him into the almost empty shop.

As usual, Nalph sat on the counter; this time he was playing with his dreadlocks and talking to Cluth the Gifted. He showed his teeth to them: "Jenkins and assistant! We’ve been waiting."

"Hello, Nalph. And here, as you requested, Cluth – the scrying mirror from your home dimension."

When she showed the package to the half-Biw mage, she thought he was going to cry. "You contacted Biw, Miss Jenkins? You spoke to someone there? I’ve been cut off so long–"

"Oh no. I knew a guy in Reykjavik, who knew a werewolf in Boston, who knew a guy in Moose Jaw." She smiled. "There’s a Biw outpost in the Canadian plains, isn’t that weird? Something about the wheat."

Nalph hopped off the counter, bouncing as he landed. "Ah. I thought they’d be able to help you, Cluth. They understand the proper way of doing things."

Without mishap, Andrew pulled the mirror out of the box and then bowed in just the right degree. "Your mirror, sir. Courtesy of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions."

Demon and human breaths were held until the tool was in Cluth’s hands. Preternaturally long nails clicking against the silver, his smushed dog-nose smelling his reflection, he whispered, "Oh thank you so very much! How much do I owe you?"

As Anya handed Andrew the bill and then Andrew repeated the offer-and-bow move to Cluth, Nalph hopped away. The Ihioo baby skulls chattered as he went through the curtain into the back area. It was all Anya could do to keep her eyes on the cheque Cluth was writing; she wanted to know what Nalph was doing back there. But she couldn’t hear anything –

"Say, do you two have to pay the tribute?" Cluth whispered, his words almost masked by his ripping the cheque from the book. "I hear that some humans have been asked. By them."

"Not yet. But we know it’s coming," Anya said carefully.

He scratched at his face, one nail almost digging into his eye. "Takes lots of money, energy, and souls, you know. Lots and lots to get enough to open what we need to –"

Without warning, the Ihioo skulls chattered again, the curtain parted, and Nalph leapt onto the top of the counter. "Is the transaction complete?"

"Yes, yes, very happy, very pleased. You are a great facilitator, Mikh Lord," Cluth said, throwing a handful of demon coin onto the counter beside him. "But now I should toddle home. With my new mirror, I shall be able to see better at last!"

"Be careful of what you see, Gifted one," Nalph called after him, as the blue door shut with a snap and a rise of dust. Then Nalph smiled downward. "Yes, Jenkins and assistant, be careful of what you see."

"Why, of course. You know Giles and I are extremely careful, and Andrew is learning from us," she said. But she wondered – Mikh Lord? Since when?

The demon crossed his claws, his smile widening. "Now that we’re alone...I’ve been wondering if there was any possibility of obtaining another Nri-encrusted cup, she who was Anyanka."

"There’s always a chance. Why?" Smiling back, she turned as subtly as she could toward the display board on the wall. The Yeangelt flyer in the centre was different; the sigil was the same, but the word had disappeared. Just the sign – bigger now, darker– below the name Yeangelt.

And there was something green marking a torn edge of the Giles and Jenkins business card. Looked like acid, like liquid dripping down an ex-Watcher’s cracked windows. She had the sudden, intense desire to get their card the hell down from there.

Nalph said, "Unexpected expenses; changes, surface and deep. You know. And what are you looking at?"

"Just examining the advertisements. I was thinking we should remove our card, actually. We’ve developed a nice client base, human as well as demon, and since we’ve established word-of-mouth, well, we might not need this kind of publicity any more."

As she reached for the card, the demon leapt in a blur of indigo and teeth, one blue hand locking around her wrist. Although she couldn’t help her shiver, she didn’t move when his claws nipped at the skin. "Now you know better than that, she who was Anyanka. In my shop, I decide what goes in and comes out," he said in a growl.

"My mistake, Nalph. Please accept my apologies," she said quietly, over her nerves.

One last press of the claws, not enough to break the skin, before he hopped back. "Apology accepted. Now – shall we have a pot of tea, talk a little about the vessel I require and perhaps some of your cases underway?"

"Eep," Andrew said as the Mikh batted at him in passing, but he managed not to fall down.

Even though she felt like shrieking and running back to Rupert, the one in the family who really understood strategy, Anya beamed once more. "Nalph, tea and gossip would be lovely!"

***

The Thames was blue today under a cloudless summer sky. Nice day to wait outside for a spymaster, Giles thought, even though he felt like utter hell.

Narrowing his aching eyes against the glare, Giles leaned on the wall and looked at the river. As the water lapped on the stone, the accusations rose again. Dawn’s question had brought back Buffy’s judgement against him on that horrible night, spoken again on the day Dawn had arrived in London. Betrayal number one: on Buffy’s eighteenth birthday, he had chosen the Council. Two: when he killed Ben, he had chosen to kill to protect her. Three: when he left after she’d been brought back, he had chosen to protect himself. Four: when she and Spike wouldn’t take care of the trigger, he had chosen to protect Anya.

Like a dark tidemark left behind, there was the ugly recognition that he wouldn’t change some of his decisions. He’d still have killed Ben. In that awful last year, he’d have dealt with Spike differently, more openly, but he still wouldn’t have trusted Buffy to handle it. Too much a Watcher, yet not enough. It didn’t balance out.

He gazed out at the morning light on the water, listened to the water lap against stone.

And he smelled the expensive tobacco before he even heard the voice drawl, "Hello, Rupert. Where’s the lovely wife today?"

"Jools." He didn’t turn around. "Didn’t I just speak to you?"

"Yes, well, after a small fact-finding mission, I persuaded your little assistant to tell me where you were." Siviter mimicked Giles’s pose, though he leaned far more nonchalantly. "I went out to my grandmother’s site, Vauxhall Cross being so conveniently located to the salubrious township of Brixton. Yet when I arrived, I saw loads and loads of fire-engines, all around a tattoo-artist’s establishment."

