"AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

Anya winced away from the screaming and didn't look especially pleased at the need to do so.

"Stop that," she demanded. "It's piercing."

"AAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

Xander was not stopping, and Anya's glare narrowed. "Mrs.-Breckenmeyer-in-23-C," she said, as though that were the woman's full and complete birth name, "will report us for excessive noise again if you don't stop."

"AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

"As if it was our fault the Rythnal demons attacked," she complained with an impudent toss of her head. "Or the Wanren beasts. Or the lost creatures of Ugpugbir." Anya folded her arms decisively. "This clearly is not a very safe neighborhood."

Xander's screams had continued throughout Anya's miniature tirade. In fact, he was still screaming.

"AAAAHHHHH!!"

Without warning, Anya's hand lashed out, and she slapped him with much gusto.

"AAHHH—" The scream died abruptly. "You hit me!"

"Yes," Anya readily agreed. "It's the preferred method for dealing with screaming hysterics."

"No, I mean, you hit me!" Xander rubbed his cheek painfully and blinked both of his eyes, multiple times. "Really hard," he added with a hint of accusation before getting back to the point. "But- But you hit me and I felt it."

While this seemed quite a revelation to Xander, Anya did not share in the discovery. "I should hope so."

"That would mean ..." Xander blinked again. "But Ahn, you're ..."

He gave up. Clearly there was only one possible conclusion that could be sanely reached.

"I must be dreaming."

"No, you're not," Anya immediately refuted. "I've seen you dream. You twitch more. And sometimes there's kicking."

But Xander had found something new that demanded complete and immediate attention. He squinted at Anya, craning his neck forward and back with a puzzled frown. Curiously, he brought a finger up to his whole, completely-there left eye. He stared at the finger for just a moment before touching the eye's surface. Immediately he recoiled, as might be expected from a person poking themselves in the eye. Anya watched this entire production, but her expression hadn't yet shifted into concern for his well-being.

"Ow," Xander muttered.

"What are you doing?" Confusion and irritation were in a life-or-death struggle for control over Anya's tone.

Xander rubbed at the self-inflicted injury with the back of his hand. "Checking my eye," he explained. "It's there."

Anya could only sigh. "I told you not to go drinking last night. Now you're all hung-over and strange." She glanced at her watch and, if possible, became even more impatient. "We have to open the shop in less than two hours."

"The shop," Xander repeated, trying desperately to follow along.

"Yes, the shop. Our shop. The one where I sell the things you make by cutting up trees that were chopped down in the prime of their lives. It's a very efficient partnership.”

Xander was still stuck on the first point. "We have a shop."

There was another sigh. "Yes, and we have a lot to do before we can open it today. Like getting out of bed, followed by bathing and dressing, breakfast ..."

Rather than expend precious brain power on a to-do list, Xander was looking at his room. His completely unfamiliar room. It was a bit larger than his usual place of rest and a partially open door to one side indicated a connecting bathroom. The mess and clutter were gone, and there were even plants. Green plants, not brown and dying ones at that.

Xander took all this in and audibly swallowed. "I ... I need a moment here."

"You were asleep for at least six hours, Xander Harris," Anya chastised. "That's already a lot of moments, how many more do you need?"

Again, Xander looked at Anya, but without squinting or screaming this time. She had settled on blonde again, at least for the moment, and her hair had been meticulously curled. She was wearing a simple but attractive dress, suitable for the business she was very keen to open. Xander double-checked. She was breathing. She was real, and she was standing right there.

"I'm not dreaming," Xander said with wonder as everything began to sink in.

"No, you're not. We covered that part already." Her expression was finally beginning to shift, as it became increasingly apparent that Xander wasn't simply being difficult. "How much did you drink last night?"

As Anya's concern grew, however, Xander's was rapidly dissipating and he began to smile. "Exactly the right amount."

"What?"

"Never mind." He reached out and, grabbing her by the hand, began to tug her toward the bed. "We're not going to the shop right now," he informed her.

"We have to," replied Anya, although she didn't pull away.

