Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

After the initial imprecations, or so she assumed them to be, Cindie decided two things. One, she really needed to learn Welsh, and two, the distraction of opening up rooms could do Mistral no harm whatsoever. She explained that she didn’t know if people would start arriving tomorrow or simply show up for the funeral on Monday but Mistral had to agree that her polite suggestion that they prepare some bedrooms for any Sunday arrivals was the best course.

Cindie started in the kitchen taking stock and refrigerating or freezing anything that needed it. As for quantity, they had enough to feed several armies and their families. No one had turned up today but apparently when the word spread yesterday people mobilized. She toyed with the idea of suggesting outside help but knew that it would not be welcomed. They would manage. Actually, the task was not as overwhelming as it might have been. Though most of the place had been unoccupied it hadn’t been going to rack and ruin. The linens were clean and had been laid by with herbs by someone with foresight. Most of the furnishings were covered in dust sheets which could be removed and folded carefully leaving little dusting to be done. Working together they became quite became very adept at this procedure. There was a hoover (that would have sucked up small children if there had been any foolish enough to get in its way) which Cindie managed to wrestle into submission while Mistral laid fires and changed light bulbs. It was a busy day which was just what was needed.

Cindie had finished tidying bathrooms and was staring at the tub she’d just cleaned and considering that a long hot soaking bath would be very welcome. It was just as well the food wielding neighbors had come and gone as she didn’t feel fit company for any well meaning condoners. Of course, she supposed, they’d be here for Mistral and not her, anyway. She sneezed for the millionth time and wondered why she hadn’t thought to toss in her allergy medication when she was packing.

“Bless you.” A handkerchief appeared in the air in front of her.

“Thank you.” She snatched it out of the air and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s the dust.”

“So I gathered.” She turned to face Mistral who had just deposited an armful of towels on the table thing in the corner. “I think you’ve done enough.” His expression was bland.

Cindie said nothing but took in his appearance. They’d been at it all day with their only break being a hurried late lunch. She knew she was a mess, hair awry and clothes rumpled under the apron she had donned. Said apron was definitely destined for the laundry hamper. His hair was perhaps a bit mussed but otherwise he was spotless. Most vexing.

“I was thinking…” he paused, as if he were still processing these thoughts, “Since we may have guests tomorrow…” Cindie waited. “Perhaps it would be best if we said our goodbyes tonight.”

It took her a moment to realize what Mistral meant. At first she thought he was tossing her out. As bad as that would be what he had in mind would be infinitely worse. The day hadn’t been exactly a thrill. Cleaning house, even with a man whom she considered the best looking one on the planet, wasn’t her idea of a fun time. Détente had been declared but the strain between them told. And this was something she hadn’t expected. She sighed. He was right. She’d called Dev with the particulars: Services at St. David’s Monday morning with the grave side rituals to follow immediately thereafter in the church cemetery. People would want to drive out on Sunday and be here on Monday for the funeral and they would need to be here to welcome them. Cindie had told Dev to give out her mobile number so she could redirect any lost sheep that made a wrong turn. So that meant to do this privately they should go tonight.

Cindie didn’t want to explain to Mistral that right at the moment she didn’t much feel the need to say goodbye to the woman who had left her son with a truck load of guilt for a crime he hadn’t committed. While Cindie wasn’t convinced there had ever been a crime, she was convinced if there was one it had never been his. But somehow with his mother’s death he had taken it on and that made her angry with the deceased Mrs. Mistral. Very awkward, that.

One look at Patrick’s face erased these thoughts. “Of course. I’ll need to change.” He gave her one of his enigmatic half smiles. Her anger flared again, this time directed at him, though she didn’t know why. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” She moved past him and went to take a quick shower and change into something more suitable.

When she went downstairs he was waiting for her. He had on different clothes as well. They drove to the funeral home in silence. It wasn’t terribly late but Cindie thought that most businesses would be closed at this hour. Then she supposed not and wondered why there hadn’t been visiting hours for his mother. Or maybe there were and he wasn’t going. There were some things even she wouldn’t ask.

They arrived at Ivor Muesgwyn & Daughter Funeral Home. Cindie had expected it to be half deserted and quiet. This was not the case. There was apparently another family dealing with this inevitability, however in their case it was being dealt with in the manner of a wake. They walked in the main doors and found themselves in the midst of people spilling from one of the side rooms. Mistral took up Cindie’s arm and propelled her a room at the back. At the threshold of this room he paused, looked over his shoulder and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know why that’s going on tonight. Mr. Arthfael’s funeral is Monday as well. They shouldn’t be here until tomorrow night.”

“Apparently Mr. Arthfael was well loved.” Cindie smiled at a pair of elderly men who were clinging to each other laughing and crying simultaneously, apparently in the throes of some colourful reminiscence regarding their late friend. She had spoken without thinking and realized the room at which they were poised held a coffin which she could see in the subdued lighting at the back of the room.

Mistral said nothing and Cindie, declining to dig the hole any deeper, didn’t either. Her hand, however, reached for his and the looks they exchanged said the ‘I’m sorry’ and the ‘It’s all right’ that weren’t spoken. They walked into the room together and stood in front of the coffin, hand in hand. It was one of those interludes when time ceases to have any dominion. They each said their silent prayers and goodbyes and they left the room as they had entered it. Cindie was surprised to discover that they’d been there nearly three quarters of an hour. They walked back through the crowd still noisily sharing their grief and remembrances, and returned to his car. He paused there after unlocking her door and opening it.

“Thank you.” It was all he said.

A sudden blast of wind rattles the glass in the panes, causing Mary Anne and Brandon to flinch against each other in surprise, then laugh together, a bit embarrassed at their state of nerves. The gust moderates itself to a low, probing whistle at the doorframe, and Mary Anne shivers a little, glad of Brandon’s encircling arm. “ A night of gnashings and enormous moan . . .” she murmurs, against a quick jolt of superstitious awe. The bad news they have just received . . .

“What is that from, Mary Anne?”

Brandon’s question restores her to calm. “It’s from a poem by Richard Wilbur,” she replies.

Brandon watches, knowing what will happen. He has seen it before on the set, that look of rapt concentration as Mary Anne seems to gaze inward—let her retrieve the first line of what she must know, and the rest will follow.

“Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.”

Brandon raises an eyebrow. “This man Wilbur deserves to be better known, if he can write such things. That was eloquent.”

“He is quite well known, as a poet and as a translator.” Mary Anne stares at the fire. “And so much fear. That’s it, Christopher. I’m upset for Mistral, of course, but I feel afraid, too, and that’s what I don’t understand.”

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

“Ah. Well, I see I’m not the only one who can turn a quotation, then.”

They are both smiling, now: Mary Anne with fondness for this man who knew exactly the right response to put her at ease, and Brandon with the pleased consciousness of having done so. Stretching out a little to ease his long legs, he settles back on the sofa, propping himself against the corner cushions. “Mary Anne, it’s natural that you should be upset—you’ve had a shock, after all.”

“We knew it was going to happen. Mistral warned us himself.”

“Yes, but now it has happened. It is real, and it hurts you because you love him—“

Her eyes are on him, wide with alarm. “Christopher, you can’t still think--!”

“No, no, wait a moment. I did not say you were in love with him; I said that you love him, and you do, don’t you? He’s your friend. He is mine as well.” Brandon is quiet for moment, thinking back over the years at the set. Mistral: there from the beginning, relishing his role as supreme villain of the cast, shrouded in a secrecy that is partly studio-generated for the publicity value and partly his own iron-gated sense of privacy. An extraordinary talent and everyone knows it, including Mistral—and yet Brandon cannot remember a single day of work, a single scene, in which Mistral’s behaviour to him had been less than professional, cordial . . . and now, they are friends. It is as simple as that. “Empathy has its pitfalls, my dearest. You can’t help thinking of yourself in his place and what you would feel. Is that what’s frightening you?”

“I think . . . partly.” Mary Anne closes her eyes, forcing back tears before they can form. “I . . . my mother and father are still alive, you see. And what I’ll do when anything happens to them . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Come here.”

Gratefully, Mary Anne moves over on the sofa close to Brandon and leans back against him as his hands settle on her shoulders, moving in slow, comforting circles. “Do you know, Mary Anne, that reminds me of something I saw—oh, years ago. It was an interview with Mr. Patrick Stewart—“

She cannot help smiling at that. “ Mr. Patrick Stewart, indeed. Just as if you don’t see him all the time at these parties and galas and such.” Mary Anne turns her head to smile over her shoulder at Brandon. “When you are going to introduce me to him?”

Brandon does not pause in his caresses. “I shall never know him well enough to make that introduction, my dearest.” A subdued growl, right at her ear. “Not when I know your weakness for seductive baritones.”

“You should know it, if anyone does. Not jealous, are you?”

“I certainly shall be, if you go flying off in some starship. Now, where was I? Oh, yes.” The gentle push and release of his index fingers at the nape of her neck. “It was an interview Mr. Stewart gave, right after he lost his mother. I thought of it because he said he was frightened, too, or words to that effect—that no matter how old you are when you lose a parent, you think, ‘Who’s going to take care of me?’ I would imagine Mistral is feeling something of the same thing, right now.”

Mary Anne thinks it over. “That makes sense. But there’s something else, too. I wonder if . . . well, you noticed that something seems to be wrong between Cindie and Mistral. And you thought there was something going on with me and Mistral, and I just wonder if Cindie saw something and thought the same thing, and if I’m the cause of the trouble . . . I’d just hate to have her thinking that of me. Especially at a time like this. He’s going to need her.” “Who’s going to take care of me?” I can just see the look Mistral would give anybody who thought he needed taking care of . . . but if I know Cindie, she’ll take care of him whether he wants it or not.

“Cindie is a sensible woman.”

“Things like this don’t always yield to reason, Christopher.”

“No, but I don’t think she’ll be at your throat or anything of the sort. Besides, I’ll be right there with you. I don’t expect any trouble, but surely the two of us together . . .”

“I’m so glad you’ll be with me. I’d hate the thought of going by myself.”

Reluctantly, Brandon glances at his watch. “And speaking of going . . . I really must be, now. You need your sleep, especially if we’re to make an early start tomorrow. When is John coming for the dogs?”

“Around seven-thirty or eight, he said.”

“Very well. Ring me in the morning when you’re ready, when you’ve packed and all. I’ll come straight around for you and we can be on our way. Now, then . . .”

The litter of the impromptu picnic remains to be cleared away, but the work goes quickly—especially as Brandon insists on doing the lion’s share of it. In hardly any time at all he is shouldering into his coat, but pauses long enough to envelop Mary Anne in a hug that wraps the folds of the coat about her, a cocoon of warmth and security from which she is loath to emerge. Finally, she steps back. “Thank you, Christopher.”

“For . . . ?”

“You know. For letting me tell you everything like that. And you don’t laugh at me. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

But she feels everything, you know. Takes things hard, twice as hard as most, I believe. In this, The Director had spoken the truth, and Brandon takes a long, searching look at the woman before him, who trusts him with all that she feels, all these things that she takes so hard.

“You may think of it,” he says at last, “as my way of telling you what you mean to me. Good night, Mary Anne. Sleep well, and I will see you in the morning.”

He is gone, then. The wind has died down, and Mary Anne stands in the doorway, listening to the ring of his footsteps on the wrought-iron stair before carefully closing and locking the door and making certain the bolt is in place. A moment to shut off the fire without disturbing the beagles and then, these important matters attended to, Mary Anne steps into her bedroom and within moments is out of her clothes, into her nightdress, and under the covers, imagining the sleep that is coming to encircle her like a pair of warm arms, an embrace to protect her from the bitter cold . . .

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Gwenevere’s cast was propped on a chair and pillow in Snape’s den as she quietly penned lab reviews, working exclusively from Severus’s Latin notes. She was extremely efficient and enjoyed it tremendously-- it was more like relaxation than work as it massaged her acute interest in potions making. She also enjoyed the endearing insights and how each student comprehended the potions making process.

They worked until just after noon. Severus asked Gwenevere to join him in the great hall for lunch, as he needed to talk to several of the professors afterward concerning next week’s classes and didn’t want to leave her alone. The Azkaban potion would require considerable time on Wednesday and Thursday so he needed a clear schedule. Last week’s double potions classes would switch to transfiguration, charms, and herbology.

She reluctantly agreed, not wishing to draw attention to her cast. They arrived early and took their places at the staff tables. Gwenevere’s cast had hardened nicely and allowed her to walk to the great hall with only the occasional aid of Severus’s arm. The hall consisted of mostly staff members and students who were eating on the run as various activities pulled them away. Gwenevere dined on a light meal of country vegetable soup and smoked trout salad. Her large goblet was filled with sparkling water with a wedge of lemon. Professor Snape’s meal was much more substantial.

As they finished lunch, Severus let Gwenevere know that Professor McGonagall had an appointment to meet him in a few minutes. Gwenevere would stay seated at the table and wait for him to finish his meeting before returning to the second floor. Professor McGonagall did indeed enter the Great Hall as planned; however, she looked rather frantic as she searched for Professor Snape. She hurried over to the far end of the table and summoned him to his house immediately. Apparently, there was some type of disturbance and Professor Snape was urgently needed. He turned towards Gwenevere and she motioned him to go and not to worry about her. He fled quickly and Gwenevere was left in the nearly deserted hall with the small potions book that she had brought with her as an afterthought and a fresh pot of tea.

"Well, maybe I should have said a baby," Joya flashed her dimples. "And I meant my baby. I've been thinking about it for a while, George, but I think I'm ready. I want to have a child."

He started to hyperventilate. A child? Where on earth had that idea come from? A child. A small human being that she would carry for nine months and then give birth to. A baby. An infant. She was mad. It would disrupt everything. A child. A boy or a girl. They had work to do, contracts to fulfill. How could she even contemplate the thought? A kid. A toddler. What would the Director say? A toddler. An infant. They were messy, demanding, loud, wet. A tot. A baby. Oh, Gawd....

"You're awfully quiet, George. I know you have an opinion." Joya sipped on her champagne. "Come on, now. Be honest. Do you think I can handle it?"

He pulled himself together with a jerk - but just barely. "Are you crazy? Why would you want to get...to become...I mean...to have..." He was painfully aware that he was unravelling. Then a suspicion crept into his mind. "Why would you want to do that to me?"

It was her turn to stare. "To you?"

"Yes, to me!" He'd got his breathing under control again. A strong sense of injustice began to burn in his chest. "We've had some good times together for a few years but it's nothing more than that. You're great in bed - don't get me wrong - you're probably the best ever. But to suggest that we've got anything more...A baby! No, no way, never. If that's your game, then it's over."

She blinked but seemed incapable of speech. For some reason the sight of her clear blue eyes wide open infuriated him even more. He picked up a glass of champagne, tossed it back in one gulp and set the glass down on the table again. He stood up.

"I'll send someone around to pick up the clothes I have at your place and drop off the stuff you've kept at mine." He paused and looked down at her. She just stared back, her face carefully blank. He frowned, needing to get a reaction. "If you need any references, don't hesitate to use my name. Any man would be glad to have you."

Joya's silence was chilling. George bent over and seized her hair, pulling her closer for a deep, thorough, invasive kiss that should have established male ownership to everyone in the restaurant. She gave no indication of a response. Frustrated, he released her and walked out of the restaurant.

Halfway across the lobby, he stopped, then crept back to the doorway and peered inside. Joya was still sitting at their table. As he watched she lifted a napkin to her lips and wiped it forcefully across her mouth.

*fzzzzzzsshshshshshhhhhhh*

*raises beautiful crystal flute swiped from MA's place*

Brandon looks up quickly when he hears Mary Anne’s sharp reply of, “Yes--indeed. Would you like to speak with him?” A pause, and her expression softens. “Of course. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just so horrid, that’s all.” Another silence. “Yes. Here he is.” Wordlessly, she holds out the phone and Brandon steps forward to retrieve it as Mary Anne returns to the sofa and sinks down on it, staring numbly at the litter of the impromptu picnic on the coffee table and listening to the one side of the conversation that she can hear.

“Yes . . . quite early, I should think. Do you know if anything is being sent from the cast . . . I see.”

Another long interval. Mary Anne looks down at Nelson and Pinky, sprawled on the floor, sunk into the blissful depths of Beagle Oblivion, that near-boneless state induced by a good feed and plenty of loving attention from their human pack members. I wish I could sleep like that—especially tonight, but I know that isn’t going to happen. Brandon’s voice again, interrupting her reverie. “And did she say how he’s taking it? Well, that’s like him, I suppose . . .no, you’re right, Dev, there isn’t much we can do except be there, and we shall certainly do that. Yes. We will see you then.” Brandon sets the receiver in its cradle and returns to the sofa, seating himself next to Mary Anne, who is watching the dogs with a sad little smile.

“Look at them. Not a care in the world.”

Brandon looks, and agrees that their repose is certainly . . . profound. “Yes, so it appears to us. Especially with an owner like John Middleton, life is very good for them. And yet, they dream. You saw them, didn’t you, trying to run in their sleep?”

Mary Anne nods. “They say we dream because things in our mind are too complicated to sort while we’re awake. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What could be so complicated about being a beagle? Yet, as you say, they dream.”

“Yes. They dream; they learn; they play. They can love being praised; they can grieve . . .”

The sound escapes her before she can choke it back. Yielding to a sudden impulse, Mary Anne reaches out and wraps her arms around Brandon’s waist, holding him tightly. “Don’t leave. Please, stay a little.”

She can feel Brandon smoothing her hair, feel his warmth as he breathes in the scent of it and kisses the top of her head. “My dearest, I have no intention of leaving. Not yet, at any rate. Not after we’ve had such bad news. There . . .”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

They again saw no one as they made their way back to the second floor. They went to Gwenevere’s quarters and Dobby had very recently left the tea tray in the sitting room for them. They sipped tea and ate hobnob biscuits while discussing the lab work to be done after breakfast.

“Severus, it’s time for my bath now, would you be so kind as to help me?” she asked.

“It will be my pleasure.” He stood up and placed the anti ghost spell on her perimeters. “We don’t need any unwelcome company.” He said with an air of disgust.

He left Gwenevere to start the bath water. As the water filled the tub, Snape produced a small green bottle and poured the contents into the water flow and then came back for Gwenevere. The cast was still soft so he carried her to the bathroom and set her down. She hopped several times and leant on the double basins for balance. Snape regarded the clingy elasticized fabric and considered Gwenevere. She was very sore and tender as the result of the accident and he didn’t wish to hurt her while peeling her out of the spandex. With a flick of his wand she was undressed. She stood like a goddess before him. He knelt down and examined the large purple bruise and abrasion on her hip. His face registered outrage and sorrow.

He turned off taps and helped her into the tub, keeping the cast perfectly dry as he did so. The hot water felt wonderful to her and she reveled in it, closing her eyes and sinking low in the tub. Her cast was resting comfortably on the far edge and her aches and pains seemed to melt away.
He watched as Gwenevere washed her hair and completed her morning routine, he could not help but wonder, with growing contempt, why she allowed nearly headless Nick to evade her privacy. Although he could not see any of her luscious anatomy above the high sides of the tub, she was certainly beautiful enough to incite vivid thoughts through clouds of fragrant steam.

“…Severus? Gwenevere repeated. He flinched back into reality.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Deep in thought were you?” she said, smiling across the room at him. “Erm…yes. I guess I was.” He replied.

“Would you please help me to rinse my hair now?” she said, pulling the plug and hanging it on the taps.

He moved over beside her and secured his sleeves out of the way. Last night’s snakebite injury was healed considerably by the morning, but was plainly visible. He supported her head under the running water so that she could concentrate on keeping her foot dry on the edge of the tub. She closed her eyes and felt his strong hands manipulate her long weighty hair to allow the suds to rinse free. He turned off taps and helped her out of the tub, wrapping her in the white fluffy towel.

They stood eye to eye and suddenly the atmosphere in the small steamy room became close. Snape steadied her with his arms and leant in to kiss her. She met him and they shared a lingering kiss as diffused pink sparks quietly crackled in the steam. Their explosive attraction for each other was showing no sign of quieting in the least after a month of time but was actually accelerating as they each learned more about the other. Gwenevere understood why the rabbits were seldom seen outside of closed doors in Sir Nicholas’s sprit world.

He helped her into her bedroom to dress. She finished drying and with his help, slipped into a simple black form fitting pull over dress of lightweight material that accentuated her fine curves. The stiffness and pain in her limbs was completely relieved by the magical bath, and her hip was almost healed. Gwenevere sat in a chair by the window. He watched as she slowly brushed her long hair while the sun was streaming in brightly through the cathedral window lighting the strands like silver threads on black velvet.

“I think I’m ready to work on the reviews now if you are, Severus.” She said. He went to her and helped her up. “Thank you for your help this morning.” She said, smiling gently at him.

Claudia and Spike

Spike jogged through the Tardis, looking into rooms with open doors, and skidding to a halt as he reached the sick bay. Claudia could see him slide and twist, his arms in the air as if completing a dance move. His coat flaring out behind him as he stopped, and he leant on the edges of the entrance, a hand propping himself on each side of the doorway.

She was on the sickbay bed, the back tilted upwards so she was in a reclined sitting position, she was wearing a long t-shirt, and her legs were bent at the knees and bare.

The Doctor had his back to the doorway, and was concentrating on preparing his instruments. He was clad in what looked like the protective gear of a bomb disposal expert. Headgear with a thick, clear visor, and thick padding on his chest and arms. “I wouldn’t cross that threshold if you know what’s good for you, my boy,” he said, carrying on without turning.

“You said you were going to remove a chip, I know a bit about those.” Spike started.

“Really? Into computers are you? This might be a bit different.”

“I had a chip, me,” he said. The Doctor turned to look at him, and Claudia stared, open mouthed as Spike tapped the side of his head.

“Yep, only in a different place. Got it out, thank goodness.”

“Who put it there?”

“Who put yours in your leg?”

“HE did, the Interrogator, or THEY did, I’m not sure which. Or what it’s for.”

“And THEY are...the Government? Nazis? A major cosmetics company?”

“Hell, I don’t know. THEY are who HE works for. You never actually see THEM. That’s why they’re known as THEY in the first place.”

“Me too. A ‘THEY’ put mine in. Though it started to go wrong, seems I wasn’t suppose to live that long after they inserted it, so THEY didn’t seem to mind that the thing would start to deteriorate, and short circuit my brain. Drove me loopy there for a while.”

“But you’re all right now?”

Spike took a step into the room, and leant his head sideways, cracking his neck. “Got it taken out. All better.”

“I warned you to keep out,” said the Doctor, waving a pen-like object in Spike’s direction. “I will have to close the door in a moment, its blast proof, you see. Just in case anything goes wrong.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to say. I don’t know if it’ll help here, of course. But mine wasn’t booby-trapped, it just sort of started to dissolve. I suppose so it wouldn’t be traceable later.”

“Very X-Files,” Claudia looked at him, arms crossed over her chest and eyes narrowed. “You’re very talkative about yourself, all of a sudden,” she said, suspiciously. “Why are you telling us this about yourself, now. And what was your chip for?”

“To help you, bint,” he gave her a look. “And we haven’t actually had too much talkin’ time, now have we? Well, you have, but I didn’t have a chance to get much of a word in edgewise.”

If she’d had a pillow, she’d have thrown it. “AND? Yours was for…?” she repeated.

“To control me, to stop me doing things. To make me do others, I suppose. The usual.”

“Exactly what we surmise this is for,” said the Doctor. “Though why its in your leg…”

“Perhaps they thought it would be closer to my brain,” she pouted.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Upon hearing voices, Madam Pomfrey flew round the corner. “What has happened here?” Madam Pomfrey excitedly asked, evidently quite surprised to see the unlikely pair. Her eyes widened as she considered them. Gwenevere loosened the hold she had around Severus’s neck to appear more formal. Snape’s hand moved further from Gwenevere’s hip and held her under her knees instead.

“Professor Collins has just broken her foot, Madam Pomfrey.” Snape said.

“Please set her down over here, Professor Snape.” Snape set Gwenevere down on the bed and was extra careful not to let their hands touch. Snape stepped back but remained close enough to be involved with Gwenevere’s examination.

“ Let’s have a look at it. Yes, definitely broken, but not to worry, I can fix it. Professor Snape, I can take care of things from here. You are free to leave now if you like.” She made whisking away motions with her hand and fully expected Snape to leave at once. Snape started to speak but stopped.

