Willow was in the kitchen baking cookies. At least she wasn't on a baking binge like the time Oz had left her and she'd gone a bit over the edge. Giles blind, Xander a demon magnet, and Buffy and Spike all over each other—maybe she had been onto something then (at least with the last one).

It was a wonder that they didn't' lock her up after what she had done this time. The power had been so immense. Aside from Tara, it was the first time she had ever felt complete. And it was the fist time she felt that she had come into her own. In spite of all she had done to hurt her friends, Willow found it hard to see having all that power as wrong. She hadn't used it in quite the right way (but no one could justifiably say that Warren hadn't gotten what he deserved) and the whole ending the world thing was going a bit far, but grief can cloud your judgment a bit. Love does make you do the wacky.

True, she did have a problem controlling the Magicks, but she had pretty much taught herself. Maybe if she could get an instructor. Giles had gotten his power from a big-time coven in Dublin; they might be able to help her. If Slayers got Watchers and the Council, why couldn't Wiccas have something similar? She had just gone about things in the wrong way. But her friends would never go for that. To them the Magicks had nearly destroyed her and them. But with guidance, maybe just maybe . . . She needed to win back their trust or at least prove that she could handle the power. She was a Wicca; it was her calling. There had to be a way.

Just as the timer went off on the oven, there was an urgent knocking at the backdoor. Not even thinking while she was getting the cookies, Willow called out, "Come in."

A blanketed Spike opened and slammed the door quickly behind him. When Willow realized who her visitor was, she nearly screamed.

"You should know better, Red, inviting unknown parties in and all."

"You—you shouldn't be here, Spike."

He looked around, uncertain, "Just you, isn't there?"

"Yes." Again with the not thinking.

"I can leave, if you'd rather."

"Huh?" Spike barging in, then acting polite. Something was up, but it didn't seem too horrible at the moment.

"It's not like you need any more trouble."

"No, stay. Well, maybe you shouldn't. But . . . Want a cookie?" Dawnie was right, there was something different about Spike.

"Actually, yeah," he grabbed a handful. Blood just wasn't enough any more, not that it had really ever been. Actually, now he found it quite disgusting—drinking another's blood was quite nasty when one got down to it. Must be that poncy git William asserting himself again. And the poetry . . . "Bloody hell."

"Spike? I'm sure you didn't come here for my cookies, tasty as they are. I know Dawnie's been to see you."

He nearly choked.

"It was pretty obvious that something had happened when she got in the other day. The kid may be a pro at shoplifting, but she could never play poker. And of course, Buffy doesn't know, yet."

"I figured as much. I couldn't see her waltzing in—nevermind. How's she been the past few months? Nibblet's gone all Junior Detective over it."

"You know Buffy (probably better than the rest of us this last year), she's an enigma much of the time. Dawn's told you all about the all work, no sleep regimen Buffy's adopted? But we're all at a loss. This morning was sorta scary."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she was mumbling something about a masochist and a beauty or something."

"Masochistic beauty."

"That's it! How—"

"I think I read it somewhere. Has a familiar ring to it."

Willow shrugged, "Anyway, when we pressed her, she ran out. Haven't seen her since."

So she'd read the poem. Idiot, he berated himself. But it seemed to have made an impression.

"Willow, you aren't baking again, are you?" called a voice from the front of the house.

If Spike could turn any paler, he would have. Buffy was home.