"Yes, I daresay this qualifies as a priority, Rupert," Ms. Hartness says to him on the phone. "Don't worry about the Potentials. We'll find the other girls and send them to you in Sunnydale. Yes. Yes of course, we'll start looking into it immediately. Tell her . . . Tell her to hum. She'll understand. . . Yes. . . We'll find an answer, Rupert. Good luck."
When she hangs up the phone (rotary, black, wall-mounted, from the '70s), she pauses for a moment, letting the implications of what she'd been told sink in.
Her first thought, of course, is Willow. Willow who came to them muted and shattered. Who came to them expecting retribution and reprisal, and was nearly broken by their acceptance. Now, Marissa fears, things are going to get interesting. The power and choice is up to Willow, as it always has been. And from what Rupert has told her, that is a lesson Tara had tried to impart to Willow as well.
She wasn't even that close to the table, but even from several paces away, Ms. Hartness was able to see the guilt radiating from Willow. It was nothing new, of course. Everything Willow did was tinged with shame and emptiness.
"What's that, Willow?" she asked lightly, watching as Willow slowly angled the siddur into view.
Hebrew appeared occasionally in various magical texts. The Jewish mystics wrote copious volumes, and discussions of those volumes, and discussions of those discussions, and so on and so forth until there were entire shelves devoted to Judaic magical texts.
"Ah, yes. There's magic in just about every religion, did you know that?" Willow didn't speak, but her face adopted a curious-yet-pensive expression. It was more than she'd seen from Willow since her arrival, and Ms. Hartness took that as a sign to continue.
"Oh yes. It's in every religion to some degree or another, woven into prayers or rituals. And not just in the metaphoric sense. For the Buddhists and Hindus, it's in meditation. For some Christians, sacrifice. And in Judaism, prayers like those strengthen community, connection, and healing. If you're really curious, you should speak to Rachel. She can tell you more about it in greater detail. Came to us from an orthodox community in London several years ago."
Willow looked back down at the prayerbook, looking less embarrassed, regarding it with a new sense of respect. "She always tried to teach me." The words were hoarse and Marissa had to strain to hear them.
"Tara?" Willow's breathing hitched, just a bit, as it always did at the name, but she pushed through and nodded nonetheless. "I didn't know she was Jewish as well," Ms. Hartness replied.
"She wasn't. But she still tried to teach me."
"I would have very much liked to meet her," Ms. Hartness replied kindly.
"She would have liked to meet you, too," Willow trembled, eyes shining.
Well, thinks Marissa, it appears the opportunity may have re-presented itself. They have two witches to try and protect, now. And this time, she intends to be more proactive.
Rupert has given her a task. It's time to get to work. They have Slayers to find.
"Sorry I can't get it to work," Dawn says apologetically, the air mattress plug dangling uselessly in her hand.
Tara smiled. "That's okay, Dawnie, I think a proper sleepover will be better, don't you?" Dawn beams and for the hundredth time that night, leans in for a hug. Tara's arms open automatically, similarly craving the contact, one hand coming to rest on her back and the other cupping Dawn's head. The smell of Dawn's shampoo, the solidity of her body, the warmth of her seeping into Tara's bones . . . God, how she had missed it. Tears prickle anew and she kisses the top of Dawn's head reverently, holding her tight.
Tara pulls away, angling Dawn away from her to give her a wet smile. "C'mon, let's finish getting ready for bed."
They'd had a lot of sleepovers, that summer. At first, they could never coax Dawn in or out of bed. It often took her until late-afternoon to finally go downstairs, where she burrowed into the couch to stare at nothing until late evening and the process began anew. Tara allowed it for three days until finally she slipped under the covers alongside Dawn and held her as she sobbed until the sun rose, and their stomachs growled. Sleeping wasn't something she was doing much of herself then, either.
That was the first morning Tara made pancakes.
Things got slightly better after that, but at least two or three times a week, their door would crack open. Squinting against the hallway light, Tara would gently nudge Willow over, and Dawn would settle between them. They were just two lost girls, fighting against the nightmares of gods and girls and sacrifices. In the morning, Willow would be gone, having slipped out quietly, leaving the blankets tucked around them lovingly and the ghost of a kiss cooling on Tara's cheek as she went to go fight her own demons. Tara'd blink away sleep as sunlight caressed her eyelids open, and look down at Dawn—curled asleep, so small and delicate against the weight of everything that had been taken from her in her short existence.
Dawn beams back at her, looking like the sun, giving Tara's hand a squeeze before bouncing to her bedroom. Tara continues getting ready, bending to grab a spare toothbrush from under the sink. When she stands, Willow is lingering outside the doorway, hugging the wall as if to make her presence as small as possible.
Tara's heart gives a squeeze. "Willow," she breathes.
Willow fingers the trim of the door jamb, gnawing her lip, barely able to look Tara in the eye. The unfairness of it all flares hotly. Here she is, returned to where she is supposed to be, free from wherever she has been, reunited with her family, and yet Tara feels miles away. It reminds her so much of before—those long months apart, between the magics that tore them apart and brought them back together. When every conversation was tentative and unsure, every glance stolen and hesitant.
But this is fearful, wary. Faltering. For both of them.
"Were you . . ." Willow clears her throat, her voice giving out. "Was there pain?" There's a haunted look in her eyes, but at least she's looking at Tara this time. The tension in her shoulders relaxes in relief as Tara shakes her head. "Good," she says, breaking eye contact, returning her gaze to the floor. "That's good."
Willow, who always filled the spaces with words, is buried beneath the silence of them now. Tara knows Willow senses that she knows something about what had happened. But Tara, caught between fear and reluctance, is afraid to ask. Afraid to the see the lines form, to see the shape of what Willow had done. As long as she doesn't know exactly what happened, there is a chance . . . A chance the shapes can stay blurry and distant. She doesn't want to know the details of Willow's cruelty. Or her grief.
They are bottled up inside her now. Tara swallows, moves toward Willow, who immediately, but just barely, leans away. They both flinch.
Tara opens her mouth, looking for words but finding none. Her jaw grinds soundlessly.
Willow only nods, as if she understands, and musters a brighter demeanor. It doesn't fool either of them. "You should go join Dawn," she says with a shaky false cheerfulness before disappearing around the corner, "You know how she gets if you keep her waiting."
"Yeah," Tara trails off emptily to the hallway.