It was a typical breakfast. Buffy puzzled over the morning crossword while Willow tapped away at the keys of her laptop. Dawn had nothing in front of her but her own meal, and she focused on it with great gusto, mushing up her eggs, and taking them up a notch to the really, really scrambled level. His usual plate of waffles sat before Xander, but they were strangely devoid of syrup and butter. He simply stared at them passively.

"Five letter word, 'bring into a line,'" read Buffy.

Willow's eyes remained on the laptop screen. "Align."

Tilting her head, the blonde squinted at the paper. "Seriously? But that's, like, all punny and stuff. Isn't that cheating?" She nevertheless wrote in the provided word, then perused once more. "Five letter word, 'Seragalio'."

"Harem," Willow tossed without thinking.

"Like anyone would know that," protested the Slayer. "Anyone but Willow. 'Seragalio', what does that even mean?"

"Harem," the redhead smirked.

Buffy stuck out her tongue and proceeded to fill in the letters. Xander was still staring at his waffles while Dawn focused on Buffy with one of those peculiar teenage looks that was difficult to read but obviously not conveying a lot in the pleasantries department. "Why do you even bother doing those?" She rolled her eyes. "You ask Willow, like, every question."

"Not every question. I figured out 'ass' all by myself."

Buffy beamed proudly. No one commented, an expectant air hanging over the table. Slowly, Buffy and Dawn turned to look at Xander; Willow peered over her laptop at him. He noticed none of this, simply regarding the waffles without emotion. The other three exchanged concerned looks.

"Found the secret of life yet?" Willow asked.

With no response forthcoming, Buffy waved her hand in front of his face. At this, Xander blinked slowly and finally looked up. "Huh?"

"There's that witty response we were waiting for," quipped Buffy.

Xander appeared confused. "What?"

Her frown did nothing to conceal Dawn's worry. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just ... Tired. I'm real tired." Xander rubbed his forehead. "And my head hurts. Maybe I should just go back to bed."

"Yeah, o-okay," agreed Willow. "I'll come up later, bring you some juice or-or somethin'?"

Xander started to amble out of the room, leaving behind the untouched waffles and three sets of anxious eyes. "Okay," he muttered.

No sooner had he left than the girls turned to each other. Dawn spoke up first. "I'm really getting worried."

Willow nodded enthusiastically.

"If he's not better in a couple of days, we'll wrangle him in the car and take him to the doctor," agreed Buffy.

Willow smiled. "I can't believe you just said 'wrangle.' And you even used it correctly."

"If only it were one of the answers in this darned crossword," the blonde countered. Dawn's expression hadn't changed. "He'll be okay," Buffy reassured. "It's probably just a flu thing."

Reluctantly, Dawn accepted this. With a final bout of mushing, she left her eggs in a jumbled heap and stood up from the table. "I should get going. That presentation isn't going to give itself."

Suddenly, an amazing thought occurred to her. She whirled excitedly in Willow's direction.

The redhead didn't look up, her eyes never wavering from the laptop. "Nope."

Dawn's face fell and she trudged out of the room. Buffy was continuing her luck, or lack thereof, at the crossword. She looked here and there, expression occasionally lighting with hope, only to be immediately dashed. After a minute of this, she sighed and tossed the paper into the center of the table, instead pulling the flier from her back pocket and unfolding it.

The action caught Willow's attention. "Whatcha got?"

"Flier for this group that's been playing at the Vortex." Buffy handed it over.

Willow pointed to the lead singer. "This the one who was making googly eyes at that guy?"

"One and the same. Name's apparently Parth. I figured I'd take this to Giles later, see what he can make of it."

"I've got a meeting with him in about half an hour to go over the spell details one more time. I can give it to him if you want."

"That'd be great, thanks," Buffy agreed with a smile that slowly melted away into trepidation. "I think I'm gonna kinda have my hands full today."

Fourteen pairs of eyes focused entirely on Buffy while she strode back and forth in the front of the training room. Her speech was impassioned, she gestured with her hands while she paced, and somehow managed to meet the gaze of every girl. The Slayers sat on the floor in front of her, completely engrossed in Buffy's words.

