Angel buttoned up his waistcoat, carefully handling the whalebone buttons. Vampires' weight could fluctuate over the years, albeit within a narrow range, but he must have been at almost precisely the same build when he had been cursed as he was now. His old clothing fit him perfectly, and Angel was both startled and almost amused to realize that he remembered the cut of the vest, the weave of the shirt, better than he had the name of Lord Dalton, his intended victim of a night ago.

Then again, perhaps this was only because he was concentrating so hard on the clothing. Angel had other things on his mind -- his complicity in the destruction of a world, their failure to understand Drusilla's plan until it was too late, what it had felt like to attack Wesley again -- and he knew if he let himself dwell on any one of those topics, he wouldn't think about anything else any time soon. He needed to stay focused. Everyone's futures depended on that now.

"This is so wrong," Cordelia said. Angel turned around to see her standing in the doorway of their adjoining suites, wearing a camisole, pantalets and a corset that, to judge by the stiff way she was holding herself, wasn't very comfortable. "I mean, I thought DKNY bodyshapers were cruel and unusual punishment, but this is crazy!"

The camisole was as modest as a sleeveless T-shirt, and the pantalets were past Cordelia's knees. Angel had seen her in clothes that revealed far more. And yet, as she stood there, she seemed more naked to him than she ever had before, and he couldn't think of anything to say.

Of course, he realized. I think of these as clothes that a man only sees if he's about to make love to a woman. So it feels more revealing to me than it is -- than it should --

"Ground control to Colonel Angel," Cordelia said, tipping her head to one side. "You're the expert on torture devices, right? So you should understand this corset thing."

Her voice brought him back to the matter at hand with a jolt. "Let me see," he said, motioning for her to turn around. When she did, he chuckled. "No, you haven't done it right."

"I knew it," she said, tossing her short hair. "I knew it wasn't supposed to be this tight."

"No," he said. "It's supposed to be a lot tighter. You haven't even pulled the laces."

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Cordelia's mouth was open as she stared at him over her shoulder. "How did women back then -- now -- breathe?"

"They didn't breathe all that well," Angel said. "You always read about Victorian women swooning, right? Now you know why."

Cordelia inched away from him. "Maybe I should find a different look for this party thing," she said. "When did the muumuu first become stylish?"

"I think that was never," Angel said. "You know, you don't have to get ready just yet. Fred or Gunn either."

"You're getting dressed," Cordelia pointed out. "Either that, or pajamas in this era are way more formal than I ever guessed."

"I have to take care of some things with the hotel staff downstairs," Angel said. "After that, I'm going to try to sleep too. We should rest today if we can."

"I am going to sleep," she promised. "I just want to figure out what I'm wearing, is all." After a moment, she said, a little more quietly, "Out of everything we have to think about -- that's kinda the only fun thing, you know? Everything else is so --"

"I know," he said. He rested his hands on her shoulders for a moment and added, with far more conviction than he felt, "We'll figure it out, Cordy."

"You're a liar," she said gently. "And I love you for it."

Angel's stomach did a weird and not unwelcome flip-flop, but the moment was broken by Fred coming through the door in her own voluminous period underwear. The sight didn't have the same effect on Angel as seeing Cordelia had. "Corsets are supposed to be tight, aren't they?" Fred said, wrinkling her nose. "This thing is falling off me."

Angel said, "You're skinnier than most upper-class women of this era, Fred. You probably won't need a corset." He considered it for a moment. "You might actually want some padding. You should find something in those trunks."

"Padding?" Fred blushed a brilliant pink color.

"My girl don't need no padding," Gunn said, following Fred through the doorway and hugging her around the back. She smiled, reassured, and snuggled against him as he held up an arm encased in a wide sleeve. "What I want to know is, what are these baggy-ass shirts? You couldn't tuck these things in --"

"They're nightshirts," Angel said. "For sleeping."

"Oh," Gunn said, trying to drape his shirt around him a little more tightly. "Y'know, I'd sleep in boxers if it wasn't so damn cold in here."

Angel looked underneath the bed and lifted out a brass pan with a hinged lid. "You could use this."

Gunn looked at the object doubtfully. "For what?"

"It's a bed warmer," Angel said. He lifted the lid of the pan in demonstration. "You put hot ashes from the fire in there and then set it between the sheets."

Gunn considered the bed-warmer, then the nightshirt he wore. "So I get to burn to death in bed AND look stupid at the same time. Gee, I'm loving the nineteenth century more every minute."

Angel personally thought he'd take a nightshirt over Gunn's Dockers any day of the week, but he decided against mentioning it. Putting the bed warmer back where he had found it, he said, "I'll get one of the servants to bring up a tea tray and leave it at the door; I can bring it in when I get back upstairs."

"So what is it you're working out with the bellhops?" Cordelia said. "Continental breakfast? The hours for the sauna?"

"There are some things we'll need for tonight," Angel said. "You and Fred have ballgowns, but Gunn needs a suit and waistcoat if he's going to come across as the -- what is it again?"

"Caliph of Madagascar," Fred and Gunn said in unison, sharing another smile.

"I could order you what I'm wearing," Angel said to Gunn, "but I don't think you'd like it much."

"I can believe that, seeing how stupid these frock coats and cravats and what-all look?" Gunn said, shaking his head. "If that stuff is considered plain, I don't even want to know what counts as fancy."

