December 2001
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The Imperial Palace:
"Her Majesty The Empress!"
A low sound surges through the vast throne room, the sustained rustle of women’s skirts in deep curtsies, of men sinking to one knee . . . and Mary Anne finds her attention caught, briefly, by her own husband rather than the approaching Empress. Brandon, his cloak spreading and then settling about him as he kneels . . .
A nameless thrill passes through Mary Anne even as she lowers herself into her own curtsy. Never one to be insensitive to ritual and ceremony, she can feel her mouth go dry with awe-and, it must be admitted, nervousness. This is no empty rite, but a gesture of recognition that there, just there, passing down the narrow aisle of red carpet, is a great power. It is true that her people have ceded that power to her willingly and honestly acclaimed her from their hearts as fit to rule. And thus far, she has not betrayed the confidence of her people, but has ruled with generosity and justice. Nevertheless, Mary Anne’s heart beats fast at the idea of the formal presentation. It was different when she was at my wedding. A small inward laugh. I had something else to be nervous about, then.
Now, the sound of people rising to their feet as Her Majesty The Empress seats herself on the throne, her black gown glittering as if the night had poured stars over her body, a circlet of diamonds her only crown. Simple, radiant, and royal. Awaiting her turn to be presented, Mary Anne appraises that black gown, wondering if the gleam of it is due to something more than gems or metallic threads, remembering her own borasil body armour. It would not surprise her in the least if that gown could turn a blade or stop a bullet.
And now Brandon is drawing her forward as their turn comes to step up to the dais.
As head of his house, Brandon releases Mary Anne’s arm and steps forward first, to kneel before the throne and hold out his hands, palms together, in a gesture of fealty as he recites the ritual greeting: "Gracious Majesty, thy vassal, in faithful service until death."
The Empress leans forward, briefly enclosing Brandon’s hands in her own, in acceptance of his tribute. "For thy fidelity in service, our friendship and protection, until death." She releases his hands and smiles. "You are welcome to The Palace, Colonel Brandon. It has been too long since you were here."
Brandon rises to his feet, and now it is Mary Anne’s turn . . .
MA--joining in to say Happy New Year to all. (*Pop* of champagne corks)
And to thank Suzanne for another glorious year--on to 2002!! 8-), - Monday, December 31, 2001 at 18:36:13 (PST)
Flashback
Washington, D.C.:
This room was surprising well lit and held furnishings which were Spartan, but clean. There was a single bed in the corner covered in a floral print quilt and a thin pillow with a plain white pillowcase laying at its head. The curtains were eyelet lace and allowed filtered light to enter the room. Attempts had been made to dress up the walls with pictures. These looked to be cut from magazines and greeting cards and hand matted and framed, but they were tasteful and served their purpose. There was a dresser and a desk with a chair. The room’s sole occupant was a very old woman who sat in a rocking chair at a window and was clutching what appeared to be the card Herr Gruber had given the Wombat.
She was eyeing them now. Again, it was Herr Gruber who spoke first. “Where is Aleksei?”
“I am Aleksei.” The woman replied in a voice that did not sound at all old though laced with an accent that could have been Russian. Cynthia looked at her more closely and determined that she was probably not as old as her gnarled hands and grey hair suggested.
Anton’s face registered nothing. “I see. Then it is you who contacted me?”
“Yes,” the woman smiled. Though her bone structure should have made her beautiful even now, the obvious calculation of the woman simply made her look cold. “I am ready to sell the cross and I want to sell it to you.”
“Why to me?”
“Because you will appreciate it, and will allow others to see it.” Her eyes, a striking sage colour, glinted. “And you can afford it.”
“How do I know that it is yours to sell? I have no wish, or need, to deal in stolen goods.”
Good point Steel Fox. Cynthia thought to herself. Explain yourself Green Eyes. The woman looked at her sharply and Cynthia had the uncomfortable feeling that her thoughts had just been read.
Cindie
Happy New Year, - Monday, December 31, 2001 at 16:35:01 (PST)
"How do you think it went?" PL settled himself before the fire and accepted the coffee from Dana, wishing for something stronger. "How do you think I'd react if Sinclair came to me and said you weren't coming on the rest of the journey?"
"Well, it's a bit different with them, isn't it?"
"Different how? Is there something you're not telling me?"
Dana settled herself across PL's legs, looping an arm around his neck. "No, I've told you all I can understand of what Claire is going through. I just meant that we made the mistake of separating once. I don't intend anything…..to come between us again."
It hung unsaid in the air….or anyone….
The fugitives embraced gently, quietly, as the fire died to embers.
Dana
celebrating 4 years of FOF collaboration =), - Monday, December 31, 2001 at 14:35:53 (PST)
"...a perfect network of light which quite dazzles the eye..."
Now that's material to run mad with!
Early, again, but wonderful New Years' wishes to all. *clink* May this year surpass the last one.
R
(Suzanne, you'll need to be off the floor in time for the Brandons...), - Sunday, December 30, 2001 at 13:23:06 (PST)
Adriana - see the Whos Who link above for a brief description of how it works. Some stories here stand alone (like Magda's Sheriff story), others are linked together like the Interrogator story, the Brandon's and the Empress. Other stories are peripheral to that one, but may join up with it at a future time.
There are also parts of the story which are "behind the scenes" what takes place on the sets where they film "Flights of Fancy".
It may pay to read the archives to get an idea of how things work, or start with a stand alone story, if you are confused as to how the characters work together. Again, read Whos Who for a better explanation, and e-mail anyone here if you get stuck.
Claudia <claudia@paradise.net.nz>
- Sunday, December 30, 2001 at 11:48:11 (PST)
I've been reading back on this message board, and I'm getting a bit confused on the whole story line (if there even is one). I'm ready to jump in, but I'd really like to know what it is that I'm jumping into first... Sorry again for another stupid post like this. ^_^*
Adriana <earthqueenkaren@yahoo.com>
My brain's on the fritz, okay?, - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 18:26:02 (PST)
Ooops. Sorry. In the credit-where-credit-is-due department, many thanks to Rickman Admirer, Cindy and Miranda for baby info. (Miranda assured me that she doesn't really have a baby.)
Magda
Again, - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 17:13:19 (PST)
Correction made.
My kind of daddy.
D.o.C.
DoC, please remove "and for that" from a sentence in the sixth paragraph from the end. Don't know where that came from.
This entry is for everyone who worried that George was not being paternal enough. Happy New Year.
Magda
- Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 13:46:15 (PST)
Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart
I was more sober than usual as I dressed for the evening meal. This puzzle had ceased to be merely annoying and was becoming something worse. Pulling a new tunic over my head, I pondered whether to tell Joya of my conviction that the writer of those anonymous letters was dangerous. The trouble, of course, was that I had nothing but a nebulous feeling to back up that conviction. Would Joya settle for that or would she probe for more?
A sharp knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. The nurse crept into the room with Richard wrapped in a large bundle of cloth. She cast one nervous glance at me, then slipped to Joya's side.
"Evening, my lord, my lady. Here she be, all fresh from her nap and changed and everything." She laid her load in Joya's arms and stepped back, wiping her hands down her apron. "And all ready for her supper, she is."
"Thank you, Bertha. That will be all. You may return when we go to dinner." Joya nodded her dismissal. Bertha curtsied herself out of the room, pulling the door softly shut behind her.
Joya stretched out on the bed and adjusted her gown for feeding. I wandered across the room to watch. This thrice-daily ritual was fascinating, partly because of this tiny scrap of life that was my child. Richard might have been defenseless but by no means was she helpless. She demanded her food with urgent cries and arms that flailed the air like the blades of the great windmills that ground the peasants' wheat. (Joya claims that anyone witnessing this performance would know immediately that she really was my child.)
But my main source of pleasure from watching was the transformation in Joya when she fed Richard. In public she was a dignified and serene lady, fit consort for any lord to be proud of. In private she was a bold, adventurous - and exhausting - wench with long fingernails and a strong grip. But with Richard she was gentle, beaming fondly as she fed, caressing her hair with one finger and pressing soft kisses onto every inch of baby flesh. She delighted in every incoherent babbling sound and erupted into ecstasy the first time that (she claimed) Richard smiled. Now every feeding was preceded and followed by efforts to get the baby to repeat this wondrous accomplishment.
I climbed onto the bed and lay on my stomach with my chin propped on my hands. Joya looked at me but said nothing. Richard consumed her dinner with her usual dispatch and managed not to spit up too much when she was burped. Joya propped her on the pillows so that she wouldn't roll or fall over, then shifted around until we lay side by side. Together we gazed at our daughter.
It was amazing that she seemed to be changing almost daily. Her eyes were still the deepest blue but her fine tawny hair that had given promise of turning into gold had instead darkened into almost black. She would have her mother's eyes and my hair. It was a striking combination.
Joya nudged my arm with her elbow. "Well? Do you approve?"
"Of course." I nudged back. "How could I not? She's as beautiful as her mother."
Joya's voice was carefully neutral. "Then you forgive her for not being a boy?"
I reared back and stared. To my amazement, she was completely serious. "Good God, woman, where did you get that idea?"
She met my gaze directly. "From the name you selected for her."
"I explained that!" I was exasperated; she surely wasn't still on about that. Sometimes the mental processes of women are completely beyond me. "It's a good royal name, it flatters your half-brother - at a time when we badly need to flatter him, I might add - and it's my paternal prerogative to name our children as I see fit. Now let there be an end of it."
I turned over with all the finality I could muster when I didn't have the height advantage of a standing position. Richard was watching us with fascination. She alternated her gaze between us and blew bubbles with excitement.
Joya wouldn't let go. "We cannot have a daughter named Richard. She'll be a laughing stock."
"Who would dare laugh at my daughter?" I couldn't follow her reasoning. The idea was absurd. No one could be that suicidal, could they? Still, some deeply rooted masculine instinct told me that it would not be a good idea to continue the discussion in this vein. I had to prove to Joya that the name was good rather than argue that it wasn't bad. Like a combatant in a fight, I had to shift ground and look for a good opening.
Just in time too because Joya switched tactics. She moved closer until her body was pressed against mine from shoulder to ankle. My tunic suddenly felt far too warm.
"George." Her breath was hot in my ear. "I don't want to fight. Let's kiss and make up. Please?"
I knew what was coming next. No woman could send me into a fever like Joya could. Once she'd raised my temperature, I was like clay in her hands. I could deny her nothing when I was in that condition and she knew it. With what was left of my mind, I tried to think of some way to get the upper hand. Nothing occurred to me and rational thought was dissolving fast.
"Kiss me, George. Please." Her teeth caught my ear lobe and she bit down gently. "Just let me put the baby in the cradle first."
Baby? The word barely penetrated. I was confused. What baby? Oh, that baby! Of course. An idea loomed out of the hot fog in my brain and rapidly solidified. It was the good opening I'd been searching for. And best of all, it was the perfect irrefutable argument. I sat up abruptly and dislodged Joya. She fell back on the covers with a small shriek.
"Don't put the baby in the cradle." I hesitated. Better hedge my bets. "Just yet, anyway. I want our daughter's name to be Richard for all the reasons I just listed. For your own reasons - which make no sense to me but we'll let that go - you don't. So we'll have to come up with a way to settle the issue once and for all."
Joya brushed her hair out of eyes but made no effort to sit up. "And how is that?"
"Our daughter will make the decision herself." I jumped off the bed and crossed the room to Joya's clothes chest. Her ivory combs were laid out on velvet beside the oriental glass mirror I'd bought from the far east for her. I snatched up the biggest one. I looked around and saw what I was looking for lying on my own clothes chest. I picked it up and checked it over.
"You must be joking." Joya knelt on her heels and watched my progress around the room. "I realize that you have barely glanced at our child but surely you must have noticed that she is not capable of making such a decision."
"I disagree. I am fully aware of what our daughter is capable and not capable of." I strove for a note of austere supremacy. This was one fight I had to win, if my status of lord and master was not to be completely overthrown. "She cannot tell us, I grant you that. But she can show us."
"How?" Joya peered at me suspiciously.
"Simple." I returned to the bedside. "I will present her with two objects. If she selects this one," I held up Joya's comb. "Then she has indicated that she would prefer a more conventionally feminine name. And if she selects this one," I held up the other object. "Then she will have chosen the name that I want her to have."
Joya stared. "A dagger? You're not going to give her a dagger! For heaven's sake, George, she can't hold either of those things. She doesn't have a clue what they are."
I stuck the dagger and the comb into my belt. Then I picked Richard up and placed her on her stomach in the centre of the bed. She stared up at me and burbled strange sounds, saliva bubbling between her lips. I ignored it; when it was just the three of us alone, it didn't matter if things were a little casual. I knelt down so that we were on eye level with each other. It was time to explain what was expected of her.
"Richard. Listen carefully. I am your father." I would have to use simple terms and enunciate clearly. "Faaa-therrr. Do you understand?" Her eyes rounded and her small jaw hung open. Obviously she was impressed by my solemn tone of voice. I felt confident that this would work. Children need to be treated with respect for their intelligence. And my child was of course well endowed with intelligence. Beside me Joya muttered something. I squashed the urge to shoot a look of triumph at her; it might seem like gloating.