"This is new. The life you're leading now," lectured Buffy, crossing her arms as she marched. "None of you could have seen yourselves here, doing what you're doing, knowing what you're knowing. That's not all that's new. By now most of you have heard of me. This job, this duty, this destiny ... whatever you want to call it, it's not new ground for me, I've been doing this for eight years now. According to the books, that makes me the longest-lived Slayer in history." Suddenly, she stopped pacing and stood before them, the firmness in her voice transforming the words from abstract to truth. "I'm here to make sure that's all of you, too," she vowed.

From the center row, toward the left-hand side, a lone hand was tentatively raised. All eyes, including Buffy's, became focused on the girl. She was one of the youngest in the group at the low-end of fifteen years. She flinched slightly under everyone's gaze as the blood rushed to her face and turned it deep red. Still, she kept her hand up, determined to ask her question.

Buffy gave the girl her full attention. "Yes?"

"I, um ..." She faltered slightly but soon found her voice. "I heard you ... died."

"True," the Senior Slayer conceded with a chipper tone. "But I got better."

But the girl still seemed to be locked in a space where two and two were not equaling four, no matter how many times she added them together. "And ... you're gonna teach us how not to die," she stated flatly, not making it a question.

Unable to fully prevent a trace of a smirk, Buffy asked, "What's your name?"

"Shelly."

"Come on up, Shelly."

Casting nervous glances at her fellow Slayers, Shelly experienced a brief moment of panic before rising to her feet and stepping carefully around the girl next to her. A few strides and she found herself at the front of the group next to Buffy. She wrung her hands nervously, caught the action, and forced them to remain stiff and inert at her sides.

The blonde absorbed all of this with a hint of amusement that soon dissipated to leave only all-business Buffy. She crossed her arms again and slowly circled Shelly, moving to the girl's right. "How long have you been here?" Buffy questioned when she was out of the field of vision.

"A-About a month," stammered Shelly, simultaneously trying to look over her shoulder and remain still.

Buffy arrived at her destination, and Shelly turned slightly toward her. "Okay, so you've already had classes with Kennedy and Faith. You know how this works."

Immediately, Shelly's eyes began to widen, and she nodded rapidly while taking an involuntary step backward. Her arms tensed, as though wanting very much to protect certain delicate areas of her face, but she resisted valiantly.

Nothing had escaped Buffy's notice, and she regarded the girl critically. "What are you feeling right now?" she inquired.

"What?" replied Shelly with surprise, as though she hadn't heard correctly.

"Feelings. You know, those pesky little emotion things that rear their ugly heads from time to time? They usually have names. What are yours?"

"S-Scared." The girl had clearly heard and understood the question this time, and there was no hesitation in her answer. "I'm scared."

"Scared," repeated Buffy, obviously not sympathetic. "Of what, exactly? Getting old? The national debt? Another season of 'Joe Millionaire'? This?"

As soon as the last word had left her mouth, Buffy lashed out with a blur of motion, her fist aimed directly at Shelly's nose. Flinching, the girl squealed instinctively, but did nothing else. With precise control, Buffy's hand stopped as quickly as it started, her knuckles hovering mere centimeters from its target.

"You know you could've stopped me," Buffy pointed out conversationally, otherwise unmoving.

It took several seconds, but Shelly's brain eventually saw fit to inform the rest of her that she had not been hit, and she cracked open an eye, instantly zeroing in on the first so close to her face.

"Why didn't you?" the Senior Slayer asked, but Shelly semed incapable of much beyond shaking her head. When Buffy finally lowered her arm, Shelly breathed an audible sigh of relief, relaxing even more when Buffy gently placed her hand on the girl's shoulder and indicated for her to retake her seat. Shelly all but ran back to the anonymous safety of the crowd.

Resuming her pacing, Buffy attempted to explain her point. "Fear can be a powerful motivator or a crippling liability. If you were an accountant and the worst thing you had to be afraid of was a paper cut and mind numbing boredom, then it wouldn't be so bad." She took a moment to grin in appreciation of her own analogy before sobering up and becoming entirely serious. "But we fight the things that make up other people's nightmares. Fear is important and you should never ignore it, but you can't let it control you. Chances are good the next thing that takes a swing at you isn't planning on stopping."

Another Slayer in the crowd spoke up, not bothering to wait to be called on. "So what do we do?" she demanded with slightly aggressive undertones. "You've seen what's out there. That's some scary shi— Stuff." The girls next to her snickered at the near slip, but she elbowed them roughly and waited for Buffy's response.

"What do you want to do?" the blonde countered.

