"Thank you, Ms Lehane," Anthony Sheppard nodded and snapped his briefcase shut. "We are looking forward to a long and prosperous business relationship with you. Do you have any questions for me at this point?"

Faith thought about it for a while. Everything about all this still felt more than surreal.

"Yeah. How does all this... work?"

"Ah, yes," Sheppard nodded again, looking like he had expected this question to be raised at some point. "As per mandated by the will, everything the late Mayor Wilkins owned will be placed under a trust overseen by the specified trustee. You will be entitled to the profits of all investments which will be deposited on a yearly basis to a bank account of your choosing or, if you wish, added back to the capital and invested further. On your 21st birthday the trust will be terminated, and you will receive full control of your inheritance. Until then our investment specialists will manage your portfolio to the best of their ability. And believe me, Ms Lehane, we have some very adept specialists in our payroll. We will charge a nominal fee for our services which will be taken out of the yearly profits before they are paid to your account or invested further. Anything else, Ms Lehane?"

"Yeah, um...," Faith started hesitantly. She didn't really know how to approach this. "So, when do I, um, get...?"

"May I suggest that your birthday be set as the date when yearly profits are recognised? It will take some time for all the paperwork to make their way through the bureaucracy but if you're in need of some capital now, I'm sure we can come to an agreement on a short-term, low-interest loan."

"No, that's cool. It's just that I'm new at all this crap."

"Ms Lehane, it's our job to see that you won't be facing any... crap. Ideally you will only hear from us annually when you receive a statement of your holdings and, if you so specify, some numbers added to the bottom line of your bank account."

"Yeah, sure," Faith shrugged. Then it occurred to her. "Actually... there's a slight issue regarding a motorcycle..."

"I understand perfectly," Sheppard nodded. "Goodbye then, Ms Lehane."

"From the left: clutch, brake, gas," Wesley pointed at the three pedals on the driver side of one of the Academy's Land-Rovers.

Rowan nodded and took a seat. He grabbed the steering wheel and let his feet touch the pedals lightly to get a feeling of their location. "Ok."

"Depress clutch and brake, and put in first gear," Wesley continued and pointed at the gearshift. "Then slowly ease on the clutch, move your right foot from brake to gas and step lightly on it as you ease the clutch further."

Rowan did as Wesley instructed. It felt easy enough.

"Do you want try next with the engine on?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Depress clutch and brake again, gear on neutral... that's the centre position. Then turn the ignition key all the way clockwise. When the engine starts, slowly let the key turn back a notch."

"Done," Rowan nodded as the engine roared to life.

"Now, put in first gear, ease on the clutch, right foot from brake to gas and..."

*STUMP*

"What?" Rowan blurted out in bafflement and slight irritation.

"Ummm..." Wesley tried to hide a smile. "That's perfectly normal. Hardly anyone manages it the first time. It will take a while for it to be imprinted in your muscle memory."

Rowan stepped out of the car. "Show me, with the door open so I can see your feet."

"Yes, Sir!" Wesley grinned in amusement. He had seen this a few times before; when things didn't go as Rowan expected, he tended to become... bossy. It was sort of... endearing, though. In "public" the Lehaïr projected a kind of effortless self-confidence but in these kinds of intimate little settings, Wesley has been able to see little slips in that façade that very few others had ever seen. He knew that, as far as years were counted, Rowan was over 80. But as a member of a race who lived very long indeed – unless they met with a violent end – that was most likely hardly more than what Rowan's passport said his "age" was.

"I think I've got it this time," Rowan's voice brought Wesley out of her musings and he stopped the car. They switched places again.

*STUMP*

"I'm beginning to understand Rupert's aversion to using modern technology," Rowan muttered as he tried again, this time concentrating on synchronising the movements of his feet on clutch and gas. With a slight purr, the car started moving slowly ahead.

"Well done!" Wesley beamed and started walking beside the slowly moving vehicle. "Now, depress clutch and move your right foot from the gas pedal to brake and step on that slowly. Great! Now gear on neutral, pull on the handbrake and ignition off."

"This will take a while to master," Rowan muttered to himself as he stepped out of the car. "Let's go for a short drive. I want to watch you do it in real traffic now that I know what to watch."

"Of course," Wesley nodded. "We could drive to Stirling for a quick bite. The traffic sign manual is in the back seat, so you can check the meaning of any signs we come across."

Rowan nodded and circled around the car to the passenger side. "Actually, there are a few things I want to ask you about."

"So?" Wesley prompted after they had exited the castle's private road to B818.

"You know how to contact Dr Mahuta. I'd like to talk to her and ask her permission to speak with Faith."

"I see," Wesley nodded. 'Why now, I wonder?'