"Now then. Watch carefully. This is a comb." I held it up by the end so she could see it clearly. "Your mother uses it to arrange her hair and when you are older I will purchase a set for you to do the same. And this is a dagger." The semi-precious stones sparkled in the candlelight. Richard's eyes opened even wider, if that were possible. "I use this for a variety of functions that we don't have time to go into now. Ladies do not carry daggers."
Richard lifted her head to stare intently at the dagger. Her head bobbed up and down. I was pleased that she understood so well. It was the first time we'd had a serious discussion and I was prepared to repeat myself to get the point across but apparently that wouldn't be necessary. Truly a most intelligent child. I felt even sorrier for Marion and Locksley with their own offspring.
"Very well. I will put these objects down like so, and you must choose which one you like best. Don't rush now. Take your time. Make sure you're comfortable with your decision." I sat back on my heels and watched.
Richard looked first at one thing and then at the other. Her hand stretched out for the comb, hovering over it for a few seconds. I held my breath; there were few feminine names I truly liked but I would hold out for something regal as long as I could. Then Richard transferred her attention to the dagger. I exhaled again. Joya's muttering grew louder.
My daughter had taken my instructions to heart and it seemed that it took forever for her to settle on her choice. But finally the head-bobbing and hand-stretching was concentrated in one direction and she lowered her hand to the hilt of the dagger and slapped it repeatedly with her palm for several seconds. She panted with excitement as the blade shimmered in the light. I picked up the comb and handed it to Joya.
"Looks like the decision is made, madame. What have you to say now?" I bestowed an empathetic smile on her. Winners can afford to show consideration to the losers.
Joya took the comb and examined it minutely. "What I have to say, sir, is not fit for the ears of our child to hear. Suffice it that just when I think I know what you'll do in any situation, you still manage to surprise me." She looked up at me, her lips quivering and then fell back on the bed furs, howling with laughter. Richard started at the sound and babbled loudly in imitation.
I shook my head and rose to my feet. "Come Richard. Mother isn't feeling well. Let's leave her alone, shall we?" I picked Richard up and carried her over to my great chair by the hearth. She was even more intrigued by the fire than she'd been by the blade. I held her up and laid her across my chest; her small body fit comfortably against my shoulder.
Across the room, Joya was still laughing. I sighed. Some people just didn't know the right way to handle children. It was a knack, after all.
Magda
it's turnip time, - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 13:37:01 (PST)
“Absolute rot.” Sinclair fumed. “What do you mean she’s not coming and …” starring PL directly in the eye “… why am I hearing this from you?”
O’Hara, pinned as a butterfly by a lepidopterist, shifted uneasily. An unwilling emissary against his better judgement, he thoroughly agreed this was none of his business, but Dana had insisted. Taking a deep breath he began “Do you believe in premonitions?”
Bluster subsided in Sinclair. It had been a long, vaguely unsatisfactory, day filled with disturbing reflections of a past life as he toiled to organise the final leg of the journey. Pleasures of the gaming tables had given way to memories of the Snake Pit Aces over Queens. Ducking as the bullet thudded the wood work, yes he believed in omens.
“And this has to do with Claire?” Raising a single eyebrow he invited explanation.
Claire
- Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 11:43:49 (PST)
Notice: all pasta-based items to be removed from The Interrogator's menu immediately.
Imperial Security
- Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 10:29:56 (PST)
My kingdom for a wet noodle.
I
- Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 09:54:17 (PST)
That's "listened" to my ROTN tapes . . .
MA
Forgive me; I haven't finished my coffee . . ., - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 09:06:09 (PST)
It's from ROTN?! ACK!! (slapping forehead) How could I have forgotten that? Fifty lashes with a wet noodle for me!!
This must mean that it's been TOO long since I've listen to my ROTN tapes . . . ;-)
MA
As if I need an excuse to listen to them again!!, - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 09:05:02 (PST)
Thanks, MA (link made)! That is a wonderful passage. One small correction, though; it's from Return of the Native. Your description of the Empress's Palace is dazzling as well. I must get used to living in such a posh place. :-)
Suzanne
Getting ready for my appearance. *grin*, - Saturday, December 29, 2001 at 07:50:08 (PST)
Throne room, Imperial Palace:
Not early morning, but evening. Not one ray of sun. But it certainly is a blaze of splendour, thinks Mary Anne as she gazes eagerly about her, remembering the passage from one of the books she had seen in the Library earlier that day. And there’s more than enough to dazzle the eye . . .
That had been another place, another Palace, but Mary Anne cannot help but feel something of the wonder that must have inspired that author, as her eyes wander about the hall, from the marble squares of the floor to the great columns soaring to dizzying heights above in the remote vaults of the painted ceiling. "Painted ceiling," indeed-I won’t see anything else like this, outside of the Sistine Chapel.
Velvet hangings. Lamps and chandeliers of crystal shedding rainbows at each flicker of the tall candles in their stands of gleaming brass.
And most of all, the throne: empty until that moment when The Empress will make her official appearance, but drawing the eye with its purity of outline against the red carpeting of the dais. The Excelsior, its white wings spread to embrace The Realm.
Looking nervously about her as she and Brandon are shown to their places along the central aisle, Mary Anne is relieved to note that she is certainly not overdressed for the occasion; judging from some of the apparel on display, her own taste might be considered a model of simplicity and restraint. And it isn’t just the apparel that’s on display, she thinks, trying not to stare at a low-cut gown in an appalling shade of orange. That’s some gown she almost has on. I wonder if her escort is wearing an orange Nehru jacket to match?
However, there is much to please her, as well. Her eye lingers on a shimmering creation in emerald green until it vanishes into the crowd . . . there, across the aisle from her, night blue with diamonds . . . off to one side, a flash of scarlet silk and a collar of rubies. That would just suit Claudia, thinks Mary Anne sadly, wondering what is to become of her friend. Is Claudia still her friend? She must be, I suppose. I think she is. I still care what happens to her-doesn’t that mean something?
And then her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp triple rap of the Herald’s staff, as the great double doors at the end of the hall swing open.
Mary Anne looks nervously at Brandon, who smiles down at her and squeezes her arm reassuringly as the Herald announces, "Her Majesty The Empress!"
MA--coming out to play!
The "Great Palace" passage is from Magic of My Youth. Suzanne, if you'd care to make the link? You see, I *did* remember . . . 8-), - Friday, December 28, 2001 at 18:54:38 (PST)
Flashback
Washington, D.C.:
Cynthia spent the intervening time in reviewing her messages and returning calls. In short order she had three assignments lined up. They were all interesting and together made an itinerary through London and Paris. She felt she ought to have been more enthused. After Ted’s death her friends flocked around with condolences and baskets of muffins, the D.C. version of casserole. After she steadfastly refused to be drawn out by any of them or sob on their shoulders they one by one gave up trying to coax her out. So it was that she found she had no obligations to see to now that she was home. About that she was quite enthused. She called her travel agent and gave her the information she would need to book the flights and hotels and she was done. A change of clothes into a simple pant suit of light green silk, a cab to Herr Gruber’s hotel and she was ready for whatever came next.
What came next was a short drive to the absolute seediest part of town. When she’d first come to the City as a college student and as cheap labor for the government, she had stayed at a residential hotel not far from here. At night the Metro stop, which normally would allow her to go west to her neighborhood, closed that exit and allowed one only exit to the east. This area. It was her first exposure to such a place and she shuddered involuntarily as the car turned down the street. She spoke as much to calm her nerves as to obtain an answer. “Herr Gruber, what is it that you are seeking here?”
The urbane German smiled, obviously well aware of the sorts of commodities available in this neighborhood, “A cross.” At his companion’s arched eyebrow he continued, “A gold cross inlaid with five emeralds. One at each point and one in the center reported to be fifteen karats by the current …possessor. It came from a church in Saint Petersburg, hidden at the time of the revolution. I have been given to understand that it is inlaid with other gemstones as well as the emeralds.”
“That must be a heck of a cross,” was Cynthia’s reply. What she didn’t add was that such an item had no business being in this neighborhood, if it were genuine, or legal. As to its origins, why would it surface and be up for sale only now, and to Anton Gruber?
The car pulled over to the curb at a building with delusions of being a store front. The windows were barred and the front door was shut tight, its window covered from the inside by a grimy curtain. They exited while the driver stayed with the car. A wise precaution, Cynthia hoped he was armed. She followed Anton to the front door which he opened. They continued into the room which could, if one was in a charitable frame of mind, be described as a pawn shop. There were items in glass cases from which were junk in any neighborhood. It seemed probable that the real goods dealt here were not on display. The proprietor, at least she supposed it was the proprietor, looked up as they entered the establishment but made no move to get up from the stool upon which he sat or to great them.
It was Herr Gruber who spoke first, “I have come to see Aleksei Andreavishch.” The man started and then began to make gestures of incomprehension. He resembled a wombat with his little black eyes and big nose. “Give him this.” Gruber handed the man a business card but Cynthia could not see what was printed upon it.
The man looked at the card, got up and exited, shuffling on short stubby legs, into a dim doorway at the back of the shop behind the counter. They stood there waiting for quite some time before the man returned and beckoned them to follow him. They were led down a corridor which did not even qualify as dimly lit and up a flight of wooden stairs. Cynthia clung to the handrail feeling certain the stairs would collapse at any moment, then let go when her hand encountered something vaguely slimy. Pondering all of the other places she could be right now Cynthia followed them into the room. Wombat mumbled something and left them, returning down the stairs.
Cindie
Come on all you little turnips, time to come out and play., - Friday, December 28, 2001 at 17:36:14 (PST)
Another good one, Miranda. Keep it up.
Magda
Some public acclaim this time, - Friday, December 28, 2001 at 03:44:13 (PST)
An unexpected rush of fear and nausea rushes over Miranda as the toast begins. What did Metatron mean when he said it hits a little closer to home? Miranda bits her lip and begins to think of all the possibilities, all more insanely impossible than the next.
Her thoughts stop abruptly when she feels Metatron nudge her in the side. She looks to him and he mouths, "Pay attention."
Miranda nods and looks forward to God who was smiling at her.
"This year our toasts goes to one of our very own angels. She has gone thru a lot these past few weeks. Her training is now completed. It wasn't what she expected, and as all of you know it wasn't what you expected." Miranda's eyes widen. She looks past God to Bartleby and Loki who are beaming at her.
God smiles at Miranda once again and continues,"But to get to my point, she is now carrying the newest addition to our Heavenly family. I hope this will solve her troubles. This is to you, Miranda." Thus the toast ended.
Miranda
Sudden. I know., - Thursday, December 27, 2001 at 22:39:58 (PST)
Okay, I've decided that I might take Elliot from Quigley Down Under. I gotta go rent it, though. Or maybe I can just claim him now and wait until I see the movie again to start up this thing here (I so very much want to call it RPing). Anyway, have a merry Christmas. And a few dreams of Alan, if you want. ^_~
Adriana <earthqueenkaren@yahoo.com>
Wow. It's Christmas. Again., - Monday, December 24, 2001 at 14:15:00 (PST)
Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, blessings and good health to all of you!
Julie
(adding self to toast, *clink!*), - Monday, December 24, 2001 at 10:17:19 (PST)
*picking myself up off the floor*
How MA expects the Empress to keep her composure in the presence of the Colonel in that... that...c... cl...... exquisite uniform, I'll never know!
Suzanne
*feeling faint again*, - Sunday, December 23, 2001 at 21:13:20 (PST)
Flashback: early morning, studio gates:
The guard stared after the retreating stranger.
Who did that man think he had in front of him? Had he written the word *stupid* on his forehead? Just coming here and demanding to be let in! Pretending to have an appointment with The Director in a few hours! Being employed here yesterday and wanting to have *a look around*! As if The Director would employ someone like that!
The guard hadn´t forgotten the accusing insinuations at the watchfulness of the security services after that theft a couple of days ago
The people who worked in this studio were well known to him. They could be described by a number of adjectives. Run down wasn´t one of them. Neither was creepy.
That man looked like Dracula in search of a coffin.
Jutta <Nero3768@gmx.net>
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. *clink of champagne flutes*, - Sunday, December 23, 2001 at 01:22:27 (PST)
When they entered the Great Hall the first people to come up to them, more like to Miranda, were Bartleby and Loki. This confused Miranda, since they really were not supposed to be there. They both take one of her arms and drag her away from Metatron.
"Hey! What are you guys doing here?"
"God let us come! Isn't that nice?" Loki smiles at Miranda and pushes her down in one of the chairs of one table out of many that were in the Great Hall.
"I guess so. But why the rush to get me away from Metatron?"
"We don't like him Miranda... I thought you would know that." Bartleby frowns and sits in a chair next to Miranda. Loki also sits.
"Why? He never did anything to you."