"Run like hell," was the prompt reply, eliciting a rumbling laugh that echoed through the crowd.

Nodding, Buffy acknowledged the girl's honesty. "Okay, so you want to run. Let's say you do. You've got Slayer speed and strength, you could probably get away, no problem." The blonde spread her arm wide, gesturing to the outside. "But then the scary thing's still out there, and now it's gonna find someone else to snack on. Someone who doesn't have Slayer speed or strength."

It seemed for a moment as though the younger Slayer had a comeback all planned and was ready to use it, but instead she closed her mouth and glanced away, her expression twinged with guilt. The rest of the class shifted their positions, collectively appearing very uncomfortable.

When Buffy continued, it was with kindness and understanding, not judgmental. "It's easy to want to give in to your instinct, it's tempting. Heck, sometimes it's the only smart thing to do and you won't have any other choice. And that's okay," she assured them. All eyes had returned to Buffy, no longer glancing away, ashamed. "But when you do have another choice, you've gotta take it, because you might be the only one who can. Only you can decide if you should give in to the temptation or not."

As Buffy's lessons continued, Hannah lounged in the doorway, intently watching the scene.

"She's something. You've done a good job. Rupert."

Giles glanced up from his intense study of the band flier in his hand to see Hannah standing in the office doorway. Her demeanor had changed slightly. She was more relaxed and informal now it was simply the two of them.

"I'm sorry?" questioned the Watcher, not understanding her statement.

Smoothly, Hannah crossed from the doorway, the flared bottoms of her jeans swishing quietly as she moved. She slid into one of the empty chairs facing Giles, studying him. "Buffy," she explained. "Just watched her teach a class."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, leaning forward interestedly. "How was it? She only started last week, I haven't been able to attend yet."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement at Giles' enthusiasm. "Quite different," she appraised. "Certainly not the sort of thing you'd expect from a Slayer. I didn't think it was in their nature to talk quite so much, as a general rule," added Hannah with a tilt of her head.

Giles smiled at that. "I've found Buffy to be an exception to most rules. How were her students reacting?" The desire to hear an outside opinion of his Slayer's performance was palpable.

"Very well, actually. She seemed to be getting through to them," replied Hannah, unable to suppress a smirk at Giles' obvious pride. "Are all the classes like that?"

"Oh no. We worked out sessions that focus on each trainer's strengths," the Watcher explained, excited to share how they had worked things out. "Buffy's classes are sort of a 'philosophy of battle', if you will. Kennedy's deal with precision, form and technical expertise, and Faith's delve more into applied fighting in realistic situations."

Hannah chewed on this for a moment. "So ... tae kwon do, street fighting, and the Zen of the Slayer?" she translated.

"Yes, basically," agreed Giles with a nod.

Finding something extremely humorous, the blonde smirked, "Wouldn't exactly be sanctioned by the old Council, would it?"

"I believe you'll find this is very much not the old Council," he hastened to point out, tone quite serious.

"No, I'm seeing that," Hannah mused as she appraised Giles carefully, taking some unknown mental stock. Giles bore the inventory without question, and eventually Hannah broke into a broad, approving grin. "It took you a couple of decades, but you finally caught on." At his raised eyebrow, she explained, "Last time we spent any great lengths of time together, if memory serves, you were very much in the Council's corner on just about everything. What socks to wear, who to marry ..."

"Hannah ..." Giles drew her name out, an undercurrent of 'not now' evident.

Lifting her hands slightly, she eased herself up from the chair. "Observation," stated Hannah cheerfully as she moved around the desk toward Giles. Her steps were evenly spaced, one in front of the other, adopting a very deliberate motion that was vaguely reminiscent of a predator stalking its pray. As she rounded the corner and moved toward him, Giles leaned back in his chair, but didn't pull away or make any move to stop her as she perched on the edge of the desk and gazed down at him. "Still," she began softly, "how differently things would've turned out, eh Ziggy?"

Giles started at the name, as though surprised to be hearing it, but Hannah continued like she hadn't noticed. "I mean, we certainly wouldn't be here, for one." The blonde gestured to the four walls surrounding them, then pierced Giles with an icy blue stare. "And you ... Look at you. Surrogate father to a handful of makeshift twenty-something heroes."

