Epilogue

Rupert Giles emerged from the taxi in front of the home of his Slayer, on Revello Drive. He had gone there directly from the airport, feeling the need to see her first, before dealing with anything else. He blinked in the warm sunshine and leaned into the window. He paid the driver in rumpled American dollars, with a generous tip, and trudged up to the porch. He held a garment bag, a battered leather shoulder bag, and a heavy winter overcoat. His shoulders were slumped. His interview with Travers had not been pleasant. He'd been sent away with no information and no hope of getting any.

Buffy answered his ring at the door. "Giles? That was fast. We thought you were going to be there the whole week. Woah, look at you with the hugs."

Giles held onto her for a long minute, feeling the empty spaces in his chest refill. At last he released her and ducked his head. "Ah, well, I came back, er, early, at least in objective terms. Got absolutely nothing from the Council, and had a bit of an adventure." Giles moved his bags just inside the door and draped the coat over them.

"Yeah? Let's hear it! Hey, something weird happened the day you left. A courier arrived with a bunch of stuff addressed to you, care of me."

Giles was puzzled. "A courier?"

Buffy led him into the living room, where a long box sat. An envelope lay atop it, with his name written neatly across the middle. It was thick, a little heavy. The name and address of a firm of solicitors was printed on it: Murbles, Kingson and Forsyte. Giles picked up the envelope and slipped a finger under the flap. Paper spilled out. A thick sheaf, pages dark with copperplate writing. A yellowed envelope, addressed to him, in a messy hand he recognised with a shock. A second age-darkened letter, addressed to Buffy, in his own handwriting. Oh, damn, he'd left it behind, along with the instructions on how to get it Buffy. That was how Watson had known how to reach him.

He hid his own letter to Buffy in his pocket. Sentimental tripe, it was. Better she not see it. And he didn't know that he could keep his composure and read Watson's letter in front of Buffy. He set the papers aside for the moment and opened the long box. He caught a whiff of mothballs. He folded aside the tissue paper, and gasped at what he saw inside. He took out the suit jacket and held it up. Buffy quit pretending to straighten the magazines on the coffee table, and pounced. "Evening dress," he told her. "My tailcoat. Watson must have seen how much I loved wearing it."

"Watson?"

"I'll tell you everything in a moment."

Buffy took the other pieces of the suit out of the box one by one, cooing in pleasure over the silk and wool. It was perfectly preserved; Watson had done well. Giles left her to it and turned back toward the rest. He started with the sheaf of paper, curious what Watson had found so important to send across a hundred years to him. He looked at the cover sheet. His hand shook, but he smiled for the first time since the Council had told him they had no help for a rogue Slayer and a disgraced Watcher, no matter what the archives said.

Concerning the Hellgod Glorificus and the Dimensional Key
Prepared for Watcher Rupert Giles and Slayer Buffy Summers
22 January 1886