"We'll still want to hire -- rent -- some jewelry for Fred and Cordy," Angel said. The jewelry, of course, had been missing from the villa; Darla would have taken that and left the rest. She'd always loved jewelry. "And Cordelia needs a wig."

"So glad someone said it," Gunn said. Then he caught sight of Cordelia's glare and pretended to be very interested in the fastenings of Fred's loose corset.

When Cordelia turned the glare on Angel, he said, "Your haircut's not contemporary. That's all there is to it."

"And yours is?" Cordelia gestured at his head.

"Once I brush it down, it won't attract notice," Angel said. "People will think it's odd that I don't have a mustache or beard, but it's not unheard of, and it's not like I can do anything about that in a couple of hours. But you can wear a wig."

For a second, he thought she was going to continue arguing with him, but exhaustion got the better of her and she yawned hugely. "Fine, then. Get them to send up dinner later, Angel. I'm sleepier than I am hungry. How about you guys?"

Fred nodded. "I'm too sleepy to be hungry at all."

"That's the first time this girl ain't been hungry in almost a year," Gunn said, hugging her again. "That's how you know it's serious."

"I'll have it sent up in a few hours," Angel said. "Okay, is there anything you girls need in your room?"

Gunn and Fred exchanged a look. "Um, Angel?" Fred said. "Charles and I were sort of hoping that, you know, we could, well, share."

Cordelia waved them off. "Go on, you two," she said breezily. "Angel and I will be fine. We've crashed out in the same bed before, right?"

"Right," Angel said faintly.

"See y'all in a few hours," Gunn said, drawing Fred back into what was now their room. As the door closed behind them, Angel heard him whisper, "Come with me to the casbah," and Fred's answering giggle.

Cordelia rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. "Young love. SO disgusting." Angel thought this was a little rich coming from somebody who called her current boyfriend "Grooie," but he let it pass. "I'm crashing, Angel. Be quiet on your way back in, all right?"

It would be far easier to deal with the prospect of getting into bed with Cordelia if she were already asleep, Angel thought; if she didn't notice him, then maybe he could pretend not to notice her. Or at least the poorness of his pretending wouldn't matter. "Stealthy, remember?" he said, and she smiled as she stretched back on the bed, her head falling against the pillows.

That particular mental image stayed with Angel as he went downstairs, negotiated with the hotel staff and described exactly what he wanted -- or, at least, came as close as he could with his rusty Romanian. When they asked him what dishes to send up, Angel was almost entirely at a loss; he had never been in the habit of eating human food as a vampire, and the names of the Romanian dishes meant little to him. He finally settled on what sounded most familiar and hoped it would be to the others' liking.

When he finally went upstairs, he opened the door to his -- their -- bedroom as quietly as he could. Cordelia was sprawled on her belly on the far side of the bed, tucked beneath thick covers. She didn't even stir in her sleep as he shut the door behind him. Relieved, Angel went into the small antechamber and undressed, peeling off his nineteenth-century clothing down to his twenty-first-century boxers, then tugged on a nightshirt. It felt odd -- he hadn't ever been much in the habit of wearing anything to sleep in -- but he didn't think Cordelia would be thrilled to find him sleeping nude next to her. Unfortunately.

He settled into the bed as gently as he could, trying to ignore the warmth created by Cordelia's nearby body. Just as he plumped the pillow to his liking and closed his eyes, her drowsy voice said, "Angel?"

"Just me," he said. "Go back to sleep."

'Mmmph." Cordelia turned onto her side to face him. "Angel, can I ask you something?"

Angel didn't know whether to feel dismayed or -- against all odds -- a little hopeful. "Anything."

Cordelia lay there, blinking sleepily, for long enough that Angel wondered if she was fully awake, or whether she would simply drift off again in another few moments. But at last she said, "I'm not even pretending to know how hard all this has been on you. I haven't been there. I couldn't know."

"I'm okay," Angel said, trying to soothe her back to sleep. "I promise you."

"I believe you," she replied. Her eyes were a little more alert now. "That's just it, Angel. When all this stuff with Drusilla started -- you were still on the verge. Don't even deny it."

"I wouldn't."

"All that stuff you said, about how tired you were. How you didn't think you could stand to start it all again -- I hated hearing you talk like that, but I understood. I really did." Cordelia propped up on one arm. "Here's what I don't get. When we did start it all over, it made you better. I don't mean all better; I know it still hurts."

Angel had forgotten how soft her voice could sound when she wanted. "Of course," he said.

"But -- you are better, aren't you?" When he nodded, she said, "Why?"

He looked up at the ceiling -- pressed tin, covered in sky-blue paint that was probably pure lead. He weighed his answer carefully before he spoke. "Remember what I told you about the spell the old gypsy woman tried to cast on me?"

"You mean -- the one where she tried to take your memories? Yeah."

"Not all my memories," Angel said. "My memories of Connor. She was going to steal those from me, and when I realized that -- Cordy, I realized that's all I've got of him, now. Those memories are the only way I have left to be with him. And I knew I'd never want to lose them, no matter how much it hurts to remember. That's all I have." Cordelia's fingers brushed against his hand, and he looked back over at her. "Connor lost his life, I guess. I'll never know when or how. But he -- he had five months. Five months when he was taken care of and loved. It's not much, but it's what he had. My son deserves those five months. If every other damn thing that's happened to me happened so he could have those, then -- it's worth it. It's all worth it."