"Later."

"But there's money to be gotten," she insisted. "Money for rent. Money for food. Money for sniffing because it smells like money."

Xander's smile grew, as did his determination. "There'll always be money out there, but there'll never be another right now."

There was resistance – however token – but Xander would have none of it. As he flopped back against the pillows, he pulled Anya with him. She landed on top of him with a high-pitched little noise of surprise, but it quickly turned into something a bit different as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her. Whether it was the propositioning or the talk of money, Anya needed no further persuasion and she matched his kiss, passion for passion. After a few breathless moments, however, she broke away and looked down at him admonishingly.

"As co-owner, I object to this behavior. It's very unprofessional."

"So schedule a coaching session for later."

There could be no kissing while talking, and this was a travesty that Xander was quick to remedy. He pulled Anya toward him once more and picked up right where they'd left off.

A few seconds later, she pulled back again.

"God, you're sexy when you talk business."

And this time, she didn't need urging. Anya surrendered, and for a while, there was no more talking.

The door closed quietly, followed by the click of a light switch which dispelled the darkness of the bathroom. The sink area had only one faucet, but the counter was lengthened somewhat to accommodate a second person. Xander glanced around at the items surrounding him – typically bathroomy in nature, although mostly doubled. There were two towels, two toothbrushes, two different types of shampoo. All evidence pointed to two adults sharing one sink-and-shower space.

Xander turned his attention to the mirror. He was naked from the waist up – the only visible part – and he stared at himself. Himself stared back.

"Okay. Calm. Stay calm," he instructed firmly. "Calm is good. You've got two eyes. This is not a problem. You passed out last night and woke up to find your dead ex-girlfriend in the apartment you both apparently share. You just made love to her. This is definitely not a problem. Don't even think about problems."

Leaning forward, Xander started opening and closing one eye at a time, carefully examining each as if to ensure their authenticity. He continued to talk to himself, but his inspection did not cease.

"You're thinking about problems," he accused himself. "Fine. I see your problem and raise you a rational explanation." There was a thoughtful pause, during which first the left eye would close, then the right, and then the left again. "You've been abducted by demons who are trying to trick you into revealing some vital world-destroying information with magic hallucinations." There was more thinking. Left. Right. Left. "You're going crazy and none of this is actually happening." Right. Left. "Or—"

Abruptly the blinking ceased and Xander snapped his fingers.

"Sucked into a parallel universe. That has to be it. Okay, so what's good for parallel universes? Uh, uhm ..." Frantically, Xander searched his memory. "Avoid yourself at all costs, because you can't occupy the same space and— No, wait, that's time travel. Think, McFly!"

Indeed, Xander thought with all of his might, but his mind was on a racetrack, and try as he might, he couldn't catch up.

Another tact was clearly required. "Alright, let's stick to the basics," he coached. "You've seen enough 'Star Trek' to know that not only is there a goatee-wearing evil double of you out there, if anyone finds out you're not their Xander, then reality spirals into flaming death." Once again, he looked himself in the eye. "You don't want that, they don't want that, chances are good nobody wants that. So nobody can know. If we do this right, maybe we can ..." He shook his head, not finishing the sentence. "We play along. Agreed?"

From behind the door, Anya's slightly muffled voice could be heard. "What are you doing? Are you talking to yourself?"

Xander jumped at the sound and hurried to cover. "Yeah, uh, it's just a little Tony Robbins. You know, to help me get my day back on track."

"Well can't you do that in the shower? Incredible sex notwithstanding, we're running late."

"Yes, dear." Grouchily, he turned to mirror-him. "Correction: play along with everything and not sound like an idiot. That would be best." His voice became cool and soothing. "It's just a nice normal day. Open the store, sell a few things, and while you figure out what to do, you can build stuff."

Once he'd spoken the words, he couldn't help but dwell on them for a moment.

"Unless you've landed in some weird dimension where you can only cut things using marshmallows and they brush their teeth with acid."