“Madam Pomfrey, is it alright if Professor Snape stays?” Gwenevere asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Madam Pomfrey said reluctantly and looked over her glasses at Professor Snape. She took into account the early hour and the tight muggle exercise clothes Professor Collins was wearing; her midriff was exposed and the clingy black material left nothing to the imagination at this close proximity. She spiciously wondered about the casual way Professor Snape’s white shirt was pulled out over his trousers and had never known him to allow anyone to observe his less than formal attire. She recalled the way Professor Collins held him tightly around the neck, and he was apparently in no hurry to set her down when they first came in. Madam Pomfrey raised a brow. She didn’t approve of shenanigans and Professor Snape was not her favorite Professor by any stretch of the imagination.

“It’s awfully early to be breaking your foot Professor Collins, it’s fortunate Professor Snape was available to help you, isn’t it?” The question was leading and she asked with authority, gazing over rims again.

“Yes, it is indeed madam Pomfrey.” Gwenevere said quietly, the throbbing pain causing her to shut her eyes and wince slightly. Snape lurched forward.

“Look. Can we please get on with it? She is in considerable pain,” Snape hissed.

Madam Pomfrey eyed him warily and commenced a full examination of Gwenevere's foot, causing her to again wince. Severus took another aggressive step forward, toward Madam Pomfrey. She held him at bay with the palm of her hand.

“Are you hurt anywhere else dear?” she asked quietly.

“Just my hip I think.” Gwenevere replied.

“I see. Professor Snape, I must insist you to leave this area so that I may examine the patient further.” She said sternly. Snape looked at Gwenevere and she nodded him leave: that he should step behind the curtain. When he was safely out of sight, madam Pomfrey carefully exposed the abrasion, examined it and treated it topically.

“Excuse me, I’ll be back directly.” She said, stepping out from the curtain and eyeing Snape surreptitiously.

Snape moved in close to Gwenevere and asked her about the pain level. He looked up when he heard madam Pomfrey clear her throat loudly upon her return. Severus watched like a hawk as she wrapped the foot in white gauze, which had been dipped in a thick magical poultice making a cast around the foot and ankle, which was designed to set and repair the bones.

“The cast will harden in a few hours time and must stay on the foot for twenty four hours. The cast must stay dry so you’ll most likely need help in and out of the bath.” She eyed Snape disapprovingly yet again, but her scowling didn’t put him off in the least.
“Stay off of it today, and come back tomorrow… after breakfast…and I will remove the cast.

“What about the pain madam Pomfrey?” Severus asked.

“I have something right here for that.” She gave Gwenevere a small white pill to take.

“Thank you madam Pomfrey. Gwenevere said sincerely.

“You are quite welcome dear, see you tomorrow then.”

Then the revolving door swung around and a tall, statuesque, not-quite-blond-but-pretty-darn-close beauty sauntered into the lobby. Her black suede trousers were tucked into soft suede boots, a worn black leather jacket incompletely covered her blowsy pirate's shirt and she balanced a motorcycle helmut on one hip as she pulled her mirrored sunglasses off. She smiled at George's ferocious look, swept up to him and wrapped one arm around his neck as she pulled him down for a kiss.

That lasted for an hour, two hours, a day, a week....

Finally she let go. George swayed on his feet, his eyes ever so slightly crossed. The woman smiled, took him by the front of his shirt and walked towards the restaurant, towing him behind her like a captured ship. "Reservation for Joya Clifford," she informed the maitre'd, and they passed into the room, across the carpet and over to the farthest, most private table in the room. A waiter rushed over with champagne and glasses, then bowed himself away.

George shook his head slightly, as if to clear the fog. "Well, what was so urgent?"

"I wanted to see you," she pouted. "I've got some news you're going to like."

"What kind of news?" George asked suspiciously, eying the champagne with distrust.

"You know how you hate me riding around on my motorcycle?" She asked, dropping one hand onto his thigh. "Well, I'm giving it up. It's going into storage this weekend."

George stared. "Why?"

"One word." Joya smiled, blushing prettily. "Babies."

I don't think he's a vampire in this story - though as he's never been outside so far, he could still be ;))

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Severus was in his den organizing the day’s lab review work when he became abruptly aware of an uneasy feeling regarding Gwenevere. He consulted his watch and strode to the entranceway. Upon opening the door, he saw Gwenevere’s cat alone in the corridor. He then went across to her quarters, let himself in and looked out of her office window to survey the Quidditch pitch. He could see the track, but he couldn’t see Gwenevere running on it. He fled her quarters, descended stairs quickly and was out of doors and approaching the track in seconds.

“Gwenevere” he said as he slowed to a walk upon reaching her.

“Severus, I think my foot is broken, and maybe my ankle. I can’t get my shoe off. It really hurts.” She told him. Seeing him welled her emotions again.

“I’ll have a look.” He flicked his wand and the shoe and the sock vanished. He could see that her foot was definitely broken, just by looking at it. “You will need to go and see Madam Pomfrey in hospital wing for this Gwenevere.”

He used a lightening spell to cause Gwenevere to become feather-weight so he could carry her with ease the considerable distance to the hospital wing.

“Are you going to use the spell to carry me through the threshold on our wedding night Severus?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood and keep her mind off of the pain.

“Probably not, I think I can handle that one unassisted.” He said. He did not like the look of her foot at all.

I don’t know, I am fairly heavy and I certainly wouldn’t want you to throw your back out, especially on that night.” She said. Gwenevere was quite comfortable in her present state. The lack of gravity was a relief to her broken foot.

“What happened exactly, what caused your fall?” He asked, looking around the vicinity and trying not to sound as concerned as he actually was.

“It was very odd, I felt someone or something push me down, and it was no accident.” Tears welled at the thought but she managed to calm them. Snape narrowed his eyes in concentration.

“What do you think caused it?” she asked.

“I think it is curse related, unless you have made enemies.” He smiled. “The amulet probably fended it off before it could do more harm.” He said.

They were in the school now and traveling along abandoned, dimly lit corridors. Torches announced their progression. It was just after five am. He carried her into the deserted hospital wing as stood there for several moments, looking around and trying to decide what to do. There were rows of beds made up and ready for patients along the wall in the empty room.

Claudia and Ed

“So, who do you have to shag around here, to get a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit?” Asked Spike as they re-entered the console room. The others were calmly sitting on the sofa and armchair, empty cups on the table in front of them. One biscuit was left on the plate.

“You just need to put the kettle on,” said the Doctor. “The tea is cold, I’m afraid. No shagging required.”

Claudia suppressed laugh at hearing the Doctor say shagging came out as more of a snort and a grimace.

“What have you been doing?” asked Ed, despite himself. “You were supposed to be making tea.”

“We made tea, then we went and found some clothes. I couldn’t wander round the palace in what I was wearing.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you wander anywhere.” He got up from the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. Hugging or protecting himself. “We’re here, by the way, we’re back.”

Spike leant over and snatched the remaining biscuit. “Never mind the tea, this’ll do. Where do I go then?”

“You stay here,” said Claudia giving him a hard stare. “Don’t leave the Tardis. Got that?”

“That’s hardly fair, don’t I get to meet the Queen, princesses, and ladies-in-waiting?”

“Empress”, Claudia corrected. “And no, you most certainly do not.” Sit and Stay, she thought.

The Doctor had moved from his chair, round to her side, and she hadn’t noticed. She jumped as his hand touched her elbow.

“Have you forgotten, you wanted me to remove something. We should do that now, before you get called to the Courtroom. Are you ready?” He looked perfectly serious. He was going to do it, and it didn’t look like he was looking forward to it. She nodded. His eyes scanned the room. “You gentlemen please wait here. This could be dangerous, and if there is an explosion…”

“Wait a minute!” Spike lurched forward, and Ed grabbed his arm, and held him fast.

“She got herself in this mess, she has to sort it out without hurting anyone else.”

“Explosion!”

“She’ll be alright. She always is. Aren’t you?”

“Thank you both for your concern,” she said voice trembling. “You can’t help me on this one.” She left the room with the Doctor, as they stared after her in silence.

“I must leave.” Ed and Spike jumped, having almost forgotten that Anton was in the room. Anton got up out of his seat. “I have much to do. It was an interesting experience.”

Ed took Anton’s hand and shook it, then moved quickly to the console and pulled the door release lever. “We will follow soon, Herr Gruber. Please let them know.” Anton Gruber gave a curt straight backed bow, and left the Tardis.

“Frigid, mate. They should rename you Frostbite, with that attitude.”

Had Anton known that Ed was only controlling himself, because he had been in the room, maybe he would have stayed. Now they were left alone, Ed’s barely checked anger boiled to the surface, and he bellowed as he crossed the room to Spike, grabbed him by his coat collar, and pushed him against the wall. “Don’t you dare tell me how to deal with her, and don’t you dare presume to know what’s going on between us, right? I told you before to stay away from her, and I mean it. She doesn’t need a further complication. She’s got enough to deal with without the distraction.”

“Alright, alright!” Spike waved his hands in the air in surrender. “Leave off mate. She’s made it clear how she feels - just friends, just friends with everyone. I’m not going to hurt her.”

“You’re right about that, you’re not going to get close enough to even breathe the same air.”

Spike’s comic façade slowly dissolved. His self-protective act slipped away, and he straightened visibly. Pulling himself up to almost, but not quite Ed’s height. His arms came down, around and up through the middle of Ed’s, and pushed outwards to break Ed’s grip on his collar.

“Listen, mate. I was an ear, when she needed one, OK? Nothing else. If she were mine, I’d be spending my energy making sure she was OK, rather than acting the jealous boyfriend and picking on some stranger. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a leg. Which she might. What are you going to do then? Keep her locked away, and look after her? Or keep running in the opposite direction like you are now? I’m going to make sure she’s OK. Because she deserves that. You can stay here and wallow in your self-pity by yourself.”

“Its because I care I have to let her deal with this by herself.”

Spike pushed himself away, and walked towards to corridor. “We’re different, you and me. Sometimes a hug is in order. And its better coming from a stranger, because there’s no hang ups, no history.” He started to jog. “If I were you mate, I’d stay out of my way, and I’ll try and keep out of yours.”

Claudia and Spike

After much prancing and cavorting, trying on silly outfits, they each chose something sensible. Claudia felt guilty for wasting time playing around, when Ed and the Doctor were probably struggling with the controls and trying hard to get them back to the palace, to arrive moments after they had left.

Spike wore some steel-toed DMs, drain-pipe black faded jeans, a black t-shirt and long black leather coat. Claudia chose her trademark red - a three-quarter length leather jacket, which tied at the waste in a belt. After much arguing, she had chosen a plain black skirt to go with it (no jeans!) and knee-high black leather boots. The both posed in front of the full-length mirror. Practisingtheir pouts and sour-looks.

“Real model material, with those cheekbones.”

“Ha. But not with those hips, luv.”

She slapped him and pulled a face. “Not used to this. Usually thigh-high boots and jeans. I only wear skirts for parties.”

“In to fishing then?”

“What?”

“Only use for thigh-high boots - waders for the river.”

“Thanks, you’ve just ruined my trademark look. I’ll never be able to wear thigh-highs again, without thinking of that image.”

“Sorry, luv, but thigh-highs sound tragic.”

“Well, I think time to be serious. The tea will have gone cold, but I’m still going to be in hot water.”

“Don’t let it bother you. You’ve better things to worry about.”

“Yes. Like being a witness at someone’s trial. And hope it doesn’t turn into my trial. I wonder if sleeping with someone is the same as being married? Then I wouldn’t be able to testify.”

“If sleeping with someone is the same as being married then I’m one hell of a bigamist. Don’t think its even worth mentioning.”

“Yes, perhaps not. Claudia slept with the Interrogator, she must be innocent.”

“So, nice bloke this Interrogator? Must be something special to get to you?”

She shuddered. “Complete opposite, actually, and I’d rather not talk about HIM any more.”

“Typical. They all like bad boys.”

“No, not really. We all lust after bad boys, but we stay with the good ones.”

“Lust is good. We should work on that.”

“No thanks, I’m going on a lust-free diet. I’m going back to my original plan of ‘let’s just be good friends’ with everyone… including Ed. Especially including you.”

“You already made that clear, luv. Come on then. Back into the fiery pit of hell.”

We are interchangeable after all Cindie!

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

He was rudely awakened by an obnoxious shaft
of sunlight penetrating his eyelids and turning everything neon pink inside his pounding skull. Knotted bedclothes were anacondas anchoring him to the mattress by a strangle hold around his middle. A semi overturned bottle of gin vied for space with a lamp and several pictures of a beautiful woman. Hardened puddles of beeswax overflowed the candle dish and the tabletop forming wax icicles on the edge of the littered, dusty nightstand.

His hand uncoordinatedly stabbed in the direction of the compact table clock, knocking the leaning gin bottle to the floor with a loud clatter. The glunking sound of air as it replaced liquid through the bottleneck resulted in the destruction of the timepiece as it hurled through the atmosphere toward the offensive sunshine and smashed against the window on the far wall of the bedroom. A pane of glass shattered and fell to the street below.

The pungent smell of that which was responsible for his severely dehydrated state assaulted his nostrils and clashed with his spinning head and empty stomach. He got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to be sick. He drew a glass of water and gulped it down as he looked through dingy mirrored glass at blonde streaked hair and hollow sleep-deprived eyes.

It had been since Friday when he had made it quite plain to her, he thought, that he had special feelings for her. Why has she rejected him? Why did she not respond in the way he wanted her to? He ran a hand through his hair and twisted away from the two dimensional antipodal liar to turn on taps in the shower. He had clearly made the decision. He would see her today, somehow.

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

Gwenevere left much later than usual and headed to the Quidditch pitch to run despite Severus’s tempting suggestion that she lay with him still longer. She felt unusually groggy this morning as she walked the track to warm up. Something wasn’t right today, but what? 'Maybe it was all that sugar in the dessert last night, I’m not used to it' she thought.

She scanned the immediate area and noticed that no one was practicing Quidditch this morning. All was quiet in an eerie sort of way. Steam vapor rose from the blacktop and evaporated into the sunlight. Puddles from last nights rain reflected painted light and blue sky as the breeze blew over them causing delicate ripples. A white owl flapped its gossamer wings and danced on the slick bronze globe of a nearby statue in an effort to secure footing.

She started running slowly and gradually increased to speed. Soggy footfalls found their rhythm and mechanically echoed advancement. Gwenevere thought of nothing in particular when suddenly she felt someone’s hand come from nowhere and shove her forcefully to the ground. She fell hard and landed her full weight on her twisted foot. She heard the bone snap and rolled onto her hip causing severe pain and a nasty bruise no doubt.

She looked around for someone to help, but no one was there. She grimaced through tears at the sight of her painful foot, which seemed to be skewed in the wrong direction now. She shook mud from her hand and decided to try and remove her shoe while she waited for Severus to miss her. Her ankle and foot swelled quickly, preventing her from releasing the shoe.

Boots joined her on the track and she asked him to go and get Severus, but she wasn’t sure he understood.

MA, aww. After the JE quote at the beginning of the month, another "impossible love affair" novel. I'll seond the "... THUD!"

King Richard arrived with Count Godfrey and Baron Abelard of Anjou just in time for the midday meal, as threatened. Their horses clattered over the drawbridge accompanied by the cheers of the king's loyal subjects, most of whom preferred to stand in the courtyard shouting like fools to doing an honest day's work. I watched the entire sickening sight from the parapets before I descended the stairs to greet the king in person.

He looked quite cheerful, which I thought was in rather bad taste, considering the circumstances of his visit. He clapped me on the back and roared at me to get up, that there was no need for ceremony between us on this wonderful occasion. I tried not to gag too obviously.

Even though there were two rulers in the company, the king's retinue was quite sparse. Only twenty men accompanied him, and from their liveries I could see that half of them were from Anjou. As the others dismounted and accepted cups of wine from the servants, the king confided to me that he'd deliberately left his usual assortment of guards behind in Derby. "No sense in you paying for all those extra mouths, George. I'm well aware that I'm taking enough away from you." He nodded solemnly and patted my shoulder. I refrained from stabbing him, just barely.

My official duty dispensed with, I turned to greet my other guests. Count Godfrey was a huge man, almost the size of Leofric but running more to fat than muscle. I had the impression of standing in the shade cast by a haystack. He looked older than the king, with gray streaks in his dark hair. I bowed and bid him welcome to Nottingham, and he took a few moments to respond, examining me carefully as if I was a retainer he was considering employing, then nodding his head once and turning away in gesture of dismissal. Which was fine with me; there's nothing worse than a gregarious houseguest.

The man I was most curious to see, of course, was Joya's first husband. I'd deliberately left him until last, not only for reasons of protocol but because I wasn't sure what my reaction to his physical presence was going to be. My uncertainty did not disappear upon meeting him. I knew that he was almost forty, but he didn't look anywhere close to it. Not quite as tall as I was, his features were pale, perhaps a residue of his life-altering fever some months before, and his eyes were large and blue, not a deep blue like Joya's but rather a watery, silvery blue. He stared at me as I went through the motions of greeting him, nodding carefully at intervals. His clothes hung loosely on him and he didn't seem to know what to do with his horse's reins, appearing almost pathetically grateful when one of my grooms took them to lead the animal away. Freed of the burden of his mount, he gazed around the high walls of the courtyard, apparently forgetting that I was standing right beside him.

By this time the Robin of Locksley had arrived and was going through his own introductions to the visitors. I didn't notice that they gave him any more attention than they'd given me. Naturally he wasn't as interested in Abelard as I was, so I was able to keep my supposed rival close by me as we walked into the great hall to join Joya and Marion.

The king's good mood increased at the sight of the ladies, both of them his relatives after all, and he hugged them both and kissed them enthusiastically. Count Godfrey didn't alter his manner at all when he greeted them, but it seemed to me that he spent some time eyeing both Marion and Joya in a rather speculative manner that I found puzzling. It wasn't the attitude of a man confronted by two beautiful women. I was something else that I couldn't name. I wasn't sure that I liked it.

Baron Abelard had hung back behind the others and it would have been easy to mistake him for another servant. He didn't seem at all eager to meet his past and future wife, which was something else I found puzzling. Not until Godfrey dragged him forward by the arm was he properly introduced, blushing fiery red and bobbing his head repeatedly until he finally didn't bother raising it again but remained staring at the ground. Joya smiled gently and bid him welcome in the soft voice I had sometimes heard her use with Richard. Abelard shuffled his feet and didn't respond.

Protocol having been observed to everyone's satisfaction, the guests were swept upstairs to their chambers to wash off the dust of the road and prepare for the meal. I watched the hall empty, wondering what revelations would emerge when we dined. It promised to be a tense lunch, and I supposed that a good host would have hoped we could get it through it without blood actually being shed.

But actually I was hoping that only the right person's blood would be shed.

Claudia and Spike

“Tada!” Spike walked out of the doors of the wardrobe, arms spread wide to display himself in all his skinny but muscled glory. Claudia had a sudden shocking flash back to Pricilla, Queen of the Desert.

She laughed - a true laugh that lit up her entire face, and made her feel lighter inside. It was something she hadn’t done in a very long time. “Are you sure you like girls?”

His hands went to his hips, mocking her. “I don’t know what you mean!”

He was wearing glittery platform boots and pink satin hipster flairs, with purple poker dots. His chest was still bare, but he had flung a pink feather boa theatrically around his neck, and he wore Dame-Edna glasses. Why on earth the Doctor would have such clothes in his collection, she dare not imagine.

She giggled and came up to him, adjusting his feathers. “Ed will be so happy if you start walking around dressed like that, but if I were you, I’d get something a little more practical.”

“Oh, and how about you in that princess dress? Let’s hope it’s not winter, wherever we’re going, or you’ll get a nasty chill.”

“I wasn’t planning on…”

“Come on.” He took both her hands in his. “Its fun. It’ll do you good.”

He lent in towards her, and tipped his head forward. They touched foreheads - his feathers tickled her neck. She leant into the touch and sighed.

“OK, then. Enough time to be serious when we get to the palace.”

“Palace? Well, perhaps the princess look will suit, after all?”

“No,” she repeated softly into the front of his shirt. She was having a hard time understanding how this could impact him now. “They can’t hold you responsible for something that happened when you were, what, eight?”

“But I knew, you see. After she got sick she started telling me things. I think she wanted me to understand.” His voice drifted a bit but he continued to hold her. Whether it was comfort for himself or for her was anybody’s guess. “She poisoned him.”

Cindie didn’t pull back. “And nobody suspected anything?”

Mistral did separate himself from her now. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He shook his head, the bewildered little boy peeking through again. “I remember the funeral… nothing seemed amiss, then.” He shrugged off the issue. It was enough of that for now.

Cindie stood straight, brushed down her sweater as if composing herself, and summoned a smile. “Well, we’d better get to work.”

“Oh, I’ll do the dishes, my dear. Today should be quiet. All the arrangements are made and everybody came by yesterday while I was out.” He indicated to the array of food in the kitchen.

Despite her feeling sheepish about what she’d done, her grin broadened into genuine proportions. “I don’t mean the dishes. We’ve got to get the house ready.”

“No, everything will be at the church. Nobody will come here now.”

“I think we’d really best be prepared. Just in case.”

Mistral finally shook off the vestiges of the fuzz that was clinging to the corners of his brain. What had she said? I’ve told them. He himself had informed the Director and requested that the information be kept confidential. The funeral was to be very small, simply the local population that knew her from the old days. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his friends and co-workers to know; he simply didn’t wish to burden them with his grief. He would tell them later, quietly. So he had thought. His eyes narrowed and he asked her, “What have you done?”

“Nothing.” Cindie knew she couldn’t manage the innocent look, but she gave it her best shot.

“Whom did you tell?”

“Just Dev.” There. That didn’t sound so bad. She’d only actually told one teeny weeny person. So to speak.

“And Dev then told who else?”

“I don’t know. I’m in Wales.”

“You certainly are. The question is, who else is going to be in Wales?”

“Like I said, my dear,” her smile was beatific , “We’d better get the house ready.”

Therese fumbled around in the kitchen—-not the most familiar territory, though she was certainly capable of throwing together the occasional meal—-when she was startled by the sound of a knock at the front door.

With an abrupt, baying woof, Tory beat Therese to the door by several steps, looking up at the wooden frame expectantly. “It’s not always someone delivering food, you miserable mongrel,” she scowled to her pet.

Opening the door, Therese was startled to see The Director at the entryway. “Sir,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Therese,” he replied dryly. “Oh, hullo, Tory,” he added, unobtrusively slipping the Alsation a treat from his inner coat pocket. “Might I come in?”

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry please do,” she quickly backed up, inviting him in and taking his jacket to hang on the brass coat rack beside the door. “I’m just throwing together a shepherd’s pie for dinner, are you hungry?”

“Well, actually I was trying to find Dev,” The Director began, as he followed Therese back to the kitchen where she continued layering the ingredients for the meal. “But it seems that not only has his phone been disconnected, but when I dropped by what I believed to be his accommodations, his landlord, a quite unsavory bloke, informed me that he’d been evicted. Seems he had a rather large dog staying with him. Not, I’m sure, that you’d know anything about that. . .”

“Tea!?” Therese inquired brightly. “Or would you care for a bitter? I’m sure that I’ve something in there that would appeal to you if you’d have a look,” she said, indicating the large silver refrigerator in the corner of the room. Wiping her hands off, she took the glass dish with the now constructed shepherd’s pie and moved to place it in the oven.

“Therese,” The Director crossed to the stove and opened the door for her, then took an oven mitt and slid the partially baked soda bread to one side. “I know he’s living here now.”

Therese dropped the pan onto the oven rack with a clank. “You do?” she asked, grimacing slightly. “You do?” she asked again, her voice cracking.

“I do,” he confirmed.

Therese digested this bit for some time, her lips working reflexively, thinking of the no fraternization rule that had been so instilled within the entire crew. It didn’t really matter that they’d all erm, fraternized all over the place, but having The Director confront her with this himself was another matter entirely.

He stooped over her just a bit. “This gaping fish look doesn’t do you justice, Therese.”

“But,” she tried, then paused. “How?” She didn’t get any further that time either. The Director looked down at her, crossing his arms over his chest, with an I’m not blind look upon his features.

