A/N: Very sorry to be so long in updating.  I'll try to do better in the future. sheepish grin  Also, I'd like to announce that this fic is now officially engaged to ptp, whose lovely site can be found at http://pt-p.net/lit.shtml.  We will keep you updated as to the impending nuptials, though at this rate, it looks likely to be a long engagement.

Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews.  I would like to include here my vows of eternal love to Myrtle for the beta, and of course for other reasons.

Finally, bear in mind that in terms of canon, this fic only goes as far as "Same Time, Same Place."  For my purposes, anything after that never happened, and anything before that is fair game. :)

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            Willow sighed as she clapped another book shut and set it on the growing pile beside her.  "Nothing in here, either," she complained, rubbing her eyes.  Her legs, curled under her, were beginning to ache.

            "Maybe he got the symbol wrong," Anya suggested from the depths of the couch.

            "He wouldn't get the symbol wrong, it's his symbol.  His thing."  Willow glanced over the books again, trying to find one she might have missed.

            "What is he, the powerful magic guy formerly known as Prince?"  Anya tsked.  "Totally pretentious.  Not to mention overdone.  Plus, how are people supposed to summon him if they can't even find his sigil?  Sounds fishy if you ask me, which of course you didn't, because no one ever does, it's always, `Anya, your opinions are tactless and ill-phrased' and…"  She paused, rolled over to narrow her eyes at Willow.  "You're thinking that right now, aren't you?"

            "No, I just--"

            Anya's face fell, and she rolled back into the cushions.  "Whatever.  It doesn't matter anyway."

            Willow frowned.  "I wasn't thinking that, Anya.  I really wasn't."  When Anya didn't respond, she continued, "I was just thinking…  This isn't right.  Doing research like this.  There should be… I don't know.  Laughing.  And Giles.  And donuts."

            "And stupid jokes."  Very small and cushion-muffled.

            "Exactly.  It just… it sucks without all that."

            "Well," Anya levered herself up onto one elbow, "no one's avoiding you like a Partuch with a skin rash.  I'm sure if you asked, they'd all come rushing to your aid."

            Willow lifted a shoulder, uncomfortable.  "I know."  She paused for a moment, then, "I don't want them to worry about me.  About what I might do."

            "And it doesn't matter if I worry?  You wouldn't believe the security deposit on this place, and I still don't know how to cover up the burn marks from last time.  Even if it did get a little sexy, that's no reason for you to assume that--"

            "Anya," Willow blurted suddenly, as the reason behind Anya's anger and defensiveness clicked into place.

            "What?"

            Willow took a deep breath, making sure to speak slowly and deliberately. "I'm really, really sorry about the Magic Box."

            The sadness that was always hovering around Anya seemed to descend suddenly, dropping like a weight onto her body.  "Oh."  Here eyes went distant for a moment, and then her lips curved in a tiny smile, wry and resigned.  "Sorry doesn't help, though, does it?"

            Willow nodded, looked down.  "Nope.  It sure doesn't."

            They were quiet for a minute, each locked in her own thoughts, until Anya stood up abruptly and brushed off her skirt with a businesslike air.  "Well.  Time to go make other people sorry.  People who really deserve it."

            Willow really had no idea what the appropriate response to that was, so she just went with the tried-and-true, "Um."  Then, "Thanks for letting me look at these.  Are you sure this was all that was leftover from the store?"

            "Yeah, that's about it."  The ex-ex-demon was making a show of primping in the mirror, pulling her dark hair into place.  Her hands faltered a little as she added quietly, "I think Buffy might have taken a box of Tara's books with her."

            Caught off guard, Willow felt the now-familiar freezing ache in her chest at hearing Tara's name.  She had a sudden, painful flash of memory.

            "That's right.  The, the volume.  The text."

            "The volume-y text."

            She cleared her throat, blinked away the sudden blur of tears.  Anya watched her reflection in the mirror, concerned, hands stilled.

            "You OK?" she asked.  "Not feeling like starting any furniture-damaging fires or skinning any bystanders, are you?"

            Willow couldn't help smiling.  In the past, she'd often found Anya's irrepressible Anya-ness to be annoying; now it was weirdly comforting.  "No.  Your security deposit's safe with me."

            Anya nodded firmly.  "Good.  Well, then, feel free to enjoy my personal space at any time."  She smiled, pleased at her magnanimity, then continued, "Except when I'm busy.  Which is actually now."

            Willow's smile turned into a grin.  "I'll be going now."  She clambered to her feet, shifting from side to side as pins and needles raced up and down her legs.  "Ow.  I wish--"

            "Don't," Anya cut her off sharply.  Willow glanced up at her in surprise.  The other woman's face was twisted in a strange expression of sternness and fear.

            "Sorry."  But Anya's expression didn't change.  Willow knew there was something the other woman wasn't telling her.  After an awkward silence, she offered, "Are you OK?"

            "Just… I don't mix business and friends."  Anya tried to smile, failed.

            Willow nodded slowly.  "OK."  And suddenly found herself being ushered out the door.

            "Thanks for stopping by.  Try not to go all evil on the way home."

