Footsteps and laughter from above echoed down the once hidden stairs and filled the study. By now Giles could identify the light tread and occasional shriek from Dawn, the thuds that meant Andrew. Tonight, however, he could hear one more set of steps; Xander must have arrived to collect Andrew for their business trip. The young Council representatives would be making their first official visit to Leticia Maxwell, the retired Watcher pressed back into service to watch over the new Slayer in Birmingham.

Giles wished they'd bloody well be quiet – his poor Anya had retreated to bed to nurse the cold she'd somehow picked up in Devon, and he didn't want her disturbed. But unless they got too loud to ignore, he'd let them enjoy themselves, while he turned his attention to work.

He placed a slim volume on the book rest in front of him. Although Cousin Martin had never cared much for his home, he had cared for his treasures, and this book, which had rested next to the broken Cup, had been as great a find as the "cursed gold" of the magick vessel. Its leaves were brittle now, the inked words blurring with age, but the signs were still there.

This was the journal of Watcher Henry Giles, who, according to what few records were left, had served from 1659 until his mysterious death in 1666; the volume which Martin had stolen from the Council archives was the account for 1665.

Giles had spent the two days since his honeymoon studying the text. Henry and his Slayer Judith had a quiet year, until the plague had begun to eat its way through the London population. Taking the best advice at the time, he and Judith had escaped west to Devon and the haven of Tor House, where they had been quartered at a nearby farm cottage – Henry was the first of the family to stay at Swallow's Nest, it seemed. Yet as the season had turned, Judith had begun to dream: as Henry had put it, Our sojourn in Devon shewed the dangers attendant on a Slayer's absence from the city; Judith's dreams, and those of the coven's seer Margery, told of a great danger coming, of travellers and darkness and cold that would cause more darkness than the evil which had sent us fleeing.

A tattered blue ribbon marked the most important passage in the volume, the one Giles had been struggling to relate to his current knowledge. Opening the volume, he adjusted his glasses and began to reread.

25 October 1665

Today Judith and I returned to London. We were almost too late to prevent disaster, but God stayed His hand one last time, and a great gift fell into our possession.

But I must fix the events in good order, lest I forget some detail of import. Upon my earnest entreaties – for even a Slayer is susceptible to the forces of illness – we took a boat at Richmond, so that we might enter London by water. The gates of the city are open once more, now that there are so few of the sick left to keep within, but I felt the air of the Thames would be more healthful for me and my charge. This was an error, I soon realised, as we passed the floating corpses of several plague-ridden souls who'd taken refuge in the river, and Judith was most grieved. It is an oddity of nature that she is so womanish in some things, while a mighty warrior in others. I comforted her as best I could with false words.

Giles looked at the passage again, hearing Buffy's voice in his memory: 'Is it ever going to be easy?....Lie to me.' He had done, of course. More than once.

In a habit he'd almost abandoned, he pulled out his handkerchief and polished his glasses before returning to the text.

We landed at the stairs near the Temple; once a busy point, now full of ghosts. Judith continued distressed, but her mood had grown strange. Her sword, which she was to keep hidden in her cloak according to my instructions, was to be seen too often catching rays of the moon; she would stop and stare at the beams, then send them spinning back to heaven. We passed two crazed sufferers raving in the streets; they too raised their hands to the moon, crying out to the Lord to cleanse them of pain. Faded red crosses marked almost every door in one of the lanes – death had come to the inhabitants much earlier, but the signs, and the stench, yet remained.

Two vampires just past St, Mary-le-Strand; they lean and hungry, for their victims had all died, and Judith staked them with little ceremony. We had not far to go now. Hurrying our steps, we made our way toward St.Giles-in-the-Fields, until Judith insisted that we take a passageway she had seen in her dreams in Devon . It would hold our answers, she said, in a tone that seemed far from sense yet too strong to be denied. Though I misdoubted the wisdom of our action, we went in, I clutching a magick gifted to me by the coven after some discussion of the prophetic dreams.

The passage, which I never had seen until this night, ran between two houses; yet with stone walls, and a gate that cried out when we opened it. Judith led into the narrow way, the very stones seeming to breathe cold and evil. She held her sword aloft, catching what little moonlight she could; it was our light and our guide.

After we had passed I know not how far, we came to a small, enclosed circle – too dead for growing things, too hard for humans. Judith spoke little, instructing me to wait and then crouching down in the dark in a hunting posture. It was as if she had transformed into the primal force my fellow Council members only whisper of. Then, without warning, she lifted her sword to the sky and said it was coming.

Here my memory becomes cloudy. I know – if I can know anything– that the firmament ripped open with a scream, with a smell of bitter almonds and hell, with a cold, cold wind. From some demon world fell two figures, made like man and woman. They hissed when they touched the earth, and a golden cup rattled against the stone.