Xander glanced nervously at the tube of toothpaste on the counter. With an almost frantic lunge, he grabbed it and wrestled off the cap, accidentally squeezing out a long stream in the process. Part of the toothpaste landed unceremoniously in the sink, while the remainder dangled perilously from the end of the tube.

It was at this moment that the door opened and Anya peered inside. Her expression had again returned to peevish curiosity. Xander turned to look at her, just as the dollop of toothpaste submitted to the superior forces of gravity and plopped into the sink.

"Random toothpaste check," Xander explained. "I feel confident that four out of five dentists would agree our teeth are safe."

If there was any spare mirth to share, Anya did not partake. Xander hastily screwed the cap back on the tube and gingerly set it to one side.

"And now I'm showering."

Anya disappeared behind the closing door, and Xander spared one final look at himself in the mirror.

"Good job not sounding like an idiot," he chastised. He began to walk away before jabbing a finger at his reflection, adding, "And stop talking to yourself in the second person."

Xander seemed content to sit next to Anya as she drove. His still-damp hair threatened occasionally to drip onto the collar of his olive green shirt, but Xander didn't seem to notice. He couldn't take his eyes off Anya and kept reaching out to touch her – caress her neck, rub her shoulder or gently squeeze her knee. Anya almost purred at the open display of affection.

"So, what's on the schedule?" asked Xander, attempting to fish for information as nonchalantly as possible.

"The same as usual," Anya told him with a smile. "First, we stop by headquarters to check in on Giles and Faith, see how things are going."

"Giles and Faith," nodded Xander. "So, we won't be seeing Buffy, then."

"Not there, no," Anya replied. "She's still on her—" Momentarily removing her hands from the wheel, she made air quotes "— 'vacation'. I'm sure if she came back, we'd have already heard about it."

"Right," conceded Xander with a frown.

"Then we need to double-time it over to the shop for a day of productive building and selling. With an emphasis on the selling," she added decisively before continuing in a casual fashion. "Did I mention that new speaker system I want for our TV? It's a KR-7000 with 7.1 Dolby surround sound."

Xander chuckled to hide his confusion. "I'd, uh, forgotten what a big fan of audio technology you are."

"Don't try to be cute, you're only marginally successful," said Anya. "I read in Consumer Reports that they work amazingly well, and they have a lot of numbers in their name, which is typically a good sign." She glanced sideways at Xander. "I think it's about time I was surrounded with my sound, don't you? Listening to only two speakers is antiquated. Besides," she said, nodding her head firmly, "they're impressive and fancy-looking and I want them. We work hard for our money, we should be able to splurge."

"I agree." He smoothed a few wayward strands of hair from Anya's forehead.

"Good." Anya brightened considerably. "Then we'll pick them up tomorrow."

Xander hand froze and he blinked. "What? No, I agree to the idea of splurging as a general, sort of fuzzy principle. I didn't say we should buy speakers."

"But you didn't say we shouldn't," Anya quickly countered.

"Okay then, maybe we shouldn't," Xander amended just as quickly.

Anya's jaw set stubbornly. "Well I say we definitely should. Add that to your 'maybe not' and we have 'probably should'." Anya shrugged dismissively. "Also, since I handle all of the finances, soliciting your support was only a token gesture, anyway."

"And they said the new math would never catch on," puffed Xander good-naturedly. "Is it just me being hung over, or am I not commanding much respect here?"

"If you'd prefer, I can just embezzle the money out of the shop," Anya told him in all seriousness. "As co-owner and accountant, it would be surprisingly simple."

Xander's expression indicated he knew he was fighting a losing battle and was beginning to wonder if it even mattered anyway. "Would that make you happy?" he asked.

"No," said Anya narrowing her eyes. "Because that's like stealing from myself, which no self-respecting criminal would do. I'd much rather have the money awarded to me as a bonus for exceptional sales performance." She favored Xander with a dazzling smile.

He accepted defeat with a good grace. In fact, he seemed to embrace it.

"Seconded," he declared. "All opposed, say nay."