"A fire at Body Frontiers?" At that, Giles did turn his head.

"Yes. Interesting, isn’t it. Place was a dead loss, so to speak." Jools took another long drag on his cigarette, sent smoke into the sun. "And you say you found a tunnel between the burned-out building and the nightclub, under my grandmother’s land." All affectation dropping away, he met Giles’s gaze. "You must be getting closer to the Xet conspiracy, Rupert."

"Maybe." He looked back out at the water, eyes narrowing further against the brightness. "Does this mean that the Giles and Jenkins job is over?"

"Oh no, no. Find out all you can. My grandmama won’t sell to this David Penn, obviously, but if there’s nasty business in the cellar–"

"‘Something nasty in the woodshed,’ Giles quoted, suddenly amused.

"Don’t try to be witty, Rupert, you might hurt yourself." Another blast of smoke, a chuckle. "We want to know what lies beneath the surface, don’t we."

"Not always."

They stood there for a second or two, listening to the river, before Siviter said, "Wolfram and Hart’s resources don’t tempt you in this?"

"No. I don’t trust them." Giles glanced at him. "I do trust Wes, but individuals can’t always change a system. Institutional rot, you know."

"That’s what I thought." In one of his lightning-flashes, Siviter turned on his heel in the direction of Vauxhall Cross. Saying, "Best of luck to you and your helpmeet, Rupert. Let me know if I can assist in any way – Ah, little sister! Late as usual," he disappeared through a sudden clutch of tourists.

And Harry was there on the other side. "What did Siviter want?"

"Private business." Giles locked his hands together, to keep back a sudden wave of irrational anger. "Hello, Harry. Why did you need to see me?"

"Because of an alarming propensity for taking up my team’s attention," Harry said. "You’re an informant, not an agent, nor someone running a fucking section – yet every time I look around, you’re getting my people involved in your games."

"Fighting a terror campaign, old man. I, I ask for help when I need it." Sometimes, he silently qualified.

"A terror campaign against demons, not humans. And help will not be forthcoming today. Especially when you have encouraged Zoe to chase after ghosts."

He spared a thought for young Geoff Perry. "Humans have died as well – but I see. This is about Tom Quinn. Does it bother you to know he didn’t betray you, Harry?"

"I am thrilled that he wasn’t a traitor. But the boy is dead." Harry looked out at the water. "Drowned himself when it got too difficult."

"No, he didn’t. He’s just lost." Tara’s voice, speaking through Cassa Dreams, floated through his mind.

"That bloody doesn’t matter. Let me remind you of your mission, Giles, which is to bring Zoe intelligence product I can use. Don’t go off on wild tangents, don’t involve my team unnecessarily, and I don’t give one good fuck about your own concerns, is that clear?"

"Clearer than the Thames." Giles pushed himself away from the railing, allowing himself the brief petty pleasure of looming over the man. "Since I’m not part of your team, let me say – bugger off, Harry." Walking away, he raised his hand imperatively, and a taxi swerved to a stop in front of him.

Harry called, "Just to remind you, I’ll expect your report at the usual time."

Sodding administrative ponce, worse than Quentin fucking Travers, should have punched the tosser in the face – Giles slammed the cab door on all the insults he was mentally hurling at the git, then sighed. "Gilbert Place," he told the driver.

Even as the car pulled away from the river, his mobile rang. Dear God he hoped it was Anya, he needed her. But the number on the display shocked him. A click, then: "Buffy, are you all right? What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me why I just got a call from Robson, saying that Dawn had requested special permission to go on some stupid spy-job with you tonight! And, Giles, you can tell me why he gave it to her!"

"Dawn called Robson? She went over my head and yours to get Council authorisation?" For fuck’s sake, after all his efforts to say ‘no,’ after his dramatic revelation – he couldn’t stop a wild burst of laughter. It just poured out, even though it hurt his aching head to laugh that hard. In the midst of his hysteria he managed to say, "She’s going to be one bloody brilliant Watcher."

Somebody had to be, he thought, even as the laughter drained away. Wasn’t him.

***

The small, aging woman in the hidden room finished her last square of silk, tied off the knot and then bit at the thread.

When the thread fell in two, the black candles wavered, then flickered higher, flame to flame.

The tattooed man in the bed jolted, a current of fire running over and through pattern and sign until his body seemed alight.

Taking the silk pieces in her hands, the woman pressed them together, murmuring dark words, rocking back and forth. The edges bound together, fold to fold, and she tossed the joined pieces into the air over his body. "Let him wake on the Day of the Dead, when he shall fulfill his task," she said. "Let him wake, healthy and whole, to take his rightful place."

When the silk fell like leaves over him, he sank deeper down. Yet the light coming from him remained.

The woman stood, stretching sore muscles. At the sound of the door opening behind her, she said, "Pennith, are you come to see my progress?"

"Yes indeed," he said. Bitter almond mingled with the scents of earth and magick, as he joined her in gazing at Griffin’s draped body. Conversationally he said, "You’ve told me so often that you can’t see the future, but last night, when it seemed like he had been taken and our plans ruined, you were there to save us. You got him out of danger, you knew the proper magicks. Are you sure you don’t know what’s coming?"

"I wish I did. Cassa Dreams would still be collecting for us if so." Her hand, still cramped from sewing, found his. "But I believe in preparing for anything and everything. Last night Griffin was letting in the past, and you know as well as I do that’s rarely good." She hissed, an echo of his own. "I wish I could have seen that visitor more closely. He was protected somehow."

"Never mind, my lady." In a tone lower than low, he said, "Rebels have been killed, and we’re back on track. I’ll bring you some fine souls and spirits tonight – for you, and for the Xet."

