Well. That was relatively painless, wasn't it?
Oh, hell. Up in the attic, poor Rose McGowan's getting humped by that runty bulldog again. Honey, just quit. It's not worth it anymore. As the other mutts in the pack busily rip various priceless antiques to shreds, Raige argues on the cordless with her boss at the agency. She'd like a little more time to return the dogs to their proper owners, you see, but the boss man's having none of it. Raige eventually caves and agrees to deliver the mongrels within the hour, just as Chris calls up from the parlor below to announce Piper's return from P3. The runty bulldog presumably has yet to come.
Raige and the slime trail spattering her low-riders trundle down the stairs to find Big Gay Chris distastefully toting a shrieking toddler through the main hall towards the sun porch. "Whose is that?" Raige sniffs. "Ask her," Chris gripes, nodding sharply at Piper. Heh. Apparently, some of the grubby infants' mothers couldn't retrieve them from the club in time, so Our Lady Of The Perky Martyrs volunteered to board them at the Manor for the rest of the afternoon. Raige is appalled. Piper obliviously floats onto the sun porch to place yet another infant in the already overcrowded playpen as Chris shiftily sidles over to the gape-mouthed Raige. "Is that the memory spell?" he murmurs, indicating the slip of paper Raige clutches in one fist. "Yeah," she confirms. The Fag and His Hag toss a pair of deadpan glares in Piper's general direction. "Cast it," Chris snaps. Hee. Raige wastes no time reciting the following:
Powers and emotions tied,
A witch's heart is where it hides.
Help her with her agony:
Bless her with her memory.
"Where they hide," Raige. Grammar-mangling bimbo. Jesus.
Piper's forehead glows white as a shimmering chord hits the soundtrack. She rises from the playpen, turns to face Raige and Big Gay Chris, and rather politely inquires, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" D'oh! Piper then proceeds to recognize neither her surroundings nor her son, who's squirming in his playpen with the other underage imbeciles. She's also forgotten her name. "Great," snits Big Gay Chris, snatching the sheet of paper from Raige's hand. "You didn't restore her memory. You erased it!" Way ahead of you, pretty boy. Raige, dismayed, realizes her mojo must have "interacted badly" with the Dolt's as Piper eyes an irritating gnat buzzing around her head. Piper bats at the insect, and ends up vanquishing a blameless hanging fern on the far end of the sun porch. "How did that happen?" she too-innocently gasps. Raige and Big Gay Chris fly to her side, force down her arms, and lead her into the front parlor, where Raige deposits her on one of the overstuffed armchairs with strict instructions not to move. Wait a minute. I think they reupholstered the furniture during the hiatus. I mean, the sofa and armchairs remain swathed in gaudy florals, but weren't the patterns darker a few months ago? Pardon? What's that? You couldn't give a rat's ass about the décor? All righty, then.