Cordelia squeezed his hand tightly. "We'll fix it, Angel," she said, her voice hoarse. "We'll stop Dru. We'll make it all happen again."

"We will," Angel said. He remembered Rome in ruins, fire leaping to the sky, the shattered wreck of Wesley Wyndham-Price's body. "We have to."

Otherwise, the cost of saving the world could be Angel's own life -- which he could give up -- and Connor's -- which would be so much harder --

He rolled on to his side, away from Cordelia, not rejecting her so much as turning into himself. She said nothing, but after a few moments he felt her fingers in his hair, gently soothing him to sleep.

It was a measure of his exhaustion that it worked.

Angelus hadn't slept in -- how long had it been? Weeks, months, years? He'd lost track of time. But the tiny part of his mind that was still clinging stubbornly to sanity insisted the sun had blazed through the single window of the barn twice since he'd stumbled into it, blindly seeking shelter from the dawn. Two sunrises, and the sun had not yet set a second time. Less than two days had passed. Two days that might as well have been an eternity.

("I would die now," the man whispered, his hand outstretched toward the body of his wife. "I would seek death, that she should not be alone a moment longer in heaven." Maggots crawled out from under the bridal veil; Angelus' merry joke had been to show young lovers how transient was the flesh. But the groom had continued to profess his love even when Angelus had made him watch his bride rot in front of him over the course of weeks, and now the joke was growing tiresome. He broke the groom's neck and closed the cellar door behind him as he left, but the man had been smiling as he died and Angelus had not until this moment understood why, or comprehended the extent of his defeat.)

("Show mercy, sir," the girl begged. She was fresh-faced and slight, and he pinned her down easily. "For the love of God, show mercy." He had replied he had no love for God, but he would show her love of a different kind, love that would make her bleed. Now he felt her under him again, yet somehow all memory of pleasure in the act was eclipsed by the look in her eyes as she pleaded for her dignity, her virtue and finally her life. He had not even paused.)

("You are not my son," his mother said. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the rosary; a useless gesture, no saints could save her now. He flinched from the sight of it, but it could not turn him back. "You are not my son," his mother had said with bright, sorrowful eyes, "for my son had a good soul." He had laughed in her face and drained her dry, but now her words were like hot needles under his skin: My son had a good soul.)

Angelus shuddered and clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the clamor of voices that threatened to deafen him with their screams and pleas. They only grew louder. He closed his eyes, but the faces that floated in front of him simply became more vivid. He writhed and gasped on the floor of the barn like a drowning man, swallowed up by a rising tide of revulsion and guilt. Once, he regained his senses enough to see he had ripped open his shirt and was tearing at his face, his chest, his hands, his nails leaving deep scores in his skin, as if he could dig the soul out with his bare hands. He heard screaming, and it was only hours later that the raw pain in his throat finally made him realize the screams were his own.

And when his strength was spent and his voice reduced to a croak, the parade of horrors in his mind had still barely begun.

There had to be a way to make it stop.

Angelus looked up and saw the wide shaft of sunlight which slanted through the barn's single high window, and realized there was.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to move toward the light. He was weak, exhausted by the physical and mental tortures of the past days, and he didn't have the strength to stand. So he half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward the shaft of sunlight, feeling his skin prickle with every inch nearer he came to it.

At last, he lay beside the pool of sunlight. If he lay here long enough, the movement of the sun would claim him of its own accord. Or, if he chose, he could simply roll into it right now. He lay still as he contemplated both possibilities, feeling a kind of relief that the voices would soon fall silent. Above him, particles of dust from the hay glinted as they traced random paths lazily through the air. It was an ordinary sight which Angelus had never consciously noticed before, yet suddenly he found it extraordinarily beautiful.

("I'm an angel!" his sister laughed. She was dancing in the sunlight under the barn's window, while he lay on the soft, newly-cut hay and applauded her efforts. Her faith was the simple belief of a child; she'd thought that every sunbeam was a soul ascending to heaven, borne on angels' wings. She had loved him without reservation or condition, and the gift he had given her in return had been death.)

Every sunbeam a soul ascending --

The shaft of sunlight moved a fraction closer to him, and he felt his fingertips begin to burn. With the pain came an emotion Angelus had not known in over 150 years -- fear.

A creature with a soul was a creature that could be judged. And the burning that followed would not last for seconds, but for all eternity.

He snatched his hand back from the light and scrambled back into the shadows. As he cowered there, the full horror of his situation began to sink in. There was no choice he could make to end this torment, no possible release from his sentence. He would suffer forever.

Forever.

Unless --

Darla could rescue him. She had made him once; she could make him again, restore him, recreate him. And he would be grateful, so grateful, if only she would come and make this stop, make it all go away --

("They gave you a soul," Darla said. She laid her hand on his cheek, her fingertips gentle against his skin. Then her nails became talons as she scratched her contempt on to his face. "A filthy soul!" she spat. "You're disgusting!")

He lifted a hand to his cheek, and touched the healing but still fresh scratch. "Help me," he whispered. "Please help me."

At the door of the barn, something moved. Terror gripped him, and he pushed himself into the darkest corner, huddling like a frightened animal. A human shape approached him, but Angelus was half-blinded by the sunlight, and he couldn't see its face.