Giles set the book aside for a moment, so that he could check the notes on his legal pad. His own vision in Devon had shown him the sky ripping apart when the two halves of the Cup came together, but he couldn't forget words written in blood against the torn sky: 'Bring them together, then tear them apart.' He stared at the words until they too blurred, black ink on the yellow paper like black ink swirling on a mirror, before going back to the journal.

The woman, a small, bent thing, stood, and peered into the passageway. I set down her words just as she spake them, for the accuracy of my report may help others. "Are you here to open the gate for the Lady of the Xet?" she asked, in the voice of one who had swallowed stones, harsh and cold. The frost touched my bones. "This is not usual practice in the worlds we visit or the worlds we take. When we came before, your people were not so mannerly."

The man's tongue darted like a serpent's. In the glow from Judith's sword it appeared to be forked, a demon indeed, and his speech offered a clew to his demon-kind's purpose. "Or perhaps you wish your spirit to be eaten first? Show yourself for judgment."

Judith bravely stepped into the circle, sword at the ready, and instructed them to leave the earth or be slain.

The travellers of the Xet went where they pleased and left when they pleased, with what they pleased, the man told us, again with a hiss. He stepped forth, his foot touching the vessel, and he raised his hands to the sky, saying he could feel the strength we should give us–

But my eyes went to the woman, nay, female demon, who like a rare sempstress began to sew patterns in the darkness. With her motion a thread, silk but stronger, tightened around my neck, in a dark magick I'd never known. There was no time to ponder my choices – I rolled out of the passageway and caught at the vessel. The man-demon falling toward, I received a wounding kick in my gut, but the gold fit neatly into my hand. Then he bent down, his claws engaging around my wrist. I was tied, throat and arm, and I could feel myself being snapped in two.

Judith leapt. With one slice of the blade she cut through the magick thread, and I could breathe again. She called out to me to do the spell and then do as she had foreseen. When I spoke the words, the demons faltered. The claws still fast in my arm, however, I was hard-put to scatter the magick over the gold. But I so did, and then I threw the cup into the air.

The female demon screamed and reached out, but Judith was before her. With a second slice of the blade, the cup was rent in twain – through magick or prophecy, we know not– and as gold broke, the tear in the heavens healed.

The demons caught at each other, crying one to the other, We must go home, we must go home. But whatever magick they had could not open the sky again. When the male demon offered to charge Judith, the female prevented him, saying, "Not now. We shall remember, my Pennith. And when time comes we shall let all those who wish go home." Then in a flash they were not there, leaving only Judith and me to look at each other and marvel–

Another thud from above rattled the pictures on the study wall, and Giles could hear coughing start up in the master bedroom. Shutting the journal and replacing it in the protective sleeve, he muttered, "Damn it, now they've done it."

After hurrying down the hall, he stuck his head into their bedroom to check on Anya. The lamps were off and she hadn't even lit the candles, but there was enough light from the hall that he could see her huddled under the duvet, shivering in the middle of their bed. "Sorry about the noise. Do you need anything?" he said quietly.

Her voice was thick, lacking its usual brightness. "I need not to feel like a demon is stuffing things in my nasal cavities and pounding on my every joint. But since I don't actually expect you to work a miracle of healing, could you make me some of my tea?"

"Of course – with extra lemon and honey, I think? Let me turn on the lamp for you first–"

"No. My eyes hurt, I want it dark." She trailed off into a series of coughs. The poor darling sounded absolutely miserable.

Above them came another irregular sequence of thuds. "Right, I'll just tell that lot to shut up, then I'll get your tea. Just try to stay comfortable, dearest."

"Ha," she said in a small, pathetic voice, and then blew her nose.

When he went up the stairs toward the junior Watchers' quarters, he could hear their television going – dogs barking, odd – and Andrew's muffled "No, but should I pack stakes? How many? In my tote bag or in my suitcase?"

Giles knocked perfunctorily before opening their door. "Would you all please be quiet? Anya's feeling horrible, she doesn't need the bother."

"Sorry, Giles." Dawn, curled on the sofa besides Xander, looked up, while Andrew addressed himself to his packing. "You guys need any help or anything?"

"She all right?" Xander added, hand going nervously to his eyepatch. Giles didn't know what the boy was uneasy about – of course they'd hardly spoken beyond civil nothings and Cup of Xet business since Devon. When he and Anya got back, Willow had said something about not intruding and growing up and Council business, or.... it hadn't been clear, really, but the two Scoobies had moved into a short-term rental flat near Marble Arch as a 'Watcher retreat' or some such bloody thing, before Willow had headed off to the coven.