"Exactly. But he did something to you." Bartleby and Loki both sigh. Miranda looks away to where Metatron is talking to God when a wave of nausea comes over her.
"Oh, I don't feel so well anymore." Miranda winces and lays her head down on the table. This time looking at Loki who seemed to be admiring her. "Aw, Loki do you have a crush on me?" Miranda asks to tease him.
"Uh...No!"
"It's okay." Miranda reaches out one of her hands and pats his arm. Both Bartleby and her laugh. Loki turns bright red. A moment of silence takes place up until Metatron comes to the table and asks Miranda to come with him again. Miranda waves to Bartleby and Loki.
"Why must you always ruin my fun Metatron?"
"Fun? What fun? Anyway it's time for the yearly toast." Miranda sighs and continues to follow Metatron.
"Why do I have to go with you? Why can't I stay with the guys?"
"Maybe because this year the toast hits a little closer to home then usual?" Metatron smiles and takes Miranda's hand, pulling her onto the stage that was set up on the far end of the room. She sits down in one of the chairs as Metatron instructs. He sits next to her.
Miranda finally gets a chance to look around the room. Same as every year... Tables crowded the floor, filled with angels all talking to one another. Or as Bartleby and Loki seemed to be having, miniature foods fight. The room was decorated with Christmas decorations. Two trees were next to the door; both decorated in the same white decorations. The walls were hung with different colors of garland and ribbon. The stage she was on had the biggest tree in it, behind all of the seats. It was decorated with an array of different things.
Miranda sighs and looks at Metatron who is looking at her smiling. "What?" She mouths and waits for his answer. He shakes his head and looks back to God. Miranda shrugs and waits for the toast to begin.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Saturday, December 22, 2001 at 14:54:47 (PST)
Flashback
Washington, D.C.:
“Do you have artisans on your payroll, or do they freelance for the company?” Cynthia enquired, after Anton Gruber described some of the latest pieces which had been commissioned by an oil rich Sheik, who from the sound of it, actually had good taste.
“We employ the artists as much as we can. This way they are free to experiment with the materials. We have several studios but the largest is at the headquarters.” Cynthia nodded. “Now, perhaps you would allow me to come to the purpose of asking you to meet me today?”
“By all means. I am all curiosity.”
But you’ve betrayed none of it. “I’d like you to come to work for Gruber Glassworks.”
This was not what she expected. She’d only accepted a ride from the man for goodness sake. “I’m not looking for a permanent position, Herr Gruber. I like being able to pick and chose my assignments, to travel, or not, as I chose.”
“Of course, you require autonomy to act as you see fit. I can offer you that, and much more.” He outlined his proposal. Gruber Glasswork utilized materials in its manufacturing operations, gemstones, precious metals, and the like, to obtain the rich colours for which it was known. No, not the quality she was used to dealing in, but they also required one of a kind stones, not in the same vein as the Feuerstern but fine, identifiable stones. These were used in the special pieces and there was also the family’s private collection to be considered. It seemed he had determined that the skills she exhibited at the auction house were what he was looking for in an employee.
He was pleased to see that she was listening. He did not expect her to agree to his proposal immediately. Having observed her throughout the auction in New York, he knew she would be a good fit with the position he had in mind for her. That she didn’t know it yet was a matter which would be overcome in good time. He decided to play another card. “You are, I believe, acquainted with an employee of my son.”
“Oh, who would that be, Herr Gruber?”
“Colin Molyneux.”
All of the air in the room seemed to depart with a great whoosh, and then suddenly return to clap her in the ears. She smiled, at least she hoped it was a smile, “Oh, really? Yes, Colin was a friend …of the family’s. I knew he had taken a position in the private sector, but I don’t recall him ever mentioning the firm by name. Though I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“He wouldn’t. It suits him to be somewhat mysterious.” She really did smile now. That sounded like Colin. “That is better. I did not wish to distress you by bringing up unpleasant memories, but neither did I wish to deceive you in any manner. Mr. Molyneux speaks highly of you.”
“That’s nice. It is always pleasant to be spoken well of.”
“I hope that you will think over my proposal. In the meantime, I wonder if you would consent to undertake a small commission for me?”
“What would that be? You don’t want me to try and obtain the Feuerstern do you? I expect it would go well with your collection.”
He looked at her sharply, good, she had taken the time to investigate him. Not the actions of a disinterested party. Wondering whether she had done that after their meeting in New York, or after his telephone call this morning, he replied, “No. I would not expect you would accept a commission which would be adverse to another client’s interests.” She nodded and he went on, “I am meeting with a gentleman this afternoon. He has indicated that he has some items in which I may have an interest. I would like you to accompany me.”
“Why? If you already have the contact and he the goods, what do you wish me to do?”
“I would like you to simply accompany me. Give me your impressions, see what develops and act accordingly. Of course, I will pay your usual rates.”
And I’ll bet you know what they are to a farthing. “This afternoon? What time? I do have some business to attend to today. But if it is, say, after three p.m., I could manage it.” Her curiosity was roused, Herr Stahlfuchs had her attention.
“Half past three, actually. If you would be so kind as to meet me at my hotel at quarter past, we could drive together.”
“That would be fine. Where are you staying?” He gave her the particulars and they concluded the breakfast meeting.
Cindie
I'll take up a glass *clink* Happy holidays and welcome back to our latest contributors.
MA -- the Colonel *will* have the Empress swooning in her soup. Won't he, Suzanne? Suzanne, SUZANNE?!, - Saturday, December 22, 2001 at 09:00:37 (PST)
It does not appear that they will permit me a glass flute.
I
Do you feel my gaze on you, my old darling?, - Saturday, December 22, 2001 at 08:51:40 (PST)
Let it not be thought for an instant, readers, that Colonel Brandon simply stands where he is, content to be admired. No. In that same instant that Mary Anne had seen him and stood rapt, to gaze at him with wide eyes and parted lips, so Brandon had halted to look upon his wife with equal astonishment-and unease.
The gown.
After a moment, he recognizes it. Mary Anne’s wedding dress . . . altered. The long, fitted sleeves have been carefully removed, leaving her slim white arms bare save for neckline of the gown, draped to expose her shoulders. Her only ornaments, aside from her wedding ring, are a single strand of large pearls, and the pearl hairpins in her upswept hair with its strategically loosened tendrils framing her face and throat.
It is almost a breach of protocol, that gown. Almost, for the white silk is enveloped in wrappings of the Cantarian fabric that had been a gift to Mary Anne from The Doctor. Fine as mist, the otherworldly gossamer casts its multicoloured shadows, humming as it picks up the electrochemical signatures of Mary Anne’s body and plays them back in music.
That Cantarian fabric is nothing new to Brandon; Mary Anne had worn it to Renie’s wedding. But he is uncomfortably aware of how different it had seemed then, on a happy occasion-how much gentler, floating about Mary Anne in the rose-mists of dawn, the muted green of twilight, the azure of her own eyes when her gaze softens to tenderness and longing. Now . . . defiant spears of purple, and the blue lightning of the tempest, and crimson, unquenchable fire.
Brandon is the first to move, clearing his throat and nodding to the valet that he is dismissed and that yes, he and the maids have done well, very well indeed. After an inquiry as to whether their services will be required later, the trio slip quietly away, seeming well-pleased with the results of their work if their backward glances are any indication.
Brandon and Mary Anne are left to themselves-and Brandon slowly moves forward, drawn irresistibly, feeling himself near to some mad gesture in tribute to the woman who stands before him, though what gesture would be expressive enough for the occasion, he can hardly imagine . . . no, he can imagine, but this is no time to allow such thoughts to go any further.
Silently, Brandon offers his arm.
Mary Anne takes it, smiling up at him. "I suppose we mustn’t keep Her Majesty waiting."
MA--I "must away" for a short time . . .
so I'll leave everyone to feast her eyes on Brandon in his Imperial splendour. Happy Holidays! 8-), - Friday, December 21, 2001 at 19:46:37 (PST)
Imperial Palace, the Brandons’ rooms. Early evening.
"If madame should care to look, now?"
Mary Anne nods and steps toward the full-length mirror.
They had tapped at the door in the late afternoon-two ladies’ maids, accompanied by a valet for Colonel Brandon. Mary Anne, accustomed to tending her own hair and wardrobe, had been on the verge of declining their services for herself, but had caught a warning look from Brandon and gathered that it might be impolite to refuse. A courteous gesture, perhaps from The Empress herself . . . best to accept as gratefully as possible.
She had spent the next couple of hours trying not to fidget under their care. At least they had left her alone to bathe while they looked over her gown and accessories, assuring that all would be in perfect order. But almost as soon as she had emerged from the bath, there had begun such powdering and perfuming and coiffing as she would never have believed could be lavished on her in her lifetime. Relax and enjoy it, she had told herself, unable to keep from wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such attentions every day. To her sensibilities, a long, hot bath, a tasty meal by the fireside, and a warm bed are exquisite luxuries, but her sense of humour quickly informs her that she will soon be at ease in the Palace lifestyle. Oh, well. When in Rome, and so forth.
And now, as Mary Anne turns toward the mirror, the door to the adjoining room opens, and Brandon steps in.
Mary Anne stands rapt, literally open-mouthed. She has always thought her husband a handsome man, whether he believes it or not, and known him to be neat and respectable in his appearance. Not a vain bone in his body, she had often thought, regretfully aware that the same could not be said of her. But now . . .
Brandon stands before her in his dress uniform, but for an appearance at a Palace function, there are . . . additions. Imperial regimentals, no less. Not the simple white gloves that end at the wrist, but cuffed gauntlets reaching almost to the elbow. No swordbelt of utilitarian leather; that has been exchanged for one intricately tooled, oiled and polished to a mirror shine.
And-descending in unbroken sweep from Brandon’s shoulders to the floor-the full-dress cloak of an Imperial Guardsman. White, bordered in gold, and fastened at the throat with a clasp stamped with The Empress’ own insignia of the lily and sword.
Finally, Mary Anne remembers to breathe.
MA--hear, hear, R dearest! *passing flutes of Dom Perignon*
And trying to fill Suzanne's cape quota . . . ;-), - Friday, December 21, 2001 at 19:37:01 (PST)
I'm back! Of course I've added a million entries. You can tell it's me because of all my typing errors... That's my fault, partly my keyboards fault(it's keys are so small). But hopefully you can know what some words are. I wanted to do it in word, but I was to impatient! So Grat Hall is Great Hall, and comliments in compliments. Of course there are more but those caught my eye! Sorry for the interruption!
Miranda
- Friday, December 21, 2001 at 16:36:16 (PST)
Miranda sits down on the bed next to the bag. She knew what was in it, but then she really didn't.
She I go? There's no use in me going if I'm just going to be grumpy the whole time. Miranda lays back on the bed and realizes something. She'd been moody the past couple days, for no reason either. Someone could look at her and she'd explode. But hadn't she always been that way?
Again with the questions, Miranda. I swear your driving yourself to paranoia! She sighs and sits up taking the bag in her hands. Should she? The question came to mind again. She should.
Miranda stands up and goes into the bathroom to see what was really in the bag. She opens it and pulls out what was inside. It was a dress. A note fell on the floor, obviously from Metatron. Miranda bends over and picks it up. She quickly reads over it. The dress had been her mothers? That really made her feel great about wearing it!
She hangs the drss up on her bathroom door and examines it for a moment. The dress was a dark purple color with a black flower design in velvet covering it. The top was a made to look like a corset. The skirt part was long and flowing. For some reason the dress frightened Miranda, she didn't want to wear it.
Up until she heard Metatron knock on her bathroom door and ask what was wrong. Miranda hated when he just let himself in. She pauses for a moment, then tells him she'll be out in a moment. She takes off the clothes she was wearing at the moment and takes the dress down from the door. Here goes... She slips it over her head hoping it would go on that way. Luckily it did.
Then she remembered. I've worn this dress before! A year ago. I'm the same size now so why does it feel so tight around my stomach? Most of all how could I not remember that? Or anything... Miranda sighs and opens the bathroom door. Metatron was standing there waiting for her. He had on his usual. Of course...
"Are we going to go yet?" Miranda asks and sits down on the floor to put on a pair of her simple black, and purple, shoes. They didn't go with the dress but she didn't care.
"Yes come on. We will be late." Metatron takes her arm and they begin their walk to the Grat Hall, where it was being held.
Well thanks for the comliments. Miranda thinks and narrows her eyes at him. She turns and looks at the other angels also coming when Metatron looks at her. She hears Metatron sigh, so she smiles.
Miranda
- Friday, December 21, 2001 at 16:31:11 (PST)
Julie's Cubicle, FoF offices:
Julie couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong, that something was going to pounce on her if she didn't prepare herself. Tommy leaped into her lap and scared her half to death.
"Gods! Kitty cat, have you no manners!"
**Fine . . . if you want to ignore this b-i-i-i-rrrthday present I brought you, go right ahead.** Tommy purred, the voice in her mind reflecting the purr.
