Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Cindie hung up the phone and drew up her knees, hugging them. “Keep safe.” She had told him as they said their goodbyes. The phrase was repeated in her thoughts as she wondered just how serious things were at the manor house, how close the call. Though the news hadn’t been very good the simple fact that she’d heard from him and he was safe was enough to ease her mind. She wriggled under the covers and gave her pillow a final thump before settling down to sleep. Not a dreamless sleep.

The kiss, it seemed to go on forever.

At first it was raining but then they were in a big room, the great hall of Manderlay, at the fancy dress ball. Finally, he released her and she inhaled raggedly. She reached up and touched the circlet on his forehead. The party was a whirl of dancing figures which seemed to spin around them until they disappeared, swirled away into nothingness. Patrick smiled down at her, “come with me, my dear.” He led her out of the great hall and into the bedroom. It must have been his room, it wasn’t hers. In her dream she glided on the stiletto heels, her feet skimming the ground and she moved without effort.

The click of the door could be heard as he closed it behind them and turned to face her. She stood in front of the bed and waited for him to take the two steps which would bring him to her. He took the steps and she reached up for the circlet again, this time removing it and tossing it upon a nearby chair. As the circlet flew from her fingertips he gripped her arm and drew it to him. With deliberate care he began to remove the glove, working each finger loose and then sliding it down, lingering with his fingertips as inch by inch the flesh was exposed. The glove, once off, joined the circlet. Now she reached for the amulet which hung round his neck. It glowed a deep and pulsing red. With both hands she lifted it over his head, brushing his neck with the fingers which had been released from their bounds. It was his turn. He reached for the other glove and stripped it off with one swift and sure motion.

The cape followed rapidly, sitting back on the bed, her boots, one, then the other. His breeches and tunic, his boots. Then, at the last, his fingers found the zipper to her costume and he slowly, agonizingly slowly, worked it downward. She lay back on the bed as the metal aperture exposed her body to his kisses, careful and calculating. This took a long time, as it seemed to start over at a spot that a moment ago been already unzipped. The kisses repeated. Sometimes she would see his eyes swimming above her, churning pools of dark amber.

She opened her eyes and sighed. Out the window she could still see the moon luminous and looming. Rolling over, she wondered if the dream would take up where it had been left.

Cindie
Still rolling., - Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 16:52:26 (PST)

Thanks for the kind words, guys. *passing Barbara a tissue*
Sandy -- loved the Shatner bit! Get a life!
Dev -- Whatever has gotten into you?
Cindie
- Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 16:51:09 (PST)

Give ´em hell, Dev!!
Jutta
hey, Julie, now *I* have writer´s block..., - Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 15:31:53 (PST)

Episode Forty-Six ~ Phil Allen
FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Two of the Investigation
Police Station
Evening of Day Two of the Investigation

Miles Graff grit his teeth and resisted the urge to swar. This most recent interview was going very badly indeed. The subject, one Eamon de Valera, was apparently following the lead of his ancestor and resisting authority to his very last. De Valera categorically refused to answer any questions.

*************************

Ekaterin Silvert pursed her lips and tapped her pen against her notepad. Her usual expression of serenity was marred only by the faint line between her brows. She didn't care, particularly, for this Mr. de Valera. Obstructive, irritating twit. After the interview with Mistral, she supposed, she was spoilt.

She sighed faintly. Graff looked over, inquiry in his eyebrows.

De Valera's gaze followed. "Are you being deliberately difficult, Mr. de Valera, or is a natural outgrowth of your Irish national fervor?" Silvert kept her eyes on de Valera. He, like Alexander Dane, was very tall. She had no intentions of letting anyone else bully Graff with their height the way Dane had.

De Valera was trying to loom over Graff. Silvert intended on cutting him down to size.

*************************

Eamon de Valera narrowed his eyes at the female detective. "What would you know about Ireland, Detective? Are you Irish?"

"Not a bit, thankfully," the woman said.

"Ah," Dev said with a sneer. "English."

"Russian," she replied.

"Russian?"

"Russian," she replied.

*************************

"If you're that worried, Detectives," de Valera snarled, "you have me tested for my veracity. I'm not afraid of any of your computers or your electronics."

"Don't fear the machines, Mr. de Valera," Graff snapped. "Fear the mind." Graff tapped his temple with his index finger. "The human mind is the ultimate testing device. We can take all the notes we want on the technical data, anything we forget we can look up again. But we engrave this most important of lessons on our souls with letters of fire: The one thing you cannot trade for your heart's desire is your heart." (homage) Engrave it on your soul in letters of fire, his late partner Hawkins had told him. He remembered everything she told him that day.

Flashback:
Hawkins had taken early retirement, for medical reasons, he'd found out. Lupus. She was still a wise-ass, though, when he went to see her at home. But her skin was translucent, and the tendons in her hands stuck out when she gripped his forearm. Suddenly serious, she had called her rookie partner "Miles" for the first time. "Make your own meaning, because the world sure as hell ain't gonna supply it," she'd said. "Always be a moving target. Live," she'd continued, shaking his arm with each reinteration. "Live. Live. Engrave that on your soul in letters of fire, Miles. Live." (homage) She was dead two weeks later. There were only four people at her service: the minister, the coroner, a New Orleans detective and himself. The detective and Graff went out and got stinking drunk after the funeral, talked about every case they'd had with Hawkins and never mentioned her by name. They'd parted at the door in separate cabs. Graff had been promoted soon after. Sometimes he wondered if that New Orleans detective had anything to do with it.
He never tried to find out.

When things were difficult, or people were, Graff held his memory of Sadie Hawkins before him like a talisman, casting light upon the darkness. He found it worked as well now as it ever had before. "Keep that in mind, Mr. de Valera. My partner and I shall follow standard police procedure, as we always do. Frankly, I don't give a rot-n-snot who you're named after, or how bleedin' outside the rules you think you are. Thank you for your time, Mr. de Valera; we will be speaking with you again later. I hope by then you have chosen a more forthcoming attitude. Good day." With that, Graff hustled Silvert out of the room, leaving the uncooperative Mr. de Valera to stew.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
How 'bout that?, - Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 14:47:16 (PST)

Oops! D.o.C., could you change "Cousin It" to "Thing?" I got my Aadams Family creatures mixed up. Thank you kindly!
Sandy
- Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 09:00:51 (PST)

Egyptian Cave/River Set:

"All right everyone, that's a 30 minute break while the lighting gets re-set AGAIN!" the assistant director called out from his megaphone. A loud buzzer shrilled and the set workers immediately scurried about while the actors moved aside to allow them to do their work. Jack reached down, picked up the bloodied hand prop and placed it on his shoulder.

"I've heard of needing an extra hand, but this is ridiculous!" David chuckled throatily, the rest joining in. "You've decided to adopt Thing, I take it?"

Jack drew himself up haughtily, but his deep brown eyes sparkled with good-natured humor. "This is Cedric, his evil twin," he informed his friend with a wink to assorted groans and giggles. He turned to Alexander, watching his lips curve slightly in a reluctant smile. He was about to say something to him when he noticed someone approaching them. "Hey, stranger! What brings you around these parts?"

The others turned around to see Sandy approaching them, picking her way carefully around the wires scattered about the set. "Whew! Made it without tripping," she breathed once she reached the small circle. "Hi guys!" she greeted them cheerfully, her eyebrows rising at Jack's extra 'appendage' resting comfortably on his shoulder. "I see you've made a new friend. That always comes in handy."

"Ooo, that was bad," Roberta groaned and laughed at the same time, as did the others.

Sandy grinned lopsidedly. "You give me an opportunity to make a bad pun, and I'll take it every time," she admitted sheepishly. Her expression grew troubled as she turned to Alexander. "Actually, I needed to speak to you, Alex. Do you have a few minutes?"

Alexander's left eyebrow rose in concern. "Sure. What's the matter?"

Sandy shifted uncomfortably from where she stood, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. "Uh, in private?" She shifted position again, her eyes falling to the floor as she continued rubbing.

Alexander gently reached over and removed her hand away from her neck, squeezing it for a moment. "Of course. Will you excuse us?" Alexander placed his hand on her shoulder to guide her over to the small break area where the actors sat between takes.

The others murmured their assent and exchanged puzzled glances as they watched them walk over to the chairs scattered around and sit facing each other. "I don't think I've ever seen her that upset, not even when she discovered that somebody glued one of her history texts together page by page on April Fools Day," Melanie softly observed. "She never found out who did that, did she?"

Jack slid his arm around his fiancée's waist and shook his head, frowning. "I don't think so."

The small group turned around and headed for the small refreshment table. Roberta snapped her fingers. "I knew I forgot something! I got an e-mail from Tom and Colleen this morning."

David's face lit up. "How's his father doing?" he asked, selecting an apple and biting into the crispy flesh with vigor.

"Ummm, his father's doing much better now that he's in rehab. Vermont's getting colder by the nanosecond, he and Colleen miss everybody and say hello," Roberta recapped. She and David burst into merry laughter when Melanie suddenly grabbed the prop from Jack's shoulder and the two started playing catch with it.

*******************************************************************

Alexander watched as Sandy sat in the seat across from him and sighed heavily. She tapped her foot on the ground for several seconds before he cleared his throat noisily. "Well?" he prompted softly.

Sandy bit her lip, hemming and hawing for another ten seconds before raising her head, her blue-gray eyes stormy with emotion. "I'm not exactly sure how to approach this without getting you upset," she admitted quietly.

Alexander reached forward and gently tweaked her nose. "I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be," he reassured her. Seeing her hesitation, he elaborated, "It can't be any worse than yesterday's interrogation session." His lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together in a dark expression as he recalled his 'interview' with the two detectives.

Sandy groaned loudly and covered her face with her hands. "That's what I wanted to talk about," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I heard that you did a Shatner SNL on Graff." She raised her head. "Only it was ten times worse."

SHATNER? That two-bit hack?! "Oh," Alexander's face grew distant as he gazed back at her. "I suppose I did get a bit carried away," he admitted grudgingly. He shuddered at the image of Graff raising his arm to salute.

Sandy nodded in agreement. "Yeah." Her lips quirked up slightly. "I would have loved to have seen Miss I'm-So-Perfect's face, though."

Alexander's lips twitched in amusement at her uncomplimentary moniker of Detective Ekaterin Silvert. "You were right about her. It was worth it just to see her reaction." He sighed as her face grew solemn once more.

"I suppose so. I just feel like I threw Graff to the lions. He doesn't seem like a bad sort..." she stopped when she saw his eyes darken in anger, but plunged forward nonetheless. "When he's not doing his job. I realize that he was a bit - overenthusiastic - and I can understand why you blew up at him. I really do." She groaned again. "This is not going over well, not that I expected it to in the first place."

Alexander leaned back in his chair, absorbing her words. "I'm not completely without a conscience, in spite of what others may believe," he grumbled. He tapped his fingers idly on an armrest.

Sandy's face relaxed slightly. "So you wouldn't mind signing a production still and presenting it to him after all this business is over?" she asked with a hopeful note to her voice.

Alexander said nothing for a minute, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. Sandy began rising from her seat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up," she murmured. Alexander reached out and touched her on the arm to stop her.

"I'll do it, love, as a favor for you," he said, his eyes softening.

"You will? Great!" Sandy's face broke out in a huge grin, and faded just as quickly. "There's a catch, isn't there?" she asked suspiciously. He told her and her face blanched as she plopped back down in her seat. "I can't do that! I'd rather get boiled in oil first!"

Alexander's eyebrows rose underneath his bangs. "I sincerely hope not," he murmured. "I would really like you to do this." He saw that his reassurances weren't making much of an impact on the writer and decided to try a different tack. "Would you at least consider it?"

Sandy didn't say anything for a moment, her eyebrows drawing together before she exhaled harshly. "I will consider it, but I'm not making any promises. All right?" she asked quietly as she rose to her feet, Alexander doing the same.

Alexander rewarded her with a gentle smile. "That's all I'm asking you to do - at the moment," he agreed, his hazel eyes twinkling. "I'm sure that I can... persuade you to reconsider your opinion," he murmured, drawing closer to her until they were just inches apart.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. I can be pretty stubborn when I want to be - unless I *want* to be persuaded," Sandy replied throatily.

Alexander's smile widened at her words. "I'm looking forward to changing your mind," he purred, gently caressing her face for a moment with his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm sure you are - and I'm looking forward to seeing just what methods you'll employ to change my mind," Sandy's smile was positively saucy as she leaned into the caress before backing away. "I have to go pick Ollie up from his visit with Nox and Tory and get back to work, but I'll see you later."

"I should be done around six. See you then," Alexander said. She nodded and turned around to make her way off the set. Alexander watched her leave with an affectionate smile on his face.

Sandy - wonderful, Cindie. Just wonderful...
Happy Halloween, everybody., - Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 08:52:53 (PST)

All righty.... can someone send me the link or a copy of Rebecca's new Snape story? I can't seem to find it.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Cindie -- *sniffle*, - Wednesday, October 31, 2001 at 06:10:30 (PST)

The Delaford parish church :

Brandon stands, turns . . . and lets out a startled exclamation on finding that he is not alone in the church . . . but his astonishment quickly gives way to a smile of greeting as he walks toward Edward Ferrars, his hand extended.

"Edward, it is good to see you. I have scarcely been able to speak with you, of late. I trust you are well? And Mrs. Ferrars?"

"We are all very well, thank you. Elinor will be pleased that you asked after her." Edward does not quite smile, but there is a touch of merriment in his eyes as he and Brandon seat themselves once again. "She has always thought most highly of you, you know."

Hastily, Brandon waves away the remark, a trifle embarrassed at the memory of how he had offered the Delaford parish living to Edward, thinking this would make it possible for him to marry quickly-marry a woman he did not love. But I did not know, and it has been for the best, after all . . . "Yes, do convey my greetings to her. She is a most worthy woman, and has been a good friend to me in . . . trying times."

Edward’s expression is more sober now, though it loses none of its habitual good humour. "She had wished that we could visit Delaford and become better acquainted with-your wife. With Mary Anne." A moment of silence. "But at first we did not wish to intrude, and then with all of the danger from that dreadful business in the West Wood-"

Brandon shakes his head. "You and your family would never be an intrusion, Edward. Do not think it. As for the West Wood, you were absolutely right to keep clear of it and look after the safety of your family." This, from me, when I cannot even look after the safety of my own-no, I must go with her to who knows what, and sit helplessly by . . .

Brandon looks up to see Edward watching him. "I received your message last night, and of course I will be pleased to assist Mister de Valera in looking after Delaford in your absence. Though I should think he will need little assistance from me."

His profession suits him, thinks Brandon, watching this man who is his clergyman, his friend, and his brother in law, though more of a brother to him than the one in blood had ever been. He thinks of Edward Ferrars as he was when they first met-a man slow to find words, ill at ease with strangers, but whose shyness had concealed a dry and droll sense of humour and an enormous capacity for affection and compassion, not to mention admiration for truth and honour and beauty. Small wonder he fell in love with Elinor. Yes, Edward Ferrars had remained the same in all essential good points, but love had done much for him, along with useful work well-suited to his temperament and gifts.

Brandon suddenly recalls one of Mary Anne’s favourite phrases, "a gentleman and a gentle man." Set alongside Edward Ferrars, I am ferocity incarnate. The man cannot even inflict a long sermon on his congregation! (homage) Edward: good-natured, good-hearted, and now serene in a manner that automatically inspires confidence in those who would seek his assistance.

In the midst of these musings, Brandon becomes aware that Edward is speaking once again. "I am sorry, Edward." Brandon shakes his head. "I was preoccupied; I am sure you can understand. What were you saying?"

"I was only saying that I am happy to assist Mister de Valera-but what I was wondering is whether I can be of any assistance to you, Colonel Brandon, or your wife."

Brandon takes a long breath and turns from Edward, setting his back against the pew and gazing toward the front of the church-gazing without seeing. "Perhaps you can," he admits, quietly. "What is to come . . . Mary Anne is very frightened. And so am I."

MA--for the line about inflicting the long sermon, thank you, Cindie! 8-)
R, dearest--a belated Brrrrrrrrrrr . . ., - Tuesday, October 30, 2001 at 19:11:30 (PST)

Mistral had rung off after she’d extracted the promise he would leave when it was still light out tomorrow and drive safely coming back. Promising solemnly he had smiled to himself. It had been a long time since anyone had admonished him about his safety. A long time since his existence had mattered so deeply to another human being.