Therese knew when to beat a hasty retreat. “I’ll get him for you, he’s calling the list of crew that Linda provided,” she said, and shot from the room.

They returned a few moments later, The Director straightening quickly as to not actually be observed being overly sentimental with Tory. The two men clasped hands in a warm handshake. “Dev, thanks so much for the help, I just wanted to go over a few things with you if you’ve a moment?”

“Of course,” Dev replied, “we’ll be eating soon, can you stay for dinner? Therese was going to take Tory for a quick run, we can get any arrangements squared away, and then she can give you a lift back to your place on the way to take the dog and that wretched cat to the kennel.

Paul McCatney looked up from the floor where he was entwining himself around The Director’s feet, and gave a disparaging ‘meow’ at the mention of what passed for his name where Dev was concerned. The Director glared down at him, shifted his leg slightly and muttered, “Sod off.” (slightly edited homage. . .)

“Right,” Therese said, realizing that the two men were better left to themselves, she moved to the counter, and handed the corkscrew and bottle of Beaujolais she’d planned to serve with the dinner to Eamon. “Here, why don’t you two take this into the office, I’ll just have a quick run around the park and by time I get back, we can eat.” She paused, and looked to Dev, “Whatever you do, don’t forget to take the soda bread out when the timer rings.”

The Director looked at his two co-stars fondly, and quirked a brow. “How domestic,” he drawled.

Therese looked toward him. Dough-mess-TIC. No one had the gift of imbuing more in a single word than The Director. “That, sir, will be enough out of you,” she informed him, and then spoiled the effect entirely by beating a hasty retreat. She was halfway out the door when she threw back over her shoulder, “And try not to molest the cat, won’t you?” before closing the door firmly.

The Director took the bottle of wine from Dev’s hand, and reaching for the corkscrew began to open it. “Cheeky little thing, your Therese, isn’t she?”

Dev just smiled. “That she is, I must say, that she is.”

Cindie sat there struck dumb. How many syllables did that word have? Each and every one seemed to resonate in her brain as she tried to grasp what Mistral had just said. Murderer. She blinked a few times while Mistral seemed to be simply waiting. When she finally reacted with speech it was in a tone simultaneously disbelieving and patronizing. “No you’re not.” She regarded him closely as if waiting to see if he would shift before her eyes and become the murderer he had declared himself to be. Satisfied that he hadn’t and wasn’t, she repeated it firmly. “No, you’re not.”

He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms, his sardonic aplomb carrying him through even in this. “You know better, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I know you and I know better than to believe that even from your own lips.” That she was defending him against himself didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

“As it happens the law would differ in its opinion.”

“Well then, the law would be stupid.” She glared at him now, anxious to have this absurd self accusation laid to rest, “Why don’t you stop being so damned cryptic and tell me what you’re talking about.”

“I am attempting to do so.”

“Well, do so.” Now she crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. It clearly had better be a good one.

“It’s to do with my father.”

“Your father.”

“My father.” A pause. “He was not a kind man.”

“He didn’t beat you did he? Or your mum?”

“No. Are you going to let me tell this?”

“Yes, yes. Did someone kill your father? A business rival?”

Mistral gave her a long pointed look and Cindie resolutely sat back and pressed her lips together in the ‘I’m not saying another word’ position.

Mistral marshaled his forces and began again. “My father was not a kind man.” For a moment he looked somewhere into a middle distance that only he could see. Then he refocused on her and continued. “He was never one to show any affection either to me or to my mother. I don’t think he meant to be cruel; I think he simply had nothing to offer. But of course, I was young when he died and my recollections are from the perspective of a child.” He paused again and took a sip of juice. Cindie valiantly kept her mouth shut. “Later, though, he began to -- I don’t know quite how to phrase this -- to bait me, for lack of a better term. I had always wanted to get his attention, tried all the typical ways, feats of daring, academic achievement…” He saw Cindie’s eyebrows quirk and said defensively, “Eight year olds can achieve.” She tried to imagine him as an earnest eight year old vying for attention from an indifferent father and wanted to hug him to pieces.

Mistral went on. “He would occasionally acknowledge my existence but little more. Then he began to say things, little things.” Cindie gave an involuntary shiver as his expression took on a hard edge she’d seen before when he was at work. “Even now it’s hard to remember what they were or why they hurt so much at the time. He began to go out of his way to make comments that would undermine whatever I had done or was trying to do.” He shook his head. “I know this sounds foolish, but he seemed to take delight in skewering me whenever he could. I’ve no idea why.” Now his look was utterly baffled, the hurt child trying in vain to figure out what he’d done wrong. “At first it made me try harder but that only served to give him more ammunition. I’m not certain but later, years after he died I mean, I recalled that he had done much the same to mother. It was like when I reached a certain age I was eligible for this treatment, too. Until then I was of no interest to him.”

Cindie couldn’t keep silent at this. “Patrick, that’s awful. I would like to have him here so I could give him what for.”

“That’s just it. My mother did. The ultimate what for.” He enunciated the last two words carefully.

Cindie gaped. “No, how could she? Everybody would have known. She’d have been in jail…”

“I told you, she was a chemist. Ran the local chemist shop.”

“Oh, I thought when you said that she was a chemist, you meant a chemist, a scientist I mean.”

“Well, she was, really. She knew everything about preparing drugs, what medication did what, she even would recommend herbals and things, she didn’t just count pills out and put them in bottles.”

Cindie was finally beginning to see where all this was going. “Are you saying your mother poisoned your father? Because he was a nasty bastard?”

“In a word. Yes.” Cindie began to rub her temples with her index and middle fingers. In a voice filled with guilt that he had made wholly his own he finished, “She did it for me.”

At that Cindie scraped back her chair and leapt to her feet. “Did it for you? How can you think that?” She shook her head and threw up her hands. “No, its too much! You can’t take the blame for that; you were a child!”

Mistral stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her body trembling with rage, he thought, on his behalf. “I didn’t realize it then. She told me, later, when the disease began to get a hold of her brain.

Cindie recalled the cry Mistral’s mother had made when she was here last. Arthur, I did it for you.

His hands moved down to grip the sides of her arms. “Cindie, I’ve already gone to the authorities. The moment I knew what had happened and did nothing I became an accessory.” Cindie started to shake her head and protest. Mistral pulled her close. “Ssshhhh. They’ve already promised to take no action until after the funeral.”

“No.” Was all she could say.

It was a quiet ride home from the studio that evening, Eamon at the wheel, Therese silently beside him, and Tory sighing softly in the back seat. As most dogs, she was sensitive to the somber mood, or simply hadn’t resigned herself to being a back seat dog when heretofore she had habitually occupied the passenger side.

They let themselves into the flat, Dev immediately starting toward to the corner of the open living area which had been designated an office of sorts, and Therese heading for the kitchen. “I’ll whip up something for dinner, you’d best start calling, you’ve a lot of ground to cover.” Dev nodded distractedly, began to move toward the phone, then quickly turned back to Therese and pulled him to his chest, where he hugged her tightly. Holding her against him, he rested his chin atop her head, his eyes closing. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she asked, burrowing into the hollow of his collarbone. The loss of a parent was something they’d both felt, the poignancy of Mistral’s loss had affected them both.

“It is indeed,” Eamon replied softly, stepping back slightly he pressed a kiss to Therese’s forehead and turned her back to face the kitchen. “Go and cook, then we should pack our things after. I’d like to leave early.”

“Yes, you always do. I’ll throw something into the oven, go for a quick run, and then take Tory and Paul to the kennel. When I’m back you should be finished and we can eat.”

Eamon nodded his acceptance of the plan, and soon Therese could be heard rummaging around in the kitchen. He continued over to the phone, and began thumbing methodically through the list of names that Linda from the front office had compiled for him. Alphabetically, he’d noticed, thinking not for the first time that without the amazing competence that Linda possessed, the entire studio would probably come to a grinding halt. With a heavy sigh, he began. “Hullo, Phil? It’s Dev. I thought you should know. . .”

He’d left a message for Dwight on his machine, spoken with Sinclair’s secretary, but was left with nothing other than a frequently repeated double ring when he attempted to reach Brandon. With a frown he skimmed down several letters with his forefinger, and pinned it upon Mary Anne’s. He’d almost given up when finally there was a breathy, “Hello?” from the other end.

“Mary Anne? It’s Dev—are you alright?”

There was a sudden throat clearing and the semblance of something occurring on the other end of the line, which prompted Dev to inquire, “Have I called at a bad time? I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but it’s rather important.”

“Oh, no, “ Mary Anne replied, her voice gaining momentum rapidly. “What is it, is anything wrong?”

“I’m rather afraid there is,” Dev responded, going into the details that he’d already begun to loathe. It was so difficult being the bearer of bad news, and reliving each fresh reaction to the sorrow expressed by his friends. Finally when he’d relayed the important details, he mentioned his attempt to contact Brandon. “You haven’t seen him by chance, have you?”

Dev’s inquiry was followed by a slight pause. “Actually, Dev, he’s right here.”

“Indeed?”

Brandon, though he is not a fire-breathing dragon, is warm and ardent in his attentions until finally he releases Mary Anne from his arms—only to have her insinuate herself into them again and settle her head on his shoulder. For some time they remain silent, listening to the hiss of the fire, Parkening’s deft and gentle rendering of the Romance (by that most prolific of all composers, A. Nonymous), and the occasional pat of a beagle’s tail against the floor as they dream of running in their sleep.

“Christopher, that is a very distressed expression for a man who’s just been kissed halfway to oblivion.” Teasing. “Do I not please you, then?”

Brandon, caught in his abstracted frown, relaxes and smiles down at her. “Only too well.”

Worried by his constraint, Mary Anne glances over at the coffee table where Brandon has left his champagne glass, still half-full. She nods toward it, still keeping her voice light. “Being careful, are we?”

He does not hesitate. “Rather. Considering the last time, I thought I should.”

Now it is Mary Anne’s turn to frown. “I thought we had settled that already. Listen, you said one thing you came here for was for mercy, didn’t you? Trust me; you have it. Until such time as you ask for no mercy . . .” A throaty chuckle. “I can’t guarantee to live up to the Hans standard on that, but I shall do my best, I promise you. Now, stop tearing yourself to pieces. I love having you here and I want to enjoy it.”

Brandon inclines his head briefly, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “As you command . . . Domina. And on that occasion, I would endeavour to . . . reciprocate.” However, he is not quite ready to be joked out of his mood, and as Mary Anne arranges herself more comfortably against his shoulder, Brandon’s distant look returns. “And so, my dearest, what now?”

“What now? Why . . .”

Brandon catches her involuntary glance toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom. “No, I was not suggesting anything of the sort. Besides . . .” With his free hand, Brandon fidgets with a cushion tassel, drawing the strands through his fingers. “We had already discussed that before, Mary Anne. You know my views well enough.”

“I should. They’re the same as mine.” Mary Anne pushes herself upright on the sofa to look him in the eye. “What, has someone been gossiping about us because we aren’t sleeping together?”

Brandon winces a little. “You can certainly be a forthright woman at times, Mary Anne.”

“Yes. Well, tact is a wonderful quality but there are times it’s better to get right to the point. There shouldn’t be any reason we can’t talk about this.”

“Quite right. And to answer your question, no, there is no gossip of which I am aware, but . . .” An uneasy gesture, one hand lifting and falling in the impossible attempt to explain an impression. Brandon is a perceptive man, and though no one has said anything in his hearing about the intimacy of his relations with Mary Anne—doubtless knowing they would be scorched by a look of outraged hauteur for their prying—he has seen the glances that are trained upon them when they are together, on set or away from it; walked in upon conversations were hastily terminated at his approach; observed the whole freemasonry of whispers behind hands and significant looks that accompany rumour and speculation.

Mary Anne is shaking her head. “Imagine that. Two ordinary decent people who love each other and don’t hop right in the sack. Must be something wrong with them. Well, Christopher, is that what you want?”

“What I want, Mary Anne . . .” Brandon glances around the room, then smiles disarmingly at her. “I’ve so seldom been here and do you know why? It was because I didn’t believe it was safe. People would talk if they knew I had been here—and there are always those tabloid rags, you know.”

“I know.” Her tone bodes ill for the rags in general, and one in particular.

Brandon presses on. “And I think I did not trust myself to be alone here with you very often. That is what has troubled me so much about that last time, you see; it was like—“ A stain of red on his cheekbones, but his gaze remains on hers. “—the beginning of something I had imagined, and . . . could only end one way if I remained.”

“You are here now.”

“Yes, I am here now. Let me tell you what I want, Mary Anne. I have no intention of compromising you in any fashion, or taking one step beyond whatever line you choose to draw for me, but . . . I do love you, and I think you know it. More than friendship, though I certainly value that. I . . .” A hesitant breath. “I wish there to be no doubt in the minds of all who see us that there is more than friendship here.”

Those blue eyes, briefly veiled by their thick, dark lashes, now open and look full into his. “Much more, Christopher.”

Another silence. Not awkward. Poignant with possibilities. Much remains to be settled, but for now . . .

Brandon reaches out and traces one finger lightly down her face. “Were I alone with thee . . .”

Mary Anne shivers with pleasure. “You are alone with me.”

“I would kiss thee until . . .”

The telephone rings.

TRUE LOVES CURSE: Friday

Sunday Morning.
Gwenevere became conscious of cloud like environs. In the predawn gray she was deeply encapsulated under fluffy eiderdown and overstuffed feather pillows. She was barely warm enough owing to her, once again, having drifted to far away in the spacious four-poster. She shifted her position and was dealt with severely by cold merciless linen.

She dislodged her head, turned towards her warm lover and entwined her limbs with his in an effort to absorb as much of his body heat as possible. Severus embraced her willingly and listened as she spoke her early morning murmurs into his neck. Her cool skin was a welcome relief for him and the curious predawn ritual had become his favorite. He silently vowed to leave Hogwarts, if it ever came to it, before ever again waking without her by his side. He planted a kiss on her forehead, Gwenevere had become very still again.

“You’ve not gone back to sleep then have you love?” He asked, smoothing her mussed hair with his fingertips.

“No, not completely.” She sighed into his neck. She breathed in his masculine scent, which was much more pronounced in the morning than any other time.

“I’ve got to get up and run, but you are making it quite difficult for me. You are so incredibly warm.” She squeezed him tighter round the waist and sighed. The only time Snape could remember ever having felt chilled was when he mirrored Gwenevere’s unconsciousness. His warm feet attracted her cool feet like a magnet.

“Might I suggest that you sleep in--with me this morning? I am becoming warmer by the second.” He said, kissing the top of her head. He idly kicked the comforter off to the side again.

“Yes, I can see that. However, I must go, especially after last night’s dinner.” She said, and kissed his neck.

“That reminds me, how is your wrist this morning? Does it still feel stiff?” she asked, yawning.

“No...It’s fine. Good as new, Doctor Collins. I must confess. I do not understand why you torture yourself that way.” He sighed.

“Because it gives me energy…and it improves my mental attitude. You wouldn’t wish to experience me if I have not worked out.” She said. His hand found hers and their fingers entwined. His thumb caressed her palm provocatively.

“I am willing to take my chances.” He purred, shifting his weight lower in order to kiss her on the mouth.

“Running helps keep me warm. Improves circulation. Stamina.” She said.

He gently lifted her face towards his and she kissed him just the way he likes. He buried his hand in her thick unruly hair.

“I am here to keep you warm…but I must admit, you do have amazing stamina…”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Snape shouted an angry expletive
and grabbed his right wrist as blood splattered Gwenevere and dripped profusely through his fingers, seeping into the white sheets. Gwenevere stared down in horror and realized that she was clutching the Juliet diamond with her right hand. It felt unusually warm on her finger.
“Severus! What has happened? You’re hurt-- let me see. Give me your hand!” she said, concern straining her voice to its limits.

She reached for his wrist and he yielded. Tiny streams of blood spurted rhythmically from two puncture wounds, which resembled a snakebite and straddled the larger main veins. She quickly replaced his left hand fingers over the holes to impede pulsating sanguineous fountains.
Just a second Severus. Hold that please.” She said calmly as she leapt from the bed and violently drew open his wardrobe. Her bloody fingers grabbed a clean white handkerchief from the stack.
“It’s all right I think.” He offered and lifted his fingers. Synchronized scarlet streams splattered the wall beside the bed resembling tattered arches that began to run downward.
“No it’s not, hold still will you!” she insisted as she transferred the cloth to the bite and applied even pressure to stop the surge and allow for coagulation to occur.

She looked him over to make sure he was not going to faint owing to lowered blood pressure.
“Are you all right? How do you feel?” she asked, checking his color.
“I’ve had worse.” He smirked and rolled his eyes.
“This could have been worse.” She reminded him, resting his hand on her knee while she continued applying even pressure.
“Yes, in future, do mind where you aim that ring will you?” he quipped.
“I was, yet I did not know this would happen.” She said.
“Neither did I. Obviously.” He said cynically.

Hold pressure on this please, whilst I go and fetch the medical kit. She instructed as she positioned his fingers on the white cloth soaked red with blood half way to the ‘S’ in the corner. She threw on his dressing gown so guard against the chill and to avoid dripping his blood on the Persian rug as she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom. As she padded across the room she twisted her hair in a knot atop her head.

It’s in the cupboard under the basins.” He called after her. She returned in a moment’s time with a black leather bag and unzipped it. She glanced at the cloth and noticed the bloodstain had reached the ‘S’ in the corner now.
“You must hold the pressure dearest!” she insisted as she adjusted his fingers. She then began rooting in the bottom of the bag for antiseptic. She found what she was looking for and set it aside. She reached in and retrieved sterile cotton, gauze, scissors, and a roll of white tape.

“How are we doing here? It looks much worse than it really is I think.” she said absently as she took his wrist and checked the progress of the coagulation. She determined that it was almost ready for the antiseptic cleansing.
“You should have been a medical doctor Gwenevere.” He purred, as he observed her gentle touch and calm manner. Gwenevere smiled at him and trusted that he was teasing.
“Now this may sting a little…” she said as she applied the bright magenta liquid with cotton to clean the wound.
“Ouch! Bloody hell! That’s worse than the (beep) wound itself.” Snape snapped and tried to jerk his wrist away from her.
“Hold still please, we need to kill the germs.” She held his wrist tightly to prevent his reopening the calmed punctures.
“What germs? He scoffed. She blew lightly on his wrist to ease the sting.
“The germs from whatever made this mark, I don’t know.” She said absently. She blew some more and then began digging in the medical bag with one hand while the other applied pressure to his injury. She paused and considered him.

“Severus Snape, what were you thinking? She said, shaking her head.
“I think it was rather apparent what I was thinking don’t you?” He mocked casually. “It’s the same thing you were thinking.” He added defensively. She resumed her intense on-handed search at the bottom of the bag.
“Thinking yes, always… but doing—no. She said quietly.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing …you…well then why did you conveniently…” Snape did a double take and took a sharp breath to protest her claim of innocence but was interrupted.
“What’s this?” she asked as she pulled out a bottle which had a snakehead with fangs pictured on the label. she squinted at the small print.
“Snake bite topical anti-venom.” He replied.
“Should we use it?” she asked.
“Won’t hurt, I should think.” He shrugged. He knew that did not sting and was enjoying the T.L.C. he was receiving.

“I wonder if you should go and see Madam Pomfrey?” She said as she opened the bottle and dabbed bright purple liquid on the tiny magenta stained holes. It penetrated his skin and spread, making tiny purple and gold iridescent hatch marks around the edges of his wrist.
“No! Absolutely not. It’s not necessary and she will ask too many questions.” He protested. Gwenevere was happy with the job at hand and took up the roll of gauze.
“It has almost stopped bleeding, but I am going to bandage it in gauze for now, until it stops completely.” She said, winding it neatly around his wrist with the perfect amount of pressure.

“I suggest we forget the curse and get married. We can go anywhere we choose and do anything we wish. We are wasting valuable time for naught.” He said as he watched her work.
“No we are not just wasting time. The work you do is very important and I cannot think of a better life than what we have right here and now. Can you?” she asked, finding scissors and snipping gauze. She folded back the edge in a neatly tailored seem. “Besides, you owe the Headmaster more consideration than that and we are going to banish the curse. Trust me.” She said as a matter of fact. She clipped tape and neatly secured the gauze bandage and then put the last of the supplies in the bag before zipping it up to finish.

“Would you hand me my wand please?” Snape asked her. She reached behind her and lifted his wand from the nightstand.
How does your wrist feel now? She inquired as she looked about at the carnage around them.
“Stiff.” He replied, moving his hand back and forth. He took the wand in his left hand.
“ I didn’t know that you were ambidextrous with your wand.” she said. She had not considered it before.
“Yes, if I must.” He said, pointing at the medical bag that was sitting between them. “Restituo.” He stated. Gwenevere watched as the bag obediently returned to the cupboard in the bathroom without delay.

Claudia and Spike

Shhhhh - Sandy won't even notice if you keep quiet.

The tea being made, Claudia gave the tray to Anton, and asked him politely to take it through to the control room, if he didn’t mind. “I have to find a shirt for blondie, here,” she explained.

Anton, wholly glad to be on his way back to familiar ground, nodded curtly, and left with the tea things. It had been a strange journey, one he would not forget.

“Come on,” she grabbed Spike’s arm, and pulled him down the hallway. “We’re going to the wardrobe room.”

“Sounds interesting, do they have an armchair-room, and an occasional-table-room as well?”

“You’ll see.”

The Wardrobe room was small with white walls. There was a large full-length mirror and next to it appeared to be a big old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. Claudia ceremoniously opened the double doors wide, to reveal - not the inside of a wooden wardrobe - but a walk-in-wardrobe of epic proportions. The corridor between the hangers of clothes seemed to go on forever, turn a corner, and go on some more.

“The Doctor travels a lot,” she explained. “He has clothes for himself, and any companions, to fit in with whatever time and place the Tardis visits. Go on, see what you can find.”

“You too,” he looked her up and down, noting her bare feet, her rumpled goddess dress, and stopping briefly at her cleavage, before moving up to her mussed hair.

“You first,” she insisted. “I’m sure I have some jeans in my room onboard somewhere.”

“Shy are we? I won’t look, promise. Unless you want me to.”

“Just get on with it, I’m not here for your entertainment.”

“My, full of yourself, aren’t you? I bet you think every man that looks at you is out for your body. What if, perhaps, you ain’t every blokes ‘cup-of-tea’? What if the bloke happens to like short red-heads, for example? Huh? Its not all about you, luv.”

Taken aback for a moment, she stammered. “Um, sorry. Of course not… I…”

“Of course, in my case, you’d be right. But it’s nothing personal. I have to ask every woman I meet, gets the odds up in my favour, gets all the guessing out of the way.”

“I can’t tell when you’re playing with me. I’m going to have to get to know you better.” She ventured a sly smile. “Only, I think I’ll stick to getting to know your mind, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself. Now we know where we stand, I’ll go find me something epic to wear.”

"Report," O'Malley said crisply to the woman who had just arrived inside the conference room.

"Would you mind if I sit down first?" the woman snapped in reply as she tore off the bow-tie that she had worn as part of her surveillance gear and threw it carelessly across the table. A loud feedback noise echoed in the room and everyone winced at the high-pitched sound. A nervous-looking bespectacled young man quickly picked up the bow-tie and turned off the tiny microphone that was inside the knot.

"My bloody feet are killing me! You act as a waitperson at a 250-guest wedding reception with three Irish Wolfhounds to dodge in the bargain and tell me how lively you'd be feeling!"

"By all means. Please sit down and relax for a moment, my dear," O'Malley replied icily, standing up and bowing in the woman's direction mockingly.

"Don't patronize me, you arse!" the woman sneered, her brown eyes narrowing contemptuously as she sat down after pouring herself a glass of ice-water from the nearby pitcher. She put the glass on the table and then raised her hands to her head. She tossed off the short and curly brown haired wig that she had been wearing and unpinned her own naturally straight auburn locks, shaking her head after the last pin had been removed to allow her hair to cascade around her shoulders.

The other three that were seated around the conference table stared at the woman with wide eyes, shocked at her complete and utter disrespect for their superior. They had heard the scuttlebutt surrounding Johnston's sudden 'reassignment' for questioning O'Malley's authority and they didn't wish to be next on the man's list for 'permanent reassignment'.