"Two storage rooms full, one more to go," she said, smiling at him. "It shall be three and one, as planned."

Together they watched unburning flame wash over patterns and signs, under the silk.

***

The green waters closed over his head, the river mud dragging on his feet, in his veins. He dropped faster, weighed down by stones in his pockets he hadn’t put there. The dark and the mud almost had him, until a small hand caught him, pulled him up. Water rushed away, sweetness and bells as he broke the surface, and the touch of his dearest’s lips on his, giving him the air he needed –

"Honey. Honey, wake up," Anya whispered against his mouth.

Giles fought to open his eyes, to breathe. Right. He was in bed, in their twilit bedroom. She lay beside and over him, propped up on one elbow, her other hand holding his. And she kissed him again, one more brush of sweetness.

He struggled up onto his own elbows, blinking against dusk and lingering nightmare. "Er, how long have I been asleep?"

"Sleep is not how I’d describe it," she said sharply. "I’ve seen your naps, and that, Rupert Giles, was not a nap."

Coughing, he tried to focus. "I’m fine, Anya. How long?"

"Three long, unconscious hours." She poked at his chest with her index finger. "I don’t think you’re fine."

"I’m all right, really." He tightened his hold on her, seeking a way to distract her. "Er, did we just play a reversal of the old tale? I thought it was Prince Charming who woke Sleeping Beauty with a kiss, not the other way round."

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not anything like Prince Charming." She pulled free of him and sat up.

It was odd how her words hurt him; not even a glance at her hand, where that bloody pretend ring still flashed in the dying light, could ease the sting. He sank back on the bed, throwing one arm across his eyes. "No. No, I’m not."

"Of course not, and who wants him? Prince Charming was a boy – been there, done that, became a vengeance demon when he left me. What I want and need is a man." Letting his arm fall, he opened his eyes to her smile. "You, Rupert."

"Ah. But you are Beauty to me." Which was ridiculously sentimental yet entirely true, he thought. He smiled back at her.

She dropped down over him, her arms around his neck. "Oh, honey, you’re so sweet. But actually, you got your story wrong. See, the whole Sleeping Beauty deal was actually a setup for an alliance between two well-off families, but this Enwaz demon intervened–"

"Darling, seriously." Shrugging off his headache and the lethargy holding him down, he slipped one hand around the back of her neck, brought her even closer. His finger tickling her nape, his mouth inches from hers, he said, "You can instruct me on truth and fiction later. Shall we have sex now, before the mission?"

A long, deep kiss, fluid as a river, before two hands planted hard on his chest. "No, you’re a sick man. In body, I mean, although your current mental health is also worrying."

He yanked her back down. With a ghost of a grin, he said, "Come on. Six minutes, in and out. Set us right up for tonight’s work."

She smacked him on the shoulder. "Stop it! Don’t you realise that you still look like hell, and that you’d be better served to get yourself to the healer rather than think about spying tonight?" Her hand slipped down to where he was already stirring; when she brushed against him, she frowned. "How is it possible that you’re even partially aroused, as terrible as you must feel?"

"I love you."

"You’d better. But settle down, I want to check something."After rolling off his body, she began to work the sleeve over his elbow on his hurt arm. He hissed out a warning, but she kept on going until she exposed his tattoo. The point where Griffin’s needle had gone in was bruised a livid green, and tendrils of dark streaked out from it.

When her fingertip touched the edge of the wound, he swallowed a groan.

She said firmly, "That’s what I thought. While you were unconscious, I put the coven’s healer on alert. We can be in Devon in a few hours to let Margaret look at your wound, honey, because this isn’t good. We shouldn’t investigate tonight."

He had to make her understand. "I told you they burned down Body Frontiers. It means that we’re getting close, Anya. We need more to go with our research, and this could be our last chance."

"Maybe it isn’t."

"We can’t risk it." He pulled away from her and swung himself off the bed. Ignoring the stab of dizziness, he stood up. "You don’t have to go if you don’t want to."

"You’re such an idiot. Tuppence goes where Tommy goes, even if Tommy is being stupid." She hurled herself off the bed and threw an arm around his waist. "Andrew and Dawn are prepped, the car’s ready, and I talked to Willow about the protection spells. Apparently you’ve already consulted her on this?"

"Yes. You see?" He leaned down to kiss her. "I’m not stupid."

"Hah." She nipped at his mouth before saying, "You’re often idiotic, obstinate, cranky, stuffy, and about as far from Prince Charming as any one man could be."

"Then why are you with me, Anya?" The question came from somewhere deeper than he knew.

"We’ve covered this, honey. Because I love you more than anything, and you’re mine and I’m yours. Remember?"

"Dearest–" He lost his words. Instead, he caught her hand with the ring and brought it to his lips. When he kissed the gold and the warm skin around it, she shivered, drawing closer to him. And they stood there locked together, until he kissed her hand again and said, "Right. I’d better get ready."

"Guess so. If we’re going to do this dumb thing." Letting go, she watched him walk into the bathroom.

After the door shut behind him, he turned on the water, plunging his hands in to wash his face, scrub off the dreams and the ache. She wasn’t wrong–Christ, he did feel terrible. But then a thrown shoe slammed against the door, and she shouted, "Hey, I just realised! Six minutes, in and out? You think we could manage sex in six minutes?"

Clear water and laughter took away the pain for the moment.

***

They stood in a pool of blackness a block away from their goal, bass thumping under their feet in a perfect soundtrack to four super-spies out for a night’s adventure –

"Andrew!" Giles’s sharp voice woke him from the fantasy.

"Sorry." Andrew smoothed down the tight-fitting shirt that he and Dawn had bought that afternoon along with his temporary blue hair dye, then checked the pocket of his trousers for the demon-summoning whistle he’d prepared. "Wells, Andrew Wells – ready for action."