Now he stood in his room at the end of a very long day which had begun last night with his arrival and had continued through a night and day of hospital and waiting. The interminable waiting. When he’d pulled in and seen the emergency vehicles he had thought the worst. Now his mother was back home having come out the other end of an episode that a less tenacious soul could not have survived. Unable to resist the impulse, he went down the hall and checked on her one last time before settling himself, still fully dressed, in the arm chair in the corner of the room.

Pretending that he would read he had picked up a book from his dresser. It lay forgotten in his lap. Sitting there now, staring at his bed, he imagined he could hear water running in the bathroom two doors down. He invoked the sounds she had made sloshing in the bathtub on her visit here with him and imagined her bathing. Continuing, he pictured her standing, stepping from the tub, drying off and then slipping into her robe. Not willing to cease torturing himself with these thoughts he imagined her then walking down the hall, opening his door and appearing here, in this room. Joining him, in his bed. He imagined having her there, caressing her, kissing her, loving her.

A part of him longed for the release which could come only at a cost which he could not willingly pay. Was it wrong to be relieved that the price was out of his hands, and would be paid by another dear to him? It probably was, yet he knew himself and knew that he would find joy in it when the time came, despite the cost.

Was this thing, this growing, living, breathing thing which was so much a part of him that he could smell her now, her scent, herself, here in his room, possible? Could it endure? Unbidden, he thought of his father, did he once love his mother? They had been married some time before he was born. Had an entire life together of which he could be completely unaware. Was it possible that a loving man had once existed, one that he simply never saw? If that was true it did not appear to have lasted, no test of time had been taken and passed. As a child he had told himself that his father had loved him but had simply been unable to express it. Now he knew that to be the self defense mechanism of a little boy who wanted love and approval from an adult whom he wished to admire, look up to and love in return.

Of course he knew now that he had not been the cause of the pall that had hung over the house in his father’s lifetime. His father’s indifference was no longer a wound though, simply an ache to which he was long accustomed. Back then he had not been so confident.

And what of his mother? Had she continued to love that distant, forbidding man who, as far as he knew, had never showed any strong emotion? Perhaps her love had been enough for both of them in the beginning. Perhaps at one point there had been passion there. If that had been true it hadn’t endured. Whatever had brought them together had departed leaving only convention and convenience. And a child.

As a boy he had willed his father to show any emotion, even anger. His exploits calculated to achieve maximum effect. Silly and ineffective when viewed from a distance. Poignant and pathetic if viewed too closely. ENOUGH He cut off the thoughts, he would not dwell there.

He rose, undressed, washed, brushed his teeth, got ready for bed, turned out the lights, and slipped under the covers, thinking of the day when there would be someone waiting for him when he got to the last bit.

(homage and reverse homage)

Cindie
Oh dear, two in a row -- I must be on a roll again.
Happy Halloween, - Tuesday, October 30, 2001 at 18:18:55 (PST)

Cindie’s flat:

It had been a busy Saturday. Chandos had taken her sight seeing, something of which she still hadn’t tired and hoped that she never would. As far as she was concerned, the British Museum would never lose its charm. They caught the revival of a marvelous play and went to dinner after. Then she stayed up far too late fighting with the draft of the introductory scene for Anton. There was no reason for her not to be exhausted and sound asleep by now. No reason save one. That age old reason that she promised herself would never plague her. He hadn’t called.

It was easy to tell herself that he had arrived safely last night and was simply busy. But other possibilities, and the more outlandish they were the more vivid they seemed, crowded out the logic of the situation. He had an accident yesterday on the way there, robbers had broken in and hit him over the head with a tire iron, or worse, he simply hadn’t given her a second thought. She was angry at him for not calling, angry at herself for caring so much. The moon hung low in the sky, the man in it no company at all. Her unsuspecting pillow was the recipient of numerous solid thumps before she settled back again, having vowed to give neither the phone nor him another thought.

Brrrrrrrring.

It had to be him. No one else would have the audacity to phone this late. It would serve him right if she let it ring, make him wonder what she was doing.

Brrrrin…

“Hello.”

“You’re home.” He was too tired to try to mask the relief that he felt at hearing her voice.

Now the hapless pillow was thrown against the backboard as she sat up and scooted back to lean against it. “Yes. Is everything all right?”

“It is back to normal now.”

“Where are you?”

“The house.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s been happening or am I going to have to begin the third degree?”

He made a strangled noise that didn’t quite sound like a laugh. “When I arrived the ambulance was already here. It seems mother had a seizure. We’ve just returned from the hospital.” Anticipating her next question, “She’s stable now. Back to what passes for normal around here.”

Despite the fact there would be nothing she could do, she wished she was there with him. “What did the doctors say?”

“Same thing they always say.” He understood her concern but this was not a topic he could dwell on at the moment. “Tell me how you spent your day.”

Burying her questions, she began the recitation, the sights, the shopping, what she’d bought. She told him about the play and the place she and Chandos went to dinner. It didn’t sound very exciting to her but on the other end Mistral held the receiver to his ear, cradling it like a precious treasure. Looking out his window he saw the moon, its bottom edge grazing the line of trees, and wondered if she could see it from where she was.

For her he described how the leaves had looked on the drive there. How remarkably vivid the colours and deep the hues of autumn where he was. Anything but what he was feeling.

Listening, she was glad at how much less tired he sounded now. When he’d begun to speak his voice had been rough with fatigue. Now he sounded more like himself, though, she thought, far away, and it wasn’t the miles.

Cindie
- Monday, October 29, 2001 at 16:21:50 (PST)

Somewhere in Egypt, present day:

"Oh God, oh God," Melanie repeated several times as if it was a mantra, her eyes never leaving the sight of the bloodied hand lying on the ground before them. She trembled uncontrollably as she stared, eyes wide with terror.

Cautiously, they gathered around the stump, Alexander kneeling down to examine it. "Please keep quiet, everybody, so I can concentrate," he requested in a surprisingly calm voice. The rest of the group nodded and kept silent as he drew closer.

Alexander steeled himself as he moved closer, eyebrows pulling together in a frown. "Wait a minute," he murmured, reaching out to touch it with a finger. Roberta made a soft moan of disgust but otherwise kept silent. "The blood's not fresh." David, Melanie and Jack exchanged horrified yet relieved glances.

"Apologies in advance," Alexander said as he picked up the bloodied stump to soft groans and "EWWWWWWWWW!" He exhaled softly as he examined it more closely. "It's a man's hand, from what I can tell. By the markings on the flesh, it's appears to have been here around a week. See how the..."

"PLEASE STOP!" Melanie cried out, slapping a hand over her mouth. Her stomach gurgled loudly.

"My apologies," Alexander's head raised up to see the young woman turning a horrible shade of gray. "But I think I can safely surmise that this doesn't appear to be one of our missing party's body parts."

"Then where does it come from? And from who?" David asked quietly.

"I wish I knew," Alexander replied unhappily as Melanie and Roberta moved over to the side away from the scene, speaking in soft, hushed tones.

"Professor, there's something that you're not telling us about - that," Jack pointed to the stump, now back in its' original position.

Alexander sighed and nodded in agreement. His eyes slid over to where the two women were still talking before he faced the others. He reached out and turned the hand around so that it was at a side angle. "This wasn't done cleanly. See?" he pointed to the bloodied end of the stump.

David and Jack exchanged sickened glances before turning back to Alexander. They nodded warily as they leaned down to see where Alexander indicated. "It looks like..." he hesitated before continuing. "It looks like it was torn off."

"And munched on a bit too for good measure," David added in a strangled whisper. Jack closed his eyes for a moment and released his breath in a harsh cough.

"Did you say 'torn off'?" Roberta broke in sharply. The three turned around, Alexander nodding his head after a brief moment of hesitation. She and Melanie stared back, horrified. "What is going on here?! Who would *do* something like that?" She pointed to the hand.

"Maybe it's not a *who*, but a *what*," Melanie spoke up, her face twisting up in a grimace. "Can we leave NOW? Please?!" She averted her eyes away from the gruesome sight.

Alexander's whirling thoughts simply refused to contemplate the grad student's last statements. He rose to his feet and nodded curtly. "Let's go - and keep together, everyone!" he called over his shoulder. I just hope that we find the others and soon - and all in one piece, Alexander thought morbidly. They set off in silence, the group's mood considerably blacker as they moved down the passage.

Sandy
- Monday, October 29, 2001 at 10:25:53 (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

"Now remember, George, you promised."

I shrugged my cloak on and fastened the ties before answering. "I remember. Don't you trust me?"

Joya stopped combing her hair and looked at me with raised brows. "Of course not."

"Good." I smoothed down the folds of the cloak carefully. "I wouldn't want you to think I'd grown soft. But indeed, my dear, you don't have to worry. I will exercise iron control even though my castle is polluted with the presence of Robin of Locksley."

I was humouring her, of course. I had never seen Joya so agitated before. We had been up at the crack of dawn to eat the bread, meat and cheese brought to us by the still groggy servants. Then she fed Richard while I talked, going over our plans from the night before. We agreed that Locksley and Marion had probably worked out a scheme of their own and, while it was probably totally idiotic, we would have to force ourselves to listen before we could get our own way. They would just have to be made to understand that co-operation was essential. By brute force, if necessary and I was hoping that it would be necessary. Joya wasn't, of course, and thus the constant need for reassurance that I would restrain myself during the discussion.

"Well, see that you do." She put down her comb and sat up straighter on her stool. "Very well, Bertha. I'm ready."

The serving woman set the fine linen veil on Joya's hair and wrapped it around her chin. Then she lifted the gold coronet onto her head and secured it with two thin clips. Joya turned her head back and forth to test the fit and nodded with satisfaction. "Thank you, Bertha. It's fine."

Finished with my own preparations, I watched as the serving woman fussed with Joya's cloak. She was even more magnificent than usual this morning. From the coronet (which she rarely wore except for formal court occasions) to the sapphire jewels in her ears to the rich royal blue gown all the way down to the specially made blue leather boots on her feet, she was a breathtaking vision. Half a chest of gold had been expended on just this single outfit. Sometimes my beneficence surprised even me. I shook my head at my own indulgence and walked over to her stool to offer my hand. "Ready?"

She smiled up at me and accepted it. "Ready."

We made our way along the corridor and down the stairs to the great hall where the servants had spent the better part of the night cleaning. From the doorway we surveyed the arrangements. Fresh rushes had replaced the stale ones. There were new logs in the hearth and bunches of herbs smoldered in the embers to perfume the air. Four chairs with thick cushions faced each other in front of the hearth. Tables held goblets and flagons of wine. We wanted no interruptions from servants during this discussion.

It would have been better to have met in one of the smaller rooms scattered around the castle but we didn't want the Locksleys to feel confined and threatened. The servants had been ordered not to come near the hall for the entire morning on pain of severe punishment. Hopefully it would not take that long. I could see no reason why they should not accept the plans Joya and I had come up with.

Locksley had said they'd arrive "shortly after the breaking of the fast" but that was a subjective phrase and we were prepared for a long wait. But they surprised us. Almost as soon as we'd settled into our chairs we were forced to stand again when our steward threw open the large doors at the far end of the hall and announced in ringing tones, "Lord and Lady Locksley, my lord and lady."

They took two steps into the room and stopped. Marion carried herself with her usual grace but her hands were clasped tightly together. Locksley frowned as he gazed around the hall, pausing at those places where the shadows were deepest. He hand one hand on the hilt of his sword. Both of them started slightly when the steward closed the doors behind them.

"Lord Locksley. Lady Marion." Joya hastened down the length of the hall, her hands stretched forth in greeting. "Welcome to Nottingham Castle!"

"Lady Joya." Marion stepped into Joya's embrace. "I give you thanks for this warm greeting. You are looking well, for a new mother. Doesn't she, Robin?"

"What?" Locksley didn't look around; he was still scrutinizing the room.

"Lady Joya looks well, doesn't she?" Marion repeated with emphasis.

He glanced at Joya briefly, then resumed his examination. "Yes. Very healthy."

"Shall we sit down?" Joya gestured in the direction of the chairs, where I was standing. "A nice cup of warmed wine will take care of the early morning chill."

Marion smiled and nodded. The two women returned to the hearth. Marion gave me a searching glance and made sure she took the chair farthest away from mine. Joya sat down beside her and poured out a goblet of wine. Across the room, Locksley apparently decided that I hadn't hidden an army in the crevices between the stones in the wall, and followed his wife to the chairs. I waited until he'd selected one and took the remainder for myself.

For a long moment the two of them stared at me while Joya fussed with the wine and I tried to pretend that I was pleased to have them here. It wasn't working too well but before it got positively offensive Joya took over.

"Now then." She took a sip from her own wine. "We can begin. Of course you've heard from the king by now about this ridiculous business. Too silly for words but we've got to deal with it and there is no better way than by working together to -"

"Excuse me, Lady Joya." Locksley interrupted. He slid forward until he perched on the edge of his seat. Marion watched him, rubbing her palms along the arms of her chair. "But perhaps it would be better if I said something first."

"Of course, Lord Locksley." Joya beamed, as if she had just been on the verge of suggesting the very same thing. "Go right ahead."

"Thank you." Locksley shifted to me. "I just thought I'd start by saying that your little plot isn't going to work. Threats don't impress me, especially when they come in anonymous messages." He sat back in his chair again with an air of having scored a major hit.

"Message? What message?" Joya blinked.

"I'm sure your husband knows what I'm talking about, Lady Joya. But I'm just as sure that he hasn't told you. So I brought it with me." He reached into his tunic, pulled out a folded square of parchment and handed it to Joya. "Maybe he can explain to you what it means."

Joya spread it open on her lap. I craned my neck to read it from my chair. It wasn't difficult; there was only one sentence and the words were quite legible, even at a distance.

"Stay away from your wife, or she will die - this I promise you."

Magda
- Sunday, October 28, 2001 at 13:53:12 (PST)

FYI for followers of Rebecca's Snape stories -- there's a new one. Its wonderful, no surprise.
Cindie
- Saturday, October 27, 2001 at 15:48:13 (PDT)

FoF Offices, 4pm:

“I’m going now.” Mistral stood framed in her doorway, his face carefully neutral.

Cindie had wondered if he would stop and say his goodbyes or whether he would prefer to leave quietly and forego the actual parting. She walked over to him and smiled, glad of his choice, “Drive safely, don’t pick up any axe wielding hitchhikers, and call and let me know how everything is.”

“You don’t ask much, do you?” At her glare, very half hearted he thought, he continued, “but I’ll do as you request.”

“Good. An excellent habit.”

“One to which you’d best not become overly accustomed.”

“No, definitely not. It would only confuse me if you did everything I asked.”

He clutched her to his chest and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She returned the kiss quickly and he was gone.

Cindie
Sandy -- Eeeuuww!!, - Saturday, October 27, 2001 at 07:34:27 (PDT)

Somewhere in Egypt, present day:

"Do you think you can stand?" Alexander asked Melanie softly. The water-logged redhead nodded slowly as she rose to a sitting position.

"I'll give it a shot," she replied after a brief coughing spell. Her lips turned down unhappily as she gazed down at her empty hands. "I lost the flashlight," she muttered bitterly.

David laughed harshly, the sound bouncing eerily off the walls. "I think that's the least of our worries at the moment," he said, pointedly ignoring the startled glances the others were giving him. He carefully rose to his feet, taking care not to put any additional pressure on the injured ankle and stretched briefly.

Alexander also rose to his feet before holding out his hand. Melanie took it and he pulled her up. "Thank you, sir."

He rewarded her with a wan smile. "You're welcome." He wearily surveyed the bedraggled group, who gazed at him expectantly. Sometimes being a leader really *stinks*, he thought to himself, involuntarily shivering as a surprisingly cold breeze unexpectedly blew over them. Jack sneezed once and sniffled miserably, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"Bless you," the group chorused. Jack nodded and sniffed again before falling silent. Alexander's eyebrows furrowed together in a worried frown for a moment before he settled his face into an impassive expression.

"Ready to continue?" he asked the group after a minute's silent contemplation. They nodded and lined up single file with the exception of Jack and David, who leaned on his friend for support as they began moving.

The group carefully walked along the embankment in silence for some time before Melanie cleared her throat and turned her head around for a moment. "Jack?"

"Yeah?" Jack's eyebrow rose, but his voice remained impassive as he waited for her to continue.