O'Malley returned to his seat and leaned back in the chair, staring at the woman calmly. He picked up a pen that had been sitting atop a pad of paper on the table and played with it idly in his fingers. A slow, toothless smile appeared on the man's thin lips. "Good to see that you've still got that fighting spirit in you," he remarked, placing the pen back onto the pad of paper.

"And good to see that you're still full of bullocks!" the woman leered at O'Malley. She then calmly leaned down to take off her shoes. After that, she leaned back in her chair and plopped her feet on the table, throwing her head back defiantly as she wiggled her toes and sighed blissfully. The others saw that her feet and ankles were swollen and they could see the beginnings of a rather large blood blister on her left big toe. The unfortunate soul that was unlucky enough to sit next to her visibly recoiled in horror once she got a whiff of the stench that emitted from said feet.

"Put those disgusting-smelling appendages of yours back on the floor!" O'Malley growled. "After you finish, go to the infirmary and have them looked at," he continued.

While the woman made a rude gesture but did as O'Malley said, the group heard a beeping noise as the retinal scanner outside the conference room activated. There was a slight pause and then the group turned around as the door to the conference room opened and Evans walked inside, hiding a yawn behind his hand. "The feed from the reception's outside surveillance is ready to be played back here," he reported, taking a seat next to the bespectacled young man. He turned his head to the woman who had been undercover at the wedding reception and raised his eyebrow. "You saw nothing out of the ordinary?"

The woman passed a hand over her bloodshot eyes. "No - and heard nothing either. I wouldn't expect to, quite frankly. It's a wedding reception. People are there to have a good time." She yawned loudly and reached for her glass of water. "I'm sure you'll hear the tapes in the morning," she finished.

"Mmmm," Evans said noncomittally as he began passing out a single sheet of paper to the group in the room. "This, people, is a copy of the girlfriend's notes - taken from her notebook."

"What did the cryptologists have to say? Was there anything that could be construed as..." O'Malley broke off whatever he was going to say next when he began reading Sandy's notes in her neat handwriting. "There should be," he murmured, his eyes beginning to burn with a strange light.

"Uh sir," the bespectacled young man spoke up nervously. "Have you *seen* Dane's Egyptian storyline?"

"No," was the curt response as O'Malley raised his head and gave the young man a look that could curdle cream. "I've more important things to do than watch a television show - such as keeping the world safe from undesired elements."

"Trust me, sir. What's written on here falls *right* into the current story line," the young man said with a gulp.

O'Malley's eyebrow rose. "Really? How very... unusual."

"It's a very unusual story, sir."

O'Malley sighed and pushed the paper aside. "Fine then." He turned to Evans. "The feed's ready for playback down here?"

"Yeah," Evans replied. "We've cut the irrelevant parts out."

O'Malley made a gesture and Evans reached over for a remote control and pointed it at a large plasma TV that was mounted to the wall. He pressed a button, and the TV came to life. Evans pressed another button and the feed started playing. The image of a very large and wet dog nose appeared on the screen briefly, accompanied by loud sniffing noises. "Well, most of the irrelevant parts," Evans admitted sheepishly, watching as the image changed to that of Alexander and Sandy standing against the stone wall.

"Turn up the sound," O'Malley said quietly, watching the couple's image onscreen intently. His eyebrow rose as Alexander took Sandy into his arms and spoke to her softly. She, in turn, laughed as she moved up against Alexander and slowly slid her hands up and down his crisp white shirt. The group watched in silence as the feed continued. "I see they both have remarkably healthy libidos," he noted in a brittle voice, watching as Alexander's hands slid down past Sandy's waist to gently cup her behind while the two kissed. "Remarkably healthy indeed."

"Good for them," Evans said with a loud yawn.

"Belay that, Evans. We don't need your commentary," O'Malley muttered, turning towards the man with a frown. "How much footage did you get - and was there anything of relevance said?"

Evan's lips parted in a cheeky grin as he pointed at the screen. "Does it look like there was much conversation involved?"

O'Malley's eyes followed the direction that Evans pointed in. "I see." There was a long pause. "Turn it off," he said finally, waving a hand in dismissal towards the screen.

"Just a little bitter that someone's getting more action than you?" the woman who had been assigned field surveillance observed with a contemptuous grin. The others looked at the woman as she painfully rose to her feet with shocked expressions on their faces while Evans pointed the remote control and calmly turned off the TV.

O'Malley stared impassively at the woman. "Leave. I'll hear your report in the morning," he said.

The woman nodded once, leaned down to pick up the ill-fitting shoes, and limped towards the door. She opened it and began walking down the hallway, the others with the exception of Evans and O'Malley staring at her retreating form with varying expressions of shock and disbelief on their faces.

"The rest of you get some sleep. Normal briefing time at 0600," O'Malley said shortly. He stiffly rose to his feet and left the conference room without another word.

There was silence in the conference room as Evans gathered up the discarded copies of Sandy's notes from the others and walked over to the small shredder placed in the corner of the room and shredded the documents. "Uh, Evans?" the woman who had been sitting next to him asked in a hesitant voice.

"What is it, Ko?"

Ko visibly struggled with herself for a moment before she finally burst forth with, "Why did he let Biggers..." she trailed off, unable to continue with the rest of her thoughts.

Evans smirked. "She's his ex."

Ko's jaw dropped open in astonishment. A few wordless noises emitted from her throat before she finally said in a strangled voice, "Did they..."

Evans' smirk widened as he stepped over the threshold of the conference room. "Procreate? Thankfully not. See you at the debriefing." He shut the door.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

He stood opposite her and they connected.
Snape’s demeanor was taut with focused concentration as the result of adrenalin coursing through his veins like voltage electricity pulsating through high intensity cable. Gwenevere’s heart pounded and her chest heaved as she labored to breathe evenly. Or at all.

He pulled her into a passionate open kiss that she returned it with the same furor-- desperately wanting even more from him, as much as he could give. Red sparks exploded with a collective bang, Boots awoke from a sound sleep in front of the fire and ran under the sofa to hide.

“Do you want me Severus?” she asked him between kisses.
“Yes… I want you Gwenevere. Urgently…Deeply.” He kissed her fair throat so vehemently that it raised a prominent lovers mark instantly.
“Do you need me Severus?” she whispered breathlessly.
“Yes I need you Gwenevere…Thoroughly…. Passionately…” He uttered a deep groan as he pulled her hard into him and held her there. Her roving hands threatened to drive him mad.
“Do you love me Severus?” she whispered in his ear as her long nimble fingers manipulated and freed the tongue on his belt buckle.
“Yes, on my oath… I love you Gwenevere... Desperately… Profoundly …” he passionately confessed.
“Words. Made. Flesh.” She breathed.

Again, he found her mouth with his. His hands slid from her hair and took hold of her silk blouse. In one smooth jerk a spray of projectile pearl buttons ricocheted off furniture and clattered onto the rug. Boots had suddenly forgotten that he was supposed to be terrified and dashed out to chase them further and bat them across polished wood floors.

Snape seized Gwenevere and carried her into the bedroom, setting her feet down beside the lofty and spacious four-poster: the place of pilgrimage for their love. Greedy hands worked quickly as knotted clothing fell to the floor. The wickedly crisp air lapped at burning hot flesh inciting icy-hot sensations as inquisitive fingertips sent deep shudders of anticipation along sensitized nerve endings. Snape lovingly lifted her onto his bed.

He fought the swells and waves of vertigo that washed over him as his mind volleyed conflicting priorities that ran the gamut from velleity to concupiscence in the giving and taking of pleasure. Reckless rapture reigned rampant and leapt at them like the flames of hell.

Thick red sparks contrasted rose gold in the soft warm glow of flickering candlelight amidst the dusky air. Elongated flames hissed above guttering almond-scented beeswax causing huge looming shadows to appear on the walls around them. The two massive cathedral windows in the room collected a thick covering of steamy water vapor until droplets ran in tiny meandering streams at the points of confluence. The four-poster’s springs moaned softly in response to its occupants.

The curse recognized the fatal attraction and seized its quarry. It taunted and laughed and amalgamated with the rhythmic devils’ chant that ran through their heads urging them to taste the succulent quince, lusciously ripe for the picking. They devoured each other’s advances like hungry wolves in desperate need of the sustaining feast laid spread out and ready before them.

Time stood still and quiet in the airless room. Each and every exquisitely fluent action was deeply reciprocated by another. Drops of perspiration dripped in slow motion from the matted hair that plastered his brow. Time ticked by in degrees towards premature deliverance from the sinister bounds of wretched oppression.

She tasted salt and brandy and shifted under his weight. Snape’s once careful reserve dissolved like a forgotten promise and he seized the moment, fueled by wanton need, her rich velvet sighs, and his absolute knowledge of the inevitable. Gwenevere arched and instinctively reached for his hand as it guided their destiny.

There was a flash of blue-white light and a sharp pain.

Snape gasped.

A jagged high-pitched scream ripped through the atmosphere like a streak of lightening scaring the pitch-black sky.

Ed and Claudia

They barged through between two guards, the force of three people running full pelt and yelling at the top of their lungs broke the circle and they were away, and through the doorway, just in time to see the Doctor and Anton disappear round a corner. They continued full pelt to catch up with them. After a moments pause, the guards took off after them.

The Doctor led them through many passageways, holding his device in front of him like a tricorder. Eventually they found more familiar corridors, and the room in which they had first found Ed, in the bath. It was deserted now. Everyone had been at the feast.

The corridors began to change from the painted Egyptian style to the rough stonework of the dungeons. The Tardis was still there!

-----------------

They all ran inside the Tardis, and the door closed painfully slowly behind them. Spike hadn’t really noticed how the inside of the Tardis was much bigger than the outside. It had been parked against a wall in the cavern, so as they’d dashed inside he’d only noticed the blue door, and not what it was attached to.

The Tardis on the outside looked big enough to house an outside toilet. It was in the shape of an old fashioned English “Police Box” which would normally have contained a telephone. It had got “stuck” in this shape many years before, and the Doctor, who had grown quite fond of it, hadn’t bothered to replace the chameleon circuit when he’d got the chance.

You see, the Tardis was supposed to change shape and form to fit in with whichever time and place it materialised in, thus avoiding discovery, if you decided you didn’t want to stay. The Doctor had found that wherever he went, trouble usually found him, and it was far better to have the reliably familiar shape of the blue-box-with-the-light-on-top to look for when you were running for cover, than trying to remember what the Tardis was disguised as this time. It could have got embarrassing, if you ran headlong into a marble pillar, only to find no keyhole or door, and a dozen more pillars that looked exactly the same. And then remember, after trying each one, that the Tardis was in fact a potted palm this week.

Claudia flopped onto the sofa at the far end of the control room. Ed came running passed, turned, looked at Spike and barked, "You, sit there," He pointed at an armchair opposite where Claudia was sitting. "and don't molest anything. Especially not her." He nodded his head in Claudia’s direction, then left to help the Doctor at the control console.

"What's his problem?" said Spike, leaning back into the chair, arms on the arm rests, legs spread in the undignified way of men.

"Saying we're over is one thing, doesn't mean it feels that way, inside, you know."

"Sounds like its mutual. Love hurts, baby."

"Thanks again, for your useful bit of insight."

"No problem. I'm here to serve."

The Doctor had managed to get the uppie-downie thing moving (a non technical term, but Claudia never had got the hang of lessons during her brief stay at the Timelord Academy). They were on their way, and safe from the man-hungry women. And off back to the Trial, as long as the Tardis was going where they wanted it to go, which didn't happen that often. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thought.

She had no idea what she was going to say, if she was called to the stand. How could she defend what she had done, or defend the Interrogator? The distance from HIM had made things clearer, she didn't feel drawn to HIM at all. HE'd had no hold over her while she'd been in a different world. She could easily now send HIM to HIS just punishment. But she knew as soon as she saw HIM in that court room, all her resolve would melt away.

"Doctor," she said suddenly. "We need to get the chip out, before I go to the trial. We need to make sure HE can't influence what I have to say."

The Doctor's frown creased his brow, making HIM look older than the 800 years (as much as he admitted to)that he was. "Claudia, we don't know if the thing is booby trapped. That is why we didn't remove it before."

"I don't care, Maybe I'll lose my leg, or maybe I won't. But at least it'll get rid of any chance the Interrogator can make me say things at the Trial."

"I'll think about it, why don't you go and make a nice pot of tea, while I make sure the Tardis lands at the correct location?"

Claudia stood up, and headed for the door to the hallway, which would take her to the galley. "Come on," she said to Spike. "Let’s go put the kettle on."

"Suddenly, I'm so painfully bored," said Spike, but got up and followed her anyway.

Did you know that the "Scream and Charge" tactic is one of the perennial favorites here in the Society for Creative Anachronism?

Claudia, somehow, I was reminded of Han and Chewie running after the stormtroopers, Han yelling at the top of his lungs, in that 'seventies movie.;)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Severus’s king overtook her rook and he showed no reaction above the table as Gwenevere’s stocking foot alighted on his knee and slowly inched up his thigh.

“Queen to h1.” Gwenevere said softly, looking deeply into Severus’s eyes. She once again became the aggressor. His pulse quickened and he held her gaze, suddenly finding it difficult to concentrate fully on the game...of chess. She parted her lips and provocatively traced her lower lip with the nail of her index finger.

Severus retreated his king to temporary safety at g7. Feeling suddenly too warm, he loosened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves half way. Gwenevere fixed on the dark mark. She no longer feared it but actually found it extremely alluring, its carnal undertones playing subliminally upon her mind whenever she saw it. Theoretically, It now represented to her, the skillfulness, courage and valor that her lover possessed in the fight against hatred and evil. That was how she was able to live with it.

A toss of his head cleared a lock of black hair from his field of vision as he regarded Gwenevere with mounting intensity. In another brilliant move, Gwenevere commanded her bishop to h6. Her toes advanced further and continued to slowly caress his thigh. He took a sip of brandy and inattentively fingered the round curve of his glass as Gwenevere watched. Severus again retreated his king to temporary safety at f6. Severus has lost the strong sense of alliance with his king consequently; the tiny king gave him the finger and the look of indignant outrage, poor chap. He, Severus, ignored it.

Gwenevere gently moved into position… at h4, another brilliant move on her part. The venue pleased her queen. And Severus was pleased. Again, without due concern for him, Severus retreated his king to temporary safety at e5. The king shook his fist at Severus who was busy holding his breath as he watched Gwenevere loosen her collar and unbutton her black silk blouse enough to show a generous portion of cleavage edged in her signature black lace. He gave silent thanks for thin silk and low cut black lace as his eyes lingered shamefully in their indulgence.

Gwenevere was relentless. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard as she announced somewhat distractedly… “Um, Queen to f4 please.” Her queen hungrily took his knight at f4. Snape is now quite…in check and idly retreats his king at f5. She felt his warm hand caress the top of her foot and ankle, then slowly slide up her calf.

Gwenevere’s sensuous voice commanded her queen and together with her bishop, placed Severus’s king in checkmate for the win. Snape’s emotions were coiled like a watch spring and he couldn’t take his eyes off of Gwenevere. The upset caused mayhem on the field. He again ignored the king’s tiny tantrum for having lost for the first time in many years. The king was being chased now by the white queen but stopped momentarily to pick up a discarded battle relic and lob it at Snape along with scores of foul words, insulting names and rude gestures. Snape ignored it.

Their eyes locked in anticipation; they both knew what they each wanted. His eyes traced her voluptuous form and his hand caressed her calf. Hearts pounded and senses heightened as teaming pheromones raged unchecked.

“Congratulations, you were brilliant Gwenevere. I knew you would be.” He eloquently conceded.

“I have a feeling that you will be much harder on me the next time.” She said with a seductive grin.

“Until next time.” He said, lifting his glass and finishing his brandy. He was not remorseful in the least that Gwenevere won their first game, to the contrary, watching her mind work had a most powerful aphrodisiacal effect on him. He stood and reached for his wand on the table, absently banishing the table, game board and noisy chess pieces and then advanced toward her.

Ann W--Thanks for the kind words. Brandon is really good at spoiling and I have no doubt--NO doubt--that he will be able to continue in a most satisfactory manner.

About the perfume: I'd be interested to know if anyone has actually tried this. The description I gave is a combination of internet reviews and a spot in Lucky magazine a couple of months ago (belated homage and credits where they're due) and I can remember thinking, "Caramel, iris, and chocolate? What a perfume!" I simply couldn't resist. May have to find a tester at the perfume counter and sample the Dragon's Kiss for myself . . . ;-)

Ed and Claudia

The guards in the room quickly turned to face the dais when Brian and Dave had gone. As they were not perfect and more varied in height and weight than the handmaidens, they hadn’t been allowed much access to the youth machine. So they were less disoriented than their sisters. They looked angry as they grouped and headed towards the "guests".

The Doctor hopped down from the chair, waving his calculator. “I’ve worked out the route back to the Tardis. Everyone follow me please!”

The Overseer lunged at him. Quickly Claudia and Spike grabbed for her. Claudia got hold of her shoulders and pulled her backwards. As she fell, Spike grabbed up her legs, and together they lifted the woman and swung her back and forth in the air, ignoring her screams of outrage.

Spike nodded at Claudia. “One… two… three!” They let go of her and she flew through the air to land in the middle of the advancing guards, who in turn tumbled like bowled skittles under the assault.

The Doctor trotted down the steps as if all hell wasn’t breaking loose around him, and the others followed, determined not to get split up again.

“Are you alright?” Claudia asked Ed. He nodded. The adrenaline was sobering him up quickly, and his legs finally found the motivation to work. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight with that poser hanging around. He couldn’t bear to be near her any more, but she was vulnerable, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take advantage of her. He could protect her, even if he couldn’t let himself love her.

The small group jogged across the room, dodging fallen guards, and dazed handmaidens. It seemed like they would get out without being challenged, until they were only a few metres from the doorway.

Eight guards were converging on them from a wide circle, tightening the trap as they got closer. The Doctor, being small, dodged between them, and kept on going. Anton was right behind him, and barged through. But by the time Claudia, Spike and Ed got to the same position, there wasn’t a way through. They instinctively turned to face outwards, backing up until they stood shoulder to shoulder, backs touching.

“Now what?” asked Ed.

“Link arms with me,” said Claudia, linking one arm through Ed’s on one side, and the other through Spike’s on the other.

“What are you doing?” asked Spike.

She let the men take her weight, and then flicked up her legs, kicking the nearest two guards in the chest. They fell backwards, but the circle just closed in closer around them.

“I saw it on Xena,” she explained. “Do they have Xena where you come from?”

“Yeah… shame she isn’t here right now.”

“Thanks. Looks like it’s the run, and yell really loudly plan then.”

“OK, done that one before.”

“You’ll be doing it a lot more often if you stick with us,” said Ed dryly.

Alexander glanced over to his left and smiled at the sight of Sandy sound asleep in the passenger's seat. She was still sitting up, but her head leaned over slightly to the right so that she faced him in profile. Her lips were open slightly, allowing the flash of white teeth to be seen in the pale moonlight. Her long, dark, and thick lashes fanned over her cheeks and she breathed deeply as she slept, completely oblivious to the world at large. Alexander chuckled softly to himself and then turned his full attention back to the road.

Ten minutes later, Alexander pulled the BMW into the gravel driveway of the hotel. He slowly eased the car into a parking spot and turned off the engine and the car's lights. He undid his seat belt and turned towards the still-sleeping blonde. His eyebrow rose in amusement when he saw a couple of stray petals from Melanie's bouquet - the result of a very bad backwards throw towards the ceiling fan that resulted in the bouquet being chopped up in the fan's blades and raining petals over the assemblage - still tangled in her tousled hair. He reached out, carefully extricated the petals from her hair, and slid his hand down her cheek, his thumb resting tenderly over her lower lip for a brief moment before moving to the right just past her lips.

Sandy stirred in her sleep then, her eyes lazily half-opening. "Alex?" she asked in a sleepy murmur.

"Hello, sleepy-head," Alexander teased gently. "We're back." He continued to gently cup her right cheek in the palm of his hand.

"That's nice," Sandy softly answered in a faraway voice. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Alexander's smile widened at Sandy's response. "You're planning on sleeping out here tonight, then? I don't think that's good for your back, love, and nor is it good for your disposition either," he pointed out.

Alexander's words gradually penetrated Sandy's sleep-addled brain and her eyes opened, this time focusing clearly upon her companion. "I suppose it wouldn't be such a hot idea to sleep in the car, would it?" she asked. She moved her head slightly and kissed his thumb before moving away from him and straightening herself up. "Ouch!" she exclaimed with a soft wince as she stretched.

"Are you all right?" Alexander asked with concern in his voice.

"Just a little stiff from sitting weirdly. Should be okay in a minute or so," Sandy replied, taking the opportunity to stretch once more before undoing her seatbelt. She then turned her head towards the Englishman. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Alexander leaned over until his lips were centimeters away from Sandy's and he placed his index finger under her chin, slowly tilting her head upward. "You looked..." His lips met hers briefly. "...so peaceful..." Their lips met again. "...that I didn't want to wake you," he finished, closing his eyes as he gave her another kiss.

"You know how to flatter a lady," Sandy breathed when the kiss broke. The blue-gray eyes twinkled. "Sometimes, that is," she added in quickly with an impish smile.

"I suppose I deserved that," Alexander rumbled mock-seriously before he returned the smile.

"Why yes you did!" Sandy quickly retorted, laughing as he rolled his eyes in exasperation. She opened her car door and exited the vehicle, Alexander following suit. "What time is it, anyway?" she asked as she closed the car door.

Alexander took a moment to close his car door and pressed the button on the key fob to lock the car. He then lifted his arm and pressed a button on his watch to illuminate the watch-face. "Uh... Quarter to one," he informed her as he walked over to Sandy and offered the crook of his arm to her.

"Wow," Sandy mused, gratefully accepting Alexander's offer. "That warrants a bit of a sleep-in for me."

The two began moving towards the heavy double-doors. "That means you'll be up at seven instead of six then," Alexander said, completely straight-faced.

"Seven-thirty."

"I am shocked at your actual admission of performing such a blatantly self-indulgent act," Alexander intoned as they walked up the stairs.

"Well, I've just gotta be me."

Alexander snorted with laughter as he opened the door, allowing Sandy to pass by him. "As if anybody could stop you from being yourself in the first place!"

"Darn right!" Sandy replied with barely suppressed laughter as she walked by him. She turned around and waited patiently as he carefully closed the door so that nobody would be disturbed.

The two walked arm-in-arm inside the main lobby and greeted the person seated behind the counter with a soft, "Good evening." The young man returned the greeting and went back to reading the sports section of his newspaper with a frown on his face. Alexander and Sandy exchanged glances and they walked up the stairs and down the hall towards their bedrooms, coming to a halt outside Sandy's bedroom door.

As if by mutual consent, the two drew together in a close embrace, Alexander gliding his hands slowly down Sandy's spine before settling at the small of her back as Sandy draped her arms around his waist and allowed her hands to dangle loosely. Their lips met and lingered for some time before slowly drifting apart. Sandy exhaled softly and raised her head so she could gaze up into Alexander's eyes. "G'night Alex," she whispered.

"Good night," Alexander replied quietly, raising his hand to gently caress her cheek. The tips of his fingers remained on her cheek for a few moments before he moved them away, allowing his hand to fall loosely at his side. "See you in the morning."

Sandy nodded and moved over to her bedroom door. Alexander silently watched her as she inserted the key into the lock and unlocked her door. She stepped over the threshold, flicked the light switch located on the wall and turned around, a gentle smile on her lips. "See you then," she replied quietly. She frowned and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something else but then thought better of it. With a soft smile and a final, "Good night," she shut the door. There was a momentary pause and then Alexander heard the door's lock click home.

Alexander lingered in front of Sandy's closed door for a moment, staring at it before turning around and going over to his own room. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door and walked over the threshold into his own room, turning on the light switch to illuminate it. He shut and locked the door behind him. He carelessly pulled off his tie, placing it on a convenient chair. He yawned widely in sudden exhaustion and took off his blazer, rolling his eyes when he saw some stray dog hair on the lapels. He made a mental note to bring it downstairs in the morning to take advantage of the same-day dry-cleaning service and walked over to the armoire where the rest of his clothes were hung. He opened the double-doors and frowned at the contents inside. "I could've *sworn* that I hung that shirt on the right side instead of the left," he muttered. "Must be more tired than I thought I was," he mused as he put the blazer on a hanger. He turned around and completed disrobing himself, grabbed his blue silk pajama pants that were folded neatly atop the bed and walked inside the bathroom for a quick wash-up and teeth brushing.