"Faith values her privacy and is, as Slayers generally are, sometimes mule-headedly stubborn. Despite all that, she really treasures any spontaneous shows of interest in her by those close to her. I know all's generally well with her – otherwise we'd have heard from Dr Mahuta. I'll leave the final decision to the good Doctor, though. If she thinks my talking to Faith might not be for her benefit, I'll accept her decision."

"I know you care for her. Doesn't it feel... painful being away from her for so long?" Wesley asked curiously.

"It would if I didn't know why and how all this came to be. What she's doing is immensely more important than a year we might miss being together."

"I guess. For you, a year is just like... a blink, but what about her? Don't you worry she might... meet someone else?"

"If she finds someone better than me, she really deserves them," Rowan answered evenly.

They drove on for a few miles in silence until Wesley opened his mouth again.

"You had something else in your mind."

"Yes," Rowan nodded. "What do you know of the High Priestess of Britain?"

Wesley blinked a few times. "I'm sorry, who? I think you must be mistaken. There's no such title among the Witches anymore – hasn't been for centuries. Althenea Moncreiff is the current Mistress of the English Coven but she has never claimed that ancient title."

Rowan stayed silent for several minutes. 'So, that is not common knowledge, even among the Council.'

"What?" Wesley asked in consternation as the silence emanating from his companion started to become suffocating. He fell silent himself as Rowan turned to face him with a serious look on his face.

"Wes, I'm going to swear you to secrecy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What I'm going to tell you won't leave this car. I could make you unable to impart any of what I'm going to tell you, but I'll trust your word."

"I swear, Rowan," Wesley nodded. He was both anxious and excited. Rowan wouldn't request something like this for nothing.

"A little while ago, I met with Althenea, the Archdruid and the senior Great Officers of State. They had been contacted by the High Priestess who demanded an envoy to be sent to meet her."

"Who...?"

"Morgaine, the Duchess of Cornwall."

Wesley almost drove off the road in shock.

"No...," he gasped and somehow managed to keep the car between the lane markers.

"Yes, but not like you think. She is the inspiration for the character of Morgan le Fay but there never was a Round Table nor the Forever King. A long time ago she was interwoven with fiction to create a legend."

"But how..."

"Evidence suggests she is a vampire, Wes. A very old and powerful vampire."

"Anything?"

"Aha! 'Introduction to the Modern Novel. A survey study of 20th century novelists.' Open to freshmen. You might like that."

"'Introduction to the modern novel'," Buffy repeated in a monotone. "Would that actually require one to read the modern novel?"

"Maybe even more than one," Willow answered without looking up from the study guide.

"I like books," Buffy mused, pacing back and forth in front of her best friend who was sitting cross-legged with her back against a tombstone. "I do!" she confirmed seeing Willow's incredulous stare. "I just... don't wanna take on too much."

"Hey, 'Short story'!" Willow exclaimed enthusiastically. "Oh no, it conflicts with psych."

"Maybe I shouldn't take psych."

"You gotta," Willow almost pleaded. "It's fun, and you can use it as your science requirement. Anyway, Dr Walsh is supposed to be really great. Oh, wait! 'Images of Pop Culture.' This is good. They watch movies, TV shows, even commercials!"

"For credit?" Buffy asked incredulously and sat down next to Willow to get a look herself.

"Isn't college cool?" Willow chuckled.

"How did I miss that one?" Buffy asked and snatched the guide from Willow's hands.

"Well, you did sort of wait 'till the last minute with your course selection," Willow reminded her with a hint of disapproval in her voice. "'Nah, there's still lots of time. The Summer's just started', remember?" she asked with an acceptable imitation of the Slayer.

"Well, we are here now," Buffy tried to downplay her culpability.

"I just, you know, think it's good to be prepared," Willow huffed and took her precious study guide back. "Don't wanna be caught unawares."

"Well, I've been busy..."

"It's been the quietest summer in ages."

"... And I haven't had a lot of time..."

"Who said just the other day how quiet and boring everything was?"

"... to think about life at UC Sunnydale," Buffy finished her sentence unperturbed by Willow's counterarguments.

"It is exiting, though, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," Buffy agreed wholeheartedly. "But I visited Giles the other day and he said I have to be Secret Identity Gal again," she continued with a roll of her eyes.

"That makes sense," Willow nodded.

"Gonna be tough, though. With a roommate and all, but yeah, I'm psyched about college. I just need to figure out how it's gonna work with my extracurricular activities. You know, I just can't let it take the edge off my slaying. I gotta stay sharp." With that Buffy patted their stack of weapons on the ground next to her: three stakes, two crosses, two bottles of holy water and a loaded crossbow. "Is this guy ever gonna wake up?" she asked in irritation with a quick look over her shoulder.