Mayhem erupts as the business types, doused in champagne, proceed to slip on the now-underfoot amphibians. Chronic grabs for Phoebe's arm, but she pushes him backwards with such force that he loses his balance and crashes to the floor. "Are you trying to ruin me?" he yowls above the roar of the ballroom. "That's just the hors d'oeuvre," Mata Whori promises. "Wait until you see the entrée -- it's to die for." Oy. Mata Whori lunges for Chronic's neck with both hands outstretched, but suddenly freezes along with everything else in the room. We're gifted with an entirely unnecessary close-up of Chronic's frozen face before the camera cuts to Piper's hands. The camera pans around and up to take in her "oh, shit" expression before it tracks along with her in one long shot as she squeezes through the frozen throng, ducking beneath arms and skirting various remarkably still extras as she makes her way to the stage. It's actually a pretty cool sequence, especially because the last time they attempted a scene like this with a crowd so large, several of the extras fucked up and broke the freeze. Anyway, once Piper's reached the stage, she summons the thoroughly whipped Dolt, who orbs in immediately. "Whoa," he offers, glancing around the room. "Wh-why is Phoebe frozen?" he stutters. "That's not Phoebe," Piper duhs. "Long story. Let's get out of here." Piper and the Dolt latch onto The Whoresicle and orb up through the ceiling. The instant Piper dematerializes, her freeze breaks, and the general mayhem resumes. Chronic slowly rises to his feet, making "the hell?" noises once he realizes Phoebe's vanished. He gapes at the frenzy in the hall before glancing over at an ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower, which has decided to end it all by leaping from its perch on the buffet table to smash itself into a thousand glittering pieces at the rocky bottom of the commercial break.
Manor sun porch. Piper shoves Mata Whori into one of the wicker armchairs and flings a blanket over her nearly naked form. Over at the table, Raige has been delving through French history books in an attempt to figure out who Phoebe's supposed to be. "Napoleon?" Raige offers. Piper eyes the slutwear and snorts, "Probably not." "Phoebe's not our only problem," the Dolt reminds them. "That entire auditorium saw her use magic." "We'll fix Phoebe first," Piper determines, "then we'll take care of the Swarm King, and if we're still alive after that, we'll worry about it then." To get the ex out of the way, Piper suggests in tones that will brook no dissent that the Dolt head to Whitelighterland to check on the littlest Psycho. After a bit of feeble protest, the thoroughly whipped Dolt complies. Piper crosses to the Book of Shadows to work on a reversal spell while Raige tosses out a few more guesses: "Marie Antoinette? Queen Isabella? The She-Wolf of France?" "Now you insult me," Mata Whori pouts, stroking her arm hair. "I can't stand France." "Vital clue there," Piper notes, side-eyeing Raige as if to tack "you dumb-ass" onto the end of her sentence. Raige suddenly remembers something she noticed under the headline "Famous Female Spies" and realizes that Phoebe's been possessed by Mata Hari, whom Raige describes as "an exotic stripper in Paris, Dutch-born, double agent for Germany during World War One." Yeah, we'll go with that characterization, but only because I know better than to spot-check the boneheaded writing staff's "research."