Unflinching, Giles considered her words, both those spoken and those not, very carefully. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

It was Hannah's turn to ponder, and she tilted her head to one side, deep in thought. "No," she finally responded. "No, I don't think you would." Smiling, Hannah pushed herself away from the desk and moved toward the door. "You've done well, Rupert," she complimented sincerely.

A proud, loving expression softened the Watchers face. "I'm extraordinarily lucky," he agreed, then glanced at his watch, quickly rising to his feet. "And also extraordinarily late. I think it's about time we found out who we're dealing with."

Considering the spaciousness of the room, Willow's Sanctum was surprisingly full at the moment. She and Giles were working in tandem, setting up an assortment of specially prepared herbs, candles and other spell components at key locations.

Setting down a thick white candle and lighting it, Willow glanced up briefly at Giles. "Get anywhere with Buffy's latest freak of the week?"

"Not as such," he replied, laying down long strings of some sort of root in intricate patterns on the floor. "I'm not entirely certain what she thought I could do with a band flyer. Besides marvel at what passes for music these days," he added derisively. "Perhaps you can put it in the computer and ... do whatever you do with it once it's there."

Straightening from her candle arrangement, Willow smirked at the Watcher. "Y'know eventually I'm going to tie you to a chair and make you learn how to surf."

"And oh how I long for that day," he smoothly replied.

For a minute, they worked in silence, then Willow finally spoke up. "So ... you and your missus, huh?" Giles was unable to fully contain the resigned sigh, but the redhead ignored it and pressed onward. "What's your story?"

"It's really not that interesting," Giles attempted to dismiss.

Willow could only gape in disbelief. "Please. This mystery woman you married when you were younger than me turns up out of nowhere? That's, like, prime soap opera stuff. Especially if she was in a coma. Oh!" She peered at the Watcher hopefully. "Was she in a coma?"

"There were no comas," he refuted without hesitation.

"Evil twin?"

"Willow," he cautioned in his best fatherly tone.

Jutting out her bottom lip a little, Willow pouted, "Jus' wonderin'."

Sighing again, Giles gestured to the very precise mess strewn about the Sanctum. "Can we perhaps discuss my distant past a little bit later? I think it's high time we got this spell done."

"You're no fun," Willow chastised with a grin, waving her hand at the Watcher.

Carefully, the two of them sat, facing each other, on either side of the circle that had been drawn in the middle of the room. Kennedy's ruined shirt had been placed between them in the exact center of the circle, though the Mogari's blood had long since dried to little more than a dark, unpleasant stain marring the white surface. Willow's position was one of focus; her legs were crossed and neatly tucked as if in a lotus position. Giles remained more relaxed, but was clearly also concentrating on the matters at hand and ready in case anything should go awry.

Prefaced only by a singular deep breath, Willow closed her eyes and chanted.

"Shaded eye and whispered voice
Creatures made, imbued with wrath
With this blood they cast their choice
Guiding, lighting, show the path"

Her body remained loose, relaxed, eyes closed. For several moments, nothing happened, then as Giles watched, Willow looked up and stared ahead, her gaze fixed slightly above and beyond him. Tensing, Willow focused on something well beyond the confines of the Sanctum.

Glancing first a little to the left and then the right, Willow appeared almost curious, as though taking in new surroundings. Giles resisted the temptation to follow her line of sight, instead his attention centered entirely on the witch, poised and alert to any possible problems.

Suddenly, Willow's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. As Giles watched, her hair shifted slowly from red to a paler red and then to white. Her body posture remained the same, although it was clear she was no longer as relaxed. Giles' face betrayed a hint of concern at the changes, but he said nothing, allowing the spell to continue.

As though melting from one expression to the next, Willow's curiosity became intrigue. Her eyes narrowed further still, and a frown began to appear. Her left, uninjured hand moved up from where it had been resting on her knee, and she extended it before her, palm outwards.

"Interesting," she breathed, face masked in concentration.

"What?" asked Giles, his voice remaining calm.

"A barrier."

The outstretched hand moved around, fingers touching and probing as if they were testing the surface of something tangible. Willow's frown intensified, and her other hand adopted a similar position. They moved independently of each other in an arcane dance for a while, sometimes pushing forward as though moving something back, and other times darting sideways in a blocking maneuver. Most alarming, however, was the transformation taking place within Willow herself the longer this progressed. Her expression had sharply deviated from mere curiosity, the narrowed gaze leaving only tiny slits and a snarl pulling at her lips. Whereas mere minutes before her hair had been a slowly flowing white, it had lost some of its pure luster and was steadily making its way down the gray scale.