Terror became wild hope. Darla. It had to be Darla. She had come for him, and now everything would be all right again.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding out his arms to her. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm sorry --"

In that instant, he saw that it wasn't Darla at all -- just a child, a peasant child, staring at him with dark, accusing eyes. Abruptly, the child turned and started to leave. Desperately, Angelus lurched forward, clutching at its feet, but he was weak and only succeeded in sprawling on to the floor. When he lifted his head, the barn door was swinging shut.

"Help me," he said again, but there was no one to hear him.

Charles grinned at Fred. "No matter what your dress is like, I don't think you're going to improve on the way you look right now."

Fred -- on the far side of their bedroom, pouring herself water from a pitcher -- blushed a little. Being naked in front of Charles was still a very new experience: a little embarrassing, but more enjoyable. Better yet was Charles being naked in front of her; he was sprawled out on the bed, more relaxed than she'd seen him since this time-travel craziness began. "Thanks," Fred said, ducking her head. "But I really don't think this is appropriate formalwear in 1898."

"You could probably get away with it at the MTV Video Awards," Gunn said. He folded his arms behind his head as she came back to sit on the foot of the bed. "Too bad. These old-timey guys don't know what they're missing."

"Nope," Fred said. Then she began turning the phrase over in her mind. "There's so much they don't know, so much they're about to figure out. The biggest revolutions in the study of physics -- they're only a few years away." Her lips began to tug into a smile. "Charles, Einstein's out there. He's alive, this very minute! He's not even that far away. He's -- oh, I don't know how old he is, but he's probably a disappointing student right now. Marie Curie. Niels Bohr. They're all out there, on the verge of so many amazing discoveries. And they don't even know it yet."

She wriggled happily and beamed at Charles. He didn't seem to share her enthusiasm; he was smiling at her, but a little sadly. "Is that what you're going to do?" Charles asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "If we get stuck here? Go do Marie Curie one better?"

Fred shook her head. "Marie Curie's going to be working with radium. Thanks but no thanks." Then she registered what Gunn had said and how he had said it. "You're worried about us getting stuck here."

"Of course I am," Charles said. He shifted uneasily on the coverlets. "I know I bitch about the agency, and not having any money, and the Hyperion being a drafty ol' barn, but -- you know I love it there, right? That's the best I've ever had it my whole life, working with you guys. Being with you."

Gently, Fred brushed his cheek with her hand. "No matter what happens -- you'll still have me."

The smile faded from Charles' face. "Where is that gonna be? Anyplace in 1898 that a girl who looks like you and a guy who looks like me can be together? I can't think of one."

Fred hesitated. She hadn't thought about that before.

Charles continued, "I'm having trouble even thinking of a place where I could work that wouldn't make me want to kill somebody, or myself. This Caliph gig is all right, but let's face it: We don't have the cash to keep that up for long. The career options for guys like me in this century? Sharecropping and being a Pullman porter. I guess I could give Africa a try, but that just means I'd have to live through a zillion civil wars. What's that you said? Thanks but no thanks."

"There's places in America that wouldn't be so bad," Fred protested. "There were people trying to make a difference. You could help. WE could help."

"What? Pal around with George Washington Carver? Help him figure out stuff you can make out of peanuts? I don't think I'd be real good at that, you know what I'm sayin'?" Charles thumped the headboard of the bed, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

They sat together in silence for a moment. Then Charles said, "Okay. Peanut butter. I could probably come up with that one."

Against her will, Fred smiled. Charles smiled back. Then both of them started laughing and couldn't stop. Fred was giggling helplessly as she burrowed deep into his arms. It was tragic and terrible, to be stuck in a time that wouldn't acknowledge who Charles was, everything he had to offer. But it was also just so incredibly -- stupid. So stupid you could even laugh at the idea.

It was stupid, but it was also real. And it was where they were, right now, with only an uncertain hope of getting back where they belonged anytime soon, or ever.

When they were both quiet, intertwined on the bed, she said, "We'll think of something. I don't know what, yet. But you're not going to be alone. We'll all be with you." She kissed him, just at his collarbone, before whispering, "I'll be with you."

"That means a lot," Charles said, stroking her hair. "But you know what would mean even more? Not getting stuck in the past in the first place."

"That's definitely Plan A," Fred agreed. But she could no longer avoid seeing their other futures, all tangled up in the past.

Cordelia realized, with a jolt, that synthetics hadn't yet been invented in the year 1898. Which meant that the hair in the wig she was currently adjusting on top of her head must once have belonged to someone else. Probably recently.

Whose hair was this? she thought. Did they, like, give it up willingly? Were there hair bandits? Has this been washed? This could be the hair of a nasty person.

She gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, then relaxed. Oh, well. Not gonna argue with results.

Instead of the short, blonde 'do she hadn't quite gotten accustomed to, Cordelia now had long, dark hair caught up in an elaborate upturn of curls. The style seemed really full on the top to her, but Angel had sworn this was the fashion. What were those old drawings? Gibson girls? She studied her face in the mirror and decided she enjoyed the effect. "I just realized I like big hair," she said to Fred, who sat beside her at the dressing table. "If I ever accept any other element of '80s retro, please shoot me."

"I kinda liked leg-warmers," Fred confessed. "And I used to think the colors back then were too bright, but right now they don't look so bad."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "No lie." Fred's dress for the evening was a brilliant magenta, and her own was a color halfway between yellow and orange. Pitching her voice to carry into the next room, she called, "What is it with these people? Did the world just switch over from black-and-white, like, last year?"