"Summers, Dawn Summers, is ready too," she said.

He glanced at her. She didn’t look like his peach Dawnie any more; barely dressed and all made up, she looked older, a sleek Bond-girl cat, Pussy Galore or Jinx except not really like Halle Berry. "You’re not just a junior Watcher, Dawn. You look like a perfect girl-spy."

"Which defeats the purpose and is bad tradecraft, as I’ve been told," Anya said briskly. "But I think this works for tonight. Now, repeat the plan one last time."

"We get in, we’ve got the money to bribe our way in if necessary, and I text you when we’re past the door. We give you five minutes, with me observing as much as I can, then it’s Andrew’s turn," Dawn said.

"I summon Ttoc demons, who are scary-looking yet herbivorous, and also conveniently located under Waterloo Station. With their speed they should be here within seconds."

"And then we get out fast and get back to the car," Dawn finished.

"Good. Now you’ve got your dagger and your stake, and inscribed the protection runes?" Giles said. "Buffy’s angry enough about this evening as it is. You need to be prepared."

Dawn took Andrew’s arm, then grinned. "Prepared and protected, with Magic Marker sigils on our backs. We’ll see you guys in a few."

As they walked away, he cast a quick glance back; Anya and Giles practically melted into the shadows in their black gear, disappearing into the night. But he knew they were there. They counted on him and Dawn, they had given them both this chance to overcome the past, to fight for truth and justice and wear cool clothes–

"Andrew, stop humming."

"What?" he said, coming back to the present. They were only a few doors from the Frontier: bass louder now, screams from inside, people milling around the doors, lit by flickering green neon. He could see a couple of demons in the crowd.

"You’re humming. I know it, it’s...oh my God, it’s the theme from Alias." Smiling, she did a little dance, a shimmer under the streetlight. "I call Sydney!"

"I call Vaughn!"

"Dude, please. You are so Marshall."

"Am not! I’m Vaughn, really – watch, I’ll wrinkle my forehead heroically–" The resulting discussion took them into the line, past a couple of extremely hot guys, um, and girls, and two chilly-skinned individuals he identified as vampires, and up to the front.

A bald, muscular man in mesh clothing stood in front of the steel door, scrutinising everyone who wanted in. Dawn didn’t even wait for a signal; using a move she’d stolen from Faith torturing poor beautiful Xander in a Cleveland nightclub, she stepped into the man’s personal space, ran her fingers up the tight pectorals, and said, "Hey. You the guy letting people in?"

Weirdly, the doorman sniffed at her, and not in a checking-out-what-shampoo-could-make-hair-gleam-like-that way. "You smell strange, little one," he said. He pulled her further into the light.

"You hurt my feelings," she said, all big eyes and pouting lips. In another Faith move, she slid her hand further down to his stomach, spread her fingers wide. "I’m clean. But not too clean."

Someone from behind them shouted, "Come on, mate, let ‘em in!" Other voices agreed, rumbling from all around them. Andrew stepped closer to her, putting his hand on her back.

The man shouted, "No one fucking gets in if you don’t shut it!" Then he shrugged and looked at them both. "Go on, children."

Andrew slipped him the money, got a squeeze on the ass in repayment. Taking a deep breath, he said. "Ready, sweetie?"

A blast of music shivered the doorframe – a female vocalist singing Get down, happy people over bass like a bludgeon–

"Ready, sweetie," Dawn answered, before she danced into the darkness behind the door.

***

The steel back door to the Frontier shone under two security lights.

It was deserted here: from their place in the shadows a few steps away, Anya saw no visible people or demons, but a truck was parked outside by the chainlink fence separating the alley and Lady Rosemary’s levelled building site. And there was the boium tree from Grittnak’s, set out forlornly in a dust heap. Rupert’s mouth had tightened dangerously when he’d seen it.

The air still smelled of smoke and magic from the Body Frontiers fire, and the fence rattled even though there was no wind. The music from the club, loud enough to shudder the concrete walls, wasn’t enough to drown out that rattle.

She stepped closer to Rupert, sliding her hands under his backpack to touch him. He smiled over his shoulder, a flash in the darkness, before looking back at the door. Under her fingertips she could feel the pain-shivers he kept denying. Her stupid Watcher-spy, never listening to her wise counsel; he should be at home, resting. They all should be at home.

The mobile in her pocket vibrated on: No problem, the message read. "They’re in, honey," she whispered.

He nodded, then he prowled into the light and ran his hands around the door. Looking back, he mouthed, "No wards," before trying the back door, which swung open at the first touch.

That meant there would likely be security staff. Clutching her dagger nervously, she followed him in.

The plans had shown a long corridor, which on their right led to a storage room for the drinks stuff. To their left were the offices – and, yep, right by the back door was a guard.

Or rather, on the floor next to the back door was a guard. Rupert had done something too fast for her to see, but the uniformed guy had crumpled like a discarded invoice. She opened the back door, and Rupert dragged him outside. Thump, thump went the bass; thump, thump went the wounded guy’s body on the concrete.

She grabbed Rupert’s shirt and brought him back inside.

Their intermediate goal was a small room which on the plans looked like a storage closet, located next to the main office. This time she led, her partner on her heels. No footsteps could be heard over the music – which meant they were as vulnerable to surprise as the people who ran the place. She hurried her stride.

When they hit the storage room’s door, Rupert held her back, his big hand on her shoulder. He put his other hand out; at the near-contact, green sparks hissed from the spaces between door and frame. So this was warded. Interesting. Also terrifying.

Holding on to his belt-loops, she watched him fish out the bag of crushed Hyban beetles – also from Grittnak’s, she thought with a pang. A handful of the mixture on the lock, a whispered incantation, and the door swung open with a dying hiss.