"Thanks," she said before she turned her head back in the opposite direction, not seeing his face soften visibly.

"You're welcome," he murmured. David's jaw dropped open and he blinked several times in astonishment before he found his voice.

"How on earth did you get her to jump anyway?" he hissed, his eyes darting back and forth to see if the others heard him. They gave no indication that they heard the conversation as they picked their way along the embankment.

Jack's lips curved up slightly. "I threatened to twist her nose," he admitted quietly.

David snorted and the others turned around. He raised his free hand up before Alexander could say anything. "I'm okay!" he quickly reassured the others and waited until they faced the opposite direction before answering his friend. "You're lucky she didn't punch you in the gut for that," he observed softly.

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it worked, didn't it?" he replied with a defensive note in his hastily whispered reply.

"Guess so," David agreed, grinning as he pictured the fiery redhead's reaction to Jack's threat in his mind. Jack saw his friend's reaction and returned the grin sheepishly before falling silent.

Unseen by the others, Melanie's lips curved up in a reluctant smile before it slipped from her face and slid back into a neutral expression.

Alexander, walking slightly ahead of the rest of the group, called out to the others as he rounded a corner. "Take it easy, everyone! It seems like we're heading down again - and the passage is narrowing as well." At least we still have light. I suppose that's *something,* his voice growled in his head. He decided to stop and wait for the group to join him. He sighed and shivered once more as he gazed around uneasily. Hopefully we'll dry soon, too.

The rest of the group joined him shortly, noses wrinkling as they caught the faintest whiff of sulfur in the air. "Oh no, not again," Melanie groaned uneasily.

Roberta's face grew puzzled, as did David's. "What do you mean, 'not again'?" she asked curiously.

Alexander, Jack and Melanie shook their heads. "Never mind," Melanie replied, shuddering slightly. "It's nothing. Nothing at all. Really," she added in hastily, her lips drawing back in an insincere grin.

"Sure," Roberta drawled, rolling her eyes. "And we're really at Disneyland."

Alexander cleared his throat before Melanie could make a retort. "People..." he reminded them, his voice deadly soft. Melanie's mouth immediately snapped shut as he turned around and started walking once more. They followed him in strained silence for some time.

"What the?!" Alexander suddenly pitched forward as he tripped over something that he didn't see in the path, kicking it away as he stumbled. He barely managed to keep himself from falling to the floor and whirled around to see what it was and to warn the others. "Oh God," his voice was a strangled croak, eyes widening in disbelief.

Melanie's terrified scream echoed in the passage as the rest cried out in horror when they saw the bloodied stump of a hand lying in the middle of the path.

Sandy
Claudia - YIKES!!!!! And welcome back :-), - Friday, October 26, 2001 at 12:09:04 (PDT)

Apparently not. LOL
Suzanne
Welcome back, Claudia! :-), - Friday, October 26, 2001 at 06:20:14 (PDT)

Claudia--ACCCCKKKK!!! Also EEEEEKKKKK!!!

MA---hmmmm, wonder what Ed would have to say about this?
Or The Empress? Your Majesty, do you know what's going on in your dungeons?!!, - Friday, October 26, 2001 at 05:47:43 (PDT)

hmmm, which part would that be Claudia??????
A Rickman Admirer
- Thursday, October 25, 2001 at 23:06:32 (PDT)

“SHE doesn’t know anything about this, does she?” The Empress couldn’t have run out of ideas already. She wouldn’t put one of her subjects in such danger, she would be in there herself, interrogating the Interrogator. Surely this would be a last resort, well, the one before she put HIM on the rack.

“I have a certain amount of autonomy.”

“What are you - her adviser, or her protector?”

“I like to think it’s the same thing.” The Empress had been making some questionable decisions concerning HIM. Sometimes Rupert had to protect her from herself.

“She trusts you. I hope her trust isn’t misplaced.”

“I’ve had many year’s service to prove myself. I am not telling you to do this - the final decision is yours.”

Claudia knew there was no choice. She would face the Interrogator. And truth be told, part of her was actually looking forward to it.
Claudia
- Thursday, October 25, 2001 at 21:24:19 (PDT)

FOF Offices:

Anton finished the stack of pages, “Well, what happens next?”

“I don’t know, that’s all I’ve gotten done.” Cindie had been watching him read, “What do you think? Will it work?”

“It’ll work fine as the flashback sequence. But what about the set up for the palace and the palace material?”

“Sheesh, Anton, cut me a break here wouldya? I’m new to this writing stuff.”

They were in a small conference room which was fitted out with several comfortable contemporary arm chairs and a large square glass topped coffee table. It was a room Cindie had found early in her time at FoF and sometimes used as a retreat to gather her thoughts. It seemed a more comfortable alternative to the regular conference rooms. Cindie was on the floor, using the coffee table as a writing surface, making notes on some typed pages, while Anton sat in one of the chairs, reading a sheaf of papers and placing each page upside down on the table in a precise stack when he was done with it. He peered at her over his reading glasses. Cindie had refrained from comment when he’d pulled them out. They made him look handsomer, as if that were a possible thing, but since she’d never seen them on him before she suspected he might be vain about his need for them.

Anton finished the last page, placed it upside on top of the rest, picked up the stack and tamped it, though it was already perfect, and placed the stack right side up. He then sat back and took off his glasses and returned them to his inner suit coat pocket. Crossing his legs, he gave his reply, “Do you wish to begin this sequence before the characters are introduced?” His obvious lack of enthusiasm made it clear he did not favour this idea.

Cindie leaned back on the front of one of the beige cushy chairs, “No. It was simply easier for me start here and get a feel for the characters. We can hold it off a bit for after they are at the Palace.” She rubbed her eyes, too much reading and writing today, “It does seem silly to have a flashback when there is nothing from which to flash.”

“Good.” Goot. “I agree.” No surprise there. “We will do some set up and then after they are at least en route to the trial we will begin this other thread.”

Cindie had already thought that was the way to go and her mind had wandered, wondering how many times she could have Anton Gruber say the word ‘good’ and how many ‘W’ words she could get away with in any given stretch of dialogue. Not to mention ‘zeese’ and ‘zose’. It was wicked, she knew that, but if she had to write the stuff she ought to be able to enjoy listening to it. “Agreed then. I’ll work on the set up and we can go over it early next week.” Guess how she was spending her weekend.

They left the conference room, Anton waiting for Cindie to stand up and gather her notes and drafts and various writing implements. He had to admit he was anxious to get to work. His character hadn’t been called for very much lately and he’d much rather be working than idle. Holding the door open for the new writer, he also considered that the working conditions here were very nearly ideal.

Cindie
You guys are killin' me!, - Thursday, October 25, 2001 at 17:12:31 (PDT)

“Not disappeared, exactly…” Rupert turned and looked through the back of the mirror at the Interrogator. “I had another idea, which you might… enjoy.”

What happened to Mary Anne? Claudia realised she was being steered away from something important, but decided, for now to let him lead the conversation in the direction he’d obviously been planning all along. “Which is…?”

“I thought we might put you in with the Interrogator, and see what happens.”

Claudia’s mouth dropped open again, and she sat back in the swivel chair with a thump, skidding it back against the wall. “Are… you…. out… of your… tiny… MIND!” She felt her stomach clench, and her breath coming faster in panic. “In there…” she pointed, “with HIM?…Alone?”

“Well, you won’t be alone. Because of the unstable equipment, someone will be watching you at all times… to see what HE does.”To see what you do.

“Like lab rats… see if we turn on each other, or, or…” That graphic image again… Why couldn’t she breath?

“Or turn to each other… Yes. I know you both know you are being watched, and it is a biased experiment. But worth a try. We might find out more about your chip, and the way HIS control works.”

“Worth it for who?” Events rollercoasting away from her. She grasped at the air, trying to pull back imaginary control. “Do you think the Empress would let anyone else stay in there, alone, with HIM? What about my safety?”

“But my dear… you are always saying you can look after yourself. And you have had plenty of practice.”

She turned and looked through the mirror at the Interrogator. And with a chilling intuition, HE looked up, straight at her, and smiled. She thought she was going to be sick.
Claudia
R - are you coming back to play?, - Wednesday, October 24, 2001 at 18:59:53 (PDT)

Scene: Even as the Delaford Parish church remains in our sights, the outlines of a very different sort of place begin to form, as the pews and altar recede . . .

HIS cell.

Evil. Darkness. Monster. All of these names HE has heard. Usually without much effect. Words, words, words. (homage) Sometimes, echoing throughout HIS offices, while conducting his work. At other times . . . when the line between his work and his own impulses had been erased.

HE does not need to pause, to turn this thought over more fully, as time has been his own, save for the few routine physical examinations which had been conducted heretofore. The last examination, only this morning. The usual. HE had played at amusement for himself.

"Is there anything wrong with me?" HE looked deeply into the face of the physician, and he, trained as military personnel as well as medical professional, had tried to remain stonily impassive.

But his soft brown eyes had shown fear. Poor man.

"You are---" What was the correct answer here? This prisoner--this "Interroagtor"--was far from "fine" or "well" or "fit". The doctor hastily cleansed the words which entered his brain with a wipe of an imagined sterile swab.

The physician removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Your heart is operating withing normal limits."

Recalling the thought, the Interrogator lets a smile fly around his lips, without landing.

This morning, as before, HIS heart had shown none of the weakness of its former self. Outside the Tardis, all that time ago. HE would be strong, in their Court. Whatever, and whomever would face him.

Doctors. To keep HIM fit. Able to face the Imperial Court. His accusers. His victims.

The united force of the Realm, come to bring down one man.

And what of the lawyer, who might represent him? Surely a Court so drenched in de jure would provide one, if he did not designate one of his own.

He could, perhaps, represent himself. "Only a fool has himself for a client." Still, it was a possibility....

HE saw the Court before him, time and place finally come to fruition. He could feel the rush of power, even at the anticipated moments.

HE sees, and hears, HIMSELF, before the Empress, and all those who have journeyed so far for this . . .

A dissolve, and we are in the Court . . .

HE hears de Valera. "I would have fought him. I would have killed him." Dev's anger, controlled. Carefully. "It would have been a fair fight," he adds, looking at Therese.

The chance to question Eamon de Valera. Ooooh. This might be worth whatever loses might be incurred. To put their whole hypocritical farce of justice, love, and morality on trial.

The Interroagator. The Court. HE addresses them after Dev's answer.

"I have never understood the morality which posits that violence or retribution is acceptable when the outcome is uncertain. The idea of a "fair fight" where one man is killed. Tell me, if killing is wrong, why is it any less wrong if the man deserving of punishment has a chance to defeat--and even kill--the man who comes to deliver justice? Is justice so fickle, or merely the man--or the Empress--who meets it out?"

First strike. Without pause, HE continues . . .

"And you--each of you--is it worth the punishment--even the death-- of one man, to sacrifice the soul of a sweet woman? To torture her thusly? Do you believe that when you rip her open, that she will escape unscathed?"

Second strike.

Therese. Claudia. Mary Anne. Any of them. All.

And this man--" The Interrogator makes no motion. "This pillar of the Realm..." Now, a laugh which might include jeaousy, along with the sharpest edge of cruelty. "... not only fails to protect her from your scythes, but actually brings her to to the public rack."

Third, and last.

Yes. It is time to prepare.

.
A gloved fist--that's Brandon..
R, - Wednesday, October 24, 2001 at 17:50:12 (PDT)

The Delaford parish church:

Brandon steps in, softly closing the door behind him, and proceeds to the sanctuary entrance. There he stands for a moment, thinking of that time-not so very long ago-when he had stood at the front, waiting for the woman who would be his bride. Yes, down front, with the beaming Sir John Middleton at his side.

Brandon shifts his gaze. Just there, Renie, more beautiful than ever in that silk the deep colour of pinot noir. Yes, Mary Anne would have seen all of it from here as she began her walk down the aisle on the arm of Hans Gruber, and Brandon closes his eyes, re-living in memory the catch of his breath, the tremble through his entire body, at the sight of her in that gown. My white rose, my dove, my fair one.

The Colonel opens his eyes and moves slowly into the sanctuary, choosing a pew near the back and seating himself, allowing the peace of the place to settle about him and quiet his soul. So quiet. No such quiet at Delaford, not at a time like this.

Quiet without and now within him. No one observing Brandon would call it prayer, to see him sitting with his eyes open, his head unbowed, as the thoughts rise up and speak from his heart . . .

It is written of You, that if my own father and mother forget me, yet You will not. What my father was, You know. And my mother died young.

His hands, still gloved against the chill and resting on his knees, clench into fists. The ache of it, even now.

I am not forgotten. Thank You for her. Give me strength and wisdom, to protect and help her, and love her as I ought.

Strength, wisdom. And courage, for Brandon knows that he, as well as Mary Anne, is frightened by The Interrogator and not ashamed to admit it; HE is a man to be feared. But he will not permit that fear to keep him from his duty to his wife, to his Empress, and to himself. And even as Brandon adds these petitions on his own behalf, his mind goes back to his desperate supplication in the dark tunnels beneath the Manor House: Only, spare her.

Mary Anne cannot be spared what is to come. But she can be helped through the worst of it, if he is resolute.

Make me worthy.

He repeats it, listening to his own voice within his heart, entreating aid, until the peace and silence close about him once more. The only sound, his own breathing, though he is filled with the conviction that an exchange has taken place; he has asked and been answered, in more than words.

With a long sigh, Brandon raises his hands and rests them on the back of the pew in front of him for a few moments. The dawn is giving way to the pale sunlight of a crisp, cold winter morning; soon it will be time to return to Delaford.

Brandon stands, turns . . . and lets out a startled exclamation on finding that he is not alone in the church . . .

MA--more from those gloved hands, then.
Poor men, what a standard to live up to! ;-), - Tuesday, October 23, 2001 at 19:38:41 (PDT)

That the gloved hand....
Never fails, those gloves.
Would that men were so! , - Monday, October 22, 2001 at 13:48:55 (PDT)

FoF, Mistral's Cube:

Upon his return to the FoF offices, Mistral was not overly surprised to find his office again occupied by a detective. On this occasion it was Graff, alone, who awaited his arrival. Mistral hung up his coat, nodded to the detective in welcome and proferred him tea. This time the other man accepted. Mistral poured, he had extra cups in his desk drawer, and the detective sipped, giving Mistral an enigmatic smile. Mistral stared complacently back enjoying his own drink.

It was finally Graff who broke the silence, “You know, of course, that they reported your breaking into their offices and threatening that photographer.”

Mistral settled back in his chair and allowed himself a slight smile. “And you know I neither broke in nor threatened anyone.”

Graff had taken the call from the local station and agreed to investigate the matter since he was already on site. It had seemed obvious from the facts reported that no actual crime was involved. Despite this initial impression, he believed in the Holmsian adage that there was nothing so useless as an obvious fact, and intended to look into the matter as he had promised. His amusement and appreciation for what the man had done did not override his considerable sense of duty. “That’s not for me to say,” he replied. He pulled out his notebook, looked over at the actor and said, “Now, please tell me exactly what your actions were and exactly what transpired from the time you left the offices this morning.”

Mistral recounted everything which occurred, omitting nothing, including where he had dropped off the film. “Did Mr. Thesewackle object to being photographed?” was Mistral’s benign query.

“Mr. Thesewackle apparently objected to being held hostage in the lift.”

“As I said, I made no move to stop him from resuming the lift’s progress. Indeed, I never lifted a finger to the man, though he cannot say the same.”

Graff’s mouth quirked but he retained his professional demeanor. “Do you plan on filing assault charges against him?”

“What an interesting notion. I hadn’t considered that. Though if any charges leveled against me are not dropped I will contact my solicitor and look into the matter.” He eyed the detective who perceived the glint in the other man’s eyes. “Perhaps I should have her present now, seeing that this is the second time in two days I have been questioned by the police.”

“As you wish.” The detective replied blandly. “Thesewackle was apparently very anxious to make it known that he tackled you and then propelled you to the lift. Other than such minor details, his account does not differ markedly, in terms of the facts, from your own.”

“Yes, I was quite …startled when he …tackled me.” Mistral replied gravely.

Graff consulted his notebook for a moment. “The guard who was on duty at the entrance to the employee garage said he didn’t see you pull in.”

Mistral simply shrugged.

“How did you enter the building?”

“As I said, I opened the door.”