Still, though, Giles held his position, swallowing back the mounting concern.

Willow's hands were moving ever faster when they stopped acting independently and came together, palms still out, focusing now on the same task. Her personal transformation was nearing completion, with hair almost entirely black and, as her slowly opening eyes revealed, green irises swallowed up by dark spheres. The snarl had subsided in favor of an emotionless expression, which then itself gave way to an amused smirk. She genuinely appeared to be enjoying the effort, triggering a new wave of concern in Giles.

"Pathetic," she growled with an almost venomous tone. "Think you can take me?"

Almost immediately, her hands were forced back by some unseen presence, but she met the challenge with gritted teeth and shoved forward again. Her hair was completely black now, as were her eyes, and telltale veins were rising to the surface of her skin, weaving their way across the almost gleeful face that even the grimace of effort didn't diffuse.

"I'm gonna—"

She never got a chance to finish the statement. Both hands were again forced back, this time with such power that Willow's entire body was shoved, sending her almost out of the circle. Trembling, the witch managed to maintain her position, but then her face began to change again, eyes softening and all traces of enjoyment vanishing, leaving only teeth gritted against the effort.

"T-Too much ... I can't ... I ..."

Giles quickly laid his hands on both of her knees and locked eyes with hers. "Willow, you've done enough. Time to come back now." His voice was soothing, a calming breeze in the torrential maelstrom that was battering her from all sides.

With a visible effort, she lowered her lids and relaxed her trembling arms. It took nearly half a minute, but her breathing calmed, black hair returned to a vibrant red, and veins vanished, leaving only a clear complexion. When Willow eventually opened her eyes again, they were green and weary with fatigue.

Giles lifted a bottle of fruit juice that was open and ready at his side. He offered it to Willow, who gratefully took a few sips from the straw. At her exhausted nod, he pulled it back and set it down next to him.

"Are you all right?" Giles inquired tenderly.

At first, Willow could only nod, then finally she found her voice. "Yeah, that was ... wow." She chuckled, though with less amusement than usually attributed to the sound. "There's some serious blockage goin' on here, custom made for me. I-I couldn't—" Shaking her head, Willow's eyes met Giles', filled with regret. "If I kept using the power, I might've ... you know, too much, unpredictable results, never good when we're on the dark side of me. Sorry."

Giles instantly shook his head, dismissing the regretful explanation. "There's nothing to apologize for, you did remarkably well. We thought this might happen. Simply too much time has elapsed, the- the blood has lost its potency."

"Plus whoever summoned it? They knew we were comin'. Those blocks weren't old, they were brand spankin' new." Glancing up, her gaze far away, Willow added, "They knew we were gonna try an-and find them, and they really didn't want us to."

"How far were you able to get?"

Pulling herself away from the images in her mind's eye, Willow replied, "Enough to know they're not local." Again, she looked at Giles apologetically. "That's it, though."

Far from being disappointed, the Watcher was in good spirits. "That's quite a lot, actually," he encouraged. "Knowing where they aren't is the first step to knowing where they are. In addition, the fact that they had the knowledge you would be casting this spell confirms, for all intents and purposes, that Judith was working for them. And the fact that they are so adamant that we not locate them gives us further insight into their motivations." Giles smiled at the redhead. "All in all, very well done. I'm proud of you."

Willow beamed in response. "Oh, well ... yay for me!" she chirped, before allowing herself to tilt to one side and flop limply to the floor.

Madrigan walked at a leisurely pace, circling the gathering of mages like a vulture confident its next meal was forthcoming. Overall, he appeared unconcerned, however the proceedings were clearly commanding his full attention, and he chewed thoughtfully on his thumb as he strolled.

The polar opposite, both in direction and bearing, was Robespierre. He, too, circled the mages, but his movements were angry, frustrated, and more than a little worried. Robespierre looked very much as though he thought he could fix everything wrong with this situation by the power of his glare alone, and was consequently throwing every ounce of energy into that belief.

At the nearby conference table sat Seneca in Madrigan's usual chair. Although keeping an eye on the developments several yards away, he was otherwise completely engrossed in his own activities. With only the slightest gestures with his fingers, Seneca was manipulating a Slinky, causing it to walk across the table and back again, seemingly of its own volition, as well as 'walking' up and down invisible flights of stairs. His expression was one of deeply contented amusement, giving the impression that he had been keeping himself entertained for several hours and could quite possibly continue in this manner for several more.