Angel's voice floated back, "In a way, yes. They only just perfected aniline dyes. People are enjoying the new effect. Besides, lighting's usually not as bright as you're used to. Your dresses will look better in the ballroom."

"Do you promise?" Fred said. Cordelia heard Angel laugh.

"Y'all got a brooch or something?" Gunn said from his place in the corner. He had on a black evening suit, around which he'd pinned the blue-velvet drapery as a sort of toga-sash, in an attempt to look Eastern. At the moment, he was struggling, with limited success, to create something that might be a turban. "This thing ain't stayin' tucked."

"Let me work with it some," Fred said, getting up to help him. "You think we could pin a feather to the front?"

As Fred began to fuss with Gunn's improvised robes, Cordelia put on her earrings. She winced as she screwed them into place; they were heavy, and they weren't for pierced ears, which meant that they felt as though they were going to stretch her earlobes down to her knees before the night was over. They were pretty, though -- elaborate and glittery, WAY too much by her own standards, but obviously right for the wig and the dress.

She studied her reflection for a moment. The dress had a deeper neckline than she would have expected; weren't these people supposed to be prudes? The puffed sleeves were extremely -- extreme. But as extravagant as all of it was, Cordelia liked it. Style was a thing you could sense, at least if you grew up making spring shopping trips to Milan. Cuts and colors changed, but not that sense that everything just worked.

She glanced sideways and wrinkled her nose; you could also sense when things didn't work at all.

"I look like a curtain tassel," Fred complained. She pulled at the gold lace at her throat; her wide skirts and the ruffles around her neckline overwhelmed her tiny frame. At least her hair was pretty; they'd gotten it to look roughly like Cordelia's wig. "How come the skinny girl had to be the one with no taste?"

"It's not that bad," Cordelia lied. "You would -- um -- be very visible in the dark. Hey, the gold lace might work as a reflector or something. Like on a bike."

"We're a couple decades before headlights," Fred said glumly. She returned to work on Gunn's turban-in-progress.

"You're beautiful in anything, Fred. And, on the bright side -- at least you don't look like one of those mushrooms in Fantasia," Gunn said. "Hey, Angel! Get on out here in your fancy-schmancy outfit. I could use something to laugh at besides myself."

Angel stepped into the room, wearing his own evening clothes. Cordelia felt a wide grin spreading over her face. Gunn looked utterly indignant.

"It's the new American fashion," Angel explained. "They're calling it the tuxedo. I think it might catch on."

His face was serious, but there was humor in his eyes which Cordelia recognized and welcomed with relief. He hadn't just been trying to reassure her when he'd told her he had a reason to keep going; he'd been telling the truth. Angel really was going to be okay.

"You look great," she said. "Very debonair."

It was a simple enough compliment, but Angel seemed to like it. That man is such a fool about clothes, Cordelia thought. No wonder we get along. He straightened his bow tie, and she stood up and pirouetted for his inspection. When she met Angel's eyes again, he was smiling warmly at her. "This century suits you," he said softly.

"Kinda on the fence about the puffed sleeves," Cordelia said. "But I love the earrings. Very bling-bling." As she had expected, Angel's face clouded in confusion; Angel's world and the world of bling-bling did not mix.

"I coulda had a tux?" Gunn said. "Angel, you are in some deep trouble. Why didn't you tell me you were getting a tux?"

Angel frowned. "When we went to the ballet, you complained about your tuxedo all night. I figured you wouldn't want one."

Gunn held up the blue velvet. "You figured I'd rather wear curtains?" Angel shrugged.

Fred said soothingly, "Just think, Charles. You only have to wear the turban once, but you can tell the story forever."

"I'm not telling anybody about this," Gunn said, pinning a fairly competent turban in place at last. "And neither are y'all. Are we clear on that?"

"Let's just get a game plan together," Cordelia said. She took another sip of the sticky-sweet liqueur Angel had ordered, resolving never to drink plum brandy again. "First of all, let's go for the worst-case scenario. How long do we give your vampire family to show up? Ten minutes? Two hours?"

"More like two hours," Angel said, instantly businesslike again. "Not much more than that -- but after two hours, we should worry."

"Darla liked to be fashionably late?" Cordelia guessed.

He looked a little uncomfortable as he shook his head. "You just never knew when she'd decide to kill someone on the way."

"So, if they don't show, what do we do next?" Gunn said. "Start searching Sighisoara? You can maybe use your vamp radar --"

"That's going to be harder to do here," Angel said. "Romania is thick with vampires, particularly in this era. I'd still know if one of the vampires of my line were very close, but it's going to be more difficult to pick them out from this crowd."

Cordelia didn't like the sound of that, but then, it had been a while since she'd liked the sound of any of this. "That means -- you want us to go to the gypsies? That's not going to cut it, Angel. WE might have accepted that they've got to die for the greater good of the future, but I'm guessing they might not see it that way. Particularly coming from you."

"I realize that," Angel replied. "We'll just have to watch them. Wait for Darla and Spike and Dru to make their move. Then -- we'll have to take it from there."

Fred ducked her head. "You mean we might have to kill the gypsies ourselves?"

They were all quiet for a while. Angel finally said, "I don't know. The main thing is making sure they don't lift the curse. We might just be able to kill Drusilla and Spike."

Cordelia noticed that he didn't say Darla.