But he had other priorities at the moment. "Just a cold. But she needs to rest, and I'd like a little consideration for her." When Dawn nodded, then wiped her nose with a tissue, he said, "Dear Lord, are you coming down with it too?"

"Nuh-uh. We're just watching a very sad documentary –you know, about abused dogs, and the Battersea Dogs' Home and adoption?" she said. Then, brightening: "Giles, do you think–"

"No! Absolutely not. And, Andrew, may I ask why you have my ceremonial dagger of Burroth in your luggage?"

The boy looked sheepish. "Well, I didn't want to touch it, but there were rumours that the Burroth demon-clan were congregating outside Stourbridge, and we Watchers might have to check it out–"

"But you didn't ask, and that piece hasn't been properly consecrated anyway. Leave it, please." Giles made himself smile. "I'm going to brew Anya some tea, so I'll say goodbye now. Short, safe trip to you both – Andrew, if you'd check in every now and again, it'd be helpful."

"Of course, Giles. I wouldn't dream of shirking my Investigations and Acquisitions responsibilities, especially with the Yeangelt menace drawing ever closer," Andrew said.

"Er, yes, that's fine. And Dawn, don't stay up too late." After one more smile all around, he headed down the stairs.

He was almost to the ground floor before he heard footsteps and Xander's voice. "Hey, Giles, wait up."

"Xander." A bit curt, perhaps, but he didn't know what else to say, or what not to say.

"Yeah. 's just me." Once to the entryway, Xander stopped. Looking away, he put his hand on the bannister, his hand smoothing along the wood. "Andrew's about finished packing, we've got to catch the Tube and then make the last train. Thought I'd come down ahead of him."

'Of course. Do you, er, need me to drive you to Euston Station? After I make Anya's tea, of course."

"Oh. No thanks, we'll do the Tube thing." He smacked the bannister; which resounded with a solid thunk. "This is nice, by the way – the oak? Your house is well-built. Good bones, you know, even if you have some weird doors to nowhere, and the attic could still use some work. I didn't get to finish the repairs, what with discovering magick artifacts and things of the spooky."

"I appreciate that, and what you did do. You know your job, Xander. Your many jobs."

"So do you." Sticking his hands in his pockets, he smiled. "It's a real home, Giles. You and Anya – you've made it nice, I liked staying here. I, um, I just wanted to say that."

Biting back a caustic comment about two missing bottles of premier cru, Giles said, "You're welcome to stay with us any time, you or any of the Scoobies."

"And wouldn't you be horrified if we took you up on it." The Xander-grin spread, but then disappeared as if it had never been. "We'd have to find Buffy first, anyway. Get her home too."

When time comes we shall let all who wish go home.... Shaking off his memory of Henry Giles's report, he said, "That would be nice." But don't hold your breath, he added silently. "You're invited, nevertheless. And I expect we'll see you when you return from your trip."

"Well, cool. Great." Shoving his hands even further in his pockets, Xander rocked back on his heels. "Yeah, so I wonder what's taking Andrew."

"It could be anything. It's Andrew," Giles said dryly.

At which point more thunder could be heard coming down the stairs, accompanied by the crash of a suitcase against the steps. When Andrew came into view and saw them glaring up at him, he softened his steps to an exaggerated hush. "I'm sorry," he said in a loud whisper. "But I'm ready to go!"

"May God have mercy upon me," Xander muttered.

Andrew jumped the last step and clutched at Giles for balance. "Sorry, sorry. Um, Giles, can I ask a favour?"

"I suppose," he said, already reaching for his wallet.

"No, not that. I have a Council credit card! Or Xander does. Anyway –" He took a deep breath. "If, I mean, when Nalph contacts you about the Nri-encrusted vessel and the plots against the state and everything, well, um....be careful. And then call me and let me know that Dawn and I didn't totally screw up everything? Please?"

Andrew, evincing a modicum of responsibility – Giles had to smile. "I certainly will. Your wounds of honour are looking better, by the way. They'll impress Leticia, mark my words."

While Andrew blushed, Xander shot Giles a sceptical look. "Right, whatever. We gotta go, young Padawan – see you, Giles, and tell Anya to feel better."

After seeing the two out the front door, rescuing the entryway table from a wild swing from Andrew's suitcase in the process, Giles locked up, set the house wards, and then went into the kitchen. As he put the kettle on and got the tea things out, his wedding ring kept flashing in the lamplight, reflected gold on the ceiling. Made him think of spinning watches and broken golden cups, even as he measured out the leaves and watched the water twisting into tea.

Anya was hidden under the duvet when he carried the two mugs into their bedroom. He didn't hear any coughing or undue wheezing, though. Perhaps she'd managed to fall asleep. He hated to disturb her, but he wanted to make sure she didn't need anything; he could stay for just a moment before returning to another hour or so of work. The hallway light was enough to see by.