"Tommy, you know very well that my birthday isn't until Sunday." Julie reproached.
**I know that, dear, but you're going to be with your parents and your friends all weekend. When everybody demands your presence, it's going to be harder for me than usual to get your attention. Your being liberal with the kitty treats and catnip lately has been gift enough for me, so I brought you this.** From behind Julie's desk, the familiar drew out a narrow, oblong, rather small box, wrapped in purple paper. **Open it.**
Inside was a beautifully polished wand, like she'd seen in the **Harry Potter** movie. A tiny, Gothic unicorn was carved delicately into the handle. There was a small tag attatched to it.
//Your familiar spirit has given us a full description of you, including bringing us a magical imprint of your own hands. Using this information, we have sent this piece to you as a perfect match. Willow with a core of unicorn hair, and one of your familiar's whiskers, 15 1/4 inches. Light, strong and graceful of design. Use it well. Blessed be and good luck. Browning's of Chicago, Established 1850.//
The cat cocked his head, green eyes observing the tears in hers. **It's for the show. It won't work like a witch's wand in your hands, since you've missed your training, and the method was rather less personal than the one Ollivander's insists on, but . . .**
"Tommy, it's gorgeous." Julie let the wand fall lightly to her desk and scooped up the cat, hugging him close and crying into his fur.
Outside Julie's cubicle, Severus Snape listened as the girl responsible for his new job talked to mid air. She was very strange, that was certain. It almost took his mind off of how angry he was at her. He'd been flipping through the script the Director had left with him, and he'd been halfway insensed, halfway baffled by what he'd seen.
The story concerned HIM, and Hogwarts, and countless other things Muggles weren't supposed to know about. Not only that, but it portrayed him as truly terrifying. Snape snorted derisively as he remembered a few of the passages. It was typically what might be said of him from a student's point of view. It was true that he did everything possible to avoid letting anyone get closer to him than was absolutely necessary. His situation was too dangerous for the luxury of friends. Again, he was being misunderstood. Granted, he'd only read the first few pages before he'd grown too angry and disgusted with the whole thing to do more. . .
If she thought him a monster, he was about to prove her correct.
A loud knock on the cubicle door startled Tommy from Julie's arms. **Busted,** the familiar bristled.
Julie, almost on instinct, grabbed the wand and held it before her face like a shield. "Come in . . ."
Julie
Back from under the Christmas/Solstice projects I've been working on, - Friday, December 21, 2001 at 14:26:34 (PST)
Miranda sits against the toy chest thinking. Thinking about Metatron. She wondered where he was. With God? On a mission talking to someone who probably didn't know who he was? With someone else?
Miranda frowns at the thought of he last question. No Metatron wouldn't do that, or would he?
Miranda's face becomes pale. She begins to examine her fingernails to get it out of her mind.
She jumps when she hears a knock on her door. Hoping it was Metatron she jumps up and rushes over to the door. She pulls it open and smiles seeing that it is Metatron. He doesn't smile back. Miranda once again gets worried.
"Metatron, what's wrong?"
"I came to bring you this," He holds up a bag in his hand, "that Christmas party that God likes to throw every year is tonight. I want you to come with me this time as a date and not as a friend." He hands the bag to Miranda. He turns and leaves. Miranda closes the door and throws the bag on the bed.
How rude.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
on a roll!, - Friday, December 21, 2001 at 11:34:07 (PST)
The toy box had been left the way it was the last time Metatron forced her to put everything up. That was the last time she ever touched it. She had the faintist idea why though. There was no reason she shouldn't play with it anymore.
Miranda shook off the feeling and took out a small mirror that was in the bottom of the box. She began to examine herself. She loved her hair. It was just the right length for her, and just soft enough. But there was of course one problem. Purple strands of hair still had their position in the mass of black curls.
Another question hit her. Why the purple hair? She hadn't had it when she was a baby. It didn't come until she was four or five, even then it wasn't like it had been two months ago. Miranda blew the question off and put the mirror back in the bottom of the toy box.
Sighing Miranda closes the toy box and leans her back against it. She hadn't thought of any plan to get back at Metatron, she just had thought about those questions. And why they disturbed her so.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Friday, December 21, 2001 at 10:47:19 (PST)
Miranda sits up and looks around her room. Very childish, she thinks and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
It was true. Her room hadn't been changed, ever. The walls were light blue, her bedspread and sheets were white. Her name was printed on the wall it white letters. A small toychest, undisturbed for years, sat at the end of her bed. Her white dresser still had marks from one day when she decided to use it as a coloring book.
She couldn't say that she hated the room, she just disliked it. Metatron knew of her dislike for the room, but he still kept it the same. As if he wanted her to stay his little baby forever. Hid little baby with the black puffs of hair, the midnight blue eyes, and the palest skin imaginable.
But she wasn't that anymore. She wished that he would realize it. Especially now, since their feeling for each other are diffrent.
Miranda sighs and stands up. She wasn't sure how Metatron would feel if she didn't listen to him for a second time. Especially whining about how he treated her like a baby. She knew what his answer would be, but it wasn't what she would want to ever here. He would deny it saying he treated her as a 16-year-old even despite her proof of how he really treated her. She loved Metatron, but she knew that sometimes he could be so stubborn.
Miranda smiles despite these pessimistic feelings. She walks around to the foot of her bed and opens the toy box.
If Metatron wants the baby in me, I'll show him the baby in me!
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
A come back I guess?, - Thursday, December 20, 2001 at 18:46:31 (PST)
A gentle rustle of the curtain:
A very Merry Christmas (if a tad early) and Happy Holidays to everyone here (writers, readers, lurkers) and especially to my dear friends. The Merriest of All to you, Suzanne; our continued thanks for giving us FOF all those years ago.
*clink*
Still never too early for champagne!
And a big Diggory-Venn style hug to the gentlemen here . . . except for Hans, of course, something a bit more, shall we say . . . suitable . . . for him.
And I always have my eye on you, my old darling . . .
Renie
With fond memories of meeting my friends (you next, Claudia!) , - Thursday, December 20, 2001 at 14:05:52 (PST)
Flashback
Washington, D.C.:
Cynthia was showered, dressed, and ready to go in an hour. Chandos had been true to his word and she was now armed with details about her soon to be breakfast companion. When Chandos had begun his recitation, Cynthia knew she ought to have placed him immediately. Anton Gruber, patriarch of Gruber Glassworks, the premier glass company in Europe, indeed the world. They produced, not only glassware and glass panes, but some of the most beautiful stained glass ever created along with a truly incomparable array of art work and one of a kind pieces. Father of Hans Gruber, CEO of Hansbank, with headquarters in Los Angeles and offices in every major city in the United States, Europe and Asia. Former owner of the Abenstern recently gifted to his daughter-in-law. No wonder he wanted the Feuerstern, she thought. A few more choice details and she felt much more comfortable about her meeting with Steel Fox, if he was thinking of retaining her to make a purchase for him he’d no doubt already checked out her credentials.
She walked the few blocks to the Metro and was at DuPont circle by 8:45 and headed directly over to Truffles. Looking in the dining room she immediately saw that Herr Gruber had secured a very nice table which placed him with a wall at his back, a full of view of the restaurant and a view of the circle. The best seat in the house. She waived off the maitre de and headed over to his table. The Steel Fox, or Stahlfuchs, which she thought might be more apt, was attired as his moniker suggested. A perfectly tailored grey John Phillips suit, a grey and pink rib striped silk tie, and sterling silver cuff links inlaid with onyx and mother of pearl. When he saw her approach he stood and offered his hand in greeting. They shook hands and Cynthia determined that he smelled very good. Something like Creed Millesime Imperial, she thought, but not exactly. He gave her the same once over she’d just given him. Not vulgar in the slightest, but a very thorough assay.
She sat down and he did the same. A server was immediately at her elbow with coffee. Herr Gruber smiled, “It was good of you to meet me on such short notice.”
“It was not a problem, your timing was impeccable.” It suddenly occurred to her just how impeccable his timing had been. There hadn’t been any messages left by him or anyone from his offices with her service. By all accounts the call she had received from him had been the first. A coincidence? Somehow she doubted it.
“Good.” Goot. “I should not wish you to be inconvenienced.”
“Not at all. If it was inconvenient I wouldn’t have come. Besides, I love breakfast.”
Gruber smiled to himself. He appreciated the candor of this American woman. She was not impolite, but was straightforward in a manner he found refreshing. They perused the menu and gave their orders to a waiter who appeared at the precise moment they had made up their minds. “I trust Monsieur Leopold was happy with his new acquisition.”
She looked up at him sharply. Apparently the reach of Gruber Glassworks was longer than she had imagined. “Which acquisition would that be, Herr Gruber?”
“The Feuerstern, of course. That is who you were bidding for.” He did not bother to phrase it as a question.
“I told you that was confidential.” Her grapefruit juice arrived. All three ounces of it. “Now why,” she picked up the tiny, albeit lovely, crystal glass, “do they bother with these tiny little things? It’s pretty, but it doesn’t hold enough juice for a toddler.”
“I am glad you find it pretty. But perhaps we can get you something a bit more serviceable.” He lifted his hand off the table a fraction of an inch and another waiter appeared. “Could we get a larger glass of juice for the lady? Thank you.” The little glass was whisked away and replaced with another, taller glass of the same lovely design. She took a long sip, eying Herr Gruber.
“I hope you don’t mind that I secured the stone, for whomever might be its new owner.”
“Of course not. Now let us enjoy our eggs.” The food arrived and talk was of small matters. As she suspected the offending glass had been manufactured by Gruber Glassworks, as had all the stemware and plates used by the restaurant. She received a detailed but truly interesting overview of the company and its products which were more extensive than Chandos’ report had suggested. She certainly didn’t mind a nice breakfast and a verbal tour of the company before they got down to business.
Cindie
Just so ya'll know, this flashback is going to go on flashing for awhile. Cynthia and Anton are just getting warmed up. Palace material is of course 'present day' -- whatever that might be at FoF. , - Tuesday, December 18, 2001 at 18:19:35 (PST)
Thanks on behalf of everyone, "Fanatic". Just a suggestion: you might want to go to the Archives and read from the very beginning. It would help to keep the stories flowing the way they were written, especially as revelations are quite common. The descriptions on the archives page should help.
Magda
Also bored at work during year-end winding down, - Tuesday, December 18, 2001 at 08:09:12 (PST)
girls, you really got me hooked. i have done nothing else for the whole day than reading this stuff - I love it. It really is highly addictive. i've now read back to july and I just love george best. but so I loved the role so much. and the bed scenes are quite - steamy. thanks to you all and magda, especially.
fanatic
never get off this again - yes yes yes, - Tuesday, December 18, 2001 at 07:58:59 (PST)
The cell was dark. No light bulb to be broken and used as a weapon, or to hurt herself. No furniture, no bed. The walls padded and soundproofed. She could scream and shout, and no one would hear her.
Away from the Empress, away from the Brandons, away from HIM.
With no light, time would have no meaning. She could have been sitting on the floor for hours or minutes, she couldn’t tell.
Rupert was confusing her. She expected him to be the stalwart protector and adviser of the Empress, what she didn’t expect was Rupert acting without HER knowledge, acting as if he had an agenda of his own. If he did, what was it? Did he have some personal issue with the Interrogator? Something so big that he was willing to risk the Empress’ trust in him, and Claudia’s life?
She lay back on the floor, flat, and stretched out her arms behind her, making her bones crack, then brought her hands back, sliding them down her chest, and left them resting on her stomach.
She wasn’t sure what had happened between the Interrogator and herself. She had felt so certain of things when she looked into HIS eyes, that she had welcomed the feeling of confidence with open arms. Literally.
She still wondered at where the idea of being pregnant had come from. It was a good one. She knew that HE had a longing for a child of HIS own. Something to do with Renie, who had once been HIS wife. Perhaps they had a child once. The mission HE had sent her on, to change the hospital tests, had been more about claiming Renie and the baby as HIS own than hurting Hans. Of course, hurting Hans had been an added bonus. What was once mine, will always be mine.
As long as the palace doctors didn’t insist on a pregnancy test, the plan would work. She could imagine herself in flowing black clothes, hankie dabbing at her eyes. Please don’t kill HIM, and leave my baby without a father. Very touching. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house. And HE would be indebted to her forever.
Mentally, she counted back the weeks since she had been with HIM in the caves, the hidden lair of the Interrogator in the West Woods. She wasn’t even sure what day it was now, so she was guessing. But near enough, the dates would work out.
A cold chill ran down her spine, and she sat up, quickly, so her head span. The dates? Up until now, she had put it down to stress, not really thought about it at all. Had her subconscious been trying to tell her something?
Claudiaq
as promised... ;^D, - Monday, December 17, 2001 at 17:57:57 (PST)
FoF Sets ~ Cutting Room
Day Four of the Investigation
"Phil?"
Phil Allen looked up into the mirror to see Barbara leaning in the doorway. Their eyes met. From across the room, he could see the gold rings around her pupils. Bad, that was.