"Well, then, let's look on the bright side," Fred said resolutely. "If they do show up, we just stake Drusilla, right? Poof!"

"But that's gonna change the future too," Gunn protested. "I'm not saying Dru did the world a whole lotta good after this, but she did something. And we all know by now how easy it is to throw things outta whack."

Cordelia shook her head. "But the world didn't change all that much, really -- not counting what Angelus did with the Judge. That's a big 'not counting,' but seriously. Remember all that stuff Fred was saying in the museum, about Picasso and Warhol and all that? I mean, at this point, we're not going to get out without changing history. That's just -- done. We only get to pick the lesser of about ninety jillion evils, and killing Dru sounds like it."

Fred nodded. "The damage to the timeline is done, Charles. At this point, we can only minimize it."

"I just want to make sure the damage we do doesn't leave us stuck here," Gunn said.

"We don't kill Drusilla unless we have to," Angel said. "We don't do anything unless we have to." His voice was surprisingly hard, and Cordelia stared at him.

"Guess we'll see what happens when we get there," Gunn said. "Now all we gotta do is get through a couple hours of a 19th-century ball."

Fred said, "I'm guessing a ball means dancing. I know how to waltz, and a couple of reels -- I had to have a coming-out in high school. My grandmother insisted." When Gunn's eyes went wide, she added, "That means I was a debutante." He sighed in relief.

"I did the whole deb circuit too," Cordelia said. "So we're okay on dances, right?"

"Probably," Angel said. "But there's a lot you need to know -- for instance, you're all carrying yourselves wrong. You need to be a little less free with your body language. More controlled, more formal."

Cordelia stood a little straighter; sure enough, it made the corset's boning bite into her a little less uncomfortably. "More formal. Gotcha."

Fred said, "Is there going to be anything to eat? Not that those, uh, weird sausages weren't just great, but -- you know me and my stomach. Too much is never enough."

"Don't say that," Angel said. "Referring to any part of your body, except maybe your hand or your head -- that would be incredibly rude. There are going to be people downstairs who would be appalled that you said the word stomach in public."

"You have GOT to be kidding," Cordelia said. When Angel didn't crack a smile, she started to get even more worried. "So, swearing is totally out of the question --"

"Completely," Angel said. "Gunn or I might get away with it if we were speaking to another man. But not you or Fred. The two of you need to know how to hold your fans --"

"There's a wrong way to hold a fan?" Fred said.

"Holding them different ways means different things," Angel said. "You don't want to inadvertently offend or encourage the wrong people. Keep your gloves on at all times. And if anybody sends over a flower, let me see it. They all have meanings; it would be a message, not a gift."

They began their tutorial on the ways and manners of the late 19th century, and Cordelia listened carefully. But beneath her attention was a kind of wonder and unease. She was so accustomed to thinking of Angel as the one who was perpetually a little out of step; now that was her role. He'd had to show her how to turn on the lamps, what to use to brush her teeth, even how to wear her underwear.

She placed one hand across her abdomen, felt the confining corset beneath her ballgown. If they couldn't get back to their own future -- if they got stuck in this era, one way or another -- it was going to be like this forever. Always being a few steps behind, always relying on Angel to set them right. Unseen constraints holding them in a difficult place. Cordelia wasn't sure she could bear it. Does it feel like this for Angel? she wondered. Is the present as weird for him as the past is for us?

No, she decided. Nothing is as weird as this underwear.

Finally, as they got up to go, Gunn -- who had taken his place in front of them, befitting a foreign ruler, said, "What do you guys know about Madagascar?"

Cordelia looked at the others, who looked back somewhat blankly. Angel finally said, "Ah, it's an island off the east coast of Africa."

"Yeah, that much I knew," Gunn said. "I watched Carmen Sandiego same as anybody else. But I can't make two hours of small talk outta that. What else?"

"They have lemurs there," Fred said. "They're the smallest and most primitive primates."

"Lemurs. Got it." Gunn clapped his hands together. "What else?"

Everyone was quiet for another couple of moments. Cordelia thought back to a trip she'd taken to the San Diego Zoo. "Some lemurs have ringed tails?"

Gunn groaned. "This is gonna be a long night."

It was a good day to be alive. Or, in Spike's case, a good day to be dead.

Sure, the sun was high in the clear winter sky, which was hardly the ideal conditions for a vampire to take a walk, but any irritation Spike might have felt about the necessity of ducking between pools of shadow in the forest was more than offset by his good mood. Angelus was gone -- most likely because of some fight with Darla, given her reticence on the subject of his sudden departure. He'd probably be back soon -- those two enjoyed making up too much to stay apart long -- but in his absence Drusilla was devoting her undivided attention to Spike, and Darla had suddenly decided to let them have some fun for a change. As far as Spike was concerned, the longer Angelus sulked somewhere far away from the rest of them, the better.

If only the sun would hurry up and set, the day would be perfect. In other words, night.

Spike made his way through the forest, following a path that would have looked erratic to any observer, until they realized he was using shadows like stepping stones through pools of light. He was heading for a place between the forest and the main road to Sighisoara which his enquiries in the city had indicated was often used as a campsite by gypsies. 'Enquiries' wasn't exactly the right word for grabbing strangers off the street and terrifying them until they told him what he wanted to know, but Spike had never favored subtle methods. Besides, it had worked.