            That hurt, but Willow was too confused to really register it.  "Of course.  But Anya--"  She was left blinking as the door slammed in her face.

            On the other side, Anya slammed the bolt home, leaned against the door, breathing heavily.  Just in time, she thought, feeling a familiar energy blossoming in the room.  A swirling blue tornado spun itself into existence in front of her, and a few seconds later she was staring into the impassive face of D'Hoffryn.

            "Hi!"  She tried for an innocent grin.  "Come to see my new place?"

            "You have refused a wish, Anyanka."  There was no trace of his usual humor and sympathy in his expression.  His voice boomed in her chest.

            "She didn't wish!" she cried defensively.

            "Because you prevented her."

            "It wasn't a vengeance wish anyway."  Her heart was pounding.

            "No matter.  This is not the first time, and both of us know it.  All of your sisters know it.  Practically all of the demon world knows it."  He took a step closer, and she unconsciously pressed herself back against the door.  "It will not be news to you, Anyanka, that we are not pleased with your work."

            "I know."  She tried to keep her voice calm.  "It just takes awhile to get back into the swing of things--"

            "We are finished coddling you.  This is no game.  This is what you are.  What you chose to be."  He was towering over her now, seeming to fill the entire room.  "And there are worse punishments than restricting your teleportation rights."

            Anya felt her knees buckle, her stomach shiver.  "I'll do better," she whispered.

            "See that you do.  Something is rising here, child.  And when it does, you will either be behind it, or in its path.  You do not want to be in its path."  He vanished abruptly in a shower of blue sparks.

            Weak with relief, Anya slid slowly down the door, felt the impact through her body as she hit the floor.  She gave a high, mirthless laugh as she realized that D'Hoffryn's departure had left a scatter of tiny burns on her carpet.  Burying her head in her knees, she fisted her hands in her now-dark hair and tried with everything in her not to cry.

***********

            Willow closed the book gently, rested her head against the bed.  Her eyes ached from a full day of research, but at least she had a little more information now.  At least she thought she did, though according to what she'd found the being associated with that particular sigil was more myth than man.  There were accounts of witches saved at the last moment by a nameless, ageless man who disappeared immediately afterwards; there were hints of a dark and violent past; there were mentions of a being who brought peace to witches just before their deaths; there were admonitions of secrecy from all outside the Wiccan religion.  Which explained, Willow thought, why she'd never heard of him before.  The spiritual side of magic had always been more Tara's domain than hers.

Tara.  Willow brought her eyes back to the book in her lap, though the words on the cover blurred in front of her.  The books had been easy enough to find once she knew they were there--over the past weeks she'd forced herself to become desensitized to the Tara-ness that lingered in every room of Buffy's house, but once she allowed herself to focus on it again, and on the unique flavor that colored Tara's best-loved possessions, it didn't take her long to find the box, carefully tucked up in a corner of Buffy's closet.  Once she'd found them, she'd closed off her senses to everything but what was in front of her, knowing that the information took priority, but now she ran her fingers slowly over the leather cover, letting her guard slip for just a moment.  Tara touched this, she thought, and she loved it, like she touched and loved me, and I can still feel her here, and we were so close to this room the last time we--

The grief hit her like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her, taking her by surprise.  Every time she thought she was getting better, it came back, and came back worse.  She doubled over, clutching the book, images flashing unbidden through her brain of Tara with blood on her chest and that shocked look on her sweet face, collapsing over and over and over again and Willow was angry, so angry and hurt and pain and revenge and blood and--

Willow jumped as the bedroom window banged open, the wind pouring rain inside, startling her back to herself.  She distantly noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks as she dove for the window, forced it shut against the gale.  Lightning arced across black clouds which, moments before, had been clear blue southern California sky.  She stood there for a moment, confused, still gasping through sobs, brain spinning as she tried to grasp why this might be happening.

Suddenly, her knees buckled and she smacked her arm hard against the windowsill as she tumbled to the floor.  Through the heady haze of adrenaline, she felt the familiar light-headedness that always followed the rush of power out of her.  And she knew.

I did this.

I did this, and I didn't even know it.

The room was too small.  The house was too small.  She couldn't breathe.  She stumbled down the staircase, clutching the banister for support, grabbing onto the doorknob like a lifeline.  As she threw herself outside, the rain drenched her immediately, pounding against her.  She had a frenzied thought to try to reverse what she'd done, but somewhere in the back of her mind, Ms. Harkness was telling her that playing with weather patterns was dangerous and it was best to let it run its course.  She laughed a little hysterically, falling to her knees on the wet pavement.  She reached out a trembling finger and drew the now-familiar sigil in the pattern of raindrops on the sidewalk.  Then, chest heaving, she forced herself to her feet, to face whatever was coming.

And there he was, cloak swirling in the wind, dark hair whipping around his face.  His eyes seemed almost white, though in the shifting light it was difficult to tell.  She clenched her fists, planted her feet, dripping but defiant as she ground out the words:

"Teach me."

He smiled.  "Gladly."  He raised a hand, spoke a word she couldn't quite hear, and everything around them disappeared.