For a moment she stared at him, utterly without words. Then she pushed off the doorjamb with her shoulder and propelled herself into the room, mouth working silently.
"Barbara?"
She gaped at him for half a heartbeat, then her face changed. An expression moved over it, too fast for him to name, and her eyes fell to the new flooring.
"Do you like it?" she blurted.
"Like it?"
"Yes?"
Phil opened his mouth, briefly, then closed it. A thin line appeared between his brows. "Like what?"
"The floor...?" Barbara replied, with a trailing tone.
"The floor?" Phil looked down at the floor. The warm dark gold tiles matched the tones in the wainscotting, with subtle flecks of blue, echoing the walls. "Lovely, it is."
"But you do like it."
"Yes, I'm liking it a great deal."
"I'm glad," she said and blushed.
The incongruity of it struck him: Barbara blushed. Phil's brow furrowed further. "Are you being all right?"
"What?"
"Are you being all right?"
"Oh, yes, just a bit distracted." She gestured awkwardly over her shoulder. "I was on my way to take a gander at the Hogwarts sets. Do you want to -- um, come with me?" She frowned somewhat. "Since you inspired them."
"I?"
She smiled at him. "Yes, you," and poked him gently on the chest. She peered curiously at him, then met his eyes. "He's not a saint, you know. They un-sainted him." Her eyes stared off into a middle distance of Phil's body, somewhere between his sternum and his spine. "You know, there's a word for that..."
Phil swallowed and felt the medallion rise and fall. "Well, no saint am I, so's it's all for the right, then, so?"
Her mouth quirked, but not her eyes. "Saint Phillip."
"There's already being a Saint Phillip."
"Saint Phillip of Keighley, then. If they can use Catherine of Siena as a name..."
"There was no saintliness in the Phillip who lived in Keighley," he replied. "Saints be not doing such things as I did to Shelley and Sandra."
Barbara's face twitched with a barely controlled wince.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Phil and Barbara, back again..., - Monday, December 17, 2001 at 14:23:53 (PST)
Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart
"Come on." Joya tugged at the parchment in my hand. "I've got to get this one back to Locksley. I told him that I wanted to check it against another letter to see if the writing matched."
I surrendered a letter. It hardly mattered which one; they were identical.
She bustled across the room to the door. "We have to talk about this. I'll be back right away. Don't do anything until I return." A glance over her shoulder from the doorway, a quick kiss wafted through the air and she was gone.
I sat down again in my chair by the hearth and looked at the letter. From my point of view, there was really nothing to talk about. Obviously Locksley was behind the whole thing. He'd invented the whole story about finding the note at his manor so that he could hold forth in righteous indignation (a Locksley specialty) at my castle. He'd probably done it on his own without even telling Marion what he was up to. And then when they arrived here and made their ridiculous accusations, some doublecrossing servant of mine was planting this second letter in our bedchamber. There was no doubt about it. I stared down into the flickering flames. The only real question that had to be answered was why he'd done it.
And yet Joya's comment about comparing the handwriting to another letter stayed with me. I had been sure that the writing was unknown to me but the more I thought about it the more it seemed to me that I had seen it before. Not that it was familiar; it certainly wasn't written by someone who communicated with me on a regular basis. I crossed to my chest and opened it. Bundles of correspondence from a variety of sources were stacked up like small bricks.
I pulled the topmost letter from the nearest stack. It was Locksley's letter from a few days past announcing their imminent arrival at the castle. Holding the anonymous letter in my other hand, I compared the writing on the two documents. Not even close to a match. I put Locksley's letter aside and reached for another pile.
Joya returned just as I was setting aside the fourth letter in the first bundle. She breezed into the room and shut the door with a bang. "How that man can talk! I thought I'd never manage to get away!" She swept over and dropped to her knees beside me. "What are you doing?"
I unfolded another letter. "Acting on a hunch. You gave me an idea." I told her about my suspicions and that the writing was not Locksley's. She listened carefully, a slight frown curving her lips down and twining one lock of hair around a finger.
"So you think it might not be Locksley at all, then?" Her frown deepened and she looked at me with raised brows.
"Not at all." I bundled the letters together again and reached for another pile. "But I want to make sure that this writing did not come under my notice. If it was written by one of Lockley's servants, then I won't have a sample of it. But it's worth checking."
Joya reached for a bundle herself and began to unfold documents. "I agree with you that if Locksley is behind this, he's doing it on his own and hasn't involved Marion. But if he had one of his servants write it, wouldn't he be running a risk that she'd find out? It doesn't make much sense to me."
"Nothing Locksley does makes much sense to me. I wouldn't worry about it." I snapped open a copy of a lease from a clerk at the royal court and held it up to the firelight for a better look.
We sat on the floor for at least two hours, methodically going through every letter in the chest until we'd compared them all. We were thorough; when it was an official document, I compared both the text and the signature since they might have been written by two different people. Finally we'd tied them all up again and replaced them in the chest. Nothing had matched. My hunch had been wrong. We were back to Locksley again.
But as I closed the lid, my sense that I had seen the writing before was stronger than ever. Somewhere, sometime, not recently but not in the distant past either, I had held a document with that particular writing in my hand. And as Joya and I made our preparations for the evening meal, another feeling stole over me that was even more disquieting. It was an unpleasant, chilling feeling, as if I'd entered a deep, clammy dungeon.
Somehow I knew that the writer of those letters was dangerous, sincere and more than capable of carrying out his threats.
Magda
- Sunday, December 16, 2001 at 09:26:02 (PST)
Imperial Palace, the Brandons’ rooms. End flashback . . .
Brandon shakes off his thoughts when he finds them verging on the melancholy; that is something his wife does not need at such a time. Setting aside the book, he amuses himself briefly by wondering what is happening back at Delaford, how Eamon de Valera will manage as acting head of the estate. About Therese he has no doubts: he know she will enjoy herself overseeing the non-human tenants. By the time I return, she will have them all eating out of her hand. No matter. Her attentions can certainly do the animals no harm, and if tending to them will help to heal her . . .
Noiselessly, Brandon rises to his feet and moves over to the bed; Mary Anne is fast asleep and does not stir. As quietly as possible, Brandon removes his boots, shrugs out of his jacket, and unties the white stock at his throat, depositing these items in the dressing room set aside for him before returning to the bed and stretching out beside his wife. As he adjusts the bedclothes about them, Mary Anne stretches and murmurs, but does not awaken.
Brandon lies on his side, watching her. The volume of poems by Byron-abandoned in the armchair, but not forgotten . . .
Oh FAME!--if I e’er took delight in thy praises,
’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
MA
They're going to need their rest . . . , - Saturday, December 15, 2001 at 18:25:02 (PST)
Erm, I know I probably (more than likely) shouldn't put anything here, but I want to know what characters are taken and which ones aren't (and most likely, all of them are)... I'd like to get into this. Someone just e-mail me, for I am an ignorant fool.
Adriana <earthqueenkaren@yahoo.com>
Help..., - Saturday, December 15, 2001 at 02:45:37 (PST)
Flashback The photograph as it had appeared the day after found its way into her thoughts as she lay in bed, as it always did. Ted and the kids being pulled from what was left of the car by paramedics. The fact that the deaths of the Junior Senator and his two children would serve as a rallying point for the proponents of stricter drinking and driving laws was little comfort to the widow and now childless mother. She refused to be anyone’s cause celebre. The irony was that the man who had taken the picture was the man who had broken the news to her. Normally that task would have fallen to the police but Colin, who had been following them in his car, after dinner and a round of miniature golf, insisted that he would break the news, and in person. He had tried to get them out himself before the rescue squad arrived but the car doors had been too mangled and the jaws of life were needed to remove the bodies. There was nothing he could have done and of course they wouldn’t let him near the vehicle once the squad began its work. The cuts on his hands had spoken of his efforts and the pain on his face of the futility. At the time she’d thought it ill luck that she’d run late and couldn’t join them, at times like this she still thought so. As for Colin, Cynthia could not begrudge him the story. It was his first instinct and the fact that it was a family friend whose name was on the byline and the caption for the photographs couldn’t make her loss any more or any less, complete. He had been gentle but direct when he arrived on her doorstep that night. He stayed while she called Ted’s parents and sister. Having no family left of her own there was no one else to call. The media took care of the rest. Colin insisted on staying the night on the couch downstairs and was a solid presence throughout the proceedings and through the funeral. After that he left, back to his life. In truth, she had been grateful. Though nothing of the affair was his fault he was a too sharp a reminder of the void that was now her life. It seemed she tossed and turned all night but at some point she must have fallen asleep because she was awakened by the ringing telephone. She checked the clock, 7 a.m. She toyed with allowing the service to pick it up, which they would do automatically after the third ring. Before the report of what would be the third and last ring died away she snatched the phone up. “Hello,” she invited. “Guten Morgen, Fraulein Cynthia.” It took her a moment to place the voice. The Steel Fox. He identified himself and continued, “I hope that I have not called you too early?” “Not at all Herr Gruber. How are you this morning?” “Well, I thank you.” Cynthia smiled to herself at the *Vell*, he had a beautiful voice. “I was hoping that perhaps we could meet today to discuss a matter which I believe is of mutual interest.” “Oh, what matter is that?” “I would prefer to discuss it with you in person. I am sure you understand.” Interesting. “All right. When and where would you care to meet?” “Have you had breakfast?” The have came out as haf. She wouldn’t mind listening to that voice over toast and coffee. “No.” “If it is agreeable I have secured a table for 9:00am at Truffles on DuPont Circle.” Some quick calculations ran through her head. More than enough time to get ready and do a little snooping. “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll see you there.” Anton Gruber rung off and Cynthia depressed the receiver and made a call of her own. It was early, but calculating the time difference she thought Chandos would have been in the office for some time. She was rewarded with a crisp voice full of an enthusiasm that no one should possess before ten o’clock in the morning. “Chandos, its Cynthia.” She smiled at the exclamation of joy and surprise on the other end. She continued, “you did say I could call you if I ever needed a potential client checked out . I hope you don’t mind.” “No, not at all, I’m delighted to hear from you. How ever have you been?” “Fine, just fine Chandos. And how’s my favourite pooch.” “Rafter is doing very well. I’ve built a pen next to my desk and she goes with me wherever I go.” “Your stock must have gone up.” “Well, you know how it is. I’ve made myself invaluable and all that. So what about this client of yours, who is it?” “Its not a client, at least not yet. Someone I met in New York, I’m meeting him in two hours.” She added the last with a hopeful note in her voice. A soft chuckle greeted her ears. “I suppose you’d like the lowdown within the hour then? What would you do without me, Cynthia dear?” “Be late for breakfast I expect. His name is Anton Gruber, I don’t know much about him other than he sounds German, was bidding on a ruby worth millions and was in New York two weeks ago.” “Are you at home?” “Yes.” “I’ll ring you back.” “You’re a peach.” “Bye love.”
Cynthia’s House
Cindie
- Friday, December 14, 2001 at 17:23:57 (PST)
Have any of you visited the wonderful website www.sugarquill.net? There is fanfiction there about Harry Potter and others at Hogwarts, including Snape! I started reading one of the stories there and so far it is delightful!
Lee <charmquark02@yahoo.com>
- Friday, December 14, 2001 at 13:23:39 (PST)
"You'll have to go on without me." The words tumbled over and over in Dana's mind. No amount of reason or pleading seemed to have an effect. Claire had made no fuss; there was just a cool, calm certainly that a river voyage was out of the question.
PL appeared at her side, removing the cast iron cooking pot from her hands. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulders, Dana silently surrendered the burden.
"You shouldn't be lifting."
Dana shrugged, as much to ease the ache as to answer the accusing tone.
"You've done too much today-go sit down and let me finish here."
"As if you're not tired to the bone. I've sat by and been coddled enough."
PL blinked in surprise at her sharp reply; Dana was so even tempered by nature. Holding his tongue seemed the prudent reply so he settled the pot on its hook over the cookfire and stirred the contents in silence. Sounds of meal preparation and conversation from the nearby wagons drifted around them, filling the void of silence.
"Claire won't go! She told me so today."
Eyes wide with worry looked up at him. Settling a bowl into her hands he sat beside her on the log. "Eat your stew, then tell me all about it."
Dana
- Friday, December 14, 2001 at 07:55:33 (PST)
Somewhere in Egypt, present day:
Jack and David were the last to attack the stone pile, Jack taking up the rear behind the much burlier David. "Watch out!" Melanie called out when some of the small rocks fell loose from the pile and tumbled down towards the others. They covered their heads with one arm while the rocks showered over them. "Sorry about that," she apologized.
"Not much you can do about it," Alexander called back. "We'll have to make do, I guess." He looked down to see how the rest were doing and let loose a virulent curse when the rock he was attempting to make a purchase on loosened and broke away from the pile, making him slide downward a few feet before he could regain his footing.
"All you all right?!" Roberta cried in alarm, eyes wide with worry as she and the others watched him regain his balance.