Suddenly he stopped, sinking into the shadows with practiced fluidity. Something was different in the air around him: almost imperceptibly, it hummed, set vibrating by a beating heart. A beating heart which was very close. Prey.

Spike grinned to himself. His good day had just gotten even better.

The sun was starting to set, filling the forest with an agreeable gloom that was more suited to Spike's senses and his purpose. He moved more quickly now, less inhibited by the shrinking patches of sunlight. The heartbeat was louder in his ears, now, but its pace was as regular as it had been when he first heard it. The stupid bugger had no idea he was being hunted.

It was more fun when they knew.

Deliberately, Spike stepped on a fallen branch, snapping it loudly in two.

The heartbeat suddenly began to race.

That was more like it.

Ahead of him, Spike saw a young man running through the forest, slowed by the low branches he couldn't see and Spike could. The trail he left was marked as clearly by the heady scent of fear as by disturbed vegetation.

Spike broke into a run, easily matching and then exceeding the pace of his quarry. The pounding heartbeat was a drum in his head, now, urging him on, filling him with a surge of strength that never failed to thrill or delight him.

A second later, it was over. The boy -- he was little more than a child -- gasped as Spike threw him on to the ground, then tried ineffectually to fight off his attacker. Spike briefly considered letting him get away, then decided he was too hungry to waste time playing with his food. Time to eat.

He let out a snarl and lowered his fangs to the boy's neck.

"Demon!" the boy shrieked. Spike's ear was next to his mouth, and the noise made him recoil.

"Bloody hell, of course I'm a demon," he confirmed irritably. "When something leaps on you in the dark and grabs your throat, it's not usually an encyclopedia salesman. Now hold still while I kill you."

"Demon!" the boy shouted again. There was fear in his voice, but also anger and a measure of determination that would have made Spike feel just a little uneasy, if the situation had not been so wholly to his advantage. "You may take my life, but you will not undo our vengeance. He suffers; I have seen him."

Spike wasn't listening; he was concentrating on pinning down his victim and exposing his throat. There was the jugular, a rich, ripe well, begging to be tapped and drained.

Again, Spike made ready to bite.

He heard something whistle through the air, and felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades.

With a roar, Spike got up and spun around, keeping hold of his victim with one hand while clutching at his back with the other. He had been hit by an arrow; when he pulled out the shaft, he saw it was a single piece of sharpened wood, making it look more like a stake than anything usually fired from a bow. He threw it down in disgust, and realized that he was rapidly being surrounded by a crowd of armed, torch-bearing men.

At least, he thought sourly, Darla would be pleased he'd found the gypsies.

There were at least thirty of them, and probably more coming. Spike relished a slaughter, but he relished his skin more, and those odds weren't exactly ideal.

He pushed his foot down on to the chest of his intended victim. At least a couple of ribs snapped under his heel, and the boy cried out in pain. "Your little friend here is still alive," Spike snarled at the gathering mob. "One step closer by any of you and he won't be."

The crowd now formed a circle around Spike, but it was no longer closing in on him. Spike kept his boot firmly in the middle of the boy's chest while he considered what to do next.

One of the gypsies -- a gray-haired man who was thin to the point of gauntness -- stepped forward. Spike growled at him, and screwed his heel down until the boy on the ground gave a low, gurgling cry of pain. "I think I told you to stay back."

The thin man stopped. Then, raising one hand, he started to speak, murmuring words in a language Spike didn't know.

Gypsies and their superstitions. Spike laughed and called out mockingly, "Sticks and stones --"

He broke off abruptly. The ground under his feet was getting distinctly uncomfortable.

Slowly, the thin gypsy lowered his hand. He smiled. The soles of Spike's feet began to smoke.

Bloody hell, they'd only gone and consecrated the ground right under him.

Spike leapt back, overbalanced, and put his hand on to the ground to steady himself. His palm sizzled, and he yelped. Now he was hopping from foot to foot, like a man performing a bizarre and frenetic dance. A wooden arrow thudded into his chest, too close to his heart for comfort.

Spike staggered backward, and the gypsies surged forward to help their fellow. For a brief moment, they seemed more intent on helping Spike's intended victim to safety than on pursuing his attacker.

Spike fled, limping on blistered feet and cursing liberally. Behind him, he could hear the gypsies celebrating.

Not such a good day, after all.

The boy -- his name was Ernst -- was still trembling as he sat by the fire; the cup he was cradling shook so violently the old woman feared he would spill its contents and add to his already considerable pain by scalding himself. But his physical injuries would heal, given time. That his mind would heal was less certain, if the dull look of fear in his eyes was a fair measure.

"Tell me what you saw," she said.

The gathered crowd fell silent -- no small achievement, as every adult member of the clan had gathered around the open fire which had been lit in the centre of the camp as soon as dusk had fallen.

"Mother Yanna." It wasn't the boy who had answered her, but Gregor. A giant by Kalderash -- and most other -- measures, he stood almost a head taller than any of the other men in the clan, and was respected for more than just his physical strength. Mother Yanna had been pleased when her daughter Ilsa had chosen him over the rest of her suitors; she had felt the rightness of the match, had sensed that the children of the union would be strong and gifted. Gia had been both.

"Mother Yanna," Gregor repeated, "the boy has been through enough tonight. Can this not wait until the morning?"