Graff asked a few more questions to clarify matters and then commented, “I suppose I need to question the lady who was photographed with you next.”

At this Mistral stiffened. “If you must. Though she knew nothing of my intended actions when I left her office.”

Graff nodded noncommittally. “I will leave you to it then. I have to get back to my real reason for being here.” He stood. “Good day to you Mr. Mistral.”

“Good day, Detective Graff.”

Cindie
MA -- As always, simply lovely., - Monday, October 22, 2001 at 10:06:18 (PDT)

Delaford. Dawn.

Mary Anne awakens in the dim grey light. Drowsy and confused, she looks about the room-Brandon’s room. But weren’t we in my bed . . . ? And then she remembers: there had been no fire in her room last night, though the lack of one had not troubled them at first. Later, however, the chill had set in.

This is too cold for you my dearest.

Brandon, wrapping her in the blue silk coverings of the bed. His care for her, even in those few steps from her chamber to his.

A slow smile.

Yes, from her chamber into his, with the fire and with Brandon . . . who had wrapped her and then had the pleasure of unwrapping her . . .

Caesar, and Cleopatra in the carpet . . .

Only then does Mary Anne turn in the warmth of her present bedclothes to see that Brandon is no longer beside her. She frowns, rubs sleep from her eyes, and reaches out for a note left on Brandon’s pillow.

My dearest--

If anyone had told me, years ago, what pleasure can be found in watching someone sleep, I would not have believed them. But then, I would suppose the sleeper is of great import in such matters. "Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear . . ."

There is an errand I wished to perform before we depart for the Palace. I will return in time to breakfast with you. Sleep well.

Your Christopher

Mary Anne touches her lips to the signature and then lays aside the note, as she stretches in the warm comfort of the blankets-yes, there. She inhales deeply. Brandon’s characteristic scent, unmistakable but so difficult to describe: clean, but rich without a trace of sharpness, and that lingering note like cinnamon. Mary Anne lies still, comforted by this reminder of Brandon’s recent presence-or is there comfort from another source as well? When she thinks of the journey to the Palace, her anxiety has not vanished, but does seem to have courteous withdrawn to a more tolerable distance, allowing her to breathe and think of the future without steeling herself against panic. Perhaps it’s because of Dev and Therese, yesterday. I was so afraid of them finding out, and then I didn’t have a choice any longer; Dev KNEW. I had to face it, and it turned out better than I thought. Maybe this will, too.

It is tempting, then, to cocoon herself once more in the covers and sleep. However, there is work that can be done to speed the final preparations for departure, packing to oversee, plans to discuss with Commander Hudson-who will be awake soon, if she is not already.

Mary Anne sighs, and then, gritting her teeth, she leaves the warm sanctuary of the bed, wraps herself in her dressing gown, and rings for Miss MacLeod.

Cut to:

The Delaford parish church.

The morning stillness is broken by hoofbeats, as Brandon rides up to the church and dismounts. A quiet word to Menelaus, accompanied by a few pats on the neck, and the magnificent black horse remains quite still, his breath smoking in the cold air, as Brandon strides up to the church door and pushes gently at it with one gloved hand. The door opens, and Brandon steps into the church . . .

MA
*singing* "Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning,/Oh, how I'd love to remain in bed . . .", - Sunday, October 21, 2001 at 19:03:17 (PDT)

Cindie! I just got caught up since 9/2 and am trés impressed! I especially like the fish wrapping comment.
Rebecca <r.carte@att.net>
Chicago, IL USA - Saturday, October 20, 2001 at 14:12:08 (PDT)

Good to have you back, Clods! 8-) *Big ol' squeezy hug*

MA
"Intimate knowledge . . ." *shiver*, - Saturday, October 20, 2001 at 08:57:55 (PDT)

Fixed.
I don't know what happened either.
D.o.C.

A link to where this storyline last left off (for the confused or new and wondering what is going on) Look in the archives under May 2001.

Claudia found herself looking back through the mirror at the supine form of the Interrogator, her jaw still hanging open in astonishment. HE looked so harmless there, languid, eyes hooded by droopy lids, reading a book. But then HE also reminded her of some great cat. A leopard dozing lazily in a tree, deceptive, at the slightest movement from below, it would become a coiled spring, then release the tension and pounce on the hapless victim below. Is that what happened to me - pounced on? She shivered, a completely unbidden, but graphic image entering her mind.

“He triggered the chip with a voice command. I wonder if the same command worked on me, or if HE spoke another command which triggered the hypnosis.” She was thinking out loud, and had almost forgotten that Rupert was there, until she heard the tap of his stick on the floor behind her.

“There is our dilemma. You can’t be trusted, you could be programmed for anything. As long as you are close enough to hear HIM speak, HE could ask anything of you, and you’d do it.”

“Or the chip could be programmed for anything. There may not have been any hypnosis. Perhaps the chip works on my subconscious, the same way it worked on your surveillance tapes.” She immediately thought of the static on the screen, and wondered if that is what a blanked section of memory looked like. “Playing with the electrical impulses, sending them in unexpected directions.”

“Then why,” Rupert brought his stick up again and tapped her leg. “Plant it so far from the brain.”

Claudia sighed. “I don’t have any answers, only more questions. There must be some way to test the chip without removing it?”

“We will speak with the Doctor again, he may have thought of something since he tested you last. But there is also another reason I brought you here.”

“I brought myself.”

Rupert ignored the comment and carried on. “Colonel Brandon and Mary Anne will be arriving at the palace soon.”

“Already? The trial will be soon?”

“A date has not been set, her majesty wishes to consult the Brandon’s first.”

“And what can they know that will help?” She felt betrayed that Mary Anne had no forgiveness for her, that she had ended their friendship so easily.

“Mrs Brandon has an intimate knowledge of the Interrogator. Her majesty thought…”

“Oh, she did, did she? I, have an intimate knowledge of the Interrogator. I don’t suppose the Brandon’s will be spending their visit in the dungeons? Mary Anne has spent some time with HIM, but how can she truly know HIM?”

Rupert studied her face. She looked so open and honest. From what he’d learned of Claudia, she was pretty straightforward. She decided on a cause that seemed worth fighting for, and she gave everything to accomplish the task. But she was also misguided - easily lead off her path. Easily persuaded. Too trusting. “You don’t know about Mary Anne?”

“What about Mary Anne?” She looked indignant, but there was a frown of worry creasing her brow.

“We are concerned that your chip may be in someway linked or developed from a machine that was used on Mary Anne.”

“What?” Claudia felt dizzy. What had happened to Mary Anne? When had it happened? How had it happened? She felt suddenly scared that she was responsible.

“I cannot tell you any more right now. But it is important that we keep you away from the Brandon’s until the connection can be investigated further.”

“So, I’m being… disappeared?”
Claudia <claudia@paradise.net.nz>
Yes, its really really soon, right about now ;^D PS don't know what happened when I tried to post before!, - Friday, October 19, 2001 at 21:18:25 (PDT)

The Lift:

Mistral turned to the quailing photographer. The man was clearly terrified but Mistral could feel little sympathy for the fool. He may have been doing his job but he conducted it in a manner which Mistral found offensive. A furtive cheat, was how Mistral saw it. Sneaking in the dark without the courage to make himself known, bragging in the relative safety of his office about how he had ambushed a woman of whom he knew nothing. If he had any hesitation about using his actor’s gifts to prevent at least this serpent from striking from the darkness, thoughts of Cindie quickly thrust them aside. She would be subject to such unwelcome attention, but he could at least make an example out of this one. It would be easy to put on the cloak of the Interrogator and scare the living daylights out of this cretin. But he had to handle this in a subtle manner which would keep her from further harm, including any further publicity for himself which could in turn reflect upon her. That limited his options.

After staring at the man for a moment, though it seemed to Nigel an eternity of anticipation, in the worst sense, Mistral spoke. “You have taken liberties with my person. That I can forgive you. You have taken liberties with the person of my companion. For that, there is no forgiveness possible. I tell you now, you will not make the same mistake again.” Mistral withdrew a hand from his coat pocket. The other man flinched.

The hand held a camera and surprise and relief flooded Nigel’s face. Mistral took the other man’s picture. “For my records,” was all he said and returned the camera to his coat pocket. He then pressed another button and elevator returned them without incident to the main floor.

Leaving the former undercover reporter in the lift, Mistral retraced his steps back to his car. As he strode out of the side entrance he pushed the door as if to fling it out his way and his coat billowed out behind him. The avenging angel had done his work. He got into his car, shut the door with a thump of finality, pulled out of the parking space, turned out into the street, and didn’t even wonder if the faint sound of sirens he heard approaching had anything to do with him. On the way back to the office he dropped the film off at the lab.

Nigel Thesewackle’s relief was short lived as he wondered just what sorts of things that man’s records contained. One thing he knew for certain, he was never going to take anyone’s picture from that accursed show ever again.

Cindie
Claudia, is it very, very soon yet?, - Friday, October 19, 2001 at 17:33:51 (PDT)

I'm 5'9" and I was wearing flat sandels.
Claudia
- Thursday, October 18, 2001 at 11:00:19 (PDT)

Claudia, great pic! Thanks for sharing, I'm eating my heart out! My question for you, how tall are you, maybe we can calculate his actual height? Now I'm off to read those archives and get my George fix, been missing that scoundrel. Thanks Suzanne, for your hard work!
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Wednesday, October 17, 2001 at 23:20:29 (PDT)

Its the London Eye - went on there with Claire and the boys... and maybe AR when no one was watching.

Looking at that photo I can, for the first time, see the Frankie Howard likeness. Its VERY offputting! He doesn't really look like Frankie Howard - its just the photo. Really.
Claudia
- Wednesday, October 17, 2001 at 22:35:53 (PDT)

Okay, the FOF Back Issues are back online! Please note, however, that the links back to the Index Page in many of the Back Issues still need to be changed (I'm working on it!), so just hit your back button in the meantime. And if the sound files on each page aren't working, it's because I still need to change those also. But I wanted to get the Back Issues up ASAP and ready to read again.

Fantastic photo, Claudia! Did you two ride the rollercoaster together? *grin*

Suzanne
Keep up the great work (play?), everyone!, - Wednesday, October 17, 2001 at 19:27:04 (PDT)

Let me briefly interrupt. (Yes, I do plan to write very very soon!)For those of you who haven't seen it - here's the photo of me and AR taken in September!

Alan Rickman and mystery woman
Claudia <claudia@paradise.net.nz>
- Wednesday, October 17, 2001 at 15:25:45 (PDT)

Yay! Julie's back. Now if only I could come back. I've been online alot but most of that time was taken up by me making my website. All the HTML,blah... But I have the part written in hand, in my notebook that I have with me right now. I would have typed it up, if I would have remembered. D'OH!

Ooh and it's glad to hear from two people that actually read this, besides everyone that writes it of course. Enjoy your stay ladies, I'm sure you will as long as you stay away from my story!
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
1 hour till I leave for school, something I don't want to go to! I have two tests today that I didn't evn get the chance to study for..., - Wednesday, October 17, 2001 at 04:40:51 (PDT)

Delaford. The Brandons’ chambers.

Gently, Brandon draws the brush through Mary Anne’s hair, working slowly from roots to ends, careful not to pull. Her hair is very thick but finally lies smooth about her shoulders, gleaming in the low lights of this room, her own private retreat.

"Mmmmmm," sighs Mary Anne, as Brandon sets down the brush and begins to stroke her shoulders and neck, caressing away the day’s tensions even as he had coaxed the tangles from her hair. Finally, he seats himself on the bench beside her, slipping an arm around her waist and moving her hair aside with his other hand, to leave a kiss on her throat.

Mmmmmmmmm." Mary Anne leans against him, her eyes closed in sheer enjoyment. "That feels wonderful. Don’t stop."

Brandon is, of course, pleased to comply.

"Oh, and Christopher-" A sudden intake of breath. That one spot there at the side of her neck . . . "Christopher, I know it must have been a shock for you this morning, to come in and find Mister de Valera there, too-"

Brandon pauses in his attentions. "Did you know he would be there?"

"No; of course not! If I had, I wouldn’t have had the courage to go through with it." A pause. "And thank you for, well, letting me go through with it. When you first came in and saw Dev there, I was afraid that heads would roll! But you were very patient." Mary Anne turns to smile up at him. "A patient man is a rarity, you know."

"It was not patience, my dearest." Brandon gazes down at her, his eyes crinkling in a rueful grin. "But when you offered me my tea and asked if I preferred ‘one lump or two,’ I had the conviction that the lumps might be inflicted on my cranium-"

Mary Anne bursts out laughing. "As if I would! And more shame to me, if I did." She reaches up to cup Brandon’s face in her hands, drawing him down to leave one, two, three kisses on his forehead. "It’s such a handsome cranium, after all."

Brandon smiles wistfully. He does not think of himself as a handsome man, for the simple reason that he hardly thinks of his looks at all; neither handsome nor ugly, simply a man with the common features of mankind. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a strong body, all working as they should-a blessing not granted to every man, and one for which he is grateful. That Mary Anne sees more than this is both delight and mystery to him, but that she does indeed see more is undeniable; he has known her too long and too well to be in any doubt of his effect on her-that it is both genuine and strong. Caught up in passion with him, Mary Anne is a leaf in the gale, but not helpless before it, rather a part of it. Leaf and storm are partners in the same tempestuous dance.

Brandon returns to himself to find Mary Anne watching him. Smiling, he takes her hands in his, planting soft kisses on each before lifting them again to link them behind his neck as he tightens his grip at her waist and slips the other arm beneath her knees, lifting her up.

He is about to carry her back into the other room, to his bed, when Mary Anne stops him with a look, shaking her head. Smiling, she nods toward the bed here in this chamber that is meant to be exclusively hers. But Brandon is welcome here always, and so is every aspect of his life with her. And after all, they have never . . .

Smiling back in understanding, Brandon bears Mary Anne off to her bed.

MA--well, this perfectly good bed was just sitting there, you see . . .
Cindie: *shudder* and LOL at the same time!! , - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 18:18:50 (PDT)

Offices of the Morning Blab:

The photographer/undercover reporter sat there, on his own desk, surrounded by co-workers, in his workplace, and felt completely out of his element. Perhaps it was in reaction to this that he felt the need to act in order to regain control of his situation. It was a bad idea.

Mistral had come prepared for almost anything, though he hadn’t expected the slight man to launch himself at his person. Mistral took a quick step back and to the side so that he was only grazed by the human projectile. The man lurched forward, caught himself on another desk and whirled around. “You’ve no right to be here,” he stammered. His cringing posture made him look like the one who didn’t belong.

Mistral’s stance belied his status as the interloper. He stood very straight and very still, completely in command of himself, the situation, and it seemed, his adversary. “Your feat of athletics does you credit, I’m sure. Since you seem to think I’ve no right to be here, why don’t you see me out?” He drawled his suggestion to the photographer who was now quivering in either agitation or fear.

Seizing upon an opportunity at regaining some self esteem and apparent control of the situation the man, whose name was actually Nigel Thesewackle, according to the by-line of the photograph which had graced the morning edition, looked about but saw only office doors closing. While he hoped that someone was calling the police he did not wish to stake his life upon that prospect and so raised himself up to his full height, which was not quite even with the man he was trying to face down though it seemed far less, and asserted, “Quite right, I’m just going to show you the door.”

Mistral merely waited. In his long black coat he appeared as an Ionic column of righteousness, immune to the vague sputterings of lesser men.

Seeing no movement from his most recent subject, Nigel took Mistral by the arm, wincing as though he might be burned by the physical contact. There being no resistance Nigel puffed himself up and nodded to Mistral who allowed himself to be led through the office and back to the lift. Nigel had thought to put Mistral on the elevator and scurry back to safety. Mistral had planned things differently. The doors to the elevator opened and Nigel found himself inside it with his newly made foe. As the doors closed, Nigel began to stammer unintelligibly.

Turning to face him, Mistral said only, “Stop.” He didn’t say it particularly loudly, or with any great force. At the same time he pressed a button inside the lift with the same word written upon it. Nigel would swear in later life that the elevator had obeyed the voice command. Nigel did as well, and shut up.

Cindie
- Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 18:06:15 (PDT)

I wonder what snape will do when he realises he's playing himself. Nothing too drastic I hope!
Sarah <sarah@miffed.co.uk>
just my 2 pennies worth, - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 12:17:04 (PDT)

Blessings and welcome to Laura and Sarah!!