Of course, there was no opposition and Anya's smile instantly transformed into one of absolute delight. Xander basked in its warmth and happily returned the gesture.

He glanced through the window as Anya pulled into a miniscule parking lot outside of what appeared to be a somewhat small warehouse, perhaps the size of a five or six bedroom home. Taking the key from the ignition, Anya removed her seatbelt and grabbed a white paper bag that had been sitting between her and Xander, She opened the door, but Xander didn't move. He continued to stare at the exterior of the building with much curiosity.

"Aren't you coming?"

Her question jolted Xander from his scrutiny. "Inside?" he queried, suddenly realizing this must be their destination. "Sure! I was just admiring the architecture. I think the early morning light really does justice to this neo-industrialist style."

A tiny furrow appeared on Anya's brow as she tossed him an odd look, but Xander swiftly exited the car, thereby avoiding any further explanation. With an expression of mild confusion, he followed Anya toward the heavy double doors.

The interior of the building did little to alleviate Xander's sense of uncertainty. This was certainly not a large structure. Indeed, when compared to the winding hallways and seemingly infinite potential of Slayer Central, it appeared almost lilliputian. The layout was functional but compact. Makeshift walls and movable dividers indicated the presence of half a dozen or so small rooms. There was an open area with equipment designating it as a place for working out and training, and an isolated section populated with books and other research materials. Further along the narrow corridor, a row of tiny individual rooms had been erected. Peeking through the open doors, Xander took note of the furnishings identifying the rooms as dormitories – simple bedframes and two-drawer dressers, along with a few randomly scattered personal items. Next to that hallway was a room somewhat larger than those he had just passed. However, the door to this room was closed.

As Anya strode confidently toward the end of the corridor, Xander straggled gingerly in her wake, his eyes registering surprise every step of the way.

"It's not so much a Slayer Central as an overstuffed closet," he murmured to himself, but it was loud enough for Anya to hear. As she regarded him over her shoulder, he hastened to clarify. "I know it must feel that way every time we come in here ... I just can't help but notice."

Anya nodded. "Giles is doing the best he can with what he has." She sighed. "I don't know what he'll do if that Slayer in Harrisburg joins. They've only got beds for twelve people, and that's with Faith staying off-site."

"Twelve people?" echoed Xander, visibly stunned.

"Well, sure, you can add in Buffy and that makes a total of fifteen, but you can't count her, of course."

Upon reaching the door, voices could be heard issuing from inside the room. They hadn't yet reached yelling proportions, but were unmistakably raised and it was obvious that tension was running high.

"Just in time," said Anya. She rapped and then listened. The heated discussion came to an abrupt halt and there was a moment of silence. Then, Giles' muffled command rang through the door.

"Come in."

Anya entered the room with Xander trailing nervously afterward. Sitting behind a desk littered with papers and stacks of research volumes was Giles. Apparently, this was his office – although it was rather spartan and in untypical disorder. Features drawn and haggard, the Watcher appeared older than his 50 years. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, at least a day's growth of stubble on his jaw and it was doubtful whether his disheveled hair had enjoyed the rake of a comb that morning. In front of the desk sat Faith, one leg dangling over the arm of the chair. Xander noted thankfully that she at least seemed unchanged, although she did seem to carry an odd note of restraint.

Simultaneously, Faith and Giles gave what could have been best construed as a sigh of mutual relief at the arrival of Anya and Xander. Anya closed the door before turning back to the ongoing meeting.

"About freaking time someone sane showed up," said Faith, waving a hand in Giles' direction. "One a'you two tell him that he's nuts."

"Giles, you're nuts," Anya dutifully complied. "And I'm saying that because Faith is a Slayer and could tear our arms off and beat us to death with them, and Xander's too proud to admit that." She then addressed Xander. "You can thank me for saving your pride later."

"And I don't even have to ask pretty please with a cherry on top?" queried Xander with a faltering grin.

"I will have you know that in spite of everything else, I am still in complete control of my mental faculties, not to mention in control of this facility," announced Giles. "The scheduling I've laid out is entirely rational."