"I'm fine, just a little banged up but no worse for wear," Alexander replied wearily. And very, very, sore... he added in silently. His eyes narrowed in determination as he sought another handhold and rejoiced inwardly when he managed to find one.
The group continued their ascent, occasionally holding a hand out to each other to help or pointing where a better foothold was available. They reached the top of the pile and looked down and saw with relief that they were able to continue along a smooth path once more after they got back down.
David's stomach growled in protest and he grinned sheepishly as the others laughed softly. "Sushi's beginning to sound really nice at the moment."
"I can't believe that I'm actually going to agree with you, but I'm *starving*," Roberta replied, taking a look down at the river before starting to climb down the pile. "It's that or eat my fingernails - what's left of them at this rate, which isn't much."
"Amazingly enough throughout all this mess, I've somehow managed to keep my pocket knife. Did anybody else manage to keep theirs as well?" Alexander asked as he also began his descent.
"I have mine," Jack offered, punctuating it with a sneeze. "Excuse me, *again.*" He rolled his eyes as he started climbing down cautiously.
"Same thing here," Melanie chimed in. "What about you two?"
Roberta and David answered in the affirmative and concentrated on climbing down the pile. "Shelley! Tom! Colleen! Are you guys okay?" Roberta called out, the rest of them joining in. The only reply was the sound of their voices echoing back to them. They stopped their shouting and finished the rest of the descent in silence.
"I'm really worried, Professor. We haven't found any sign of them at all..." Melanie said to Alexander as she stepped away from the pile and wiped dirt from her clothing with little success.
Alexander looked up from inspecting his latest round of injuries - skinned knees - and gazed at the redhead wearily. "We can only hope that the three of them are together somewhere, relatively unscathed and trying to find us." He paused for a moment and stretched briefly, grimacing as his muscles ached in silent protest. "You've known Shelley for quite some time, if I remember correctly?"
Melanie nodded, wincing as she touched a new bump beginning to surface on her forehead experimentally. "She's been my best friend since high school. We used to go on double dates and everything. We managed to get into more trouble than you'd shake a stick at." A small smile graced her features for a moment. "One time, we and our boyfriends at the time decided to drive to Vegas..." She stopped suddenly as she realized who she was talking to, her cheeks flushing slightly underneath the grime. "Uh, never mind. Forget I said anything."
Alexander's eyebrow rose and his lips twitched as she quickly walked away and knelt down at the river embankment to wash her face. Jack sidled over and frowned when he saw Alexander's face. "What's so funny?" His deep brown eyes re-focused on Melanie scrubbing the dirt from her face with a modicum of success. A sudden, violent sneeze that echoed through the passage exploded from him a moment later. "Whoa," he blinked away the tears that sprung to his eyes and shook his head a couple of times in an effort to clear the aftershock. "That was a bad one."
"Bless you," Alexander said with an audible note of amusement in his deep baritone voice. "It's nothing important," he reassured him.
"If you say so. Thanks," Jack sniffed, shivered slightly, and shrugged his shoulders, still gazing at Melanie with a very odd expression on his face.
Alexander's eyebrows drew together as his eyes shifted from Jack to Melanie and back to the younger man again. Noooooo... Can't be... But then again, why not? Stranger things have happened in tight situations, and this is about as strange as you can get...
Alexander shook his head, completely bemused, and tore his eyes away from them as Roberta and David approached. David stared at Jack, puzzled, but Roberta nodded smugly. "See, I *told* you - and *you* thought I was seeing things," she murmured with a note of triumph in her voice. David snorted in response.
That was enough to break Jack's concentration and he turned away hastily before Melanie looked up from her washing to see what was the matter. Alexander cleared his throat noisily, mentally thanking David for the distraction. "Anybody up for some fishing?" he asked quietly.
Roberta's stomach rumbled loudly in reply and everyone laughed. "I guess that answers the question, then," Alexander chuckled as the group started walking over to the embankment.
Sandy
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas..." :-) Very nice decorations, Suzanne!, - Wednesday, December 12, 2001 at 17:37:16 (PST)
Brandon’s flashback continues . . .
Walking slowly through the displays of antique weaponry, Brandon gazes at a wall of swords, uncomfortably aware of his own mixed sensations at the view. As a soldier, he knows the brutality of war, particularly hand-to-hand combat. And yet . . .
He knows the beauty of swordsmanship as an art and a sport, as well, and can appreciate the deadly allure of the array. His eye moves over the swords, appraising each for heft and balance and ornamentation. There, an Esperanza, similar to his own Salamanca. A Desespoir-his brow creases-like Valmont’s. A Malvoisin. A Bourelle . . .
Japanese samurai swords. The scimitar of Saladin, blazing with gems. A Roman gladius . . .
"Christopher," breathes Mary Anne. "Come and look at this."
Brandon looks at Mary Anne and moves to join her, stepping carefully around a dropcloth. Apparently some part of this wing is under renovation. Brandon smiles, remembering the warning to travellers that, when you are sightseeing, at least two of any given ten sights will be obscured by scaffolding. That goes for the Palace as well, as it is large enough to be in need of more or less continual repairs, or the occasional touch to keep the furnishings in prime condition.
"I’d heard of these," exclaims Mary Anne, "but I never thought I’d see one."
Brandon looks into the case. A sword, rather plain, mounted on a stand alongside its sheath-not an ornamental weapon, this, clearly meant for use.
Mary Anne is smiling. "A Carthaginian Phosphor."
Brandon reads the plaque. Apparently the blade of the Phosphor is treated with a compound that bursts into flame upon exposure to the air. The ancient Carthaginians had devised an unusually close-fitting scabbard to exclude the oxygen, though the secret of how they devised this-not to mention how they treated the blade-has been lost.
" . . . something like the ‘Greek fire’ in the old histories." Mary Anne muses. "Ships carried it and sprayed it at enemies; it could catch fire even when it was floating on water." She taps a small monitor mounted on the glass case. "Halon gas. They’ve pumped the oxygen out of the case and replaced it with halon, or they couldn’t display the blade out of its sheath. Amazing."
Brandon is equally fascinated. The emotional effect of facing an enemy with a flaming blade would be . . . considerable. But it is also intriguing to watch Mary Anne as she marvels over this weapon; Brandon has long ago accepted that his wife has many and varied interests, not all of which are conventionally ‘feminine’ as some would define the term.
However, she is quite feminine enough to suit him. With a sort of grim amusement, Brandon ponders the fact that Mary Anne’s misleading appearance is almost as good a defense to her as that flaming sword would have been to a warrior of Carthage. People see her, take in the surface facts of her willowy slimness, her delicacy of feature, her wide blue eyes . . . and look no further. It can be a striking advantage to her.
And if she were ever in need of advantages, it is now . . .
MA--I felt like inventing a new sword. The Phosphor, so far as I know, does not exist.
But halon gas does! Welcome to Obscure Library Facts . . . ;-), - Tuesday, December 11, 2001 at 06:01:07 (PST)
Request for info from moms: what exactly is a six to eight week-old baby capable of? Details, please, to my email.
Magda <mgrantwich@yahoo.com>
- Monday, December 10, 2001 at 07:31:42 (PST)
Cindie--of course we slept well. Just, um . . . not right away. *return eyelash flutter*
MA
And if you say something nice to your e-mail, I'm sure it won't be "down" any longer. ;-), - Sunday, December 09, 2001 at 07:56:29 (PST)
MA -- why the nap? Didn't you and Brandon sleep well last night? *batting lashes*
Cindie
Whose e-mail is down, darn it. , - Saturday, December 08, 2001 at 19:40:12 (PST)
The Imperial Palace: Early Afternoon
The arrival at the Palace proceeded smoothly enough. Their accommodations consisted of a central office, fitted out as Cynthia had requested and ready to receive the equipment Colin had arranged for her, and a small sitting room. The office had two desks and a nice sized conference table. From this central space branched from each side a living room, bedroom and bathroom for each of them. The living rooms each had their own private entrances and each room, save the bath, boasted a fireplace. The ceilings were high and the rooms spacious. Cynthia hit the office and immediately set to connecting with the Glassworks headquarters and verifying that the communication set up with Colin functioned as planned.
When everything was arranged to her satisfaction she proceeded to check out her rooms. They were truly beautiful. Gleaming wood and classic, tasteful furnishings. The bed had stunning deep blue bed curtains, a luxury Cynthia had never experienced for herself. The furnishings and surroundings were not a surprise but she hadn’t expected to find her possessions unpacked, hung up, in drawers and otherwise laid out much as she would have done herself. This little mystery was solved by the appearance of a lady’s maid who had apparently worked this wonder. Her name was Sarah and Cynthia liked her instantly. Sarah came in, bobbed a curtsey and introduced herself in a thin but pleasant voice. It didn’t seem to her that she required such service but it appeared she had it just the same. She supposed Anton had a valet too. She wondered if he would be as conscientious as his regular man.
“Well Sarah, first things first, a bath and a change out of these traveling clothes would seem to be in order.”
“Yes, madam.” Sarah set to work drawing a bath. Cynthia luxuriated in the soak after the long flight. It didn’t matter how well appointed the aircraft, traveling was grimy business. Sarah had her clothes laid out for her, just what she would have chosen herself.
“Sarah, you’re spoiling me already.”
“Thank you, madam. There is a luncheon buffet in the South dining room for arriving guests when you are ready.” Another bob and she left Cynthia to her preparations.
Dressed and refreshed she returned to the common space and found Anton stretched out in an armchair in the sitting room, one leg stretched out in front of him, one foot propped on a foot stool. He held a book in his hand but was gazing to his left out the window. He didn’t turn when she walked in but he must have heard her as he indicated to the view, “It is breathtaking, is it not?”
Cynthia looked out and was startled to realize that she had paid no attention to the world on the other side of the glass. She did so now, walking to stand to the side of the large picture window and take in the spectacle before her. There was a lake, smooth ice covering the surface, in the foreground and fir trees, stately and watchful on the other side. These were draped in snow with a blue sky enveloping everything and so clear she could feel the cold clean air fill her lungs. “It is stunning, Anton.”
He had watched her take in the beauty of the view and knew she had not considered it until his words. She was wearing an apricot coloured dress trimmed in cream with long sleeves and a high neckline. It displayed little more than her calf muscles but fit her well. She looked very nice and Anton considered that perhaps away from their usual work setting she might meet a nice young man. Anton decided he would keep his eyes open for likely and worthy candidates.
Cynthia finally tore her gaze from the window and asked, “shall we do some exploring first or go find this buffet?”
Anton gave her that smile that was only in his eyes, “let us adjourn to the dining room, I think you will find much to look at on the way.” He stood up, tossed his book on the vacated chair, put on his jacket which had been hung on a high backed chair and gave her his arm. Cynthia noted the cream coloured kerchief which rounded out his always impeccable attire.
“Have you a satisfactory valet?” she enquired, smoothing out his lapel.
“Quite satisfactory. His name is Serge and he finds my taste in apparel and grooming products adequate.”
“Adequate.” She paused as if considering this pronouncement, “perhaps under Serge’s tutelage you can strive for above average.”
Anton favoured her with a look and they began their foray into the Palace. Though the area where they were quartered held guest rooms, there had been no seconds used in the furnishings and decorations in the hallway and on the staircases, and the trip to the dining room was indeed very nearly a museum tour. Once in the dining room they took up plates and Cynthia paused to ponder the selections which stretched out from the row of gleaming chafing dishes. This was supposed to be a light luncheon and the array of food was almost too much from which to chose. As she stood there, a man with a mane of dark hair and a perfectly trimmed beard bedecked in an ivory suit of silk brocade paused on his journey past her and offered, “please, my lady, allow me to direct you to the roasted capon. It is simple, but it is delicious.” Cynthia thanked him and he nodded and glided away to join his party. After accepting a helping of the suggested capon from the server she finished fixing her plate and sat down at a table with Anton. She did not notice the flicker which was in the handsome man’s eyes when he looked over at her again.
Cindie
Nice place you have here, Your Highness. , - Saturday, December 08, 2001 at 19:37:52 (PST)
The Imperial Palace. Late afternoon.
At the sound of Mary Anne’s even breathing, Brandon looks cautiously over the edge of the book he has been pretending to read-a volume of Byron, pulled at random from the well-stocked bookshelf in their suite.
The morning and early afternoon have passed in a blur of getting settled into their quarters, followed by a brief tour of some of the Palace exhibition rooms and special collections. When they had returned to their rooms, Brandon had suggested that Mary Anne take the opportunity to rest, as they are to be formally received by The Empress that evening. Mary Anne had suggested that Brandon rest, as well, but he had gallantly replied that if he joined her in the bed, neither of them would get any rest.
That had been good for a blush or two.
Now Mary Anne appears to be napping peacefully, though Brandon cannot help thinking how fragile she looks, all alone in the huge bed that appears to have been designed to sleep an entire squad of Imperial Guardsmen. Perhaps, now that she is asleep . . . no, he will remain where he is and not risk disturbing her.