"It cannot," Mother Yanna said sharply. Gregor had the luxury of considering the wellbeing of one person; the weight of the clan rested on her shoulders. "The boy almost died to bring us news. He should at least deliver it. Speak, boy."

The note of command in her voice had the desired effect. Ernst gripped his cup more tightly and, barely lifting his eyes, said, "The demon suffers. I saw it myself."

There was a murmur of approval from around the fire. "Tell us more," Mother Yanna said.

"I found it hiding from the day in a barn. It shuddered and twisted like a man in his death throes, and I heard it weep and moan. Then it saw me, but I didn't run." As he told his story, Ernst sat up a little straighter. "The demon cowered from me, and its eyes were wild, like a man in a fever. It spoke to me."

"What did it say?"

"It said it was sorry. It begged my forgiveness."

Mother Yanna felt a smile tug at her puckered lips. "How did you reply?"

Ernst said, "I kept silent, Mother Yanna."

"Then you gave it the only answer it will ever receive," she told him. "We have given birth to vengeance, and now it lives and grows. You did well, child." At the other side of the fire, Gregor nodded in satisfaction. Beside him, Ilsa raised her head -- she had barely been capable of speech since the death of their daughter. Gregor took her frail hand in his powerful one and squeezed it tightly, as if he could transfer a measure of his strength to her. Then, looking around the assembled group, he said, "Tomorrow, if it pleases the clan, we will break camp. We will leave my daughter's ashes here, and take her memory with us."

All around the fire, there were nods of agreement. But Ernst had lowered his head again; there was something strange in the way his face was hidden, Mother Yanna thought. It was almost as if --

"There is something else you would tell us," she said, narrowing her eyes. "But you are afraid, because it is ill tidings."

Ernst nodded dumbly. Mother Yanna tottered around the fire until she was standing in front of him. She put her hand underneath his chin and made him raise his face so that she could meet his eyes. "I am old, child, and I have known more sorrow and grief than you. Do not spare me."

In a rush, Ernst said, "The other demon -- the one that came to us and claimed to be from the future -- it is still here."

From all around the campfire, Mother Yanna heard low gasps of anger.

"Are you certain of this?" Gregor asked the boy.

"When I left here before first light this morning, I went first to the house in the city where the demons had made their lair. I saw lights in the windows, and I thought Angelus had returned there, so I waited. Then a carriage came, and when those inside came out, Angelus was among them."

"What was his aspect?"

Ernst looked at her blankly. "Mother Yanna?"

Impatiently, she said, "Describe him."

"He walked tall," Ernst said. "He led the others to the carriage."

A suspicion had begun to form in the old woman's mind. "Where did they go?"

"To the Hotel Lebada, in the city. They have taken a suite of rooms there. I hid on the balcony and watched them through a crack in the shutters." With scorn that bordered on contempt, Ernst said, "Angelus was there, and the Moorish man and the two women. They were dressing themselves in finery. I saw Angelus smile and laugh. I could watch no more, and I left."

Mother Yanna nodded grimly as she began to piece together the sequence of events. "And it was as you returned to tell me this you happened on the barn, and found the demon we cursed hiding there."

"Yes, Mother Yanna." Ernst shook his head in confusion. "If I had not seen it myself, I would not believe it. The two were alike in every detail, but one was ashamed, and the other happy."

Yes, the old woman thought, the two demons were indeed alike. If the story the creature who had come into their camp had told them was not wholly a lie, the only thing that separated him from the vampire Ernst had found in the barn was a hundred years. In a hundred years, barely a ripple in history's wide ocean, the vengeance she had carefully crafted would be eroded completely, and the proof of it was currently staying in Bucharest's finest hotel and enjoying the society of the city.

Mother Yanna's hands began to tremble, but not with age. She was shaking with fury.

"The demon lied to us," Gregor said. "It said it would return to its own time as soon as our vengeance was assured."

"Indeed, the demon lied," Mother Yanna said bitterly. "What innocents we are, to have ever believed it could speak the truth."

Her voice shaking with emotion, Ilsa said, "Why can it not leave us to mourn in peace? What does it want?"

"It means to lift the curse," Mother Yanna spat. "To end its suffering. It seeks to undo our vengeance."

Gregor's face was grim as he said, "The demons have aligned themselves against us. They sent one of their number to kill Ernst before he could tell us this news."

Ilsa took her husband's arm, her face white. "Against a host of demons, what protection do we have? A few charms will not hold them at bay for long."

Another of the women nodded in agreement. "We have enough to mourn already, in the loss of Gia. We should flee, before all our children join her."

At once, a dozen or more voices started to argue and debate, and the crackling of the campfire was quickly drowned out by the clamor. Even Gregor was deep in debate with the two men sitting nearest to him. Turning away from Ernst, Mother Yanna walked into the circle of firelight, where everyone could see her. Then she simply waited until silence fell again, as she knew it would.

"Would you run?" she asked. "Very well. But how far? Show me a country where the sun never sets, where the demons cannot walk, and I will gladly follow there. Does any among you know of such a place?"

As she expected, no one spoke up. Mother Yanna nodded curtly. "We are Kalderash," she said. "We do not run."

"There are no cowards around this fire," Gregor said quietly. "But what if this demon from the future undoes our vengeance? What then?"

Mother Yanna reached into her cloak and held up a stake. Her arm, which was weak with age, ached with the effort, but she did not lower it.

"If we cannot have vengeance," she said, "then we will have justice instead."