Scene: LondonDecember 2001
Cynthia paused outside the door to her apartment. "Before we go in, I should probably tell you something."
At that moment, the door opened by itself. A teenaged girl looked out. "Oh, there you are," she said. "I was wondering what took you so long." She saw Giles and looked at him inquisitively. "Who's he?"
"Molly," Cynthia said, "this is Mr. Giles."
Giles looked at Cynthia. "You have a daughter."
Cynthia shook her head. "No," she said. "I have a Potential."
October 2002
"Cynthia—"
The Watcher shook her head. "Someone has to hold the wards, or we all die. Go, Rupert. Take Molly and go to Buffy. She's going to need you, both of you. Those things aren't going after me because I pose a threat to whatever evil they represent. It's because I'm protecting Molly."
She looked at the teenaged girl. "They fear you, Molly, they fear what you could become and they fear who you are now. Use that. I've taught you everything I know."
"But Cyn—"
"Go, Molly. Go with Rupert." Cynthia winced. "I don't know how much longer I can hold the wards. Run!"
And Giles and Molly began to run away from the Watcher they both loved as she sacrificed her life to save theirs and—if she was right—countless others.
December 2001
"Molly's parents were murdered," Cynthia explained. "By who or what I can't say; Molly didn't get a good look."
"Did you check the aura of the house?" Giles suggested.
Cynthia nodded. "It registered, but I couldn't trace it back to its source. Whatever is behind this, it's powerful—and it's gaining power. Something has upset the balance, Rupert. Whatever evil was trying to kill her is growing stronger."
Giles considered. "Have there been any subsequent attempts on her life."
"No," answered Cynthia, "but this house is heavily warded. Molly never leaves the apartment after dark unless she is in my care."
"And you think that is enough to scare this evil away?"
"It's growing Rupert, but its still weak for now. And there are easier targets. Molly's not the only girl who's been attacked; I've checked the records. Only a few Potentials have died this month, but it is more than last month—which was more than the month before. How long before they all die?"
November 2002
"Where are we going?" asked Molly.
"The Council archives," Giles answered. "They have books that we'll need to fight this evil."
"But won't the other Watchers need them?"
"I fear soon there will be no other Watchers," Giles said grimly. "Can you knock down this door?"
"I'm not a Slayer myself, you know."
Giles nodded. "Right. Both of us at once then. One, two, now."
The two them threw their weight against the door, causing it to break off at the hinges. God bless the antiquarian bias of the Council—how was it that the Council library was the only office in all the Guildhall without an alarm system.
There were mystical wards, of course. But they recognized him as belonging there. He was, after all, not only a Watcher, but the Watcher. Buffy's Watcher.
And now Molly's as well?
"Stand watch," he answered. "Anything happens, come and get me."
He made his way through the archive, collecting only the books that would be the most useful. The Tradëscan Codex, of course. The Pyllr Chronicles. The History of Dimeswaithe. A half-dozen other mystical texts, and for ever volume he chose there were at least a dozen which it pained him to have to leave behind.
Halfway, through he passed another man rushing through the archive and throwing books into a bag. A man Giles recognized as a former Watcher, expelled from the Council for utilizing the dark arts.
"Rutherford Sirk," he said, the name at last coming to him. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"The same as you, it seems. Liberating these texts."
Giles nodded. "God bless you, then." He would only be able to carry so many, after all, and the books deserved to be saved, even if he doubted what ends Sirk would put them to.
Then he had a terrible idea. The mystical wards would have recognized that Giles belonged here, but Sirk's presence should have set them off like crazy. Which meant that the Keeper of the Library—
"Have you seen Robson?" he asked before he even finished the thought.
The corners of Sirk's mouth crept up into a smile. "I haven't, and if I'm not mistaken, neither did they. Of course, they don't have to, do they?"
Giles broke into a run.
May 2002
Giles was in the bathtub when Cynthia entered the toilet. "Care to join me, love?" he asked playfully.
Then he saw her face. It was ashen.
"Althanea is on the phone," she said. "She said it was an emergency."
It wasn't more than a moment before he was out of the tub and on the phone in the kitchen, all concern for modesty lost. Luckily, Molly was watching the television, her back to him as he streaked through the living room.
When he hung up the phone, he hurried back to his room and began dressing. Within a minute he was on his way out the door.
"What happened?" asked Molly, her attention diverted momentarily from the television as it touted BBC2's morning line-up.
Giles looked at Cynthia. "It's Willow," he answered.
November 2002
Giles blocked the blow of the axe with the book in his hand. Well, he had known the Akashian Hagiographies would come in handy, hadn't he?
Molly appeared at the door. "Those things. They're here."
"Yes," Giles answered. "I rather noticed."
November 2001
"If it's any consolation," Quentin said, "I think you made the right choice. You belong here."
Travers hadn't walked away for more than a moment when the Watcher across from Giles—Cindy? Sidney?—burst out laughing. "Sorry," she apologized, "it's just, you know, Quentin. I'm half-tempted to think he's trying to reverse psychologize you back on a plane to Sunnydale. Whyever would he think that his agreeing with you would come to you as consolation?"
Giles found himself at something of a loss of words. He couldn't disagree with this young Watcher's words, after all.
"Not that he's wrong. His logic may be cold-hearted, but I'll be damned if it isn't persuasive. He does everything he can to alienate the Slayer. The Cruciamentum, his Machiavellian tactics—all under his theory that what doesn't kill her makes her stronger."
Giles nodded. "Yes, I'm well-acquainted with the Travers brand of compassion."
"But in the end, what effect does it have? It makes the Slayer distrust the Council. She learns to stand on her own two feet. We won't be here forever, after all."
"Speak for yourself, please."
She leveled her gaze at him. "You're not her father, Rupert."
He opened his mouth to object then closed it. Maybe she was right. Maybe Quentin, damn him to hell, was right. And maybe he himself was right, and he had made the right choice. All he could do was hope so. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . . ?"
She smiled, and Giles had to admit that she was stunning. "I'm Cynthia," she said.