Having finished his nighttime ritual, Alexander walked over to the bed and got underneath the covers. He leaned over to turn the lamp off and the room was engulfed in darkness. He turned on his side so that he faced the large window and sighed loudly, his thoughts racing.

It was some time before he finally fell asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sandy leaned against the door of her hotel room for a moment, her fingers lightly touching her lips. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply before propelling herself away from the door with a gentle push. She walked over to the bed, picked up her PJ's and walked inside the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom changed into her nightclothes after completing a quick wash-up. She carefully hung up the dress she had worn in the armoire and walked over to her bed. She slipped underneath the warm bedcovers and reached out for her tube of L'Occitane hand lotion that was waiting for her to use on the nightstand.

"What the...?" she said, a puzzled frown marring her forehead. She gazed down at the spiral notebook that she had taken with her in case she had any inspiration - or as Chris would laughingly remark - "inspiration for torturing the cast - especially Alex, you mean!" - for new scenes while on vacation. She put the unopened tube of hand lotion aside and picked up the notebook. Not only was it open - which it clearly was not when she had left to go downstairs that morning, but there was a thumbprint smearing the last line that she had written on the page. A momentary white-hot flash of anger shot through her mind, but then she calmed down. Perhaps whoever cleaned the room today happened to knock it over by accident. The notebook landed on the floor open-faced and he or she smeared the writing when it was picked up... It's probably nothing at all... Boy, am I being paranoid! She chuckled softly, uncapped the tube, and swiftly applied the hand lotion. Recapping the tube, she put it on the nightstand and then switched the lamp off. She then turned to the side that she preferred to sleep on.

The side that faced the adjoining door to Alexander's room.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

“Gwenevere, would you perhaps fancy a game of chess this evening?” He asked, handing her the brandy. He considered himself a skillful player and often wondered if he could win against her, assuming she would be highly proficient at the game.

“Yes. I thought you’d never ask.” She said, with raised brow, obviously intrigued.

He took up his wand and with a flick of his wrist, the chessboard and table appeared before them. They sat opposite, in the roomy leather chairs in front of the fire. He took black and she took white. A nod signaled the start of the game.

Gwenevere voiced a pawn to e4; Severus voiced a pawn to e5. Their eyes met and each smiled innocently at the other, masking the fierce competition lurking just beneath the surface. For the next eleven moves, they manipulated knights, bishops and pawns; both players seemed to be evenly matched. The thirteenth move produced the first polite exchange of pawns. The next two moves lost them each a pawn and a knight.

They paused to calculate options and strategy. Severus resisted the inclination to gnaw at his fingernail as he studied the field, and the notion that he had become a lazy player owing to inadequate competition over the years didn’t quite materialize wholly in his thoughts as he tapped his fingers twice on the table. He reluctantly retreated his queen. Gwenevere advanced hers.

He perceived a spark of fury in her eyes that marked the essence of that particular intangible quality that kept him up at night and at times drove him mad with an unquenchable desire; desire which he suspected, could not be completely satisfied over a length of time by mere mortals though he would happily die trying.

They both sipped brandy, eyes glancing competitively over rims of crystal. They moved queens, bishops, rooks, kings, and pawns, and then each lost a pawn. Again Severus shrewdly scrutinized the field, feeling more pressured. She was no less than brilliant and played the game boldly. In the past, he was accustomed to quickly dominating the field and his opponent and then toying with them at leisure like an indifferent housecat with a hapless half-dead mouse until boredom dictated the game’s hasty demise and he would simply win. Oddly enough, he perceived Gwenevere as having not yet scratched the surface of the true scope of her skill. She was toying with him.

Severus commanded his bishop and it overtook her knight.
Gwenevere’s rook then overtook his bishop.
Severus’s knight overtook her rook.
Gwenevere’s remaining rook overtook one of his pawns for a prime position on the field. It was the turning point in the game, she had actually just won and they both know it...

Cindie!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just sleep.

It sounded like such a small and simple thing, but at the right time, in the right place and with the right person it could work miracles. Though some might say this was going too far, Mistral would not be one of them. He awoke at first light to find himself laying on his side with his arm clasped tightly around Cindie and her head on the pillow facing his. He felt at peace. His sadness had not abated but he could feel it with her and know that it would not engulf him. There was more. Her warmth permeated his hand, arm and body as the full sensation of the contact between them pervaded the rest of his senses. Caught up in the conflicting thoughts that he should bolt from the room before his self imposed strictures went for naught and the thought that such self imposed strictures were surely the idea of a madman (namely him for he was mad to have contrived them) and that his advances at such a time would likely be warmly welcomed, he lay very still.

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

When Cindie awoke she was alone in the bed. It didn’t surprise her but she did wonder how long he’d been up. Looking around she saw that her suitcase was on the chest at the foot of the bed and her clothes and been picked up laid out neatly on one of the chairs. There was no sign of his things. The fire had burned almost out. She knew her way and went and showered. She paused as she passed Mistral’s door but didn’t hear any sound within. She did not go to the room where Mrs. Mistral had slept. Returning to her room, for so she thought of it, she dressed quickly in black slacks and tan jumper. This was not a morning for lying about in silk pajamas, if she’d packed any pajamas. The way she had tossed things in she was lucky that the clothes mostly matched and that she had a clean pair of socks.

When she went downstairs she found Mistral making breakfast. As she poked about the kitchen she had to wonder why he felt the need to cook anything. Countertops were invisible due to all the containers of food. A glance in the refrigerator revealed more containers inside and on its top. Apparently Mistral’s open door policy had been widely known and friends and neighbors had stepped in with that age old balm for houses in mourning. Food. Lots of food. Mistral had eschewed all of it and was stirring the cheese sauce on the stove top. He switched to a bowl and whisked the eggs which he then poured into a waiting pan. Coffee was made and the tea kettle just beginning to whistle. Cindie made her tea and rummaged the juice out of the fridge and went and sat at the wooden table at the back of the room. In a few moments Mistral wordlessly slid a plate in front of her, sat down, and began to eat. Cindie did the same.

When he had finished Mistral pushed his plate away and sat back with a sigh. Cindie finished as well, took the dishes to the sink and ran some water in them then returned to the table. Mistral spoke. “I was in time.” Cindie didn’t say anything but only nodded. Mistral had made no move to touch her this morning and so she simply sat and listened while he told of the phone call, what transpired after he arrived and how he made all the arrangements yesterday before returning home. He finished with, “so the services will be Monday morning. Everything will take place at the church and the gravesite is right there.” Cindie made a mental note of all the details so she could give them to Dev when she phoned him later. He probably had already called the local newspaper and knew of the schedule but she planned to let him know just the same. She had a vision of Eamon deValera in the persona of his character mobilizing the ‘troops’ of FoF for Operation Mistral.

“That seems like a long time away, somehow.” Silly thing to say, but she didn’t suppose that Mistral much liked the prospect of the intervening days.

“Mother had certain requests, the music and so forth, it will take time to gather everything together.”

Cindie nodded again. As much as he’d clung to her last night, this morning he was keeping his distance. Not completely, for he had reached out a hand to her when she’d made the comment about the day of the funeral as if indicating his understanding of her concerns, but emotionally. His guard was up again and wasn’t coming down. She debated not letting him know that his friends would be here for the services and, more pointedly, would be here for him. He might be angry at her for telling the others, after all he hadn’t even told her, for all he seemed glad enough of her presence now. On the other hand, they could spend the next couple of days readying the house for company which might prove a welcome distraction. She decided it was best to confess and be done with it.

In the seconds that Cindie was deciding what to tell him, Mistral was wrestling his own inner ambivalence. He knew he had to tell her and soon. When he didn’t show up for work after the funeral it would be obvious that something was wrong. She’d already demonstrated that she wouldn’t let things alone where he was concerned and would take pains to discover what had happened. This of course brought him great joy but also was the root of his dilemma. He treasured her and so had to tell her but did not wish to for fear she would turn from him. The temptation to put it off was strong and ever stronger when in her physical presence. He thought of how it had felt to wake up next to her and decided. If there was to be a chance of them together honestly and completely then he had to make a clean breast of everything. She already had doubts about his past, to try to assuage them would be wrong unless she knew it all. He decided it was best to confess and be done with it.

They both spoke at once.

“I’ve told them.”

“I am a murderer.”

As far as simultaneous outpourings of revelations go there was no contest as to which was the bell ringer here.

Ed and Claudia

Brian and Dave proved a great distraction. Every guard in the place seemed to be picking their way through the crowd to converge on the pair.

This left Claudia and Anton going in one direction, and Spike and the Doctor in the other, around the edge of the crowd, to work their way round to the back of the dais, where the Overseer was quietly seething, and Ed was looking dazed and confused.

A hand firmly clutched at Claudia’s shoulder before they had got halfway to their destination. She turned to see a middle-aged man, dressed in poorer clothes than Ed had worn earlier, but in the same modified Egyptian style.

“You don’t belong here,” he said flatly.

“We were invited,” she began.

“I don’t think so. Not handmaiden, you’re blonde. And not male. Follow me, please, I’m sure the guards were looking for someone like you.” He half turned, apparently expecting her to just follow him. Her fist flew out, and smacked him in the side of the head. She swore loudly. Anton caught the man, and held him upright, and did a half turn, as if they were dancing, then propped him against a pillar.

“Sorry,” she said to both the unconscious man and to Anton simultaneously, while she sucked on her knuckles. “That always looks much easier and less painful when they do it in the movies.”

They moved away quickly, as they could see the Doctor and Spike climbing the steps to the side of the dais, and the Doctor went one further and stood on the Overseer’s chair. Spike stood to one side, looking out for anyone who had noticed.

The Doctor had taken out his small “pocket calculator” and was busy pushing buttons, and muttering under his breath.

There was a gasp from the onlookers, who were all still watching the antics of Brian and Dave (and hadn’t noticed the Doctor at all), as the pair were suddenly bathed in a ray of light. The group of guards, who were circling them, stopped dead in their tracks, unsure if the light would harm them if they got close.

It was like watching a time lapse film on rewind. Brian and Dave stopped still, eyes wide in astonishment. Their hair and beards were growing shorter and the grey was being replaced by blonde and brown. Their backs were straighter, and faces less wrinkled.

The Overseer howled, sounding like an injured animal. She whirled round, and saw the Doctor standing on her chair. “What are you doing?! You’ll ruin everything!”

Ed staggered away from her. He noticed a few extra lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and a stripe of grey in her fringe.

“Setting things straight, madam,” said the Doctor.

“Stop him!” she fumed, climbing the steps herself to grab at the device in his hand.

Spike was there, and with a swift movement, knocked her hand away and punched her in the jaw. “That’s for the chains,” he said, grimacing as his fist connected with bone.

She staggered, but didn’t fall. “You will pay for that!” she brought her hand up to her quickly bruising jaw.

The moments pass in satiated, luxuriant peace as Mary Anne and Brandon relax among the sofa cushions, listening to the music from the stereo. Brandon has unearthed Christopher Parkening’s Spanish guitar album and they are both content to remain silent as the renowned musician calls forth the rhythms—by turns plaintive, exuberant, romantic, or majestic—of old Spain.

I could sit like this with him forever, thinks Mary Anne, even as she breaks off more bread and tops it with cheese, and then, checking to make certain that Brandon’s eyes are closed, slips half of it to Pinky.

Brandon’s eyes remain closed. “You’ll spoil that dog, Mary Anne.”

“I know.” A sigh. “But when they look at me like that . . .” For Nelson is also staring expectantly at her and is rewarded with a fragment of Cornish hen. Finally, when it is evident that no more treats are forthcoming, both dogs wander to the hearthrug and settle down before the fire, Pinky flopped limply on one side, Nelson with chin on paws, semi-alert in case the humans relent and offer more snacks.

“So,” teases Mary Anne, nudging Brandon gently. “What’s for dessert?”

Brandon opens his eyes and goes to the antique hall tree, reaching into the deep pockets of his coat. “Will this do?” as he hands over a gift box of Swiss chocolates, smiling at Mary Anne’s unabashed eagerness to open them—which she does, promptly selecting a truffle and biting into it with comically exaggerated look of greed. “Mmmmmmmmm . . .” she rhapsodizes, until Brandon laughs out loud, shaking his head and warning her, “Please don’t tell The Director I did this.”

A sly grin. “You’ll spoil this woman, Christopher.”

“And it is my pleasure to do so. Would you care to be spoiled some more?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“This.” Brandon passes over a small box, which Mary Anne receives with curiosity and then a little exclamation of surprise at the stamp of Cartier on the lid. Opening the box, she draws out a small phial of perfume.

“Le Baiser du Dragon,” she reads from the label, admiring the crystal of the dainty flask and the mysterious Chinese ideogram stamped on the front, then eyeing the stopper with some trepidation. Long and stark black, it has a vaguely ominous appearance, like a sword piercing the crystal, or like some artist’s imaginings of a dragon’s claw. Nevertheless, she withdraws the stopper and delicately touches the point to the hollow of her throat, then to her wrists. Closing the phial and setting it aside, she rubs her wrists to warm the fragrance and breathes it in, smiling.

“Oh.” Another deep breath. “Christopher, this is wonderful. Thank you. But whatever made you pick this one?”

Brandon returns to the sofa, picks up the box, and reads from the copy indicating that this new offering from the house of Cartier blends the fragrance of almond oil with notes of caramel, iris, and . . .

“Chocolate,” intones Brandon, smirking as Mary Anne reaches for the box to read the description for herself. “So there you are, Mary Anne. I knew at once it was exactly the perfume for you.”

“It certainly is . . . dramatic,” offers Mary Anne, taking another cautious sniff at her wrist to see how things are developing.

“So are you, my dearest. May I?” Brandon reaches for her hands, lifting them up to inhale the scent for himself.

“Kiss of the Dragon,” murmurs Mary Anne. “Are you a dragon, Christopher?”

“Do I kiss like one?” Pressing a kiss onto each wrist.

“Well, you are certainly capable of breathing fire at times . . .”

A kiss on each of her palms, before Brandon looks up into her eyes. “And is this one of those times?”

“Let’s find out.”

David Farrell (aka David Friedman) & Verity Lawrence (aka Verity Lavelle)

FoF Sets -- Conference Rooms

"No, they don't have Lord Justices. At that level, it's what the Americans call a 'Circuit Court,'" Detective Miles Graff was saying. "It's a regional court, based on the notion of a horse-riding judge, who travelled a circuit of towns and villages."

"You know, I forget the Americans are old enough to know what horses are. I always think of them in terms of an automobile nation," Verity Lawrence asked.

"Well, we are."

"So why do you work here in Britain?"

"It started out as an exchange program. Then they needed me on a particular case. That ended up being a string of cases," Graff said. "Like Topsy, my job here just growed."

The door opened suddenly, and voices were speaking. "--and if we can have the unicorns fend off -- oh!" Chris halted in the doorway, Hamlet bumping into her. "I thought this conference room was empty. Nobody's signed up."

Verity stood. "I'm sorry. Is there somewhere I need to sign to reserve the room? I didn't know. If you've reserved this one, we can find --"

"-- No. It's all right." She stuck out a hand. "Chris."

"Verity," she replied. "And this is my costar David."

"Pleasure," Chris said. "This is Hamlet."

"And this is Miles Graff. He's --"

"The detective and I have already met." Chris smiled down on the little detective.

"The Director recommended Miles as a consultant for the storyline." Chris glanced over at the detective.

Graff's grey eyes were shining up at her. He bowed low over her hand, murmurming something unintelligible. Chris dubiously reclaimed her limb.

"Oh, so you're the new storyline? When do you start?"

"We're waiting for set construction to finish for the first episodes," Verity replied. "Bane says to give another week."

"You got Bane on your storyline?" Hamlet asked. "Good for you."

"Yes," said Verity, "I'm rather pleased myself."

Awkward silence.

"Well, we'll go find --"

"We've got to finish --"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Chris and Verity said in unison. Everyone laughed. Chris gestured to Verity to continue.

Verity smiled. "We have to finish this consultation, as the detective only has another hour before he has to go."

"And we'll go find another conference room. Good afternoon," Chris said as she closed the door.

Verity and David sat down again, Verity looking at her notes. She glanced over to David, who was staring, somewhat gape-mouthed, at the detective. Verity turned her head.

Graff was still standing, staring bemusedly at the door Hamlet and Chris had exited from, a blitzed look (homage) on his face. Verity cleared her throat and he started, then sat again, still smiling slightly. She glanced over at David, who was smirking.

"She seems nice enough," David said, with a wicked, knowing tone.

"She's one of the loveliest women I've ever met," Graff replied, with a dreamy gleam in his eye.

Verity looked down at her notes to hide her smile. When she was able to control her expression, she looked up again. "So," Verity said, "where were we?"

Graff's eyes flickered over at her. "You had me look at the sets, they're all right. You had me look over the legal points of the story so far. They're all right, too. Will you need me to come over for the filming?"

"No...." Verity replied thoughtfully. "Although, David, could you run the accent past Miles here?"

"Ah don't suppohse ah should, but since y'all are askin' me to..." David muttered.

Graff laughed.

Verity smiled. "You sound worlds better than you said you did!"

"He sounds better than your Director did when he tried a New Orlean's accent."

"The Director?"

Graff chuckled. "His Southern accent stinks. I think British talent can do the Virginian accent, but they shouldn't drift any farther west or south. It's just not right."

David glowered. "Americans shouldn't try British accents either. Costner's was vile. Paltrow's is --"

"-- paltry?" Graff offered, with a smile. "Accents are difficult. Chancy. Damn impossible to truly replicate. There are a few naturals in the world. It's just that most of them work in the intelligence field." He flashed a scimitar grin. "Met one, once. He was trying to pick up my accent. Almost got it, too. Some of the slang tripped him up." He eyed David. "You could've done it, if you'd wanted to when you were younger. You're good."

David flushed.

"I don't think we have anything else to discuss then, Mr. Gr-- I mean, Miles. Shall we see you in two weeks then? We should have begun filming by then, and you'll be able to see what we've got -- and whether we've gotten anything wrong."

"All right." They shook hands. "Two weeks." (homage) And he bounced out the door.

Verity leaned in the doorway. "My name is Bond," she said. Her costar looked up in surprise. "David Bond."

"And you've ruined my cover," he replied dryly. "My career as a super-spy is over. M's going to kill me."

"What about Q?" she asked, seating herself again.

"That's all up to A."

"A?" she asked, baffled.

"Well, if there's a Q, there ought to be an A," he said. "Q and A."

"As opposed to T and A?"

He waved a hand at her. "So. Filming finally starts Monday?"

"Yes," she said. "We'll be on the air by next week."

"My agent's already got me lined up for interviews."

"God," she groaned, "I know. I hate this part."

"I spy, with my little eye," David smirked, "an actress who hates talking about herself. Now, isn't that a contradiciton in terms."

"Shut up or I'll dump hot coffee in your lap."

"That'd delay filming. You'd miss the North American sweeps."

"I can't wait until you start getting email from Mistral's fanbase," she replied. "They're going to love to hate you."

David laughed.

Therese had just finished discussing her ideas for the upcoming courtroom scene with The Director. She really appreciated both his knowledge and willingness to work with her, a relative newcomer to the craft, and never missed an opportunity to consult. He truly was a master in his expertise, and she felt grateful that he was so willing to offer such careful, steadfast advice. He took no concern lightly, and even though she was well aware of his hectic agenda, she was never made to feel as if she had to vie for his attention over the many other pressing concerns his schedule created. Or at least that had never been the case in the past.

“Sir?” Therese tried again, hoping to regain the eye contact that had wandered to the doorframe above her shoulders. She waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you in there?”

The man in front of her straightened perceptibly in his chair, a slight tinge of colour washing over the planes of his face. “Sorry, Therese,” he said with a somewhat wry look, “there’s been some distressing news on the set today, and I can’t focus between that and watching Dev lingering about the hallway outside my door.” He paused, and pursed his lips. “One can only assume he is waiting for you, rather than me, given his hovering.”

Therese quickly turned to look over her shoulder, and, as The Director had said, caught a glimpse of Dev’s spectacles reflecting from the hall light as he turned and paced outside the door. “Is something wrong?” she asked, noting the slight lines of strain on The Director’s face for the first time. “Eamon, come in here, please,” she called as the tall figure passed the door yet again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Eamon replied, stepping into the office, where Therese quickly noted the same lines of worry that she now recognized on both men. He leant down, offering his hand to Therese, and helped her from the chair. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Mistral’s mum has passed away.” He turned to face The Director. “I presume you’ll attend the services? It’s Thursday now, one can assume the funeral wouldn’t proceed until Monday. Cindie has asked me to inform the members of the cast. I received a quick call from her, she’s arrived in Wales, but hasn’t any information as of yet. She’ll call when arrangements have been made.”

The Director dug his day planner from beneath the several pages of script he and Therese had been working on, and flipped through to the following week. “Of course I’ll be there, as will most of the cast I should think. I’ll ready a ‘favourites’ selection for the following week, which should clear everyone’s schedule till Monday next.” He looked back up at Eamon. “You’ll contact the cast, I’ll inform the crew, as well as send something in the studio’s name.”

Dev took a small notebook from his pocket, and quickly copied the information he’d received from Cindie that listed the name of the town, local accommodations, and her mobile number, then handed it across to The Director. “We’ll see you in Wales then,” Dev said, gripping The Director’s hand in a warm handshake. “Therese, we’d best see to it,” he said, and hand in hand they left the office together, their thoughts somber as they considered their cast mate and friend, and his great loss.

Ed and Claudia

Ed was beginning to feel really relaxed. He had slowly slouched further and further down in his position at the base of the dais, and was now leant back on his elbows, propped on several cushions and his legs untidily dangling down the steps, languishing. The wine was good, the handmaidens friendly. They seemed to be “off duty” and enjoying the celebrations themselves. One tried to pull him up to dance with her, but he smiled at her and shook his head. He was way too relaxed to move from this position. In fact, he wasn’t sure if his legs would actually work if he tried to stand up. The problem with his wineglass was that it seemed to mysteriously refill itself when he wasn’t looking, and he didn’t know exactly how much he was drinking.

The girl decided to dance in front of him instead, swaying her hips, and twisting her hands above her head. He was thoroughly relaxed and mesmerised by her. So much so, that it took a while for him to register the commotion across the hall.

He leant forwards, grabbed her hips, and moved her out of his line of view. A girl squealed, as a hand reached out and pinched her bum. An unlikely looking pair were making their way across the great expanse of floor, grabbing handfuls of food, and stuffing it into their mouths, grasping at glasses of wine, and drinking them thirstily, letting it spill down into their long straggly beards. Two old, dirty and ragged men, were making their way through the room, copying the handmaiden’s twisting dances, and even grabbing at the girls’ bare waists to pull them into a spin. They were totally out of sync with the hall full of young and beautiful people.

Ed looked up at the Overseer, who was beginning to rise from her seat. “The world’s either great, or wretched, isn’t it,” slurred Ed. “So many people are just finished.”

“They’re finished, alright!” She looked round for the nearest guard. “How did they get up here?!” she snarled.

Ed pulled himself up unsteadily and leant on the Overseer’s arm.“Who are they?” he asked.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

“He is in love with you Gwenevere.” Snape stated calmly, and watched Parker as he disappeared behind large oak doors that echoed shut in the entrance hall. Gwenevere turned her head toward Severus and exhibited a contradictory expression with her eyes.

No, I don’t think so. Not really. It’s just that he is new to Hogwarts and he feels a connection to me because we both attended Excelsior in one way or another. If there is a weak attraction on his part, it is nothing more serious than a passing phase. Besides he doesn’t even know me.” She said truthfully. Snape knew that Gwenevere was telling him the truth as she saw it, however, he also knew that she was unaware of her intense effect on members of the opposite sex.

“Well, he is trying quite hard to get to know you isn’t he?” he said, as they rounded the last staircase to the second floor. They were now in secluded territory and Gwenevere slipped her hand into his, leaving a wavy jet stream of red sparks the length of the last corridor.