Brandon sets aside the book and leans back in the armchair, closing his eyes, thinking over the day and smiling a little to himself. Anxious though she is about what will come, Mary Anne had certainly enjoyed her brief tour to the full. Even Brandon, who is quite familiar with the Palace collections, had recaptured some of the wonder by seeing through Mary Anne’s eyes . . .
A dainty clavier, in the music wing. Nothing distinctive about it-save that it had belonged to Mozart.
In the magnificent library, a Shakespeare First Folio. A Gutenberg Bible. Chaucerian manuscripts long thought lost.
Egyptian antiquities from the Valley of the Kings. Faberge’ eggs from Tsarist Russia. A collar of black diamonds, reputed to have belonged to Kandake, Queen of the Ethiopians.
"Everything except the Ark of the Covenant!" Mary Anne had exclaimed, though her laughter suggested she would not have been surprised to discover that as well. And she had still been laughing as they found their way into another Special Collections chamber.
Antique Weapons . . .
MA--ah, yes, those Palace collections . . .
fond memories of the British Museum! 8-), - Saturday, December 08, 2001 at 12:56:00 (PST)
Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart
“What I want to know,” Joya sat cross-legged on the bed, propped against a bedpost and turning the letter over for the dozenth time. “Is how Lord Locksley managed to get someone to slip the note into our bed. I would have thought that our servants were too terrified of you to be bribed easily."
"Well, if they weren't before, they will be now. The dungeon-master will be earning his pay from this moment on." I paced across the room to the hearth and back to the bed again, pausing to kick at a chair along the way. It didn’t make me feel better. I glared at Joya. "This is all your fault, you know."
She looked up, startled. "My fault?"
"Yes, your fault." I resumed my patrol of the carpet. "Warm clothes. Meals twice a day. Clean bedding. Blankets. If you hadn't insisted on treating the servants like people, one of them never would have had the audacity to try something like this."
"Oh, I see. Well, please accept my apologies for my interference in your smoothly running realm." Joya dipped her head in a submissive bow, then spoiled it by giving me a sideways glance from under her long lashes. I don’t know why I put up with such insubordination; someday I’ll have to devote the time to figuring it out.
“I must admit that what I find most interesting is not who put it here.” Joya continued. “But rather why Lord Locksley arranged for it in the first place. If he thinks you bribed one of his servants to leave it at his manor, then he’s playing a game of tit-for-tat. But is that all it is? Or is he sending some kind of subtle message?”
I had no idea what Joya was getting at but it was irrelevant, as far as I was concerned. Locksley was too simple for subtle messages. No, the only point he wanted to make was that he had the same access to my castle as he believed I had to his manor. Except, of course, I had no such access. And that made his little gesture all the more intolerable to me. Who had he bribed? And how had he made contact with them in the first place? I shook my head. It was vital that we find out. Fast.
We spent some hours reviewing our options. There weren’t many. We could ignore it and carry on as if it hadn’t happened but we dismissed that idea quickly. Locksley knew that we knew what he’d done; it would look like fear or guilt on our - or my - part and that would put us in a position of weakness. That would make it difficult to work out a united strategy to deal with the king and Count Godfrey. And it would mean that one of our servants had disloyally worked against us and I was not prepared to tolerate that at all.
For a while we toyed with the idea of Joya approaching Marion directly and discussing the matter woman to woman. They were cousins, after all. Joya was willing and climbed out of bed so she could do it immediately. I watched her get dressed with my usual interest and no small regret. It was for a good cause, I reminded myself.
With a final tug at her veil to cover her tawny almost-blonde hair, she blew me a kiss and pulled open the door. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder. “What if Marion doesn’t know about it?”
I stared back, surprised. She shut the door. And so we went over the idea carefully to determine what the result would be. If Marion was ignorant of Locksley’s little jape, then she might not believe Joya when she told her. Or she might defend Locksley out of wifely instinct. Either way Joya would not be able to get anywhere with her. It required some more thought.
Finally we came up with another plan. I didn’t like this one at all but the afternoon was hurrying on and we had to do something before we all met in front of the servants in the great hall for the evening meal. Joya would call on Locksley directly. He might argue with her but he wouldn’t subject her to physical abuse. On the other hand, he might also just fold his arms and retreat into stubborn silence. We looked at the scheme from all angles. There was no way to predict the outcome. We’d just have to try it.
Joya returned to her chest of clothes to add to her outfit. A large crucifix on a thick chain that had been a wedding present from King Richard went around her neck and a sur-coat of marten fur went over her tight day gown. She looked pregnant again. Another check of her veil, another airborne kiss and she was out the door again. I sat in my ornate carved chair and tossed a fresh log on the fire. It might be a long wait.
But it wasn’t. The door swung open again before the log was even charred. She rushed into the room, her lips pressed into a tight line and her eyes sparking with emotion. I stood up and met her half-way. “Well? What happened? Did you see him?”
She dodged around me and headed for the bed. “Where is it?”
I stared. “What?”
“The letter. Where is that -" She pulled the bed furs and the pillows around, then pounced. “Ah, here it is.”
“Well?” I repeated, hands on my hips.
“No. Not well.” Joya strode to the table and tossed the letter down. Then she reached into her sleeve and pulled out a second one. She opened it and looked from the one to the other. “Not well at all. I went into his room and asked if we could discuss the letter. And right away he reached into his tunic and pulled it out.” She tossed the second one on the table beside the first and looked at me for the first time since she returned. “I told him I wanted to borrow it for a few minutes; I have to take it right back. So read fast.”
I advanced to her side and looked down. There were two letters - with exactly the same message. Same handwriting. Same words.
Our two original questions still remained but now two more were added. Who were the letters really addressed to? And whose wife was threatened with death?
Magda
- Friday, December 07, 2001 at 09:21:15 (PST)
Flashback
New York:
The Steel Fox was looking at her but gesturing to a Rolls Royce Silver Seraph which had pulled up. The driver exited the vehicle and opened the door. Cynthia was in the process of demurring when he added, “I would like the opportunity to speak with the woman who bested me this afternoon. I had wanted that stone but I had a limit.”
“We all have limits, Herr…”
“Herr Gruber. Anton Gruber, at your service.” They shook hands and she told him her name. She wasn’t sure if she heard his heals click together or whether it was the patter of raindrops.
Cynthia considered, a lift to her hotel would be welcome, her feet were beginning to get wet. “Very well, Herr Gruber,” she acquiesced. The destination was given to the driver and she stepped into the Fox’ lair. What would her mother have said to this? she wondered as she settled into the very comfortable back seat with Herr Gruber. She resisted the temptation to check the door handle but satisfied herself by making sure the window worked.
“You knew I did not wish to exceed four million and deliberately jumped the bid.” No preamble here.
“A lucky guess.” She saw Gruber stiffen at her choice of word. “I’m glad I was right as four million was my limit too. Or rather, my client’s limit,” she amended.
“Ah.” He said, his supposition confirmed. “And who, may I ask, is your client?”
“You may ask, Herr Gruber, but I would not say. That is strictly confidential.” She smiled, “as I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” He would find out. He had his ideas and would have them confirmed. At some point most collectors liquidate items and he was confident that he would be able to purchase the stone privately at a later date, and for less than four million. He could wait.
The driver knew his business and they reached her hotel in short order. She thanked Herr Gruber for the lift, he made it a point to secure her business card and they parted. Cynthia changed, arranged for her flight, ate dinner and left the Feuerstern behind her. The trip to Tokyo was successful as well and Cynthia booked a flight with plans to return to her Georgetown house. She had picked up her messages periodically and it appeared there were a number of assignments from which to chose. She’d sort through those after she was home.
When she arrived home and her suitcases were placed in her foyer, she immediately wished she’d arranged to go straight onto the next job. The house wasn’t large, four bedrooms, and the usual, but it seemed immense and empty to her just then. It was beautifully furnished, a by-product of buying expensive items for other people was that opportunities often fell into her lap and when they did she usually managed to take advantage of them. She called the drycleaners to pick up her things and tossed the washables in the machine which was in the utility room off of the kitchen. She fixed a chicken breast for her dinner and ate with the Washington Post for company. The drycleaners came and she delivered most of the contents of her suitcases to their care. They would return them tomorrow. She watched some television and did whatever she could to avoid the inevitable. Finally, she succumbed and went upstairs to bed. She could put it out of her mind usually, at least for a little while. But when she was home it seemed to her that all she heard was echoes. Despite this, she couldn’t bear to sell the place, it would seem a betrayal.
Cindie
- Thursday, December 06, 2001 at 16:17:03 (PST)
Somewhere in Egypt, present day:
"I just wish that we'd find the others and get out of here!" Melanie whispered uneasily to Roberta as they walked behind Alexander. "Something about all of this just feels *really bad*, and I don't know how else to explain it... And that hand we found..."
Roberta drew her breath in loudly as she shivered involuntarily at the unwelcome image of the hand lying in the passage surfacing in her mind. "I don't like it any more than you do, especially after what we found not too long ago," she replied as they caught up to Alexander. "What do you think?" She shivered again as a cool breeze passed over the group.
"I simply don't know *what* to think," Alexander admitted softly, shrugging his shoulders. "But I do agree with you that this is not a completely natural situation, not by any means." He turned around for a moment. "How are you two doing back there?"
"I can put more pressure on my ankle than I could before," David said with a hopeful note to his voice. "Maybe it's not sprained as badly as I thought."
"That's probably the first bit of good news we've had since all this mess happened," Alexander said with an uneasy chuckle. He looked down at his watch and saw with dismay that the face was shattered. "Does anyone's watch work? Mine was broken during the fall."
David shook his head and offered up his arm as evidence. "I had taken it off before the earthquake, so no go for me."
"Just a second... Ah, blast it. I don't think that it's broken, but nothing's moving," Jack grumbled as he held his wrist up to his face to peer at it. He tapped at the face impatiently with a dirty fingernail and sighed. "Either the battery decided to give out or it's gummed up from all that slime we slid through earlier." He scowled down at it fiercely before dropping his arm back down to his side. "This sucker's waterproof, but not slime-proof, apparently." A loud sneeze exploded from him a second later. "Excuse me," he sniffled.
"Bless you," Melanie shuddered slightly at the mention of *slime* and looked down at her own bare wrist unhappily. "Wish I could help but I lost mine somewhere along the way. Is there any chance that yours is working?" she asked Roberta.
"I have no idea. We've been stuck in the dark for so long or getting away from things that I forgot I was wearing it," Roberta grinned sheepishly. She glanced at it and said with a small note of relief in her voice when she saw it was working, "It's 8 o'clock."
"So we've been down here at least twelve hours if not longer, I would venture to guess since we were all knocked out for a period of time," Alexander nodded.
A loud grumbling noise echoed in the passage and everybody jumped in alarm. David laughed in soft embarrassment. "Ummmm, that was my stomach. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to spook everyone."
"Actually, I'm getting a bit hungry myself," Alexander admitted and the others murmured in agreement.
"That's - " Roberta paused for a moment as she pointed to the much calmer river. "- probably going to be our only source of food and water for a while." An expression of distaste crossed her features. "I hope we can find some dry wood in this hellhole to cook the fish. I'm not a big fan of sushi." She stuck her tongue out for emphasis.
"We might not have any choice," Alexander mumbled unhappily. "We'll have to make do with whatever resources we've got unless we find the others and get back to the surface." And it can't be soon enough, he added in silently.
"Are you sure that we all didn't somehow sign up for "Survivor: Egypt" instead of internships?" Jack asked as they continued down the passageway.
"Oh, I wish that were the case - NOT!" David replied with a chuckle as the others laughed softly. "I won't subject you to my opinions of 'reality shows'. It could take me hours."
"Believe me, we all thank you for that," Alexander added in dryly. The two women stared at him in silent amazement and a slight smile curved his lips briefly. "I *do* have a sense of humor, in spite of all appearances to the contrary." Behind him, Jack snorted in amusement, following it up with another loud sneeze.
"Bless you," the group chorused.
"Thanks," Jack sniffed. "I honestly don't think I'm getting a cold, though. This came on way too quickly for it to be that."
"You think that you might be allergic to something in here?" Melanie asked incredulously, turning around for a moment. Jack shrugged his shoulders in reply.
"Actually, that makes sense. There's all kinds of weird... um... substances in here that none of us have been exposed to before - at least that we know of," David pointed out and cleared his throat.
"Green stinky slime being just one of them," Alexander rumbled in agreement to soft moans of disgust. His eyebrows rose when he saw that the terrain before them had changed to a rock-covered pile and the group came to a halt. They saw to their dismay that the rocks had also fallen into the river, so they couldn't temporarily bypass the path either.
"Oh wonderful," Roberta said, glumly shaking her head and turned to Alexander. "I don't think you want to turn back, do you?" she asked.
"We're probably better off pressing on at this point. At least we have light here," Alexander replied as the others agreed uneasily. "Do you think that your ankle will hold up, David?"