They slipped inside, to blackness and the scent of earth and magick. She could smell bitter almond too. Pennith must have been there recently. A flare, and then light – Rupert had turned on his torch. The place was empty, with an oddly marked wooden floor underneath carpet. She couldn’t read the signs, though, they didn’t look like the familiar sigil. Set into the far wall was another door, which didn’t have a handle.

"Tunnel below the site," he said, almost soundlessly. Going over to it, he flashed his light on the opening. There was a small window inset at eye level – he peered through, but shook his head.

She crowded beside him to look too. The tunnel sloped down, but several feet away floor-to-ceiling shelves began. In the light from the torch, glass dazzled the eye: rows and rows of clear, seemingly empty containers set on the flat surfaces.

"Open door?" she asked.

"Don’t have the word. No handle," he whispered.

Then he put a finger to his lips. She could faintly hear voices coming from the direction of the office. Two deep, deep voices – Pennith, of course, and...the cloaked guy they had met at the Mysterious Emporium that first night of spying, the one asking for tribute.

She caught at Rupert’s hand. He nodded, squeezed her fingers as he passed her the torch, then went to the hall door. His watch-face glinted in the light.

Time for the junior Watchers to do their stuff.

***

Plug it in plug it in baby, where you been where you been baby....

The central room of the Frontier – black walls; a long bar at the back where water, alcohol and drugs (he thought) were being sold; flashing lights, in time with the music; scents of cigarettes and spilled alcohol and too many people dancing, sauntering, and making out on the main level and on the catwalks on either side. Not just people either; he’d identified three more vampires and a couple of half-Myt demons, who could pass for human in a dark place. Looked like some major hunting going on.

And he was stuck in the middle of the dance floor, which wasn’t really one of his best places.

Dawn gyrated against his back, her hands on his waist. "The whole thing’s really turn-of-the-millenium," she whispered in his ear. "I can’t believe the club is so popular."

"Something else must be the draw," he said, reaching back to put his hands on her bottom.

After jumping when his hands made contact, she whispered, "You’re going to pay for that, sweetie–"

"It’s just my cover– I’m supposed to be your date!" he hissed. "What have you seen, anyway?"

"Hello, your cover is you’re my gay best friend! Anya and Giles say to keep it as close to reality as possible." Undulating against him, she took his hands and put them back on his own pockets.

The demon-summoning whistle bit into his hip under the pressure, but he had to clarify: "I keep telling you I’m not gay! I’m, um, open to a variety of partners, thank you."

"Whatever." In a flashy move, very Britney, she whirled away and then back, her hair whipping him in the face as she spun. Ignoring his whimper, she came into his arms to whisper, "At the end of the last song, one of the waiters picked up a guy who was kinda freaking out and took him through that side door."

"To the office area? Where Giles and Anya are?"

"Yes." Her lips on her ear, she breathed, "Come on, before this song’s over–"

Fumbling only a little, he got out his demon-summoning whistle. Bringing forth the image of the Ttoc demons in his mind, he focussed on the beat, and then, shielded from view by her body, called them.

No sound from the whistle. Nothing. Strobe lights, same beat shaking the walls. Too many people dancing, watching, or making out. Nothing.

"Did it not work?" she said–

As the main doors shuddered, cracked, then fell. Four large, scaly creatures like baby dragons flew in through the hole, their wings beating like thunder: Ttoc demons, right on schedule.

Above them, around them, the pandemonium began. A siren went off inside, and clubgoers scrambled away from the demons. Tables and chairs crashed to the ground, the catwalks above rocked – and through the side door came a tall, grey-haired man and a cloaked figure.

She said, "There we go. That’s management!"

"Plug it in, plug it in, baby," he said.

After they shared a grin, she pulled her dagger from her boot, twirled it in her fingers. "Okay, now let’s get out of here."

***

When the siren went off, Rupert put his ear to the door. Anya thought this was an unnecessary procedure, because even with the screams and the thunder, anyone could hear Pennith and the cloaked guy’s footsteps running down the hallway.

They hurried out into the corridor too – empty, except for a lone figure crouching on the floor outside the main office, fiddling with ropes that bound his wrists. He looked up as they approached. "Yeah, yeah, are you the ones with the, you know? A little something special for the journey?" Giggling, he played with his bonds, but the knot held.

"Oh good grief, mister," she said, taking out the dagger. Green sparks like those from the storage room door flew when the blade touched rope.

"Hey! Fucking cow, I was waiting for the magick–"

"Run, you stupid sod, before they kill you," Rupert said, booting the man none too gently onto his side. "Or before I do for insulting her."

Not waiting to see if the jerk in fact ran, Rupert headed into the office. After sending one last frown at the now crawling would-have-been-dead person, she followed her partner into the windowless space: carpeted, anchored with a small file cabinet and a messy desk lit by burning black candles.

Without hesitating, he slid his backpack off and started shoving in folders. "You might check the file cabinet."

"I thought we were going to take pictures? I brought the digital camera –"

"Too late for secrecy, now that we let that bloody idiot go. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." He bent down, peering into one of the desk drawers, then looked over the top of his glasses. "Darling?"

"Oh! Oh right, spying now," she said hastily, running to the files. It would never do to let him know she’d been distracted by his espionage-competence, even if it was awfully sexy.

The cabinet was unlocked – really, these people had no sense of security whatsoever. Top drawer was just bills, vendor information for drinks and snacks, all normal enough; she left that alone. In the second drawer were only two slim files, which she picked up. Cup of Xet, one said. Day of the Dead, read the other. "I think I found something good," she said–

"Pity you can’t use it, Mrs Beresford," said a basso profundo voice from the door. "Is that your real name, by the way?"

So much for the demon distraction, she thought, fighting off a wave of nausea.

Rupert took a few steps back toward her. "Ah, Pennith. Is that your name, by the way...."