Faith jabbed angrily at the paper she was holding. "You've got Marissa pulling doubles three days in a row," she protested vehemently. "She's too new, she can't handle it."

He peered at Faith over his glasses. "And you propose...?"

"Hazel's been here six months longer, and she's tough," Faith defended briskly.

"Hazel?" questioned Xander in puzzlement. "Hazel's—"

He consciously stopped himself from going any further. Anya and Giles treated him to a cursory glance apiece, but Faith's gaze was penetrating and expectant. Xander took a moment to collect his muddled thoughts.

"Hazel's a good choice, and apparently very lively," he finally concluded. "You could trust her."

With an approving nod, Faith refocused on Giles who apparently remained unconvinced.

"I always value your input," he told Xander with a weary sigh, "and I'm certain Hazel would appreciate your support, but this simply isn't an acceptable way of laying out our resources."

"They're not resources, Oxford," Faith reminded firmly. "They're girls. Girls who signed on to help us fight the good fight, or whatever the hell we're sellin' here." She swung her leg to the floor and leaned forward. "They all got strengths and weaknesses. You don't use that, you're gonna keep losin'—"

Abruptly leaping to his feet, Giles slammed both palms on the surface of his desk. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his blazing eyes fixed piercingly upon Faith. She didn't flinch.

"That's quite enough. Now, you listen to me—"

Anya took a fearless step further into the room. "Time out!"

Stunned into silence, both Faith and Giles turned to look at Anya who, to her credit, had managed to produce a dictatorial shout and authoritative expression despite the pervading atmosphere of chaos and unrest. After a moment of meeting her direct and stony stare, both grudgingly backed down, although they continued to glare at each other with animosity – much lessened, but still present nevertheless.

Obviously well-pleased with her achievement, Anya smiled amicably. "Now, when does this 'schedule' have to be finished by?" she asked in a business-like manner.

Giles irritatedly shuffled papers. "It's the revised patrolling schedules to account for recent ... changes in the team. It's quite important and must be finished by tomorrow afternoon."

Snatching the sheets from his fist, Anya deliberately placed them to one side. "Good. This isn't tomorrow afternoon yet. Finish it later."

"But the girls—" interrupted Faith.

"The girls will do what you tell them to," said Anya with conviction. "They respect you, in spite your criminal background." Faith didn't react to that, which was just as well because Anya didn't give her pause to. "Tell them you'll have the schedule tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, you need to unleash your bottled-up violence and then sleep before yet another of your triple shift patrols, which we all know good and well you'll be taking."

Given her narrowed eyes, Faith was obviously contemplating an argument. She looked to Giles for support, but he'd already conceded. Sensing she'd get nowhere, Faith inhaled deeply and bit her tongue.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," she acknowledged with a mutter. She looked to Giles again. "We finish this later."

At Giles' nod, Faith stood up and exited the room. Anya didn't wait for the door to close before tossing the white paper bag unceremoniously onto Giles' desk.

"As for you: breakfast," she stated. Giles opened his mouth to object, but Anya never afforded him the opportunity. "I know you haven't had anything since at least last night, if then."

Giles eyed the bag with some suspicion. "I don't have time for breakfast."

"You're going to make time," Anya informed him. Her tone brooked no debate. "These girls follow your orders and won't keep doing that when you shrivel up into a withered old shell of a man who can't remember what day it is."

"It's Thursday," returned Giles indignantly.

"It hasn't been Thursday for nearly ten hours now, but thank you for proving my point," said Anya curtly. Again, it appeared as though Giles might interject, and again Anya didn't give him the chance. "Also, you're going to make time because these are from La Patisserie on Twelfth and they're blueberry."

Giles pondered the proposition. "No lemon poppy seed?"

"No lemon poppy seed," Anya assured.

Giles had the good sense to know when he was beaten. "I'll admit that following an aborted attempt at dinner last night, I am a bit peckish," he told her, reaching for the bag. "Thank you, Anya." His tone was sincerely grateful.