Julie's Cubicle

Julie's brain barely had time to work in those few seconds when the idea had seized her. After all, this new acquaintance of Jutta's had exactly the right look, not "perfect", but right. Julie despised anything too perfect in the literal sense, sometimes great interest was brought on by small imperfections. Perfection brought either popularity or loathing, and as a rule, Julie tended to shy away from anything and anyone who was *too* popular. (A.N. Except for Harry Potter books, but that's because they're too good to be ignored! Alan's got a great level of equilibrium where popularity is concerned.). Still, it was a providence of the Gods themselves that the Director had granted her request and had given him a screen test. Obviously the boss himself had been as impressed as she'd been that he fit what she had written so well, since he told Snape that he could start tomorrow. He had yet to receive the script, but, considering Snape's intelligence, the thought had been clear that he would memorize his lines quickly.

Everything else considered, Professor Snape also had the right . . . name? Her mind was desperately trying to reconcile the fact that he had the same name as JK Rowling's character. That was odd, to say the least. Perhaps, since he was so compelling, she hadn't been paying attention, and she'd heard wrong. Maybe the author had met him and perhaps based her character on him? That might have been it. There couldn't be that many Professor Snapes, could there? Perhaps it was a more common surname than Julie'd thought, and the whole fact that he'd taught chemistry was a massive coincidence. That's all it could be, right? Her brain was awash with thoughts.

**Trying to figure out Snape, eh? That could take a good decade or two.** Tommy padded in, rubbing Julie's ankles. **Let me explain.**

"Explain?" Julie spoke aloud. "Wait a minute, where have you been?"

**With Miranda. She had things she needed to talk about, before mitigating circumstances sent her to Heaven.**

Julie nodded, preferring to mindspeak to the cat again, just so no one would find her "talking to herself". **I understand, but what's all this about Snape?**

**Do you remember what your script says you are, and what it says I am? Well, I'll say that you've always had a gift for divination. You were right.** **You mean I'm Forgotten? That was something I made up!** Julie's theory, written in her script, was that not all witches and wizards from the "magical world" were immediately discovered, and that she, adopted and raised by Muggles, had not been detected when it was time for her abilities to be trained. Therefore, like so many other "Forgotten", as she had called them, the powers she would have had had atrophied, leaving behind a person who was intuitive, and whose spells touched the spiritual, but who was not a true "witch" in the J.K. Rowling sense of the word. She was not really a Muggle either, but somewhere in between. **That's impossible!**

**Think about it. Ever since you were a child, you believed. No matter how hard the world tried to beat it out of you, you still seek magic. And you have me.** Tommy, in accordance to Julie's script, was a True Familiar, a spirit animal who was not just a witch's pet, but a guide. From what he was indicating, her writing had been correct about that, as well. **Of course, I can't really amplify your powers or teleport us around.**

**Then I have to get trained and take my journey in reality instead of on the show?**

**No, no. Your powers cannot truly be retrieved, since they were never strengthened and tempered with the right lessons. You might be able to cast a healing, an exorcism, or a really general curse, but only in the way another Forgotten might. You won't ever be able to do anything flashy like making things float around. A wand would be nothing more than a metaphorical tool in your hands. I'm sorry.** The cat leapt into her lap and offered a sympathetic purr.

**It hurts. I've wanted it so long, so badly.**

**I know.**

**Hang on, if there really is a magical world, then our "Snape" is . . .**

**Exactly. The real one. The portents have been in line for a long time, but you haven't been looking at your cards, have you?** Tommy chided.

**How'd he get here, if we're to go with the theory that the "magical world" is really a sort of world lying on top of our own, that some people, the wizards, can go in and out of at will? Snape didn't do it. I couldn't feel any magical energy on him at all. Of course, I didn't exactly *touch* him. That works better, but everything around him felt . . . dead.**

**I don't know, I'm just a Familiar. And don't ask me how J.K. Rowling sees into that world, either. I don't know.**

**Why doesn't anyone else who's read the books, which I'm sure Jutta has, recognize him for who he is?**

**Not sure,** Tommy yawned, **but I surmise it's for the same reason you didn't react at first. Logic, overriding the sheer impossibility of the truth. You were making excuses for him, too. I "heard" them. Jutta sees him as being a bit eccentric, no doubt, maybe an amnesiac who latched onto a convenient persona. I can't speak for her thoughts. But I've been watching him. I watched you having lunch, and the lines he was handing out were just enough to keep you grounded in reality. If I wouldn't have told you, you wouldn't have felt it at all.**

"One more thing," Julie muttered aloud. "How do you think he's going to react when he finds out the script is about Hogwarts and him? You think he'll quit?"

The orange tabby bristled. **Whatever has him here has put him in pretty dire straits. I don't think he'll leave, but he may just push you up against a wall and demand to know how much you know. Be prepared for the worst.** With that thought, Julie hung her head, tapped her forehead against the desk, and groaned. She picked up a neat portfolio that she hadn't noticed, then began removing its contents. Inside were pictures of a beautiful castle with golden wood gates, twined with vines, with grounds that held inviting gardens and arbors of roses that wouldn't look out of place blooming in the winter. Barbara's visions of Hogwarts showed a castle that had she'd its Gothic oppressiveness while still retaining its mystery. It was gorgeous, a place she could imagine arriving at wide-eyed with wonder. Joy misted her eyes. At least this beauty would sustain her until the storm hit.

Julie
Guess who's back? Hi, all!, - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 10:57:11 (PDT)

Thanks Suzanne! I just wanted to know how long I needed to wait. I really apreciate this site, and all the work you do, have done, to keep it up! Thanks again!
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 09:26:27 (PDT)

Suz, Thanks for maintaining the ARchives and for keeping our home tidy.
Cindie
- Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 07:28:59 (PDT)

Sorry about the archives disappearing (temporarily!). They should be back up later this evening or tomorrow.
Suzanne <Suz@mail.usa.com>
So many links to change, so little time..., - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 06:42:01 (PDT)

Oh no! I just went to the archives and they're not available. Can you tell me how long it will be before they're back up? I still have to read two years worth of George's journal to get caught up. Magda-thanks for the current entry, I can't wait for the next installment!
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Tuesday, October 16, 2001 at 00:09:46 (PDT)

Paragraph added.
D.o.C.

Darn. DoC, please put a paragraph break in paragraph 8 between "middle of the bed." and "You have." Thank you.
Magda
- Monday, October 15, 2001 at 15:19:48 (PDT)

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

"There is nothing like an impending royal visit to determine the answer to the age-old philosophical conundrum: how many woolen blankets does a castle in the north of England require at the beginning of winter?" Joya paused to gesture at the parchment on the table with her brush. "I mean if it gets very cold very suddenly, we won't have enough for all of our guests."

"As far as I'm concerned, Locksley can make do with straw from the stables." From my side of our bed, I watched Joya preparing for sleep. She sat in front of the hearth, leaning forward until her hair hung like a curtain. The dying embers were still hot enough to bring out the gold highlights. A most delightful view, now that she'd finally slowed down. She'd been a whirlwind of activity all evening. As soon as we'd dined and Richard had been fed, a pile of lists had appeared apparently out of thin air. They'd commanded her complete attention to the exclusion of everything else, including me. To my annoyance, I hardly need add.

She put down the brush and began to plait her hair. "That would not be very hospitable, I'm afraid. The king would probably have opinions about it."

"I suppose so." I shrugged. It was an enjoyable thought, though. "Wishful thinking."

Joya finished her work, tossed her braid over her shoulder and rose from the stool. For a moment she was silhouetted against the fire. I swallowed hard at the sight. She crossed to the cradle and stooped to kiss Richard good night with soft murmurs. Two stops to blow out the candles and then she was climbing into bed beside me. I reached for her but she scooted back out of reach.

"Not so fast. We have visitors coming early tomorrow and we have some planning to do." She sat up and folded her hands in her lap demurely. "Now then. How are we going to get out of this marital mess?"

"Not to worry. I've already come up with the solution." I shifted slightly towards the middle of the bed.

"You have." She didn't sound eager. "What is it?"

"Quite simple, really. We wait until the king arrives with this Abelard and Count Godfrey. We welcome them with open arms. Convince Godfrey that we are willing to go ahead with the marriages. Then we suggest to the king that we go hunting in Sherwood Forest. Knowing your brother's inclination for shedding blood, that shouldn't be a problem." I watched her face carefully. She was concentrating on my words. I moved a couple of inches closer. "Then, when we're hunting, Abelard will suffer a tragic 'accident' in the forest. A badly aimed arrow or spear will cut down the pride of Anjou's nobility. The count will be distraught, the king will be apologetic, but they'll get over it and the alliance will be safe. And the rest of us will live happily ever after."

"I see." Joya didn't quite meet my eyes. "Hmm. Well. As you say, it has the advantage of simplicity. Will Lord Locksley go along with it?"

"He will if he wants to keep his wife." I couldn't understand her lack of enthusiasm. "It's important that both Locksley and I be with the king and the count when the accident takes place. It will look better."

"I see." She frowned. If anything she sounded even less ardent than before.

Perhaps more explanation was needed. "Locksley will have to get one of those rabble he was hanging around with last year to actually do the deed. Otherwise I could just arrange it myself and not involve him at all."

"Yes." She was lost in thought, her teeth chewing lightly on her lower lip. I took advantage of her concentration to slide closer again. Finally she looked up and smiled. "Yes, you should definitely discuss it with Lord Locksley tomorrow and see what he thinks. But perhaps we should not put all our eggs in one basket."

"What do you mean?" I was pleased. She did like the idea. Very gratifying.

"I mean," She turned to me and shrugged her shoulders. Her nightgown slid down her arms. "That we should consider a backup plan too."

I was admiring the play of firelight on her smooth skin and had to force myself to pay attention. "Backup plan?"

"Uh huh." She slid over to the center of the bed in one graceful gesture and propped herself on her arm. The scent of lavender teased my senses. "What happens if it rains all the time and you can't go hunting? Or maybe Abelard won't want to go out in the forest? You can hardly carry him."

"Do you have anything in mind?" I most definitely did, but it had nothing to do with kings and forests and hunting or even unwanted Angevin barons.

"Uh huh." Joya ran one delicate finger along my jaw. "It occurs to me the king wants to make sure that there is nothing wrong with these marriages so that he won't have to go through this mess again. I think we should persuade Lord Locksley to ask the king to make sure these weddings will be legal by referring them to the highest Church authorities for consultation. It's the sort of request that would be very hard to turn down, especially for a former Crusader like King Richard. And of course, as we well know, that could take years."

"Yes, that might work." I closed my eyes as Joya's finger trailed down my neck to my chest. "But can we trust the Church authorities to take their time?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can." She chuckled warmly. "We will have to prove that we are devote and God-fearing and the best way to do that, I think, is to make large donations to the dioceses of all the churchmen who are consulted on the matter. I'm sure they will appreciate our philanthropy."

I opened my eyes and stared at her in amazement. It was perfect. Once the lawyers of the Church got their grasping mitts on a legal brief, it would be a decade at least before the matter was raised even in a middle-sized sectarian court. The trick would be to make sure they never came close to actually making a ruling; a steady stream of annual donations would be necessary but that couldn't be helped.

"What do you think?" She leaned forward until I thought I was going to drown in those huge blue eyes. "Do you like it?"

I had to clear my throat. "Yes, I like it very much. Excellent idea."

"Good." She smiled sweetly. "I'm so glad you're pleased. I like to please you."

"That's what's so good about our marriage, my dear." I reached over and tangled my fingers in her thick hair. "We have so much in common. You like to please me and I like to be pleased. We are a team."

And we were going to remain one, I vowed silently. It was my last coherent thought.

Magda
- Monday, October 15, 2001 at 15:16:16 (PDT)

Laura, you have mail.
Cindie
DoC, please don't let HIM hear you say that. . ., - Sunday, October 14, 2001 at 16:34:58 (PDT)

Hi Cindie! I have a couple of questions for you, or anyone else who wants to answer:-) First, I understand the premise of FoF is that the characters started as characters AR played. But who is Mistral? I can't figure out were he came from. Second, I'm seaching the archives, when did your story with Mistral start? Third, do I understand correctly, that Mistral is an actor who plays HIM/the interrogator on FoF? If that's wrong, could you set me straight? TIA for the answers. And thanks for writing, I enjoy reading very much, and hope to maybe write some myself in the future.
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Sunday, October 14, 2001 at 15:08:47 (PDT)

I meant trying *not* to italicize the GB!! I've already done the former. . .
Cindie
Going back to HTML school., - Saturday, October 13, 2001 at 11:45:38 (PDT)

Mistral left Cindie’s office after about fifteen minutes of absurd plans which they concocted to reek their vengeance on the tabloid. He indulged her plots and added his own variations to her suggestions all in the name of raising her spirits. That and making sure he quelled his anger so that it didn’t show. He would need to be control. A word with a few people and his absence for a couple of hours would not be noticed. Stopping long enough at his cubicle to retrieve his coat, keys and an item from a desk drawer, he then went to his car, started the engine, and pulled determinedly out of the lot heading to the offices of the paper which dared to take her picture and make something ugly out of their blossoming …affection. He took several deep breaths as he considered that. He had warned her to beware of such liberties when she began to work in front of the camera, but not now.

Not yet.

Not because of him.

He did feel completely responsible. Ordinarily he would have been on the look out for such machinations as had been used last night, but he had been distracted by their conversation and his plans for later in the day. It was a poor way to repay the trust she had in him. It was impossible to undo the damage, but he could ensure it would not recur.

When he arrived at the building, he pulled up past the booth that looked like it ought to have held a guard and into the lot marked for employees only. Not stopping to see whether or not there was a guard reacting, he exited the car door and strode into the entrance marked “No Admittance to the Public.” Had there been anyone close enough to hear, they would have heard a mutter of, “this is not public, it is …personal.”

Sailing into the building as though it were his every day routine he spared a quick glance for the list of names next to the elevator and pushed for the next available lift. There was a guard at the public entrance to the building who did not seem to notice this force of nature who entered from the side door. Apparently anyone who came in through that door belonged and was outside his purview. The elevator arrived and Mistral waited while a young male pushing a mail cart exited. He strode in and pushed the fifth floor button. A voice called out, “hold please.” Mistral’s hand stayed the door’s to the lift from closing and an attractive woman in her late twenties hurried into the elevator car and said “thank you,” before looking at him.

“You are quite welcome,” he replied. The woman pressed four and eyed him from underneath her blond bangs, but said nothing. The doors opened, she stepped out, and the car continued to his designated floor. When the doors whooshed open again he paused just briefly to choose a direction. Decided, he strode forward, again for all the world like someone who knew the route by rote. He passed rows of desks, then offices with nameplates on the outside and numerous potted palms. Finally, he came to another area with desks lined up in rows. There was a man whose narrow back was to him, sitting on a desktop surrounded by a group of what must be co-workers, listening to his tale of daring do.

“And then I decided, rather than following him and risk being seen, I’d just wait by there cars. I mean they had to turn up there sooner or later…” Mistral continued his approach, his face impassive and his step unchanging. As he came up behind the unsuspecting storyteller, some of his audience recognized him and tensed. No one spoke, however, as Mistral came around the desks and stood before the offending and but inoffensive looking photographer. “And boy was I in for a treat! He was all over….” His voice trailed as he noticed his new listener.

“Oh, do go on,” Mistral drawled, arms crossed, “this is fascinating.”

The man gulped.

Cindie
Trying to italicize the guestbook., - Saturday, October 13, 2001 at 11:44:35 (PDT)

That's "champagne," of course. *hic*

MA
- Friday, October 12, 2001 at 18:37:47 (PDT)

Evening.

Stillness lies over Delaford, after a long and trying day. Preparations. Last-minute instructions. Footfalls and voices in corridors, rummaging of bureaus and armoires, clothing unfolded and shaken and pressed and packed. Moire MacLeod, giving directions even as she ties the last knot of her fine stitchery and snips the thread. Done.

Now the house is quiet.

And in the Brandons’ chambers . . .

Mary Anne sits before her mirror, taking down her hair, listening. Quiet, yes, though there is the occasional sound of a door opening and closing, a step, a murmur, a movement.

Like the night before my wedding, with all the guests arriving.

This is departure, not arrival.

No more delay. She is fit for travel, and Commander Hudson has been patient. The Imperial command must be obeyed.