David bit his lip uncertainly. "I hope so, but I'm game to try anything at this point. Just have to make the best of a bad situation, I guess." His face brightened up a bit. "Maybe we're near the campsite and Tom, Colleen, and Shelley are looking for us there."
"Always look on the bright side of life?" Jack queried with a quick grin. (homage)
"I try to," David replied, returning the grin. "It's damn difficult to do so at times," he admitted as their eyes shifted back to the rubble-strewn path.
The group contemplated their extremely limited options for a moment before Alexander spoke up softly. "Well, let's go then. We really need to make as much progress as possible while we still have light to travel in."
"I just hope those rocks aren't too loose," Melanie added morosely as they approached the pile and carefully started climbing upward.
Sandy
Couldn't resist a Python homage :-), - Wednesday, December 05, 2001 at 08:45:05 (PST)
Episode Fifty-Two ~ Phil Allen
FoF Sets ~ Cutting Room
Day Four of the Investigation
"Phil?" Phil Allen looked up into the mirror of the hairdressing station he was cleaning. Barbara was leaning in the doorway of the cutting room. Their eyes met.
********************
Barbara passed the cutting room on her way to the new Hogwart's set. Julie'd sent word that preliminary construction was almost finished. Barbara was on her way to take a once-over on the work when, passing the cutting room, she glimpsed Phil inside. The sight stopped her and brought her to lean in the doorway and watch.
She'd had first-hand evidence of just how fit and trim Phil was. Strangely body-conscious, too. He'd come out of the shower after that morning run, while she was cradling her first mug of blessed coffee and sitting on the edge of Phil's bed. He'd come in, just wearing a towel, and hastily dug in the closet for clothes. Awkwardly, too, for one hand spasmodically clutched the towel, to ensure, she'd supposed, that it didn't fall off. Their eyes had met once and Phil had flushed halfway down his chest. Barbara'd turned her eyes back down to the coffee. When she'd looked up again, he was gone.
But she'd seen the long, lean lines of him. All whipcord and sinew, with muscles curled at his calves and thighs. She wished, suddenly, that she had danced the tango with him at the anniversary party. The thought froze her breath with an almost electric shock.
No, no, she thought quickly, I'm just lonely and he's safe. Must be hormones or something. Before she could think too much, she spoke.
"Phil?"
Their eyes met.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
The Adventures of Phil!, - Tuesday, December 04, 2001 at 17:34:15 (PST)
Flashback
A New York Auction House:
The large room was overflowing with warm bodies. Cynthia, fortunately, had a chair near the front where the view and the ventilation was better than the back where bidders were standing, crammed together, necks craning to see the next item up for bid. The plush velvet on which she said did nothing, however, to diffuse the reek emanating from the large man sitting to her right who had begun to sweat the minute he’d sat down some four hours ago. She fanned herself with the catalog, more to waft some fresher air in from her left than for coolness, and then idly flipped through its pages. The item she was there to bid on didn’t come up for some time. She’d come early every day to assess the other items but even more importantly to assess the other bidders.
Slowly the room began to clear out and by mid afternoon there were some vacant seats. Naturally the one to her right remained stubbornly occupied. The bulk of the items had been sold, only a few of the more important pieces remained. When the widow of the late Jonathan Bradford Malcolm Kensington, IV had announced that she would liquidate her husband’s collection several factions of collectors were immediately abuzz with anticipation. An eclectic array of art, rare coins, stamps, gems, antiques and historical documents had been disposed of by the report of the gavel in the past three days. Today was the last day and the gem which was the object of this trip to New York was due up soon.
She was under strict orders from her client as to how much she could spend but the manner of bidding was entirely in her hands. It might be considered overkill but she felt that the past two and a half days of observing the patterns of the other bidders who might be interested in the Feuerstern well worth it. She had narrowed the potential competition down to three other bidders. The tall, thin American woman with her artificially black hair pulled back in a bun, who she’d dubbed, rather unkindly, Black Beauty, the French pseudo aristocrat and the Prince of Perspiration at her side seemed the only likely contenders.
A carved Louis XIV arm chair with a feather motif was stolen by one astute buyer for $4,500.00. It was worth a good deal more and Cynthia debated bidding. Her purpose for being there won out and she focused on the next item, and its bidders.
“Next we have the Feuerstern, a rare Burmese star ruby.” The cabochon cut stone was nestled in black velvet and brought forward. Even in the harsh light of the room and from a distance, its 37 carats of flaming star shone. “As you can see it is transparent, very rare given its colour and size, and displays the highly prized twelve ray star.” There were gasps of awe and the Frenchman raised his hand when bidding began at $750,000.00. Black Beauty upped the bid and Cynthia watched silently until the bidding reached 1.7 million. Much to her surprise the next bid was registered by someone on the other side of her neighbor. Much to her relief, not only did her neighbor not bid, he stood up and left when the bidding reached 2 million.
At this point she could see this unexpected twist. A man, fiftyish, dark blond hair that was now mostly steel grey, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He appeared tall and slender but it was difficult to be certain while he was sitting. Cynthia bid 2.2 million. The man looked over at her, expressionless, and bid again. In that instant she had seen dark amber eyes which burned with as much fire as the rare ruby upon which they were bidding. Racking her brain, Cynthia tried to remember what he had bid on and what she could expect from him. He’d purchased some smaller stones, in the ten to twelve carat range, mostly sapphires and had never bid on anything that reached this price point. Cynthia assessed his attire. Elegant and expensive. 2.5 million was bid by the Frenchman who seemed to drop out when Steel Fox outbid him. Black Beauty hung in there longer than Cynthia expected but dropped out after 3 million. Only Cynthia and Steel Fox left now. They went back and forth for a time, Cynthia watching the Fox, well, like a fox.
Knowing her limit and gauging her rival she jumped the bidding from3.6 to 4 million. Her limit. She held her breath as the Fox twitched ever so slightly. If she hadn’t been studying him for what seemed like hours but was in fact only minutes, she wouldn’t have noticed. At first she thought the twitch was a precursor to another bid. But no, she had gauged right, his left index finger which had done his bidding was still. The gavel fell. She had been successful. Her employer would be pleased.
Cynthia concluded the transaction and arranged for delivery. There was no reason to stay for the remaining items, she had completed her task and looked now to her next assignment. A client who was interested in a particular kimono which was coming up on the market in Tokyo. She would arrange a flight and go straight there to assess the climate. No reason to go home, the Feuerstern was secured and that client would be satisfied. Her commission would be deposited to her bank account automatically when she confirmed the terms of sale with this client.
She retrieved her Burberry from coat check and, pulling the hood up, headed out of the building and down the stairs to face the daunting prospect of hailing a cab in the rain. She stood for a moment at the curb, hands in her pockets and valise tucked under one arm while she decided whether to duck back inside and call for a cab from the auction house. A German accented voice cut through her internal debate. “Fraulein, perhaps you would allow me to take you to your destination in my car?” She looked up, straight into the eyes of the Steel Fox.
Cindie
- Monday, December 03, 2001 at 16:58:25 (PST)
Mary Anne? Mary Anne . . .
Mary Anne keeps her eyes closed and snuggles in closer to Brandon, resting her head against his shoulder.
Not yet, Christopher . . . just a few minutes more, please . . .
"Mary Anne . . ." A touch upon her arm.
This time Mary Anne opens her eyes, to find herself warmly wrapped in her own cloak, with Brandon’s greatcoat spread over her.
"We will be arriving soon at The Palace, my dearest."
For a moment, Mary Anne stares up at him, uncomprehending, lulled by the low throb of rotors from the fighter copters-and then she is fully awake and sits up straight on the seat. "How soon?"
Commander Hudson gestures her over to one of the observation windows. "Come and see."
Mary Anne rises, followed by Brandon, and moves to the windows, shading her eyes against the glare . . .
For there, below them, lie miles and miles of some of the most beautiful land Mary Anne has ever seen in her life, tracts of snowy field and dark forest and mirror-bright water, glinting in the winter sun. With a pang at her heart, Mary Anne thinks of Delaford and wishes herself back there, throwing snowballs at Brandon and romping with Nox.
However, the brilliant snow-dazzle is no match for the structure to which they are drawing near. A castle. Yes. Such a castle. To what shall we compare it, gentle readers? The Imperial Palace, favourite residence of The Empress, the seat of her power in The Realm-she has many homes throughout her lands, but when the citizens of The Realm speak of The Palace, it is in those tones of awe and wonder that might once have been reserved for Camelot.
The Imperial Palace. Fortress and city, haven to friends and terror to enemies, as strong and as lovely past belief as legendary lost Bekla, called The Garden of Dancing Stone, and ancient Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard.
Mary Anne watches as they draw nearer, as battlement upon battlement is revealed to her, rising as though they would pierce the clouds. A white mountain, this Palace, with its peak in the heavens . . .
If Claudia were here, muses Mary Anne, she’d probably say that it looks like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Mary Anne suddenly recalls that Claudia is here, that her fate is uncertain and may well depend on HIS. And I will have a hand in that, too. Oh, Claudia, what’s happened to you?!
To distract herself, Mary Anne looks at Brandon, who is standing beside her and watching their approach to The Palace, his gloved hands resting on the sill of the observation window-and even as she lifts her troubled eyes to his, one of his hands moves, and his fingers cover hers as he gives her a reassuring smile.
A crackle of static as the pilot announces, "Please return to your seats and prepare for descent . . ."
MA--for more on Bekla, see the novels of Richard Adams. For Minas Tirith--J.R.R. Tolkien, of course.
BAD CLODS!! Bad, wicked, naughty, EVIL Clods!! ;-D, - Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 19:40:55 (PST)
The poor Colonel was all drugged up -- his recollection of events might be incomplete.
Cindie
It could happen., - Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 17:28:17 (PST)
Whatever your mother may have told you, you can't get pregnant just by being in someone's bed... ;^D
Might get Brandon wondering if he remembered the events of that night correctly... Oh, its fun to be evil.
Claudia
- Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 13:48:46 (PST)
In this case "close" definitely doesn't count. The cookies were not as strong as an injected dose, and Brandon was able to control the uncontrollable, as it were...If that stuff ever came on the market, we could all retire and live like Bill Gates!!
a Rickman Admirer
- Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 12:57:59 (PST)
MISS CINDIE!!
(drawing breath) Please forgive me for raising my voice...but whatever could you have been thinking?
Col. Christopher Brandon
- Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 12:10:39 (PST)
ACK!!!!
Cindie
You are certain its not Brandon's?, - Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 04:29:01 (PST)
Claudia had gone into that cell full of dread and panic. But the moment her eyes had been uncovered, there was a clarity of thought she hadn’t experienced in a while. She knew what she was going to do. The man in front of her scared her to the point she couldn’t tell the difference between it and anticipation.
She had been too long trying to plead her innocence, the good she was trying to do. No one would believe her. If they did, they wouldn’t forgive. It was obvious where her future lay. She was looking at it.
She could go on forever trying to convince people of her plan to sacrifice herself for the greater good. They didn’t care. If she were to move on from all of this, she needed to learn from it, to grow, and change as a person. To stay the same would be a failure. As much as she longed to be the person who had laughed as Ed opened his flasher-mac to reveal a bunch of flowers tucked in his belt, she couldn’t go back. She could only go forward.
With a last defiant look at that mirror, and the meddling man, who had pushed her to this decision, hidden behind it, she took the final pace to close the gap between herself and the Interrogator. No turning back now, she reached up, twined her fingers in the back of HIS hair, and pulled HIS mouth down onto hers. HE was surprised again, but hid it so only she knew. HE kissed her back, sucking away her breath, and HIS arms folded around her waist, pulling her to close the final few centimetres between them.
Rupert had seen enough. He half imagined a huge cloak on the Interrogator’s shoulders, and as HIS arms swooped around the girl, so she was enfolded in the black of it. Claimed, taken from the light.
“Guards!” he spluttered. “GUARDS!!!” and dashed from the observation room to join them.
As the door to the cell opened and guards rushed in, the pair were still locked in an embrace, that it took 4 men to break.
Two men held back the Interrogator, as she was dragged away by two more. The Interrogator stood still, but she struggled. Rupert, watching from the doorway. Shaken by the look in the girl’s eyes. Her pupils were large and black, he could hardly seen any colour at all.
“Look after her,” HE called from inside of the cell. “Don’t… break anything… not now.”
“What was that about? What games are you playing?” hissed Rupert in her ear, as the door was closed and locked, and they moved away down the corridor.
“It’s your game, I was playing it for you. I thought that’s what you wanted?”
“That wasn’t what I asked you to do. Tell me what is going on!”
Claudia stopped, and her guards stopped with her. “Perhaps we should speak out loud, so the Empress can hear us? I have some news, I need to share with her anyway. As well as the news of what you just did, I need to tell her… I need to tell her I’m pregnant - and its HIS!”
Rupert had never felt like he needed his stick more than now, and he leant on it heavily.
Claudia
There you go, Cindie, that's what's going on ;^D, - Saturday, December 01, 2001 at 00:25:39 (PST)