“Although I have not led him on, I would like to simply inform him that I am quite spoken for and be done with it. Severus, he doesn’t know.” ” She sighed. They stopped at his door and Snape looked into her eyes and spoke softly.

“I think that would be a mistake. That kind of information will spread throughout Hogwarts like wildfire and complicate matters regarding the curse. Additionally, it will attract attention to us and make it more difficult to spend private time together. It’s advisable to ignore Parker at this point, unless his actions warrant my intervention.”

Gwenevere dreaded to imagine what Severus meant by intervention, and watched as he turned and recited the complex incantation necessary to gain access to his quarters. He was a very powerful wizard and watching him work had its usual effect on her. Once inside, a flick of his wand lighted lamps where needed. He shed his long coat and hung their robes on the hall tree, and then they moved into the living room. Gwenevere kicked off her boots and settled on the sofa while Severus loosened his collar and lighted the fireplace.

A soaking wet Boots the cat immediately flopped down in front of the fire. He had been out to see the calico while they were at dinner and obviously had gotten caught in the pouring rain and was attempting to lick himself dry. Severus was about to put his wand down on the table when he noticed Gwenevere looking dolefully at the sodden cat’s coat. He looked from the cat to Gwenevere who smiled slightly. Of her pitiful expression, her long black lashes lay emphasis on the eyes like those of a doe gazing lovingly at its fawn, and without the slightest trace of I told you so.

Snape rolled his eyes and pointed his wand at Boots. He muttered 'feline fleabag' under his breath; convinced that the little mangy marauder only got caught in the rain to discredit him. “Arefacio Feles.” He said, as he exhaled in mock disgust. Gwenevere perceived the infinitesimal admission of defeat, although, could not be sure. Boots was suddenly dry and closed his eyes to nap.

Elbows still on his knees he brought his hands up and began to weep."

Oh. Cindie.

“It’s you.” Mistral spoke after a heart beat during which he identified the hand. The room wasn’t completely dark, there was starlight through the windows and the moon was up now. He could see her, sitting up from the couch where she must have been when he came in.

“Yes.” Cindie spoke the word more like a question waiting to see if she was welcomed.

“As I recall, you did find that sofa comfortable last time you were here.” Some banter while he composed himself. He must compose himself.

“I did. Less so tonight. Don’t you even bother to turn on the heat in this place?” Would he let her offer what comfort she could?

“You should have lit the fire. Here let me.” He walked over to the fireplace and found the pack of long matches. He struck one and the flame illumined his features before he set it to various points in the kindling. In that brief moment Cindie had seen a face drawn with a pain she could only guess at. The kindling took and the fire quickly threaded its way among the larger logs. He pondered switching on a table lamp but decided this might be easier in the semi darkness of fire light. He sat down next to her on the sofa, elbows on his knees and hands clasped low in front of him. Not looking at her he said, “I am glad you’re here.”

It was said simply and without embellishment and just then they were the words Cindie had most needed to hear. “I was hoping you’d say that. I didn’t know after you left without telling anyone.”

“I thought of calling you.”

But he hadn’t. Cindie said only, “do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yes, but not just now.”

“All right.”

“Tell me how you came to be camped out in my house. Not that it ought to come as a surprise.” His mouth did not turn up but his eyes crinkled.

She told him how she’d winkled what had happened out of the Director and the part about her drive to Wales and finding the house with the door unlocked. “That isn’t very safe you know. Anyone at all could wander in here.”

“Obviously.” He paused and gave her a pointed look which Cindie refused to comprehend. “As it happens I had some people coming and since the extra keys were with Sybill and John it was most expedient to let them have there way. I didn’t think I’d be this late.”

She thought of how he must have spent his day. “Patrick.” She leaned toward him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know her very well but I know she loved you very much.”

Mistral remained silent. He looked over at her, feet tucked under as she leaned into him, the hand that had so discomposed him now resting on his arm. Hadn’t he just been wishing her here? She was still dressed as she must have been for work. Her coat was still on and her hand felt cold. Silly woman, how long had she been sitting in the dark waiting for him? He could feel his resolve melting in the glow of the fire as she looked at him with those deep brown eyes so earnest and caring. His doubts of what she thought of him fell away and with it the carefully built up façade of calm that he’d worked within all day. He’d made it through the myriad of arrangements and he’d made it through the empty condolences and the keen eyes of people looking for a sign of his grief. He could stand it all and keep control, but not with her.

Elbows still on his knees he brought his hands up and began to weep.

Cindie didn’t think about it, she pulled him over to her and held him close, occasionally smoothing her hand over his hair and up and down his back. Any words she uttered weren’t particularly comprehensible. Sobs wracked him and nearly wrecked her but she held fast. It was a long time before they quieted. They managed through all that to find a position of some comfort on the couch and Mistral, even after he had exhausted his grief, did not seek to disentangle himself. It was late and though neither of them had slept much the previous night they remained awake. There were any number of things either of them could have said to lighten the mood but none of them were spoken. They kept a silent watch until the grandfather clock in the hallway made it clear that the day was over.

Still wordless, Mistral finally parted himself from her, sat up, and used one of his handkerchiefs for the purpose for which they were intended. Cindie fished a tissue out of her coat pocket and followed suit. There was a moment of accord as they looked over at each other and exchanged small smiles. Mistral broke the silence. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I suggest you put me to bed and follow suit. When was the last time you slept? Or for that matter ate?”

“I’m not sure as to either.” He eyed her suspiciously. “What about you?”

She shrugged. “I had lunch in the cafeteria. And there was half a Dream Bar in the glove box.”

He stood up. “I’m too tired to eat but I’m not about to put you to bed with no supper.” He looked resigned. “Come on.”

“No, I’m not hungry. Really.” She reached for the hand he’d put out to her. “I just can’t deal with it right now.”

He nodded his assent and pulled her to her feet. She stepped toward him and he took a step back. “You go on up to your room and I’ll bring your bag in. Is your car out front…?”

“No.” She took another step and closed the gap between them. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.” She reached out her hand and brushed his temple lightly with her fingertips and then reached for his hand. “I know there’s a lot we need to say and talk about, but not now. Now,” she moved toward the door, leading him, “we go to bed and get some sleep.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Cindie led him upstairs to the room she had occupied on her last visit. There was a fire laid as if she’d been expected and that made her smile. She’d left her case in her car but she had no intention of going down to get it or of letting him out of her sight just then. She let go of Mistral’s hand long enough to shrug out of her coat and take off her outer garments and shoes. She sat Mistral on the edge of the bed and helped him divest himself of shoes, shirt and pants. He offered no resistance. She lit the fire as he’d done the one downstairs. Then, she walked over to the bed, folded back the bed coverings, slipped under them and again pulled Mistral into it. He lay with his back to her an she manoeuvered the covers over them both. He was too weary to argue and didn’t wish to in any event. She heard him mumble, “I should go.”

“Yes you certainly ought.” She whispered this assent into the back of his neck as she pressed against him.

In the last moments before Somnus claimed him for his own she heard him murmur, “you are as warm and soft as I’d imagined.” She wrapped her arms around him and he slept.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

As they entered the Great hall, eyes inconspicuously followed them as they found their places at the expansive front tables. Snape held Gwenevere’s chair as he discretely scanned the room. The students had not yet arrived and approximately half of the staff members were either entering the hall or already seated and in conversations.

Professor Dumbledore was talking with Professor McGonagall and Madam Pince was whispering something to Madam Pomfrey; gossip no doubt. Hagrid was conversing calmly with Professor Flitwick, who was standing tall on his chair and Professor Sprout was settling down beside Madam Hooch, who lightly laid her hand on the sleeve of Professor Sprout’s Kelly green robes as they said their cheerful hellos.
Snape met eyes with Professor Parker for a split second until Parker looked down at the small leather bound book in his hand. Snape knew that Parker had followed them in and could feel his eyes burning holes in their backs as they continued to the other side of the room.

Gwenevere noticed Sir Nicholas hovering in a corner chatting up his longtime love interest. The pretty fifteenth century wraith looked as though she may be finally warming up to him a bit owing to his inevitable charm and persistence, she imagined. Sir Nicholas noticed Gwenevere’s glance and they locked eyes. He winked at her unnoticed by anyone except Gwenevere before turning his head back to Lady Darlington. They were discussing hawking. Longbow, and various attributes of greyhounds belonging to king Henry the Vll.

Professor Parker, from across the way, studied Gwenevere’s easy manner and perfect posture as she gracefully turned to listen to something Snape said. He doubted whether Snape appreciated what a rare and exquisite beauty she was. Certainly he had no concept of her formidable acumen in the financial realm, or that she was an accomplished classical pianist amongst her many other gifts and talents. He slowly sighed and turned his eyes away to spare them the painful reality of his lonesome plight. He was becoming more and more possessive of her and entertained notions of hexing Snape into oblivion if he ever knew of Snape hurting her in any way for any reason.

Gwenevere was careful not to touch him accidentally as he asked her what she would like to do after dinner. She leant in close to his ear and replied that she would like to stay in tonight, as it was likely to start raining this evening according to Dobby. Severus frowned at the notion of trusting a house elf for weather forecast information; the sky was perfectly fine, said he.

Most of the staff members were present now and collectively readied themselves for the arrival of students by ending their conversations and taking on a decidedly strict demeanor. As usual, the stern transformation was unnecessary for Professor Snape. Gwenevere continued with her trademark mix of grace, charm and dignified intelligence. She placed her white linen napkin on her lap and glanced towards the large double doors.

The large hall doors swung open loudly as the boisterous students began to file in and take their places around the house tables. Snape subjected the Slytherin tables to a severe scrutiny to ensure order from his house, those who were planning mischief thought twice upon meeting his arctic stare, reinforcing the common belief among them that he could read minds.
The Great hall quieted as Professor Dumbledore stood and gave a few brief announcements, after which, he lifted his hands and the Saturday night feast appeared on the tables. Gwenevere normally applied the same discipline to her diet that ran consistently through all other aspects of her life. She never needed to control her weight; it was purely for optimum health reasons that she avoided sugar and ate high quality protein, fruits, full fat dairy and low starch vegetables mainly. Tonight, she politely feasted on roasted chicken, potatoes, several varieties of vegetables, and a rich dessert involving chocolate cake and whipped cream drizzled with raspberry coulis.

“Tuck in Gwenevere, don’t be shy.” Severus teased quietly, making sure no one else heard. He was pleased that she had regained her healthy appetite.

“I’ve noticed your rather voracious appetite of late.” She said, before sipping spring water from her garish green goblet.

“Yes, man cannot live by bread alone, Gwenevere.” He said, returning the double entendre.

When the meal was finished, and Snape was satisfied that his house was under control, he and Gwenevere stood up and moved towards the double doors leading to the entrance hall and stairs. Professor Parker was standing in the corridor directly in front of them and turned to acknowledge them.

“Good evening Professor Collins, Professor Snape.” He said, beaming at Gwenevere like a smitten schoolgirl.

“Professor Parker.” Gwenevere said. Snape nodded, barely.

“You’ve had no more mad owl mishaps I trust?” said Parker smiling widely to Gwenevere. He wondered where she and Snape were headed off to and if she had mentioned the incident to him.

“No, yet I’ve not been to the owlry today.” Gwenevere replied. She then turned to her beloved to advise him of the conversation.

“Professor Snape, have you ever known of one owl to aggressively attack another in the owlry before? It was a large white owl with spangled feathers on the breast.” Parker noted that she had not mentioned it to him previously, and that she still referred to him as Professor Snape; a good sign indeed.

“I did notice that particular owl the other day and it looked ill or very tired. I had never seen it before that day.” Snape replied, showing little interest.

“Was it there when you sent mail out today Professor Parker?” Gwenevere asked.

“Er…well I did not actually send out mail today, so I didn’t notice if it was there or not.” Parker said. He was in the owlry today twelve times only to see if Gwenevere was there. He had not anticipated the query so he did not have a ready answer made up. Snape eyed him suspiciously and looked as though he was about to press the line of questioning further.

“I must be along now, I like an evening stroll after supper.” Parker said, as he was slowly backing away towards the huge double doors leading outside. He dropped the book he was holding and Snape frowned when he saw that it was a book of Shakespeare’s love sonnets.

“Professor Parker.” Gwenevere called. “You’d better hurry, it’s going to rain.” She said.

“No. I don’t think so. The sky is perfectly fine.” He said as he turned and waved goodbye.

Despite her curiosity, Mary Anne takes her time in selecting a pair of soft wool trousers and a pink cashmere sweater, then carefully brushing her hair. I’m not going to go in there looking like I’ve had my clothes thrown at me with a pitchfork. Bad enough that she’d been sprawled there on the sofa in her nightdress and he had been able to walk right in . . . but he was right, and she was fortunate it had been no one worse. Pushing the thought aside, Mary Anne moves nearer to the hallway door and listens, smiling a little, for some sort of massive undertaking is clearly in progress, judging from the sounds: footsteps to the kitchen and then back, assorted bumps, rattles, and clatterings. Once there is a startled Yeeeerrrrp!, followed by Brandon’s voice. “I am sorry, Nelson; I didn’t see you” in as stately and courteous a tone as he would use to any human gentleman he had just inconvenienced. Smothering a giggle, Mary Anne goes back to her closet and puts on a pair of house slippers with a furry lining, then steps back to the door, calling out, “Ready or not, Christopher . . .”

“Come in,” is the composed reply.

Mary Anne steps through the hallway into her living room—and her jaw drops in astonishment.

“Gracious . . . is there anything left at Fortnum and Mason?”

“One or two things, I believe. Perhaps a bit of bean sprout and tofu.”

“I see what you mean. To take that away, they should pay you . . .”

From the kitchen cupboards, Brandon has rummaged out a small tablecloth, spread it on the coffee table, and laid out an elegant picnic—and is still unpacking items from the seemingly bottomless hamper. Drawing nearer to the table, Mary Anne watches in growing surprise and delight as the basket yields up Cornish game hens with what appears to be a wild rice stuffing, followed by a loaf of crusty bread, a crock of soft cheese blended with caper and artichoke, a bottle of wine . . .

Her stomach rumbles, and Brandon grins at her. “This will not be unwelcome, then.”

Oddly, Mary Anne does not feel in the least embarrassed, and is equal to smiling back at him. “More than welcome, but . . .”

“Why? Is that what you were going to ask?”

Mary Anne nods, and Brandon, while continuing to empty the basket, fixes his eyes on her as though to make certain she is in better spirits than in the afternoon. And Mary Anne permits the scrutiny; though it is intense, it is not uncomfortable to her. Something in what Brandon has done by coming here, by surprising her, has altered her entire mood. No awkward constraint between them now: simply trust, practical comfort, and enjoyment of the moments that lie ahead.

Brandon nods, as though something he has seen has pleased him. “When you left this afternoon you were upset, and when I thought to come and see that you were all right—well, I didn’t think you would feel like cooking anything, nor going out. So it seemed the best thing to bring dinner to you. And if you didn’t feel like eating, well, there’s nothing here that wouldn’t keep.”

“Except those. But I see you’ve taken care of them well enough.”

Mary Anne points to the window seat, presently occupied by spires of multicoloured gladiolus blossoms . . . in one of the large stockpots from her kitchen.

“Sorry, my dearest, but they’re such tall flowers and that was the only thing I could find that would hold enough water for them.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll find a vase for them later.” She turns to smile at Brandon. “Gladiolus, Christopher? The Empress’ symbol of justice—is justice what you came here for?”

She expects him to treat it as a joke, but he considers the question with a gravity that makes her lower her gaze when he finally answers. “It would be appropriate. Both of us said, today, that we had done each other an injustice. But no, I did not come here for justice. I came here for mercy.”

Mary Anne listens to her heart beating. She can feel it all the way to her fingertips.

“To give, or to receive?”

“Both. Neither. Whatever is necessary.” No trace of a smile now, though his voice is warm and genial as sunshine, practically inviting her to bask in it. “Mary Anne, today we had what I would like to think was . . . a misunderstanding. It could have been a serious one, and it made me think on all I stood to lose, if I lost you. My life without you in it . . .” His voice trails off.

“And mine without you.” For a long time now, she has accepted how matters stood between them, without ever stopping to ask herself the exact nature of those matters. Perhaps the time has come for . . . what? She does not know.

Brandon’s voice, very soft, gently humourous. “It sounds as though we have forgiven each other. Shall we let that be for a while, then, and enjoy this food before the plates get cold?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Released from the spell of mutual contrition that had briefly overtaken them, Mary Anne examines the table to see if anything is lacking, even as Brandon sets out a second bottle, one of champagne. “This should be put on to chill, Mary Anne, but I couldn’t find an ice bucket in your kitchen. And we need flutes. Do you have any here?”

Mary Anne laughs heartily. “Do you think I could ever invite Renie over here and not have champagne flutes? Yes, they’re in the back of the cupboard with the rest of the glasses. And there’s an ice bucket in those cupboards under the sink—second on the left, I think. The corkscrew should be in the bucket.”

“Then in that case, my lady, I shall return.” With a flourishing bow that makes Mary Anne giggle, Brandon disappears into the kitchen and Mary Anne seats herself on the couch, stretching out her hands to the fire. She had not realized how chilled she had been from sleeping on the sofa, with the heat turned too low in the flat—when Brandon had awakened her, she had been half-numbed with cold, no two ways about it. Forgetting to lock the door, forgetting to re-set the heating or even to turn on the fireplace, taking a hot bath and then sprawling out to sleep in your nightdress in a cold room with just a little beagle to help keep you warm . . . well, you’ve used up your silly quota for the next few months, I should think. But the room is now blissfully warm and Mary Anne, enjoying the peace that seems to have entered the flat with Brandon, is not inclined to reprove herself very much. Brandon would not like it, for one thing. And berating herself does not seem necessary. What is over is over, with no lasting harm done. And what’s to come . . .

“ . . . is still unsure,” she murmurs, looking over at the sword lilies rising tall and splendid from the stockpot. Yes, they were the flowers she had chosen to represent Imperial justice. Briefly, she wonders if Brandon is acquainted with their other meanings: sincerity, strength of character. Had he tried, he could not have chosen a better offering to represent himself.

Deliver my soul from the sword . . .

“Where did that come from?” Mary Anne mutters to herself, even as Brandon re-enters the living room, equipped with ice bucket, corkscrew, and champagne flutes, with Nelson and Pinky at his heels. Setting the champagne to chill, Brandon passes her a plate and a linen napkin and, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction, picks up the bread and breaks the loaf in half, pretending not to notice how the beagles take up their stations nearby, alert for any crumbs that might fall.

With a ceremonious dignity that would do credit to Versailles, Brandon uncorks and pours the wine for their dinner, then touches his glass lightly to hers. No words are necessary. There will be time enough for them later. For now, there is a feast to be savoured . . .

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Severus emerged from the shower and stood in front of his wardrobe preparing to dress for tea. His surface thoughts fell just short of guilt; it seemed a lifetime since he had spent an entire Saturday at leisure. He dressed quickly and checked the time as he fastened his watch chain and let the solid gold disc disappear inside its pocket. He plucked his apparition license from the sterling tray and tucked it inside his coat, along with several galleons and sickles, deciding that he had just enough time to run an errand before meeting Gwenevere for tea at four o’clock.

Gwenevere drew a warm bath and settled into the tub for a relaxing soak. She closed her eyes as a myriad of thoughts roamed randomly in her brain while tiring to establish an orderly traffic pattern. She clearly wanted to know more about the Death Eaters and what Severus’s involvement was currently if any. These questions preoccupied her mind as she finished her bath and dressed for tea.

At a quarter ‘till four o’clock, Severus arrived at Gwenevere’s door. He kissed her hello and handed her a beautiful midnight blue box with golden letters on it. Gwenevere recognized it immediately and smiled; it was a one-pound box of Belgian chocolate.

“Severus, thank you. You really know the way to a girl’s heart, don’t you?” she said, and then kissed him again. She looked puzzled for a moment. “ Where did you get this?” She said, smiling.

“Belgium.” He said. “They tried to charge me fourteen hundred francs, but I simply paid them in equivalent gold and performed a memory charm before returning home.” He shrugged and flashed his devilish half smile.

“A memory charm. That’s… good...” she raised her brows cocked her head, smiling warily. She was almost afraid to ask him how many Galleons he thought fourteen hundred francs would be, but was sure the sweets shop was ahead of the game.

There was a knock at the door. Severus walked into the living room without removing his coat while Gwenevere collected the tea tray from Dobby. She set down the tray in the living room along with the box of chocolate and then poured the tea.

“Severus, I wish to dine in the great hall tonight, I am positively famished.” She said, intently eyeing the blue box, but decided to preserve her acute appetite.

“Yes, I thought as much. We can go down shortly after tea if you like.” He said, as she nodded her head and sipped her tea. Snape considered Gwenevere as he sipped tea. She was still quite drawn and pale and it worried him, although she assured him that she was fine.

When they were finished with tea, they crossed the room to the entrance where Severus helped Gwenevere on with her robes. The delicate scent drifted through his sinuses and stirred his masculine emotions as she released thick glossy tresses over her robes. She turned and slowly lifted her green eyes to his and smiled slightly. It was the same smile that haunted his adolescent years as the vivid memory of her in the smoky crystal smoldered in his gut by day and invaded his dreams by night.

Severus shook off the wave of déjà vu and their lips met briefly before she kissed the corner of his mouth. An eyelash brushed his cheek when she closed her eyes to avoid sparks. The Juliet diamond sparkled as her long fingers gently worked a lock of hair from his collars. She was able to rule his thoughts with the simplest of gestures.

“Ready?” she asked. Snape nodded, preferring to keep his provocative response private. For now.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Time stood still for Severus.
His life was at a crossroads and he was the world’s worst pessimist. He held his breath and waited for her next words, waited for his fate to unfold. He was too in love with her to hear them and too in love with her to not hear them.

“Severus, please, I need you to hold me. I am so sorry. I know I should have done something, but I couldn’t.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper. She lifted his arm and looked at the dark mark again, emotionally separating the mark from the man. Suddenly his defensiveness faded away and he closed his eyes in disbelief that she could possibly apologize for anything. She was beyond reproach. He fought hard to steady his emotions, pulling her trembling form tightly into him. She felt his heart beating rapidly, and his breath on her face, and his warmth washed over her like the sun.

“Gwenevere, there was nothing you could have done. You were a child. Think of what your death would have done to your mother and grandparents, and for what good? Your father would still be gone.”

His gentle logic slowly took hold of her rational adult thought process. He was right, her father would still be gone regardless of the actions of a terrified eleven year old, and clearly it was not her time to die. There must have been a reason why she could not move to defend him that day, reasons which were beyond her to ever know. He told her he loved her and held her while she cried, the emotional release cleansing her mind of the years of guilt and denial. After years of fighting invisible dragons they now lay slain at her feet.* The powerful dark wizard held her tightly and kissed her deeply as to let her feel his absolute love for her. After being in her crypt of despair, She desperately needed to be close to him, to feel his warm flesh next to hers to restore the fundamental closeness, which was the essence of life. She placed her hand on his chest near to his heart and kissed him there. After a time of silence, Severus got her some water and opened the window to let her cat out. Boots had left her side only when he was assured of her well being.

Snape returned to the bed and again embraced her. A growing concern edged his conscientiousness as he idly stroked her hair with his fingertips. He wondered how she would view him now and the family responsible for his conception. Would he now look at her through eyes of shame? Would she live to resent him for once believe in them? How would she come to terms with the knowledge that the roots of his upbringing were permeated with evil teachings?

He sensed that it was time to speak. He could not dismiss the uncertainty and the mistrust he had created for them.
“Gwenevere. I need to know. Will you forgive me for what I have done?” He asked.

“Yes, of course, Severus.” She replied, puzzled that he could ask such a question.

“Do you forgive with acceptance? You must Gwenevere. I cannot live with you knowing there be doubts between us.”

He pressed her to answer more fully, to either banish or confirm his doubts. Gwenevere regarded him intensely for several long moments. Snape was reminded of the time when she asked him to express his views about muggles, and patiently awaited her response. She saw the anguish in his eyes and sensed his concern that their close bonds had been justifiably harmed. She answered him the best way she knew how, with solid truth.