Absently, Mary Anne draws the brush through her hair as it floats about her shoulders, then smiles. Among the myriad small noises that only she can hear, there is another of far more interest: the creak of a nearby door.

The door of Brandon’s dressing room.

The padding of his feet on the carpet: she can hear it. And the very movement of the air as her own door-which does not creak-swings open at the soft push of a hand.

Mary Anne affects to be absorbed in her evening ritual, but watches as the reflection moves closer, standing behind her, watching.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Mary Anne surrenders the heavy silver-backed brush as Brandon gathers up the thick waves in one hand and takes the brush in the other, slowly drawing it through her hair . . .

MA--a warm welcome to our de-lurkers. Sending the Welcome Wagon with champage! *pop* of cork
Cindie--whatever you do, stay out of HIS cell. , - Friday, October 12, 2001 at 18:35:50 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
Perhaps there's some hidden desire to spend more time with HIM, hmm?
D.o.C.

Nevermind, there was a space between the back slash and the I.
Cindie
Going quietly., - Friday, October 12, 2001 at 16:58:42 (PDT)

O.K., I just rechecked my post and there is a close italics code after HIM!!! Throwing myself on the mercy of the DoC.
Cindie
I know, everybody in the slammer says they're innocent..., - Friday, October 12, 2001 at 16:57:11 (PDT)

FoF, outside the Director's office:

Mistral took Cindie by the elbow and propelled her out of the Director’s office. He began to move swiftly down the hall but Cindie had had enough of trying to keep up with long legged men this morning. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Please don’t.”

He stopped and waited for her. “Don’t what?” His voice was angry despite the controlled features.

“Let this get to you.” She walked up to him. His features were composed to reveal nothing. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, “It wasn’t your fault and we didn’t do anything we shouldn’t be able to do.”

“Wasn’t it?” His words were clipped short and ragged. “Not two days ago I was admonishing you how you’d have to look out for people who feel they’ve a right to your person. Next thing, I’ve managed to have us both on the cover of some tabloid rag.”

A look up and down the hallway revealed no one else. “No. You didn’t. You didn’t take that picture. Someone who’s job it is to do such things took the picture.” And you’re not HIM.

“The headline makes it clear I was the object but in the process they’ve tampered with you as well.” His tone was vitriol, their intrusion, unforgivable. “You’re my latest victim. Though perhaps not the way the caption meant it.”

“Victim?!” It was getting more difficult to keep her voice muted in the hallway. “I am no such thing,” she hissed. “WE went to dinner and WE went for a walk and WE said goodbye out our car doors. The only victim here was our privacy and you are no more responsible for its breach than I am.” “I ought to have known better.”

“Maybe.” He started at her partial agreement. “But I had fair warning too, from you, and didn’t heed it.” Now she drew a slow, deep breath and said very quietly, “is it such a bad thing to be so wrapped up in someone that the world slips away for a moment? We should’ve been more circumspect, will be, of course, but is it such a horrible thing to be photographed with me?”

“Of course not, and you know it.” Mistral’s voice quieted to match hers. “But that it was in this manner… I ought to have protected you from this. Ought to have been the wiser one.”

Placing a hand on his forehead and stroking down the side of his face, she let her voice drop and soften, “my Merlin. Has Nimue taken your senses?” He caught her hand as it slid off his cheek, “I suppose it was really my fault for placing you in a compromising position.”

His mouth quirked, he was not about to be so easily diverted, though she could be quite …diverting. He took a deep breath, and another, willing himself to calm. “Yes. I suppose that’s true. If you didn’t exert your feminine wiles on me we’d never have been caught in the act, as it were.”

Somewhat better. “I didn’t know I had feminine wiles. This bears further investigation, I shall have to test my powers further to see how far they extend.”

Perhaps he could allow himself to be diverted for the time being. A few moments before he went and handled the matter. A few moments of her company, now. He would miss her this weekend. His equanimity began to return, but his thoughts were already on what his course of action would be for his visit to the fish wrapping’s offices. Subtlety was required, something which he could summon when needed. “Shall we go to your office and spend some time plotting our revenge on this impertinent publication?”

“That sounds like a good idea. Could we have someone get a photo of its editor in his underwear?”

“A good start, my dear.” They proceeded down the hall to their plotting, real and imagined.

Cindie
Welcome Laura and Sarah. Nice to know that someone is reading.
Here I thought Christine's comment had to do with her state of undress., - Friday, October 12, 2001 at 16:53:46 (PDT)

Laura: thanks for the kind comment. Posting questions here is fine; you never know, other people might want to find out the same thing.

Just for the record, Christine has no idea if I write while wearing clothes or not.
Magda
- Thursday, October 11, 2001 at 13:06:36 (PDT)

I thought I was the only one skulking in the background!
I'm here too, cindie, julie, you have me enthralled, everyone else too infact. I love this site so much, all because of FoF. I've been reading here for a few months, and everything has been amazing. If I had more time, I'd join in, but unforunately I'm swept off my feet from dawn till dusk.
Sarah
Sarah
Just making myself known :), - Thursday, October 11, 2001 at 13:01:48 (PDT)

I hope it's okay to post this here. You gals have got me hooked! I started reading the FoF page on Monday, not quite finished with all of the story lines, but ready to start reading the archives. I absolutly LOVE Magda's Nottingham journal. If I have a question about a story line, should I post it here, or write to the author and ask her? Thank you all for your creativity!
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Wednesday, October 10, 2001 at 23:31:28 (PDT)

Magda, I love your story with clothes on or off! Well, you know what I mean!
Christine
- Wednesday, October 10, 2001 at 15:14:26 (PDT)

But if Hans had paws, wouldn't he have trouble with his detonatorssss?
;-D
- Tuesday, October 09, 2001 at 12:33:28 (PDT)

"...the liquid lilt of that voice is dyed through with a sorrowful anger..."
Wonderful words, dearest.
Do you think that Dev has ordered deeds which would give Hans pause?, - Tuesday, October 09, 2001 at 09:21:17 (PDT)

Thanks, Jutta, it was no problem at all. I'm sorry I never contacted you, but I had been seized with the nastiest case of writer's block. Tried to write that accursed scene three times and was getting nowhere. Hey, I suppose it happens to the best of us.
Julie
I am still alive, just devoid of much inspiration and kind of busy, - Tuesday, October 09, 2001 at 09:05:22 (PDT)

FoF Set, Director’s Office:

Mistral strode into the room and threw the mangled paper on the desk and slammed his right fist on top of it. “HOW DARE THEY!” He turned to the Director, fury in his eyes, “We will sue them. We will bury them.” He bit off each word and Cindie knew she did not want to be them.

In the wake of Mistral’s controlled, although barely, rage, the Director seemed to calm himself and enquired of the man who stood, every muscle of his body tensed as if to fight someone, anyone, “Are you saying that is not you?”

Mistral glared at his Director, “What do you mean?”

“If it is indeed you, and,” he nodded towards Cindie, “the lady, then we have little cause to sue them, let alone bury them.”

Mistral continued to glare at the Director for a moment and then turned and looked at Cindie. His eyes flickered, in the tumult of his entrance he seemed to have not seen her standing there. “The things they said, implied, were grossly insulting and untrue.”

The Director picked up the paper and read in a mockingly casual tone: “Could it be that the man you love to hate has found a new victim? It seems that our undercover camera has found that the Interrogator has some new methods of gaining information….” He allowed his voice to trail off. “All suggestion and innuendo and nothing actionable.”

Cindie finally found her voice again, “he’s right.” She looked pleadingly at Mistral. “It’s all gross and offensive but merely lewd speculation. They never make an actual libelous statement. Very carefully done.” He had said her life would change.

“I am sorry,” he said, his expression softening. “I ought to have seen the photographer, ought to have been more …restrained.”

“Yes, you ought to have been, in public.” The Director took up both of the papers and deposited them in the trash can next to his desk. “As it is we now have additional publicity on our hands. Not the kind that we particularly need right now. But,” he tried to smile but it appeared as more of a grimace, “if the only thing worse than negative publicity is no publicity, then we at least are being noticed.”

Mistral, as soon as he was done speaking to Cindie, had again clenched his fists. He declared in a very even tone, “I should nevertheless very much like to pay a visit to our friendly Morning Blab and …explain things to them.”

“As much as I concur with you Mistral,” the Director placed a calming hand on the actor’s shoulder, “it would seem that such action would be counterproductive, particularly with our friends on the set.” The Director let his hand drop, “Although I suppose now we do have contacts with the local constabulary. I’d prefer not to have to use them to arrange bail for a cast member.”

The observation and the humour seemed to help Mistral relax, at least somewhat, as his fists slowly unclenched. “I suppose you are right.” He made the admission grudgingly, “However, if I should encounter the person who took this picture,” he paused and took a deep breath, “they would be well to stay out of arms reach.” Though the threat was vague it was clear that it was sincerely spoken.

The Director sat back down behind his desk and picked up a clipboard with the day’s shooting schedule. “Enough of this, we have a schedule to keep. If we can manage to put a scene together without half the cast and crew being commandeered for interviews.” He looked up at both of them, “try to be more discreet, won’t you.” Not a request. Then to Mistral, “It might be best if you clear out early today.” He made it sound like an afterthought, like it would be best for the show. The man was good.

Mistral showed his teeth. “Well then, if we’re done here, I think we all have work to do.” And I have a reporter to find. If we can’t sue them, I will handle this …in my own way.

Cindie
Snape seems to be adapting to life as a tee fee star quite easily. , - Monday, October 08, 2001 at 18:11:45 (PDT)

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

While it would be an exaggeration to say that I was on tenterhooks until the return of the messenger I had sent to Robin of Locksley's manor, I will admit that I did not stray far from the great hall or the clerks' workroom for the rest of the day. Every time I heard a voice shouting in the courtyard I leaned out the window of whatever room I was in and strained for a view. It was a fruitless endeavour and by late afternoon I was getting fed up with it so I went out on the castle parapet for some fresh air.

The sun was halfway down the sky, sliding toward the horizon. I paced the perimeter time and speculated about Locksley's response. Not for one second did I believe that he would agree to my simple request for a meeting to discuss the king's visit. Joya might believe that the four of us could sit down and work out a strategy but I knew better. Locksley would reject any suggestion of mine even before he heard the details.

I paused over the main gates and leaned over the stone wall, squinting against the glare of the sun. No, Locksley and I would not be a united front. But that would be all right if he did what I expected and threw all his energy into persuading the king to give up this mad scheme of diplomatic wife-swapping. Although I was the royal half-brother-in-law, Locksley had far more clout with His Majesty than I did and the king was far closer to Marion than he was to his half-sister Joya. If my brief note did nothing more than spur Locksley into action, it would have done its work.

I was so wrapped in my thoughts that at first I didn't see him. Not until the shout "A rider!" went up from the guard at the gate below did I notice the horse pelting along the road towards the town. I stared at the small moving figure as it wove in and out of the streets, heading for the castle. I strained to make out the livery, cursing the distance. The rider flashed into view again, along the road to the castle gates. I tensed. It was not my messenger. Those were royal colours he was wearing.

I sprinted to the tower door and down the winding stairs to the guardroom at the bottom. Now what? It occurred to me that the king might be calling the whole thing off but I dismissed it immediately. In my experience, life was just not that simple. Blast it all.

Voices echoed up the stone walls of the corridor as I hurried along to the great hall. I slowed down to make a dignified entrance. Heads turned as I came through the door. Joya was receiving a young man whose features were obscured by the grime and dirt of the road. He broke off what he was telling her to bow low in my direction.

"Greetings, greetings." I waved his obeisance aside impatiently. "What news from Winchester?"

"Good afternoon, my lord." Joya interjected pointedly, even as the messenger opened his mouth to reply. "I was just offering this good man a drink of ale to wash the dust out of his throat."

"Yes, yes, yes, that is very good of you and I am sure he will welcome the beverage," I looked at the man with raised brows. "Just as soon as he delivers his message."

The man hesitated, looked at me carefully, glanced at Joya and returned to me again. "Yes, my lord. The lord king gave me this and bade me deliver it into your hands." He yanked open the pouch at his waist and extracted a long folded parchment sealed with the heavy red wax favoured by royal clerks. With another bow he handed it over, then backed away to the door where the wine cellarer waited to escort him to the buttery.

I cracked open the seal with an impatient jerk and unrolled the document. It was brief.

"To George, Lord Nottingham and Lord High Sheriff of the shire, the King sends greetings. Know that the nobleman of whom we spoke when you were last at court has arrived in England. We will journey to Nottingham in the next two days, God willing. By the time you receive this message, we will have already started our travel. You may thus expect us within six days. We will be joined by the count of that territory that we discussed, a most unexpected pleasure. Therefore know you that we have deemed it appropriate to travel with the utmost haste and will not have the usual number of attendants with us on this trip. You should advise your steward accordingly. Signed, King Richard Lionheart, Crusader and King of England."

Well, neither as good as I'd hoped nor as bad as I'd feared. The steward would be happy at any rate, and I would be able to hold on to most of that consignment of gold that the king had given me. I folded the parchment up again and stuck it in my belt.

"Good news as far as it goes." Joya, having read it over my arm, glanced up at me. "But we're going to have to reassign the bedchambers again if Godfrey of Anjou is indeed coming."

"Yes." I agreed. My mind was not on household matters. Why was Godfrey coming? Didn't he trust King Richard to arrange matters properly? Was he worried that Abelard would meet with an "accident" before the wedding? It would be a most interesting visit, no doubt about it.

"Sire!" The shout broke into my thoughts. Joya and I looked up in time to see the messenger I'd sent to Robin of Locksley skid into the room. His hair was windblown but he wore the triumphant smile of one who'd done his duty. "Sire, I'm back. He was there and he gave me a letter to bring back to you." He thrust out his arm, a letter clenched in his fist.

I unfolded it and held it so Joya could read it too. It too was brief.

"To George of Nottingham, greetings. I have received your letter of this morning. After careful consideration, I have decided that the Lady Marion, my most beloved spouse, and I will come to Nottingham Castle on the morrow to meet with you for a discussion of the situation we find ourselves in. Look to see us shortly after the breaking of the fast. Signed, Robin, Baron Locksley, Locksley Manor, Nottinghamshire, England."

"Well done." Joya nodded at the messenger. "Find the steward and tell him to prepare a basket of food for your mother and sisters, on my orders."

"Thank you, my lady!" The youth beamed as he swept the ground with a bow and then fairly ran out of the room to the kitchens.

"You shouldn't spoil the help like that. They'll start to expect it." It was an automatic reproach. We'd had this argument before but my mind was on other things right then. I folded the letter up and stuck it in the belt beside the king's.

"Never mind that now." Joya waved it aside. "This is most good news. That will give us three days at least to devise a coherent strategy to deal with this dilemma. I don't know what you wrote to him but it certainly did the trick."

"Yes." I considered this surprising development. What on earth was Locksley thinking? Was he desperate for a solution? Or did he want to know what my thoughts were on the subject? I found either hard to believe. Then something else occurred to me. Perhaps he was concerned about my plans regarding his brother and his failed attempt to murder me. That would make sense. I smiled grimly. Obviously Sir Robin was at least a little bit afraid of what I might do. Excellent.

Joya tugged at my arm. "Come on, share. What's the joke?"

I smiled down at her. "No joke, my dear. Let's go into dinner, shall we? We're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

She looked at me warily, but I controlled my features. Finally she nodded and accepted my arm, and we swept up the stairs to our rooms so that Joya could feed Richard before we had dinner in front of the fire. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and we had many things to discuss before the dawn.

Magda
Sorry, Christine, everyone kept their clothes on this time, - Monday, October 08, 2001 at 16:11:24 (PDT)

Severus Snape laid on his bed.

This day hadn´t been bad.

If Voldemort had tried to make him a homeless madman in the muggle gutter he´d failed.
A satisfactorily grin appeared on his face. He had a job, a flat, some new friends... Not bad for one day!

After the doctor had excused herself and had left him alone in the mess, that girl Julie had come back to him. She had been as exited as before and brought a man with her she introduced as The Director. With a lot of useless blabber she´d explained to him that she had just written some sort of a play and he should be the male lead.

An actor! Him! He´d never been so insulted all his life.