"Why, yes." The man, demon, whatever, walked into the office, his hands fisted by his sides. He looked just as he had at Cassa Dreams’, except the veneer of civility had peeled away, leaving behind green sparks and bitter almond. "What are you two hoping to find, here where you don’t belong?"

"Just looking, old son," Rupert said. "Just–"

He kicked the desk chair toward Pennith, getting him in the knees, then leapt forward and grabbed two of the lit candles from the desk. Touching flame to wood, he muttered something she couldn’t hear. The desk went up like a bomb, exploding fire, a smoke of blood and decay and bad magick.

His body pinned her to the wall, heavy and protective. "Drop," he whispered in her ear, then pulled her down with him. Because he’d prepared her, she went easily.

"Beresfords!" Pennith’s voice began to mutter incantations, the same ones she’d heard at Cassa Dreams’s office that night. The boium tree, the potion –

No time to think. They crawled under the rain of blood-fire: fibres digging at her hands and knees, smoke digging at her lungs, and Rupert beside her, still holding the second lit candle. The music was still playing in the club close by, she could feel the bass in her bones. No time to think.

She could see the door, the light beyond, and she moved faster. He kept up with her, even as the candlewax started to drip, hissing on carpet and skin –

Hissing from above, Pennith struck at Rupert. She could feel the kick in her own ribs, a shockwave of pain from his.

Despite that, Rupert rolled, not away from Pennith but toward him, touching flame to trouser-leg, muttering the spell he’d used. The line of fire circled Pennith’s body, green into black into green again, hissing and hissing.

The sorcerer screamed, high and painful, as he collapsed. Writhing, he got one hand up – oh God, she couldn’t see, looked like a knife smeared with something -- and grabbed onto Rupert’s arm. The wounded one. "Loss," Pennith said, as he cut at his bicep.

Rupert fell hard. He didn’t get up.

No time to think: she grabbed him under his arms, pulling his heavy body out toward the corridor. Behind them Pennith reached out again, fingers clawing at the carpet –

But they were out. After she let Rupert fall, she went back to the office door and slammed it shut. Let the bastard Pennith burn.

Then she fell to her knees beside her man, lifted him as best she could. He was unconscious, barely breathing. "Rupert," she said, brushing her lips over his. It had worked before, it had worked before....

This time he didn’t wake.

With shaking fingers, she found her mobile, sent a text message: Help. Rupert down. Another number, same message. One more number to a distant unit: Come now. Urgent.

Then, between screams and bass on one side and fire-hisses on the other, she rocked him close, her hand with the ring wrapped in his shirt, holding her to him. "Hang on for me, honey. Going to get us out of here. Everything’s going to be all right," she whispered, over and over.

The tears didn’t start until Dawn touched her shoulder.

***

He dreamed of oceans on fire, of strange creatures dragging at his feet, trying to take him under. He could feel the claws tear at him, then smother the wounds with sea-mud from holes in the ocean floor. In his pockets were two halves of a broken gold cup, filled with stones he couldn’t see.

Even in his dream, his arm burned.

He would have sunk through the bottom and never come up if it hadn’t been for her. Her hand was pulling at him, she was calling him sweet names and harsh names in a voice like a bell. He hung on to hear the chimes, swimming up and up and up, the ache drifting away on the current–

When Giles opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. Cool, dim room; machines, humming and beeping, although he didn’t seem to be connected to them; hospital smells. Hospital. Right.

He blinked. Anya was sitting in what looked to be a very uncomfortable chair next to his bed. A book was open on her lap, but she wasn’t reading; she gazed at the wall, at nothing. A trick of the light made her look old, tension-lines pulling at her eyes and mouth, body sagging. He didn’t know when he was – he was eighty, maybe, in hospital again, and his beautiful, aging wife waited for him to wake up. For the first time, the idea made him smile. "Darling?" he said, the word scraping against his throat.

The book slipped to the floor. "Rupert?" Then her youthful smile lit up the dimness. "Honey, are you really awake?"

"Yes. I’m fine." He reached out to her, caught her hand, which she clutched as if she were the one in danger of drowning. "I am, aren’t I."

"Yes, you are. Now." Even as her face crumpled, as tears rushed to the surface, she said, "No, I’m not going to do this; the books say I’m supposed to be calm and Britishly composed when you recover." She sniffed hard. "Okay. You’re fine. We got you out of there, and here to hospital where all night the doctors kept telling me you were in a coma like Wesley’s dad, but then a couple of hours ago Margaret and Gillian arrived to chant and apply herbs and fix your various mystical hurts, including the one from Griffin. Now here you are, completely fixed–"

On a sob, she fell forward onto his shoulder, still holding his hand. He interlaced their fingers, feeling a odd pang at the touch of gold. "I told you we should have stayed at home, but no, you had to go be a spy. Had to almost break my heart and leave me, I should have been the one having damn nightmares...." she wept into his hospital gown.

He got his bandaged arm around her, lifted her up onto the bed with him. "Dearest, I’m so sorry."

"You should be. If you weren’t still hurt, I’d hit you very hard for scaring me. And in case you don’t know, I hate hospitals."

"I do know. I’m sorry." He managed to kiss her, taking away some of her tears, swallowing some of his own. "How did you get me out?"

"Dawn and Andrew first, and then Zoe and Danny showed up. You’re very heavy when you’re in a bad-magick coma, do you know that? Anyway, Andrew summoned another round of pesky but not terribly dangerous demons to keep the Frontier security staff busy, and then we got an ambulance." She kissed him again. "Dawn stayed with me all night, but now she and Zoe are going through the files we stole. Some good leads, we think."

"Pennith?"

"Gone." Letting go, she dragged her palms across her eyes and then sat up, still in the circle of his good arm. "He wasn’t in the office when Danny and Zoe went to see – ‘the Mystery of the Locked Room!’ Zoe said– and shortly after the building was evacuated, the whole place blew up. It’s still too hot to look for the door to the tunnel."