After stowing her mug on his bedside table, he pulled one of the armchairs close, then put his socked feet up on the bed. The tea –some lemon zest herbal whatsit she favoured – went down easily, hot and honey-sweet, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. Spinning watches, rips in the sky, blue demon claws coming at his face –

"Okay, do you not want to sleep with me any more because I'm ill?" This accusation was punctuated by a loud, hacking cough.

"What?" When he opened his eyes, Anya, hair wild from the covers and nose painfully red, was sitting up and staring at him. "Darling, I thought you were resting."

She dragged her hand through her mop of hair. "That was my point. You thought I was asleep, but there you are in a chair like you don't want to touch horrible sick me, although I think you've probably been already exposed to any contagion –"

"I'm sure I have been. Just thinking you wouldn't want me to disturb you, that's all. And, er, I brought your tea." Carefully he gave her the mug, then in the dimness watched her take a drink and make a face. "What's wrong?"

"It doesn't taste right. How much did you use?"

"Four teaspoons for the pot. Brewed four minutes. Three dashes of lemon per mug, two dollops of honey."

"Well, those are the correct measurements. But it still doesn't taste right." She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. "Not only do I feel awful, now my tastebuds don't function properly."

"Symptom of the cold, darling. Do you want me to leave you to rest? Or get you something from downstairs, perhaps--?"

"For God's sake, Rupert, I want you to stop asking me soothing questions! And I want you to get in bed with me!" She tossed the tissue into a wastebasket on her side and then coughed fretfully.

Suppressing a sigh, he said, "All right. Shall I light the candles, or will that hurt your eyes, and just pretend I didn't frame that as a question."

"Candles would be nice, thank you." While he performed their ritual, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she wriggled over to her side, put up her mug, and threw back the covers for him. He realised she was wearing his Oxford sweatshirt and a pair of his socks, which signs alone would have told him how terrible she felt.

The flames were small, still points of blue-white, but they illuminated the bed clearly. He crawled in and was immediately blanketed by her, with accompanying fistful of tissues. She said, "I'm sorry, honey, but I think I might be a bad patient. I'm not very good at being sick."

"I think that's a fair statement," he said, awkwardly pulling the duvet up around them.

A small wheeze, which he rather thought might have been feigned ."Okay, when I'm not dying of the plague, I'm going to punch you for that remark. A good husband would say I'm perfectly justified in behaving like this."

"You know you're supposed to give me the bloody script beforehand. Anya, my dearest, you're perfectly justified in behaving like this." He dropped a kiss on her forehead; felt like she had a little fever, he'd get her some aspirin in a minute. But because he couldn't help himself: "Still, you're not dying of the plague, and as I've been reading Henry Giles's journal about the reality in 1665, I wish you wouldn't use that expression."

"Rupert, are you daring to mention work on my sickbed? And after the candles are lit?"

"Oh, so it's 'your sickbed' now, is it? Very proprietary. Shall I leave?"

Vengeance was reflected in her slightly swollen eyes. "Honey, you're sleeping with me even if I keep you awake by coughing all night, which I damn well hope I do. And right now I want you to read to me, because I can't focus or breathe right and I feel bad and you're pissing me off."

In sickness and in health, he told himself, in sickness and in health...although they hadn't actually used that phrase in their marriage vows. "Fine. What would you like me to read to you?"

" Postern of Fate . It's on my table." She snuggled closer.

"One of the Tommy and Tuppence books? You've read it already, haven't you?" When she slid one hand up into his hair, he added, "But it's a delightful choice. Hang on." With a painful stretch he managed to grab it and pull it in. After a grumbling rearrangement of their positions, he opened the paperback. The print was only just visible in the candlelight. "Where should I start?"

"From the very beginning. The epigraph."

"No one starts at the epigraph, Anya –"

"It not only sets the tone but also gives possible clues to the narrative, which I think Mr Research should know. Start at the epigraph, Rupert." Then she nuzzled against him so sweetly that he almost forgot he was annoyed.

"Right. Fine, darling. The epigraph, by Flecker." Managing somehow to adjust his glasses without disturbing her, he read: ' Four great gates has the city of Damascus... Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear..." His voice slowed as he began to take in the words. Henry Giles had mentioned gates; Yeangelt had said something...."' Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard That silence where the birds are dead, yet something pipeth like a bird?'"

Gates that cried out. The terminal, and rips in the sky. Land's death, a space too dead for growing things, that silence where the birds are dead....

"Honey, what's wrong?" Anya had raised herself up to stare at him.

"Just wait." After bracing her, he leaned over to blow out the candles. In the dimness and the traces of smoke left behind, he said, "Anya, I think I know what Yeangelt and Pennith want to do. And we're not going to be able to stop them alone."