"You should've sent one of the Slayers out for Chinese or something," said Xander. "Tell 'em they can keep the change if they get it back in under ten minutes and watch 'em book." He grinned.

"My position hasn't changed, Xander," Giles said with a sigh as he unwrapped one of the muffins. "We are not the Council. What little time our Slayers have left after combating the evil of three Hellmouths must be spent on training and studying, not on being my handmaids."

Xander's features registered surprise – just a little – at the revelation that the building in which he was now standing was not the Council. But he was gradually becoming accustomed to the unexpected and didn't say anything to contradict Giles' statement.

"There are two jumbos in there," said Anya, pleased as Giles began eating with obvious relish, "so it should last until lunch, but then you need to eat something else." She crossed her arms and gave him an appraising stare. "You also need to shower and shave. You look like you've been living in the middle ages. I was there. Trust me, this isn't a favorable comparison."

"Yes, well, thank you for that unabashed appraisal of my condition," Giles said dryly before taking another bite.

"We need to go open the shop now," Anya told him. " Promise me you're not going to go talking to Faith until you both have a few hours to take care of yourselves."

Giles pulled the crown of the muffin free and tilted his head to one side. "You know, you sound remarkably like my mother when you say that. Except quite a bit younger and blonde. And of course, she was never a demon." He pondered that for a moment. "At least not in theory ..."

"Promise me," insisted Anya severely.

Giles rolled his eyes. "I'm not a child, Anya."

But her austere expression didn't give one inch, so Giles did. "Oh, all right. I promise."

The terse mood evaporated immediately and Anya turned to Xander with a bright and beaming smile. "With this good deed bolstering our karma, I expect we should make lots of money today!"

Thrilled by the prospect, she left the office with a jaunty step. Xander trailed behind, his mind continuing to churn and process while his gaze lingered on the claustrophobic office.

With an expert hand, Anya navigated the car into the assigned parking space of a small strip mall located in downtown Trillium. The stores occupying this location were mostly nondescript in appearance and modest in decoration. Lacking undue fanfare, "The Wooden Nickel" meshed nicely with its surroundings. An unlit neon sign in the window awaited the opportunity to announce that the establishment was open for business.

On the stone steps leading to the front door sat Tara. She wore a full-length woolen coat, but seemed otherwise oblivious to the cold. As Anya and Xander approached, she scrambled to her feet.

"Tara. Hey," called Xander, obviously pleased to see her. "Glad you're here and looking relatively normal."

"Hey," nodded Tara, returning the greeting.

She flicked ash from the cigarette dangling between her fingers and then brought it to her lips, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs before expelling it in a long, trailing plume. Despite enforced schooling in maintaining a neutral expression recently, Xander couldn't help but register an open display of utter shock at the sight, but it went unnoticed.

"Opening late today, huh?" queried Tara.

"There was unexpected but very enjoyable morning sex," Anya replied.

A little embarrassed by the candor, Xander shuffled uncomfortably, but Tara took the news in stride and nodded. "Good for you."

"Then we had to go stop Giles and Faith from killing each other."

"And make a muffin run, apparently," added Xander.

Tara's response was blasé. "Business as usual?"

"Unfortunately," Anya acknowledged. "He skipped dinner again last night."

"I tried to have him over last week." Tara sighed. "Every time I ask, he makes up some reason why he can't come."

Anya was instantly sympathetic. "He's just ... Things are hard for him."

"I know." Tara's expression was one of regretful resignation. She took a long pull on the cigarette as Anya made a valiant attempt to lighten the oppressive mood with a change of topic.

"How are you?" she asked with a friendly smile.

Tara shrugged. "I'm alive."

"Always a good thing in my book," remarked Xander cheerily, trying to lend a shoulder to the mood-boost.

Tara observed him from the corner of her eye for a moment, but her expression didn't change. "There's always the alternative," she said.

"Exactly," stated Xander emphatically. "Think positive."

Whatever reaction he might have been expecting from the statement, he certainly didn't receive it. Instead, he was treated to a mild mixture of confusion and glowering. His brow furrowed, but Tara didn't linger on him long.