"The things one misses when one’s unconscious." He managed a smile, only to wince when she did slap his shoulder. "Anya!"

"Your devil-may-care spy attitude doesn’t fly with me, mister. I want to see sincere remorse for the night you’ve just put me through." But her hand on his was gentle. "You can start when we get home."

"Which will be?" He pulled her closer.

"Tonight, they said. The doctors have to look at you again and say ‘it’s a miracle’ and then there’s paperwork." One more sweet kiss, even a tease of tongue, before she got off the bed. "I should go find Margaret to look you over first, though."

He flexed his hand, the one that had been holding hers; strangely, it was as if he could still feel the pressure, could feel the moment of waking up. "All right. But, er, where’s Andrew?"

"Outside; he refused to leave. Why?"

"I’d like a couple of moments with him before Margaret comes in, if it’s possible."

She examined him closely. "Perhaps you’ve had a previously undetected head injury, if you’re actually asking for him–"

"Please, darling. Then come straight back to me." He managed another smile.

She smiled back. "That, Rupert, you don’t even have to ask."

When the door shut behind her, he looked at his hand, let himself feel. His fears seemed to have dissolved, washed away in the same current that had taken most of his pain, and he knew what he should do at last–

"Giles! Oh Giles!" Andrew charged through the door, seemingly intent on hurling himself at the bed.

"Don’t hug me, Andrew," he said quickly. When the boy stopped, hurt, he added, "Still a bit sore, I’m afraid. Er, I understand you did sterling work last night."

"Oh, thank you. Yes, Dawn and I managed well enough," he said. "Junior Watchers, you know."

"Yes. Yes, er, very well done, thank you. Um, I was wondering if you could take on another job for me? A secret from Anya."

***

There were two beds in the hidden room now, revealed by the light from the black candles.

In the second bed lay a burned man, twitching in his uneasy sleep. Beside him, the small woman was once again sewing, needle and thread sliding through a piece of silk. She wept as she worked, tears mingling with the black of the sigil.

Behind her, the door opened. "My lady Yeangelt?" a voice asked. "May I bring you something to eat, or to drink?"

"No food, no drink. But bring me news of those Beresfords. The ones who hurt Pennith." She didn’t look up from her sewing.

"The Beresfords–?"

"Older man, younger woman. Human. Pennith, rest him, had told me that the man stunk of Watcher." At that, she did look up. "Do you know of any such people?"

"No, my lady. Have they – have they ruined your great plans?"

She began to rock back and forth as the needle went through the silk: back, forward, back, forward, the material hissing in her hands. "No. I can revive him in time, have him and Griffin join me on the Day of the Dead. The Terminal shall be opened, despite these setbacks." When she knotted off the thread, Pennith cried out; she rested her hand on his, murmuring soothing nothings. Looking at him, not the door, she said, "But I do need the Cup of Xet, lost for so long. And I want those Beresfords dead, even before the opening kills them and the rest of the humans in this benighted valley."

"Of course," the voice said. "It shall be as you say. I shall listen and watch for them as part of my tribute." And he shut the door, leaving her to her sewing and her grief.

Indigo dreadlocks swaying, Nalph turned and hopped back down the tunnel toward the Magic Emporium’s private area. It was quiet in the afternoons, inside and out. Not yet opening time.

He went to his office, closing the door so he could be alone, so he could think. Beresfords, the lady Yeangelt said.... older man, younger woman, the man stinking of Watcher....

Opening his desk drawer, he took out the Giles and Jenkins business card he’d removed from the bulletin board the day before, after she who had been Anyanka and the little scrambling human had left. Flicking a claw against the linen edge, he considered for a minute.

Then, in a quick movement, he thrust the card into the flame of his lantern. Within seconds, the words and paper had crumpled to nothingness.

That should buy time, he thought. Time was such a useful commodity.

***

"Stop fussing, Anya. I can get out of the cab by myself," Rupert said. Fussily.

As he crawled out of the taxi into the evening, she followed, her fingers tightening on his. "Shut up. If I want to hold onto you, I can."

He was acting very strange and nervous, almost as if he knew – but he couldn’t know. That stupid man didn’t know what nerves were. Forcing herself to breathe, she led him through the open front gate and into their house.

A quick glance around showed that Dawn had lit the candles just as requested, and the French doors to the back were open, also as requested. That boded well for the rest of her requests.

"Oh, darling, the back door’s open. Should we see if there’s anything amiss?"

One hurdle down: she’d wondered how she could maneuver him out there. "Yes, honey, that’s a great idea." But as they strolled through their twilit hall, she did have to check – "So, how’re you doing? Feeling good, feeling strong?"

"For the tenth bloody time, I’m fine. Stop treating me like an invalid, please."

"Well, spending the night by your unconscious manly form tends to make a woman think you’re the next thing to an invalid," she snapped. Then she inhaled hard, this time breathing their own magicks and her own garden through the open doors. Calming. Good.

Even better was his hand lifting to cradle her face. "I’m sorry. I, I just don’t want to be coddled at the moment."

"It’s not easy, but I’ll try," she said, turning her head to kiss his palm.

"Right. Shall we go outside?" He smiled at her. "It’s a lovely night."

It was a lovely evening, its warmth concentrating all the scents of her flowers and herbs. As she’d arranged with Dawn, there was the table on the patio, draped with a cloth and centred by a vase of her own roses, with two chairs beside it and the lanterns she’d chosen. But – she stopped at the threshold – she hadn’t asked for the champagne cooler or the two champagne flutes. She hadn’t asked for her favourite Motown compilation, the one Rupert hated, to be playing on Andrew’s portable stereo.