The mages themselves were far too focused on other matters to pay either man much attention. There were eleven in total, all sitting Indian-style around the glowing pentagram. Their knees were touching, providing not even the smallest of gaps to breech the integrity of their own circle. The face of each mage was a stony mask of concentration, their teeth gritting painfully and beads of perspiration trickling down their forehead. Still though, each was backed by an iron will, either by sheer stubbornness or abject terror at the notion of failure, and were planning to give their all to their task.

Finally, after several tense minutes, the pentagram's glow flared once, then died away, again becoming an otherwise unremarkable symbol on the floor. As one, the mages slumped forward, utterly and completely drained.

Ignoring their exhaustion, Madrigan's vague interest suddenly exploded into exhilaration and he stopped pacing with a little hop in the air. "Hot damn, did you see that?!" he cried out, gesturing wildly to the now inert marking on the floor. "Did you s—" Whirling to Seneca, Madrigan practically shouted, "How cool was that?!"

Seneca grinned toothily and gave Madrigan a thumbs up.

"Damn straight!" he enthusiastically replied. "Oh, geez, when she ... I mean, I knew she was good but this ... this was ... Whoo." It seemed the perfect way to sum up his feelings on the matter, and Madrigan basked in his fervor.

Robespierre, on the other hand, was not basking. He stomped toward the younger man, sneering disdainfully. "Rosenberg very nearly broke through your specially constructed defenses, which would have pinpointed our location with unerring accuracy and led her and that mockery of the Watcher's Council right to our bloody doorstep!"

But Madrigan's buoyant mood could not be so easily dispelled. "Key words here are 'very' and 'nearly'," he replied easily, ticking them off on his fingers. "She wasn't getting through, no way, no how." The mage's tone changed to one that was both surprised and impressed. "But she actually got all the way up to our 10th level defenses. I figured if she managed to reach the 3rd or 4th she was good, but ..." Shaking his head in awe, Madrigan turned to Robespierre with a broad smile. "She's rockin' my world, Robby."

The older man gritted his teeth against the nickname, but chose not to pursue it further, focusing instead on the problem at hand. "Well the mere fact that Rosenberg far exceeded your expectations tells me she is an even greater risk than we had originally expected."

"No, she's about as much a risk as I expected," replied Madrigan off-handedly, taking the seat next to a still-engrossed Seneca.

Responding immediately to Madrigan's nonchalance, Robespierre's face turned a deep crimson, causing the long scar to become even more noticeable than usual. "Then we must do something about it!" he shouted. "Your cavalier attitude threatens the Assemblage, Madrigan, and I will not allow that. Despite whatever you may think, The Shrouded Circle cannot stand alone. This isn't just about you helping us – need I remind you that it is we who possess the Antediluvian."

In an instant, everything about Madrigan transformed from a carefree young man to a being of immeasurable power. The pinpricks of his pupils burst with a darkness that flooded the entire surface within a fraction of a second, and seemed to continue spreading throughout his entire body, despite the deep onyx confined only to his eye. Madrigan's hair blew back momentarily from his forehead and his robe billowed outward, but the sudden windstorm died down as quickly as it had materialized, and with a blink, everything about Madrigan had returned to normal, including the charming smile that was now directed to Robespierre.

Unable to stop himself, Robespierre had taken a step backward from Madrigan, but quickly recovered and came forward again, staring down at the mage, just as angry and unyielding as ever. If he noticed the 'tsk, shame on you' look that Seneca was throwing at him from over Madrigan's shoulder, Robespierre ignored it.

"Dude, we're cool," stated Madrigan soothingly, leaning back into the plush cushion of the chair. "You need us, we need you. It's all good." The mage began to swivel his chair back and forth in tiny arcs, never glancing away from Robespierre's furious stare for a moment. "As for Rosenberg," he continued with a touch of pride, "don't worry your starchy little head about it. Thing is, no matter how much power someone's got, there's always that pesky old Achilles heel."

This genuinely appeared to interest Robespierre, and his usually stiff posture dropped ever so slightly. "And you know Rosenberg's?" he queried.

"Robby, my friend," grinned Madrigan confidently, "I know everyone's."