He´d just wanted to tell her where she could put her play, when the The Director had interrupted. He´d said that it wouldn´t be as simple as the young lady suggested. Had he any experience in acting?
Snape had denied.
Questions about his former job had been brought up.
Snape told them that he had taught at a very old-fashioned school without basicly any modern technology. Again he was surprised that the muggles accepted his lie and then they explained Tee Fee for him. As far as he understood it it was a mixture between a theatre and a cubic crystal ball. Something like it aparently stood in every muggle household and here they did the *shows* that got *screened*.
The Director had said that his show was quite successful and had quoted a lot of numbers that didn´t make any sense.

Snape had just wanted to decline in the most offending way possible, when he was struck by a thought: there were lots of students from muggle families! And a Tee Fee in every household... when it was discovered that he was missing, they would be able to tell Dumbledore where he could be found. Simple and effective.
Voldemort had done his best to make sure he wasn´t found with magic methods. But he hadn´t thought about muggle methods

So when they had asked him for a *test screening* he had agreed.

They had brought him into a room where he was asked to shave and put on different clothes. Then some girl had seriously tried to put cream and powder on his face! He´d made a mistake and had taken his wand out and told her that if she didn´t get out of his sight immediatly, she would be sorry indeed.
He got some strange looks when he was taken to yet another room where The Director and that girl Julie had been waiting for him. He thought he heard the powder girl mutter to some collegues: "Like Mr I, I tell you!"

It hadn´t been a stage really, just a corner of a large room, surrounded by lights, elastic tubing and black boxes on wheels.

He had to say a few words and do silly things like turning around, sneering, glaring and being angry.

He got the job.

He could start tomorrow he was told.
In the following talk with The Director he managed to come up with a story explaining his lack of papers and money: he had been robbed, last evening, in the woods. He had been hit over the head and when he´d woken up it had been night. He couldn´t find a way out.

The Director offered him a flat in the Personell Accommodation House.
"If he´s always so trusting," thought Snape, "then he might get a nasty surprise some day. I could have been a criminal on the run."
But then a criminal wouldn´t want his face on thousands of Tee Fees.

That was his chance of getting back.

Of getting even with Voldemort.

Voldemort had wanted him to suffer and be helpless. So the best way to sabotage that was being successful.
At least it would give him the satisfaction not to be as miserable as Voldemort had hoped him to be.

Jutta
Julie--I hope you don´t mind me posting. I sent you an email one or two weeks ago, you didn´t answer, so I went ahead.

MA--I hope the trial gets under way soon. I can hardly wait! Especially because Mr I had some plan when He was shown last time!, - Monday, October 08, 2001 at 05:19:10 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

At Brandon’s request for a favour, Dev gives him a long look-curious, but wary and puzzled. "Of course you may ask, Colonel, though I am not certain what I am able to do for you at such a time as this."

"There is no cause for alarm, Mister de Valera. I merely wished to request that you act as the master of Delaford, in my absence."

For someone to throw a bomb into the conservatory could hardly surprise Dev more; indeed, it would probably surprise him a good deal less. Startled into abandoning his reserve, he simply exclaims, "Why?"

"It would not be strictly necessary, if you do not feel yourself equal to it-"

Carefully, Mary Anne avoids looking at Dev. Would he admit to being unequal to anything?

"-and my staff can perform competently when I am away for extended periods-"

Mary Anne keeps her eyes on her hands. Extended periods, indeed. How long he stayed with me, through all our adventures and wanderings-how long I kept him from his home, and now he must leave it again . . .

"However, I believe it would be for the best. I have tenants whose interests must be seen to regularly, and I am occasionally called upon to resolve disputes among them. With you to act in my place, I know that everyone involved would receive a fair hearing and a wise judgment, should such intervention be necessary." Brandon smiles at Therese. "Would they not, Miss Gellert? And I wish to request your assistance as well."

Therese smiles back. "You know I’d be happy to do anything I could do, but I’d be hopeless at running this house. Housekeeping isn’t a strong suit of mine."

Brandon shakes his head. "Nothing of the kind. Miss MacLeod can well attend to that. No, I thought that perhaps you might assist with matters such as-" A sidelong glance at Mary Anne. "-spoiling and indulging my animals. Menelaus, for instance, would be most unhappy without his regular exercise. And you could see to it, could you not, that poor Nox does not pine away for us?"

Therese bursts out laughing, and at that, Mary Anne finally looks up to see Dev watching her as well, drinking in the sight of her face illumined by genuine amusement and delight. "I’d be honoured. Eamon can handle the human tenants and I’ll take care of the non-human ones!"

"Then it is settled." Brandon looks across at Dev. "If you agree, Eamon?"

"Christopher, I-" Dev raises his hands and then lets them fall in a rare gesture of helplessness. "I must admit that I do not understand you. With all that has happened to disrupt the peace of your house since I have been in it, I would think you would be anxious to have me gone, and you ask me to serve as master of the estate in your absence?" Dev runs a hand through his hair and resettles his glasses. "How have I merited such trust?"

"You have proven yourself trustworthy, time and time again. You are a man of courage and intelligence-and what we have discussed here, today, tells me that you do not take moral matters lightly. Not to mention that you allowed my wife to explain herself, when I am certain you felt you had every reason to mistrust her and regard her as an enemy." Brandon’s eyes narrow. "I trust you no longer feel you have such reasons?"

"None at all," replies Dev, promptly. "And I will accept your offer and do you this favour, in return for the favours you and your wife have done for me and Therese."

"Good; then that is settled. If you require assistance, you may seek the aid of my brother-in-law, the Reverend Ferrars. I could have asked him this favour, but the demands of his parish duties-it would have placed a great strain upon him. I will send him a message to inform him of what we have decided."

We? thinks Mary Anne, trying to conceal her amusement as Brandon reaches for her hand once more and draws her to her feet. Dev, sensing that the discussion is at an end, also rises and assists Therese.

"If you will excuse us, Colonel, Mrs. Brandon-" Dev bows briefly in her direction. "Therese should probably get some rest, now."

Therese rolls her eyes. "Eamon, when will you stop trying to-"

"Never," teases Dev. " I will never stop trying to, my dearest, so you had best get used to it."

"But how am I supposed to get my strength back if I just lie around that room-"

"That is a part of getting your strength back. All things in good time. We’ll just see what Doctor McCoy has to say, shall we?"

"Well, I know one thing she’ll have to say about you, you overgrown Irish lug-"

Brandon and Mary Anne exchange a knowing look, as they allow Dev and Therese to precede them out of the conservatory . . .

MA
Barbara--yes, it was Dryden. And yes . . . Dryden was right., - Sunday, October 07, 2001 at 20:01:05 (PDT)

Just a few notes while the investigation continues...

Chris -- thank you for your cooperation, the police department thanks you ;) (and, no, no detectives were injured in the making of that post *g*)

Cindie -- whoa, nelly!

Sandy... after I picked myself up off the floor (missed MA's swooning couch -- again! -- I've gotta say, Thank you Thank you Thank you! ka-THUD!

MA -- That Therese is a spitfire, in't she? Wow!

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Was it Dryden? "Beware the fury of a patient man", - Saturday, October 06, 2001 at 18:14:00 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

After Mary Anne’s last words, a silence falls that no one cares to break for quite some time, until Dev stirs in his chair. "I am sorry that you have had to experience such a thing. Such . . . an intimate knowledge of evil. I have seen some deplorable things-and been accused of more than a few-but what you were called upon to endure . . . very well, then. I can understand why you feel you must take more care than most, not to venture near it again."

It has been a long morning in the conservatory, and Mary Anne feels herself near to tears once again, undone by sympathy expressed in tones of soft precision that should flow along her nerves like music. Keenly sensitive to the ranges of sound, Mary Anne knows that at any other time, she could relish hearing Dev converse on almost any topic for the simple pleasure of listening to his accent and the vocal command of his material. Now, however, the liquid lilt of that voice is dyed through with a sorrowful anger for what she has had to survive, and with the sense that he enters into it with her, fully.

No wonder, she thinks, that people will follow him.

Thankfully, however, Dev turns his attention to Therese. "But you, my dearest-I thought this was something you would want from me."

Therese blinks in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember what you told me? About how-The Interrogator insisted on . . ." Dev glances over at Brandon, as though he has just remembered there is another male in the room, and perhaps Therese would not wish such details disclosed in his presence. "When you resisted HIM-and you thought he would drown you."

A low exclamation from Brandon, and Mary Anne feels his grip tighten on her hand. "HE tried to drown her, Eamon?"

Mary Anne shuts her eyes, listening. A voice like that has a colour. Pale. White with rage.

And for Therese, the memory is appallingly fresh.

"Are you willing to concede that I am the victor?" HE taunted, his fingers moving from her neck to deftly untie the gag. HIS eyes gleamed with satisfaction; HE was in HIS element, the hunter toying with his prey.

"When Eamon comes to rescue me," she said, very softly, so softly that HE had to stoop low over her shoulder in order to be heard, "I shall ask him to kill you slowly."

She can almost feel it again, the weight of her sodden hair against her neck, and HIS fingers on her throat.

"I shall ask him to kill you slowly," enunciates Dev. "If that is what you wish . . . ?"

"Well, of course I wanted it then!" blazes Therese, welcoming the anger that warms her and forces the memory away. "Right after that, it would take a saint not to want revenge! And I’m no candidate for sainthood."

"Nor I," confesses Dev. "Although-" He forces a smile. "Some of the saints were known to have rather warlike qualities. Saint George, for instance?" A glance at Brandon.

The Colonel returns his gaze with a look that he suggests he, himself, is more than ready to depart on a dragon-slaying expedition. When he speaks, however, his voice is cool and level. "Allow me to point out, Eamon, that this is getting us nowhere, and that it is upsetting the ladies."

Mary Anne and Therese trade looks of affectionate exasperation. But if Brandon is at all aware of their silent exchange, he gives no sign of it. "I suggest that you and Miss Therese take some more time to think upon this together, and I must consult with my wife on a few matters. But before that, I would ask a favour of you."

MA--Yow, Sandy! Steam heeeeaat!!! *tssssst*
Cindie--ACKKK! Enraged Mistral alert! Take cover! This is NOT a drill!, - Friday, October 05, 2001 at 20:08:14 (PDT)

FoF Offices:

Cindie went into work the next morning in a very happy frame of mind. She would miss Patrick over the weekend but they seemed to be going along fine. Mostly fine, anyway. Between Anton and the Director and her own contemplations she was beginning to feel that she could pull off a different role on the show. At her office she took off her coat and hung it up and began to order her day. She felt rather than saw the ominous flashing eyes behind her. She turned, and saw the Director, a look of cold fury on his face.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out so she closed it again.

The Director looked even angrier than he had upon finding she and Mistral at the Valley of the Moon set after hours. “My office. Now.” He turned on his heels and strode out.

There was nothing else to do but follow. She didn’t know what he was so upset about. Perhaps the detectives had interfered with the production in some way. He was covering the ground fast and she had to almost trot to keep up with him. When they got to his office he moved behind his desk. Cindie stood there, waiting. He picked up a tabloid style paper and threw it on the desk in front of her. “What is this?” He demanded, without preamble.

Cindie picked up the paper, as she looked her hands began to tremble and she nearly dropped it when she saw the photograph that graced the upper left hand corner. It was a picture of her. A picture of her and Patrick. And he was kissing her, kissing her… The caption read:

Hands still shaking, she turned to the page where the article appeared. She scanned it but it didn’t really say anything. Only that Mistral had been seen in the company of a woman and some speculation as to the nature of his attentions toward her. It was vulgar and horrible and implied much without saying anything.

She seemed to go all numb, starting with her hands, and she dropped the paper. It slid out of her hands and onto the desk top. She stood there, feeling nothing. Gradually, it occurred to her that the Director was still there and he was still staring at her, waiting for some sort of a response. She looked at him, he stood, arms folded in front of him, staring at her. “How did this happen?” She stammered, incredulous.

“That is the question.”

Slowly she spoke, “we went to dinner. We went for a walk, said goodnight. I drove home. He drove home.” She looked desperately at her boss, “Sir, there was nothing untoward. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

He tapped the paper with an index finger. “Does this look like nothing?”

It seemed that she was awakening from a bad dream, but the reality of it stared back at her. That picture, that headline… it was all too horrible. What would Patrick think? What would Patrick do?

The answer to the second, and probably the first, question arrived almost immediately in the form of Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral which appeared framed in the doorway, a copy of the offending paper clenched in his left fist.

Cindie
I thought Lex was a nice nickname for Mr. Dane., - Friday, October 05, 2001 at 18:01:37 (PDT)

Slight flashback, post-attendance of Jack and Melanie's wedding rehearsal dinner:

The engine of Alexander Dane's black Jaguar purred into life. Turning his head around, he backed from his parking spot, drove from the lot, and headed back for Sandy's apartment building. The two sat in silence, allowing their thoughts to wander until they were about halfway there. Sandy suddenly cleared her throat softly and he glanced in her direction briefly before turning his attention back to his driving. "I had a good time tonight, Alex."

"Me too," Alexander answered in a distant tone as he made a left turn. "I'm sure that they'll be very happy together, if the way they acted tonight is any indication."

"Yes, I'm sure they will be. They love each other very much," Sandy agreed, glad that he couldn't see her eyebrows rising underneath her bangs. He grunted in reply, keeping his eyes on the road. She tattooed her fingernails against the window in pent-up frustration, allowing the silence to fall between them again until they reached her apartment building and he shut the car's engine off.

The two never moved from their seats and the silence between them grew thicker and more uncomfortable by the second. Alexander's gentle sigh that broke it made her jump in alarm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," he mumbled.

"It's all right," Sandy nodded. She gazed at the building for a few minutes as the silence fell between them yet again. "You were very distracted tonight." Alex frowned at her for a moment before his face settled into an impassive expression.

Sandy hastily elaborated, "You smiled and laughed in all the correct places, but you weren't really, well - there." Alexander didn't answer her, but she could see his jaw working and his lips pursed together. His reaction to her words greatly disturbed her and she moved to exit the car. "Alex, good..."

Alexander gently placed his hand over her arm. "Wait." It was uttered so softly that she wasn't sure that she had heard him correctly. She turned around to gaze at him, the sharp angles of his face shadowed in the moonlight.

"What is it?" Sandy didn't let her guard down as she waited for him to speak.

Alexander sighed once more, running a hand through his hair before speaking. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I don't usually attend these things... It tends to bring back... unpleasant memories," he admitted, his melodious baritone a soft rumble. He paused and cleared his throat uncomfortably, watching her posture relax ever so slightly. "I was hoping that it wouldn't this time." He shook his head in self-disgust.

Sandy allowed his words to sink in, sighing loudly. "You *can't* keep allowing the past to color what happens to you here and now - not if you want this relationship to work, Alex." She waited for the explosion that was sure to follow.

"Her name was Laura," Alexander said finally, surprising her with his candidness. His soft baritone seemed miles away as he recalled events that happened years ago. "What? You were expecting someone with a more exotic name?" he teased when he saw her raised eyebrow.

"'Lex, stop trying to change the subject," Sandy reminded him, scowling at him fiercely although her heart really wasn't in it. Alexander's eyebrow rose at her calling him 'Lex' and she quickly amended, "Alex." Her eyelids lowered for a split second before she returned his gaze calmly.

He swallowed audibly before he continued his story. "I met her in acting school. She was in one of my classes and I was partnered with her for an acting exercise. She was tall, with black hair and the greenest eyes I've ever seen," He ran his fingers through his hair again - a nervous tic that he had, she realized - and a very appealing one.

"The exercise didn't go too well, but we hit it off immediately. She shared many of the same interests as me at the time - and she was very dedicated to 'the craft.' We began dating - did so for a couple of years before I finally got the nerve to ask her to marry me. She accepted and we began making plans..."

Alexander's eyes lowered for a moment and his face twisted into a grimace as his voice grew even softer. "Looking back, I should have known that something was wrong when she asked that we not announce the engagement publicly, but I was too wrapped up with Richard the Third and she with Othello, plus everything else that we were doing at the time to realize that all was not - as well as I thought things were."

He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. "She became distant... I thought it was because that she had pre-wedding jitters or was nervous about appearing as Desdemona at the National..." He laughed hollowly. "Usually it's the guy who's like that, as the cliché goes. Little did I know that she was actually seeing someone else... Someone who I *thought* was my friend... You know the rest of the story," he finished bitterly.