He also stared at the table, muttering, "I don’t remember asking for flowers, should have done." Then he sent her a sidelong glance.

"Rupert, did you arrange a little surprise for me?" she said.

"Did you arrange a little surprise for me?" he countered.

Yes, but she’d planned on leading up to it more, with some casual conversation, some nibbly things from the Almeida Brasserie, and maybe some fizzy water, which reminded her – "Excuse me, how can you have champagne so soon after mortal illness?"

"Wasn’t a mortal illness, for fuck’s sake. And I checked with Margaret."

"Okay, okay, you don’t have to snap." She swallowed hard. "But yes, I need to...I want to...honey, would you open the champagne for us?"

"Er, right." After he ran his hand through her hair in the way she liked best, he started on the bottle. As he worked: "Go on. What’s on your mind, darling?"

She went to the nearest chair, where, as arranged, the little box she’d sent Dawn to buy that afternoon rested. Her hands were shaking, which she told herself was ridiculous. She was just asking for what she wanted, that was all. He always said– "Rupert, you know how you always say that you want me to have what I want?"

"Yes. And I do." After working the metal cap off, he fished out his handkerchief to get out the cork. "Is there, er, something specific you want?"

"Yes." She watched him pop the cork with a gentle hiss. He sent her a quick smile, then poured the champagne rather professionally into the flutes. She had no idea he even liked champagne, she’d have arranged it if she had. Taking the glass he offered her, she said, "Um, while I was waiting for you to wake up, I finished The Fashion in Shrouds."

"You want another Allingham novel?" He sipped at the drink.

"No, I– well, yes, I enjoyed her work, but that’s not the point. At the end of the book, when Albert is hurt and then rescued, he and Amanda have a discussion about their fake engagement."

"I vaguely remember that." Setting his glass down on the table, he stepped closer to her. His eyes were clear now, the dark circles gone; silver and sex in the twilight, he looked like her man again. Always.

It gave her confidence to continue, to go for what she wanted. "Okay. Well, they decide that they’ll just go ahead and make the pretend thing real, which seemed like an excellent idea. If we made the pretend ring you gave me mean something real, you see."

His hand closed over hers, the one with the ring. Before she dropped anything, she put her own glass down, then let him pull her hard against him. "Anya, are you asking me to marry you?" he said, in his softest, most Rupert voice, which she could barely hear over the music.

"Yes. And I sent Dawn to buy you a ring to match mine, even though you’ve been so cranky about the style and everyth–" Then she couldn’t talk, because she’d been lifted onto her toes, because he was kissing her, all champagne and heat and love. All her fears drifted away.

Too soon he set her away from him, his big hands on her bare shoulders. "The answer is yes, in case you had any doubts," he said, flashing one of those grins she’d never seen until they were in love. Oh she loved him, and she’d forgotten to say it, damn it – but he was talking again. "Still, trust you to bollocks up my plans."

"What?"

"I wait forty-nine years to propose to the woman I love, and you beat me to it. Isn’t that just like you." One more kiss, a swoop in and out, before he got an envelope out of his jacket pocket. "Here. I sent Andrew out this afternoon for these."

"But you haven’t opened my box yet."

"Darling, just open the envelope." He smiled, a little nervously.

Her hands were shaking again, but she managed to rip into it. And she stared. Inside were two tickets for the monster-truck exhibition at Earls Court on Friday, and – a ring. An engagement ring. A big, honking diamond engagement ring, the sight of which did nothing to stop her trembles. "Oh, Rupert!"

"I’ve said I’ll marry you, but just to be sure – I love you more than anything, dearest. Will you marry me?" Another smile, less nervous. "If we apply for the licence tomorrow, we can be married in fifteen days."

"Honey, yes! I love you, which I forgot to say before, and yes and yes and yes!"

This called for celebration. Even as he reached for her, she pushed him down into the other chair and climbed into his lap. He settled her more comfortably, her dress raking up around her hips as her legs fell open around his waist, his arms banding around her back. Then she kissed him, mouth tasting, tongue dipping in to enjoy and play what was hers.

He started a gentle rocking motion where her most sensitive spot met his hardening cock under his clothes – he had the most amazing recovery time from mystical comas – and she moaned at the pleasure. God, he just fit, and he wasn’t even inside yet. Except he was inside where it counted, always hers, and she always his.

Still: "Are you sure you can celebrate our betrothal this way?"

"You inspire me. And I checked about this too." He lifted himself just a little, circled his hips against her, and she shivered, melting more. Going to be a hell of a dry-cleaning bill for those trousers, she thought dizzily. "But there’s something we should do before this goes any further."

"Actually put on the rings, you mean?"

When he kissed her again, she lost the thread of her thoughts. Laughing, he said, "All right, two things."

***

From his vantage point at the attic window, Andrew lowered his binoculars, then gave a thumbs-up to Dawn. "We have engagement!"

Wriggling happily, she said into the phone, "Willow, we have engagement! It’s so great!"

He looked back outside. "And now we have porn, right there in the back yard. Boy, we don’t even need cable."

"You are so gross, Andrew," she said, pulling him back from the window–

Just as Anya’s voice yelled, "Okay, you two! I’ve left pub-money on the kitchen table; Jo’s working at the Duke of Nowhere tonight."

"Don’t come back until closing time!" Giles shouted. "And, both of you, thanks."

Dawn grinned, falling against Andrew’s back and holding on. "So very cool, Willow," she said once more. "We have engagement!"

***

In the Cleveland apartment she shared, Willow couldn’t help a grin of her own and a happy, loud, "Oh wow, I’m stunned. And pleased, and stunned, and did I say stunned? Engagement!"–

Just as the front door opened hours before schedule, and her roommates, back from the airport, walked in. "‘Engagement?’" Xander said as he put down Buffy’s bag. "Who got engaged?"