“I sense your profound regret for having once chosen to use evil as the means to attain power and influence over your enemies. The organization that you once served hurt and killed innocent people and ruined the lives of their families. You have obviously sought after and achieved redemption, for any wrongdoing you may have been responsible for early on, by risking your own life to bring murderers to justice. The issue is not as much the mistakes one has made in one’s past, as how one chooses to repair them. I will forever honor you for your latter choices, for what you have become. I exalt you in the highest for your courage and strength of character my love.” She said, quietly.

Severus was astonished at his staggering underestimation of her kindness and insight—and that she could forgive him this way, something he had never allowed himself to do completely. He had no trouble at all facing contempt, fear, loathing, or hatred, but her careful kindness and understanding was so unfamiliar to him he didn’t know exactly how to respond.
Gwenevere regarded him and smiled understandably. Many Death Eaters were no longer hurting people owing to his selfless commitments.

“Thank you for all you have done, Severus, how can I possibly express it properly?” she asked thoughtfully.

“You just did, Gwenevere.” He kissed her forehead and settled her back down beside him. He swiped the corner of his eye with his index finger and cleared his throat quietly.

She asked him what exactly happened to her during the night and he made it known that he was there with her throughout most of her unconsciousness. They spoke of their experiences in low murmurs. Gwenevere listened intently to the deep base vibrations of his voice as Severus revealed much more about his past to her, information, which no one else knew. They discussed the curse and his second divination in detail. Gwenevere insisted he promise to not to give up under any circumstances, and continue to fight the curse to the best of their abilities.

They were both very tired; Severus especially after being awake all night and under demoralizing stress that had troubled him for weeks prior. His words became labored and disoriented as they drifted to sleep. They slept soundly for many hours as a result of their utter exhaustion.

Severus was the first to awaken, their bed was bathed in the rich golden afternoon sunlight as it streaked across the room from the south and burned brightly after figurative weeks of clouds and rain. Gwenevere was incredibly beautiful as he gazed upon her silky soft skin without the subjugated veil of darkness obscuring his view of the sensual landscape. Disseminating kisses working their way up to her neck gently awakened her from sleep.

Gwenevere turned on her side and propped an elbow as Severus stretched and leant back with his hands behind his head. He offered to produce something for her to eat, but she preferred to wait a bit longer as her central nervous system was still recovering from her unconscious state. She had many questions, including one very important one concerning his current involvement with the Death Eaters, however, Severus somehow convinced her to save that conversation for another time. He rolled over and his mouth covered hers passionately, causing her mind to refocus on more pressing matters for several minutes before they arose at last to greet what was left of the blue sky day.

‘Out of there’ turned out to be rather more problematic than Cindie had imagined. First off, while she had ridden with Mistral for the drive to his home, she had slept through a good part of it. She needed a map and directions. After going through her things and finding nothing like an adequate map she tried Chandos, naturally he wasn’t home. That was all right, she could figure it out. She threw some clothes in an overnight bag, shoved a note under Chandos’ door so he’d know where she went, and went back to her car. Grudging the time but with a near empty petrol tank, she stopped for fuel on her way out of town and bought a map.

The trees were nearly leafless this late in the fall with only a few tenacious brown ones clinging to the branches. She squinted against the setting sun which seemed to bounce on the horizon sometimes in front and sometimes beside her. Stripes of orange sun slashed through the trees hypnotizing her with their stroboscope effect. When it finally set she was relieved.

When Cindie crossed into Wales she drummed up an appropriate response to the toll booth operator who excitedly informer her that the Severn Bore was at near record height. She was getting closer to Mistral Manor but there was none of the anticipation the first trip held. She was in the driver’s seat this time and no expectation that Mistral even wanted her there. The nervousness she felt had no excitement for its companion on this crossing. Now the darkness was a hindrance as she picked her way through unfamiliar and increasingly less traveled roadways. She had to stop several times and use the torch from the glove box to augment the feeble dome light in order to consult her map. She knew she was on the right track when she passed the place with the standing stones. She heard Mistral intone as if he was right next to her, “they come alive you know.”

Cindie drove on. She nearly missed the lane that was the driveway. As it was she had to back up to make the turn. The iron gates were there just as she had remembered them. She had to take the driveway at a snail’s pace; it was narrow and more winding than she’d remembered it. Mistral knew it like the proverbial back of his hand but it was treacherous looking to her. At last the house was in view. She pulled up to the far end of the drive and shut off the car. The house was dark. No lights in any windows and no porch light shone. There was starlight but the moon was still low in the sky. She knew the drive had taken her awhile but she didn’t think it was that late. She opened her door but sat for a moment getting the feel of the place. Steeling herself she got out of her car and instantly missed even the small dome light which was extinguished when she closed the door. Her feet sounded loud on the gravel as she crunched back across the drive to the front door. It didn’t magically open for her as it had the last time. No Sybill there to greet her. She knocked. No Mistral either. She knocked again wondering if the rapping of her knuckles could permeate that thick ancient wood. There was still no response. She took up the huge door knocker and gave it a go. Nothing. Looking around she saw neither vehicle nor sign of any occupation. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she had the wrong house but the absurdity of that thought was obvious. How many manor houses could there be with that drive, those gates and that river? She could just make out the three huge stones that made up the waterfall. No, this was the right place.

Cindie considered going to look for a hotel or something but discarded that idea. Mistral would be staying here, she was sure of it. She supposed she could wait in the car, with the heater on it wouldn’t be so bad. It suddenly occurred to her that Mistral could be just on the other side of this door and unaware she was here. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Worse, a niggling voice added, he could be just on the other side of this door hoping she would give up and go away and leave him alone. That thought was enough to make her reckless. She tried the massive door handle and the door opened noiselessly. She closed the door behind her and peered into the stygian entrance hall.

She was inside. What now?

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

His last obligation of the day completed, Mistral returned home. He was bone tired. He pulled up in front of the steps, exited his car and climbed them and entered. His hand reached automatically for the light switch but didn’t turn it. He looked toward the stairs up to where his room lie but did not go there. Instead he crossed the other way and entered the library. He considered lighting the fire but in the end decided it was too much bother. He didn’t mind the cold.

His shoulders looked weighted down as he went to the drinks table and poured himself a generous portion of cognac. The glass in one hand, he replaced the stopper with the other and ran a forefinger around it. His recollection was of the last time he’d indulged in this particular beverage. Cindie had poured it out for him after mother had tired and he’d returned from settling her in. Things had come nearly full circle. It was done. All he needed to do was tell her and let her decide. But she didn’t want to listen to him anymore. He’d waited too long already and she’d judged him. If she couldn’t accept his past liaisons, how could she accept what he had to tell her now? He nearly dropped the glass he held when a hand reached out from the darkness to cover his.

The unwelcome news that the king was less than ten miles away had the effect of bringing our discussion about Estrilda to a close. The Locksleys had many more questions to ask - which they both made very plain and quite vocally too - but they were forced to admit that time was of the essence. Leofric went off to the church to make arrangements with a priest and the rest of us left the chapel. Two men-at-arms resumed their positions in front of the door. I nodded to them as we passed; their eyes flickered in my direction and away again. As we moved down the hallway, it seemed to me that Leofric was doing an excellent job of turning these off-season farmers into real warriors. The thought of future glory gave me a warm feeling in my chest.

We entered the great hall to find servants flying to and fro cleaning, sweeping, carrying, fetching and in general creating chaos. The steward saw us and rushed up to me, a long parchment in hand. "Everything is under control, sire. We got extra just about everything for the next few days' worth of eating and the women are getting all the bedding sorted out now." He thrust the parchment at me.

I nodded as I read it. The Locksleys would stay in the chamber they already occupied. King Richard and Count Abelard would have the two chambers in the third tower, which were hardly ever used but were the only ones big enough to accommodate their respective dignities. I would remain in my own chamber and Joya and the two Poitevin ladies would have the large solar in the fourth tower, where they would share an open space with their female attendants. A hastily scribbled note indicated that servants had already been sent to town to collect the luggage.

"Right." I handed the document back to the steward. "Best get on with it, then."

The Locksleys had vanished while I was perusing the list. Only Joya remained beside me in the hall. There seemed no need for either of us to be there, so I reached for her hand and we climbed the stairs to our chamber. More servants were racing up and down and so it was with some relief that we took refuge in our room and barred the door.

Someone had built up the fire and left wine and food on the table. Only one chair was pulled up and only one goblet set out. I dropped into the chair and stretched my legs. Joya strolled around the room, running her fingers over whatever furniture she encountered. She paused at the window and stared outside, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then she glanced over her shoulder at me. "How did you know it was Estrilda's handwriting? I meant to ask you last night."

"Those damned instructions she wrote out for me when I was officially her prisoner. It's prejudiced me against apricots for life." I considered for a moment. "Figs too."

"The poor woman." Joya smiled. "I can almost pity her, being married to such a worm as Odo when she was born to ride the Arabian sands beside some dashing Saracen."

I snorted. "She was born to service the fleet."

"Oh, how harsh." She turned her gaze back to the window again, then peaked over her shoulder at me. "What fantasies do you have, George? I've sometimes wondered."

"Fantasies?" What a ridiculous question. The king was five hours away, the castle was a hive of activity, our marriage was in danger of being dissolved and the woman wanted to talk about fantasies? Absurd. "I don't waste time on such things."

Joya turned her back on the window and put her hands on her hips. "Do you know what your problem is, George? You've always been able to take any woman you wanted because of your position. You've never had to really strive for your romantic conquests."

I stared at her, outraged. "Not had to strive? What was I doing last year when I fought that fake Crusader Krone, if not striving for you?"

"Oh, that was different. You were fighting for a number of things: your birthright, your lands and castle, a judgement from the king. I was just part of the package." She waved a hand in airy dismissal. "No, you've had it too easy. A good challenge would have forced you to develop your imagination."

I considered this comment and found myself becoming annoyed. "I don't hear much complaint from you about my lack of romantic 'imagination'. Some of the things we do seem to me to show quite a bit of creativity. What about the time we -"

"That time," she gave me a reproving look. "Was quite enjoyable but I would have called it 'risky' rather than 'creative'. We were just lucky the washerwomen didn't need more soap."

"Yes indeed." I reminisced fondly. Joya had been so delightfully loud that day. Perhaps she did have a point about 'fantasies'. Marital relations were much more interesting when there was a hint of novelty about the business. And truth to tell she was right that I had never had to search overlong for a woman when I was in the mood. There are always dozens of serving wenches around a castle when a lord is in the improper mood. Immediately the image of Joya as a serving wench popped into my mind. I almost laughed out loud. No more velvets or fine linens, fur-trimmed cloaks and leather shoes but rather a worn, plain serving dress and cloth wrappings for her feet, if she wasn't actually barefoot. And of course no jewelry or veils but her hair braided down her back to keep it out of the way of her duties. Joya would not have lasted ten minutes as a servant; she couldn't have tolerated the restricted wardrobe.

I slid a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. On the other hand, if she had been one of the servants in my castle, there's no doubt she would have grabbed my attention immediately. And then I would have grabbed her just as quickly. A warm glow began to seep through my veins. The king was hours away; the servants had everything under control; the door was barred. Why not?

I pointed at the refreshments on the table. "Wench, get me some wine. Now."

It was Joya's turn to stare. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'get me some wine.'" I sprawled back in my chair, striving for a look of dictatorial lordliness. "Has my steward hired a halfwit? Move, wench!"

For a moment she seemed frozen in place, then she walked over to the table, poured a goblet of wine and, bringing it to my chair, handed it to me without a word. I examined the cup, looked her over from head to toe, and slapped it out of her hand. The goblet crashed into the wall and the wine splashed both of us.

"George!" Joya gaped. "Why did you do that?"

I reached up and seized her belt, yanking her down to her knees between my legs. I leaned forward until our noses almost touched. "Let me refresh your memory, girl. I am the lord and master of this castle and this entire county. You are a peasant girl whose family farms somewhere on my lands. It is in your family's interests that you do a good job in my castle so that I do not take out my displeasure with you on them. Is that clear?"

Joya opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally she said, "Yes."

I pulled her closer to me. "Yes, what?"

She licked her lips and looked into my eyes for a long moment. I gazed back, waiting. A smiled tugged at one corner of her mouth and she lowered her eyes modestly. "Yes, my lord."

"That's better." I leaned back in my chair. "In case you've forgotten, I went down to the kitchens because I had a craving for something. I saw you working there and became aware of a new, stronger appetite. I ordered you to bring wine and food up here for me. Do you remember all that now?"

"Yes, my lord." Joya smiled. "I remember very well. Thank you for taking the time to remind me. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't. I don't like incompetent servants." I unfastened her veil and tossed it aside. "And another thing: whenever you serve me something, you will do it with all possible deference. I want to see you curtsy when you offer me wine. Is that clear too?"

"Oh yes, sir." She opened her big blue eyes even wider. "I'm so sorry. I promise I'll do better. Please give me another chance."

"I'll think about it." I thrust one hand into her hair and pulled her closer. She braced her hands on my knees for balance. "Although I don't know if you'll make a proper servant at all. For one thing, you wear far too many clothes."

"I'll take some off, right now." She whispered. "If it pleases you, my lord."

"I'll let you know if it pleases me or not. I don't know what's under all this material." I ran my other hand down her arm and up her body. She shuddered, then forced herself still. I smiled. "Of course, it does feel as if you're a well-developed wench. I don't like my women to be half-starved. I like something," I squeezed gently. "To hold onto."

She closed her eyes and whimpered gently.

I continued. "I'm beginning to think that the best thing to do would be to keep you here in my chamber for a week or two while I take personal charge of your training. I have particular needs that must be met and it would be helpful if you were available whenever I required. Of course, all your other duties would be suspended. It would be too exhausting for you otherwise."

"Oh yes." Joya slowly eased her hands up my thighs. "That sounds wonderful, my lord."

"Eager to learn, are you?" I squeezed again and slid my hand lower. "I like that in a servant. Of course, it's your duty to serve me, so perhaps I shouldn't be too pleased with you. Keenness isn't everything. Performance counts too. Perhaps you won't be good enough to please me. I may send you back to the kitchens early and get another wench up here instead."

"Oh no, my lord!" She leaned forward, her chest brushing against my tunic. "I'm sure you'll be pleased. Just give me a chance! That's all I ask."

"Well, I don't know." I pretended to consider. "You're not exactly an obedient servant. I didn't give you permission to touch my clothing, for instance. That doesn't auger well for your training."

Her hands stopped their movements immediately. "I'm sorry, my lord. It's just that -"

I lifted one of her hands to my lips and kissed the fingertips. "I'm afraid I grow weary of these constant apologies. You must show me that you're willing to do what you're told and not try to take control or manipulate me. Wenches in the past have assumed that I can be lead around by the nose, just because I showed them some favoritism for a short while. I do hope you won't be one of them." I licked one finger after another.

Joya swallowed hard and again lowered her eyes modestly. She flushed a warm pink and I could almost feel her heat. "I won't be like that, I swear my lord. Please don't send me away."

For my part, I was breathing hard and feeling warmer every second. The game would be over soon but until then I was determined to stay in control. Joya was right; with the right company, fantasies could be fun. "Very well, but don't try anything. Now then, let's start your training. First we take this," I kissed the fingers one last time and slid her hand down the front of my tunic. "And move it down here. I want to test the strength of your grip by seeing how well you hold something. That's good, very good. You have a light touch, wench. I am most pleased."

Joya didn't pause but raised her eyes to mine. "I am so glad, my lord."

"Yes indeed. Now let's test your other hand." I slid my hand out of her silky hair and leaned back in my chair again. "You know, if you display this sort of skill in other areas, you might just become one of my favourite servants. And of course your family will benefit too. I'll want to give them some idea of my fondness for you. Perhaps I'll suspend their taxes for as long as you please me. Would you like that, hmm?"

"My lord is most kind and gracious." Joya smiled at me. "My family will be most grateful. I'll do everything I can to keep you happy."

"I'm sure you will." I pushed myself up and out of the chair, landing on the rug beside her with a thump. The fire was still blazing cheerfully. I pulled at my belt and laid it aside, then yanked my tunic over my head. Joya watched me, then fumbled with her own garments. Gown joined braises in a pile beside the hearth. I continued Joya's personal training for over an hour, until we were both too exhausted to move. As I lay on the carpet and stared at the ceiling, with Joya curled against my side, sleepy and warm, it occurred to me that she might need much more training in the days, weeks and months ahead. I smiled at the thought, pulled her closer and closed my eyes.

As the gentle voice continues calling, Mary Anne abruptly realizes that no, she is not dreaming, and yes, Brandon is indeed at the front door of her flat. She sits up on the sofa, scattering cushions. “Christopher! Yes, come in—ooooof. Pinky, get off my stomach, please . . .” But by this time, the little beagle has already jumped down and trotted over to Brandon, who obligingly stoops to pet her, fondling her silky ears and running his thumb over the blaze of white between her eyes.

“Christopher, what are you doing here? Of course, I’m glad to see you—“ Hastily. For she is glad and wants him to know it.

Brandon gets to his feet. “I was worried about you. You seemed terribly upset earlier, and when you left the set before closing I had to make certain you were all right.” He seats himself on the arm of the sofa.

Mary Anne gathers the scattered cushions and settles back among them, acutely conscious of Brandon’s presence and of her thin nightdress. “Yes, I was upset when I left. All I could think of was how horrid I’d been to you.”

“You were not horrid. Upset, I’ll grant you. But I should not have laughed at you.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Mary Anne grins up at him with her old sparkle of mischief, and is rewarded by that crinkling of his eyes. “And you’ll pay for that later, so just make up your mind to it.”

“I am all anticipation, my dearest. But how did you come to be in here with your door unlocked? That gave me a bit of a turn when I saw it; I was afraid something had happened to you.”

"A bit of a turn," indeed. That fear had been like a shower of ice water; only now, with Mary Anne safe before him, does Brandon admit to himself that charging in as he had done was foolish and unsafe—and that he would do it again in an instant.

“Oh. I thought it was locked!” Mary Anne looks over at the still-open door. “I drove out to John Middleton’s after I left the set. I thought his dogs would help cheer me up and he loaned me Nelson and Pinky for the night and said he’d come and get them in the morning. Anybody would think they’re here for a week, with all he sent with me! Leashes and food and—well, anyway, I took them for a walk in Kensington when I got back; I thought the exercise would make them tired so they’d sleep well. It must’ve made me tired instead! I had a hot bath and collapsed here and I never even knew that door wasn’t locked—good thing it was you who came in.”

“A good thing, but never mind about that now. Mary Anne, do you know how cold it is in here?” Brandon reaches out and touches her bared arm, pressing the back of his hand against it, and Mary Anne cannot help smiling. Just like you’d check a teapot, to see if the tea is still warm! Nevertheless, he is right and the room is chillier than she likes; her skin crinkles into gooseflesh as Brandon continues his attentions, chafing her fingers between his to warm them. “You’re perished. I think you should go and put on something warmer, before you catch your death.”

Mary Anne allows one eye to slowly close and open in a sly wink. “Something warmer, Christopher? I thought the line was that I should go and ‘slip into something more comfortable,’ isn’t that right?”

Brandon is more than equal to this. “Indeed, and I have no doubt that you’ll be much more comfortable in something warmer. While you’re changing, I’m going to start your fire—“

Brandon pauses, rolling his eyes at the expected hoot of laughter from Mary Anne, then continues as smoothly as if there had been no interruption. “—and it will give me a chance to set out the things I’ve brought for you.”

She is instantly alert, and Brandon smiles to himself. When it comes to giving and receiving presents, Mary Anne is like a child on Christmas morning. “Oh, what have you brought for me!”

“That I cannot tell you. It is a secret. (of course homage) And it shall remain one for the moment—until you go and put on something warm. Blue is a lovely colour on you, but letting your skin go blue with cold is carrying a statement a little too far, don’t you agree?”

Mary Anne puts out her tongue at him and slides off the couch. “All right, all right, I’m going. But I shall not stay away long!”

As Mary Anne disappears into the hallway, Brandon sets about his business. First, a touch of the button that lights the gas logs in the fireplace. Then, across the room to gather up the bags and bundles he had left just outside the door . . .

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Gwenevere felt nothing.
She was cold and numb and might as well been dead as the tears finally finished flowing and the new memories lodged themselves steadfast within her. She stared at the darkness and wondered if in fact she had died. She wondered if this was what death was, and in some ways, a part of her very much wanted to cross over.

After a long while she heard her name being called. She heard “Gwenevere.” It was her father and he was calling her new name. “Yes father,” she answered. She was aware that she answered him with her mind instead of her voice. 'I must be dead, she thought.'

He was made of light and energy and told her everything was going to be all right. Her mother and her grandparents were with him now, and they were also in the warm glowing light. He told her they did not wish to come back and that this is where they belonged as it was meant to be. He said that he came to her in the dream not long ago and told her to trust Severus. Severus was good and would take care of her. He told her that it was time to let her magic return and not to be afraid any longer.

Her grandfather told her that he was proud of her potions work and that he would be with her when she needed him there. Her father instructed her to go back to Severus when she felt the sun. ‘Yes father’ she answered.

At daybreak, the sun’s rays came streaming into the cathedral window and shone on Gwenevere’s face. Severus’s loving words replayed in her mind, blocking out Madam Trelawney’s cryptic warnings. ‘I have no regrets and that I will gladly pay the ultimate price to have loved you. I will never lie to you in future. Never.’ She opened her swollen eyelids and Severus came into focus.

“Gwenevere?” he said quietly.

“Severus, what happened?” She asked.

Severus sat up and then stayed motionless. He waited for the inevitable; she would surely leave him now, after what he had seen. The dark mark being something she could never live with.
Gwenevere sat up slowly and touched his face with her weak trembling hands. He didn’t move a muscle because he didn’t want the dark mark to frighten her again.

Uncertainty gripped him. He imagined the look of distrust as she recoiled in horror to his touch after seeing the mark a second time. He braced for the final rejection. It would surely devastate him.

She searched his eyes through blurred vision. Her face was drawn and her cheekbones were sharp above hollow shadow with layers of dried tears. Her mouth was dry and her lips were cracked from dehydration. She lifted his hands and lightly kissed them, however he did not respond to her. His demeanor was cold as if made of stone.

She again looked deeply into his eyes and feared that Severus no longer wanted her, that she had done something unforgivable in not risking her life to save her father from the Death Eaters, she should not have left her wand in the laboratory. She could not blame him, if she could not forgive herself for her cowardess then how could she possibly expect him to forgive her?

His heart was hammering the inside of his chest as he ached to hold her but dared not. She was turning away from him and she must not see the mark again. She can never know the whole truth, but did she somehow know? The horrible truth that he now knew was the same that he, himself would own if not for the soul-searching stare of an old man.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

The Death Eaters gathered around him and passed the potion from hand to hand so that they could each scrutinize it. Next they ordered him to drink some of the mortiserum to prove it was real. They forced him to take the dose and he fell into a deep sleep moments afterward. The dark figures knew he was not dead and angrily seized the black ebony wand which was laying on the table and performed the Avada Kedavra curse, killing him instantly. Her father was dead and they had used her wand to kill him.

Snape watched in horror as the trained killers fled the scene. One of them looked more than familiar to him, a tall wizard with a distinctive gait. That wizard was the last to leave and scanned the room before slamming the door behind him.

Gwenevere’s tears streamed down her face, transcending her altered state. For the first time, Snape glimpsed the cruel actions from the victim’s point of view and he was sickened by what he saw, more determined than ever to continue in his work for the Order.

Victoria turned and ran from the house, looking back to see the dark mark hovering above. She ran into the forest and hid for days, until a hunter found her and carried her back home. She was placed in St. Mungo’s where she could recover from the trauma and outdoor exposure that nearly killed her, and was eventually released weeks later. Her magic could not be restored and she never spoke details of the event to anyone.

Victoria’s name was changed to her second name and she was ushered to Spain when fall arrived. It was feared that the Death Eaters would learn that their evil deeds were witnessed by the eleven year old, so distance was a safety precaution and Excelsior offered Gwenevere the very best training in the field of finance. Finally, it was decided that being in close proximity to her mother, who was so badly affected, would not be a healthy situation for Gwenevere. She was forced to quickly learn a new language and study finance because it was a chance at an education for a brilliant mind and requited very little magic to practice.