The silence slid about them once more as she took in everything that he told her. "I don't know exactly where this will go, but I do know that what I'm feeling inside is right, Alex," Sandy whispered finally. He reached out and touched her cheek in a gentle caress. She closed her eyes and leaned into it with a soft sigh. "I want this to work - if you want it to..." she finished, her eyes unnaturally bright as she opened them to gaze into his face.

Alexander gazed at her for a long time before replying. "I know - and it feels so right to me. I want it to..." he exhaled in frustration. "I didn't mean to... Bloody hell! Why is so hard to tell you?"

"Just give it time," Sandy murmured, placing a finger over his lips. Her lips curved up slightly. "I don't expect things to change overnight - and I'm glad you *did* tell me," she finished huskily.

Alexander removed her finger from his lips and he held her hand in his for a moment, gazing at her for some time. "I love..." he murmured just before he slid his lips over hers. A low growl of pleasure emitted from her throat as he adjusted position - and immediately hit his elbow into the car's horn. They jumped at the blast, breaking the kiss. Soft, nervous laughter escaped as they wrapped their arms around each other. Sandy leaned her head against his chest, reveling in the rapid beating of his heart that slowed down to a smooth, steady pace as they calmed down.

He tilted her chin up with a finger, his eyes smoldering into hers. She managed to growl a throaty "Aaahhhhlexxxx....." before his lips went down on hers again. She wondered idly how she *was* able to utter that as a soft "mmmmm" escaped from him.

Sandy gently reached out and outlined the profile of his face before her hands settled on his shoulders. He slowly broke the kiss to her disappointment. She was ready to protest it and her eyes widened in astonishment as he took her hand in his and slowly kissed each digit. His gaze never left hers and she bit her bottom lip, suddenly finding herself not able to breathe steadily. A small smile graced his lips as he finished one hand and began on the other, lingering over it.

Sandy recognized a challenge when she saw it and her eyes sparkled dangerously. ...give *you* something to lose your breath over, doggone it... She gently tugged her hand from his and moved his head to her, sliding her lips over his. The kiss deepened quickly and she wasn't sure that the loud pounding she felt vibrating in her head was the sound of her heartbeat, his, or both. She moved to get even closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, savoring his body warmth...

"YEEEEOOOOWWWWW!!!"

"Are you all right?!"

"Uhh (wince)... Oh boy, *that's* gonna leave a mark," Sandy hissed through her teeth, glaring down at the stick shift wedged between them. She rubbed her hands over her upper leg and rocked back and forth for a moment in an effort to reduce the pain. "Me and my infernal clumsiness," she groaned.

Alex dropped a kiss on top of her head, breathing in the soft floral scent of her shampoo and exhaling harshly. "Maybe we should call it a night. With our rotten luck, we'll end up having the security folks shining a flashlight in here," he laughed softly. And in all honesty, I've had *quite* enough of so-called authority figures today, he thought to himself sourly. "Wait here." He opened his door, slid from his seat, walked around the front of the car and opened the door for her, offering his hand to her. She took it, exited from the car and slipped her arm in his after he shut the door.

The two slowly walked up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor and stopped in front of her door. "Would you like to come in for coffee?" Sandy offered.

Alexander shook his head. "I really should go," he said softly, taking her into his arms. He reached out and ran a hand through her hair and allowed it to land on the nape of her neck.

"I know," Sandy replied quietly. "It's getting late..."

"Mmmm, very late..." his voice rumbled against her ear, his warm breath tickling her. He rubbed against her cheek with his, the stubble scratching her skin lightly, but not painfully. She moved her head and brushed her lips over his as he slid his hands down her shoulders and arms before he allowed his arms to circle her waist. Neither one of them was sure of how much time had passed when they finally broke the embrace. "Good night," Alex murmured unsteadily, caressing her cheek with his once more.

"Night Alex," Sandy whispered, still feeling the sensation of his lips over hers. "See you in the morning."

Alexander nodded briefly, his hazel eyes boring into hers for a moment before turning around and slowly walking down the hallway. Sandy touched her fingers to her lips, watching him stride away from her before she turned around and unlocked the door to her apartment with trembling fingers and shutting the door behind her. She fumbled with the chain and lock for several seconds before she leaned against it and exhaled loudly as Oliver came over to greet her.

Sandy
Good to see you posting again, Chris. Calling Hamlet a 'dipstick' *giggle*..., - Friday, October 05, 2001 at 16:21:04 (PDT)

As Silvert and Graff rounded a corner, they heard mumbling apparently coming from the cubicle they were heading for. They glanced at each other and slowed imperceptibly to see what they might ‘happen’ to overhear.

“I am just not sure whether this scene is going to work! The lake isn’t deep enough, to start with, and as for getting one of those horses to jump like that…I just don’t know. It’s such a shame though, cos it’s such a good scene.” The female voice carried surprisingly well considering the low tone.

“Now look, Chris, it’s not your job to make it work you know,” a deeper baritone answered. The voice was soft, smooth, and almost ridiculously sensual, yet it was clear the owner of the voice did not use it that way. At least not at the moment. “They’ll just have to deepen the pond. And why don’t you talk to that French fellow and see if his horses will do as they’re told?”

“Naprous you mean? Oh, he’s actually based in England, although I guess he’s French originally. I could talk to him, I suppose, but to be honest, he scares me a little. The way he picked that last scene to pieces to ensure it wasn’t too dangerous for the horses was almost scary! I mean it’s great that he cares about them so much, and I’m glad he spotted those ruts, but I’m definitely going to keep him on our side.” The female voice-probably Chris, sighed. “He sure can ride though. Did you see him take Athena for a canter?”

“Who the heck is Athena?” the man asked curiously. “She’s the horse playing Ki’li, dipstick,” she answered with a smile in her voice.

“Stop changing the subject! Anyway, you’ve had the okay from the Director, so what are you worried about?” the male voice countered, after a brief laugh.

“You know me, I always worry about my more technical scenes! I can’t help it, I hate creating work for people!” She laughed depreciatingly.

Realising that they weren’t going to make any breakthroughs from this conversation, the two detectives walked up the last bit to the cubicle entrance. Inside, they found a man and a woman, neither of whom they recognise from the briefing the day before. The cubicle itself was covered in photos and funny cartoons, as well as a large poster in rainbow colors with the caption ‘Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living’. The small CD player in one corner was switched on and playing Louis Armstrong singing ‘We have all the time in the world’ very softly, so that the two could talk. The woman, a young blonde was sitting at the desk, with the man sitting in an armchair with his back to the doorway.

The blonde looked up with a puzzled frown. “Can I help you?” she asked. The man, seeing her frown, turned round to look at the two detectives, and he frowned in an almost identical manner, but with a colder gaze.

“Ah, yes, well, we’re the detectives working on the disappearing laptop and other thefts in the building. I’m detective Silvert, and this is my partner, detective Graff.” Silvert introduced them hurriedly. “Am I correct in thinking this is the cubicle of Chris A___?”

The woman smiled, although they both noticed that her smile did not reach her eyes. “That would be me,” she affirmed. “And this is my co-star, Hamlet. I had heard you were here ‘snooping around’-oh, and that’s not my wording, I hasten to add, at least not yet! Hamlet and I both took some time off and only returned to the set this morning, so I’ve only just read up on the goings-on in the many e-mails flying around!”

Graff raised an eyebrow, and Silvert started scribbling something in her notebook almost immediately. Hamlet, somewhat more alert for such assumptions, interjected. “We are not an item, nor did we spend any of our hard-fought vacation time together, although it would not have been such a hardship. We are simply in many of the same scenes, and as such we need to time our days off so that they don’t interfere with one another. I assure you that we are both happy in relationships outside the studio.”

Graff had the decency to look slightly discomfited, but Silvert simply smiled and wrote something else on her ever-present notepad. Graff recovered quickly and continued. “Ah yes, I understand that you are one of the many writer-actors. Is it not difficult, doing effectively two jobs full-time?”

“Actually,” Silvert interjected. “Why don’t we talk to just Chris now, and we’ll come and find Hamlet in a little while. I’d hate to keep two such busy people occupied at once.” The remark was slightly derogatory, but Hamlet decided to let it slip. For now, anyway. He glanced at Chris, as if to ensure she wasn’t going to be overwhelmed, but seeing her smile, his worry quietened. They’ll be wanting to look out, he thought to himself. She’s got that mischievous look on her face. And he certainly knew what that meant. At least they’re not very likely to be thrown from a horse into a pond. At least…I don’t think they are! Out loud, he took his farewells of the writer and her new ‘guests’. “Just remember, holler if you need me, I’m only down the hall. I’ll meet you for lunch, unless we’re likely to be tied up in interviews all day?” This last question, directed at Graff, was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at the wristwatch fastened around his wrist.

“No, no, of course not. This is just routine, and shouldn’t take more than an hour per person. If anything, it should be less, as we’re getting more of a feel for the place and hopefully are reducing the amount of unnecessary questions. We’ll come to your cubicle in approximately an hour.”

Hamlet simply nodded and walked off.

“Right, now where were we,” Silvert mused, as she and Graff seemed to take over the cubicle.

Chris <why1040@aol.com>
The poster referenced actually exists, and is up on my wall by my desk. The quote is from Mother Jones (1830-1930) and has been picked up by the AIDS campaign, which is close to my heart. Barbara, I hope I haven't put anyone on the spot, but I enjoyed this one so much I had to post it!, - Thursday, October 04, 2001 at 06:21:52 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

"Wait . . . just . . . a . . . minute!"

No one had noticed at what point Therese’s eyes had begun to glitter dangerously, and at the sound of that slow exclamation, everyone gives a start of surprise. Brandon’s eyes widen; Dev blinks several times as though his vision will not focus. As for Mary Anne, she swallows hastily and busies herself with the tea set, lowering her head to conceal her own wry amusement. Now if THAT doesn’t carry off the biscuit. A revolutionary and a military man, and somehow they’ve both managed to leave Therese out of their strategies. That was a mistake . . .

Therese, meanwhile, is glowering at Brandon and Dev. Her huge chocolate-brown eyes, generally so delectably appealing, are narrowed as she looks from one man to the other in outrage. "All this talk about this being Eamon’s decision." This, to Brandon. "What am I, chopped liver?"

Brandon opens his mouth to protest that Therese in no way resembles that particular delicacy, but Therese forges ahead. "And you, Eamon, did it ever occur to you that I have a stake in this, too? Has it occurred to you to ask me what I would like done on my own behalf?"

Dev is the first to recover himself. "Well, then." Sombre. No trace of condescension. "What would you have us do?"

"Of course," adds Brandon. "You should not be excluded from something so vital to you."

In the silence that follows, Therese settles back into her chair, her eyes losing something of their fire as she considers exactly what should be done to that man, The Interrogator, her tormentor. Useless to pretend that she could even consider forgiving HIM, especially not now and perhaps not ever. And even if she could-what of the world beyond her personal forgiveness? HE is a clear and present danger to The Realm, however her own feelings might guide her.

Still, if that danger were simply removed . . .

"I don’t know," she murmurs, finally. "I mean, I think there’s certainly a time for defense, and even a time for retribution. You can’t allow people to just get away with things. Eamon-" She reaches out, and once again his hand meets hers, that warm grip of security and utter devotion. "It would have been different if, say, you’d killed HIM when you and The Alliance first broke in." A wan smile. "They tell me you certainly tried to."

"And so I would have," replies Dev, bleakly. "But I needed HIM alive, to tell me where you were."

"Right. So if you’d killed HIM right then, in a fair fight-it feels different than the thought of you ordering some horrible thing done to HIM and just standing by watching it done, or doing it yourself. Don’t you see that? I don’t want you to be anything like HIM. You know how I’d wake up and you’d be holding me, and before I was awake all the way, I’d see your glasses and think it was HIM? Well . . ." Therese’s voice trails off uncomfortably. "I don’t like the idea of you as a . . . torturer."

Across the table, Mary Anne flinches as if stung, and Therese’s eyes are instantly on her. "I’m sorry, Mary Anne. I know that probably sounded pretty tactless, but-well, after what you told us today, you know, don’t you?"

Mary Anne can barely nod. "Yes. I know." And as if from a great distance, she feels the warmth of Brandon’s hand as it settles upon hers; no need to reach out to invite his touch, for it is there before she can ask, drawing her back from her faraway thoughts. "I know how it feels, even if I was being controlled. I tell myself here-" She taps her head. "-that is wasn’t my fault, but it’s different, here." Her hand rests briefly on her heart. "I’ve known what it means to fight The Interrogator with HIS own weapons, and that kind of satisfaction isn’t worth what it costs." Mary Anne’s mouth curves in the hint of a grim smile. "Even though I know there are people who would dream of doing what I did-" The smile fades. "I wish it had never happened, Dev. Not for HIS sake. For mine."

MA--R, dearest! Good to see you pass through here again. 8-)
Therese--hope I'm getting *something* of your character's thoughts on the subject. Or maybe she WOULD like to see The Interrogator boiled in oil, after all! *ouch*, - Tuesday, October 02, 2001 at 20:17:12 (PDT)

An evening stroll:

He let his arm fall and picked up her hand again and they resumed their walk. Mistral found himself shaking his head and laughing at himself. Did he think she was unprepared yet for him? For his desires and his devouring passions? More like he was the one unready, the one who was victim to those passions. He’d already given her such power over him, and didn’t care. No, that wasn’t it, he cared, he wanted to let her in, he handed her the knife blade that would rend his heart and bade her use it skillfully. His devouring passions were more like to devour him than her. He was already a lost man. But it would be right. It had to be.

Cindie saw him shake his head and asked him what was so funny. “I am.” Was all he said.

“You are. But I thought I was the only one who noticed.” He gathered up her arm and pulled her in closer to him and they walked on, silently, very much in each others’ company.

After awhile, Cindie asked, as if they’d been discussing their weekend plans all along, “will you be leaving after work tomorrow?”

“Yes. I might even go a bit early, perhaps 4:00 or so if I’m not needed. I’ve been in close touch, but. . .”

“You need to see things for yourself.”

“Yes.” He paused as they moved over to the left to allow another pedestrian to go past them. “You may join me, if you’d like. I had thought to ask you earlier. It’s just that, I don’t think things will be much improved.” He wanted her there, almost desperately, but knew it would not be fair to her. Events were progressing rapidly now and as much as he wanted her with him he did not want her to have to deal with the way things were at his home now. He would protect her from that as well, for as long as he could.

“I understand. No, its fine, I’ll stay here. You’ll need to worry about what’s happening there, not worrying about me.” In mock seriousness she added, “I’m sure there are countless rooms I could manage to get locked up in, and that would prove a dreadful distraction for you. ”

He gave her a thin answering smile, “Yes. We can’t have you wandering around by yourself can we? That poor defenseless door still bears the marks of your last foray into the house alone.”

“The door!” She gave him a cuff on the upper arm, grazing his coat sleeve, “Here I thought you’d be concerned for me!”

“I am, my dear. But someone must look after the old place,” his eyes glinted, “and its furnishings.”

“Now that’s quite enough out of you.” She snuggled her arm more firmly into his care, “You will call though. Just to let me know …how things are.”

“Of course. I’ll call.”

“All right then.” They walked on for some time, finally beginning to come around to where their cars were parked, side by side, in the lot across from the restaurant. “I’ll miss you.”

He did not look down at her when he answered, “I will miss you too.”

By mutual consent their pace slowed, but inevitably they were standing next to her car. The keys were in her coat pocket but she delayed pulling them out. She leaned back against her car door and he stood facing her, his own car at his back. He had not relinquished her hand and she reached up with her other one and ran her forefinger and thumb down the side of his upper arm, along his coat sleeve. Each of his nerve endings responded by snapping to attention and he thought he might jump out of his skin. Had she no idea what she did to him? He gripped her by both shoulders and bent to kiss her cheek. That was his intention, at any rate. He kissed a good deal more than her cheek and her responses were most …gratifying.

Finally, breathless, he released her and she produced her keys, yielding them up to him automatically. He opened her car door for her and made sure she was snugly behind the wheel, seatbelt in place and her door locked before going around and getting into his own vehicle. He followed her out of the lot and part of the way to her flat before he had to turn to head for his apartment.

Cindie
- Tuesday, October 02, 2001 at 15:40:27 (PDT)

Although my favorite FOF fluid is champagne . . .

Ksssssshhhhhhhhhhh . . .
Mmmmm. Or was that cognac?
With a fond wink to Claudia's Downtime...R, - Monday, October 01, 2001 at 18:00:42 (PDT)

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