"The thing with Giles," Anya persisted, "it's nothing personal. You know that, right?"

Tara turned to blow the smoke away from the others. "He won't see me," she replied in a near-monotone. "I have to wonder how that can not be personal."

With a frustrated frown, Anya tried again. "Just with the Slayers and everything. He hardly has time to live."

"You know, he hasn't s-seen me since ..." But she couldn't seem to get the words out. Her gaze dropped to the cold, wet pavement as, almost subconsciously, she wrapped her arms around herself.

Not in the least bit happy with Tara's obvious distress, Xander made an immediate effort to come to the rescue.

"You could always tell him you an' Will need some special coaching for the mojo, right?" He prompted expectantly. "You know he'd make time for that."

Tara's head instantly whipped toward Xander. For a brief moment, it appeared as though she didn't know what to say and then her eyes narrowed scathingly. "That's not funny."

There was no way Xander couldn't know he'd made a mistake. He didn't know how or what, but that wasn't as important as trying to make it better.

"I know the magic's a serious thing for you two and I'm not saying take advantage of it," he hastened to assure. "But maybe just, you know, make a reasonable excuse to get together. Like his birthday last month." Given Tara's expression, he wasn't making things any better. "Talk to Will," he urged. "I'm sure she'll go along with it."

He smiled hopefully, but the smile crumbled in the face of Tara's angry glare. Initially, she maintained her silence, choosing instead to drag heavily upon the cigarette and exhale with a bitter snort.

"I came over to ask you both to join us for dinner tonight," she informed quietly. "If you can leave the 'humor' at home, the invitation's still open."

Xander's jaw worked soundlessly, leaving Anya to pick up the slack.

"Six o'clock?"

Tara looked to Anya, not radiating quite so much fury since Anya wasn't the focus of her ire, but still unable to dispel it completely. "Let's make it six-thirty," she said, her tone short and sharp.

Drawing a final puff, Tara ground the glowing tip of her cigarette against the metal lid of a nearby trashcan before tossing the butt inside. Without uttering another syllable, she walked away. Lost in befuddlement, Xander watched her leave.

Jingling her keyring, Anya ascended the stone steps leading to the front door of the shop while Xander continued to observe Tara's departure. Once she was well out of earshot, he turned to Anya.

"So, what's up with Willow and Tara?"

Anya fumbled with the lock. "Nothing's up with them," she said with a frown. "You know that."

"Sure I know that," returned Xander somewhat fractiously. "But you saw how she reacted. It was like inviting Kerry to Bush's November 3rd victory party. Something's going on."

"No, really, Xander," Anya threw over her shoulder, "there's nothing going on between Willow and Tara. There is no Willow and Tara."

Eyes wide with realization, Xander ran a hand through his hair. "They broke up."

"Well, that's certainly one way of putting it," muttered Anya.

He reached out and seized Anya's elbow, grip strong and determined.

"I need to see Willow."

"But we just saw her on Sunday," returned Anya, opening the door.

"Ahn, please," pressed Xander. The request was almost desperate.

Her gaze traveled around the interior of the darkened store before wandering back to Xander's pleading expression. She reinserted the key into the lock and nodded with compassionate understanding.

"Okay."

Xander's shoes left no footprint in the close-cropped grass. A stiff breeze barely stirred the barren limbs of the trees that stood like vigilant sentinels. Given a sprinkling of imagination, it wouldn't be too difficult to picture how beautiful this wooded glade might look in the spring or summer, with sunlight dappling the leaves and birds chirping merrily as they hopped from branch to branch. But it wasn't spring and it wasn't summer. And Xander could find nothing but desolation in the winter chill of this bleak and uninviting place.

With an expression of shock, horror and disbelief – all rolled up into one stomach-churning, nausea-flavored package – Xander's gaze was riveted to the object only a breath away. He could do nothing but read, again and again, the etchings on the cold marble tombstone.

Willow Danielle Rosenberg, 1982-2004. Her magic lay in what she brought to the lives of others.