After her mother came home and found her father dead in the laboratory and her daughter missing, the dark mark still visible in the sky over the house, she spent the remainder of her short life crying and staring out of the window, cared for by Gwenevere’s wizarding grandparents. Gwenevere saw little of her mother and only remembers staring straight-ahead and standing very still in the freezing weather as hot tears mingled with cold raindrops at her mother’s funeral. She was twelve.

Gwenevere was crying now, outwardly grieving the death of her parents for the first time, the intense sorrow had been bottled up and buried deeply within her just as her magic. Snape was strongly compelled to look away, as he experienced her intense pain for lost parents who were loved so profoundly.

He had not cried when his father died in Azkaban prison and felt little more for his mother when she died, whom he blamed for being weak and allowing the abuse to continue for as long as it did. Until Gwenevere, he had not understood the nature of such deep emotion; having blocked it out for so many years he considered it a choice and a weakness, an area of exploitation for ones enemies to use to their advantage.

"Cut the sarcasm and get in. I don’t have all day."

"Charlie, if I said jump, you would pull out the trampoline."

A slender female figure slid onto the leather material of the backseat of a flashy black limo. The chauffeur stepped on the pedal and the limo burst down the practically deserted avenue and whipped down a lonesome alleyway surrounded by nothing but trashcans and graffiti.

"Stop." Indeed, they abruptly came to a halt.

A handsome face flung around from the seat beside the driver. He gave a sly grin, and nodded to the woman he was facing. "Please me, oh beauty of thine, and tell me you got the dough."

"As much as any baker could want."

The man relaxed and let out a held-in breath. "Good girl."

The woman sniffed. She gave him a "look" and undid the silver clasp to her handbag, and in opening it revealed a small sack of 10,000 dollar bills.

"How much, oh, how much?" His greedy eyes glistened, hand twitching.

"500,000."

"500,000?!? HALF A MILLION??? HALF A MILLION???"

"Shutup, the entire country can hear you!"

He stuck a fist into his mouth to prevent screaming from joy. Oh yes, he was rich. Filthy filthy filthy rich. Well, maybe not COMPLETELY loaded but… good Lord… it was certainly more than what he had now.

His gaze filtered to that of the lady’s. He blinked at her for a moment. Oh god, how lovely it would be to make a bed of cash and…

"I’m taking my half tomorrow."

He jumped back to reality and coughed.

"You’re what?"

"I’m taking my half tomorrow. I want to live my own life, Charlie." She averted her eyes, ignoring the anger and resentment that would soon grow within him. True to presumption, his face flared crimson red, and his eyebrows were drawn together like curtains.

"You’re… you’re… Leaving?" he managed out in a calm voice.

"Yes, for the third time."

"How… how…. How??? Never mind…" He looked back up at her, smiling sweetly. "Will you allow me to treat you, then, one more time?"

"Certainly. But it will be the first." She forced out a fake laugh, light and short.

"Back to my place then."

The driver looked in the rearview mirror, dark eyes staring, and then nodded.

*****

In half an hour the beautiful woman was stretched out on a couch, her long, silky golden hair let down from a previous bun. In the meantime, sweet aromas leaked from the kitchen so that her nostrils flared with the delicious smells. Charlie had his faults, as we all do, but he was a great chef. Tonight’s dinner was to be special, something neither of them would ever forget.

Candice, as the woman was called, gazed deeply into the flames of the candles set out on the coffee table in front of her. Charlie certainly had read his romantic novels. She shifted the black shawl on her shoulders so that more of her upper body was exposed, just enough to be tempting. It would be their last night together, sadly, but Candice desperately wanted to move on. She loved Charlie with all her heart, and part of her couldn’t bear to leave him… but if she didn’t, he would become her prison, her cell, and she was a wild beast that refused to be locked up.

"Bon appetite!" She looked up into two dark chocolate eyes to see a silver platter with a glass of wine and a plate of pork roast and green beans. Just to the side of the platter was a singular red rose, perfectly chosen with petals of blood red and a slightly curved stem of forest green. Charlie picked up the rose in his left hand, and waved it in the air. "For the fairest of them all." He gracefully set the dish on her lap.

"If I spill, it’s not my fault," she teased, eyeing the food. It looked so appetizing and impeccably prepared that she almost was afraid to touch it.

"Mmm, you won’t."

She reached for the glass of wine and took a dainty sip, her eyes never leaving Charlie’s. It was luscious, for a drink. It felt like a cloud of silk trickling down the back of her sarcophagus, drifting off into dreamy sleep…

"Charlie… Charlie… what’s…"

Charlie no longer had an innocent grin plastered across his face- it had been replaced by a sinister, evil smirk of triumph. He gloated.

"For the fairest of them all," he repeated. Candice’s eyes widened with horror. "Except this time there’s no Prince Charming. This time no magic kiss. Only me, my money, and… me, and my money." He paused, licking his chops. Candice opened her mouth to scream, but no words escaped. She squirmed as her life slowly drained from its body.

"Why?" was all she could manage.

"Why? You think I’m going to let you go, taking what is rightfully mine? Tsk tsk, I thought someone like you would know better, Candice." He considered her for a moment. "I hadn’t planned to do this so soon, you know. But like they say, all good things must come to an end." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, but it had turned to ice cold. Without saying another word, he pivoted on his heel and exited through the back door. A shadow stood there, lumpy and hidden by the dark of the night.

"Torch the place."

Cindie spent an uneventful day at the office: Arrived more or less on time (after waking before the alarm clock despite staying late at Chandos’ spoiling Rafter) and studiously not hoping to see him camped out in her cubicle, spent some time in hair and make-up wondering what it would be like if he ever reciprocated and ended up washing her hair, reported to the Courtroom set for a series of reaction shots and wished HE were there to react to so she could then have the pleasure of it being him when they were done shooting, went to the lunchroom and carefully did not watch the salad bar for him to show up and edit his salad, sat in her cubicle and tried to write while resolutely not pining for an interruption. After all, she didn’t want to see him, really.

Finally at 3:17 pm, not that she’d been staring at the clock on her monitor, she went to the Director’s office and hovered. After removing and replacing the same book, one to which he’d contributed the introduction, several times, he gently asked her if she needed anything.

“No, I just came by to borrow this.” She held up the book and smiled brightly. Way too brightly.

“Then feel free to borrow it by all means. Is this part of your continuing studies?”

“Yes, sir. Just working on honing my craft.” The Director thought she was acting as though she’d just eaten an entire milk chocolate Easter Bunny and drunk a quart of espresso.

“Yes, I can see where you’d want to brush up on which amusement parks have latest in roller coaster technology.”

Apparently she’d picked up the wrong book and she shoved it hastily back onto the shelf.

The Director took pity on her. “He’s not in today.”

“Is something wrong?” At the Director’s uncertain look she begged, “please, sir. Tell me.”

“He called early this morning. You know Mistral, how private he is, he asked me not to say anything to anybody…”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

The Director didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. Cindie knew nothing short of that would keep him away and was torn between anger that he hadn’t called to tell her and anger at herself that he felt he couldn’t tell her and then back to anger at him for not thinking his friends, never mind her, would want to know what had happened. Damn the man.

Cindie smiled gamely, if less brightly, and thanked the Director for the information which he hadn’t imparted and headed back to her cubicle. Her thoughts were whirling a mile a minute. When did it happen? How was he taking it? She must let his friends know, would he be angry that she told…? In the end it boiled down to one simple imperative. Be with him. But she’d let his friends know on her way out.

A search proved that Mary Anne had left early and that Brandon had been fairly quick on her heels. (Surprise, surprise.) Ed was filming with a guest director and Claudia was on set with him. Therese had apparently gone into the Director’s office just after she’d left and was still holed up in there with him. Cindie was not up to interrupting him again. She was debating what to do next when Dev appeared, walking casually up the hallway past the Director’s office. And Cindie thought she’d failed miserably at the whole ‘casual visit to the Director’ thing. When Dev saw her he smiled rather sheepishly, (which was so endearing and at any other time would have made her weak kneed) and headed toward her. They fell in step, or rather he slowed down for her, and they walked back toward their offices. It was Cindie’s turn to take pity on a distracted co-worker. “They’re just discussing plot lines. Not that I listened in.”

Dev gave off a noise that was suspiciously like a snort. “You don’t have to listen, when Therese gets going with an idea her voice gets as carried away as she does.”

“Hey, I’m just glad she’s running with this story line. I can’t wait to see what she does with these next scenes.” Cindie couldn’t keep up the casual conversation. She looked up at Dev as they came to her cubicle, “Dev, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” He waited until they were in her office before asking, “what is it? What can I do?” He had sensed immediately that something was amiss.

“Oh, Dev.” Cindie sighed and sat down, gesturing for him to do the same. He did. “It’s Mistral.” She knew Mistral had told Mary Anne and Brandon about his mother but didn’t know if he’d said anything to Therese or to Dev. She told him of Mrs. Mistral’s illness and that the Director had just confirmed that she’d passed away. Well, sort of confirmed it. Thankfully Dev had too much tact to ask why she had to find this out from the Director rather than Mistral himself. “And I know he doesn’t want a fuss but it just seems to me that he ought to have the support of his friends at a time like this.”

“I agree with you. Though Mistral may not immediately see it that way.”

“Then he’ll be angry at me. But he’ll know his friend’s care.”

“Have there been any arrangements?”

Cindie thought for a moment, “no, I don’t think so. It’s too soon. But I’m going to find out and then I’ll call you and let you know. Will you tell everyone for me? Quietly of course… but you’ll know what to do.”

“Yes. Leave that part to me. Here,” he reached for a pen and a scratch pad. “This is the number to our flat, and here’s the number for my mobile. You call me, anytime, day or night, with the details and I’ll make sure everybody knows what’s happened.” He paused to smile at her. It was a strained smile, he was obviously grieving for his friend. “And you drive safely.”

“You bet I will.” She did a double take realizing what he’d just said. “And just how did you know what I plan to do?”

“Please.” Dev gave her a look. “Whatever is going on with you two hasn’t changed how you feel. That and I’m well acquainted with the aura of female determination.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “But I mean it. Be careful.”

“Yes, Dev. I’m well acquainted with the look of male over-protectiveness.”

“Do you need anything covered here?”

“No, it’s all good.”

“Bye, then.” She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a shadow smile.

“Bye, Dev.”

She was out of there.

Brandon starts forward to confront the intruder in Mary Anne’s kitchen . . .

And then he slides to an abrupt halt as he finds himself staring into the caramel-brown eyes of Nelson the beagle.

For a long moment Brandon stands looking down at the dog, who shows not the least sign of disturbance but remains in the kitchen doorway, tail waving, head cocked inquiringly, until Brandon grins and murmurs, “Well, Nelson. What sort of watchdog are you, to be letting someone walk in here like this?”

The answer is a short, sharp rrrrffffffff!, but not from Nelson. Brandon turns toward the sofa to see Pinky emerging from her nest of cushions, propping her forelegs on Mary Anne’s stomach and craning her neck to see who has entered the flat. Her soft bark, however, is no challenge, and her tail wags every bit as amiably as Nelson’s when Brandon clicks his tongue gently at her. “And you too, Pinky. Are all of your brothers and sisters—“

But now Mary Anne stirs on the couch, awakening, and in three quick strides Brandon is back at the doorway. It would never do for her to awaken and find him looming over her like this, not after the way he behaved the last time he was here. Let her think he has only just arrived; only the dogs will know the difference. Standing at the threshold, Brandon raps against the open door and calls, “Mary Anne? May I come in?”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Gwenevere heard voices and tried to listen, but felt no particular emotional attachment to the speakers. She recognized one voice as belonging to her father, and the other belonging to Victoria, she was eleven.

She was with her father in his laboratory and they were working on a potion to cure encephalomyelitis. Her parents had just returned from a trip near the equator where they were helping people fight an outbreak of disease. Victoria was excited to be assisting her father with the potions and had missed her parents tremendously. Her mother had gone out to shop for items that were depleted while they were away for so long, so when they heard voices outside they couldn’t imagine whom it might be.

Victoria’s father looked out of the window and suddenly got very nervous. He told Victoria to go up to her room and be very quiet, and not to come down no matter what, until her mother came home. Victoria was frightened and had never seen her father behave this way before; he was always soft spoken, gentle and the embodiment of patience. She had known him to raise his voice to her, ever. He refused to let her ask a question as to who was outside before she ran from the room but only went as far as the kitchen.

Half a dozen men dressed in black robes with hoods entered the laboratory. They scanned the surroundings, lifting lids and looking at jars. They spoke in creepy hushed tones and showed no respect, asking her father where his family was. He told them they were out for the evening.

She heard her father telling them something to the effect of their request could not be met under any circumstances and that the necessary ingredients were not kept in his laboratory because he refused to stock them. Such ingredients were against his code of ethics. The dark figures were clearly becoming angry and did not believe her father—who would rather die than lie. Victoria was confused; she had led a sheltered life and had never known of hate and evil before. The concept was completely foreign to her.

The dark figures had lost all patience and were now threatening to cause harm to her father if he didn’t begin fulfilling their demands. He peacefully refused and stood rigid when they beat him and used the crucio curse, causing him to fall to the floor in quiet agony. Victoria stood glued to the spot and petrified. She tried to move and help him but she was frozen with fright as she peeked through the crack in the door, many blocking her view.

Her father, a kind and caring pacifist, refused to fight back. He was a mild lamb amongst ruthless wolves. The men finally threatened her father with harming his family since he was proving difficult to manipulate any other way. Angry voices were telling him to make mortiserum. She saw the dark mark on their arms when they showed them to her father; their fists clenched and their eyes were mean as they glinted through slits in their masks.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Gwenevere was sinking into a dank, dark, abyss of despair and at last, settled into a stone tomb. She felt very cold and guessed she was deeply underground. She was paralyzed, and her brain was functioning very slowly as if suspended in thick golden syrup.

She lay there for a long time barely aware of her surroundings. Her spirit was apart from her physical being. How was she going to get out of the tomb and back in the sun again? She wondered, as she heard the sluggish, disembodied voice in her head asking the question. Her hand suddenly felt slightly warmer and she tried in vain to move her fingers.

Severus reached for Gwenevere’s hand and grasped it tightly. He was mortified at what he had done to her and knew she would need to cope all at once with years of suffering hidden deeply beneath the surface of her consciousness. The last time she’d seen the death eater’s mark of evil was when her father was murdered. For years, she had been in denial of her unbearable loss and had suffered around unreachable pain for which she had never received help.

Forced memory loss served to eradicate that day, and many days after the agonizing event that changed her life and how she viewed the world. Seeing the death eater’s evil mark tonight trigered her memory, the nightmare came flooding back. She would soon be forced to recall what she has refused to acknowledge for a quarter of a century.

Although his own body was physically warm to the touch, he couldn’t recall ever experiencing such bone-chilling cold and bitter, completly desolate isolation in his life, as he continued to monitor her. She was in a devastatingly dismal depression. He would experience her journey through time with the use of legilimency, and she would come back to him when she was ready. He would be waiting for her, no matter how long it took, or what her decision about him.

After a length of time, she no longer wanted to get back. She did not think of Severus, she resigned to stay there forever; it was so much easier that way. The cold began to seem normal to her, masking her pain. She only wanted to sleep a deep sleep in her unearthly frigid crypt, negating the need to think about and feel the debilitating pain and guilt.

“No Gwenevere! You must come back. You belong here with me. I am counting on you now.” Snape said to her quietly. He would stay with her all night, stroking her hair, talking to her, and while holding her close to him, he kept her as warm as possible using his own body heat and blankets.

Ed and Claudia

The banquet hall was like nothing he had seen onboard, or anywhere on Earth. There were more people gathered here than he’d seen in his entire two-week stay. The walls were covered with Egyptian paintings and hieroglyphics, only not quite, there was a subtle modern influence to them. There were tall pillars, statues, pools, and fountains. There were handmaidens, serving, being served, bathing, dancing. There were even some other men - and he hadn’t seen any men at all up until now. Musicians played, but the room didn’t seem to follow any order. There was no dining table. People sat on cushions on the steps, on the side of pools or fountains or on the floor. Bite-sized food was being handed round from large golden platters.

All the buzz of talking and flow of people whirled round and gravitated towards a large stone throne. On the throne sat the Overseer, in all her terrible glory. Here black painted eyes watched him as he was led towards her, her short-cropped black hair and the black feathers around the neck of her dress highlighted the paleness of her skin. The paleness of her skin made the black of her eyes all the more powerful.

Ed felt himself watching her back as the guards led him across the room, and to the dais atop a short rise of steps. They stopped at the bottom of the steps and bowed, then turned and left him to face her by himself.

“Ed, I’m glad you could make it,” she patted the arm of her throne. “Come and join me here.”

He mounted the steps, and suddenly felt very underdressed in his own clothes. He took her offered hand and kissed it, fascinated by the long fingernails: talons, which brushed his cheek, and tickled the back of his neck as she drew him to sit at her feet. The hand stayed as a controlling distraction in his hair, petting him as if he were her favourite dog.

The other hand waved and immediately a handmaiden appeared with a glass and gave it to Ed. Another appeared with a tray of food for him to sample.

“This is very nice, thank you.”

“Not at all, we wish you to feel needed here. You are, you know.”

“You don’t need me. You seem to have men here, it’s not as if I’m the only one.”

“But darling. You are special. You are so creative, and that is very important, you know.”

I loved your post about the equine evacuation--I'm not only a horse owner myself (I own 14 animals, and a 3 horse trailer, I can't even imagine having to make a decision like that in case of an emergency) but I have friends in CA who are dealing with the fires and their aftermath. Fortunately, all of the people I know, and their animals, got out. It was great to read your take on the heros involved.

Cindie,

Oh my. What an amazing pull on the heart strings. Such tender, heartfelt writing as we share Mistral's loss. You're truly a master at your craft, and I'm so glad you post here to share it with us.

Speaking of masters at their craft--Mary Anne, you've been keeping us waiting far too long!

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

The shocking sight sucked the wind out of Gwenevere’s lungs as she fixed upon the ghastly black skull with a grotesque serpent slithering from its mouth. It was a large faded mark, covering much of his inner left forearm and it frighteningly projected concentrated evil very efficiently.

As she witnessed the evil mark, her lungs painfully struggled for air and she cried out in a suffocating gasp. Her eyes burned just as if they had been splashed with acid as the lamplight faded into darkness. She felt herself slipping away from Severus as she curled into the fetal position and shielded her burning tearful eyes.

“Gwenevere! What’s happening to you?” Snape gasped in a hoarse bellow. “Gwenevere, can you hear me?” He asked, gently brushing her hair from her face and taking her hands away so that he could look into her dead eyes.

He quickly got blankets and wrapped her in them. The limp, lifeless body was as cold as stone and she was unaware of her surroundings, her respiration was shallow. He lighted lamps and grabbed his wand from the nightstand. “Lumos.” He said, holding it like a penlight.

His hand trembled as he opened each of her eyes and shined the light into them; the pupils were dilated and unresponsive. “Nox.” He said quietly, as the light that emitted from the tip of his wand dimmed to darkness. He turned her head, exposing her neck and pressed two of his fingers firmly onto her jugular to feel her thread-like pulse. Her normal resting heart rate of fifty beats per minute was now at forty and seemed to be slowing as if she were barely alive and fading fast. He grabbed his wand again.

“ENNERVATE!” He commanded loudly. Her body lurched forward as if she had just received defibrillation for cardiac arrest, yet she did not respond.

Anguished panic was beginning to take hold of him, his heart was racing wildly and his thoughts were striking out in all directions. Surely he had the power to help her; he just had to think. He quickly ran down countless potions formulas in his mind but the problem was that he didn’t know what was wrong with her.

Suddenly he recognized the need for information and to control his emotions for Gwenevere’s sake. He closed his eyes for several moments to focus. He again raised his wand. “Legilimens!” He commanded, as he looked into Gwenevere’s dead eyes beneath half closed lids. Their close bond made it possible for him to easily penetrate her thoughts without Gwenevere’s being an active participant.

He saw only darkness, and felt an indescribable coldness morbidly bleed through him like ink on a blotter, causing dull pain to throb deeply within his bone marrow and joints as if he had been suddenly buried alive.

By the time Mistral reached the turn off which was the winding drive of Mistral Manor there was a diffuse glow of pre-dawn light behind him. The car traveled the snaking path without slowing as if it were pre-programmed. Indeed, Mistral had made the drive as if on automatic pilot, resolutely thinking neither about what lay ahead nor what he had or had not left behind. This version of Zen was not about living in the moment so much as getting through the moment to get the next one so that he could get through it and on to the next. As he passed the iron gates, however, he reengaged his mind to prepare himself for whatever situation he might find.

The drive opened up to reveal the sight of several vehicles parked haphazardly in front of the house, including an ambulance. That it was still there seemed a good omen. He pulled up and parked directly behind the emergency vehicle, exited the car with alacrity, sprinted up the stairs and entered the house. There was no one in the entrance hall, presumably the activity was centered in his mother’s room. He took these stairs two at a time and pelted down the hall. He pulled up short at the doorway taking in the tableau. A man whom he did not know and John appeared ready to transfer his mother to a gurney for a fruitless trip to the hospital. A nurse monitored readings and Sybill was changing an IV bag. This was all being overseen by Doctor Beverly. The room was an orchestrated tangle of modern medical equipment and the antique furniture that had once dominated the room. Mistral paused looking from his mother to the portable monitor which showed her heart rhythm. He was in time.

Doctor Beverly was the first to register his presence. She looked up at him and her fulgent blue eyes gave him a look that told him everything he needed to know. He cleared his throat. With a decisive “everybody out” Dr. Beverly cleared the room.

Once alone with his mother he pulled up a stool that had been thrust aside in the hasty clinical exodus. He took up her hand. When he was young he had always admired her quick clever fingers. While she professed not to enjoy cooking, they’d had a cook who handled the evening meal, she would make them elaborate Sunday breakfast’s as he watched from his stool at the counter. Nothing was too elaborate or too simple from crepes to her incomparable cheese on toast. Sometimes they would make omelets and she would let him chose what type they would have. He recalled watching, enthralled, as she’d dice onions, ham and mushrooms or once when her son had requested it, an apple. “Just to see what it’d be like mum.” The pieces were always exactly the same size and her hands seemed to be doing the work on their own as she talked to him about what they would do for the rest of the day. Sometimes they would go for a drive. Sometimes she would just sit and read and he’d busy himself with some project or other so it would seem like they were spending the day together. He remembered these same long fingers turning the page of a book.

The elegance and grace were gone now and her hand looked so very small. The flesh over the bone had the consistency of tissue paper that had been used year after year to wrap up a treasured Christmas ornament. He rubbed his thumb gently across its top. It was very cold.

“I knew you’d make it.” Mistral started at the faint rasping voice. He hadn’t thought she was even aware of his presence. “You always were a conscientious boy.”

He leaned over closer, ignoring the feeds coming from the other side of the bed and focused only on her. He did not condescend to pretend he didn’t know what she meant. “Yes, mother, I’m here. Can I…?” Could he what? There was nothing he could do for her now.

“Some peace and quiet. You’ve done that. Don’t let them come back. I’m very tired and I want to sleep.” Her voice was already trailing off and her eyes which had opened slightly were closing again. If there had been an expectation of any revelations or death bed confessions they were to remain unfulfilled.

“Yes, mother. You go ahead and rest. I’ll take care of everything.” He stared at her face until it became too much then he looked of into the room, seeing nothing. He held onto her hand and once felt a bit of answering pressure but then it faded. The volume on the heart monitor had been turned down to a respectful tone and he listened as it slowed and then became a continuous drone. He didn’t notice when the doctor opened the door and entered the room only long enough to unplug the unnecessary equipment.

Some time later Mistral exited the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He slowly proceeded downstairs. It was not the same world it was when he had raced up the stairs earlier. It was a cliché but he felt it. As he reached the bottom of the stairs the smell of fresh coffee assailed his nostrils and he went into the kitchen to find the others gathered around the wooden table. He nodded to the doctor and she in turn nodded to the orderly and John. A short time later the ambulance left followed by Dr. Beverly’s car and then Sybill and John’s.

He stood in the center of kitchen. He was aware that Dr. Beverly had said some things to him as had Sybill and John. In fact, the usually silent John had been most eloquent in his expressions of sorrow over his mother’s passing. It was Mistral who at his moment could find no words. He poured himself a cup of coffee and let it grow cold as he sat at the table and looked out over the back garden.